Troy 03 - Fall of Kings by David Gemmell Read Free Book Online

greatest hope for staving off defeat. Everywhere else the news was grim: trade routes cut off, allies overcome or suborned, enemy armies rampaging beyond the Ida mountains and across the straits in Thraki.
    Andromache walked on, two soldiers alongside her holding burning brands to light the way. Two others, of Priam’s elite Eagles, followed, hands on sword hilts. Ever since the attack on her by Mykene assassins, Andromache had been shadowed by armed men. It was galling, and she never had become used to it.
    She thought back to the night long before on Blue Owl Bay when, disguised, she had walked among the sailors and the whores and had listened to Odysseus telling tall tales. That was the night she had met Helikaon, a night of violence and death, a night of prophecy.
    There would be no such anonymous nights now. Her face was too well known in Troy. Otherwise she might have returned to the palace, slipped into a servant’s tunic, and made her way down to the lower town, where she could dance and sing among honest people.
    As they climbed toward the palace, she saw several drunken men asleep on the street. The soldiers with her eyed them warily. One of the drunks awoke as they passed. He stared at her, then rubbed his eyes. His expression was one of wonder. He struggled to his feet and staggered toward her. Instantly the swords of the Eagles rasped from their scabbards.
    “It is all right,” Andromache called out. “Do not harm him.”
    The drunk halted before her, staring at the golden gown she wore, the torchlight glittering on the gems woven into its strands. “I thought…I thought you were a goddess from Olympos,” he said.
    “I am Andromache. You should go home.”
    “Andromache,” he repeated.
    “Be off with you,” one of the soldiers ordered.
    The drunk tried to stand tall but then staggered. He glared at the soldier. “I was at Kadesh,” he said, raising his right hand.
    In the flickering light Andromache saw that it was maimed, the first three fingers cut away.
    “Trojan Horse,” he went on. “No parades for me, boy. Now I piss in a pot for the dye makers, and I sleep on the street. But I could still piss on you, you arrogant turd!”
    Andromache swiftly stepped between the man and the angry soldier. Unpinning a golden brooch encrusted with gems from the shoulder of her gown, she pressed it into the man’s ruined hand. “Accept this gift, soldier, from Hektor’s wife,” she said, “in tribute to your courage.”
    He stared down at the glowing gold, and she saw there were tears in his eyes. “I am Pardones,” he said. “Remember me to your husband.”
    Then he turned away and stumbled into the darkness.
             
    The sun was blazing low on the horizon as the
Xanthos
sailed into the great Bay of Troy. Not a breath of wind blew across the waters, and only the sound of the oars dipping and rising broke the sunset silence.
    In the distance the city gleamed as if cast from burning gold. The last of the sunlight shone upon its gilded rooftops and bannered towers, casting glittering reflected shards of light from the spear points and helms of the sentries on the battlements.
    Gershom the Egypteian smiled as he gazed again upon the city. It was indeed impressive, but as he looked at the awestruck expressions of the crewmen nearest to him, he wondered how they would react if they ever saw the wonders of Thebes, the city of a hundred gates, or the towering white pyramids, or the Great Lion. Troy was breathtaking, but it mirrored the people who had built it. The city had not been constructed with thoughts of beauty or aligned with the stars to please the gods who dwelled there. It was first and foremost a fortress, solid and strong, with high walls and gates of oak and bronze. The majesty of Troy was almost accidental, Gershom thought, a blending of impressive masonry and brilliant sunsets.
    There were few other ships in the bay. Four fishing boats had spread their nets, and three new war