[Troy 03] - Fall of Kings
Page 26
The approaching army’s cavalry broke into a gallop, riding straight for the unprotected flank of the Trojan infantry, lances down. Now aware of the threat, the battle-weary Trojans desperately tried to reform to face the attack, but the shock as the armored riders hit them was devastating. Scores of men fell under the trampling hooves of the horses.
Hektor reacted quickly. His Phrygian archers, at the rear of the battlefield, started loosing volley after volley into the coming infantry. Arrows deflected off shields and conical helms, but some men crashed to the ground, tripping others as they came.
The Trojan Horse was isolated on the wrong side of the field, but at an order from Hektor half of them peeled away and galloped to counter the new threat. Hektor dug his heels into his great warhorse and charged at the enemy cavalry. As he reached them, several horsemen rode against him. His sword lanced out, spilling the first rider from his mount; the second fell as Hektor’s sword, wielded with awesome anger, crushed his skull. Then a lance drove into the chest of the stallion Ares, and he fell, throwing Hektor to the ground.
Odysseus could see him no more. Frustrated, he turned his gaze to the leader of the newly arrived army, who, surrounded by his bodyguard, rode up the slope toward him.
“Well, Kygones,” he commented as the Lykian king drew his horse to a halt, “you are not joining the battle today?”
The Fat King pulled off his helm and smiled coolly.
“You should have more gratitude, Ithaka,” he said. “When last we met, you acted with great moral outrage at the death of one man, a simple sailor. Now you and your fellow kings ask me to help you kill thousands. Where is your thanks?”
He dismounted and handed his horse to one of his men.
“All our actions have consequences, Odysseus. By barring your ships from my beaches over the death of this sailor, you and Helikaon dealt a body blow to Lykia, crippling trade and draining its lifeblood. My people have suffered, and for the first time in a generation children have starved in wintertime. When Agamemnon sought me as an ally, are you surprised that I felt no loyalty to Helikaon and his kinsman Priam?”
Odysseus had no answer for him. He turned back to the battlefield, then heard Hektor’s horn blowing: two short blasts repeated over and over, signaling retreat. Good, he thought. You cannot win the day, Hektor. The Scamander plain belongs to us. Retreat in good order while you can.
But the Trojans were fighting every step of the way, protecting their wounded as they backed slowly toward the river and its four bridges to an ephemeral safety.
No more than a hundred soldiers had retreated across one of the wooden bridges when a bright flame like a huge torch erupted among them. Suddenly the entire bridge was ablaze, setting fire to the men on it. They screamed and thrashed in agony. Many jumped into the Scamander, but their flesh kept burning and their cries were awful to hear. Then a second bridge caught fire. Within moments all four bridges, the Trojans’ only way to retreat, were burning ferociously.
Stunned by the sight, Odysseus turned to Agamemnon. “Is this your work?” he asked, but the Mykene king just shook his head, as surprised as he was.
They watched as desperate Trojans, trapped between the advancing enemy armies and the river, started throwing themselves into the fast-flowing water, some helping the wounded cross, others just swimming for their lives. Injured men were being pulled under and swept down toward the bay, too weak to struggle against the powerful current.
Then Agamemnon gasped and pointed as Hektor, mounted again on gallant Ares, walked the stallion into the Scamander high above the blazing bridges. He reined the warhorse in the center of the river and stood there as the waters crashed around them. Others of the Trojan Horse joined them, guiding their horses to stand by Ares, reducing the force of the water. Soon thirty warhorses stood in the river, enduring as the waters struck them. The riders had only shields to protect themselves and their mounts from the arrows and lances of the enemy, and three fell in the Scamander and were swept away, but most of them stood firm, allowing the Trojan injured to make their way across to safety. The Phrygian archers ran along the riverbank to help protect the horses with a rain of arrows at the advancing enemy.
Odysseus wanted to cheer, and he smiled to himself to see the anger on Agamemnon’s face.
“Hektor lives,” the Mykene king hissed. “Can nothing kill him?”
“He charged an army, and yet he survives,” Odysseus said happily. “That is why Hektor is Hektor and we kings are just standing here watching.”
Sick of Agamemnon’s company, he set off toward the battlefield, limping heavily on his injured leg. Stretcher bearers were on the field, carrying wounded men away. He saw healers and surgeons helping injured warriors of the western armies and soldiers dispatching wounded Trojans. The ground was heavy with churned-up mud and blood, and Odysseus felt himself tiring quickly.
Then he saw a figure he recognized, a fat warrior in outsize armor lying in the mud, his back resting against the flank of a dead horse. Odysseus stomped over to him.
The prince was bleeding from a score of cuts. “Well, well, Odysseus,” he said, his voice a weak rasp, “have you come to finish me off?”
“No, Antiphones,” the Ithakan king said, sitting down beside him, suddenly weary. “I just wanted to talk to an old friend.”
“Are we friends, you and I?” the prince asked.
Odysseus shrugged. “At this moment we are. Tomorrow is another day.”
“Tomorrow I shall be dead, Odysseus. This will be the death of me.” He gestured to a deep wound in his side where dark blood was pumping out onto the ground. “A thinner man would be dead already.”
The Ithakan king nodded. “What happened at the bridges?” he asked.
Antiphones scowled, and his ashen face darkened a little. “My fool of a father, Priam, had secretly instructed his Eagles to torch the bridges using nephthar if our forces started retreating. Trojans do not retreat, he says.”
Odysseus felt a wave of revulsion. “Is he quite insane now?” he asked, shocked by the ruthless cruelty of the Trojan king to his own troops. “It is sometimes hard to tell the difference between insanity and cold-blooded brutality.”
Antiphones tried to lift himself up into a sitting position, but he was too weak and sank down again. Odysseus saw that the flow of his wound had lessened. He knew the man did not have much longer to live.
The prince said, “He is the cruel and selfish king he always was.” He sighed. “He has times of confusion. We thought it was the wine, for he hardly eats. Then he has insane ideas like this one. Hektor just ignores them. But this…” He gestured toward the river. “He is cunning still, you see. He told no one except his Eagles. And they would all kill themselves for him on his command.”
A Mykene soldier walked over to them, his sword red with blood, looking for enemy wounded. Odysseus waved him away.
Antiphones was silent for a while, and Odysseus thought he had died. Then the big man said, despair in his voice, “Troy will fall. She cannot be saved.”
Odysseus nodded sadly. “Agamemnon will win, and the city will fall. Once we reach the great walls and the city is under siege, it is only a matter of time. There will be a traitor. There always is.”
Antiphones said weakly, “I thought she would last a thousand years. There is a prophecy…”
Odysseus said irritably, “There is always a prophecy. I do not believe in prophecies, Antiphones. In a thousand years the Golden City will be dust, its walls ruined, flowers growing wild where Priam’s palace once stood.”
Antiphones smiled weakly. “That sounds like a prophecy, Odysseus.”
The king leaned toward him. “But she will not die, Antiphones. I promise you this. Her story will not be forgotten.” Already in his mind a tale was forming of a warrior’s wrath and the death of a hero.
The prince’s eyes had closed. He whispered, “I was the traitor…” Then he died.
Weary, Odysseus stood. He saw the soldier he had sent away
find another Trojan soldier who was gravely wounded and unable to save himself. The Mykene warrior thrust a sword through his heart cleanly, then moved on. His eye was caught by the body of a young man lying in the mud, and he walked toward him. Odysseus saw that the youngster had red hair and was without armor. One arm moved feebly as if he were trying to turn himself over. As the Mykene soldier raised his sword, Odysseus said, “Hold!”
The man paused and looked at him doubtfully.
“He is one of mine, soldier. Do you know me?”
“You are Odysseus, king of Ithaka. Everyone knows you.” The man lowered his sword and moved away.
The boy was plastered with mud and blood and seemed dazed by a blow to the head. Odysseus knelt beside him and helped him turn over.
“Xander! I never thought to see you here,” he said. “Being a hero again, lad?”
Xander awoke with a start to find that it was evening and he was on a sandy beach. He could hear the sound of waves crashing against rocks, the distant sound of lyres and pipes, and low voices murmuring close by.
“Lie still, you fool,” said a deep voice, “and give that wound a chance to heal. It may have pierced your vitals.”
“Then I am a dead man,” another man said irritably. “If I must walk the Dark Road, I do not plan to do it sober. Give me that jug.”
Xander’s head hurt abominably, and as he tried to sit up, the world lurched around him. He lay down again with a groan.
“How are you feeling, Xander?” a voice asked.
He opened his eyes a crack and was surprised to see Machaon looking down at him, his face in shadow as the sun fell at his back.
“Where are we, Machaon?” he asked. “Why are we on a beach?” He tried to sit up again and this time succeeded. He found that his leather satchel was lying by his side.
“Drink this,” the healer said. Kneeling alongside him, he brought to Xander’s lips a cup of delicious-smelling liquid. The boy sipped it, then drank it down greedily. It was warm and tasted, he thought, of summer flowers. He had never tasted anything so good. He found his head clearing a little, and he looked around.
From where he sat, all he could see was soldiers, some wounded and lying down, others sitting around campfires, laughing and joking. The black hulls of ships pulled up on the sand hid his view of the sea, though he could smell its salt air. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he realized where he was.
“We are on the beach you call the Bay of Herakles, and I am not Machaon,” said the healer. Sitting down, he poured thick liquid from a clay pot into a cup of water warming over a fire. He looked up. Xander could see now that it was not the face of his mentor, though the two men were very alike. This man was older and nearly bald, and one of his eyes was strange, the eyeball pale and pearly.
“My name is Podaleirios, and Machaon is my brother,” the healer said. “You clearly know him, Xander. Is he well?”
“No,” the boy admitted regretfully. “When last I saw him, he was very sick, sir. I wish I could help him. He has always been kind to me. Why am I here with the enemy?”
There was a burst of laughter at his words, and someone said, “You are in the Thessalian camp, boy. You should be proud to be with Achilles and his Myrmidons, the finest warriors in the world.”
The speaker was a slender young man with fair hair braided and pulled back to his neck. He was cleaning blood off his arms, but Xander guessed it was someone else’s, for he looked uninjured. Beside him was a huge dark-haired warrior dressed in black, and lying between them a bald-headed man with a braided red beard. His chest was heavily bandaged, and Xander could see blood leaking and staining the white material. His healer’s eye noted the gray sheen on the man’s face and the feverish look in his eye.
“Podaleirios,” Xander asked the healer, “I don’t know how I got here, but can I return to Troy now?”
The men laughed again, and Podaleirios said, “Call me White-Eye, Xander. Everybody else does. You were brought here by Odysseus of Ithaka. He found you unconscious on the field of battle and carried you to safety. And you cannot return to Troy. You are now healer and surgeon to the warriors of Thessaly.
“This is Achilles, king of Thessaly”—the healer gestured to the black-clad giant—“and you are now his servant.”
Xander stared in wonder at the legendary warrior. “Lord,” he said humbly, “I am not a priest of Asklepios, pledged to help the sick or injured wherever I find them. I am just a helper to Machaon. I belong in Troy.”
Achilles frowned. “Odysseus tells me you trained with Machaon in the House of Serpents. If such a famous healer sent you onto the battlefield to help the Trojan wounded, then he must have faith in your skills. Are you saying you will not help my stricken warriors? Think carefully on your answer, boy.”
Shamefaced, Xander said, “I’m sorry, lord. I will do what I can to help.”
To White-Eye, Achilles said, “At dawn, when the boy has rested, take him up to King’s Joy. He will be valuable there.”
The healer nodded and moved away. A servant came to the campfire, offering platters of meat and corn bread to the warriors. One was placed at the wounded man’s side, but he did not touch it, merely swigged from his jug of wine. Achilles pointed at Xander and nodded, and the servant gave the boy some food. It was roasted pig, warm with greasy juices, salty and tasty. Xander felt his stomach grumble in reaction to the wonderful smell. He realized he had not eaten all day or the day before. He wondered when he last had tasted any food, then forgot about it as he sank his teeth into the succulent meat.
There was silence for a while as the warriors ate. Then Achilles said to the wounded man, “I will have you carried to King’s Joy, Thibo. It will be cold on the beach tonight. At least there you will be under shelter.”
Thibo shook his head. “I’ll be all right here by the fire. I don’t want to be up there with the dead and dying.”
“I am your king and could command you,” Achilles said mildly.
Thibo grunted. “Would you want to be up there, in that place of torment?”
Achilles shook his head and said no more.
The fair-haired warrior nudged him with his elbow. “We went there once when we were children. Do you remember? We visited King’s Joy with your father. I don’t know why.”
Achilles nodded, chewing his meat and swallowing. “I remember, Patroklos.”
Patroklos went on. “It was a place of beauty then, the white walls painted with bright pictures of the gods. There were soft rugs on the marble floors—I had never seen such rugs before—and the gleam of gold and gems everywhere. It was wonderful to behold.”
Achilles grunted. “And now Agamemnon’s Followers have made a pigsty of it,” he said. Then he smiled. “I remember we were told off for playing on the high balcony where Helen fell.”
Patroklos shook his head in wonder. “I’ll not forget that day on this side of the Dark Road. The princess throwing herself to her death with her children.”
Thibo grunted. “They were dead, anyway, the children. Agamemnon would have seen to that.”
Patroklos argued, “But Helen need not have died. It seems wrong, such beauty smashed to ruins on the rocks below.”
Xander listened with surprise. He had met the princess Helen only once, in Helikaon’s chamber when the Golden One had been gravely ill. He had seen a plump, plain woman with a sweet smile. Perhaps they were talking about a different Helen, he thought.
“She was not a beauty,” Thibo said thoughtfully.
“Yes, but you don’t like them buxom, Thibo,” Patroklos replied, grinning. “You like your women skinny, like boys.” He winked at his friend.
“It’s true,” Thibo agreed amiably. “But I meant she was not beautiful like an expensive whore.”
Patroklos started laughing at that, but Achilles broke in, “I know what you mean, Thibo. She did not have the beauty of golden-haired Aphrodite. She was more like stern and terrible Hera, before whom even the gods quail.”
Speaking so much made Thibo cough. The spasm was agonizing, and he held on to his chest with both hands. His face lost all color, and he groaned. Xander could see that the blood patch on the bandage was spreading.
Taking up his leather satchel, he stood and said to the wounded warrior, “Sir, perhaps I can help you, if you will let me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
ANDROMACHE’S CHOICE
Andromache stood at the prow of the Xanthos and breathed in the fresh salt air as the great ship glided through a light swell. She always had loved the days of spring, when the snows melted on great Ida and the rivers and streams around her home of Little Thebe filled and sparkled with clear icy water, its wooded hills and valleys clothed in pale green rain-washed leaves.
When she had been sent by her father as a priestess to Thera, she had thought of Thebe Under Plakos as her home. But by the time she was dispatched unhappily to Troy to marry Hektor, Thera had become home to her. Now here she was, on the Xanthos and less than a day’s sail from the Golden City. Where is your home now, Andromache? she thought. Is it Troy, where you yearn to hold your son in your arms again?
Or is it on this ship, where you have lived and loved for endless winter days of fear and longing and bliss?
Once the crewmen had gotten used to a woman aboard the ship, they had stopped calling her “princess” or “priestess” and had ceased glancing covertly at her legs and breasts at all opportunities. She had found a home on the big ship. She joined the men at their campfires at night, shared their meals, distributed water skins when the ship was under oars, helped sluice down the decks, and even was asked to sew a ragged rip in the sail after a rough day in stormy seas.
“I am the daughter of a king and wife to Hektor,” she had said, laughing, “and you are sailors. You know more about sewing than I do!” Yet she had done her best with the sharp needles and sturdy thread they had given her and had pretended not to notice when her poor stitches were remade for her by a grizzled crewman whose fingers were more nimble than hers.