“It is a long story,” Xander confessed.
“It is a story I would like to hear,” Meriones told him, looking at Agamemnon. “Spare the boy, Agamemnon King. We could do with a tale or two now that Odysseus has departed.”
“Good riddance,” Idomeneos barked. “I want no more tall tales. Kill the boy and let’s find the treasury.”
Irritated almost beyond endurance by the Kretan king after a long summer in his company, Agamemnon snapped, “Very well, Meriones. As usual, you give me good advice. Healer, I will spare you and your wounded if you tell me where Hektor’s son is.”
The young man replied nervously. “Astyanax is gone, sir. The Golden One took him away last night.”
Helikaon again! Agamemnon felt his fury rising with the speed of a summer storm. “Helikaon was here? Only last night? How is that possible? You are lying, boy!”
“No, sir. I am telling you the truth. He climbed the north wall and took the boys away. The lady Andromache went with him, and—”
“The north wall? But that cannot be climbed!”
“It is true, lord. I expect the rope is still there for you to see.”
He pointed toward the rear rooms, and Agamemnon gestured for a soldier to go look. Menelaus followed him.
Always Helikaon, the Battle King thought, spoiling my plans at every turn! Even at my moment of victory.
Idomeneos rasped, “I have no interest in the killing of Hektor’s son. Troy is finished whether Priam’s line survives or not. Do you fear that Helikaon and the boy-king will raise an army and try to take the city back? Why would we worry? We will find Priam’s treasure and return to our lands.”
Agamemnon nodded. Sharptooth was, as usual, motivated only by his own greed, but in this he was right. The boy could be hunted down at leisure. Nowhere on the Green Great was safe for him. Once Troy was securely in Mykene hands and in the charge of a commander loyal to Agamemnon, the king could go back to the Lion’s Hall and his wife and son and celebrate his victory over Priam and his Golden City. Agamemnon King, Conqueror of the East! His name would go down in legend as the destroyer of Troy.
Good humor restored, he turned to Xander. “I am a man of my word, boy. Tend to your wounded. No more Trojans will die at the hands of the Battle King.”
“Brother!” Agamemnon turned. Menelaus had returned from the rear rooms pale-faced.
“Well? Was the rope there? Is the healer speaking the truth?”
“Yes, Brother, but there is something else you must see.” He gestured urgently for Agamemnon to join him.
The Mykene king sighed. His bodyguard at his side, he followed Menelaus into a small rear room. The window looked out to the north, and to its stone pillar was tied a strong rope. It had been cut near the top.
At Menelaus’ urgent bidding, Agamemnon walked to the window and looked out.
It was well past noon, and the sun shone warmly on the meadows flanking the river Simoeis. Dry throughout the summer, the wide plains had been made verdant by the recent rains. But little greenery was now visible. As far as the eye could see, the plain was covered with armed men, cavalry and infantry in disciplined ranks, motionless, waiting for orders.
Menelaus gasped, “Hittites, Brother! The Hittite army is here!”
On a rocky clifftop to the east of the city the old smith Khalkeus lay in an exhausted sleep, his body curled protectively around the perfect sword. His hands had been burned badly trying to handle the weapon. The numbness in his fingers had masked the pain at first. He also, he thought, had not eaten for several days, although he was interested to find he no longer seemed to need food. His dwindling store of water smelled bad, but he sipped it from time to time.
At twilight he decided to return to the city to present the sword to the king. His few belongings, along with the tent that had sheltered him all summer, had been destroyed in the fire. He tucked the half-empty water skin under one arm and, gingerly cradling the sword across both forearms, set off.
The pain in his hands was torture. He was angry with himself. A smith with his experience should not make the mistakes of an apprentice. The raw red palms would take a long time to heal, and he would be hampered in his work.
He encouraged himself to go forward by visualizing the expression of awe and delight on the Mykene king’s face when he saw the sword, his urgency as he begged Khalkeus to tell him how it was made. The old man felt a moment of regret that it would not be Helikaon who would receive the sword. He always had done his best work with the encouragement of the Dardanian king, but he had no doubt that by now the Trojans and their allies had been destroyed. As he walked toward the city, he could see flames leaping high from within the walls and hear the sounds of battle. He was curious to know how the western kings finally had taken the city. The idea of a great battering ram suspended on chains on a wheeled platform had been forming in his head. Distracted, he stumbled on the rocky ground and nearly fell. Careful, he thought to himself in a moment of clarity. You cannot afford to fall on your hands. He moved more slowly, picking his way in the darkness.
He paused for breath under the walls of Troy, beneath the northeast bastion, and drank some of his water. He sat down for a moment and fell instantly asleep.
It was well past dawn when he woke again. His hands were on fire, and his head ached abominably. He drained the water skin in one long gulp, then vomited most of it onto the ground. He threw away the water skin and slowly got to his feet. A long look at the perfect sword invigorated him, and he set off around the walls. He passed the Dardanian Gate and the East Gate but found them both closed and sealed, and so he headed for the Scaean Gate.
But when he got there, those gates also were closed. He craned his neck to see the top of the wall but could see no guards. He wandered around the ruined lower town, but it was deserted. His strength exhausted, he sat down in the dust outside the wall. The six stone statues guarding the Scaean Gate watched him balefully.
It was a long time before there was a creak and a groan and the gates opened to allow a troop of soldiers out. He saw they were Mykene by their armor, and he struggled to his feet.
“You, soldiers, take me to Agamemnon!” he cried. Ignoring the waves of agony, he took the sword in both hands and waved it at them.
The troop ignored him and marched off down through the town.
“Your king is expecting me!” he shouted despairingly. “This sword is for him, you idiots!”
A single soldier peeled off from the rear of the troop and walked toward him, sword unsheathed. Khalkeus saw that half the man’s face was hideously scarred. Sand, he thought with sudden interest. That must be what red-hot sand does to flesh and skin.
The warrior did not hesitate or pause. “Idiots, are we?” he asked. He rammed his sword through Khalkeus’ chest, dragged it out, and rejoined his comrades.
It was like being hit by a hammer, Khalkeus thought as he fell, the perfect sword cast into the dust beside him. The pain in his hands had disappeared, he realized with relief.
He had a curious dream. He dreamed that he was on the Xanthos and a stiff breeze was filling the black horse sail. The ship cut through the water, which was deep green and strangely still. The Golden One was striding toward him, the sunlight behind him outlining his form but putting his features in shadow. Khalkeus could not see well and felt very weak. Then he realized the golden man was bigger than Helikaon. In fact, he was a giant, and the light around him was not from the sun but was emanating from the man himself. Is it Apollo, the sun god? he wondered. Then, with a shock of realization, he saw the god was limping.
The god leaned down to him and gently took the perfect sword from his hands.
“You have done well, smith,” his deep voice boomed. “Sleep now, and tomorrow we will set you to work.”