Fall of Kings (28 page)

“By Ares, that was a leap, though, wasn’t it?” he went on. “Would you have
made it, do you think?”

Kalliades shook his head. “I wouldn’t have even tried.”

“I wish I’d seen it,” Banokles mused. “That must have been a sight. With the
queen and the boy on his back.”

He was silent for a moment. “Shame she died. That queen, I mean. After a jump
like that.”

Kalliades thought how Banokles had changed over the years. In the days when
they first had fought together, he had talked only of drinking, rutting, and
battles he had fought. His proudest boast was that he could piss up a tree
higher than any man.

But the last few years had mellowed him. Kalliades knew that his marriage to
Red was responsible. He adored his wife and made no secret of it. His ambition
now, he often told Kalliades, was to win the war and retire with honor from the
Trojan Horse and start a small farm with Red. Kalliades could not see him as a
farmer, but he never told his friend that.

When the priestess Piria had died, Banokles had been genuinely saddened. He
rarely mentioned her, though once, when Kalliades did, Banokles said shortly,
“She died in battle saving her friend’s life, didn’t she? What any warrior worth
the name would do.” Then he would say no more.

And here he was, Banokles One-Ear, speaking with respect of a dead woman he
never had met.

“General!” Kalliades was pulled from his reverie by a soldier’s shout.
“Dawn’s coming! We can ride!”

Echios the Rhodian hated blood. Mixed with mud on the flat plain of the
Scamander, it was slippery and treacherous. Drying on the hilt of a sword, it
stuck like horse glue and made the weapon hard to handle.

A fifteen-year veteran of Troy’s Scamandrian regiment, Echios had fought in
the distant south in Lykia, as far east as Zeleia, and in the snowy northern
mountains of Thraki, but he never had thought he’d be facing an enemy army in
front of the Golden City.

A sword flashed toward his face. Swaying to his right, Echios swept up a
vicious two-handed cut that glanced off the edge of the enemy’s shield and
smashed into his face. The soldier was punched from his feet. Echios stepped
over him.

At first light the Scamandrians had engaged the Mykene phalanx south of the
river. The Mykene veterans were heavily armored and in a tight formation. There
was no give in them, and step by step through the long morning they had pushed
the Trojan forces back toward the riverbank. The Scamandrians were fighting on
the right, the Heraklion regiment to the left. The bastard Heraklions were the
first ones to give, Echios thought, and the day would have been lost except for
a nearly suicidal cavalry charge. A hundred Trojan Horse, the last in the city,
smashed into the flank of the Mykene phalanx, a huge man on a great charger at
their head. Echios and the beleaguered defenders had cheered as they saw it was
Antiphones, the king’s fat son. That side of the phalanx crumpled, and the
Trojan infantry rushed in, hacking and cutting. Since then it had been steady
hand-to-hand slaughter. The Trojans were gaining ground step by bloody step.

A Mykene warrior slashed wildly at him, off balance in the mud and blood, and
Echios dodged the cut, deflecting it off his shield. Mykene armor rose high
around the throat, and so the Trojan dropped to one knee under his shield and
speared his sword up into the man’s groin. As he fell, his helm came off.
Echios, leaping up, chopped him across the brow, scattering his brains. Echios
then stepped over him.

He risked a glimpse to his right, where his little brother, Boros, was
fighting. He could not see him, but it was hard to tell one blood-covered
warrior from another. Echios worried about his brother. He had suffered a sword
cut to the head in a skirmish in Thraki and could not see well out of his left
eye. Boros had told no one, fearing losing his place, and so Echios had found
him a tower shield. It was an old-fashioned piece of equipment, and the other
men laughed at him, but it protected his left side better than any round buckler
could. He wondered if the boy was still alive.

A blood-drenched figure stepped in front of him, a Thessalian by his fancy
armor. Echios deflected the sword thrust on his shield, then drove his sword
into the Thessalian’s neck. Fancy armor but no neck protection, he thought as
the man fell in front of him, his lifeblood gouting out of his throat.

An enemy stumbled to the mud in front of him with a great wound in his thigh.
Echios plunged his sword into the man’s face. He shuddered and lay still.

A huge Mykene ran at him. He was fast and powerful, and the speed of his
attack surprised Echios. Their blades met time and again, and Echios was forced
back. The Mykene grinned at him arrogantly. Again he attacked, and Echios sent
back a savage riposte that opened a wound in the man’s cheek. Now it was Echios
pushing forward, but the Mykene parried each stroke. Suddenly the Mykene stepped
in, their blades clashed, and the Mykene sent a right hook at Echios’ face.
Echios grunted and fell back, stumbling in the mud. The Mykene swept his sword
at Echios’ head. Echios dodged and lanced his sword up into the Mykene’s belly.
As the enemy soldier fell, Echios paused for a breath, then stepped over his
body.

He realized his sword was getting blunt. He always carried a spare on his
back, but he’d used that one already. He’d have to watch out for a sharper one.
After all, there was a chance he’d meet Achilles the Slayer. Everyone knew he
was out there somewhere. Look for the thick of the fight, they said; that’s
where he’ll be. Just like Hektor, Echios thought. And we could do with
him
right now. He’ll be here in five days, General Thyrsites said. With the Trojan
Horse. Then these pigging Mykene won’t know what hit them.

In front of him a Trojan rider he knew called Olganos had been unhorsed. He
was bleeding from several wounds and seemed dazed. Two enemy soldiers ran at
him. Echios hurdled the horse’s dead body and lunged at one of the soldiers. His
sword skewered into the man’s armpit and broke. He dived forward and swept up
the man’s fallen sword, rolling to his feet. The second man lanced his blade
into Olganos’ chest before Echios could hammer the sword into his skull. Olganos
fell facedown in the mud and lay still. Echios stepped over the bodies.

Above the clash of battle and the screams of the dying he heard the sound of
hoofbeats. There was no enemy soldier facing him, so he risked turning to look
back toward the river.

Galloping over the plain and thundering across one of the temporary bridges
toward them came a troop of riders led by a big warrior with golden hair and
beard. He was waving two swords, and his mouth was open in a battle cry as he
rode. Behind him Echios could see Trojan Horse and painted tribesmen.

Reinforcements, Echios thought. About pigging time!

He turned back to the battle just in time to glimpse the killing blow that
took out his throat.

Later that afternoon Banokles sat on the south bank of the Scamander, washing
blood and mud out of his hair and beard. The water trickled under his armor, and
its coldness felt good against his hot skin. He had no wounds except for a nick
on the arm from a deflected arrow. He was tired and hungry.

The river was red with gore, and men and horses floated there, moving swiftly
down toward the bay. On the other bank he could see the figure of Kalliades
walking among the wounded, dispatching enemy soldiers with his sword, calling
stretcher bearers to Trojans and their allies. Youngsters were running among the
wounded and dead, collecting arrows and abandoned swords and shields. Overhead,
carrion birds gathered.

Nearby six men were trying to drag a dead horse out of the water. Banokles
stood up angrily. “Our men first, you morons!” he shouted. “Not the poxy
horses!” The soldiers hurried to obey, and he slumped down again. His back
ached, and his stub of an ear itched intolerably.

I’m getting too old for this, he thought.

A vast shadow fell across him, and he looked up.

“Well done, Banokles,” said the king’s son Antiphones. Despite his bulky
frame, he also seemed to be carrying no wounds. “Your ride was well timed, thank
the war god Ares. We had the enemy on their back foot already. Your charge was
the straw that broke the donkey’s back.”

“Some donkey,” Banokles grunted. “Best soldiers in the world, Mykene
infantry.”

“Nevertheless, General, we were the better men today.”

“Not a general anymore,” Banokles said happily. “I was ordered to leave my
Thrakians in Dardanos.”

“Yet some came with you, regardless,” the prince said, amusement in his
voice.

Banokles shrugged. “I’m no good as a general, then. So dismiss me.”

Antiphones laughed then, and his bass bellow rang out rich and clear over the
battlefield.

“To me you are a hero, Banokles,” he said. “I would grant any wish for you
that was in my power. But I fear the king may see things differently.”

“The king?”

“We are commanded to attend King Priam at his palace immediately, you and I.
So find a horse and come with me.” He turned away.

“Not me,” Banokles said stubbornly, staying where he was. “I’m going to see
my wife first.”

Antiphones turned back. “Ah, yes, I remember. You are married to Big Red,
the… former whore.”

“That’s right,” Banokles told him proudly. “She’s a good wife. She’ll be
missing me and wondering where I am with all this fighting going on down here.”

“Kings take precedence over wives,” the fat man said impatiently. “Come with
me,” he repeated.

“What about Kalliades?”

“By Hades, man,” Antiphones exploded in exasperation. “Who is Kalliades?”

“He’s my fr—my aide. Over there.” He pointed in the direction of the
battlefield.

“You can send for your aide when you have spoken to Priam. Now, come with me
before I have you arrested and brought to the king in chains.”

During the slow ride up to the city Banokles looked longingly down the Street
of Potters where his small white house was situated. He wondered if Red was
there now, waiting.

At Priam’s palace he and Antiphones dismounted and entered the
megaron.
Banokles looked around with interest. It was the first time he had been there
since the palace siege when he and Kalliades had been among the besiegers. He
remembered with nostalgia the battle on the stairs, the great Argurios,
unconquerable, turning back the Mykene invaders with relentless strength and
skill. Banokles rubbed the scar on his arm where Argurios’ sword had punched
through it. He remembered the arrival of Hektor, godlike in his power, and the
shield wall where the invaders had planned to make their last stand, then their
mysterious retreat to the ships and the screams of Kolanos.

Banokles smiled grimly. That was a day to remember, all right.

When the king came down the stairs, Banokles’ eyes narrowed. He last had seen
Priam in a parade at the summer’s end. Then he had looked strong and powerful,
waving to the troops from his golden chariot. The change in him was shocking.
Priam was a frail old man, leaning on his aide’s arm on one side and a wooden
staff on the other. His face was as white as papyrus, and his steps uncertain.
His aide, Polydorus, helped him to his throne, and the king sat down wearily,
staring at the stone-flagged floor. Behind him stood a scrawny man Banokles knew
was the chancellor Polites. Six Royal Eagles flanked the throne.

Finally Priam looked up. When he spoke, his voice was cracked and feeble.

“So this is the great Banokles, the hero who never loses, who turns the
battle with every charge. Do you not kneel before your king, General Banokles?”

Banokles stepped forward. “I was taught soldiering as a Mykene, Priam King.
In Mykene lands we do not kneel before our kings. We show our loyalty in our
every action.”

The king smiled thinly. “It might not be wise to remind me you once fought in
this
megaron
with every intention of killing me. But for the hero
Argurios you would have been slaughtered where you stood, along with your
fellows.”

“Well,” Banokles said, “you see, Argurios was Mykene, as you know.”

“Enough!” The king’s voice thundered out, suddenly full of power. “You are
not here to debate me, soldier!”

“Now,” Priam said, leaning forward in his throne, “my son Hektor gave you
leadership of the Thrakians because you gathered a loyal army in your retreat
across Thraki. It seemed to me then a mistake to put a fool in charge. But now
it appears Hektor was right and you are a lucky fool.”

Banokles opened his mouth to speak, but Priam silenced him. “Be quiet and
listen, soldier! My general Thyrsites, the idiot, got himself killed in the
battle today, so I need a new general for the Scamandrian regiment. I’ll take a
lucky fool before an unlucky genius any day. So you are a general again,
Banokles, general of the finest infantry force in the world.”

“Yes, but I think—” Banokles started.

The king stood up angrily. His anger had rejuvenated him, and Banokles could
see the powerful man he once had been. “If you argue with me again, General
Banokles, I will have my Eagles kill you where you stand!”

There was an angry silence, and then Banokles said mildly, “What about
Kalliades?”

The king frowned. “Kalliades? I know that name. Ah, yes, the tall soldier who
took command of the Mykene invaders after the arrest of Kolanos. What of him?”

“He’s my friend.”

Antiphones stepped in hastily. “He is the general’s aide, Father.”

“Then he will continue to be his aide. Now”—he turned to his son—“Antiphones,
report.”

“The enemy has been forced back again to the earthwork they erected at the
foot of the pass, Father. We calculate they lost at least a thousand over the
two days of battle on the plain.”

“And our own dead?”