Fall of Kings (53 page)

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 slashed 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.

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.”