But his obsession for ten years or more had been his search for the perfect sword.
Everyone knew of the lumps of gray metal that fell from the skies. Most thought them a gift of Ares. They were prized, more valuable than gold. Priam had several in his treasury, and sometimes small objects, brooches, even arrowheads, were hammered out of the cold gray metal.
The Hittites had learned to make swords of that star metal, it was said, but they guarded the secret closely. Khalkeus never had seen such a weapon, but he believed the stories. He had gathered several slivers of the metal over the years and had studied them. He had found that they could not be scratched by bronze, only by some gemstones. He believed there had to be a way to cast the metal into a sword stronger than the best bronze, a sword that would bend, not break, remain sharp, and last a warrior a lifetime.
His greatest surprise in studying the shards was that they went red and rotted when left in water. The red crumbly remains made him think of the red rocks mined all over the country in the search for gold and the elusive tin, rocks considered valueless and thrown away by the miners. He employed workmen to bring cartloads of the red rocks to his forge, and the other smiths mocked him when he heated them over charcoal in his furnace. Brought to the heat at which copper could be smelted, the ore refused to become molten and flow, separating itself from the slag and unburned charcoal. What was left was merely a gray spongy mass that, when cooled, shattered at the blow of a hammer.
Frustrated, he pondered this for a time. Seeing that the metal could be weakened by water, he concluded that it must be strengthened by fire. He needed more heat. He had persuaded King Priam to fund bigger furnaces, taller than any seen before in Troy, so that the gray sponges could be superheated to release their pure metal. His neighboring smiths laughed at him at first, then stopped laughing as the first two furnaces burned down, taking nearby forges with them. Then the war came to Troy, and the other forgemasters followed the king’s orders and moved inside the city.
But not Khalkeus. Now, alone on the hillside at last, away from the prying eyes and jeering comments, he looked up at the great chimney he was building. Surrounded by a scaffold of wood, it was already twice the height of a man. Rubbing his palms together, Khalkeus set to work.
Cocooned in a soft pile of sweet-smelling bed linen and downy cushions, Andromache slept on long past dawn, deeply asleep in the unaccustomed comfort of a real bed. When the sound of muted sobbing woke her, the sun was high.
Luxuriously she stretched, then rolled over and sat up. “What is it, Axa? What’s wrong?”
Her maid, placing a large bowl of scented water on a table, turned a tear-stained face to her. “I’m sorry, lady. And you so tired. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I thought you’d be glad to see me back,” Andromache teased her, running her hands through her thick red hair, pushing it back.
Axa smiled wanly. “Of course I am, lady. But just as you get back safely, then my Mestares leaves.” Tears welled up in her eyes again, and she hung her head. “I’m sorry, Princess, but I am frightened for my babies. The enemy are letting women and children go. I wanted to travel to Phrygia. It is a long way, I know, but I have family there. My babies would be safe. But Mestares would not let me. He forbade me to leave the city. I could not complain, lady, because he was here with me. But now the Trojan Horse has left in the night. And he said nothing to me. Not a word.”
“They rode out at dawn?”
“No, my lady. They left in the middle of the night.”
Andromache nodded thoughtfully. “Hektor can trust no one. All the while refugees are entering the city, Agamemnon will be sending his spies in with them. Mestares could not tell you he was going. Perhaps he did not even know himself. Hektor told me they were leaving at dawn. You see, he could not even tell me the truth.”
Axa sniffed and rubbed the tears off her cheeks. “Everyone says we’re safe behind the great walls. You believe that, don’t you, my lady? You came back.”
Andromache could not lie to her. “I don’t know, Axa. I came back because my son is here. Where is he this morning?”
“The boys are playing in the gardens. They are firm friends now. It is nice to see them playing so happily together.”
But Andromache felt a stab of fear at her words. Their talk of spies had made her feel vulnerable. “In the gardens? Are they being watched?”
Axa nodded vehemently. “They are guarded at all times, my lady. Prince Hektor picked their bodyguards himself. They are safe.”
Andromache saw the maid’s plump face cloud over again as she thought of her own three children, and she said hastily, “I think the scarlet dress today.”
Surprised, Axa said, “My, your travels have changed you, lady. You don’t normally care what you wear. And you seldom wear that scarlet gown. You said it makes you look like”—she lowered her voice—“one of Aphrodite’s maidens.”
Andromache laughed. “I have spent the entire winter in just three dresses. I am sick and tired of them. Take them out and burn them. I might even do it myself. Now, Axa, you must tell me all the palace gossip I have missed. I hear the princess Kreusa has fled the city.”
A curtain rattled, and one of her handmaids, sloe-eyed Penthesileia, came in. “The king wishes to see you, lady.”
“Thank you, Penthesileia. Axa, our gossip will have to wait. Quickly, help me get ready.”
It was close to noon and the warm air held the promise of summer when Andromache arrived at Priam’s megaron, yet the atmosphere inside was chilly and gloomy. She felt goose bumps rise on her arms as she walked to where Priam sat on his carved and gilded throne, flanked by Polites and Polydorus, with his guard of six Eagles behind him.
Coming up close to the king, Andromache saw that he looked shrunken and frail. She remembered the vital powerful man she had met on the great tower. Then she looked into his eyes and shuddered inwardly. The king she once knew, though cruel and capricious, had a sword-sharp mind. Now all she could see in those eyes was cold emptiness. She remembered Kassandra saying of Agamemnon’s eyes, “They are empty. There is no soul behind them.” Do all kings come to this at last? she thought.
“Andromache,” he said, his voice familiar, though cracked and thin. “You have been away from us too long. Tell me of your travels.”
Standing in front of him like a dutiful child, Andromache started to tell him of their journey: Helikaon’s duel with Persion, her talks with Iphigenia, the winter journey to the Seven Hills, and their return, right up to her arrival with the donkey carts full of tin. She left out only the attack on Ithaka. She gave a detailed account, and it took a long time. She was chilled to the bone by the time she finished her tale. All the while she watched him, wondering how much he was taking in. His gaze drifted from time to time, then slowly turned to her again.
Finally she fell silent. There was a long pause, and then he said, “And Ithaka. You skipped that. Surely one of the most interesting events of your journey.”
“Ithaka, my king?”
He leaned forward, and she saw that the whites of his eyes were as yellow as egg yolks. “It is the talk of the Great Green that Odysseus stormed his own megaron to rescue his wife. Achilles was with him. And the Xanthos was seen there at the time. Aeneas helping his old friend—and our adversary. I know everything that happens on the Great Green, girl. Do not seek to fool me.”