by David
Helikaon spit out, “Make your play, Menados. We haven’t got all night.” From the corner of his eye he saw the sun’s first rays lancing over the horizon.
Menados ignored him, addressing Kalliades. “You are free to join us, Kalliades, as an outcast yourself. We are going not to the Golden City but back to Mykene and the Lion’s Hall, there to suffer Agamemnon’s judgment—if he ever returns.”
Kalliades answered him coolly, “The Law of the Road states that Helikaon’s battle is mine. I will stand with him.”
Menados nodded, as if he had expected that response. “Loyalty has been much prized among the Mykene, although that loyalty seemed often misplaced. You are not the first Mykene warrior to stand side by side with the Trojans. The great Argurios was a comrade of mine. We fought together in many battles. I admired him more than any man I have ever known. Now, Helikaon, when last we encountered each other, you chose the path of mercy. You undoubtedly are regretting that now. And you told me that if we were ever to meet again, you would cut out my heart and feed it to the crows. Is that still your intention?”
Helikaon snarled, “Try me, Menados!”
A voice behind Menados yelled, “Let’s take them, Admiral! The Burner is accursed and must die!”
Another shouted, “The gods are with us, lord. They have brought the Burner into our hands!” There was a chorus of agreement, and in the predawn gloom Helikaon heard swords rasping from scabbards.
Menados turned to his men, annoyance in his voice. “I was speaking of loyalty and mercy, two qualities which used to be admired by the Mykene.”
Behind Helikaon one of the boys started to cry from tiredness or fear.
Menados sighed and sheathed his sword. “Go your way, Helikaon. Matters are now equal between us. I give you and your people your lives, just as you once gave me mine. In the name of the great Argurios.”
There were angry shouts from Menados’ men, but no one made a move. Helikaon guessed that their loyalty to Menados or fear of him was stronger than their need for vengeance.
Swords still at the ready, the two warriors walked watchfully past the Mykene band. Andromache, with Astyanax on one hip and holding Dex by the hand, followed them.
As they raced on, Helikaon strained his eyes to find the dark bulk of the Xanthos in the distance. The ball of the sun, rising out of the mist to their right, was almost clear of the horizon, and they still had a way to go.
“We cannot make it,” Kalliades calmly pointed out. Helikaon’s heart sank. The man was right. It was impossible to get to the ship before she sailed.
Then, from out of the west, he heard a shout. He paused and turned. A horse was cantering toward them across the rough ground, leaping the ditches, its rider waving to them and shouting. As he came closer, Helikaon saw that he was wearing the armor of the Trojan Horse.
“Skorpios!” Kalliades cried out in delight. “How in Hades are you here? We thought you long dead!”
“It does not matter!” Helikaon shouted. “Get down, lad! I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but I need that horse!”
The fair-haired rider slid quickly off his mount, and Helikaon vaulted on. He grabbed the reins and kicked the beast into a run, heading north toward the river at full pelt. Behind them he heard the newcomer ask, “Where’s he going with my horse? And where’s Banokles?”
Banokles watched Helikaon climb down the rope into the night. Then he heard Kalliades’ voice call to him for a torch. He grabbed one off the wall and threw it down to him. He watched it spiral into darkness, then returned to the crowded gathering room to see who else could be saved. But among the many wounded and dying there were none who had the strength to lower themselves to safety—only the healer.
He told the boy curtly, “On your way, lad. There is a rope from the window of the rear chamber leading down to the ground. Climb down it and save yourself.”
The boy continued sewing a soldier’s scalp wound. There was blood everywhere, and his fingers kept slipping on the bronze needle as he worked.
Without looking up, the healer replied, “I will stay.”
Banokles grabbed the boy by the front of his clothing and dragged him upright, shaking him like a rat.
“That was not a polite request, boy, but an order. Go when I tell you!”
“With respect, sir,” the healer said, his face reddening, “I am not a soldier for you to command, and I will not go. I am needed here.”
Frustrated, Banokles flung him down. He could not force the boy to go. What could he do, throw him out the window? He stalked back to the rear chamber and without hesitation cut the rope. He waited, grinning to himself, and shortly he heard Kalliades’ voice shouting, “Banokles!”
He leaned over the window ledge and called down to his old friend, “May Ares guide your spear, Kalliades!”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Kalliades shouted back, “He always does, sword brother.”
Banokles waved farewell. Red always had told him that Kalliades would get him killed, and here he was saving his friend from certain death. In high good humor, he went out to the stone corridor where the last three Eagles were holding back the enemy. There was room only for one man at a time to swing a sword, so each combatant faced a duel to the death. He saw one Eagle cut down, a sword through his belly, and a comrade take his place. Two more to go, he thought, and went back into the gathering room.
He saw the king’s aide Polydorus lying propped against a wall, blood drying on his chest and stomach. He always had liked the man. He was a thinker, like Kalliades, and a doughty fighter, too. Looking at Polydorus’ face with his veteran’s eye, he guessed the warrior probably would survive if given time to heal. Banokles always told Kalliades that he knew if a wounded soldier would live or die, and he was very seldom wrong. Well, actually he was often wrong, but he was the only one keeping score.
He squatted down.
“How are we doing?” Polydorus asked with a faint smile.
“There are two Eagles left, holding the corridor, then I’ll go in.”
“You’d better go now, Banokles.”
Banokles shrugged. “In a moment. You Eagles are a gutsy bunch.” He frowned. “Can you believe that boy refused to leave?” He nodded toward the healer.
Polydorus smiled. “You could leave, Banokles. You chose not to. What’s the difference?”
For a moment Banokles was astonished. It never had entered his head that he could have climbed down the rope, too.
“I’m a soldier,” he answered lamely.
“Yet you are under no man’s orders. Has it occurred to you, Banokles, that now that Hektor’s son has left the city, you, as the senior soldier here, are truly king of Troy?”
Banokles was delighted by the idea, and he laughed. “The king? I never thought I’d be a king. Shouldn’t I have a crown or something?”
Polydorus shook his head weakly, “I never saw Priam wearing a crown.”
“Then how will people know I’m king?”
“I suspect you will tell them, my friend, if you get the chance.” Then Polydorus’ face became grave. “May the All-Father guard you, Banokles. It is time now.”
Banokles stood up, then turned and walked to the corridor.
The last Eagle was battling courageously. The stone corridor was littered with bodies, and Banokles dragged two corpses back into the gathering room to give himself room to fight. One Trojan soldier lay slumped against the corridor wall, clutching a wound in his belly. He raised a warding hand as Banokles approached him.
“I would rather die here than in there,” he told him.
Banokles nodded. He closed the oak door to the gathering room behind him and waited. He did not have to wait long. The last Eagle, weakened by his wounds, fell to one knee, and his Mykene opponent swung his sword at the man’s neck, half beheading him.
Banokles stepped up. The Mykene warrior looked familiar, but he could not name him. It doesn’t matter, anyway, Banokles thought. He wrenched
one sword from his scabbard, blocked a fierce overhead cut, and sent a slashing riposte across the warrior’s face. The man stumbled, and Banokles plunged the blade into his chest.
He turned briefly to the injured Trojan. “One,” he said.
Then he unsheathed his other sword and felt a familiar calm settle on him. The only contentment he had felt since Red’s death had been in the heat of battle. His grief for his wife, the burden of his responsibilities—they all vanished, and Banokles rejoiced.
A huge warrior in a lion-skin tunic leaped toward him, sword raised. Banokles parried the blow and reversed a cut to the warrior’s neck. The blade hammered into armor and broke. Dropping it, Banokles ducked away from a second blow, then twisted his wrist, and his other sword hissed through the air into the man’s groin. As the man stumbled, Banokles chopped him on the back of the neck, severing his spine. He picked up the man’s sword as he fell to the floor.
“Two,” he heard the injured Trojan say, and he laughed.
The next warrior took longer to kill. He inflicted two minor wounds on Banokles—one on the leg and one on the cheek—before Banokles blocked a lunge, spun his blade, and thrust it under the man’s helm.
“Three.”
With the fourth warrior it became a duel. Banokles tried a feint, followed by a lunge to the heart. The Mykene parried it and sent a return cut that struck Banokles’ neck, slicing open the skin. The pace picked up, with both men hacking and slashing, blocking and moving. Banokles realized he was tiring. He knew he could not afford to get tired. He had to end each contest quickly. He feinted with his left sword, and as the Mykene parried it, he swept the right sword up through the man’s belly and chest, disemboweling him.
There were a few moments of rest while the Mykene dragged away their dead and dying. Then the next warrior stepped toward him.
As the morning dragged on, Banokles felt his concentration wavering. After one kill he glanced down at himself to see blood still flowing from the gash in his leg. There were other minor wounds, including one on the left shoulder. That arm was reacting too slowly.
“You are dying, Banokles,” someone said. He realized it was the man in front of him, a Mykene in the old armor of Atreus’ personal guard. Banokles staggered as the man’s blade lanced beneath his ribs, deflecting off the bronze disks of his leather breastplate. Then Banokles got his feet under him and surged forward, his right sword swinging in a high, vicious arc. It tore into the man’s neck protector, ripping through it and opening a deep wound in the man’s throat. He fell back, choking on blood, and Banokles leaped on him, plunging his sword into the man’s face.
“How many now?” he shouted. There was no reply. He glanced behind him at the injured Trojan, but the soldier had died.
Seventeen, Banokles decided. Maybe more. He picked up the last opponent’s shield to replace his left sword and guard that side.
A huge warrior walked down the corridor toward him. Banokles prepared to meet him, but his sword seemed very heavy, and he dragged it in front of him with a massive effort.
“Banokles,” the warrior’s deep voice rumbled, and Banokles saw that it was Ajax Skull Splitter. Banokles was glad the veteran Mykene champion had survived the battle at the Scaean Gate. He knew he would have to use all his strength and concentration to kill the man, but he felt badly in need of sleep.
“Kalliades?” Ajax questioned him.
Banokles managed a grin. “He’s back there, having a rest and something to eat. He’s up next. And you know he could teach me a thing or two about sword fighting.”
Ajax laughed, the deep rumble making the stones of the corridor vibrate.
“Then you will walk the Dark Road together,” he promised.
He attacked with speed that belied his great size. He was fast, but Banokles already was moving, He ducked under the slashing sweep of the broadsword and kicked out, catching Ajax on the knee. The big man staggered, but he was so well balanced that he recovered in a heartbeat and lunged for Banokles’ throat. Banokles blocked the blow and leaped back a pace.
Ajax attacked again. Their blades met. Ajax hacked and slashed, but Banokles blocked every blow, moving on instinct, his body awash with pain. Suddenly Ajax spun on his heel and crashed his massive fist into Banokles’ face. Banokles fell back.
He blinked. There was sweat in his eyes, or blood, because his vision was fading in and out. Suddenly he found that he was down on one knee and could not get up. I’ll have that sleep soon, he thought.
He was surprised to see Ajax sheathe his sword, then turn and walk back down the corridor. Banokles knew he should leap up and ram his blade into his old comrade’s back. He was planning to do it, but time passed and he found that he still was kneeling on the floor. Angry voices echoed down the corridor. There were armed men there, watching him.
“I order you to kill him,” one man shouted furiously. His deep voice was familiar, but Banokles could not remember whose it was.
“I’ll not dispatch him for you, Agamemnon King,” Ajax rumbled, anger in his voice. “You were a warrior once, too.”
Banokles’ last sight was of a tall figure walking down the corridor toward him. He realized it was Red, and he grinned up at her as the light faded.
Today was a good day, he thought happily.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE GOD OF MICE
Agamemnon wrenched his sword out of Banokles’ chest and handed it to an aide to clean. He was in a good humor. Killing Banokles had put an end to an irritating flea bite he had not been able to scratch. He had no doubt that the traitor’s accomplice Kalliades lay dead somewhere in the mounds of Trojan corpses he had seen between the Scaean Gate and this last corridor.
He had waited all morning with his brother kings Menelaus and Idomeneos, his anger growing as warrior after warrior sent into the stone corridor failed to kill the renegade. But now he was dead, and nothing stood in the way of Agamemnon’s twin ambitions: to kill the boy-king, Hektor’s get, and to win his prize: the treasure of Priam. He knew he must be close to them both for so many Trojans to have died guarding this way.
At the end of the stone corridor was a simple oak door.
“Open it!” he ordered, and two axmen ran forward. But it was not barred and opened at a touch. Preceded by the axmen and flanked by his bodyguard, Agamemnon strode in.
Inside there appeared to be a hospital. Dead and dying Trojans, perhaps forty of them, including a few women, lay on the floor of a great square room. The stench was appalling, and death hung in the air like wood smoke. All eyes turned to him. Some were full of fear; most held acceptance of their fate.
Standing in front of the wounded, holding a sword raised in both hands, was a short young man in a blood-drenched robe.
Ignoring him, Agamemnon looked around. There were no children in the chamber. They must have hidden them. He frowned, his good humor evaporating.
The boy with the sword was saying something. Agamemnon listened impatiently. “Do not kill these people,” the boy asked, his voice trembling. “They can no longer harm you and your armies.”
“Kill him,” Agamemnon ordered the axmen.
“Wait!” Meriones, Idomeneos’ aide, stepped forward in front of the boy. The axmen paused and looked to Agamemnon uncertainly.
“I know you, lad,” Meriones told the boy. “I have seen you with Odysseus.”
The young man nodded and lowered his sword slightly. “I am Xander. I was privileged to be healer to great Achilles and his Myrmidons. I am a friend of Odysseus.”
“Then what are you doing here, lad, with the Trojans?”
“It is a long story,” Xander confessed.
“It is a story I would like to hear,” Meriones told him, looking at Agamemnon. “Spare the boy, Agamemnon King. We could do with a tale or two now that Odysseus has departed.”
“Good riddance,” Idomeneos barked. “I want no more tall tales. Kill the boy and let’s find the treasury.”
Irritated almost beyond enduran
ce by the Kretan king after a long summer in his company, Agamemnon snapped, “Very well, Meriones. As usual, you give me good advice. Healer, I will spare you and your wounded if you tell me where Hektor’s son is.”
The young man replied nervously. “Astyanax is gone, sir. The Golden One took him away last night.”
Helikaon again! Agamemnon felt his fury rising with the speed of a summer storm. “Helikaon was here? Only last night? How is that possible? You are lying, boy!”
“No, sir. I am telling you the truth. He climbed the north wall and took the boys away. The lady Andromache went with him, and—”
“The north wall? But that cannot be climbed!”
“It is true, lord. I expect the rope is still there for you to see.”
He pointed toward the rear rooms, and Agamemnon gestured for a soldier to go look. Menelaus followed him.
Always Helikaon, the Battle King thought, spoiling my plans at every turn! Even at my moment of victory.
Idomeneos rasped, “I have no interest in the killing of Hektor’s son. Troy is finished whether Priam’s line survives or not. Do you fear that Helikaon and the boy-king will raise an army and try to take the city back? Why would we worry? We will find Priam’s treasure and return to our lands.”
Agamemnon nodded. Sharptooth was, as usual, motivated only by his own greed, but in this he was right. The boy could be hunted down at leisure. Nowhere on the Green Great was safe for him. Once Troy was securely in Mykene hands and in the charge of a commander loyal to Agamemnon, the king could go back to the Lion’s Hall and his wife and son and celebrate his victory over Priam and his Golden City. Agamemnon King, Conqueror of the East! His name would go down in legend as the destroyer of Troy.
Good humor restored, he turned to Xander. “I am a man of my word, boy. Tend to your wounded. No more Trojans will die at the hands of the Battle King.”
“Brother!” Agamemnon turned. Menelaus had returned from the rear rooms pale-faced.