by David
“Well,” Banokles said, “you see, Argurios was Mykene, as you know.”
“Enough!” The king’s voice thundered out, suddenly full of power. “You are not here to debate me, soldier!”
“Now,” Priam said, leaning forward in his throne, “my son Hektor gave you leadership of the Thrakians because you gathered a loyal army in your retreat across Thraki. It seemed to me then a mistake to put a fool in charge. But now it appears Hektor was right and you are a lucky fool.”
Banokles opened his mouth to speak, but Priam silenced him. “Be quiet and listen, soldier! My general Thyrsites, the idiot, got himself killed in the battle today, so I need a new general for the Scamandrian regiment. I’ll take a lucky fool before an unlucky genius any day. So you are a general again, Banokles, general of the finest infantry force in the world.”
“Yes, but I think—” Banokles started.
The king stood up angrily. His anger had rejuvenated him, and Banokles could see the powerful man he once had been. “If you argue with me again, General Banokles, I will have my Eagles kill you where you stand!”
There was an angry silence, and then Banokles said mildly, “What about Kalliades?”
The king frowned. “Kalliades? I know that name. Ah, yes, the tall soldier who took command of the Mykene invaders after the arrest of Kolanos. What of him?”
“He’s my friend.”
Antiphones stepped in hastily. “He is the general’s aide, Father.”
“Then he will continue to be his aide. Now”—he turned to his son—“Antiphones, report.”
“The enemy has been forced back again to the earthwork they erected at the foot of the pass, Father. We calculate they lost at least a thousand over the two days of battle on the plain.”
“And our own dead?”
“Slightly less. Maybe seven hundred dead and two hundred so grievously wounded that they will not fight again soon, if ever. A hospital has been set up on the edge of the lower town, in the Ilean barracks. Many of our physicians and healers have moved there from the House of Serpents.”
“And the Ilos regiment?”
Antiphones shrugged. “They are soldiers. They will rest wherever they can.”
Priam looked around him. “And where is General Lucan? The Heraklions are not represented here.”
“The Heraklion regiment is still on the field. I thought it best to leave one general at the Scamander in case of a further attack tonight.”
“Do you expect such an attack?”
“No.”
Priam nodded. “My Hektor will be here in three or four days. We have only to hold until then. When the main force of the Trojan Horse arrives, these western jackals will be driven back to the sea, their tails between their legs.”
Banokles saw Antiphones and Polites exchange a glance. Priam saw it, too.
He leaned forward in his throne. “I know you think me an old fool, my sons. But my confidence in Hektor has never been misplaced. The Trojan Horse always prevails. It won at Kadesh, and it will win here. Agamemnon and his lackeys will be driven back to the pass. We will retake the pass and King’s Joy. Then the enemy will find itself trapped in the Bay of Herakles, with Hektor on one side and our ships on the other. We will pick them off like fleas off a dog.”
“At present, however, our fleet is trapped in the Bay of Troy, with Agamemnon’s ships holding the Hellespont,” Antiphones pointed out. “The Dardanian fleet was crippled in the sea battle off Carpea. And we don’t know where Helikaon is.”
Priam dismissed this impatiently. “When the Xanthos returns, Aeneas will deal with the enemy ships. All fear his fire hurlers. He will destroy the fleet as he destroyed the one at Imbros; then he will break the blockade of the Hellespont.”
Antiphones shook his head. “We cannot be sure the Golden Ship even survived the winter,” he argued. “We have heard nothing since the turn of the year. We cannot rely on Helikaon.” He paused. “You expect a lot from two men, even heroes like Hektor and Helikaon,” he added with a hint of impatience.
The king rounded on him. “Two men like them are worth a thousand of the likes of you! I despise you, all you naysayers and doom-mongers. My Hekabe warned me against you. Remember the prophecy, she said. Troy will prevail and be eternal.”
He sat back exhausted and for a while seemed deep in thought. The silence stretched, and Banokles shifted on his feet, anxious to be off.
When Priam spoke at last, his voice had become sharp and querulous. “Where is Andromache? Bring her to me. I have not seen her today.”
Polites spoke for the first time. He placed his hand on his father’s shoulder and said in a voice of great gentleness, “She is not here, Father. She is aboard the Xanthos with Aeneas.” He glared at Antiphones, then said, “Come, Father, you need your rest.”
“I need some wine,” the old man retorted, but he stood up uncertainly and allowed himself to be led back to the stone staircase.
Antiphones turned to Banokles with a sigh. “By the war god Ares, I hope Hektor gets here soon,” he said.
Free at last, Banokles hurried from the megaron, climbed on his waiting horse, and galloped back down through the city. The Scaean Gate, now closed all day as well as at night, was opened for him, and he sped toward the Street of Potters, his heart full. His mind already had shrugged off the problems of the day, the burdens of leadership, and the battles that awaited tomorrow in his eagerness to see Red.
He threw himself off his horse as he reached his home and only then realized that a crowd had gathered at the small white house.
A neighbor, a potter called Alastor, ran up to him, his face pale. “Banokles, my friend…”
Banokles grabbed him by the front of his tunic and looked around at the men’s anxious faces, the women’s red eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
“What’s happening?” he thundered. He shook Alastor. “What in Hades is going on?”
“It’s your wife, Red,” the man stuttered.
Banokles threw him to one side and rushed into the house. Lying on a sheet of white linen in the center of the main room was Red. Her body had been washed and clothed in a white gown, but no one could hide the blue sheen to her face or the dark bruises around her neck.
Banokles fell to the floor beside her, his mind in shock, his thoughts in turmoil.
“Red.” He took her shoulders and shook her gently. “Red!” But her body was stiff and cold under his trembling hands.
Banokles stood, his face white with fury, and the people crowding around him moved back nervously.
“What happened? You, potter! What happened?” He advanced menacingly toward the frightened man.
“It was the old baker, my friend,” Alastor told him. “The one who made the honey cakes she loved. He strangled her, Banokles, then opened his own throat with a knife. He is out there.” He gestured to the courtyard.
“He told his daughter he loved Red and couldn’t live without her. He was leaving the city and wanted her to go with him, but she refused him. He asked her over and over, but she laughed at him.”
But Banokles wasn’t listening. With an anguished roar he threw himself into the paved courtyard, where he found the small form of Krenio lying on the ground, one of Red’s gowns tightly gripped in one hand, the other holding a knife. His blood had soaked the ground around his head.
Banokles tore the dress from the man’s hand and flung it furiously to one side. Then he drew his dagger and drove it into the baker’s chest. Shouting incoherently, tears running down his face, he plunged the knife over and over into the dead man’s body.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HEKTOR’S RIDE
Skorpios was tired, and not just from the long day of riding. His weariness was bone-deep. He was tired of the war and tired of battle. He longed to see his father’s farm again and to sit at the table with his family, listening to their mundane stories of lost sheep or weevils on the vines.
He glanced down into the grassy hollow where his comrade Justin
os, broad-shouldered and shaven-headed, was striking flint, sending glittering sparks into the dry tinder. A small flame flickered, and Justinos bent forward to blow gently. The fire caught, and he carefully added a few more twigs.
The two riders were making late camp just beneath the top of a hill. Scouts for Hektor’s Trojan Horse, they were ahead of the main army as it made speed to get back to Troy, crossing the Ida range on the well-worn route from Thebe Under Plakos to the Golden City. They were expecting the rest of the force to catch up with them by nightfall.
Skorpios sat staring out across the darkening country to the northwest. The air was fragrant with the scent of evening flowers. Finally he sighed and moved back down to the camp. Justinos glanced up at him but said nothing. He handed Skorpios a hunk of corn bread, and the two men ate in silence.
“You think Olganos will still be in Troy?” Skorpios asked, as Justinos spread his blanket on the ground, ready for sleep.
The big man shrugged. “There are only a hundred of the Horse in the city. They’ll be in the thick of it every day until we get there. They may all be dead already.”
“He is tough, though,” Skorpios persisted.
“We are all tough, boy,” Justinos muttered, stretching out and closing his eyes.
“I want to go home, Justinos. I’m sick of all this.”
Justinos sighed and then sat up, adding more sticks to the blaze. “We are going home,” he said.
“I mean my home. Far away from war.”
Justinos smiled grimly. “Far away from war? There is nowhere on the Great Green that is far away from war.”
Skorpios stared at his friend. “It must end one day, surely.”
“This war? Of course. Then there’ll be another, and another. Best not to dwell on it. The land is quiet here, and we are safe for at least this night. That is good enough for me.”
“Not for me. I dread tomorrow.”
“Why? Nothing will happen tomorrow. We’ll just carry on riding north, watching for ambush. Hektor will stop beneath Gargaron, as he always does, to sacrifice to Father Zeus. What’s special about tomorrow?”
“Nothing. I don’t know.”
“Then what is there to dread? Listen to me, boy; now is all there is. Yesterday is gone. Nothing we can do about it. Tomorrow is a mystery. Nothing we can do about that, either, until we get there. Let Hektor and the generals worry about tomorrow. That’s their job.”
“And Banokles,” Skorpios pointed out.
Justinos chuckled. “Yes, and Banokles, I suppose. I’d feel sorry for the man, but anyone with the balls to marry Big Red should be able to cope with being a general.”
“Why would anyone marry a whore?” Skorpios asked.
“Now, that is just plain stupid,” Justinos snapped. “What does being a whore have to do with anything?”
“Would you marry a whore?”
“Why not? If I loved her and if she could give me sons.”
Skorpios looked at him in disbelief. “But they are ungodly and impure.”
Justinos’ eyes narrowed, and his face darkened. “Ungodly? By the balls of Ares, I am glad I wasn’t raised in your little village. You listen to me, Skorpios. My mother was a whore, my father unknown. I was raised among whores. A few were nasty, some evil, some grasping. But most were ordinary, like you and me. Many were loving, honest, and compassionate. Just people doing whatever they had to in order to survive. Ungodly and impure? If you weren’t my friend, I’d ram your head against that tree trunk there. Now shut up and let me sleep.”
Justinos lay down once more, turning his back on his friend and tugging his blanket over his shoulder.
Skorpios sat with his back against an oak tree and dozed for a while. The moon was high in a clear sky when they heard the thunder of hoofbeats, hundreds of them, that told him Hektor’s Trojan Horse had caught up with them. He kicked Justinos awake, and they both quickly lit prepared torches and stood holding them high. Within heartbeats they were surrounded by riders on horseback, dust kicking up around them, their armor shining in the moonlight.
Out of the darkness rode a huge warrior on a bay stallion. He leaned down toward them, and his golden hair seemed to flicker in the torchlight.
“Justinos. Skorpios. Anything to report?” Hektor asked.
Justinos stepped forward. “Nothing, lord. All we’ve seen all day are birds and rabbits and some bear. It’s as if the countryside is deserted.”
“It is deserted,” the prince agreed. “I expected Agamemnon to mount an ambush on our route. He knew we would be coming. But it seems I’m wrong. Perhaps he has thrown everything he has at Troy.”
He sat back on his horse and looked up for a moment at the full moon. Then, raising his voice above the snorting of horses and the quiet conversation of the riders, he shouted. “No stopping tonight, lads! We ride through the night!”
Justinos and Skorpios quickly began to pack their equipment as horses surged around them.
“It seems, boy,” Justinos said quietly, “tomorrow has arrived earlier than we expected.”
The time passed with excruciating slowness as the bloody slaughter on the plain went on. For Kalliades the days were starting to blur together. In the light of day he fought alongside the men of the Scamandrian regiment, the sword of Argurios hacking and slashing at the enemy. There was no place here for sword-fighting skills, just bloody butchery. At night he rested where he could, sheer exhaustion tumbling him into sleep despite the moans and cries of the dying and the thick stench of hundreds of burning corpses in his nostrils.
On the fifth morning, he awoke to find that dawn had long passed and the sun was high in the sky, yet the enemy still had not attacked.
Weary beyond words, Kalliades sat his horse alongside Banokles, Antiphones, and General Lucan of the Heraklion regiment, a small wiry man with bandy legs, his hair grizzled and his face deeply lined, who had served his king and Troy for time out of mind.
Kalliades looked at Banokles, who sat staring at Agamemnon’s armies, his face expressionless, his blue eyes as cold as winter rain. When Kalliades had heard of Red’s death, he had rushed to his friend’s house and found him slumped in the corner of the courtyard, his eyes fixed on the mutilated corpse of the old baker. Banokles had not spoken but had stood and left his home without looking again at his wife’s body. He had returned to the battlefield and sat all night by the river, waiting for the enemy’s attack. Since then he had fought like a man possessed, his two swords dealing death wherever he walked. The Scamandrians worshipped him as Herakles reborn and fought like demons beside him, awed by his untiring and relentless attacks on the enemy.
“Here we go,” Banokles said, his voice flat, and Kalliades turned back to the field of battle, where the enemy armies were forming up. In the center was the Mykene phalanx, but narrower than they had seen it before, flanked on each side by another infantry phalanx, then cavalry at the wings.
“Thessalian infantry and cavalry on our left. Achilles will be there with his Myrmidons,” said old Lucan, squinting. “I can’t make out who they’ve got on the right today.”
“Kretans,” Banokles said. “Kretan horsemen, anyway. Gutsy bunch, they are. I’m surprised they haven’t thrown them in before.”
“They may have just arrived,” Antiphones rumbled. “Ships are sailing into the Bay of Herakles every day, and not just with food and weapons. Mercenaries are coming from all over the Great Green in the hope of winning some of Priam’s treasure. That’s probably a mercenary regiment on the right.”
“They’ll be fresh,” Kalliades said. “Fresh horses, too.”
“Fresh or not, they’ll be dead come nightfall,” Banokles said, stepping down from his horse. Kalliades followed him.
Antiphones leaned down from his mount. “A general should start a battle at the rear of his army,” he said tiredly, as he had said each day. “He cannot judge the disposal of his forces from the front.”
Banokles ignored him as usual and walked along the ranks to h
is left to stand at the head of his Scamandrians. The foot soldiers cheered, and Kalliades saw some of the weariness fall away from them as the chant rippled down the infantry front line: “Banokles! Banokles! Banokles! BANOKLES!”
Kalliades looked up at Antiphones and shrugged, then went to take his place beside his friend, drawing the sword of Argurios. Antiphones and Lucan turned their horses and guided them back through the ranks.
Antiphones had ordered the Scamandrians to take the left of the field, the Heraklions the right. At the center was the elite infantry, Priam’s Eagles, and behind them a force of three hundred Phrygian archers, flanked on each side by the Ilos regiment and mercenaries from Maeonia. The tiny force of surviving Trojan Horse was left in reserve on the far side of the river. Most carried wounds, as did their mounts.
Kalliades saw sunlight glittering off armor as the Mykene army began to move toward them. He settled his helm into place and checked the straps of his breastplate.
“What are we waiting for, lads?” Banokles shouted. Drawing both of his swords, he started to run toward the enemy.
At the rear Antiphones waited until he could see the faces of the advancing Mykene. Then he gave an order, and the Phrygian archers bent their bows to rain arrows over the heads of their own troops and into the front lines of the oncoming soldiers. Just three times they shot, and then, as ordered, they retreated across the wooden bridges to the north bank, ready to halt the enemy if they reached the river.
Kalliades, running side by side with Banokles toward the phalanx, saw the arrows soar over their heads and glance off Mykene shields and helms. But some cut through, gouging into faces, arms, and legs and making the advancing line falter as men stumbled and fell.
As he ran, Kalliades found new strength. He focused on a gap in the phalanx where one soldier had been brought down by an arrow, leaving the comrade on his left unprotected. Kalliades screamed wordlessly as he ran at the man, hacking at his sword arm. The blow half severed the arm above the elbow. Kalliades ripped his sword up again, catching the Mykene in the face as he fell forward.