by David
Patroklos leaned in. “Another battle you should not have taken part in. By the gods, Achilles, that was madness.”
“Aye, it was, but madness of the noblest kind. Is everyone prepared?”
“We all know what is expected of us,” Thibo said. “We’ll not let you down.”
“I know that, Redbeard.”
As the galley’s hull scraped the sand, Achilles leaped lightly down to the beach. He loped across the sand to the entrance of the pass. Keeping close to the cliff wall on the left, he gazed at the stockade some sixty paces distant. There was no sign of movement on the wall. This surprised him. According to the most recent reports, there should be fifty men guarding the fort and two sentries on the wall at all times. Moving back from the entrance, he raised his arm. More dark-garbed warriors leaped down from the galley, making their way swiftly to where Achilles waited. Four of the fifty men were archers. Calling the lead bowman to him, Achilles whispered, “There are no sentries visible.”
The man looked relieved. The plan had been for archers to kill the Trojan sentries silently—no easy task when shooting arrows at night toward men in armor on a high wall.
“Stay back here with your men until the wall is taken,” Achilles told him.
The sky was starting to lighten, the dawn not far off. Achilles swept his gaze over the waiting warriors. He had handpicked them with care. They were fearless and able.
Gesturing them to follow him, Achilles ran down toward the stockade. The tall lean figure of Patroklos came loping alongside on his right. To his left was Thibo.
As he ran, Achilles continued to scan the stockade wall. Could this be a trap? Might they have a hundred archers lying in wait? His mouth was dry. If so, they would show themselves when Achilles and his men were around thirty paces from the wall. At that point the attackers would be at optimum killing range.
Achilles ran on. Fifty paces to go. Forty.
Thibo cut across him from the left. Patroklos moved in from the right. They, too, had estimated the killing range and were forming a shield in front of him.
For the next few paces Achilles’ heart was pounding. His eyes were raking the ramparts, expecting at any moment to see archers rearing up, bows bent, bronze-headed shafts notched to the string.
But there was no movement, and the Thessalian force reached the foot of the stockade. Achilles swung toward Patroklos, who was standing with his back to the wall. The slim warrior nodded, cupped his hands, and steadied himself. Achilles lifted a foot into the linked hands and levered himself up. Using the wooden wall for balance, he stepped up again, this time to Patroklos’ shoulder.
He was just below the parapet now. Straightening his legs, he glanced over the battlements. Two sentries were asleep a little way to his right. Climbing smoothly to the ramparts, he drew both swords and moved quietly toward the sleeping men. In the last of the moonlight he could see that one of them was little more than a boy.
That was all he would ever be.
Achilles’ sword plunged into the lad’s neck. The dying boy gave a low, gurgling groan. The second sentry opened his eyes. He saw Achilles and tried to cry out. Achilles slammed his second blade into the man’s throat with such force that it cut through the spine and buried itself in the wooden wall beyond.
Dragging his sword clear, Achilles ran down the rampart steps to the gate. It was held closed by a thick bar of timber. Putting his shoulder to it, Achilles lifted it clear and opened the gates.
Silently the warriors entered the barracks building, creeping forward to stand alongside each bed. Achilles waited at the door until all the men were in place. Lifting his hand, he gave the signal for them to ready themselves. Swords glinted in the gloom, blades poised over fifty doomed men.
Achilles’ hand slashed downward. Fifty swords plunged home. Some of the victims died without ever waking; others cried out and struggled briefly. None survived.
Walking from the barracks, Achilles made his way to the gates. He could see sailors from his galley bringing armor, helms, and shields for his warriors. Beyond them more soldiers were gathering on the beach. Two sailors approached him, bearing his armor and shield. Achilles strapped on his black breastplate, settling the shield in place on his left arm.
He glanced up. High on the cliffs above was King’s Joy.
According to the spies, it was still the residence of Paris and Helen. Agamemnon had ordered that Helen be captured, Paris and the children put to death. Achilles understood the need for the children to be slain. If allowed to live, they would, when grown, seek blood vengeance against the men who had killed their father. Killing the children of enemies was therefore regrettable but necessary.
Despite that, Achilles fervently hoped that Helen and her children were absent this night.
High in the palace of King’s Joy, Helen lay awake in her bed, listening to her husband pace the floor. These nights Paris scarcely slept, and she listened to the soft, relentless sound of his bare feet padding back and forth on the rugs of the antechamber.
Helen sighed. She loved her husband dearly but missed the quiet scholarly young man she had married long before this dreadful winter with its constant rumors of war and invasion. Long before the death of Dios, the pressure had changed Paris beyond all recognition.
When they had met four years earlier, Helen had been a refugee from Sparta. Timid and quiet, she had been terrified in this strange foreign city, with its haughty jeweled women who looked with disdain at her plain clothes and plump little body.
Brought up in the harsh life of the Spartan court, raised among boys and men whose only thoughts were of war and conquest, Helen had found Paris delightfully different. His shyness hid a wry sense of humor, and his curiosity about the world was entirely at odds with the young men she was used to. He taught her to read and write, for he was gathering a scriptorium of documents from all the lands of the Great Green. He pointed out to her the various colored birds that flew over Troy and explained how they traveled from land to land with the seasons. He had a water tank made of marble and silver and brought her sea horses to keep in it so that together they could watch the births and deaths and daily lives of those small creatures. When they married quietly, she was full of joy and felt that the rest of her days would be blessed by the gods.
The blackness of night outside was turning to dark gray, and Helen listened for movement in the next bedroom, where her two children were sleeping. Four-year-old Alypius rarely slept past dawn, and once awake, he always woke his little sister, Philea. But the silence now was total apart from the soft padding of bare feet.
Throwing back the covers, she pulled a warm shawl around her shoulders, then stepped out into the antechamber.
Paris was still dressed in the heavy brown robe he had been wearing the previous day. His head was down, and he failed to notice her.
“You should rest, my love,” she said, and he turned around. For a heartbeat his face looked gaunt and gray and exhausted. Then he saw her, and his features lit up.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said, coming over to her and taking her in his arms. “I keep dreaming of Dios.”
“I know,” she said. “But the dawn is coming, and you must have some rest. I will sit with you and hold your hand.”
He slumped down on a chair, and she saw with despair his face falling into its familiar lines of grief and guilt.
“I should have done something,” he said for the thousandth time.
Over the winter she had found only three ways to reply: “You are not a soldier.” “It all happened so quickly.” “There was nothing you could have done.” But this time she said nothing, merely held his hand.
She glanced out of the balcony doors, where the darkness was fading toward dawn, and a movement caught her eye. She frowned.
“Look, my love. What’s that?”
Paris followed her gaze; then they both stood and walked, entranced, onto the balcony. The dark sky to the east was alive with hundreds of bright lights dropping toward th
e land. Each appeared and then disappeared in a flash.
“They are moon fragments,” he told her, his voice full of wonder.
“Are they dangerous?” Helen shot a nervous glance back toward the room where her children slept.
He smiled for the first time in days. “Most people believe the moon is Artemis’ chariot, but I think it is a hot metal disk which throws off these splinters. Sometimes they stay in the sky, and we call them stars, but some fall to earth, as these have. It is a lucky omen, my love.” He put his arms around her, and she could feel the tension easing from him. “They are far away and will not harm us.” He yawned. “Perhaps I will sleep now for a while.”
She sat on their bed and held his hand, daydreaming as the sky grew brighter and the palace started to wake. In the courtyard far below someone dropped a piece of heavy pottery, which smashed amid loud curses, and within moments Helen could hear her son scrambling out of bed next door. There was silence for a long while, and she wondered what he was up to. Then she heard cries of alarm from a distance, and Alypius came running into the room, dressed only in his nightshirt, his dark hair flying and a look of excitement on his face.
“Papa, Papa, there are ships! Lots of ships!”
“Sshh! Papa’s sleeping.” Helen dropped Paris’ hand and put her arms around the boy.
He squirmed away. “Come, you must see! Lots of ships!”
Then fair-haired Philea came toddling into the room, clutching a ragged doll made of blue cloth. “Shipth!” she lisped.
Paris awoke and sat up groggily. “What is it?”
“It is nothing, husband. They have seen some winter ships. It is nothing.” But in the distance she could hear shouts and the cold clash of metal, and her heart suddenly was clutched by dread.
Paris arose and walked out to the balcony. As he looked to his left, he gasped, and Helen saw him start to tremble. She ran to his side. Far below lay the Bay of Herakles, which normally was a brilliant blue in the dawn light. Now the bay and the wide sea beyond were filled with ships as far as the eye could see. Scores already were drawn up on the sandy beach, and hundreds more were heading east toward them out of the light sea mist. From the height of the palace they could hear nothing, and the ships moved in an eerie silence.
The sandy beach was full of armed men, and a solid line of them was making its way up toward the palace. Dawn light sparkled off their helms and spear tips. Helen could see that they already had overrun the defensive stockade of the beach garrison.
She leaned over the balcony wall. Directly below them was the main palace courtyard. Soldiers and servants were running to defend the gates. Even as she watched, she heard the solid boom of a battering ram against timber.
“There are thousands of them,” she whispered in horror. “The children…”
She looked at Paris and saw despair in his face, a hint of madness in his eyes. “I must go,” he cried. He stumbled into the anteroom and took two swords from the wall.
Helen caught hold of him. “You are not a warrior,” she implored. “They will kill you.”
“They will kill me whether I am a warrior or not,” he said.
“We can escape together,” she begged him, her hands to his face. “If we can get to the north terrace quickly, we can climb down from there and make for the Scamander before they surround the palace.”
“Escape?” he said. “Yes, you must escape!” Pushing her aside, he darted from the room, and she heard him running down the stairs.
Helen paused for a heartbeat, her mind dazed and slow, unable to take in the sudden awful fate that had overcome them. Then she took Philea in her arms, grabbed Alypius by the hand, and started downstairs after her husband. The north terrace was her only hope. It was far from the main gates where the enemy was breaking in. The terrace looked toward Troy, and beyond it the land shelved steeply down, covered with scrub and undergrowth, toward the plain of the Scamander. She could get the children down there to hide them or even reach the safety of the city.
On the next level down she heard the smashing and rending of timbers, and she paused to look out of a window down into the courtyard one floor below. The invaders were pouring through a wide breach in the gates. Palace soldiers who ran to meet them fought desperately, but there were too few of them, and they fell under the weight of numbers.
Then she saw Paris running out across the courtyard, waving his two swords. He was ignored at first; then a huge black-haired warrior turned and saw him. He stepped in front of Paris, who attacked him like a madman. His attack lasted mere heartbeats, and then the black-haired warrior thrust a sword through Paris’ throat. Paris fell, his lifeblood gouting out from his neck. He trembled for a moment, then lay still, his bare feet sticking pathetically out of his brown robe.
An old servant, Pamones, who had served the royal family since the days of Priam’s father, tried to defend the prince’s body with a spear, but he was disarmed casually by the warrior. The man grabbed the old servant by his neck. In a lull in the fighting the warrior’s voice drifted up to Helen’s ears.
“Where is the princess Helen, old man?” he shouted.
“In Troy, lord,” the man cried, pointing in the direction of the city. “The lord Paris sent them there for safety.”
The soldier flung Pamones aside, then gazed up at the palace. Helen ducked back out of sight.
“What’s happening, Mama?” asked Alypius, who could see nothing of the carnage below.
Hearing pounding feet on the floor below, she picked both children up in her arms and fled up the stairs. The highest level of the palace was the square tower Paris had chosen for his scriptorium. There were shelves and drawers and boxes full of papyrus and hide scrolls. He and Helen had spent many happy days there organizing documents in Paris’ arcane method. In despair Helen looked around the tower room. There was nowhere to hide. In a daze she took the children out onto the shallow balcony, high above the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff.
“What’s happening, Mama?” Alypius asked again, his small face creased with anxiety and fear. Philea was standing quietly, her blue doll held to her mouth.
Helen heard loud feet on the stairs, and the door burst open. A Mykene warrior walked in. His head was shaved, his red beard braided. He brought the smell of the slaughterhouse into the room. Other warriors jostled in the doorway.
Helen clutched the children tightly and backed away. Four warriors approached her slowly, sword in hand.
She retreated across the balcony, her gaze fixed to the four men, until she felt her calves strike the low balcony wall. Carefully she climbed up onto it. The children stopped struggling in her arms.
Alypius glanced over her shoulder to the deadly rocks far below. “I am scared, Mama!”
“Hush now,” she whispered.
The powerful dark-haired warrior she had seen in the courtyard stepped out before her. He was helmless, and blood flecked his hair and armor.
“Princess Helen,” he said gravely. “I am Achilles.”
Hope stirred in her laboring heart. Achilles was a man of honor, it was said. He would not kill women and children.
“Lady,” he said gently, sheathing his swords and holding out a hand to her. “Come with me. You are safe. King Menelaus wishes you to return to Sparta. He will make you his wife.”
“And my children?” she asked, knowing the answer. “The children of Paris?”
An expression crossed his face that could have been shame, and he lowered his eyes for a heartbeat. Then he looked up at her. “You are young,” he said. “There will be other children.”
Helen glanced down and behind her. Far below, the sharp rocks looked like bronze spear points in the dawn light.
She relaxed then and felt all tension flowing away. Closing her eyes for a moment, she felt the warmth of the rising sun on her back. Then she opened them again and gazed at the warriors.
No longer afraid, she looked each one in the eye, a calm lingering look, as a mother might look on wayw
ard children. She saw their expressions change. They knew what she was about to do. Each one lost his look of hungry ferocity.
“Do not do this!” Achilles implored her. “Remember who you are. You do not belong among these foreigners. You are Helen of Sparta.”
“No, Achilles, I am Helen of Troy,” she said. Hugging the children to her, she kissed them both. “Close your eyes, dear ones,” she whispered. “Squeeze them shut. And when you open them again, Papa will be here.”
Achilles darted forward, but too late.
Helen closed her eyes and fell backward into the void.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BATTLE FOR THE SCAMANDER
Kalliades leaned against a dripping tree trunk and peered into the darkness in the direction of Troy. The rainy night was as thick as a blindfold around his eyes. He turned back to where he could just see the hundred warriors sitting gloomily around sputtering campfires. Having ridden from Dardanos with all speed, they were merely half a day from the Golden City but had been forced to halt by the moonless night. They were all frustrated and angry and consoled only by the fact that there would be no fighting at Troy until the dawn.
Kalliades had been a soldier since he was fifteen. He had been in hundreds of battles, had suffered the dry mouth and full bladder before a fight, had seen friends suffer a slow agonized death from a belly thrust or the poison of gangrene. It was the same for every man waiting in that woody glade. Yet they were all, to a man, desperate for the first glimmer of dawn so that they could mount up, ride to Troy, and take on the Mykene army. Many of them would die.
Perhaps they all would.
The messenger from Priam to the Dardanos garrison had arrived tired and travel-stained at Parnio’s Folly. Banokles and Kalliades had ridden down to speak to him where he stood on the other side of the chasm. Banokles had ordered him to cross, and the man had looked doubtfully at the single narrow span Khalkeus’ workers had erected so far. But he was a Royal Eagle, and his head was high and his stride confident as he crossed the narrow bridge. Only as he stepped on to safe ground could they see the fear in his eyes and the sweat on his brow.