[Troy 03] - Fall of Kings

by David

  “Maybe he’s lost his mind,” Banokles observed.

  Kalliades shook his head. “It would be good to think so. But I fear he has a plan and we can’t see it.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  OMENS IN THE STARS

  Late in the night Kalliades went in search of Tudhaliyas. A sentry directed him to the battlements above the Seagate, and he found the Hittite prince staring out to the north over the moonlit Hellespont.

  Five galleys were beached on the bay below, the crews asleep on the sand. In better days they would have come up to the town that clutched the skirts of the fortress, there to drink and purchase the company of whores. But the town was deserted now; the populace had fled to the interior, away from the fear of war. The vessels had come in for supplies before maintaining their patrol of the straits.

  Tudhaliyas glanced at Kalliades but made no greeting.

  “You are still angry?” Kalliades asked him.

  “I have been angry for most of the winter,” Tudhaliyas replied. “There is no sign of it passing yet. But do not concern yourself, Kalliades. It is not the oaf that fires my rage.”

  “What, then?”

  Tudhaliyas gave a cold smile. “It would take too long to explain. So why have you sought me out?”

  Kalliades did not reply at once. Tudhaliyas was a prince, raised among foreign noblemen. Kalliades had no experience in dealing with such men. Their ways and customs were alien to him. What he did know was that the Hittite was a proud man, and he would need to choose his words with care.

  “Tempers were raised tonight,” he said at last. “I thought it best not to leave them festering for the night.”

  “You are bringing his apology?”

  Kalliades shook his head and spoke softly. “There is no need for him to apologize. You offered the first insult.”

  An angry light appeared in the Hittite’s eyes. “You expect me to apologize?”

  “No. Banokles will have forgotten the incident by morning. That is his way. He is not a complicated man, nor does he hold grudges. Everything you said was true enough. I know it. Even Banokles knows it. What is important is that we put it behind us.”

  “If he was a Hittite general,” Tudhaliyas commented, “and one of his officers had spoken as I did, an assassin would have been called for, and the officer swiftly dispatched.”

  “Happily, Banokles is not a Hittite general. And if there was a battle tomorrow and you were in dire need, Banokles would ride through fire and peril to rescue you. That is the nature of the man.”

  “He already did that,” Tudhaliyas conceded, and Kalliades saw his anger fade.

  The Hittite prince stared out once more over the sea. “I have never been enamored of the Great Green,” he offered. “I do not understand why men yearn to sail it in flimsy vessels of wood. You sea people are a mystery to me.”

  “I have never loved the sea, either,” Kalliades told him, “but then, my life has been one of soldiering.”

  “Mine, too. I was fifteen and beardless when Father sent me to fight at Kadesh. I have fought ever since against the Egypteians and now against Idonoi tribesmen and Thessalians who came with the Mykene. Men always talk of final victory. I have never seen one.”

  “Nor I,” Kalliades agreed.

  “And we will not see one here,” Tudhaliyas said softly. “The enemy will come again. I have fewer than three hundred men now, and thirty or more of those are carrying wounds. Banokles’ Thrakians number a few hundred, with a further two hundred Dardanians, many of them new recruits. Add to this the fifty Trojan Horse Hektor left us, and you have less than a thousand men to hold Dardania.”

  “I have sent to Priam for reinforcements,” Kalliades told him, “but I doubt we’ll get more than some infantry with Hektor and the Trojan Horse away fighting in the south.”

  “You could hold the fortress for a few months,” Tudhaliyas said, “but in the end you would be starved out. If the enemy come in great numbers, it would be best, I think, to leave the Dardanians here, then stage a fighting retreat south toward Troy. That way you can still be reinforced and counterattack.”

  “The danger of that,” Kalliades offered, “is that we could be outflanked, then caught out in the open. If the enemy are lightly armed tribesmen, we could fight our way clear. But if Agamemnon sends heavily armored Mykene regiments, we would be cut to pieces.”

  “They are that good?”

  “Believe me, Tudhaliyas, there is no better infantry under the sun. Every one of them is a veteran, and they fight in close order, four or six ranks deep, with locked shields. Your Hittites are brave men, but wicker shields will not block heavy spears. Nor will slender sabers pierce bronze disk armor.”

  A sudden bright light to the east caught their attention. Kalliades glanced up to see a falling star streak across the night sky. Within moments several more flashed across the horizon.

  “It is an omen,” Tudhaliyas said, gazing at them. “But is it for good or ill?”

  “There were such lights in the sky the night before we sacked Sparta,” Kalliades told him. “For us it was a good omen. We won.”

  “In those days you were a Mykene warrior,” the Hittite observed. “Perhaps, then, it is a good omen for the Mykene.”

  Kalliades forced a smile. “Or perhaps they are just lights in the sky.”

  “Perhaps,” Tudhaliyas said doubtfully. “It is said Agamemnon is a wily foe. Is this true?”

  “I served him for most of my time as a soldier. He is a fine strategist. He seeks out the enemy’s weakness, then strikes for the heart. No mercy. No pity.”

  “Then why is a fine strategist wasting the lives of his men in winter here?”

  “I have been asking myself the same question,” Kalliades admitted, shaking his head. “I have no answer.”

  The Hittite looked at him. “Perhaps you are asking the wrong question.”

  “And what would the right question be?”

  “Is he a risk taker, or does he take the cautious route?”

  Both men fell silent. Then the Hittite asked, “The Dardanian fleet is massed now in the Hellespont watching for enemy fleets, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Agamemnon would expect us to do exactly that?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Perhaps that is what he wants. For if the fleet is protecting the Hellespont, then it is not guarding Troy.”

  “He cannot attack Troy in winter,” Kalliades said. “The fear of storms or bad winds. The lack of supplies for his troops. The invasion, even if successful, would not be coordinated. No reinforcements from the south or the north.”

  But even as he spoke Kalliades felt a sudden cold on his skin.

  “Hektor and the Trojan Horse are away in the south, defending Thebe,” Tudhaliyas pointed out. “The Trojan fleet is small, for Troy relies on Helikaon’s Dardanian ships for protection. Those galleys are here, guarding against an attack from the north. If Agamemnon invades Troy now, in dead of winter, with all his men and all his western allies, he will catch the city unaware. And, as you say, strike for the heart. No mercy. No pity.”

  Old Timeon the fisherman refused to curse his luck. When calamities befell other men, they would rail at the gods or grumble about the unfairness of life. Not Timeon. Luck was luck. It was either good or bad, but it seemed to him that the odds were the same. And mostly, if a man was patient, luck would balance out in the end.

  This season had tested his philosophy to the limit. The old fishing boat had sprung a leak back when the shoals of slickfish were moving down from the distant Somber Sea, swimming down the coast toward the warmer seas of the south. Timeon had missed the best days, for the timbers of his vessel had proved rotten and repairs had been slow and costly.

  Once the boat had been made seaworthy, he was already deeply in debt. Then two of his three sons had announced that they were traveling to the city to join the Trojan forces. That left only young Mikos, a good boy but clumsy. While filleting a catch of big silv
ers eight days before, he had slashed his palm, and the wound had turned bad.

  Now Timeon was forced to fish alone. It was not easy. His old muscles were stretched to their limits hauling in a full net.

  With the other fishermen sleeping, he had pushed out his boat in the darkness and sailed from the Bay of Herakles, encouraged by the sight of a school of dolphins. They would be hunting the slickfish, which meant a shoal was close by.

  A mist lay upon the dark sea, but the sky above was clear, the stars shining brightly. The breeze was cold, but Timeon believed he could feel the first breath of spring within it. Twice he cast his nets. Twice he drew them in empty.

  A dolphin glided past the small vessel, its dark eye observing the old fisherman.

  “You look plump and well fed,” Timeon told him. “How about sharing your supper?” The dolphin rolled to its back, its tail sending a spray of water into the air. Then it dived once more, vanishing into the deep. Timeon prepared his net. His eyes were gritty and tired, his muscles weary.

  A light blazed across the sky. He looked up. Stars were falling in the east, white streaks on the sable. His breath caught in his throat at the beauty of the display. The sadness of a happy memory touched him. There had been flying stars on the night he had wedded Mina so long ago. “The gods have blessed us,” she had said as they lay together on the beach, staring up at the sky.

  Three sons they had raised, and five daughters. Blessing enough for any man, he told himself. He shivered. How swiftly the seasons fly. They seemed faster now than when he was young. When he was a child, the days had been endless. He remembered how he had longed to be old enough to sail in his father’s boat, to bring home the slickfish, to be hailed as a great fisherman. The wait had been eternal.

  Now the days were languorous no longer. They fled by, too fast to hold. Mina had been dead for five years. It seemed mere days since he had sat by her bedside, begging her not to leave him.

  Timeon cast his net a third time, then slowly drew in the trailing rope. Almost instantly he knew he had a catch. Moving as swiftly as he could, he gathered it in, dragging the catch back toward the low sides of the fishing boat. Scores of big silvers were thrashing in the net. Using every ounce of his once-prodigious strength, the old man hauled on the ropes. The fish spilled out, flopping around his feet.

  Twenty copper rings’ worth in one net!

  His luck had changed at last. Timeon’s heart was beating erratically now, and he sank back to his seat, sweat upon his face.

  Then he saw a ship gliding through the mist. It was strange to see a galley abroad at night. Probably a Dardanian vessel, he thought, patrolling the bay.

  There was a man on the prow with a weighted line. Timeon watched the ship approach. No one called out a greeting, and the galley moved silently past him.

  Timeon rolled his net and decided to head for home.

  Then another ship appeared. And another.

  Dawn light glowed red in the sky as more and more vessels broke clear of the mist.

  Twenty.

  Thirty.

  Timeon sat quietly watching them. He saw armored men on their decks. They gazed at him silently. The wind picked up, the mist dispersing.

  Timeon saw then that the sea was full of ships and barges. There were too many to count.

  And in that moment he knew who they were. The Mykene had come, and the world had changed.

  Timeon’s heart was beating like a drum now. Fear flowed through him. How long, he wondered, before those dread warriors decided to kill him?

  A galley came abreast of his little boat. He glanced up and saw a stocky man with a red and silver beard. Alongside him were bowmen, arrows notched.

  “A good catch, fisherman,” the man yelled. “You have been lucky tonight.”

  Timeon’s mouth was dry. “I don’t feel lucky,” he replied, determined that the killers would not see his terror.

  The man smiled. “I understand that. Bring your catch ashore, and I will see you get paid for it. When you reach the shore, tell them Odysseus sent you. No harm will befall you. You have my word on it.”

  Odysseus signaled to the steersman; then the galley’s oars dipped into the water, and the ship moved on.

  With a sinking heart Timeon hoisted his tattered sail and set off after it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A LEGEND IS BORN

  A sturdy wooden stockade had been built across the mouth of the narrow pass leading from the beach at the Bay of Herakles to the plain of the Scamander. King Priam had ordered it built to protect the pass. Fifty soldiers of the Heraklion regiment guarded it. In case of invasion their role was twofold: to hold for as long as possible while sending word to the city and to protect and guide to safety those of the king’s family resident at the clifftop palace of King’s Joy.

  During the day the gates of the stockade were opened, allowing merchants to bring their carts down to the beach to collect the catches of fish netted by the small fleet. During the night the gates were closed, and sentries patrolled the ramparts.

  On this night two fresh sentries replaced their tired comrades. The first was Cephas, by his own account a clever man, his many talents overlooked by officers jealous of his superiority. The second was a young recruit whom Cephas had taken under his wing. The boy admired him, and Cephas missed no opportunity to feed that admiration.

  On this night Cephas was tired. He had spent the day in Troy, taking the youngster to a whorehouse used by soldiers. There they had drunk wine and spent all the rings the boy possessed. Upon their return to the stockade, Cephas had promised the lad he would win back all his money in a game of knucklebones. So instead of resting he had gambled until midnight. At first his luck had been sour, but then it had changed, and he had emerged triumphant, a bulging pouch of rings at his belt.

  The boy had watched the game. “You were amazing,” he had told Cephas. Then he had yawned. “I am so tired.”

  “Don’t worry, lad. I’ve arranged for us to take the predawn shift. We’ll catch some sleep then.”

  “We can’t sleep on sentry duty,” the boy said nervously.

  Cephas shook his head at the boy’s naïvete. “You’ve a lot to learn about being a soldier. Don’t worry. Stick by me and I’ll teach you.”

  Now on the ramparts Cephas waited, watching the door to the officers’ hut. “I’ll wager you a copper ring he comes out before you can count to twenty,” he offered.

  “I don’t have any rings left.”

  “Too late to bet, anyway,” Cephas said with a smile. Down below the door had opened, and the officer came striding out, placing his bronze helm on his head. He walked across the open ground and climbed the narrow wooden steps.

  “Cold night,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The officer glanced out to sea. “A lot of mist tonight.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Keep a good watch, Cephas.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cephas answered. A good watch! All that ever moved in the darkness were rodents. This entire exercise was a waste. If the Mykene did come, they would sail into the Bay of Troy and besiege the city. Anyone with a strategic brain understood that.

  “Good man,” the officer said, turning and descending the steps. Cephas watched until the door of the hut closed behind him.

  “Well, that’s him taken to his bed,” he told the youngster. “So let’s stretch out and get some rest.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He won’t come out again. He never does. He’ll be in his bed by now.”

  “Well, I am tired.”

  “Hunker down, lad. We’ll have a snooze and wake long before anyone else is up and around. Don’t you worry. I sleep lightly. At the first sound of movement I’ll be awake and alert. Twenty years of soldiering will do that.”

  The boy stretched out on the wooden floor. Cephas took one last look out at the empty beach, then sat down with his back against the stockade wall.

  He closed his eyes.

  Achilles stood on the pr
ow of the lead ship as the invasion force glided toward the Bay of Herakles under the starlight. Dressed in a dark tunic, two swords belted at his hip, he leaned on the rail, staring through the mist and watching for any enemy galleys that might be patrolling.

  He saw only a small fishing boat with an old man casting his net. The fisherman looked up as the galley sailed past, then returned to his task. The old man seemed weary. Several of Achilles’ warriors picked up bows. “Leave him,” he told them. “He is no threat.”

  The galley sailed on. His shield bearer Patroklos moved alongside him.

  “No sign of Dardanian ships,” the blond warrior said. “The falling stars showed the gods are with us, I think.”

  “Perhaps,” Achilles replied, “but I would sooner rely on our own strength of arms.”

  Another warrior moved to the prow, the stocky shaven-headed Thibo. As always before a battle he had braided his long red beard.

  “You should not be risking yourself, my king,” he said. “Not for the taking of a little fort.”

  “You think I should hide on the ship?”

  “It is not about hiding, Achilles,” Thibo argued. “One well-aimed arrow and we’ll have no king.”

  “That argument could be used for any battle,” Achilles told him. “Agamemnon wants the fort taken first and the summer palace secured. He has given me and my Myrmidons that task. It is an honor. What king would allow his men to take risks he was not prepared to suffer?”

  Thibo chuckled. “I don’t see Agamemnon here with us. Or Idomeneos. Not even Odysseus.”

  “They are all on their way,” Achilles said. “And none of them lacks courage. Most especially Odysseus.” He smiled. “I saw him back on Ithaka, rescuing his lady. A sight I will not soon forget.”