Part 37 (1/2)
”Your name, soldier?” the leader demanded.
”Kleitos of the Panthers, sir,” Kalliades replied, slurring a little. ”This is Thoas. He's drunk.”
”We are hunting for children,” the leader told him. ”Agamemnon King wants any brats still in the city found and taken to him.”
”We're looking for women, not their brats.” Kalliades laughed.
The leader grinned. ”Of course you are, soldier, but the two often come together. And Agamemnon is offering a silver ring for any child brought to him. A silver ring will buy you as many women as you need when we get home.”
”I'll bear it in mind,” Kalliades said cheerfully. ”But better to ride one woman now than ten as a promise. And tonight's will cost me nothing!” He turned to Polites. ”Keep up, you drunken sot,” he shouted, and they hurried on.
The area by the Scaean Gate, a killing ground only the day before, was empty of life. A few blackened corpses lay in the wetness, but no one living could be seen. The great gate was closed and the heavy locking bar in place, trapping them inside the city as effectively as it once had kept the enemy out.
Polites looked up at the tower and for a moment thought he saw movement at the battlement door. He pointed, and Kalliades narrowed his eyes.
”Are you sure?” the warrior asked, doubt written across his face. Polites nodded, and they both made for the stone steps. Kalliades ran up lightly despite the heavy armor and his injured leg. Polites followed more slowly.
Inside the tower it was pitch black, but it was a relief to get out of the wind. The only sound now was the drumming of rain on the wooden roof far above. They no longer had to yell to each other.
Polites advised the warrior, ”Stay to the left, as close to the wall as you can. The steps are well worn, but they should not be slippery.”
The climb in total darkness was terrifying even for Polites, who had been this way by torchlight so many times. He was a.s.sailed by doubts now. Could Priam have gotten this far? Could he have taken Astyanax up the steps in total darkness? He realized they should have checked at the bottom of the tower first to see if there was a small body there. By the time they reached the top, Polites had convinced himself they were chasing chimeras.
At last he felt the clean night air on his face and the rain, and he saw Kalliades step out onto the roof ahead of him. The sky had lightened, and he realized it was almost dawn. The thunder and lightning went on unabated. A new fear struck him. He had heard of men in armor being struck by lightning.
He stepped onto the roof. For a heartbeat he could see nothing, his senses blunted by the wind whipping rain across the high tower. Then the thunder rolled overhead, and a brilliant flash of lightning forked down through the sky. By its light they could see Priam standing on the parapet on the far side. His long white hair and gray robe were flying behind him in the wind, as if he were falling already. He held the child out in front of him, motionless in his arms.
His heart hammering in his chest, Polites stepped toward his father, fearing he would plunge out of sight at any moment.
Priam turned and saw him.
”What are you doing, Polites, you fool?” The king's voice, loud and rich with contempt, was carried toward them on the wind. ”I did not order you here.”
”I came to find the boy, Father. Andromache was concerned. She did not know where he was.” Polites could see the child's face now. His blue eyes were open, and he stared at Polites in terror.
”He is with his father,” the king told him. ”Who else can keep him safe, Polites? Not you, you fool. Nor his wh.o.r.e of a mother. I am showing him to great Zeus. He is the Eagle Child and precious to the All-Father.”
His father? Polites wondered what he meant. Beside him Kalliades asked him with wonder, ”How did he manage to get here without being captured?”
Polites replied, ”The king knows his city better than anyone. And when he is lucid, he is as cunning as three foxes.”
As they spoke, Priam looked down at the child, and confusion appeared on his features. They saw his pale face fall into its usual picture of fear and despair.
Polites stepped forward quickly, fearing that the old man would drop the boy in his panic. ”Let me take baby Hektor,” he offered. ”The queen is asking for him.”
Priam looked down at the child. ”Hektor,” he crooned. ”My best boy.”
Polites reached out, and Priam handed Astyanax over. Only then did the boy begin to cry quietly. Polites thrust him at Kalliades.
”Take him to his mother,” he ordered.
Kalliades looked at him and then at the king, hesitating.
”Go now, Kalliades. He must be saved. He is the Eagle Child.”
Kalliades frowned. The words clearly meant nothing to him, but he nodded. ”Yes, lord,” he said, and in an instant he was gone, disappearing swiftly down the steps, the boy in his arms.
”Come, Father, you must rest,” Polites said gently, taking his father's hand and drawing him down from the parapet.
”Where am I?” the old man cried fearfully. ”I don't know where I am.”
”We are on the Great Tower of Ilion, Father. We are watching for Troy's enemies. When they come, we will destroy them.”
The old man nodded and slumped to the floor. Polites could see that he was beyond exhaustion. Polites sat down as well and started removing some of his armor. He knew they both would die there.
When at last the enemy came, there were just two of them, Mykene soldiers. One was big, with long unkempt red hair and a full beard. The other was thin and small. They climbed up onto the roof, and both grinned, exchanging feral glances as they saw the sick old man and his son.
Polites stood wearily, dragging out his sword and trying to remember the lessons he had been taught in the long-distant past. Two-handed, he held the blade up before him and stepped in front of his father.
The redheaded soldier unsheathed his sword and walked toward him. The other stood and watched, smiling in antic.i.p.ation.
The soldier lunged at his chest, but Polites skipped nervously back, and the sword glanced off the bronze disks of his breastplate. The soldier feinted to the left, and as Polites moved slowly to block the move, he stepped in and sank the blade into Polites' side. It felt like the blow of a hammer. His legs crumpled, and he went down on the rain-soaked roof, agony coursing through him.
Polites looked up as the soldier raised his sword for the killing blow. Then he suddenly was showered with blood as the man's throat was ripped open by an expertly thrown dagger. Priam stepped forward, growling, ”Die, you dogs!” and picked up the dead man's sword.
The other Mykene ran in, fury on his face. ”By Hades, you'll pay for that, you old b.a.s.t.a.r.d!” he shouted, and swung his sword at the king in a ferocious arc. Priam got his sword up, and the blades clashed, sparks flying in the half-light.
The king stumbled back; then his old legs failed him, and he went down on one knee.
As the soldier loomed over him, Polites s.n.a.t.c.hed the dagger from the dead man's throat and lunged at the attacker's inner thigh. He was too weak and missed his target, merely cutting the skin. But as the soldier swung around at him, Priam hefted the sword and plunged it into the man's back. The Mykene fell to his knees, his eyes staring, then toppled forward, dead.
Drowning in a sea of pain, Polites dragged himself over to the king. ”You killed them, Father,” he panted weakly. ”But there will be more.”
Priam bared his teeth in a confident grin. ”My son will save us,” he promised. ”Hektor will arrive in time. Hektor never lets me down.”
Polites nodded, clutching his side and watching the blood pumping through his fingers. ”He is a good son,” he agreed sadly. Then he closed his eyes and slept.
It was full daylight when he opened his eyes again. More than a dozen Mykene warriors were walking toward them across the roof. Polites sighed and tried to move, but his limbs would not work, and he lay there helpless. He was terribly tired, but he felt no fear. He turned his head and saw that his father somehow had climbed back onto the parapet. The words of Ka.s.sandra came to him: ”Priam will outlive all his sons.” He thought of her and smiled.
”Goodbye, Father,” he whispered as the old man threw himself from the tower. The last thing he saw was a sword swinging at his neck.
The storm had swept in from Thraki, from the cold heights of the Rhodope Mountains. Its burden of icy rain did little to slow the north wind, a wind strong enough to flay the roofs from peasants' homes and fishermen's huts and tear stout branches from trees. Centuries-old oaks, their deep roots loosened in the bone-dry summer, toppled under its might on the slopes of Mount Ida, and wild animals ran for shelter from its howling fury.
The gold roof of Priam's palace clattered in the gale as the wind tried to pry its precious covering free. All across the city terra-cotta roof tiles were flung about the streets like leaves, and the walls of ruined palaces collapsed.
On the steep hillside outside Troy, Khalkeus the bronzesmith looked into the teeth of the gale and rejoiced.
”Boreas, the north wind. The Devourer, they call him,” he muttered to himself happily. ”Let the Devourer eat up the star stones and spit them out for me!”