by David
It did no harm giving serving women bows to play with, he thought. It would keep them occupied and take their minds off their fate. And Andromache had been right about one thing: It took only a single arrow to kill a king.
Kalliades gradually became conscious that someone was looking at him and opened his eyes. A young soldier with floppy flaxen hair was standing in front of him.
“Yes, soldier?” he said, closing his eyes again.
“Lord, General,” the lad stammered.
“I am not a lord, and I am not a general. I am a simple soldier. Speak up.”
“You wanted to see me,” the youngster said. Kalliades opened his eyes. The young soldier was nodding vehemently as if confirming his own words.
“I did? Why, who are you?”
“I am Boros, sir. Boros the Rhodian they call me.”
Daylight dawned. Kalliades grinned. “You are the soldier with the tower shield!”
“Yes, I am, sir, although I lost it in the retreat from the river.” Boros hung his head. “My brother gave it to me. I was sorry to lose it. It was a good shield.”
“Sit down, lad. You saved my life. I only wanted to thank you. I would not have recognized you.”
The soldier blushed and sat down nervously beside Kalliades. “I was told you were looking for me. I didn’t know why. I thought I had done something wrong.”
Kalliades laughed. “But that was long ago, in the spring. You managed to avoid me for all this time?”
Boros smiled nervously, then rubbed at his left eye. “I was injured. I broke a leg and was in the house of healing. It took a long time to knit.” He rubbed at his eye again.
“Is something wrong with your eye, Boros?”
“No, nothing. I had a blow to the head once. It aches sometimes, that’s all.”
“I know what you mean,” Kalliades replied. “I suffered this sword cut to my face… a long time ago. My face still hurts in cold weather or when I’m tired.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, then Boros asked, “I have never been in a siege, sir. Will they slaughter everyone if they break in?”
Kalliades nodded. “They will, lad. Pent-up frustration and blood lust make men do truly terrible things. They will kill the soldiers, anyone in armor, cleanly. That is the Mykene way. But the people of the city, the refugees, men, women, and children, face a ghastly fate.”
“But the walls cannot be taken,” Boros argued. “Everyone says so. They have not even tried to attack since we dropped the burning sand on them. Many of our men say we should seal up the last gate, the Scaean Gate, then wait them out.”
He added more confidently, “The Scaean Gate’s our weak point; that’s for certain.”
Kalliades nodded. “What you say is true, soldier. But our generals believe the enemy will lose heart as the siege goes on. Already one mercenary army has left, and others will go, too. Most of them are not here for honor and glory; they are here because they smell plunder. And the plunder smells less sweet if you are camped in a ruined town with little food and no women to entertain you. We know the Mykene will stay come what may, and Sharptooth’s Kretans, and the Myrmidons of Achilles. But when they are the only armies remaining outside the walls, we will throw open the Scaean Gate and sally forth and take them on. Then, with Ares to guide our swords, the men of Troy will prevail.”
A cheer arose around him, and he realized he had spoken loudly and the Trojan soldiers had been listening. It was a ragged cheer and it faded quickly away, but talk of victory raised the men’s spirits. Kalliades sighed. He did not believe his own words, but some soldiers might sleep more soundly that night because of them.
The following morning Kalliades made his way to the royal gardens, where Andromache was attempting to teach a group of nervous women how to shoot.
The serving women were faring badly with their bows. Most of them were too awed by Andromache’s presence to pay enough attention to what she was telling them. Many of the bows were strung too tightly for women to draw. He could see that the princess quickly was becoming exasperated, and he wondered if she was regretting her idea already.
He heard her say to a slender dark-haired girl, “Listen to what I say, Anio. Breathe out, and when all the breath has left your body, sight the arrow, then release.” The black-shafted arrow missed its target, but only by a handbreadth, and Anio smiled as Andromache praised her.
The only woman who showed real promise stood on her own at the end of the line. She was tall, no beauty, Kalliades thought, with a strong chin, heavy brows, and long dark hair in a thick plait down her back. She was strong, though, and had mastered the pull of her bow, and she sent arrow after arrow at the target, determined to learn the skill. He wondered who she was, then heard Andromache call her Penthesileia.
Kalliades was there only a short while before he realized he was not helping. The presence of a veteran warrior was making the women more self-conscious. They kept glancing at him anxiously and murmuring to one another. He left the gardens swiftly, to find Banokles waiting outside, leaning against a wall.
“I couldn’t watch,” his friend said, shaking his head. “They’re all useless.”
“Do you remember the first day you picked up a bow?” Kalliades retorted, finding himself defending Andromache’s ambitions. “You were no better then than they are.”
“I’m no better now,” Banokles admitted. “Neither are you.”
Kalliades set off toward the west of the city, with Banokles following. The big warrior went on. “The men told me you were talking last night about riding out and taking them all on. Agamemnon’s armies, I mean.”
Kalliades shook his head and said, “I was saying that if a few more of the armies give up and go home, we might sally out and take the battle to them. But they still have at least five warriors to every one of ours. And they’re stronger. They have water to spare.”
“Well, I was going to say it’s a stupid plan,” Banokles replied. “I’d go along with it, though. I’m sick of this waiting around. Where are we going?” the big man asked, looking about him.
Kalliades was leading the way through the maze of refugee shanties. Women and children sat dull-eyed in the doorways of the shacks, watching the two warriors pass. Babies cried pitifully, but otherwise there was silence in the city of refugees.
“To the Thrakian camp,” he replied. “I wish to speak to Hillas.”
“Good. I wonder if they’ve still got some of that drink of theirs, that Mountain Fire.”
“The drink you said tastes like old sandals left to stew all winter, then set ablaze?”
“Yes, it was good. I wonder if they’ve got any left.”
Kalliades stopped suddenly, and Banokles walked on a few paces before coming back to him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Banokles, have you thought what we should do, you and I, if we survive this?”
His friend shrugged. “Go somewhere else, I suppose. We can’t go back west anymore. We’ll go north with Hillas and the Thrakians, maybe, help them get their land back. Why?”
Kalliades took a deep breath. “I believe I will give up the sword,” he told his friend.
“The sword of Argurios? Can I have it?”
“No, I mean I will give up soldiering.”
“You can’t,” Banokles said, frowning. “We’re sword brothers. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Do you remember when we first came here to Troy?”
Banokles grinned. “That was quite a scrap, wasn’t it? One of the best.”
“We nearly died that day,” Kalliades reminded him. “A lot of our friends did die, including Eruthros, the man you say you wanted for a sword brother.” Banokles shrugged, and Kalliades went on. “We’ve been through a lot since then, haven’t we?”
His friend nodded.
“Then I thought the world was divided into lions and sheep. We were the lions, and our strength gave us power over the sheep.” Kalliades shook his head. “I don’t feel li
ke that now. Everything is more complicated. But I have come to the conclusion, my friend, that the evils of the world are caused by men like you and me.”
“We didn’t start this war.” Banokles looked baffled.
“I could argue with that. Or I could argue that Alektruon started it. Or Helikaon. But that’s not the point. Look at all those armies out there beyond the walls. Some of them have left. But not because they have given up war but because there are no battles to be had here, no plunder to be won. They have gone elsewhere to kill and maim. Men like you and me, selling their swords for death or glory or to plunder a kingdom.”
“Then what will you do? Become a priest?” Banokles asked scornfully.
“I don’t know,” Kalliades admitted sadly. “But I know you understand me, Banokles. Not long ago you were talking about leaving the army and becoming a farmer.”
“That was then,” Banokles said shortly, his face darkening. He turned his back and started to walk on. Since their conversation long before on the Scamander battlefield, Banokles had not spoken of Red and his short marriage. If Kalliades tried to bring the subject up, Banokles simply walked away from him.
They reached the Thrakian camp in silence. The tribesmen were camped under the west wall. In the evening it was one of the coolest places in the city, but in the heat of the day the Thrakians erected brightly colored canopies to protect them from the ferocious sun.
Young Periklos, son of the dead King Rhesos and rightful heir to the lost land of Thraki, had abandoned the life of the palaces and was living with his people. The boy was fourteen and old beyond his years. He chose to dress in the traditional costume of the Kikones, and Kalliades had no doubt that when he went to battle, for however brief a time that would be, he would paint his face like his men.
There were only ten of the Thrakians still unwounded. Another five were in the healing houses, but only two of those were expected to live. The rest of the fifty riders had died in the retreat from the river and the defense of the lower town. Looking around the small camp, Kalliades wondered how their leader felt about his sudden decision at Dardanos to bring his men to Troy.
“Welcome to our camp, friends,” said Hillas, Lord of the Western Mountain, standing up to greet them. “We have a little water to offer you, and some bread.”
Kalliades shook his head. Then, as if he had heard his thoughts, Hillas told him, “I would not have chosen to end my days in a foreign city, but I do not regret a day of it. We have a saying in my country, ‘Old age is not as honorable as death, but most people seek it.’ Kikones warriors do not seek old age. All my sons are dead. If we die with honor, it does not matter which land we die in.” He spit on the ground.
“I have come to ask a favor of you, Hillas,” Kalliades said.
“Ask it.”
“You have fine bowmen among your countrymen. I would like to borrow one to demonstrate his skills.”
Hillas frowned. “I thought the Mykene despised archers. Why do you ask this?”
“The lady Andromache is teaching women to shoot.” At this there were shouts and guffaws of disbelieving laughter from the men in the camp. Banokles grinned with them.
Kalliades explained, “The princess is a fine archer, but she knows it instinctively and has no experience at teaching others. Also, many of the bows need adjusting for the strength of a woman. Perhaps one of your men…?”
Hillas laughed and shook his head, his braids shaking with merriment. “No, my friend. My men could teach these Trojan women many things, but not to make fools of themselves with bows and arrows.”
“I will help,” said the boy Periklos, walking over to stand alongside Kalliades. “The city of Troy and its people have given me sanctuary. The lady Andromache has been kind, taking me and my brother into her home when we first arrived. Our nurse Myrine has been given a place in the royal household, though she is old and infirm and needs caring for herself. If I can do anything to repay the people of the city, I will do it.”
He turned to the Thrakian tribesman. “Have you any objections, Hillas?”
The man shook his head. “No, my king. It is an honorable gesture. And you will be a better teacher than any of this rabble.” He grinned and gestured to his men.
At that moment they heard the sound of shouting from nearby. They heard running feet, then more shouts, screams, and the clash of metal.
Drawing their swords, Kalliades and Banokles ran as one toward the source of the sounds.
A crowd had gathered around one of Troy’s two wells. Three men were on the ground, two apparently dead and one nursing a broken arm. The six guards at the well all had swords in their hands and were facing the angry mob. An empty bucket lay on the ground, its precious water soaking into the earth.
“What’s going on?” Banokles demanded.
One of the guards told him. “The well is dry, General. These fools were fighting over the last bucket of water.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
AMBUSH
Far to the south of the city Skorpios lay on his belly on rocky ground at the crest of a ridge, gazing down on the long train of wagons stretching along the valley of the Scamander.
Skorpios smiled. In his years as a scout for the Trojan Horse he had never seen such a tempting, slow-moving target. He counted forty donkey wagons, followed by ten oxcarts. From time to time the donkeys were halted so that the slower-moving oxen could catch up. There were more than three hundred riders guarding the train, armed with spears and lances. But behind Skorpios, waiting in the woods for his report, were more than six hundred Trojan Horse.
Skorpios wondered what was in the oxcarts. Heavy armor, perhaps, for the Mykene infantry or copper ingots from Kypros. Or jugs of wine from Lesbos.
He rolled onto his back, and as he did so, his stomach gurgled. He was hungry, and it had been a long time since he had tasted wine. The last jugs of wine they had captured had been taken after their final attack on the convoys traveling between the Bay of Troy and the armies camped outside the city. Agamemnon had learned caution since then. Every convoy on that busy route now was surrounded by an army of outriders, heavily armored and bristling with spears and lances.
Hektor reluctantly had called off the attacks. Instead he targeted the troops Agamemnon sent into the woods and valleys of the Ida foothills to hunt down the Trojan Horse. Hektor’s horsemen knew the heavily wooded country far better than the invading forces did, and they led the enemy on many a hazardous chase, luring them into blind gullies to be attacked and killed or fading away through hidden passes when the Trojans seemed to be trapped. Those pursuits always ended in death for the enemy. As a result, Agamemnon’s ally kings had refused to send their forces into the woods of Mount Ida even to cut down the oak trees that furnished them with timber and firewood.
But the summer was passing, and now Hektor’s own supplies were running low. These were the first wagons they had seen for thirty days and the first ever this far south.
Skorpios rolled back onto his stomach and peered over the ridge again. The train was almost level with him now. Its leader was a tall rider in black helm and breastplate. Skorpios tried to remember what Mestares, Hektor’s right-hand-man, had instructed them about enemy armor. Achilles always wore black armor—everyone knew that—but Skorpios doubted that Achilles the Slayer was leading a lowly supply convoy. Some of his Myrmidons, his bodyguards, also wore black in tribute to their leader, although most wore the ordinary armor of Thessaly. The only other warrior who always wore black was Meriones, Odysseus’ friend and an aide to the king of Kretos. Skorpios could see no Kretan armor below him.
He heard scuffling on the rocks behind him, and Justinos scrambled up alongside. “Well, lad? Who do you think they are?” the big man asked, looking cautiously over the ridge.
“I can’t tell. Fifty wagons, though.”
“Hmm,” Justinos said. “Maybe some foreign merchant thought he could make a killing sending supplies to Agamemnon’s forces. Thought it was worth the risk. They
must have beached their ships in a cove somewhere to the south.”
Skorpios yawned. They had camped far to the south that night and had ridden since dawn. Hektor kept them always on the move, every night a new camp. The days were long and hard, the nights short. Skorpios had had nothing to eat since dawn on the previous day.
“I’m hungry,” he complained, not for the first time. “I’m with Banokles on this. You can’t do battle on an empty stomach.”
“Then if Banokles still lives, he’ll be moaning even more loudly than you, lad. But those wagons could mean a fine feast for us tonight. It would be pleasant to eat something other than horse meat.”
They crawled away from the ridge and climbed down the rocky slope to where their mounts were tethered. It was a short ride back to the glade where Hektor and the Trojan Horse were waiting. Some of the riders mounted their horses as soon as they spotted the scouts, but Hektor remained seated by a campfire, burnishing the gold and silver of his great breastplate.
“Can you tell what they’re carrying?” he asked them as they slid off their mounts.
Justinos shook his head. “The wagons are all tightly covered with canvas. But there’s about fifty of them. And they’re heavy.”
“And their guard?”
