by David
A Mykene warrior swung his sword at Kalliades’ head. It glanced off the edge of his shield. Kalliades lanced the sword of Argurios at the man’s throat, but it deflected off his heavy armor. Kneeling, he parried a blow from the man’s sword, then hacked at his thigh. A bright fountain of blood gouted out. Falling to his knees, the Mykene desperately swung at Kalliades again. Kalliades stepped lightly back, leaving the man to die.
For a moment he was clear of the action. He saw that Banokles had fought his way into the thick of the battle. He was surrounded on three sides by the enemy, both Mykene and Thessalians.
Kalliades started in that direction, but from the corner of his eye he saw movement to his right. He blocked a savage thrust, slashing his sword across the man’s neck in a deadly riposte. Glancing left, he raised his shield just in time to block a blow from an ax. He lost his footing in the mud, and the axman swung at him again. He rolled away desperately.
Then a Trojan soldier leaped at the axman, slashing at his arm but catching him with a glancing blow on his mailed shoulder. The axman turned to the young soldier and swung the ax at his head. The Trojan carried an old tower shield, and the ax deflected off its edge. As the axman raised his weapon again, Kalliades leaped up and thrust his sword between the man’s back ribs. He wrenched it out as the man fell heavily.
Kalliades nodded his thanks to the youngster with the tower shield and turned back to see where Banokles was. He could not see him. Kalliades glanced around. Even in the middle of a battle Kalliades could feel the way it was going, and he knew the Trojans were making ground.
He swept aside a sword thrust to his belly from the right and killed the man with a lightning riposte to the throat.
A gap had opened up in front of him, and again he spotted Banokles, fighting with controlled intensity, his two swords flashing and darting, keeping the surrounding enemy at bay. Kalliades ran toward him, hurdled a body, and slashed his sword across the raised arm of a Thessalian soldier. The man stood for a moment, staring at his ruined arm. Kalliades lanced his sword into the Thessalian’s throat.
He saw that Banokles had lost one sword, so he picked up the Thessalian’s sword and yelled, “Banokles!” But in his full-faced helm Banokles did not hear him.
Kalliades saw a Mykene kill his Trojan opponent, then turn to see Banokles’ exposed back. Grinning, he raised his sword for a killing blow. Kalliades ran forward. But before the blow could fall, Banokles reversed his sword and thrust it, without looking, into the man’s belly.
Kalliades hacked his sword into the neck of one of Banokles’ opponents. He saw Banokles notice him and threw him the new sword. There was a pause while he looked around for his next target.
Banokles shouted, “Don’t worry, there are enough for both of us!”
Then the two friends were fighting back to back, the pile of enemy corpses around them growing.
And the long morning wore on.
Kalliades knew that the Scamandrians, fighting furiously, were battling their way slowly into the enemy ranks. But there lay the problem. The enemy cavalry on the wings, Thessalians and Kretans, would be trying to get around the sides of the Trojans and their allies, hoping to encircle them. Antiphones had only the small force of Trojan Horse and Zeleian cavalry to stop that from happening.
In a lull in the fighting Kalliades paused for breath. His sword arm was tired, and his legs felt as if they could not carry him another step. He and Banokles and a dozen or so Scamandrians were deep in the enemy ranks now. Around them were scores of dead and dying, some Trojans but mostly Mykene and warriors of Thessaly.
Banokles dispatched a heavily armored Mykene with a deft thrust to the side, then paused and glanced around to reorient himself. To their left they could see Trojan troops falling back in disarray. A giant warrior in black armor was driving into them, his swords moving like lightning, his body moving with awesome power and grace compared with the tired soldiers around him.
“Achilles!” Banokles shouted to Kalliades, pointing his sword in that direction. “That’s Achilles!”
Through the eye slits of his helm, Kalliades could see Banokles’ face light up with anticipation. He nodded to him, and the two set out to fight their way toward the Thessalian king.
Then there was a deep rumbling sound, and the blood-sodden earth beneath them started to vibrate.
“Earthquake!” Kalliades heard one man yell, and the cry was taken up all around them. The fighting started to falter as soldiers on both sides felt the ground tremble under their feet.
Kalliades found two Mykene corpses fallen one on top of the other. Steadying himself with a hand on Banokles’ shoulder, he climbed up onto them for a better view.
In the distance to the south, along the line of the Scamander, he could see a great dust cloud rising. As it came closer to the embattled armies, the rumbling in the ground increased. He grinned. Hoofbeats!
“It’s not an earthquake,” Kalliades shouted joyfully to his exhausted men. “It’s the Trojan Horse!”
Skorpios bent low over his gelding’s neck and felt the fear in his gut melting away as the Trojan Horse thundered across the plain toward the flank of the enemy.
Only moments before the riders had trotted their horses out of the tree line on the north bank of the Scamander where the oak-covered foothills ended and the river flowed fast toward the Bay of Troy. Then they had stopped, aghast at the sight of the battle being played out before them. Skorpios had had only heartbeats to take it in, the plain south of the Scamander filled with battling warriors, indistinguishable in their blood-and mud-covered armor. Then Hektor had plunged his great warhorse Ares into the foaming river, and the stallion had breasted his way across, followed quickly by the rest of the Trojan Horse.
Once on the southern bank, Hektor had not even turned to see if his men were getting safely across the fast-flowing river before drawing his sword and kicking his horse into a gallop toward the battle.
Skorpios, with Justinos beside him, was in the fourth rank of riders, bearing down on the enemy’s flank, his sword in hand. Rubbing the swirling dust from his eyes, he could see the enemy’s cavalry frantically trying to turn their mounts to face the new threat, but they were hampered by the bodies of horses and men littering the ground about them.
Hektor was already far ahead of the rest. His shield bearers Mestares and Areoan were trying their best to catch up with him, but few horses could keep pace with Ares at full gallop.
The gallant warhorse hit the panicking line of the enemy with the force of a battering ram. One horse fell screaming as Ares broke both of its front legs with the power of his attack. Hektor killed the injured horse’s rider with a blow to the head, and others fell back in disarray.
Then the shield bearers punched into the enemy ranks, too, followed by the rest of the Trojan Horse.
Skorpios slowed his mount to wait his turn as the riders in front of him plunged into the action. Then a Thessalian rider, breaking through the Trojan line, swept toward him with his lance leveled. Skorpios swayed to the left, and the lance point slashed to his right, plunging into his gelding’s flank. The gelding reared in pain, giving Skorpios the height to plunge his spear deep into the Thessalian’s throat. Maddened with pain, the gelding reared again, then fell.
Skorpios jumped clear and, rolling, rose to his feet, drawing his sword. He ran at the first rider he saw, a heavily armored Mykene. The man’s lance thrust toward him but glanced from his breastplate. Skorpios grabbed the lance and pulled; caught by surprise, the Mykene slid off his horse. Skorpios killed him with a lightning sword cut to the throat. Then, sheathing his sword, he grabbed the man’s horse by the mane and vaulted onto its back, lance in hand.
He looked around for someone else to kill. He saw that the enemy cavalry had buckled under the attack; some of the wounded riders were trying to make their way back, away from the field. Snarling, he sighted and threw the Thessalian lance at a fleeing rider. It hit the man in the center of his back, and he slumped from
his mount. Skorpios punched the air in triumph.
“Skorpios!” He turned to see Justinos, his face and sword covered with blood. He was grinning. “Still want to be back on your father’s farm herding sheep?”
The red battle fury in Skorpios started to drain away as he saw that the enemy was fleeing to the west.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A LUCKY FOOL
In Troy, high on the Great Tower of Ilion, Polydorus watched the battle unfold with a mixture of pride and deep aching jealousy. His hand itched to hold a sword, to wield it in defense of his king and his city. He watched his fellow soldiers far below chasing the enemy and longed to be among them.
After his heroic part in the palace siege four years before, in which he had aided Argurios, Helikaon, and Dios in the defense of the stairs, the young Eagle had been promoted quickly, first to Priam’s bodyguard and then, to his initial dismay, to the position of personal aide to the king.
“I do not want this!” he had stormed to his wife, Casilla. “It is not fitting for a soldier!”
“Hush,” she had said. “You will wake the babies. It is a great honor, my husband. King Priam has chosen you himself. That means he trusts you. Perhaps he likes you. You are very likable, Polydorus.” Then she had smiled and tried to put her arms around his neck.
But he had pulled away, not to be placated.
“I will be no more than a body servant, bringing him cups of wine, helping him get dressed.” He hushed his voice. “I am a warrior, Casilla. I have fought for Troy since I was fifteen. This is… this is…” He lowered his voice again. “This is an insult,” he whispered, as if someone might be listening in their small neat house hard by the western wall.
But as time had passed, Polydorus had become used to his role. True, he had to help the old king with his food and lead him, soused in wine, to his bedchamber each night. But the young soldier was often privy to the secrets of the city as he sat in on discussions between Priam and his generals and counselors, and the king on many occasions had sought his quiet, thoughtful views on dealings with foreign kings and the progress of the war.
And in the two years he had grown to care for the old man.
Now he turned to look at him. The king, dressed in thick woolen robes and a sheepskin cloak against the biting wind on the tower, was clutching the battlement wall with his bony hands and gazing avidly at the battle far below. His watery eyes were failing, and he often barked a question to Polydorus about how the fighting was going. The young man saw the pride on his face and the tears in his eyes as Hektor and the Trojan Horse galloped into sight upon the plain.
“Hektor, my son,” he whispered. “Agamemnon and his lickspittle kings will flee like the rats they are now that you’re back. They will be fighting each other to get back to their ships now, my boy.”
Polydorus had fought in Thraki years earlier, but his experience on the battlefield was limited. Yet he knew Agamemnon could field many times the number of warriors Priam could. Hektor’s surprise attack had won the day, he thought as he watched the enemy soldiers streaming back toward the pass. But what of tomorrow?
He glanced past the king to Prince Polites, who also was swathed in sheepskin, his red-rimmed eyes watching the battle anxiously. As if he felt the Eagle’s gaze, Polites turned and gave him a rueful smile. Polydorus knew that Polites shared his opinion: The war was not over, not by a long way.
To his father, Polites said nervously, “The battle was already going our way when the Trojan Horse arrived. Antiphones would have won the day eventually, Father, although with far more casualties.”
Priam spit on the floor at his feet. “Pah! Antiphones is a fat fool. And you are an idiot. You know nothing of war. You should be down there fighting, not up here watching from a safe distance.”
Polites flushed. “I am not a warrior, Father. You chose me as your chancellor, to look after your treasury. I serve the city in my own way.”
Priam turned on him venomously. “And how is the treasury, Polites? How well are you looking after it for me? Is it overflowing?”
Stung by the words, Polites said heatedly, “You know very well, Father, we have to pay for this war. Your mercenaries down there have to be paid for, and if they think we are losing, they will demand even more of our wealth. We need more tin and copper to make bronze armor and weapons, yet we have to go farther afield, and our desperation puts the prices up. Now we badly need tin, and the Xanthos is our only hope.”
Strangely, that seemed to cheer the king. “The Xanthos, yes,” he said with pleasure. “I trust Aeneas will be here soon or he’ll miss the fighting altogether. I was looking forward to seeing Agamemnon’s ships in flames.”
Polydorus turned to look down at the battlefield again. The enemy forces were retreating to the earthwork they had built to protect the pass. Some seemed to be fleeing blindly, others retreating in good order. Mykene, he thought, or Achilles and his Myrmidons, his elite guard. They would not show their backs to their enemy. He suddenly felt a moment of kinship with the disciplined soldiers, enemy or not. He remembered the Mykene hero Argurios holding the stairs, mighty in his courage and dying with his love Laodike after saving Troy for her sake. Polydorus cherished that day as the best of his young life.
“My lord, perhaps we should return to the palace,” he suggested. “It will be getting dark soon, and the fighting will be over. Even my young eyes cannot see what is happening so far away and in failing light.”
The king sniffed. “Then I must find myself an aide with better eyesight,” he said, but he allowed himself to be helped back to the stairwell.
As they descended the gloomy tower steps cautiously, Polydorus heard the old king repeating to himself, “My Hektor is back, and the rats will flee to their holes.”
For two days there was little movement from the armies of Agamemnon. Driven back behind the reinforced earthwork that protected the landward side of the pass, the western forces showed no heart for a renewed attack.
The Trojans, who had put every soldier who could stand up into battle for days on end, took the precious time to honor their dead, treat the wounded, and sleep. Hektor was tireless, laying defense plans with his generals, touring the House of Serpents and the barracks hospital to encourage his wounded and dying men, and walking the field of battle where the Trojan army lay in wait for Agamemnon’s next attack.
Kalliades could see the gray sheen of exhaustion on his features when they met on the plain of the Scamander on the third day.
“You need rest, Hektor,” the old general Lucan told him, as if he heard Kalliades’ thoughts. “Troy needs all your strength for the coming battles.”
Hektor said nothing, and Lucan went on: “And we are too close to the enemy lines. A well-placed arrow could find you and end all our hopes.”
Hektor and Lucan, with Banokles and Kalliades, stood a mere hundred paces from the enemy earthwork, now bristling with sharpened stakes to deter an attack by riders. The massive earthwork formed a semicircle, protecting the head of the narrow pass. On the cliffs above the pass and on the white walls of King’s Joy the Trojans could see the glint of armor as enemy warriors watched and waited.
“What are you, his mother?” Banokles asked irritably. He made no secret of the fact that he disliked the old general, and Kalliades thought the feeling was mutual.
Lucan smiled thinly, and his eyes were cold. “If you had ever met Hekabe the queen, Mykene, you would not ask such a foolish question.”
Hektor was staring up at the cliffs, and he appeared not to hear. Then he said, his voice distant, “I will not die from an arrow wound, General.”
“Did his soothsayer tell King Priam the manner of your death?” Lucan asked, his tone skeptical.
Hektor visibly shook off his reverie and clapped the general on the shoulder. “No, old friend, but Agamemnon would ensure an archer who killed me would suffer a cruel and lingering death. He has other plans for me. He would see me shamed and laid low in public by Achilles or another
champion.”
“Ajax Skull Splitter is here. I saw him in the thick of it,” Banokles said helpfully.
Kalliades nodded. “I saw him, too. Killed two of our men with one sweep of that great broadsword.”
“Still carrying that old tower shield, too.” Banokles’ face, normally grim these days, lightened at the memory. “Big heavy thing. No one else was strong enough to carry it all day. Like an ox, he was. Still is, I suppose.”
Hektor suddenly threw his head back and laughed, and many of the soldiers resting nearby smiled, the sound was so infectious. “I am sure Agamemnon has many champions eager to take me on, Banokles. I have heard of Ajax. He is a mighty warrior.”
Thinking of Ajax brought to Kalliades’ mind the young soldier who had saved his life.
He asked, “Does anyone know the name of a young Trojan who also carries a tower shield?”
Hektor said without hesitation, “Boros. He and his brother are from Rhodos, although their mother was Trojan. The brother, Echios, is dead, I’m told. Both Scamandrians.”
There was no reproach in his tone, but Kalliades felt foolish. He was an aide to the general of the Scamandrians, yet he knew few of his soldiers. Hektor could greet every man fighting for Troy by name, and he knew the names of their fathers. Only the mercenaries from Phrygia, Zeleia, and the Hittite lands were unknown to him.
Lucan pointed up toward the pass and asked impatiently, “When will we strike them, Hektor?”
Kalliades and Banokles glanced at each other. They all had been present that morning in the Amber Room at the palace when Priam had demanded an immediate attack on the pass and King’s Joy.
Hektor, sitting at ease in a great carved chair, a goblet of water in his hand, had said patiently, “Attacking the pass would be suicidal, Father. We could take the earthwork, though it would be costly in casualties, fighting uphill and unable to use the Trojan Horse. Then we could fight our way to the pass. But within the narrowest part of the pass there is only room for swordsmen to fight two abreast. Pitting their best warriors against ours would win a stalemate.”