Andromache remained silent. The king coughed painfully and went on, his voice harsh. “I declare Aeneas to be an enemy of Troy. He will be executed when he returns to the city. Do you hear me, Polites?”
“Yes, Father.” Polites caught Andromache’s eye and shook his head slightly. “You are tired now, Father. You must rest.”
Priam ignored him. “You are not wearing the gown I gave you,” he said to Andromache.
“My lord?” She looked down at the scarlet dress.
“The gold-embroidered gown with the dolphin shawl. You said you would wear it today.” The old man leaned forward again and stared at her, frowning. Then he reached out a clawlike hand and dragged her to him. He was still a powerful man, and Andromache felt his sour breath on her cheek, hot and feverish. His grip on her arm was like a vise.
“Who are you?” he rasped. “You are not my Hekabe. Are you one of the ghosts? I tell you again, you do not frighten me!”
She said calmly, “I am Andromache, wife to Hektor.”
“Where is Hekabe?” He released her, pushing her away, and looked around him. “She said she would wear the golden gown.”
Polydoros stepped forward and offered the old man a drink from a goblet of gold, and Polites moved alongside Andromache. “You can go now,” he said quietly. “I know his moods. He is living in his past, and he does not know you.”
“Hektor said the king could no longer be trusted. He did not explain further,” Andromache said as they walked from the megaron out into the fresh air.
Polites told her of the regiments’ retreat from the Scamander and the burning of the bridges, and she listened in horror.
“But if his Eagles still obey him,” she responded, “Helikaon will be killed when he returns to Troy.”
Polites smiled sadly. “Father no longer has any Eagles at his command.”
“But the Eagles in the megaron…” Her voice trailed off as the realization struck her. “I see. They are not Eagles.”
“No, they are all Hektor’s men, handpicked by him to guard the king. If you looked closely, one of them is Areoan, Hektor’s shield bearer and one of his most loyal friends. They do not do Priam’s bidding. Any order he gives they bring to me.”
“Then you are truly king in Troy, Polites.”
He nodded ruefully. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Then Hektor should not have left,” she said sharply. “I am sorry, Brother, but you are not a military man.”
“I told him that myself. Come, let us walk.”
They wandered into the gardens, where Andromache could see the two little boys playing, watched by their bodyguards. She longed to run to Astyanax and take him in her arms, but instead she paced slowly beside Polites as he talked.
“People say Priam had fifty sons, you know,” he told her. “But much that’s said about the king is nonsense. Many think my own sons were sired by him. It is something of a joke in the city. But it is not true. My wife, Suso, lived away from Troy for most of our marriage because she feared the king’s advances. She died in the winter. Did you know that?” Andromache shook her head, struck dumb with compassion for a woman she never had known. “It was a coughing fever,” Polites explained flatly, as if talking about the weather. “But our two boys are safe. I sent them far from the city over a year ago. No one knows where they are but me. They were the heirs to Troy before your Astyanax was born, but they will never know that. Even the good merchant and his wife who are raising them as their own don’t know who they are.”
Polites paused. “But I am straying from my point, Sister. You see, Priam had many sons, but he has been profligate with them. I know for certain he had five murdered, probably more. And now he has lost Dios and my good friend Antiphones and Paris, too. And Hektor, the best of us, is not here. So the only son he has left is poor Polites, who is, as you say, not a military man.”
Andromache started to speak, but he held his hand up. “Hektor believes the walls cannot be taken, and I think he is right. So there is nothing to do for those of us behind them but to guard and ration the food and water and ensure the Scaean Gate is not opened by treachery.”
“But if somehow they do break in and you fall, Polites, who will then order the defense of the city?”
“If I fall, Andromache, its generals will defend the city.”
At that moment there was shouting from the portico, and an Eagle came running through the open bronze gates and into the courtyard gardens. “The Mykene are attacking the walls, lord! They have hundreds of ladders.”
Polites’ expression darkened. “Where?” he demanded.
“The east and west walls, my lord.”
“Who commands the walls today?”
“Banokles’ Scamandrians have the west, Lucan the east.”
“Then I will go to the west wall. Soldier, go and fetch my armor.” Polites glanced at Andromache. “A prince must be seen in his armor,” he explained shyly.
He turned to go and almost collided with a redheaded man making his way toward the palace. Andromache recognized Khalkeus the bronzesmith. The old smith was covered with dust, and he looked exhausted, as if he had worked all night.
“I must see the king,” Khalkeus told him curtly.
“You cannot see the king now,” Polites answered.
“Then I wish to see you, Prince Polites,” Khalkeus said, folding his arms and planting himself in the prince’s path. “It is very important. I must have more resources. My work is vital.”
“Another time, Khalkeus. The walls are under attack.”
Khalkeus raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Under attack? With ladders?” Polites nodded and pushed past him. “Interesting!” the smith said. “I will come with you.”
Andromache watched them hurry off: Polites with his long white robes flapping around skinny legs, stocky Khalkeus trotting along behind him. Her heart full of dread, she turned and walked back to the two boys playing in the sunlit gardens.
Khalkeus followed in the footsteps of the king’s son as he made his way through the city, flanked by a troop of Eagles. He had forgotten completely his concerns about the forge, his interest piqued by this new turn of events. He long since had dismissed the possibility of the enemy attacking with ladders. The great walls were too high, and the slant of the lowest section meant that the ladders would have to be unusually long, which would make them heavy to maneuver and extremely unstable.
The scene on the west wall was one of calm control. The battlements were defended strongly by the Scamandrian regiment. At only one point had the enemy managed to climb to the top. Khalkeus watched the obnoxious Mykene renegade Banokles and his men kill them, strip their armor, then throw the bodies back over the wall.
He peered cautiously over the wall at the scene below. More than fifty ladders had been thrown up against the stones. They were all just short of the battlements, and once the enemy troops had started climbing them, their weight made the tops of the ladders hard to dislodge. Nevertheless, the Trojan soldiers were doing an efficient job, leaning over, hooking the ends of ladder poles to the top rungs, and then pushing them away and down, sending enemy warriors crashing back among their fellows, breaking arms, legs, and heads.
“Slide the ladders!” Polites yelled, seeing what was happening. “Wait until they have plenty of men on them, then slide them sideways. Then they’ll take others down with them.”
Arrows flew over the battlements, targeting the soldiers who were trying to dislodge the ladders, and Polites hurriedly donned his breastplate and helm when they were brought to him. Khalkeus looked around him, wrenched a helmet from a dead Trojan soldier, and hastily put it on. It smelled of blood and sweat.