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of wine, yet his personality dominated the sunlit square, and even the
heavily armored Eagles seemed diminished in his presence.
    Hektor stepped forward. “You are Xander,” he said, smiling.
    “Yes. Yes, lord,” the young healer replied, throwing himself belatedly to his
knees.
    “Stand up, Xander. You are a friend of my wife, and no friend kneels in my
presence. Now, bring us to our wounded comrades.”
    As they passed through the dark gates into the temple, Xander heard Priam
grumble, “Cripples depress me, and there is always a stink around the dying. It
sticks in the nostrils for days.” Hektor appeared not to hear him.
    They stepped into the courtyard. There was silence for a moment, then ragged
cheering arose from the sick and broken men. Even those on the threshold of the
Dark Road raised their voices for their king and commander.
    Priam raised his arms, and the cheers redoubled. Then he spoke, and the
irritable rasp Xander had heard moments before was replaced by a deep, warm
booming voice that easily reached the injured men at the far wall.
    “Trojans!” he cried, and all sound ceased. “I am proud of you all. This
victory you have won for Troy will be spoken of for a thousand years. Your names
will be as familiar to Father Zeus as those of Herakles and Ilos.” He beamed and
raised his arms again to acknowledge the cheers, and then he and Hektor walked
among the beds.
    Xander was baffled. Moments before he had heard the king complaining of this
visit as a tiresome duty. Perhaps he had misheard or misunderstood the words.
Now Xander watched Priam speaking softly to the dying, listening kindly to
babbled tales of saintly mothers and wives, even joking with amputees, saying to
each one, “Your king is proud of you, soldier.”
    Xander stayed at his side, sometimes translating the mumbled words of a
soldier in his last moments, sometimes lifting a man’s hand so that he could
touch the king’s robes. He stole an occasional look into Priam’s face but could
see nothing there but kind concern and compassion.
    Hektor was always a step behind his father, greeting each man by name. As
they slowly made their way around, not missing one bed, the sun moved down in
the sky and Xander saw the lines on Hektor’s face deepen and his shoulders sag.
In contrast, his father seemed to gain energy from the visit.
    As the sun disappeared over the houses of healing and torches were lit around
the courtyard, they returned to the gates, where an ornate chariot encrusted
with gold and gems had been drawn up. Priam turned to his son.
    “Now let us return to the living and enjoy this day of triumph.”
    “It was good for those soldiers to see us together,” Hektor replied mildly.
    Priam turned on him with anger in his eyes. His voice again was cold and
rasping. “Never ask me to do that again, boy. A king is not a nursemaid. And the
smell in there was nauseating.”
    Xander saw Hektor’s jaw set, but he stepped lightly into the chariot and took
up the reins. Priam climbed in beside him. “You should have left them all on the
beach at Carpea. They would have welcomed an honorable death for their king and
their city,” he said.
    Hektor flicked at the reins, and the two white geldings leaned into the
traces. The chariot pulled smoothly away, the Royal Eagles loping alongside.
    Back in the courtyard the men were talking excitedly about the visit of the
king and how he had spoken of his pride in them. Xander, saddened by Priam’s
deceit, spoke of it to Zeotos later that night.
    “He seemed so… so genuinely interested in them, so warm, so compassionate. In
truth, though, he cared nothing for them.”
    The surgeon chuckled. “You heard him tell the men he was proud of them and
tell Hektor he was a king, not a nursemaid?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you assume he was lying to the men and telling the truth to Hektor?”
    Xander nodded. “Am I wrong, sir?”
    “Perhaps, Xander. Priam is a complex man. It is