[Troy 03] - Fall of Kings

by David

  Patroklos provided some entertainment through the long days; that was much needed by Odysseus, who spent as little time as possible with Agamemnon and the western kings. Quarrels always broke out among them. Nestor and Idomeneos seldom spoke after Sharptooth suddenly had withdrawn his archers from the field one day, leaving Nestor’s troops without cover as they attacked one of the lower town’s palaces. Sharptooth avoided Odysseus, for the Ithakan king never failed to remind him that he owed Odysseus his gold and silver breastplate, wagered on Banokles’ fistfight long ago at Apollo’s Bow. And Agamemnon and Achilles now loathed each other and were constantly at war over something, even falling out over the ownership of a female slave, the daughter of a priest. Odysseus knew it would suit Agamemnon well if Achilles were to die at Troy. When they returned at last to their homelands, he would not want such a strong king as a neighbor and potential enemy.

  As he walked through the lower town, the Ugly King looked around with sadness. There were few palaces in this part of Troy. Here had been the homes of craftspeople—dyers, potters, textile workers—and many of the servants to the great houses of the mighty. Before the war there had been children running through the streets and alleyways, colorful marketplaces in every square, traders making deals, arguing and laughing, often fighting. Now all was desolation, and the stink of death was everywhere. Bodies had been cleared from the streets, but the Trojan families that had been killed in their homes were still there, the corpses corrupting in the warmth of early summer.

  In the distance he could hear the words of a funeral chant: “Hear our words, O Hades, Lord of the Deepest Dark.” Dead warriors of the western armies went to the funeral pyre after an honorable ritual. The families killed by them were left to rot.

  Deep in thought, Odysseus arrived at the hospital. It once had been the Ilean barracks, then a hospital for the Trojan wounded, who had been slaughtered when the lower town had been captured. Now it held the injured and dying soldiers of Agamemnon’s armies. Odysseus hesitated before going in. He planned to visit his wounded men but did not relish the duty. Pausing before the doorway, he met the young healer Xander coming out. The boy looked tired beyond words, his tunic covered in blood, both dried and fresh. There were even blood specks among the freckles on his face.

  “Odysseus!” the boy cried, his features lighting up. “Are you here to see your men? You are the only king to visit his wounded troops, apart from Achilles.”

  “How is Thibo? Is he dead yet?”

  “No, he has left here. He will be back in action in days. He is very tough.”

  “You are the toughest among us, lad,” Odysseus said, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Dealing with the stench and the screams of the dying every day, the horrors of gangrene and amputations. Even the bravest soldiers avoid this place. I confess I would rather be anywhere else.”

  The boy nodded sadly. “The enemy—I mean, your armies brought few surgeons and healers. They rely on whores and camp followers to help the wounded. The women have stronger stomachs than the soldiers, but they have no skill. White-Eye works all day and all night. I fear for him. Did you know Machaon died?” Xander seemed dazed with exhaustion, and his thoughts were wandering. “I’m told he died at noon on the day your troops took the Scamander. But he spoke to me, I heard him, late that day, in the mist. He tried to get me to leave. But I was too slow. I should have returned to the city while I still could. I let him down.”

  He gazed at Odysseus, his eyes brimming with tears. The king pushed him gently down onto a wooden bench outside the makeshift hospital.

  “You are tired, lad, tired beyond reason. When did you last sleep?”

  The boy shook his head dumbly. He did not know.

  “I will see to it that you get more help. Is my man Leukon here?”

  Xander nodded, seeming too tired to speak.

  “Listen to me, lad,” Odysseus urged. “When the city falls, you must leave here straightaway. Leave this place and get down to the Bay of Herakles as quickly as you can. There are always Kypriot ships there, bringing supplies. Board one of them and tell the master I sent you.”

  But Xander was shaking his head. “No, Odysseus, I cannot. If the city falls, I must try to help my friends. Zeotos is still at the House of Serpents, and other healers. And there is the lady Andromache and her son. She is my friend. I am a Trojan now, even if I am aiding your warriors.”

  Suddenly angry, Odysseus cursed and grabbed the young healer by the front of his tunic. “Listen to me, lad,” he rasped, “and listen to me well. I have seen cities fall, too many to count over the years. Soldiers become animals at such times. Every civilian, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered when the gates open. None will escape. If you are there, they will kill you, maybe even someone you helped, whose life you saved. You will be no more to them than a lamb among the wolves.”

  Xander shook his head again, but Odysseus could see that he was too tired to argue. He let the boy go, and they sat in silence for a while. Odysseus unstrapped his breastplate and removed it with relief.

  Then Xander asked quietly, “When will Troy fall, do you think, Odysseus?”

  “Days or years. Tomorrow—or in ten years’ time. I don’t know, lad. I’m just a foot soldier in this story of heroes.”

  He sighed and spoke quietly, as if to himself. “I made a pledge I sorely regret, a pledge to Agamemnon that his enemies would be my enemies, his friends my friends. Well, the man has no friends. But I swore to stand by his side until his enemy is defeated. So I will stay here until the city falls to us, whenever that is. Then I will take my men and return to my ships and sail away. And I will live with it, boy, though it will not be easy.

  “I also have friends in Troy, Xander, friends I have known a lifetime. But I will not be running into the city to help them. They are beyond help. Everyone living behind those walls is dead, lad. They may be walking Troy’s streets, breathing her air, eating, sleeping, or making love. But they are all dead.”

  After dawn the next day the kings of the west gathered in the House of Stone Horses. Odysseus took grim amusement from the fact that Agamemnon had moved into Helikaon’s palace. The Golden One had delivered many crippling blows to the Mykene king, sinking his ships, killing his Followers, raiding his coastline. The destruction of Menados’ fleet had been a humiliating defeat. Agamemnon’s eagerness to capture his palace in Troy, a home Helikaon cared little for and seldom resided in, revealed a lot about the Battle King. All the servants had fled long since, and the rooms were bare. Odysseus chuckled to himself. Never underestimate the pettiness of powerful men, he thought.

  In the megaron were the kings with some of their aides. Black-bearded Meriones, one of Odysseus’ oldest friends, was beside his king, Idomeneos, and Patroklos lounged in a window, idly watching the empty street below. Kygones, the Fat King of Lykia, was accompanied by his nephew Sarpedon, by all accounts a formidable fighter. Some were breaking their fast with meat and corn bread. Odysseus sipped at a goblet of water.

  When Agamemnon arrived, his normally calm demeanor seemed disturbed.

  “We lost a supply train last night,” he told them without any form of greeting. “Sixteen carts of grain, wine, horse feed, and dried meats and fish, coming here from the Bay of Herakles. The Trojan Horse struck on the Scamander plain, more than three hundred of them. They killed the guards and drivers and took the entire train of wagons. A detachment of cavalry was sent from King’s Joy, and they killed them, too, and took their horses.”

  There was silence in the megaron, and then Odysseus said, “It could have been predicted. Sending supply wagons across the plain with less than a regiment to protect them is more than foolishness. They are rabbits sitting waiting for a pack of hounds.”

  “Yet you”—Agamemnon pointed a thin finger at the Ithakan king—“travel with your men back and forth to King’s Joy all the time. You have not been attacked.”

  “One fat old king is hardly worth the effort of killing,” Odysseus replied.
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  “I have lost five more ships to Helikaon the Burner,” Menestheos of Athens told them. “The Xanthos and the Trojan fleet attacked ten of my galleys off Lesbos two days ago.”

  “Did he burn them?” Idomeneos asked, his voice like the noise of a galley being dragged across pebbles.

  “No. Three were rammed and two captured, the crews killed. But I have a fleet of fifty beached at the Bay of Herakles. They must be protected. We must not forget that Helikaon destroyed an entire fleet in the Bay of Troy.”

  “We are not likely to forget,” Agamemnon spit in a rare display of anger. “My fleets patrol the seas off the bay,” he told Menestheos. “The Xanthos will not get through to attack them.”

  “Helikaon will not try,” Odysseus pointed out. “He wants our ships there so we can all leave. He has nothing to gain by attacking them. But he will take any supply ship the Xanthos finds.”

  “You seem to know well what is in your friend Helikaon’s mind,” Idomeneos commented scornfully.

  Odysseus sighed. “I speak only common sense. Troy’s best hope is that our supplies fail and we are forced to give up our cause. The Xanthos at sea and the Trojan Horse on land could between them leave us all starving by summer. Soldiers need to be fed, and fed often.”

  “The riders of the Trojan Horse also need supplies,” Agamemnon replied. “As the summer goes on, they will not be able to live off the land, and their horses will need feeding. They might be tempted to attack our supply wagons, even if heavily defended. We might use that to our advantage.”

  Odysseus asked him, “Was Hektor leading last night’s attack?”

  “He was,” the Mykene king answered. “This is one piece of good news. Hektor no longer commands in Troy. He is out leading raiding parties.”

  “Then who does command in the city?” Sharptooth asked. “Priam? The rumor is that he has lost his mind. They are friends of yours, Odysseus.” He sneered. “Who orders Troy’s defenses now?”

  Odysseus shrugged, refusing to rise to the bait, though anger was bubbling in his chest. “With Antiphones dead, I don’t know. Perhaps one of the generals. Maybe Polites.”

  “This is good news,” said the portly Menelaus, repeating his brother Agamemnon’s words. “Knowing Hektor does not lead the defense, I mean. I think we must try another attack on the walls.”

  “Are you insane, man?” Odysseus roared, jumping to his feet and tipping back his chair, which crashed to the floor. “By Apollo’s balls, after the carnage yesterday you would send more men to certain death! How many men did we lose, three hundred, four?”

  “My brother might have a good idea,” Agamemnon put in smoothly as Menelaus stumbled back under Odysseus’ onslaught.

  “Menelaus never had a good idea in his life.” Odysseus sneered. “He follows you around like a puppy dog, yapping when you tell him to and sometimes pissing on your feet. This poxy plan is yours, Agamemnon, and I’d like to know why. Because, unlike your pup here, you’re not a stupid man.”

  Agamemnon had gone pale, and his dark eyes were angry.

  “I, too, would like to hear why we should commit more of our forces to certain death,” Menestheos of Athens put in mildly.

  Agamemnon took a deep breath. He explained, “Yesterday a group of my warriors managed to take a part of the wall and hold it for a short while before being thrown back by the renegade Banokles and his men. If a brave troop of soldiers could take and hold just a section of the wall, then we could send hundreds up a ladder behind them. The Trojans would not be able to stop them. But we need the bravest of fighters, willing to risk their lives for our just cause.”

  He looked around the room, and his eyes rested on Achilles.

  “I will have nothing to do with this insanity,” the king of Thessaly said. “I and my Myrmidons will take part in no more suicidal attacks on the walls.”

  “So,” Agamemnon said icily, “our champion Achilles fears—”

  Achilles rose to his feet and in one swift stride was in front of Agamemnon, the tip of his sword resting lightly on the Mykene’s throat. It was done so quickly, so gracefully, that no one had time to move. Odysseus saw Patroklos lay his hand on his sword hilt, as did Agamemnon’s two Followers. There was a deathly silence in the megaron.

  Agamemnon, staring unblinking into Achilles’ eyes, continued. “I was going to say that Achilles fears for the lives of his men. This is understandable and is the mark of a true captain. The valiant Myrmidons have been vital to our success so far.”

  Achilles paused for a moment, then sheathed his sword. Without taking his eyes off Agamemnon, he returned to his seat.

  “We are all men of honor,” Agamemnon went on. “Achilles is our champion, and none doubts his countrymen’s bravery. But our attack will go ahead without Thessaly if it must.”

  “And without Ithaka,” Odysseus put in. “My men will not be climbing walls to certain death. You can have my archers and my bow Akilina to defend your warriors from the ground; that is all.”

  “So be it,” Agamemnon said coldly. “And what is your plan for taking the walls, Tale Spinner? Or are you only here to weave children’s stories about magic pigs and flying ships?”

  Black-bearded Meriones stood up and said angrily, “The king of Ithaka has proved himself in battle a hundred times. If it were not for him, we would still be languishing on the other side of the Scamander.”

  “Yes, yes,” old Nestor put in impatiently. “We are all warriors here. I had fought a hundred battles before young Achilles was a gleam in his father’s eye. What I would know, Agamemnon King, is why you need us all here when you plan to send one troop of your men up a ladder.”

  “The attack will be the same as yesterday’s,” the Battle King replied patiently. “With all our ladders and as many men as we can muster. The Trojans must not know where our eye is fixed.”

  “And where is it fixed?” the king of Pylos asked.

  “Our target is the south wall beside the Great Tower of Ilion. If we can take and hold that small part of the wall, we will have access to the great tower through the battlements door. Then we will have two ways in: down the steps at the south wall or down through the tower, which, as you all know, opens behind the Scaean Gate. We need get only six men to the gate and the city is ours.”

  Odysseus waited a safe distance from the south wall, the great bow Akilina on his shoulder, as the western troops mustered for the new assault. This was to be no surprise attack. He could see the sun glinting off the helms of the Trojan forces lined up along the top of the wall.

  Despite his losses, Agamemnon could gather more than thirty thousand warriors for the assault. The Ithakan king calculated that there could be no more than five thousand soldiers left inside the walls to defend Troy. That should be plenty today, he thought. Agamemnon’s latest scheme might work, but that was unlikely. Each passing day, each failed assault, confirmed Odysseus in his belief that the only way to take the city was by trickery.

  The ladders lay lined up on the ground. They were constructed of oak from the foothills of Mount Ida and lashed together with strong leather strips. They were heavy, and each required six men to raise it to the walls.

  The command was given, and the attackers picked up their ladders and ran with them to the base of the wall. Within moments, scores of ladders had been raised and armored warriors were streaming up them. Odysseus stepped back a few paces, notched an arrow to the string, and waited, just as the defenders waited. The Trojans were waiting for each ladder to be charged with warriors before dislodging it from the wall. Odysseus was waiting for the defenders to lean out from the battlements to shift the ladders.

  A bearded Trojan soldier holding a ladder pole stretched out from the top of the wall to hook the pole against a ladder and thrust it sideways. Odysseus could see a tiny patch of white between his helm and the armor at his neck. He sighted Akilina and loosed. The arrow punched through the man’s throat, and he slumped over the wall. Odysseus notched another arrow to the string and wa
ited.

  The ladder beside the great tower was downed quickly by the defenders, the warriors falling from it as it crashed to the ground. More soldiers raced to raise it again and to climb it regardless of the danger to themselves. Agamemnon had promised honor and a sheep’s weight in gold to the first man to reach the battlements and live. Odysseus picked off two more defenders at the top of the ladder. He saw a soldier on the wall spot him and point him out to the Phrygian archers. Odysseus grinned. He was well out of range of their puny bows.

  The attackers were making a fourth attempt to climb the ladder by the tower. There were seven warriors on it when it was pushed sideways, dislodging the men clinging to it and those on the next two ladders as it crashed into them. There was a thin sound of cheering from the top of the walls.

  But the attackers did not hesitate. New soldiers leaped forward and raised the ladders again. Such courage wasted on a doomed venture, Odysseus thought.

  Glancing at the top of the wall again, he suddenly realized that the defenders had fallen back. He frowned. What are they up to now? he wondered.

  All along the south wall he saw men come into view bearing huge shallow dishes of shining metal in cloth-covered hands. Boiling oil, Odysseus wondered, or scalding water? The dishes were tipped up as one, and their contents showered down on the invaders below.

  Instantly there was a scene of horror as climbing men all along the wall started screaming and writhing, trying to pull off their armor, and falling from the ladders. Those who managed to get out of their armor continued shrieking in torment, their cries hideous to hear.

  Odysseus shouldered Akilina and ran toward the walls, shouting at his archers to carry on shooting at the defenders.

  He reached a Mykene warrior who was writhing in agony, trying desperately to rid himself of his breastplate. Odysseus tore it off him, but that did not help. The man went on screaming as Odysseus ripped off his tunic.