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possible that his words to
the injured and the dying were heartfelt and that his callous comments to Hektor
were made to disguise his emotions.”
    “You think so?” Xander asked, his heart lifting.
    “No. Priam is a cold and wretched creature. Although,” Zeotos added with a
wink, “now it might be I who am lying. The point is, Xander, that it is unwise
to form judgments on such little evidence.”
    “Now I am completely confused,” the young man admitted.
    “Which was my intention. You are a fine lad, Xander, honest, direct, and
without guile. Priam is a man so drenched in deceit, even he would no longer
know which—if any—of his statements was genuine. In the end it doesn’t matter.
The men who heard him praise them had their spirits lifted. Indeed, some of them
may even recover now, and it would then be fair to say that Priam healed them.
So do not be downcast by a few callous words from a drunken king.”
     
    Andromache climbed the long hill toward the palace, moonlight glinting on the
golden, gem-encrusted gown she wore. Her long flame-red hair was decorated with
emeralds in a braid of gold. She was weary as she walked, not physically tired,
for she was young and strong, but drained by a day of jostling crowds and
cloying conversation rich with insincerity. Andromache still could hear music
and laughter from the square. There was no joy in the sound. The atmosphere at
the feast had been tense, the laughter forced and strident.
    The men had talked of victory, but Andromache had heard the fear in their
voices, seen it shining in their eyes. Priam had lifted the crowd with a
powerful speech in which he had extolled the heroic virtues of Hektor and the
Trojan Horse. But the effect had been ephemeral. All at the feast knew the
reality.
    Many merchant families already had left the city, and most of the warehouses
stood empty. The wealth that had flowed like a golden river into the city was
slowing. Soon it would be merely a trickle. How long, then, before the enemy
forces were camped outside the walls, readying their ladders and their battering
rams, sharpening their swords, and preparing for slaughter and plunder?
    That was why, Andromache knew, everyone wanted to be close to her husband,
Hektor, talking to him, clapping him on the back, telling him how they had
prayed for his safe homecoming. The last part was probably true. More than the
huge walls, more than the power of its soldiers and the wealth of its king,
Hektor represented the 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