Fall of Kings by David; Stella Gemmell

sons fled; the other was captured. Paris was there. He will
know more than I.”
    “Paris? Was he hurt?”
    “No, lord,” the soldier replied.
    A female servant came into the garden and hurried up to them. “Lord Hektor,”
she cried. “The king has sent for you.”
    Hektor’s face was ashen, and he left the garden without a word of farewell to
Andromache or Kassandra.
    The servant girl approached Andromache. “Shall I take the boy, lady?” she
asked softly.
    Andromache nodded and passed the child to her. Astyanax moaned a little and
then settled his head on the girl’s shoulder.
    As the servant moved away, a cool breeze whispered across the garden,
rustling the dried leaves on the pathway. Andromache saw that Kassandra was
standing there, her large blue-gray eyes full of tears.
    “You knew he was dead, didn’t you?” Andromache said. “You were speaking to
his spirit.”
    Kassandra nodded. “The fat merchant had weak eyes. He thought Dios was
Helikaon.”
    Andromache recalled seeing Dios earlier that day. He had been wearing a white
tunic similar to Helikaon’s. Odysseus once had remarked on the resemblance
between the two men. “They look alike,” he had said, “but they are very
different. They are copper and bronze. Both have value.” His eyes had twinkled
mischievously. “In a whorehouse a man needs copper rings to buy his pleasure. In
battle, though, a man needs sharp bronze in his hand. Helikaon is bronze. Dios
is copper.”
    Kassandra’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Dios will be honored in death.
His bones will lie in the city he loved. That is important, you know.”
    “Yes,” Andromache said. “I am sure that it is.”
    Kassandra leaned in close. “Kalliope wants you to take her home. You can
carry her back to the tamarisk grove, where she was most happy, where she sat
with you on that midsummer’s night. You remember?”
    Andromache could not answer, but she nodded, tears coursing down her face.
    “You can speak to her there,” Kassandra said. “You will feel her in your
heart.”
    Andromache shook her head. “No,” she said, “I cannot take her home. I will
not allow her spirit to be chained.”
     
    Pale predawn light shone through high windows as Andromache kissed her
sleeping son and allowed herself a few heartbeats to enjoy the warmth of his
cheek against her face. Then she stood and strode from her apartments.
    Dressed in an ankle-length tunic of yellow wool and wrapped in a heavy
gray-green cloak, Andromache made her way through the quiet palace and out into
the night. Kassandra was waiting at the portico, her slight figure also
enveloped in a dark cloak. Close by, servants held torches, lighting a four-seat
chariot. Horses shifted nervously and whinnied softly in the flickering light.
    Suddenly Hektor appeared out of the gloom. In full armor and ready for
travel, he picked up Kassandra and swung her high like a child before placing
her gently into the chariot. She looked flustered and pleased. Then he kissed
Andromache and handed her into the vehicle, too. She smiled down at him and
touched his cheek. They had talked long into the night. Today he would ride
south to protect her father’s lands while she sailed enemy seas to Thera.
    “May the gods keep you from harm,” he said, “and bring you back to me.”
    The charioteer touched the reins lightly to the horses’ backs, and,
surrounded by a troop of cavalry, the chariot set off down the stone road toward
the bay.
    The two women held on tightly as the vehicle bumped through the wakening
streets. At the Scaean Gate they paused as the great gate was opened, and the
noise of the wooden wheels, creaking harness, and snorting horses died down.
    Sadness settled on her as she thought again of Dios. She regretted missing
the ritual farewell the next day but promised herself that wherever the Xanthos beached that night, she would speak her own words of goodbye to his
shade. The chariot lurched forward.