Fall of Kings

by David Gemmell

  He had no idea why his brother Polites had asked to meet him on the Great Tower of Ilion. Antiphones had not been up there since he was a child. Priam had forbidden it. “The roof would collapse under you, boy,” he had said, “and it would be an engineering nightmare to rebuild.”

  On the south wall, above the Scaean Gate, he paused for a moment, then opened the oak door in the side of the great tower and entered its blackness. There he waited until his eyes got accustomed to the gloom. The steps crafted on the inner wall of the tower rose up to his left.

  When he finally emerged high on the wooden roof of the tower, the wind hit him like an ax. The four guards manning the corners of the tower stood braced, enduring the cold. Polites, his skinny frame enveloped in a heavy cloak and his thinning hair covered by a sheepskin cap, came hurrying over to him, pushed by the wind from the north.

  “Thank you for meeting me here, Brother,” he said, half his words snatched away as they left his mouth. “Are you well?”

  “Let us leave mutual inquiries about our health to a more appropriate time,” Antiphones yelled. “What are we doing here?”

  “As usual, I am seeking your advice, Brother.” Placing his hand on Antiphones’ shoulder, he urged him over to the side of the tower overlooking the lower town and the bay. The wide battlemented wall offered shelter for the lower part of his body, but still Antiphones scarcely could suck in his breath in the wind. He cupped his hand over his mouth so that he could breathe.

  “Our father has chosen to make a fool of me again,” Polites said close to Antiphones’ ear. “He summoned me yesterday and told me that he was making me his strategos and that I must plan the defense of Troy. I have spent a sleepless night, Brother.”

  Antiphones nodded. “And why are we on the great tower?” he gasped.

  “From here we can see all of Troy and its surroundings. We can see where the invaders will come, and we can plan our defense.”

  Antiphones grunted. He grabbed hold of his brother’s skinny arm and dragged him back to the top of the tower staircase.

  “Come with me, Polites!”

  Turning his back and making no effort to see if his brother was following him, he descended into the dark, mercifully windless tower and made his way back down to the wall. Emerging into the light, he descended the battlement steps.

  Calling a gate guard, Antiphones ordered, “Fetch me a chariot!” The man nodded and raced off toward the palace.

  Antiphones walked out through the open Scaean Gate. Only then, looking over the lower town once more, did he turn to his brother.

  “In order to defend the city we must think like the invader,” he told him. “We cannot think like Agamemnon standing on the great tower. We must go where he would go, see what he would see.”

  Polites nodded, his face downcast. “You are right. I am no good at this. That is why Father chose me. To make a fool of me. As he did for Hektor’s wedding games.”

  Antiphones shook his head. “Brother, you are not thinking this through. True, Priam has made fools of us in the past. He made me his captain of horse when I was so colossally fat, I would have broken the back of one of Poseidon’s immortal horses. But in this he knows what he is doing. When the Mykene come, he has to be ready. They could be here on our shores by spring. We might have just days before we see their ships. He has not chosen you to make a fool of you. He has chosen you because he thinks you are the right man for this task. You have to understand this.”

  “In spite of the games?” Polites asked.

  “Because of the games, my friend. The games were important to him. He wanted Agamemnon and his crew of rabble kings to see how the Trojans could organize themselves. He believed you could do it. And you did him proud. You got thousands of men to their correct events on the right days at the right times. They were all fed and housed. It was a great success. You were too anxious at the time to see it.”

  “There were a few fights,” Polites said, reassured a little by the praise.

  “There were more than a few fights.” Antiphones laughed. “I witnessed a score myself. Yet the games were not disrupted, and everyone went home satisfied. Except King Eioneus”—he shrugged—“and the two men killed in the chariot races. And that Kretan fistfighter Achilles killed with one blow.”

  He laughed and clapped his brother on the back.

  “I don’t see it,” Polites said miserably. “Yesterday I met the generals Lucan and Thyrsites. They were speaking in a language I could not understand.”

  Antiphones chuckled. “Soldiers like to speak their own private language.”

  A chariot came into sight, clattering through the gateway. Antiphones dismissed the charioteer and took up the reins. “Come, Polites,” he said. “Let us take a ride together.”

  Polites climbed aboard. Antiphones flicked the reins, and the chariot set off through the lower town past the rabbit warren of streets and alleyways under the great walls. Once across the fortification ditch around the lower town, Antiphones drove the chariot down the gently sloping road and across the snow-carpeted plain of the Scamander until they reached the river. It was in full winter spate, and its floodwaters lapped around the chariot wheels before they reached the wide wooden bridge. Antiphones drew the horses to a halt and climbed down. Standing at the center of the bridge, they looked back the way they had come.

  “Now what do you see?” the big man asked.

  Polites sighed. “I see a great city on a plateau surrounded by walls which are impregnable.” He glanced at Antiphones, who nodded encouragingly. “I see the lower town which lies on sloping ground, mostly to the south of the city. This can be defended, but if the numbers of defenders are too few or the invaders too many, then it can be taken, street by street, building by building. Taking it will be very costly to both sides, but it can be done. Father is thinking of widening the fortification ditch around the town, which will mean pulling down many buildings. But he fears it will send the wrong message. If the people believe Agamemnon is definitely coming, they will flee the city in even greater numbers, and the treasury will suffer.”

  Antiphones shrugged. “Agamemnon will come, anyway. What else do you see?”

  “All around us, to the east, west, and south, I see a wide plain, ideal for cavalry warfare. The Trojan Horse would destroy any troops exposed on this plain. None could stand against them.” As Polites gazed at the city, Antiphones saw his expression change.

  “What is it?” the big man asked.

  “The Trojan Horse,” Polites answered. “Thousands of horses. We could not stable them in the upper city. There would not be enough feed. Nor could we leave them in the lower town and the barracks there. What if the town fell?”

  “Now you are thinking,” Antiphones told him, though the problem had not occurred to him before. The Trojan Horse was a mobile army, best suited to fast movement, surprising enemy forces. It would be useless in a siege. Fear touched his heart then.

  Polites was staring intently at the land around the city and down to the Bay of Troy. “We will need more horsemen,” he said. “Outriders and scouts. Hektor and his men will have to remain outside the city, constantly moving, then hitting the enemy where least expected.” Polites’ brow furrowed. “How, then, can we supply them with food and fresh weapons, arrows and spears?”

  “You are going too fast for me,” Antiphones told him. “How can we survive with our army outside the city?”

  “Not all of the army. Only the Trojan Horse. We can still man the walls with infantry and archers and sally out with our regiments when the occasion permits. We must have hidden supplies out in the far hills and the woods where the enemy will not venture,” he continued, warming to his theme. “And we will need a way to communicate with Hektor so that we can link strategically.”

  “You are a wonder, little brother,” Antiphones said admiringly. Polites blushed at the compliment.

  “But,” Antiphones said, sobering a little, “we cannot rely solely on the Trojan Horse. It is our
spear and our shield, but even the strongest shield can be shattered.”

  “Do you believe Agamemnon will bring his own cavalry? Surely not!”

  “No, the strength of the Mykene is in their infantry. The Mykene phalanx is the best in the world, experienced and disciplined. We will not want to be drawn into any pitched battles with them.”

  “But Brother,” Polites argued, “we have the finest infantry. Surely the Scamandrian and Heraklion regiments and your own Ileans are a match for any army. They are all doughty warriors.”

  Antiphones shook his head. “With the exception of the Eagles, we have no foot soldiers to compare with the Mykene,” he admitted. “And our infantry is buttressed by Hittite and Phrygian mercenaries, with their flimsy armor. The Mykene would cut through them like a scythe through long grass. Only Hektor and the Horse can defeat the elite warriors of Agamemnon. The Mykene are the finest fighters, but heavily armored, they are slow to react. Only a cavalry charge will break their formation and scatter them.”

  Polites nodded. “But surely Father’s Eagles would be a match for them.”

  “Yes, but there are only three hundred Eagles. The Mykene infantry will number in the thousands, and most of them will be veterans of a score of wars. They are deadly, Polites, and they know how to win. They get a lot of practice.”

  Antiphones gazed up at the city, his mood bleak. Since his brush with death he had thanked the gods daily for his continued life and attacked each day with vigor, determined to wring the last dregs of enjoyment from it. But now, for the first time in years, blackness threatened to engulf him. What had started as a mild intellectual exercise, discussing the defenses of Troy with his brother, had blossomed into black dread for the future. He could see in his mind’s eye enemy camps on the plain of the Scamander, the river running with blood, the lower town empty and burned, Mykene troops clamoring at the walls of Troy.

  Polites said encouragingly, “We also know how to win, Brother. And the great walls are impregnable. The city cannot be taken.”

  Antiphones turned to him. “If the Mykene reach the walls, Polites, then Troy cannot stand. There are only two wells in the city. Most of our water comes from the Scamander and the Simoeis. And how long can we feed all our people? We could not last the summer. And eventually there would be a traitor. There always is. Dardanos was not taken by siege, remember. It needed just one traitor, and the enemy troops merely walked in the gates.”

  He fell silent. I was the traitor, he thought, the last time Agamemnon tried to take Troy. Through my arrogance I almost caused the death of the king and the fall of Troy to a foreign power. Only the courage of the hero Argurios prevented that. Two Trojans plotted the fall of Troy, and a Mykene saved the city. How the gods enjoy such elegant irony, he thought.

  Antiphones smiled grimly, trying to rouse himself from gloom, cursing his self-pity. “If only I had remained fat, I could have sat behind the Scaean Gate, and all the troops in Mykene could never have opened it.”

  Polites laughed. “Then we should head for home and a mountain of honey cakes.”

  The big woman trudged through the streets of the lower town, a basket of honey cakes on her arm. As she walked, many of the older traders called out greetings. She knew them all: Tobios the jeweler with his henna-dyed hair, Palicos the cloth merchant, Rasha the spindly meat seller, and more. To them she was still Big Red, the servant of Aphrodite.

  But those days were gone now. She was married to Banokles, a soldier of the Trojan Horse. She smiled. A general now, no less. Thoughts of her husband warmed her as she walked through the morning cold.

  When young and beautiful, she had dreamed of marrying a rich man, tall and handsome, and of living in a palace with servants to tend her needs. There would be perfumed baths and jeweled robes. Her husband’s adoration would shine brighter than the summer sun, and she would walk through Troy like a queen of legend. Such were the dreams of the young. The woman of those times had believed she never would grow old. There never would be a day when men did not desire her, when one glance from those violet eyes did not capture their hearts.

  Yet that day had come, creeping unnoticed through the shadows of her life. The rich clients had fallen away, and Red had found herself plying her trade among foreign sailors or common soldiers or among the poorer merchants and travelers.

  Until the night Banokles had come into her life.

  Red cut through the alleys toward her small neat house in the Street of Potters, passing on the way the square where she first had seen the blond-bearded Mykene soldier. He had been roaring drunk and in the company of thieves and cutthroats. He had called out, then staggered toward her. “By the gods,” he had said, “I think you are the most beautiful woman I ever saw.” Fumbling in the pouch by his side, he had pulled out a silver ring, which he had thrust into her hand. She had told him she was finished with work for the night, but it had not concerned him. “That is for your beauty alone,” he had told her.

  Despite her years of dealing with men and their hungers, she had been touched by the gesture. And she had felt sorry for the drunken fool. She knew the men with him. They were robbers, and before the night was over they would kill or cripple him for the rings he carried.

  But she had left him there and walked, just as she had this morning, to the house of the baker, Krenio.

  Later, retracing her steps, she had braced herself for the sight of the soldier dead on the stones. When finally she had reached the square, she had seen him sitting quietly and drinking, the thieves sprawled out around him.

  In the days that followed she had watched him take part as a fistfighter in Hektor’s wedding games, had walked with him along the beach, had slept beside him, listening to his breathing. And somewhere in that time she had realized with great surprise that she was fond of him. Why remained a mystery. He was not intelligent or intuitive. In many ways he was like an overgrown child, quick to anger, swift to forgive. Even now her love for him surprised her.

  Banokles the general. The thought amused her.

  Reaching her house, she put the basket of honey cakes on the table and poured herself a cup of wine. The fire had died down, and she added fuel, then sat before the flames. Banokles was still in Dardania. Word had reached the city that he had won a battle. His name was on everyone’s lips.

  Red sipped her wine, then reached for a honey cake. Just the one, she promised herself. The taste was divine. Krenio’s talent as a baker was second to none.

  The old man had wept again when she had visited him that morning, telling her over and over how much he loved her.

  “I am going to leave the city,” he said once more.

  “You have been saying that for a year,” she replied. “But you haven’t done it yet.”

  “I am waiting for you to see sense, my dear, and come with me.”

  “Do not start that again, old man. I am married now.”

  “But still you can’t stay away from me, can you? We are destined to be together. I know this with all my heart. Come east with me, Red.”

  She did not have the heart to tell him she pleasured him, as she always had, for his honey cakes. Red bit into a second one. It was so good.

  Her mind drifted back to Banokles. “I miss you,” she whispered.

  Banokles was bored. Outside the fortress of Dardanos soldiers were still celebrating their latest victory over the Mykene. Banokles could hear laughter and singing, the sounds of joy from men who had survived a battle. He could smell roasting meats, and he yearned to be out among the warriors, drinking and dancing without a care. Instead he was stuck in this chilly chamber while Kalliades and the Hittite with the curly beard and the name that tangled his tongue spoke endlessly about beaches and bays, landing places and possible battle sites. They talked about food supplies, scouts, and promotions to replace officers who had fallen in battle. The words washed over him, and he found himself growing steadily more irritable.

  Truth was, he was missing Big Red. Her absence was like a rock on his
heart. He pictured her sitting in her small courtyard, her back propped up by cushions, feet resting on a padded stool. The image calmed him a little.

  Their parting had not been a happy one. Her violet eyes had glared at him. “You big oaf,” she had told him. “This is a war that cannot be won. Troy cannot stand against the western kings and their armies. All the intelligent merchants are leaving the city. We should do the same. Head east. You have gold now and a reputation. You could find work among the Hittites. We could be happy.”

  “I am happy,” Banokles had replied, trying to take her into his arms. She had shrugged him off, then sighed.

  “So am I,” she had admitted reluctantly. “And it frightens me. I never expected it. Look at me, Banokles. I am a fat, aging whore. I thought all my dreams had died a long time ago. I was content in my little house. Then you came along.”

  Banokles had stepped in then, putting his arms around her. She did not struggle but laid her head on his shoulder. “You are the joy of my life,” he told her.

  “Then you are an idiot, and your life must have been wretched before me.”

  “It was, but I didn’t know it. Don’t worry. I’ll be home in the spring. You just rest and enjoy yourself. Get more of those cakes from the old baker.”

  “You truly are a numbskull,” she said, but her voice had softened. Then a soldier had called out for Banokles. Red gave Banokles his helm, and he leaned in to kiss her.

  “Make sure you listen well to Kalliades,” she warned him. “And don’t go getting yourself killed.”

  “No danger of that. We’ve already crushed their army. They won’t come again before spring, and by then I’ll be home.”

  But the Mykene had come again, and the battle had been fierce, with slashing blades and plunging spears. If not for the storm that had scattered their fleet, the enemy numbers would have been overwhelming.

  Banokles stared with dislike at the Hittite prince. The man was young, but his beard was long and artificially curled. His clothes were of shiny cloth the color of the sky, and they gleamed in the torchlight. He dresses like a woman, Banokles thought contemptuously, seeing the glint of gems sewn into the sleeves. Even his boots, embossed with silver, glittered. There were precious stones set into his sword hilt. The man was a walking treasury.