Read Troy 03 - Fall of Kings for Free Online

students had attended this grisly display of the surgeon’s skill. One of the youngsters had fainted, striking his head on the wall as he fell.
    Xander and the other three students briefly had enjoyed a feeling of superiority over their hapless colleague until Zeotos had sawed through the chest bone and slit open the cadaver’s belly. Once the intestines were exposed, the stench that filled the room was beyond bearing, and the young men fled to the corridor beyond, the sound of the surgeon’s laughter following them.
    These two memories—the cadaver and the ship in the storm—had blended to form the awful dream.
    Feeling calmer, Xander rose from the bed and moved to a stone basin set on a table beneath the window. Splashing water onto his face, he pushed wet fingers through his curly hair. Refreshed, he opened the shutters, allowing sunlight in. There was little warmth in it, and the cold breeze heralded the onset of winter.
    “Xander!” came the voice of Zeotos. The young student turned to see the white-bearded surgeon at the door of the House of Serpents resting room. “You have to return to work now,” he said, his face a mask of exhaustion. Xander felt a rush of guilt. The old man had worked through the night without rest.
    “You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long, sir,” Xander said.
    “The young seem to need their sleep more than the old,” Zeotos answered. “That said, I am now going to steal that bed of yours. There are two men out there with deep stomach wounds. Keep an eye on them both, boy. If their bellies begin to distend, come and get me as fast as you can. Understand?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The previous night almost two hundred cavalrymen had been brought to the House of Serpents under cover of darkness. They all had been wounded grievously and had suffered greatly in the embattled crossing of the Hellespont and the long journey to the city from Dardanos. Carried on jolting, overloaded carts and horse-drawn litters, many had died along the way.
    Zeotos lay down on the bed and gave a low groan of pleasure. Xander left the old man and made his way to the courtyard, where most of the injured were lying on cushioned pallets under canopies. There was little sound despite the numbers crowded there, just the occasional groan of a soldier having a wound tended or the mumbled delirium of a dying man. The smoke from fragrant herbs burning on the altar of Asklepios helped keep insects away. Xander saw the head of the house, Machaon, and the three other healers moving among the wounded. Elsewhere trained servants busied themselves, bringing fresh water, removing soiled linen, and applying clean bandages.
    Xander knew where he was needed most. Those with a chance of life and recovery were receiving the best care from both healers and servants. The dying lay alone. Xander moved swiftly to the row of beds nearest the altar. The first man he came to had been wounded in the chest and lower back. His face was haggard and gray, and death was not far off.
    “Are you in pain?” Xander whispered, leaning over the man.
    The dying man looked into Xander’s eyes. “I’ve suffered worse. You see the parade?” the soldier asked. “Heard them ride by, crowds cheering.”
    “I caught a glimpse,” Xander told him. “Hektor rode in a golden chariot, and the riders followed him in ranks of four. People threw flowers onto the street.”
    The soldier’s smile faded. “You can go now, healer. There’s others with greater need than me.”
    “Can I get you anything? Water?”
    The soldier winced. “Another year of life would be good.”
    Xander moved on. Three other warriors had died quietly, and he called servants to remove the bodies. The dying watched the departure of the dead, their faces grim.
    Late in the afternoon old Zeotos appeared again, hurrying across the courtyard. “The king is coming,” the surgeon grunted. “Machaon wants you to meet him and Prince Hektor at the gates. He himself must perform an