“I saw him at the barricade,” he answered. “He is a soldier. He could not wait here doing nothing while the city was under attack.”
“Sometimes it is hardest just to wait and do nothing.” She felt anger replacing the rising panic. “Polydorus was charged with command of the palace. He has deserted his post—and his king.”
“You are being too harsh, Andromache,” Polites chided her. “Polydorus has always been a dutiful son of Troy. He found it frustrating looking after Father. His city is in danger. He is a soldier,” he repeated.
Andromache looked at him with surprise. “As a soldier,” she said scornfully, “his duty was to look after the king, not to fight in the streets. Any common soldier can do that. Polydorus was honored for his valiant part in the palace siege by being made the king’s aide, Priam’s bodyguard. He has now abandoned the king. How can you defend him, Polites?”
Frowning, he answered, “Sometimes there is a higher duty, Sister, a duty to one’s conscience.”
Andromache took a deep breath and sighed. “I am sorry, Polites. I should not be arguing with you. It is getting dark, and I must say good night to my boys. Then, if Polydorus has not returned, we will get together and make our own plans. Perhaps the generals will be here by then.”
She hurried up the stone staircase, feeling her heart beating noisily. Ruefully she admitted to herself that fear for her boys had expressed itself as anger. In the queen’s apartments she made her way to the boys’ bedchamber. Anio was not to be seen. Then she remembered she had told the girl to find cloth to make bandages. She found little Dex on his own, sitting on the floor playing with his favorite toy, a battered wooden horse with blue eyes he had brought from Dardanos.
She looked around, then squatted down with the boy.
“Where is Astyanax?” she asked him, pushing his fair fringe back off his face.
“He went with the man,” the child said, handing her the toy to play with.
She frowned, and a trickle of dread entered her heart. She heard again the distant sound of thunder. “What man, Dex?”
“The old man took him,” he told her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
DEATH OF A KING
“I will find your son,” the warrior Kalliades promised Andromache. “I will not return to you without him.”
They had searched the palace high and low, but there was no sign of Astyanax or of Priam. The king’s body servant told Polites he had left the old man wrapped in a blanket in a chair on the balcony. He was feeble and lost, the man said defensively, living in the comforting world of the distant past. Since the death of Hektor he had lived there all the time.
Back in the megaron, Kalliades swiftly stripped off his armor until he wore only his bronze-reinforced leather kilt and sandals. “Find a dark cloak for me to wear,” he told Andromache. She glanced at him, annoyance overtaking the anxiety in her eyes, but she gestured to one of her handmaids.
“Make that two,” Banokles said, loosening his breastplate.
“General,” Kalliades urged his comrade. “You will be vital here to rally the troops.”
“They won’t attack tonight,” the blond warrior replied confidently.
“No,” Kalliades agreed. “Agamemnon will give them free rein tonight to plunder as they will. But by first light we must be ready for them. We have barely enough soldiers left to man the palace walls as it is. Our warriors trust you and will fight to the death for you.”
Polites stepped forward nervously. “I will go with you, Kalliades,” he suggested, “if you will have me. I know my father, and I can guess where he will be going.”
He had expected the tall warrior to refuse his aid, but instead Kalliades said, “Thank you, lord. He cannot have gotten far. We can only hope he has not been captured, and the boy with him.”
The handmaid returned with two dark hooded cloaks. Kalliades swiftly donned his sword belt and then the cloak. Polites watched him and then awkwardly did the same.
Kalliades told the prince, “The storm will be our ally tonight. We will stay in the shadows until we find two Mykene warriors. Then we will take their armor.”
Polites nodded without speaking, fearing his voice would quaver. He had never been a warrior. He had left that to his brothers Hektor, Agathon, and Dios. He always had been in awe of soldiers who spoke as casually of killing as he did of cutting his roses.
Kalliades told Andromache, “Soon we will need your women with their bows. Place them on the front palace balcony to cover any retreat from the palace walls. If the walls and courtyard are taken, pull them back to the gallery of the megaron. Finally, if it comes to that, retreat to the queen’s apartments.”
She nodded. “They will do us proud,” she promised him.
As they left the palace, Kalliades paused and Polites looked around. Torrential rain was driving at them sideways, lashed by a vicious wind. Lightning lit the sky to the north, and beyond the walls to their left a huge brush fire was burning. They could see no enemy troops, although shouts, screams, and the clash of metal echoed from lower in the city.
“Which way?” he asked, his voice whipped away by the gusting wind.
Polites put his mouth close to the warrior’s ear. “The great tower,” he shouted.
Kalliades raised an eyebrow, and Polites nodded vigorously. “I’m sure of it,” he yelled.
They set off and made swift progress, running through the streets down toward the tower. Whenever Kalliades paused, Polites froze, his heart thumping. Then the tall warrior would lope on, staying in narrow alleys and skirting open spaces. There were fires everywhere despite the driving rain. They saw many bodies—some townsfolk but mostly soldiers—and several wounded men. Kalliades stopped only once, kneeling to speak briefly to a badly wounded Trojan soldier who lay with his entrails strewn around him. Kalliades took out a curved dagger and sliced the man’s throat, then moved on, his expression grim.
In one narrow alleyway Kalliades stopped when they heard the sound of marching feet above the racket of the rain. Coming toward them through the darkness were enemy soldiers carrying torches. They were not running, laughing, or shouting; they marched in silence, as if on a mission. Kalliades shoved Polites back into the nearest doorway, but it was shallow and they would be seen once the soldiers came close. Kalliades opened the door and stepped through. Polites followed, his heart in his mouth.
They were in a courtyard. More than a dozen Mykene soldiers were in there, too, but their attention was on someone unseen on the ground. The pair heard an agonized cry and a woman’s voice begging. Polites looked in anguish at Kalliades. The warrior’s face darkened, but he shook his head. Polites saw pain in his eyes.
Unnoticed, they slipped back into the alley and ran on. Polites saw that Kalliades was limping slightly. He wondered at the severity of a wound that would make a warrior like Kalliades limp.
At last they found two Mykene soldiers in armor. One was leaning against a wall, hands on hips, as if getting his breath back. The other was berating him about something, leaning in and shouting in his ear. Kalliades gestured to Polites to wait. Then he walked over to them. They both glanced up, unconcerned. Before they could move, Kalliades sliced his dagger across the throat of one. The other leaped back, cursing and drawing his sword. He scowled at Kalliades and lunged at the warrior’s face. Kalliades swayed and ducked in one graceful movement, then sank his knife into the man’s groin. Only then did he unsheathe his sword. The Mykene fought on bravely for a few heartbeats, then collapsed beside his comrade. Polites could see his lifeblood pumping out onto the rain-soaked street. Glancing around, Kalliades swiftly started to remove the dead man’s armor, handing it to Polites to put on. By then the other man was dead, too, and Kalliades donned his armor.