Gentle Laodike, plain and plump, had discovered love in the days before the siege. On that one ghastly night her dreams and her hopes bled from her. Andromache would never forget the moment Laodike’s lover had come to her. The mighty Argurios, who had held the stairs like a Titan, was also dying, an arrow buried deep in his side, the point cutting up close to his heart. Helikaon and Andromache had helped him to his feet, and he had made his way to Laodike’s side.
Andromache had not heard the words that passed between them, but she had seen Argurios draw a small white feather from the blood-smeared pouch at his side and place it in Laodike’s hand. Then he had covered her hand with his own. Laodike had smiled then, a smile of such joy that it had broken Andromache’s heart.
So much glory and so much sorrow on that one night.
King Priam had built the white tomb as a tribute to Argurios. Andromache wondered again at the contradiction that was Priam. A lascivious man, sometimes cruel, selfish, and greedy, he had nevertheless built a marble tribute to a warrior who had come to the city as his enemy and to the daughter he had had little time for when she lived. They were together now in death, as they would never have been allowed to be in life.
“May your souls be together always,” Andromache whispered, then turned and walked away.
Swiftly she crossed the fortification ditch that surrounded the lower town and started to climb the hill toward the city walls. After the palace siege Priam had speeded work on the ditches. Although hardly more than waist-deep, they were wider than a horse could jump and would effectively halt any cavalry charge on the lower town. They were crossed only by three wide wooden bridges that could be set ablaze if necessary.
But the real defense of Troy was the great walls. Towering above her, they were gray on this cloudy day and seemed as impregnable as the sheerest cliff face. There were four great gates piercing the walls: the Scaean Gate to the south, the Dardanian Gate to the northeast, the East Gate, and the western gate called the Gate of Sorrows, as the city’s main burial ground lay in its shadow.
Andromache strode up through the Scaean Gate, which was guarded by the Great Tower of Ilion, and into the city itself. Her gloomy mood lifted a little, despite the weather, at the sight of the golden city, its carved and decorated buildings and green courtyards. It had been her home for half a year, and she loved it and hated it in equal measure.
In this cool afternoon the stone streets were teeming with people. Andromache turned to her right, then climbed the wooden steps to the south battlements. There she paused, feeling the wind more keenly on the high place as it buffeted her and plucked at her long red hair.
She looked to the south, to the verdant slopes of Mount Ida, the sacred mountain where Zeus had his watchtower. Beyond the Ida mountains, unseen, lay Thebe Under Plakos, where her father was king.
Andromache reached the end of the walls at the great northeast bastion. The tower, wider and more massive than the others, faced the northern plains and the lands of the Hittites. Beyond it were horse pastures and the fields of grain that fed the growing population of Troy.
At the moment, in the meadows close beneath the city, rows of sturdy benches were being built and areas of ground paced, measured, and roped off to form running tracks and horse-racing circuits for the imminent wedding games. Andromache watched the preparations thoughtfully, then turned and looked to the south of the bastion, where other teams of men were still working on the fortification ditch around the lower town. Not for the first time she thought how odd it was that the western kings who had been invited to the games were the same warriors the ditches were designed to keep out.
The light was beginning to fade, and Andromache headed for Hektor’s palace.
As she walked past the House of Serpents, the temple to Asklepios, the god of healing, a young man ran out. Andromache smiled as he approached her. “Xander, I scarcely recognized you. You’re so much taller. I thought you would have returned to Kypros by now.”
The youngster seemed to have grown a handbreadth since she had seen him last. His chest and shoulders were starting to fill out, and she could see the man he would become. But when he grinned, his freckled face still showed the near child he had been on the voyage to the city.
“Machaon is teaching me the craft of healing. It is very difficult,” he confessed. “He told me that the lord Helikaon was wounded and that you are nursing him.”
Andromache’s smile faded. “The wound does not heal, and the fever will not subside.”
The youngster was undismayed by the news. “He is strong, Andromache. A great warrior. He will recover. They say he stood with Argurios and killed a hundred Mykene. Such a man will not let a small wound slay him.”
“It is not a small wound, Xander,” she said, holding back her anger. The boy worshipped Helikaon but had not seen him since the attack, the flesh melted away, bones jutting from fever-hot skin. Death was close, and when it came, something in Andromache would die with him.
“What happened?” Xander asked. “Machaon said he was stabbed by a crewman from the Xanthos. That seems impossible.”
“It is true. A crewman named Attalus. Helikaon took a liking to him. He was standing close by when Helikaon walked out to announce his marriage to Queen Halysia. Suddenly he darted forward and plunged a knife into him.”
“Attalus stabbed him!” Xander’s face was aghast. “Attalus helped rescue me from the sea. And he saved Helikaon’s life in battle.”
“Does the world of men ever make sense?” Andromache snapped. The sharpness of her words surprised the youngster. Andromache reached out and drew the boy to her in a warm embrace. “It is good to see you, Xander. It gladdens my heart.”
They stood together for a moment in silence. Then she stepped back. “Helikaon was stabbed twice,” she said. “First in the chest, although the blow was turned by the reinforced shirt he wore. That wound has closed well. Then Attalus stabbed him in the armpit. The blade bit deep.”
“Was the dagger poisoned?” Xander asked.
“Machaon says not. But the bleeding inside will not stop. Queen Halysia sent him here to Troy in the hope of a cure.”
“Can I see him?”
“You will need to prepare yourself, Xander. He is not the young god you remember.”
They walked together to Hektor’s palace and climbed to a high chamber on the east side of the building. It was light and airy and overlooked the Street of Bright Dancers and the barracks and stables of the Heraklion regiment. Machaon had told her it was good for recovery to face the rising sun, and he believed the sounds and smells of the horses and the daily commotion of soldiers arriving and leaving would be stimulating to the stricken man.
They were met at the doorway by a powerful black-bearded man who grinned widely when he saw the boy. “Xander!” He reached out and grabbed Xander in a crushing embrace. Xander, red-faced and pleased, said, “Gershom! I thought you would be on the Xanthos.”
Gershom shook his head. “No, boy. Helikaon needs a guard, and I never liked rowing, anyway. Have you come to visit him? He will be glad to see you.”
The bed was wide and draped with white linen. Beside it sat a pregnant young woman working on a piece of crumpled embroidery.
Helikaon was deathly pale and asleep. Andromache glanced at Xander. His face, too, had gone pale as he saw the true condition of his hero. Sweat glistened on Helikaon’s thin face, and the closed eyes were sunken, the skin around them dark. There was a smell in the room of putrefaction and decay.
Xander stood silently, and Andromache saw there were tears in his eyes. The young pregnant woman was staring up at the youngster.