[Troy 03] - Fall of Kings

by David

  Polites pointed out grimly, “We hoped the fires would spread and send the enemy fleeing. What next? How long will this barricade hold?”

  Kalliades replied, “They have hundreds of men ready to attack it, but on a narrow front. There are thousands more outside the gate waiting to come in. If they keep throwing warriors at it, which they will, eventually they will break through. We can probably hold the barricade into the night, possibly through tomorrow. I cannot see it lasting longer.”

  He glanced at Lucan, who nodded his agreement. At that moment Banokles arrived at a run. “We need more archers,” he demanded. “They’re packed like cattle in there. Good bowmen can pick them off like ticks off a dog.”

  Kalliades admitted, “We are short of bowmen.” Then he reluctantly added, “The lady Andromache has been training the Women of the Horse to shoot. Some remain in the city. They might—”

  “No!” Polites cut across him with unaccustomed anger. “When the enemy breaks through, those buildings will be cut off and the bowmen in them doomed. I will not put the women in danger.”

  Kalliades thought that any women still in the city were doomed, anyway, but he responded, “Then I will call on the Thrakian leader Hillas. His archers are the finest in Troy.”

  In front of them a burly warrior in Kretan armor was the first to cross the fire gully and clamber over the man-high barricade, killing a Trojan soldier with a massive ax blow to the head. He was cut down immediately, but two more Kretans followed close behind. One slipped and fell on the shifting timber and stone of the new barricade and was lanced in the side by a Trojan warrior. The other managed a wild sweep with his sword before he was stunned by a blow from a shield and then half beheaded.

  Kalliades turned away to seek out the Thrakians and found the tribesmen waiting mere paces away. They had painted their faces for battle and were armed to the teeth, including the boy-king Periklos.

  “This will not last long,” Hillas commented as he walked up, waving dismissively at the barricade. “When it falls, we will be waiting. A barricade of flesh and bone will be stronger than one of stone and timber.”

  “We need more bowmen,” Kalliades told him. “On the killing ground the enemy forces are sitting targets for your shafts.”

  Young Periklos stepped forward. “I and my archers will go where we are needed. Where do you want us?”

  Kalliades was torn. If he placed the young king and his Thrakians on a building, they would be trapped when the enemy broke through. But if he put them on the wall, along which they could escape if necessary, there would be no cover from enemy arrows.

  “Do not fear for my safety, Kalliades,” the young man urged, seeing him hesitate. “Put us where you need us. I will take the same risks as my men.”

  “How many are you?”

  “Just eight bowmen, plus Penthesileia.”

  Only then did Kalliades realize that one of the archers, standing slightly apart from the men, was the stern-faced woman he had seen at Andromache’s first training session. She was wearing a short leather cuirass over her white ankle-length tunic, and a Phrygian bow was slung from one shoulder. In one hand she held two quivers.

  “Penthesileia is one of Andromache’s handmaidens. She has a wondrous natural skill with a bow,” young Periklos explained, flushing slightly. “She will be a valuable warrior.”

  Kalliades wondered what the other Thrakians thought of the newcomer. He asked the woman, “Why did you not leave the city while you had the chance?”

  “My father, Ursos, gave his life for Troy,” the woman told him. Her voice was husky, and he saw she had piercing green eyes under heavy brows. “I can do no less.”

  Kalliades was reminded suddenly of Piria. Yes, he thought, she would have been here with her bow. He told Periklos, “Go around to the wall to the east of the gate. If you stand well back, you will have some protection from enemy arrows.”

  The battle for the barricade went on all day and long after sunset. Fortunately for the beleaguered Trojan defenders, the night was moonless and starless. Fighting continued by torchlight for a while, but at last the enemy troops were ordered back to the gate. The Trojans immediately set about rebuilding the defenses that had been pulled down during the day.

  When they stood down for the night, Kalliades and Banokles walked to the temple of Athene, where food and water were being handed out. They waited in line in the darkness. Around them exhausted men lay sprawled asleep on the ground. Others sat in small groups, too tired for conversation, staring with deadened eyes.

  “Weevil bread and a sip of water,” Banokles snorted, dragging off his helm and scratching his sweat-soaked blond hair. “A man can’t fight all day on that.”

  “If Agamemnon had held his troops back for another ten days, we wouldn’t even have had weevil bread to fight on.”

  “That was a good ploy, though, wasn’t it? The Trojan Horse. Who wouldn’t open the gates for them, riding like that?” Banokles shook his head in admiration.

  “I expect Odysseus had a hand in it,” Kalliades replied. “He has a cunning mind.”

  “Do you sometimes forget who you’re fighting for?” Banokles asked suddenly.

  Kalliades frowned. “No, but I know what you mean. We see Mykene warriors coming over the barricade to be cut down and know some of them were our comrades. If our fate had been slightly different, we’d be the ones on the other side.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Banokles shook his head. “I mean, what are we fighting for? Troy? There’s nothing left of it. The lower town is wrecked, and most of the city. Agamemnon King wants Priam’s treasury, they say, but Polites tells us there’s nothing left in it. So are we fighting to save the king? He doesn’t even know who he is anymore.”

  He scratched his head again. “It doesn’t matter, not really. We’re warriors, you and I, and we’ve picked our side, and we’ll go on fighting until we win or we’re killed. I just wondered…” He trailed off.

  Kalliades thought about it, standing there in the line for food. They had fled Mykene lands to escape Agamemnon’s wrath, and since then they had taken the line of least resistance. They had joined Odysseus on his way to Troy because he had offered them a way off the pirate island. By the fickle will of the gods they had been there to rescue Andromache when she had been attacked by assassins. That had won them a place in Hektor’s Trojan Horse. Kalliades smiled to himself. And Banokles’ baffling success as a leader of men had rescued them from the jaws of defeat at Carpea, at Dardanos, and outside the walls of Troy.

  He shook his head and laughed, the sound echoing across the square and making tired soldiers turn their heads in wonder.

  “We are dogged by good luck in battle, you and I,” he answered his friend. “Only the gods know why.”

  Banokles was silent, and Kalliades turned to look at him. “I would give it all up to have Red back,” the big warrior said sadly.

  There was a stalemate throughout the night, with the invaders holding the Scaean Gate and the defenders holding the barricade forty paces away. There were jeers and taunts in the darkness from Agamemnon’s troops, some of whom had yet to see battle and were raring to go.

  With the coming of first light, Kalliades and Banokles took their places behind the barricade. Kalliades checked his breastplate straps, settled his helm more securely, hefted the sword of Argurios, and waited as the blackness gave way to dark gray.

  Banokles slashed his swords from side to side, stretching his shoulder muscles, and grunted to his neighbors, “Make room, you sheep shaggers!”

  Then enemy warriors were scrambling over the barricade.

  Kalliades batted aside a sword thrust, then brought his blade down two-handed on a man’s neck. He dragged the weapon clear in time to parry a slashing cut. A thrown lance bounced off the edge of his shield, missing his head by a hairbreadth. His sword lunged forward and twisted, disemboweling an attacker, who fell screaming at his feet. He threw his shield up to block a murderous cut, and then his blade slash
ed high in the air, braining a warrior who had lost his helm. He felt a searing pain in his leg and saw that the injured man at his feet, holding his entrails in with one hand, had thrust his dagger into his thigh. He plunged his sword into the man’s neck.

  Beside him Banokles suddenly leaped up onto the barricade and with two dazzling cuts slashed the throats of two attackers climbing for the top. He jumped back down again and grinned at Kalliades.

  The morning wore on, and defenders on either side of the two friends fell and were replaced, then replaced again. Through his focus on the fighting, as his sword hacked and slashed, cut and parried, Kalliades slowly registered a change happening. He was tiring, and his concentration was starting to fail. His thigh hurt, though it had stopped bleeding. He had other cuts and scrapes. He stole a glance at Banokles. The big man was battling with grim determination, his two swords moving like lightning, seemingly without effort. But Kalliades, who had fought beside him for many years and many battles, guessed he was tiring, too. He was using his swords economically, with not one wasted flourish, conserving his strength.

  And the attackers were getting harder to kill. Kalliades realized he was facing Mykene veterans now. Agamemnon must have kept them in reserve, he thought. He felt a lull in the fighting, as if something had shifted, and he knew it was the battle’s momentum.

  The Trojans were losing.

  Over the barricade came a giant of a man with a full black beard and a shaved head. He bore a tower shield of black and white cowhide edged with bronze. He dwarfed the men around him, and he grinned with pleasure when he saw who it was he was facing. Ajax Skull Splitter leaped down from the barricade with the grace of a much lighter man.

  “Banokles! Kalliades! You soft-bellied sons of whores!” he rumbled with relish.

  He leaped to the attack, swinging his great broadsword, clearing a passage toward them. On either side of him other Mykene veterans formed a wedge, driving the Trojan ranks back from the barricade. Banokles attacked, his two swords hacking and plunging. He killed a man at Ajax’s side, but the Mykene champion’s huge tower shield and the power of his great broadsword made him unstoppable.

  Kalliades desperately hurled himself backward as an arcing blade from the right sliced through his shoulder guard. He rolled, leaped up, and skewered the wielder through the armpit.

  Then he heard the triple blast of the horn ordering retreat to the palace.

  Banokles was being forced backward by the power of Ajax’s attack. He had lost one sword and replaced it with a bronze shield. The Mykene champion hammered the other blade aside and stepped in to crash a huge fist into Banokles’ jaw. Banokles staggered but recovered to block the downward sweep of the broadsword on the shield. Kalliades ran in. Ajax raised the broadsword again and brought it arcing toward them both in a massive sweep. Banokles ducked low, and Kalliades swayed backward. Unbalanced, Ajax tried to recover, but Banokles leaped up and brought his shield smashing down on the huge warrior’s head. Ajax was dazed but still stood. Banokles hit him on the head again, then again, and he finally went down, crashing face-first into the blood and dust.

  “Is he dead?” Banokles asked, panting.

  Kalliades brought the sword of Argurios up two-handed, prepared to drive it into the Mykene champion’s back. For a heartbeat he paused. The sword of Argurios, he thought. If it were not for Argurios’ loyalty and Priam’s mercy, they would not be there. Loyalty and mercy. He glanced at Banokles, who shrugged. Kalliades lowered his sword. He heard the horn again ordering retreat, and they both turned and raced for the palace.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE ADVICE OF ODYSSEUS

  Late on the second day a great cheer rose from the soldiers waiting patiently outside the walls for their comrades to break the Trojans’ barricade. The young healer Xander shivered in the hot afternoon as he watched the thousands of warriors rush in through the Scaean Gate.

  He remembered the first time he had arrived in Troy, in a donkey cart with Odysseus and Andromache. He had been a child of twelve and had left his grandfather’s goat herd on Kypros to go on a great adventure. He had felt that same shiver of fear as the cart had trundled through the great gate and he first had glimpsed the city of gold with its bronze-roofed palaces, verdant courtyards, and richly dressed people.

  He thought of his father, who had died fighting the Mykene pirate Alektruon, and Zidantas, who had been a father to him for a few brief days. He wondered what they would think of him now, giving aid and comfort to the armies of Agamemnon that were pouring into that city to rape, plunder, and kill.

  He turned and walked slowly back to the barracks hospital. From beside his pallet bed he fetched his old leather satchel and delved in the bottom of it. He pulled out the two pebbles he had carried with him since he had left Kypros to remind him of home. He weighed them in his palm for a moment, then walked to the door and threw them out into the street. Then he started packing the satchel with his potions and herbs.

  “Remember the advice of Odysseus, young Xander.”

  The boy looked up and found the surgeon White-Eye standing beside him. He was watching anxiously as Xander carefully wrapped bunches of dried herbs in scraps of cloth and placed them in the satchel.

  “Run to the bay, son,” the older man urged him. “Take ship to Kypros and return to your mother and grandfather. These people are past help now.”

  “You are still here, White-Eye,” Xander answered, not looking up from his task, “though the Myrmidons have left.”

  “Some of our ships are still loading their final cargo, mostly horses. When the last galley sets sail for Thessaly, I shall be on it. There is nothing we can do here, lad. Troy will be a charnel house full of death and horror. Walk through those gates and you will die; that is as certain as sunset follows day.”

  Xander continued packing his bag. “I must help my friends,” he whispered.

  “You make friends wherever you go, boy. It is your nature. I am your friend. Do this for your friend White-Eye.”

  Xander paused. He turned to the man and said, “When I first came here, on the Xanthos, there was a great storm, and I nearly drowned. Two men saved my life—an Egypteian called Gershom and the Mykene hero Argurios. Both held on to me beyond the limits of their strength, at the risk of their own lives. They felt my life was worth saving, I don’t know why. I cannot explain it very well, White-Eye, but I would be letting them both down if I turned my back on the Trojans and ran home. I know I came here for a reason, even if it is one I don’t understand.”

  White-Eye shook his head sadly. “I cannot argue with you, lad. The ways of the gods are unknowable. I do not know why the serpent god sent me here. I thought perhaps it was so that I would meet you and take you back to Thessaly. You have it in you to be a great healer, Xander, but your skills will be wasted if you throw away your life now.”

  “I am sorry you did not meet your brother again before he died,” Xander said, anxious to change the subject. He feared his resolution would drain away.

  “So am I, lad, but the truth is, Machaon and I never did get on. Though we look alike, we have very different ideas on the ways of the serpent god. We would probably have come to blows.”

  Xander smiled at the idea of the two gentle healers circling each other with their fists cocked. For a few heartbeats he was tempted to go with the older man, to take ship to Thessaly and a new life far across the Great Green. But instead he said, “Remember me, White-Eye.”

  White-Eye nodded, and Xander thought he saw tears in his eyes before he hurried away. Taking a deep breath, the young healer picked up his heavy satchel. It was just starting to rain as he walked up the hill toward the city.

  When news came of the fall of the barricade, Andromache was installed in Priam’s palace, the last refuge. With her were the two boys and her youngest handmaid Anio.

  On the day of Hektor’s death, when women and children had been allowed out of the city, Axa had left tearfully with her three babies, bound for Phrygia and the fam
ily of Mestares. She had begged the daughters of Ursos to go with her, but the sisters had refused, saying that their father had died defending the city and so would they. Andromache had made no effort to make them change their minds. She had told them she respected their decision, though privately her heart bled for their fate.

  Then Penthesileia had gone to the barricade with the Thrakian archers. The boy-king Periklos had come to Andromache himself and asked that Penthesileia be released from her service. Andromache had been surprised, though she did not doubt the girl’s skill with the bow and was moved by her courage. As Penthesileia left with Periklos, Andromache was sure she would never see her again.

  The great palace was empty. Priam was in his apartments, she was told, but she had not seen him. There were few servants, and even Andromache’s bodyguards had been ordered to the barricade. The boys were playing noisily, excited to be in a new home. Andromache felt frustrated by her confinement. She left the boys and walked down to the empty megaron.

  She seldom had lingered in that great room in recent years. It held only memories of death and horror. On a whim she walked over to Priam’s carved, gold-encrusted throne and sat down. She looked around at the high stone walls decorated with the shields of heroes. The shield of Argurios was there, the shield of Hektor now beside it. She gazed at the great stairway where Argurios had been wounded fatally. The silence in the megaron echoed off the high stone walls, and the distant sound of clashing metal and shouting men seemed as thin and fragile as the twittering of birds on a summer afternoon.

  She looked up at the shield of Hektor, and one hand fell to touch the belt around her hips. It was cunningly crafted of bronze disks threaded with gold wire, marking her as a Woman of the Horse.

  For the first time in days she was alone, and in that great empty stone chamber she felt her control slipping. Tears started to roll down her cheeks. They called him the Prince of War, but she had never seen Hektor as a warrior, only a kind, compassionate man shouldering burdens that no man should have had to endure. She remembered that moment in the palace gardens when she had watched him playing in the dust with Astyanax, an expression of deep tenderness on his face that had wrenched her heart. She felt an agonizing stab of guilt—so physical that she doubled over from the pain—that she had never loved Hektor as he deserved, that he had gone to his death knowing she yearned not for him but for another man.