‘Exactly that! You have experienced it?’
‘Every time I see Andromache.’
Just then an Eagle away to the left shouted, ‘Here they come!’
Argurios pushed himself to his feet. ‘Now it begins in earnest,’ he said.
iv
Prince Agathon watched his Thrakians rushing towards the walls. There were no battle cries now, merely a grim determination to kill and conquer, and earn the riches Agathon had offered. He longed to be with them, scaling a ladder and cutting his way through to Priam. He wanted to be there when the king was dragged to his knees, begging for his life. Yet he could not be with them yet.
With Priam’s death success was his, but if he were to die in the assault all these years of planning and scheming would come to nothing. He would walk the dark road to Hades as a failure.
A failure.
In Priam’s eyes he always had been. When Agathon defeated the rebel Hittites at Rhesos his father had railed at the losses he sustained. ‘Hektor would have crushed them with half your men and a tenth of your dead.’ No parade for Agathon. No wreath of laurels.
When had it ever been different? As a child of ten, frightened of the dark, and fearful of cramped, gloomy places, he had been taken by his father to the subterranean Caves of Cerberus. Priam had told him of demons and monsters who inhabited the caves, and that a wrong path would lead straight to the Underworld. Father had been carrying a torch. Agathon had stayed close, his panic growing. Deeper and deeper they travelled. Then they had come to an underground stream. Father had doused the torch and stepped away from him.
Agathon had screamed, begging his father to take his hand.
The silence had grown. He had cowered in the darkness for what seemed an eternity, weeping and terrified.
Then he had seen a light. It was his eleven-year-old half-brother Hektor, carrying a flaming torch. ‘Father is gone. Demons have taken him,’ Agathon had wailed.
‘No, he is outside, waiting for you.’
‘Why did he leave me?’
‘He thinks it will cure your fear of the dark.’
‘Can we go now?’
‘I cannot leave with you, Agathon. Father does not know I came here. I entered on the south side. We will douse the torch, and you will take my hand. I will lead you to where you can see the sunlight. Then you must walk out on your own.’
‘Why does he hate me, Hektor?’
‘He just wants you to be strong. I am going to douse the torch now. Are you ready?’
Hektor had led him slowly up through the tunnels, holding close to the walls.
Agathon had not been afraid then, for he could feel the warmth of Hektor’s hand, and knew his brother would not abandon him. The gloom had slowly lifted, and ahead Agathon had seen sunlight against the cave walls.
‘I’ll see you later, little brother,’ said Hektor, ducking back into the darkness.
Agathon had walked out, to see father, mother, and twenty or more counsellors and advisers, all sitting in the sunshine. As Agathon emerged Priam looked over to him. ‘Gods, boy, have you been weeping? You are a disgrace to me.’
Shaking himself free of the memory he watched his Thrakians scale the walls.
Strangely there was no sound of fighting.
The white-haired Kolanos appeared alongside him. ‘They have retreated to the citadel,’ he said.
Then came the cries of wounded and dying men. Agathon knew what was happening.
Archers were shooting down into the massed ranks of his Thrakians. Swinging round, he called out to one of the officers commanding the reserves. ‘Send in bowmen!’ he shouted. ‘The enemy will be massed on the balcony above the doors.
Pin them down!’ The officer gathered his men and a hundred archers ran to the ladders.
This should have been so simple. Agathon’s men were to march to the palace, overpower the few guards, and allow the Mykene in to complete the massacre.
Instead the gates were barred, and a defence had been organized.
Who would have thought that Fat Antiphones could have fought off the assassins?
There was no doubt in Agathon’s mind that he had lived long enough to warn Helikaon. Agathon had heard that a rider on a golden horse had swept past his Thrakians as they marched to the citadel. Helikaon alone bred these mounts. Then had come the news that a warrior in Mykene armour had scattered his men when they were about to storm the gates.
Helikaon and Argurios. Two men who were never a part of his original plan. Two men who were only invited at the request of Kolanos.
Ultimately their actions could do nothing but delay the inevitable, yet it was still galling.
The gates to the courtyard swung open. ‘Prepare your fighters,’ he told Kolanos, then crossed the open ground to seize his destiny.
XXXIII
The Shield of Ilos
i
Argurios entered the megaron, easing his way past the three ranks of Eagles preparing to defend the wide doorway. Helikaon, a curved shield slung across his back, approached him. ‘Ensure the men know they must hold their position,’ said Argurios. ‘If the enemy fall back there must be no chase.’
‘Already done,’ said Helikaon. ‘When do you expect the Mykene?’
‘Soon.’
Argurios left him then and strode across the mosaic floor. He needed a shield, but the walls had been all but stripped of weapons and armour. Then he saw it.
It was an ancient piece, beautifully wrought, decorated with tin and blue enamel. At its centre was a battle scene, featuring the great hero Herakles fighting the nine-headed Hydra. Borrowing a spear from a soldier, he hooked the point under the strap and lifted the shield from the wall.
Swinging it to his back he walked across to where Polydorus stood, with some thirty Eagles, tall men and wide-shouldered, their faces grim. He scanned them all, looking into their eyes. He was unsure of two of them, and sent them to join Helikaon at the doorway. The rest waited for his orders. ‘When the Mykene come,’ he told them, ‘I want you to form three lines behind the defenders. At my order…’ Just then came the sounds of screams and battle cries from outside, as the Thrakians surged towards the doorway. The Eagles tightened their grips on their weapons and adjusted their shields. ‘Look at me and listen,’ said Argurios calmly. ‘Your turn will come soon enough. You are to face the Mykene. When they come they will be in tight formation. They will charge the doorway and seek to scatter the defenders with their weight and power. As they rush forward Helikaon will break his line to left and right. We will counter the Mykene charge with one of our own. Thus we will form three sides of a square. We will hold the Mykene while Helikaon’s men attack them on the flanks. Is this clear?’
‘It is clear, sir,’ said Polydorus. ‘But how long can thirty hold back two hundred?’
‘I do not know,’ said Argurios, ‘but this is how legends are carved. We will be forced back. We will conduct a fighting retreat to the stairs below the queen’s apartments. We will not break and scatter. Each man here will stand beside his comrades, as if we were all brothers of the blood.’ As he spoke he swung the shield round, settling his left arm into the straps. He saw the Eagles staring at it, shock on their faces.
‘Brothers of the Blood,’ said Polydorus. ‘We will not fail you, Argurios.’
‘Then let us form up behind the defenders. Rank of Three.’
The Eagles moved into position, Argurios at the centre of the first line.
Ahead of them Helikaon and his warriors were battling the Thrakians.
Argurios took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Torches flickered in brackets upon the walls, and the sounds of war echoed around the megaron. On the stairs leading to the balcony above the doorway Argurios saw wounded men being helped down. Thrakian archers were beginning to take their toll on Dios and his men. Several of the Eagles with Helikaon had also fallen, the men behind dragging them clear. And the long night wore on.
ii
Andromache rose from bes
ide the sleeping Laodike and gazed around the queen’s apartments. Injured men were being brought in all the time now, some with hideous wounds. Priam’s chief physician, Zeotos, was tending them, his long white robes now bloodstained, his hands and arms crimson with gore. The elderly physician had arrived a little while ago, and moved straight to Laodike’s side.
‘She is all right,’ Andromache assured him. ‘The bleeding has all but stopped and she is resting well.’
‘We will all be resting well after this night,’ he said despondently.
Axa and several other servants were assisting the noblewomen, bandaging wounds and administering stitches. Even young Kassandra was busy cutting up linens. By the balcony wall there were six dead bodies, all stripped of armour and weapons.
There was little space to lay them out, and they had been laid atop one another, arms entwined.
Andromache walked out of the apartments onto the gallery above the stairs.
Quivers of arrows had been laid here, and a stack of throwing spears. Moving to the far left of the gallery she looked down into the megaron. Men were battling by the doors, and she saw Helikaon among them, his bright bronze armour gleaming like gold in the torchlight.
Behind the defenders stood another group of warriors, tall shields on their arms, heavy thrusting spears in their hands.
Off to the right she saw the king and around a dozen of his counsellors. Many of them were older men, but they were holding swords or spears, and a few bore shields. From her high vantage point Andromache could see past the fighting men, and out into the courtyard beyond. Hundreds of Thrakians were massing there. It seemed inconceivable that the few defenders could keep them out for long.
More wounded were dragged back from the front line. She saw Priam gesture to his counsellors, and several of them ran forward, heaving the injured to their feet and half carrying them back towards the stairs. One soldier – an older man, perhaps in his forties – was gouting blood from a neck wound. He sagged against the men assisting him, then slumped to the floor.
Andromache watched as the pumping blood slowed, and the man died. Almost immediately other men crowded round him, unbuckling his breastplate and untying his greaves. Within moments the dead Eagle was merely another body, hauled unceremoniously back and left against the wall, so as not to encumber the living. The dead man had been flung on his back, and his head lolled, his vacant eyes staring up at her. Andromache felt suddenly light-headed, a sense of unreality gripping her. The clashing sounds of battle receded, and she found herself staring into the eyes of the corpse below. The difference between life and death was a single heartbeat. All that man’s dreams, his hopes and his ambitions, had been dashed in one bloody moment.
Her mouth was dry, and she felt the beginnings of terror clawing at the pit of her stomach.
Would she too be dead in a little while?
Would Helikaon fall, his throat slashed, his body stripped and discarded?
Her hands were trembling. Soon the enemy would sweep past the tiring defenders, and surge into the megaron. She pictured them running at her, their faces distorted with rage and lust. Strangely the image calmed her.
‘I am not a victim waiting for the slaughter,’ she said aloud. ‘I am Andromache.’
Kassandra came running from the queen’s apartments. ‘We need more bandages,’ she said.
Andromache reached out. ‘Give me the scissors.’ Kassandra did so, and Andromache hacked into her own full-length white gown just above the knees, cutting the material clear. Kassandra clapped her hands.
‘Let me help!’ she cried, as Andromache struggled to complete the circular cut.
The child took the scissors, slicing swiftly through the cloth. The lower half of Andromache’s gown fell away.
‘Do mine! Do mine!’ said Kassandra.
Andromache knelt by the child and swiftly snipped through the thin cloth.
Kassandra swept up the material and darted away. Andromache followed her back into the main rooms, then took up her bow. Returning to the gallery she hefted a quiver of arrows, and settled it over her shoulder.
‘Fear is an aid to the warrior,’ her father had said. ‘It is like a small fire burning. It heats the muscles, making us stronger. Panic comes when the fire is out of control, consuming all courage and pride.’
There was still fear in her, as she stared down at the battle in the doorway.
But the panic had gone.
iii
The two hundred and twelve warriors of the Mykene stood patiently before the Temple of Hermes, awaiting the call to battle. There was little tension among them, even with the distant sounds of battle, and the screams of dying men echoing over the city. Some joked, others chatted to old comrades. Kalliades the Tall, his tower shield swung to his back, walked along a line of statues outside the temple doors, marvelling at the workmanship. In the moonlight they could almost be real, he thought, gazing up into the face of Hermes, the winged god of travellers. The face was young, little more than a youth, the wings on the heels beautifully fashioned. Reaching out he stroked his thick fingers across the stone. Banokles One Ear joined him. ‘It’s said they brought in Gyppto sculptors,’ said Banokles. ‘I had an uncle once who went to Luxor. They got statues there tall as mountains, so he said.’
Kalliades glanced at his friend. Banokles was already wearing his full-faced helmet, and his deep voice was muffled. ‘You must be sweating like a pig in that,’ ventured Kalliades. ‘Better to be ready,’ answered Banokles. ‘For what?’
‘I don’t trust the Trojans. They have a thousand men on the Great Walls.’ Kalliades chuckled. ‘You never were a trusting man. They opened the gates for us, didn’t they? They serve the new king. No problem for us.’
‘No problem?’ countered Banokles. ‘Does it sound to you like no problem? There was to be no major battle. The Thrakians would take the citadel and we were to clean out a few guests at a funeral feast. It is not going well, Kalliades.’
‘We’ll put it right when they call us.’ Kalliades pointed to the statue of a woman, holding a sheaf of corn in one hand and a sword in the other. ‘I can recognize most of the gods, but who is that?’
Banokles shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Some Trojan deity maybe.’
A powerfully built warrior with a square-cut black beard emerged from an alleyway and made his way over to join them.
‘What news, Eruthros?’ Banokles asked him.
‘Good and bad. The gates are open,’ answered the man. ‘Won’t be long now.’
‘And the bad?’ enquired Banokles.
‘I spoke to Kolanos. Argurios is with the Trojans.’
‘By Hades, I wouldn’t have thought it possible,’ said Kalliades. ‘When word came he’d turned traitor I didn’t believe it for one heartbeat.’
‘Nor me,’ admitted Banokles.
‘Well, I hope it’s not me who cuts him down,’ said Eruthros. ‘The man is a legend.’
Kalliades wandered away from his friends. He had no fear of battle, and no qualms about fighting inside a foreign city. It seemed to him that the world was neatly divided into lions and sheep. The Mykene were lions. Any who could be conquered were sheep. It was a natural order, and one which Argurios understood.
Indeed it had been Argurios who had first offered him this simple philosophy.
Now Argurios, the Mykene Lion, was standing with the sheep. It made no sense.
Still worse was the fact that Kalliades and his friends were being led by Kolanos. They called him the Breaker of Spirits, but the Despicable was closer to the truth. For the first time since they landed Kalliades felt uneasy.
He had fought with Argurios at Partha, and in Thessaly, and on the Athenian plains. He had stormed towns and sacked cities alongside him, and stood shoulder to shoulder with him in a score of skirmishes and fights. Argurios had never been interested in plunder or riches. His entire life had been one of service to his king. There was not enough gold in all the world to buy a man like Argurios.
> So how was it possible that he had betrayed the Mykene and allied himself with the Trojan enemy?
Banokles approached him. ‘The Eagles are holding the Thrakians at the palace doors. The butcher Helikaon is with them.’
This was better news. The thought that the vile Burner would pay for his hideous crimes lifted Kalliades’ spirits. ‘If the gods will it,’ he said, ‘I shall cut his head clear.’
‘And put out his eyes?’
‘Of course not! You think I am a heathen savage like him? No, his death will be enough.’
Banokles laughed. ‘Well, you can hunt down the Burner. Once we’ve cleaned out the Eagles I’ll be looking for some softer booty. Never shagged a king’s daughter before. It is said that Priam’s daughters are all beautiful. Big round tits and fat arses. You think they’ll let me take one home?’
‘Why would you want to?’ countered Kalliades. ‘With the gold we’ve been promised you can buy a hundred women.’
‘True, but a king’s daughter is special. Something to brag about.’
‘It seems to me you’ve never needed anything special to brag about.’
Banokles laughed with genuine good humour. ‘I used to think I was the greatest braggart on the Great Green. Then I met Odysseus. Now that man can brag. I swear he could weave a magical tale about taking a shit in a swamp.’
All around them the Mykene troops began to gather. Kalliades saw Kolanos moving among the men.
‘Time to earn our plunder,’ said black-bearded Eruthros, putting on his helmet.
Kalliades strode back to where he had left his helmet, shield and spear.
Banokles went with him. As Kalliades garbed himself for battle, Banokles removed his helmet, and ran his fingers through his long yellow hair.
‘Now that it is time to put on your helmet you are removing it,’ Kalliades pointed out.
‘Sweating like a pig,’ responded Banokles, with a wide grin.
They lined up with their comrades and waited as Kolanos mustered the men.
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