There was a man on the prow with a weighted line. Timeon watched the ship approach. No one called out a greeting, and the galley moved silently past him.
Timeon rolled his net and decided to head for home.
Then another ship appeared. And another.
Dawn light glowed red in the sky as more and more vessels broke clear of the mist.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Timeon sat quietly watching them. He saw armored men on their decks. They gazed at him silently. The wind picked up, the mist dispersing.
Timeon saw then that the sea was full of ships and barges. There were too many to count.
And in that moment he knew who they were. The Mykene had come, and the world had changed.
Timeon’s heart was beating like a drum now. Fear flowed through him. How long, he wondered, before those dread warriors decided to kill him?
A galley came abreast of his little boat. He glanced up and saw a stocky man with a red and silver beard. Alongside him were bowmen, arrows notched.
“A good catch, fisherman,” the man yelled. “You have been lucky tonight.”
Timeon’s mouth was dry. “I don’t feel lucky,” he replied, determined that the killers would not see his terror.
The man smiled. “I understand that. Bring your catch ashore, and I will see you get paid for it. When you reach the shore, tell them Odysseus sent you. No harm will befall you. You have my word on it.”
Odysseus signaled to the steersman; then the galley’s oars dipped into the water, and the ship moved on.
With a sinking heart Timeon hoisted his tattered sail and set off after it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A LEGEND IS BORN
A sturdy wooden stockade had been built across the mouth of the narrow pass leading from the beach at the Bay of Herakles to the plain of the Scamander. King Priam had ordered it built to protect the pass. Fifty soldiers of the Heraklion regiment guarded it. In case of invasion their role was twofold: to hold for as long as possible while sending word to the city and to protect and guide to safety those of the king’s family resident at the clifftop palace of King’s Joy.
During the day the gates of the stockade were opened, allowing merchants to bring their carts down to the beach to collect the catches of fish netted by the small fleet. During the night the gates were closed, and sentries patrolled the ramparts.
On this night two fresh sentries replaced their tired comrades. The first was Cephas, by his own account a clever man, his many talents overlooked by officers jealous of his superiority. The second was a young recruit whom Cephas had taken under his wing. The boy admired him, and Cephas missed no opportunity to feed that admiration.
On this night Cephas was tired. He had spent the day in Troy, taking the youngster to a whorehouse used by soldiers. There they had drunk wine and spent all the rings the boy possessed. Upon their return to the stockade, Cephas had promised the lad he would win back all his money in a game of knucklebones. So instead of resting he had gambled until midnight. At first his luck had been sour, but then it had changed, and he had emerged triumphant, a bulging pouch of rings at his belt.
The boy had watched the game. “You were amazing,” he had told Cephas. Then he had yawned. “I am so tired.”
“Don’t worry, lad. I’ve arranged for us to take the predawn shift. We’ll catch some sleep then.”
“We can’t sleep on sentry duty,” the boy said nervously.
Cephas shook his head at the boy’s naïvete. “You’ve a lot to learn about being a soldier. Don’t worry. Stick by me and I’ll teach you.”
Now on the ramparts Cephas waited, watching the door to the officers’ hut. “I’ll wager you a copper ring he comes out before you can count to twenty,” he offered.
“I don’t have any rings left.”
“Too late to bet, anyway,” Cephas said with a smile. Down below the door had opened, and the officer came striding out, placing his bronze helm on his head. He walked across the open ground and climbed the narrow wooden steps.
“Cold night,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
The officer glanced out to sea. “A lot of mist tonight.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Keep a good watch, Cephas.”
“Yes, sir,” Cephas answered. A good watch! All that ever moved in the darkness were rodents. This entire exercise was a waste. If the Mykene did come, they would sail into the Bay of Troy and besiege the city. Anyone with a strategic brain understood that.
“Good man,” the officer said, turning and descending the steps. Cephas watched until the door of the hut closed behind him.
“Well, that’s him taken to his bed,” he told the youngster. “So let’s stretch out and get some rest.”
“Are you sure?”
“He won’t come out again. He never does. He’ll be in his bed by now.”
“Well, I am tired.”
“Hunker down, lad. We’ll have a snooze and wake long before anyone else is up and around. Don’t you worry. I sleep lightly. At the first sound of movement I’ll be awake and alert. Twenty years of soldiering will do that.”
The boy stretched out on the wooden floor. Cephas took one last look out at the empty beach, then sat down with his back against the stockade wall.
He closed his eyes.
Achilles stood on the prow of the lead ship as the invasion force glided toward the Bay of Herakles under the starlight. Dressed in a dark tunic, two swords belted at his hip, he leaned on the rail, staring through the mist and watching for any enemy galleys that might be patrolling.
He saw only a small fishing boat with an old man casting his net. The fisherman looked up as the galley sailed past, then returned to his task. The old man seemed weary. Several of Achilles’ warriors picked up bows. “Leave him,” he told them. “He is no threat.”
The galley sailed on. His shield bearer Patroklos moved alongside him.
“No sign of Dardanian ships,” the blond warrior said. “The falling stars showed the gods are with us, I think.”
“Perhaps,” Achilles replied, “but I would sooner rely on our own strength of arms.”
Another warrior moved to the prow, the stocky shaven-headed Thibo. As always before a battle he had braided his long red beard.
“You should not be risking yourself, my king,” he said. “Not for the taking of a little fort.”
“You think I should hide on the ship?”
“It is not about hiding, Achilles,” Thibo argued. “One well-aimed arrow and we’ll have no king.”
“That argument could be used for any battle,” Achilles told him. “Agamemnon wants the fort taken first and the summer palace secured. He has given me and my Myrmidons that task. It is an honor. What king would allow his men to take risks he was not prepared to suffer?”
Thibo chuckled. “I don’t see Agamemnon here with us. Or Idomeneos. Not even Odysseus.”
“They are all on their way,” Achilles said. “And none of them lacks courage. Most especially Odysseus.” He smiled. “I saw him back on Ithaka, rescuing his lady. A sight I will not soon forget.”
Patroklos leaned in. “Another battle you should not have taken part in. By the gods, Achilles, that was madness.”
“Aye, it was, but madness of the noblest kind. Is everyone prepared?”
“We all know what is expected of us,” Thibo said. “We’ll not let you down.”
“I know that, Redbeard.”
As the galley’s hull scraped the sand, Achilles leaped lightly down to the beach. He loped across the sand to the entrance of the pass. Keeping close to the cliff wall on the left, he gazed at the stockade some sixty paces distant. There was no sign of movement on the wall. This surprised him. According to the most recent reports, there should be fifty men guarding the fort and two sentries on the wall at all times. Moving back from the entrance, he raised his arm. More dark-garbed warriors leaped down from the galley, making their way swiftly to where Achilles waited. Four of the fifty men w
ere archers. Calling the lead bowman to him, Achilles whispered, “There are no sentries visible.”
The man looked relieved. The plan had been for archers to kill the Trojan sentries silently—no easy task when shooting arrows at night toward men in armor on a high wall.
“Stay back here with your men until the wall is taken,” Achilles told him.
The sky was starting to lighten, the dawn not far off. Achilles swept his gaze over the waiting warriors. He had handpicked them with care. They were fearless and able.
Gesturing them to follow him, Achilles ran down toward the stockade. The tall lean figure of Patroklos came loping alongside on his right. To his left was Thibo.
As he ran, Achilles continued to scan the stockade wall. Could this be a trap? Might they have a hundred archers lying in wait? His mouth was dry. If so, they would show themselves when Achilles and his men were around thirty paces from the wall. At that point the attackers would be at optimum killing range.
Achilles ran on. Fifty paces to go. Forty.
Thibo cut across him from the left. Patroklos moved in from the right. They, too, had estimated the killing range and were forming a shield in front of him.
For the next few paces Achilles’ heart was pounding. His eyes were raking the ramparts, expecting at any moment to see archers rearing up, bows bent, bronze-headed shafts notched to the string.
But there was no movement, and the Thessalian force reached the foot of the stockade. Achilles swung toward Patroklos, who was standing with his back to the wall. The slim warrior nodded, cupped his hands, and steadied himself. Achilles lifted a foot into the linked hands and levered himself up. Using the wooden wall for balance, he stepped up again, this time to Patroklos’ shoulder.
He was just below the parapet now. Straightening his legs, he glanced over the battlements. Two sentries were asleep a little way to his right. Climbing smoothly to the ramparts, he drew both swords and moved quietly toward the sleeping men. In the last of the moonlight he could see that one of them was little more than a boy.
That was all he would ever be.
Achilles’ sword plunged into the lad’s neck. The dying boy gave a low, gurgling groan. The second sentry opened his eyes. He saw Achilles and tried to cry out. Achilles slammed his second blade into the man’s throat with such force that it cut through the spine and buried itself in the wooden wall beyond.
Dragging his sword clear, Achilles ran down the rampart steps to the gate. It was held closed by a thick bar of timber. Putting his shoulder to it, Achilles lifted it clear and opened the gates.
Silently the warriors entered the barracks building, creeping forward to stand alongside each bed. Achilles waited at the door until all the men were in place. Lifting his hand, he gave the signal for them to ready themselves. Swords glinted in the gloom, blades poised over fifty doomed men.
Achilles’ hand slashed downward. Fifty swords plunged home. Some of the victims died without ever waking; others cried out and struggled briefly. None survived.
Walking from the barracks, Achilles made his way to the gates. He could see sailors from his galley bringing armor, helms, and shields for his warriors. Beyond them more soldiers were gathering on the beach. Two sailors approached him, bearing his armor and shield. Achilles strapped on his black breastplate, settling the shield in place on his left arm.
He glanced up. High on the cliffs above was King’s Joy.
According to the spies, it was still the residence of Paris and Helen. Agamemnon had ordered that Helen be captured, Paris and the children put to death. Achilles understood the need for the children to be slain. If allowed to live, they would, when grown, seek blood vengeance against the men who had killed their father. Killing the children of enemies was therefore regrettable but necessary.
Despite that, Achilles fervently hoped that Helen and her children were absent this night.
High in the palace of King’s Joy, Helen lay awake in her bed, listening to her husband pace the floor. These nights Paris scarcely slept, and she listened to the soft, relentless sound of his bare feet padding back and forth on the rugs of the antechamber.
Helen sighed. She loved her husband dearly but missed the quiet scholarly young man she had married long before this dreadful winter with its constant rumors of war and invasion. Long before the death of Dios, the pressure had changed Paris beyond all recognition.
When they had met four years earlier, Helen had been a refugee from Sparta. Timid and quiet, she had been terrified in this strange foreign city, with its haughty jeweled women who looked with disdain at her plain clothes and plump little body.
Brought up in the harsh life of the Spartan court, raised among boys and men whose only thoughts were of war and conquest, Helen had found Paris delightfully different. His shyness hid a wry sense of humor, and his curiosity about the world was entirely at odds with the young men she was used to. He taught her to read and write, for he was gathering a scriptorium of documents from all the lands of the Great Green. He pointed out to her the various colored birds that flew over Troy and explained how they traveled from land to land with the seasons. He had a water tank made of marble and silver and brought her sea horses to keep in it so that together they could watch the births and deaths and daily lives of those small creatures. When they married quietly, she was full of joy and felt that the rest of her days would be blessed by the gods.
The blackness of night outside was turning to dark gray, and Helen listened for movement in the next bedroom, where her two children were sleeping. Four-year-old Alypius rarely slept past dawn, and once awake, he always woke his little sister, Philea. But the silence now was total apart from the soft padding of bare feet.
Throwing back the covers, she pulled a warm shawl around her shoulders, then stepped out into the antechamber.
Paris was still dressed in the heavy brown robe he had been wearing the previous day. His head was down, and he failed to notice her.
“You should rest, my love,” she said, and he turned around. For a heartbeat his face looked gaunt and gray and exhausted. Then he saw her, and his features lit up.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said, coming over to her and taking her in his arms. “I keep dreaming of Dios.”
“I know,” she said. “But the dawn is coming, and you must have some rest. I will sit with you and hold your hand.”
He slumped down on a chair, and she saw with despair his face falling into its familiar lines of grief and guilt.
“I should have done something,” he said for the thousandth time.
Over the winter she had found only three ways to reply: “You are not a soldier.” “It all happened so quickly.” “There was nothing you could have done.” But this time she said nothing, merely held his hand.
She glanced out of the balcony doors, where the darkness was fading toward dawn, and a movement caught her eye. She frowned.
“Look, my love. What’s that?”
Paris followed her gaze; then they both stood and walked, entranced, onto the balcony. The dark sky to the east was alive with hundreds of bright lights dropping toward the land. Each appeared and then disappeared in a flash.
“They are moon fragments,” he told her, his voice full of wonder.
“Are they dangerous?” Helen shot a nervous glance back toward the room where her children slept.
He smiled for the first time in days. “Most people believe the moon is Artemis’ chariot, but I think it is a hot metal disk which throws off these splinters. Sometimes they stay in the sky, and we call them stars, but some fall to earth, as these have. It is a lucky omen, my love.” He put his arms around her, and she could feel the tension easing from him. “They are far away and will not harm us.” He yawned. “Perhaps I will sleep now for a while.”
She sat on their bed and held his hand, daydreaming as the sky grew brighter and the palace started to wake. In the courtyard far below someone dropped a piece of heavy pottery, which smashed amid loud curses, and within moments Helen c
ould hear her son scrambling out of bed next door. There was silence for a long while, and she wondered what he was up to. Then she heard cries of alarm from a distance, and Alypius came running into the room, dressed only in his nightshirt, his dark hair flying and a look of excitement on his face.
“Papa, Papa, there are ships! Lots of ships!”
“Sshh! Papa’s sleeping.” Helen dropped Paris’ hand and put her arms around the boy.
He squirmed away. “Come, you must see! Lots of ships!”
Then fair-haired Philea came toddling into the room, clutching a ragged doll made of blue cloth. “Shipth!” she lisped.
Paris awoke and sat up groggily. “What is it?”
“It is nothing, husband. They have seen some winter ships. It is nothing.” But in the distance she could hear shouts and the cold clash of metal, and her heart suddenly was clutched by dread.
Paris arose and walked out to the balcony. As he looked to his left, he gasped, and Helen saw him start to tremble. She ran to his side. Far below lay the Bay of Herakles, which normally was a brilliant blue in the dawn light. Now the bay and the wide sea beyond were filled with ships as far as the eye could see. Scores already were drawn up on the sandy beach, and hundreds more were heading east toward them out of the light sea mist. From the height of the palace they could hear nothing, and the ships moved in an eerie silence.
The sandy beach was full of armed men, and a solid line of them was making its way up toward the palace. Dawn light sparkled off their helms and spear tips. Helen could see that they already had overrun the defensive stockade of the beach garrison.
She leaned over the balcony wall. Directly below them was the main palace courtyard. Soldiers and servants were running to defend the gates. Even as she watched, she heard the solid boom of a battering ram against timber.
“There are thousands of them,” she whispered in horror. “The children…”
She looked at Paris and saw despair in his face, a hint of madness in his eyes. “I must go,” he cried. He stumbled into the anteroom and took two swords from the wall.
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