Fall of Kings (67 page)

“How do you know he’s not dead?” little Dios asked.

“Because Odysseus is a storyteller, and storytellers never die as long as
their stories live on.”

Invigorated by the thought, she stood up, cursed as her knees cracked, then
set off down the hill, the boy running after her. Spotting her, two men peeled
away from the crowd and raced up the hillside to meet her where a campfire
blazed in a small hollow. Andromache’s old bow and specially prepared arrows lay
beside it.

She took each of her sons by the hand and gazed at them fondly. Astyanax had
her flame hair and green eyes, and his handsome face bore a dreadful sword
wound, a legacy of a battle with the Siculi the previous spring when he nearly
had died saving his brother’s life. Still, when he smiled, he looked just like
his father. Dex had his mother’s fair hair and the powerful build and dark eyes
of his Assyrian sire. He had taken the name Ilos as an act of fealty to his
adopted people, but the local folk called him Iulos.

“I am ready,” she told them, “I have said my goodbyes.”

She had lain all night racked with grief at the king’s funeral bier, her
heart cracked and drained, her soul bereft, her tears staining his face and
hands. Then, in the morning, she had dried her eyes, kissed his cold lips and
his forehead, and walked away from him forever.

Now Astyanax turned and signaled, and a score of men leaped to put their
shoulders to the
Xanthos.
There was a rumbling of wood against gravel, a
groan of protesting timbers, and then the old ship once more was afloat. Her
mast had been dismantled, and the steering oar tied. The galley was heaped with
fragrant cedar branches and herbs. At its center the body of Helikaon lay on a
cloth of gold. He was dressed in a simple white robe, and the sword of Argurios
was on his breast. On his right foot only he wore an old sandal.

As the drifting ship reached the center of the river and was snatched by the
current, the sun touched the horizon. Andromache bent to pick up her bow. She
put an arrowhead to the fire, and it blazed brightly. She notched the arrow to
the string and closed her eyes briefly to summon all her remembered strength and
courage. Then she sighted and loosed the arrow.

It soared into the sky like a rising star, dipped again, and hit the golden
ship at the stern. A blaze started instantly. Within heartbeats archers all
along the riverbank had shot their fire arrows into the ship. There was an
explosion of flame, and the
Xanthos
was alight from stem to stern. It was
so bright that people in the crowd shaded their eyes, and the roar of burning
timbers was the sound of thunder. High above an eagle rose through the blue sky,
lifted on the warm air.

Unbidden, faces appeared in Andromache’s mind: Hektor, the bravest of the
Trojans; his brothers Dios and Antiphones; the tale spinner Odysseus; the
valiant Mykene warriors Argurios, Kalliades, and Banokles. And Helikaon, her
lover, her husband, the keeper of her heart.

I have walked with heroes, she thought.

Andromache felt her heart fill again, and she smiled. Then she raised her bow
in her fist in final farewell as the blazing ship sailed into the west.