Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
Farewell to the Queen
Helikaon stood at the stern of the Xanthos, staring back at the burning fleet. He felt no satisfaction as the flames lit the night sky. Removing his helm of bronze, he leaned against the stern rail and turned his gaze toward the east. Fires also were burning in the distant fortress of Dardanos, and the Xanthos headed slowly back toward them.
The breeze was cool upon his face as he stood alone. No one approached him. Even the sailor at the great steering oar kept his gaze firmly fixed to the east. The eighty oars of the great vessel slid rhythmically into the night-dark water, the sound as regular as heartbeat.
Halysia was dead. The queen of Dardania was dead. His wife was dead.
And his heart was a ruin.
He and Gershom had climbed the steep cliff to where her body lay, little Dex snuggled up beside her, the black stallion waiting close by. Helikaon had run to her, kneeling and lifting her into his arms. There had been a savage wound in her side, and the ground around her had been slick with blood. Her head had flopped back, her golden hair hanging loose.
Dex had cried out, “Papa!” and he had hugged the three-year-old to him. “We must be very quiet,” Dex whispered. “Sun Woman is sleeping.” Gershom lifted the boy into his arms.
“We jumped over it,” Dex said excitedly, pointing to the chasm and the burned bridge. “We ran away from the bad men.”
Helikaon cradled Halysia to him. Her eyes opened then, and she smiled up at him. “I knew . . . you would come,” she said.
“I am here. Rest. We will get you back to thepalace and staunch your wounds.”
Her face was pale. “I am so tired,” she told him, and his vision misted as tears formed.
“I love you,” he whispered.
She sighed then. “Such a . . . sweet lie,” she said.
She spoke no more, nor ever would, and he knelt there, holding her close.
Across the chasm the sounds of battle grew closer. He did not look up. Hektor and the Trojan Horse had driven the Mykene along the defile toward Parnio’s Folly, and there the enemy had made its last stand.
But Helikaon did not care. He stroked his fingers through Halysia’s golden hair and looked down into her dead eyes. Other men came climbing the cliff. They stood around him silently. At last he closed Halysia’s eyes.
He gave orders for her body to be carried back to the fortress, then slowly made his way to meet Hektor.
“There is still some fighting to the northeast,” Hektor told him. “The enemy general tried to battle his way to the coast. We have them penned.”
Helikaon nodded.
“We took a few prisoners,” Hektor said. “One told us Agamemnon and a war fleet are on Imbros. I don’t think we can hold here if they come. The Seagate is ruined, and my men are weary.”
“I will deal with them,” Helikaon said coldly. “You finish the resistance here.”
Calling his men, he had returned to the Xanthos and set sail into the night. He had expected to face battle with a screen of war galleys protecting the main fleet, but the Mykene, with the arrogance of conquerors, believing themselves safe from attack, had beached their entire fleet on Imbros for the night.
It was a mistake Agamemnon would rue.
The Xanthos sailed serenely on, the burning fleet lighting the sky behind the great ship, the screams of the dying like the cries of distant gulls. The weight of guilt settled on Helikaon as he stood alone, and he remembered his last conversation with Halysia the previous spring. He had been preparing to raid along the Mykene coastline, and she had walked with him down to the beach.
“Be safe and come home to me,” she said as they stood together in the shadow of the Xanthos.
“I will.”
“And know as you journey that I love you,” she told him.
The words surprised him, for she never had said them before. He stood there in the dawn light like a fool, not knowing how to respond. Their marriage had been, as all royal weddings were, a union of necessity.
She laughed at his confusion. “Is the Golden One speechless?” she asked.
“I am,” he admitted. Then he kissed her hand. “It is an honor to be loved by you, Halysia. I mean that with all my heart.”
She nodded. “I know that we do not choose who to love,” she said. “And I know—I have always known—that you yearn for someone else. I am sorry for that. I am sorry for you. But I have tried, and I will continue to try, to bring you happiness. If it is just a portion of the happiness you have brought me, then you will be content. I know this.”
“I am already content. No man could have a finer wife.”
With that he kissed her, then climbed aboard the warship.
“Such a . . . sweet lie.”
Memories cut into him like talons of fire.
He saw black-bearded Gershom walking down the central deck. The big Egypteian climbed the steps to the stern. “She was a great woman. Fine and brave. That was a mighty leap across that chasm. She saved her son.”
The two men stood in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. Helikaon stared ahead at the flames in the sky over the fortress. Warehouses had been set ablaze, along with many of the wooden buildings beyond the palace. Women and children had been killed, as well as many of the defenders, and the fortress city would be shrouded in grief this night and for many nights to come.
It was close to midnight when the Xanthos finally beached again on the rocky shore directly below the ruined Seagate. Helikaon and Gershom walked slowly up the steep path. At the gate they met soldiers of the Trojan Horse, who told them Hektor had captured the Mykene leader and several of his officers. They were being held outside the city.
“Their deaths should be long, their screams loud,” Gershom said.
Fewer than twenty Mykene had been taken alive, but they included their admiral, Menados. He was brought before Hektor on the open ground before the great Landgate. The few captured Mykene warriors, their hands bound, sat huddled close by.
Hektor removed his bronze helm and ran his fingers through his sweat- streaked golden hair. He was tired to the bone, his eyes gritty and his throat dry. Passing the helm to his shield bearer, Mestares, he unbuckled his breastplate, lifting it clear and then dropping it to the grass. The Mykene admiral stepped forward, touching his fist to his own breastplate in salute.
“Ha!” Menados said with a grim smile, “the Prince of War himself.” He shrugged and scratched at his black and silver chin beard. “Ah, well, it is no dishonor to lose to you, Hektor. Can we discuss the terms of my ransom?”
“You are not my prisoner, Menados,” Hektor told him wearily. “You attacked Helikaon’s fortress. You killed his wife. When he returns, he will decide your fate. I doubt ransom will be in his thoughts.”
Menados swore softly, then spread his hands. He stared hard at Hektor. “It is said you don’t approve of torture. Is that true?”
“It is.”
“You had better make yourself scarce, then, Trojan, for when Helikaon returns, he’ll want more than our deaths. Doubtless he will burn us all.”
“And you will deserve it,” Hektor replied. Then he stepped in close, keeping his voice low. “I have heard of you and of your many deeds of courage. Tell me, Menados, how does a hero find himself on a mission to murder a woman and a child?”
Menados gave Hektor a quizzical glance, then shook his head. “How many dead women and children have you seen in your young life, Hektor? Scores? Hundreds? Well, I have seen thousands. Lying twisted in death on the streets of every captured city or town. And yes, at first it turns the stomach. At first I pondered the waste of life, the savagery and the cruelty.” He shrugged. “After a while and more mountains of corpses, I no longer pondered on it. How does a hero find himself on a mission like this? You know the answer. The first duty of a soldier is loyalty. When the king orders, we obey.”
“You will pay a heavy price for that loyalty,” Hektor told him.
“Most soldiers pay a heavy price in the end,” Menados replied. “Why not just kill us now, cleanly? I ask this one warrior to another. I do not want to give the evil bastard the pleasure of my screams.”
Before Hektor could answer, he saw Helikaon walking past the captured men, the big Egypteian Gershom with him. Behind them came a score of angry Dardanians, knives and cudgels in their hands.
Menados drew himself up to his full height and placed his hands behind his back, his expression stern and his face unreadable. Helikaon halted before him.
“You came to my lands with fire and terror,” he said, his voice as cold as winter. “You murdered my wife and the wives and children of my people. Is murder is the only skill you Mykene ever seek to master?”
“Ah,” Menados said, “we are to have a debate about murder? Had I won here, I would have been declared a hero of the Mykene, having defeated a king of evil. But I lost. Do not seek to lecture me, Helikaon the Burner. How many helpless men have you killed? How many women and children died in your raids on Mykene villages?”
Beyond them the mob of Dardanians was moving in on the bound Mykene prisoners. “Back!” Helikaon yelled, turning toward them. “There are buildings burning in our city, and many there need help. Go! Leave these men to me.”
Helikaon stood in silence for a while. He glanced at Hektor. “What do you say, my friend?” he asked. “You captured him.”
Hektor looked at his friend, seeing his anger and his need for vengeance. “The road a soldier walks is narrower than a sword blade,” he said. “A step one way, and he weakens, becoming less of a fighter; the other, and he becomes a monster. Tonight he strayed from this path and is cursed for it. Menados’ tragedy is that he serves Agamemnon, a man without pity, a man devoid of humanity. In any other army Menados would have remained true to his heart and been remembered as a hero. Before you make a judgment on the matter of his death, I will tell you one story, if I may.”
“Make it brief,” Helikaon replied.
“When I was a boy,” Hektor went on, “I heard the tale of a Mykene galley beached on the isle of Kythera, close to a fishing village. A fleet of pirate vessels came into sight, ready to raid the village, kill the men and the children, and enslave the women. The captain of the galley, though he had no links to the village or any friends there, led his forty men into battle against great odds. Twenty-two of his men died, and he was severely wounded. But the village was saved. The people there still celebrate their day of deliverance.”
“And that was you?” Helikaon asked Menados.
“I was younger then and knew no better,” he answered.
“Back in the summer,” Helikaon said softly, “I saw a soldier weep because in the midst of battle he accidentally killed a child. I led that soldier into the fight. I took him to that village, and I made him a murderer. You are correct, Menados. I have no right to lecture you—or any man—on the vileness of war.”
He fell silent and turned away. Hektor watched him, but his expression was unreadable. Finally Helikaon swung back to Menados.
“For the sake of that child and the villagers of Kythera, I give you your life.” He turned to Hektor. “Have your men escort the prisoners to the shore. There is a damaged Mykene galley there. It is barely seaworthy. But let them take it and try to reach Imbros.”
Menados stepped forward and was about to speak. Helikaon raised his hand, and when he spoke, his voice was cold. “Do not misjudge me, Mykene. If ever I see you again, I will cut out your heart and feed it to the crows.”
The men of the Trojan Horse rode southwest from Dardanos until the city of Troy came into sight. Only then did Hektor ordered them to make camp in a wood just outside the city. There they sat, the night cold, a bitter wind leaching the heat from their campfires, their thoughts grim. Just beyond the hill their families waited, loved ones they had not seen for more than two years.
On the brow of the wooded hill Hektor stood silently, a deep sadness clinging to his spirit. Tomorrow there would be a parade for those survivors, their entry into the city met with cheers. But the men who had given the most to this ghastly war would not ride through the flower-strewn streets or have garlands placed over their shoulders by adoring young women. The lifeblood of those heroes already had soaked into the soil of distant Thraki, their ashes scattered by the winds of a foreign land. Or they had drowned in the Hellespont or fallen before the walls of Dardanos.
Even among the survivors there were those who would not enjoy the acclaim they deserved. A victory parade, according to Priam the king, was no place for cripples and amputees. “By the gods, boy, no one wants to see the truth of war. They want to see heroes, tall and strong, striking and handsome.” The comment had angered Hektor not because it was harsh and ungrateful but because it was true.
And so he had ordered the wounded and the maimed to be taken to the healing houses after dark, ferried into the city in secret, as if covered in shame.
Hektor glanced toward the wagons recently arrived from the city. Only one had brought food for his men. The other two were filled with two thousand new white cloaks so that the crowds would not see weary men exhausted by years of battle coming home bloodstained and filthy. Instead, they would gaze in wonder at shining heroes.
His brother Dios climbed the hill to stand alongside him. “A cold night,” he said, drawing his white cloak more tightly around him.
“I do not feel it,” answered Hektor, who was dressed in a simple knee- length tunic of faded yellow.
Read a Sample Chapter
Troy
Fall of Kings
By David Gemmell Ballantine Books
Copyright © 2007 David Gemmell
All right reserved. ISBN: 9780345477033
Book One
The Gathering Storm
Chapter One
A black wind rising
Penelope, queen of Ithaka, understood the nature of dreams and the portents and omens that dogged men’s lives. So she sat on the beach, a gold-embroidered shawl around her slender shoulders, and glanced at the sky from time to time, watching for passing birds and hop- ing for a better omen. Five swallows would predict a safe journey for Odysseus, two swans good fortune; an eagle would indicate a victory—or, for Odysseus, a trading success. But the skies were clear. A light wind sprang from the north. The weather was perfect for sailing.
The old galley had been repaired, debarnacled, and recalked ready for spring, but new timbers and a coat of fresh paint could not conceal her age, which showed in every line as she lay half in and half out of the shallow water.
“Build a new ship, Ugly One,” she had told her husband countless times. “This one is old and tired and will be your downfall.” They had argued about it for years. But in this she had no power to sway him. He was not by nature a sentimental man; his affable demeanor hid a core of bronze and horn, yet she knew he would never replace the old ship he had named afterher.
Penelope sighed, a gentle sadness settling over her. I am that ship, she realized. I am getting old. There is gray in my hair, and the time is swiftly passing. But more significant than the fading of her chestnut hair or the increasing lines upon her face, the monthly flows of blood that indicated youth and fecundity were becoming less frequent. Soon she would be past childbearing age, and there would be no new sons for Odysseus. The sadness deepened into sorrow as she remembered pale Laertes and the fever that had melted away his flesh.
On the beach Odysseus was striding angrily around the galley, his face red, arms gesturing, bellowing at his crewmen, who hurried to load the cargo. There was a sorrow among the men, too; she could feel it as she watched them. A few days previously their comrade Portheos, whom they called Portheos the Pig, a fat, jovial, and popular young man who had sailed with the Penelope for many summers, had died. His young wife, pregnant with their fourth child, had awoken at dawn to find Portheos dead on their pallet bed beside her.
On the Penelope two crewmen were hauling on a heavy bale of the brushwood used for packing cargo in the hold. Suddenly one lost his grip and stumbled, and the other was catapulted into the sea after the stack of wood. Odysseus swore colorfully and turned to his wife, raising his arms in a gesture of despair.
Penelope smiled, her spirits lifting as she watched him. He was always happiest when about to leave for foreign shores. Throughout the spring and summer he would roam the Great Green, buying and selling, telling his stories, meeting kings and pirates and beggars.
“I’ll miss you, lady,” he had told her the previous night as she lay in his arms, her fingers gently curling into the red-gray hair of his chest. She had made no reply. She knew when he would remember her—at each night’s fall, when the dangers of the day had passed, he would think of her and miss her a little.
“I will think of you every day,” he added. Still she said nothing. “The pain of your absence will be a constant dagger wound in my heart.”
She smiled against his chest and knew he felt the smile.
“Don’t mock me, woman,” he said fondly. “You know me too well.”
On the beach in the dawn light she watched him as he stomped across the sand to speak to Nestor, king of Pylos and her kins- man. The contrast between the two men was remarkable. Odysseus, barrel-chested, loud, and angry, attacked each day as if it were a mortal enemy. Nestor, slim, gray, and stooped, was a small point of calm in the storm of activity on the beach. Although Nestor was only ten years older than her husband, he had the demeanor of an ancient; Odysseus was like an excited child. She loved him, and her eyes pricked with unaccustomed tears for the journeys and perils he faced.
He had returned to her only a few days before, accompanied by Nestor, after a reluctant voyage to Sparta at the request of Agamemnon, king of Mykene.
“Agamemnon is intent on revenge,” old Nestor had said, sitting in the megaron late in the evening, a cup of wine comfortably full in his grip, one of his hounds at his feet. “The meeting at Sparta was a failure for him, yet he will not be diverted from his path.”
“The man is obsessed,” Odysseus said. “He summoned the kings of the west and talked of alliance and peace. Yet all the while he dreams of a war with Troy—a war he can only fight if we all join with him.”
Penelope heard the anger in his voice. “Why would any join him?” she asked. “His hatred for Troy is a private matter.”
Nestor shook his head. “There are no private matters for the Mykene king. His ego is colossal. What touches Agamemnon touches the world.” He leaned forward. “Everyone knows he is angry at being thwarted by Helikaon and the traitor Argurios.”
“The traitor Argurios, is it?” Odysseus snapped. “Interesting what makes a man a traitor, is it not? A fine warrior, a man who had faithfully served Mykene all his life, was declared outlaw and stripped of his land, possessions, and good name. Then his king tried to have him killed. Treacherously, he fought for his life and that of the woman he loved.”
Nestor nodded. “Yes, yes, kinsman. He was a fine warrior. Did you ever meet him?”
Penelope knew he was seeking to defuse Odysseus’ anger. She masked a smile. No one with any sense wanted to see Odysseus in a fury.
“Aye, he sailed with me to Troy,” Odysseus replied. “An unpleasant man. But every one of those Mykene would have been slaughtered at Priam’s palace had it not been for Argurios.”
“As it was, they were slaughtered when they returned home,” Penelope added quietly.
“It was called the Night of the Lion’s Justice,” Nestor said. “Just two escaped, and they were declared outlaw.”
“And this is the king you wish to support in a war?” asked Odysseus, swigging mightily from his wine cup. “A man who sends valiant warriors to fight his battles and then murders them when they fail?”
“I have not yet offered ships or men to Agamemnon.” The old man stared into his wine cup. Penelope knew that Nestor had not argued against a war but had kept his own counsel among the kings gathered at Sparta. “However, Agamemnon’s ambitions affect everyone,” he said at last. “With him you are either friend or foe. Which are you, Odysseus?”
“Neither. All men know I am neutral.”
“Easy to be neutral when you have secret supplies of wealth,” said Nestor. “But Pylos depends on trading its flax up into Argos and the north. Agamemnon controls the trade routes. To go against him would be ruinous.” He glanced at Odysseus, and his eyes narrowed. “So tell me, Odysseus, where are these Seven Hills that are making you rich?”
Penelope felt the tension in the room rise, and she glanced at Odysseus.
“On the edge of the world,” Odysseus replied, “and guarded by one-eyed giants.”
Had Nestor not been drinking heavily, he would have noticed the harsh edge in Odysseus’ reply. Penelope took a deep breath, preparing herself to intervene.
“I would have thought, kinsman, that you might have shared your good fortune with others of your blood rather than a foreigner,” Nestor said.
“And I would have,” Odysseus said, “save that the foreigner you speak of discovered the Seven Hills and opened up the trade route. It is not for me to share his secrets.”
“Only his gold,” Nestor snapped.
Odysseus hurled his wine cup across the room. “You insult me in my own palace?” he roared. “We had to fight for the Seven Hills against brigands and pirates and painted tribesmen. That gold was hard-won.”
The angry atmosphere lay thick in the megaron, and Penelope forced a smile. “Come, kinsmen. You sail for Troy tomorrow for the wedding feast and games. Do not let this night end with harsh words.”
The two men looked at each other. Then Nestor sighed. “Forgive me, old friend. My words were ill advised.”
“It is forgotten,” Odysseus said, gesturing at a servant to bring him another cup of wine.
Penelope heard the lie in the words and knew that Odysseus was still angry. “At least in Troy you will be able to forget Agamemnon for a while,” she said, seeking to change the subject.
“The western kings are all invited to see Hektor wed to Andromache,” Odysseus said glumly.
“But Agamemnon will not be there, surely?”
“I think he will, my love. Sly Priam will use the opportunity to bend some of the kings to his will. He will offer them gold and friendship. Agamemnon cannot afford not to go. He will be there.”
“Is he invited? After the Mykene attack on Troy?”
Odysseus grinned and imitated the pompous tones of the Mykene king. “I am saddened”—he spread his hands regretfully—“by the treacherous attack by rogue elements of the Mykene forces on our brother King Priam. The king’s justice has been meted out to the outlaws.”
“The man is a serpent,” Nestor admitted.
“Will your sons compete in the games?” Penelope asked him.
“Yes, they are both fine athletes. Antilochos will do well in the javelin, and Thrasymedes will beat any man in the archery tourney,” he added with a wink.
“There’ll be a green moon in the sky that day,” muttered Odysseus. “On my worst day I could spit an arrow farther than he could shoot one.”
Nestor laughed. “How coy you are with your wife in the room. The last time I heard you brag about your skills, you said you could fart an arrow farther.”
“That, too,” Odysseus said, reddening. Penelope was relieved to see good humor restored.
On the beach the Penelope was finally fully loaded, and the crew members were straining on ropes in the effort to get the old ship refloated. The two sons of Nestor were there, both waist-deep, their backs against the timbers of the hull, pushing her out into deeper water.
The queen of Ithaka stood and brushed pebbles from her dress of yellow linen and advanced down the beach to say farewell to her king. He stood with his first mate, Bias the Black, dark-skinned and grizzled, the son of a Nubian mother and an Ithakan sire. Beside him was a massively muscled blond sailor named Leukon, who was becoming a fistfighter of some renown. Leukon and Bias bowed as she approached, then moved off.
Penelope sighed. “And here we are again, my love, as always,” she said, “making our farewells.”
“We are like the seasons,” he replied. “Ever constant in our actions.”
Reaching out, she took his hand. “And yet this time is different, my king. You know it, too. I fear you will have hard choices to make. Do not make bullheaded decisions you will regret afterward and cannot change. Do not take these men into a war, Odysseus.”
“I have no wish for war, my love.” He smiled, and she knew he meant it, but her heart was heavy with foreboding. For all his strength, his courage, and his wisdom, the man she loved had one great weakness. He was like an old warhorse, canny and cautious, but at the touch of the whip he would ride into fire. For Odysseus that whip was pride.
He kissed both of her hands then turned and stomped down the beach and into the sea. The water was chest-high before he grabbed a rope and hauled himself up on board. Instantly the rowers took up a beat, and the old ship started to glide away. She saw him wave his arm, silhouetted against the rising sun.
She had not told him of the gulls. He would only scoff. Seagulls were stupid birds, he would say. They have no place in prophecy.
But she had dreamed of a colossal flock of gulls that blotted out the sun like a black wind rising, turning the midday sky to night.
And that wind brought death and the end of worlds.
From the Hardcover edition. Continues...
Excerpted from Troy by David Gemmell Copyright © 2007 by David Gemmell. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Loading...