She looked around. The narrow Trojan line across the megaron was protecting the stone staircase and the gallery. If it was pushed back even a few paces, the enemy could reach the side of the gallery, throw ladders up, and get behind the defenders. The Mykene would not make the mistake they had made the last time and be drawn by arrogance to attack the stairs while neglecting the gallery. Agamemnon, a cool thinker, would have made sure of that.
The women archers had been ordered to protect the gallery. With them were some civilians, traders and farmers, and a number of old soldiers well past their fighting years who were charged with pushing away the ladders and guarding the women.
The brute strength of the Mykene advance soon started to take its toll on the exhausted defenders, and the line was being forced back at each end. Andromache saw Trojans falling, to be replaced instantly by their comrades behind. Yet slowly the two wings of the line were being bent back. Only the center held.
“Be ready!” she shouted, and the women raised their bows. Ladders were passed from hand to hand over the heads of the Mykene, and then she heard one bang against the gallery wall. Half a dozen arrows slammed into the first warrior to climb a ladder.
Below them one wing of the defending line had been pushed back farther. “Hold the line!” someone bellowed. A group of old soldiers hurried down the stone stairs, bellowing their battle cries, to lend their support to the collapsing wing.
More and more ladders were raised, and soon Mykene warriors were climbing onto the gallery. Andromache saw the civilians attacking them with swords and clubs, fighting without skill but with desperation. Still the women stood their ground, raining their shafts into the enemy.
The defenders below had been forced back to the stone staircase, and Andromache saw a few Trojan soldiers fleeing up the stairs. Then she realized they were racing to defend the gallery.
Kalliades left Helikaon and Banokles fighting side by side on the stairway and sprinted up the steps toward her. As he passed, he snarled, “Retreat now, Andromache!” Armed with two swords, he slammed into the advancing Mykene.
Andromache shouted to the women to retreat to the queen’s apartments. One was already dead, but several wounded archers limped past, including little Anio, blood streaming down one arm. The others fought on, loosing arrow after arrow into the Mykene. Two were cut down. Penthesileia stood her ground alone, then fell with a dagger in her side.
Andromache grabbed her bundle of arrows and turned to flee—and saw two Mykene warriors stalking toward her, cutting off her path of retreat. The first lunged his sword at her. Instinctively she blocked the blow with her bundle of arrows, then grabbed an arrow in her fist and stepped in. With a cry she plunged it into the eye of the attacker. He fell, clutching the shaft.
The second warrior raised his sword for a killing blow. Then he fell to his knees, hit on the head from behind by a man wielding a club. The Mykene, dazed, twisted around and rammed his sword into the belly of his attacker. Andromache picked up the first Mykene’s sword and hacked at the second man’s neck until he was still. She stepped over the bodies to reach her rescuer, who was slumped against the wall, thick blood staining the front of his clothing. She knelt down.
“Remember me, lady?” the man whispered, blood trickling from his mouth.
For a heartbeat Andromache did not. Then she saw that three fingers had been cut away from his right hand, and the memory came back to her of a moment in a street when a drunken man, a veteran of the Trojan Horse, had called her a goddess.
“You are Pardones. I thank you for my life, Pardones.”
The dying man said something, but it was so weak that she could not hear it. She bent down to him. “Kept it,” he murmured. Then the rasp of his breath abruptly stopped.
She sat back, tears in her eyes, and saw on the floor beside his dead hand the golden brooch she had given him for his courtesy and loyalty.
Wiping her face on the back of her hand, she got up, cast a last glance at the megaron where Helikaon fought on, then followed Kalliades’ orders and ran back down the stone corridor to the queen’s apartments.
The gathering room was a scene of carnage. Dozens of gravely wounded soldiers lay on the floor, dragged there by comrades or civilians. There were a few injured women. Andromache saw that Penthesileia had been brought there, still alive but ashen-faced. Lying with her was Anio, her head in her sister’s lap. Young Xander was moving from person to person, overwhelmed by the number of injured yet carrying on, stanching wounds, comforting the wounded, holding the hands of the dying. He looked up at her, and she saw that his face was gray.
Kalliades had followed her in, covered in blood, some of it from a wound high in his chest.
“They have the gallery,” he told her urgently. “We can hold the stone corridor for a while, but you must get ready to leave with the boys.”
“Helikaon?” she asked, her heart in her mouth.
But at that moment Helikaon and Banokles entered the gathering room, carrying Polydorus, who was badly wounded. They laid the Eagle on the floor, then Helikaon turned to Andromache.
“You must go now,” he told her, and she heard the agony in his voice. You must go, she thought with a stab of fear. Not we must go. She knew he would stay and fight to the end. She would not try to change his mind.
They hurried to the room where the little boys slept on. She woke them, and they rubbed their eyes and looked wonderingly at the blood-covered warriors around their bed.
Helikaon lifted Andromache’s hand to his lips, and she winced. “You are wounded?” he asked anxiously.
“Yesterday,” she admitted, showing him her shoulder. “It has opened up again. I will need help with the boys.”
“You cannot take two children down the rope on your own, anyway,” he said. “I will carry them down.” Hope flared in her, then died when he dropped his eyes. “Then I must return,” he told her.
“You take Dex,” Kalliades suggested. “I will carry Astyanax. He knows me, and we have shared adventures before.” He picked up the little boy, who confidently put his arms around the warrior’s neck.
“Whatever you’re going to do, do it quickly,” urged Banokles, who had been listening to the fighting in the stone corridor.
“Strap the child to me,” Kalliades told his friend, handing him a length of bandage. In a moment Banokles had wound the bandage around him, tying the child tightly to his chest. Kalliades walked to the window. Astyanax grinned over his shoulder at Andromache and waved his hand at her, thrilled by the excitement.
“You had better take this,” Banokles said suddenly. Kalliades looked at the weapon he was holding out.
“The sword of Argurios! I had lost it!”
“I found it on the stairs. Take it with you.”
“It will hamper me on my climb. Keep it until I get back.”
“You don’t know what might happen down there. Take it.”
Kalliades shrugged and sheathed the sword. He climbed out the window, disappearing into the night.
“You next, my love,” Helikaon said to Andromache. “Can you climb down with that wound?”
“I can make it,” she reassured him, although privately she had doubts. Her heart was thudding in her chest. She cast a last glance at the blond warrior. “Thank you, Banokles,” she said. It seemed inadequate after all he had done for her. Before he could step back, she darted forward and kissed his cheek. Banokles nodded, his face reddening.
Andromache sat on the window ledge and swung her legs around. Grabbing hold of the rope, she started her descent.