Fall of Kings

by David Gemmell

  Banokles charged into them with a roar, half beheading one and slashing a second across the face. The locking bar had cleared its support at one end. There was a tremendous crash from outside, and the gate shifted inward slightly under the blow. Kalliades leaped onto the end of the bar and threw his weight on it, helped by soldiers who had arrived behind him. The huge oak bar locked back into place just as a second blow hit it from the outside.

  On the wall above them, Khalkeus hurried to the other side and looked down. Outside the gate the massive trunk of an oak tree was being wielded as a battering ram by fifty or more men. Behind them warriors waited, armed and armored. The battering ram powered forward once again, but the great gate barely shuddered. It was firmly locked.

  As the bronzesmith watched, one of the waiting warriors turned his gaze up toward him, and Khalkeus saw it was the king of Ithaka. Their eyes locked, and Khalkeus slowly shook his head. Odysseus sheathed his sword, then turned and walked away from the gate.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  KINGS AT WAR

  Odysseus tore off his helm angrily as he stomped through the streets of the ruined lower town. Just as he had predicted, the Trojans had seen through the ploy quickly. Agamemnon’s diversionary tactic had not been a bad idea, he admitted to himself. If it had worked, it might have been worth sacrificing the hundreds of men injured and killed in the attack on the walls. But it had not worked, and they had wasted brave soldiers and, more important, lost eight agents inside the city. Those of the eight who survived would be interrogated, but they knew nothing that would help the Trojans. The Ithakan king had no idea how many agents Agamemnon had infiltrated into the city, but he was certain there would be no more now. Hektor or whoever commanded in Troy certainly would seal the last gates now to stop more refugees—and Mykene spies—from getting in.

  Odysseus always had predicted that sooner or later there would be a bid by the attackers to scale the great walls. He thought back to two nights previously. He and some of his crew from the Bloodhawk were camped in the courtyard of a palace once owned by Antiphones, now the home of Achilles’ Myrmidons. There had been no fighting that day, but fresh deliveries of wine had arrived, and the mood was festive.

  Achilles’ shield bearer Patroklos, standing with a goblet of wine in one hand and a hunk of roasted sheep in the other, was arguing for an attempt on the walls.

  “Look at them,” Patroklos argued, swaying a little as he spoke, waving his goblet toward the south walls. “A child could climb them. Plenty of handholds between the stones.” He swigged wine and swallowed.

  “We wait for a dark night; then the Myrmidons will be over the west wall before the Trojans see us coming. Fight our way to the Scaean Gate, and the city is ours. What do you say, Odysseus?”

  “I say my climbing days are over, boy. And the west wall is a poor choice. Because everyone knows it is the lowest, the weak link in the chain of walls, it is more heavily defended than the others.”

  “Which would be your choice, Odysseus?” asked Achilles, who was lying on his back, staring at the stars.

  “I would try the north wall.”

  Patroklos snorted with derision. “A vertical cliff face with sheer walls above? I wager no one could climb that.”

  “I wager,” Odysseus replied, “that you couldn’t climb the west wall.”

  Patroklos never could resist a wager, as the Ugly King knew well. He and Odysseus and Achilles, followed by a happy wine-soaked band of Myrmidons and Ithakans, left the palace and made their way around to the west wall. Framed by the starlit sky, the walls soared high above them.

  “What will you wager, old king?” Patroklos asked.

  “Five of my ships against Achilles’ breastplate.”

  Achilles raised his eyebrows. “Why my breastplate?” he queried.

  “Because it is well known that Patroklos has not a copper ring to his name and always reneges on his wagers. You, on the other hand, are a man of honor and will pay your friend’s debts, as you always do.”

  Patroklos grinned, uncaring, and Achilles shrugged. “So be it,” he said. “What if Patroklos climbs the wall and is killed when he reaches the top?”

  “Then the wager stands and you win five Ithakan ships.”

  The young warrior tied his braided blond hair back at his neck, kicked off his sandals, and ran at the wall, leaping lightly onto the first high stone. Then, finding easy hand-and footholds, he swiftly climbed to the point where the wall became vertical. There he paused, looking up. He found a handhold to his right and, stretching, just managed to catch the tips of his fingers to it. He moved his feet up carefully one at a time, then looked for a new handhold to the left. There wasn’t one. The top of the huge stone he was clinging to was far above his searching hand.

  Seeing his predicament, the Ithakans began jeering, but Odysseus hushed them. He glanced at the top of the wall. He could not see sentries in the darkness but knew they were there.

  Patroklos carefully moved his right foot up to a narrow crack in the stone. He wriggled his bare toes as far as he could into the poor foothold. He glanced up again to check where he was going. Then, taking a deep breath, he leaped for the top of the stone. He just made it, clinging with his fingertips. His right foot slipped, but he managed to get his right hand to the top of the stone and held on, scrabbling for a foothold.

  But the sound had alerted the sentries. Odysseus saw a soldier peer over the battlements high above and pull back quickly, shouting to his fellows. An archer leaned over with his bow, an arrow to the string. Patroklos was an easy target.

  Then, from his right, Odysseus saw a flash of movement. In a heartbeat Achilles had drawn a dagger and thrown it at the bowman high above them. Odysseus saw it flash through the air, turning over and over in the moonlight, and thunk into the dark shape of the bowman’s head. It was an impossible feat: so small a target, at such a height, and in starlight.

  Achilles dashed forward. “Get down, Patroklos, now!”

  His shield bearer quickly climbed down the wall, jumping down the last section, and the two ran back to the Myrmidons who were covering their retreat, shooting arrows up at the gathering Trojan bowmen. Patroklos was laughing when they reached the waiting Odysseus.

  “Well, old king,” he said. “What of our wager now?”

  “You did not reach the top of the wall.”

  “I was stopped by enemy action.”

  “Enemy action was not taken into account. It was a flawed wager.”

  Patroklos shrugged amiably, and they all returned to the palace. But word had reached Agamemnon of the young warrior’s climb, and the next day the Battle King had come up with the doomed plan to scale the walls and take the Scaean Gate.

  Odysseus smiled to himself as he walked back through the sunlit town two days later. He liked Patroklos. Everyone did. He was always cheerful, often playing the fool to amuse his king, and he was as brave as a lion. Strange, Odysseus thought, that the fact that Patroklos clearly liked Achilles made the Thessalian king, often brooding and uncommunicative, more well liked among his troops.

  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 th
e 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’s 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.

  “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’s 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.”