Lord of the Silver Bow (19 page)

But that was not where any battle for the city would be won or lost.

The sack of Troy, Argurios knew, would come only when an enemy breached the great gates or scaled the mighty walls.

The east gate would be a nightmare to storm. The walls doubled back on themselves in a dogleg, ensuring that invaders would be crammed together and assaulted by archers, peltasts, and spear throwers. Even heavy rocks thrown from such a height would crush an armored man. The gates were thick and reinforced with bronze. They would not burn easily.

However, the physical defenses were not Argurios’ main concern. His skills, as Agamemnon knew, lay in the study of soldiers and their qualities and weaknesses. Wars were won and lost on four vital elements: morale, discipline, organization, and courage. Flaws in any one and defeat was assured. So he had studied the soldiers on the walls, their alertness and their demeanor. Were they careless or slack? Were their officers decisive and disciplined? Were they confident in their strength or merely arrogant? These were the questions Agamemnon sought answers to, and so Argurios sat in taverns and eating houses, listening to the conversations of soldiers, and watched them as they marched or patrolled the walls. He chatted to traders at their stalls and to old men sitting around wells talking of their days in the army.

The Trojan troops, he discovered, were highly disciplined and well trained. In conversations he discovered that Priam regularly sent troops in support of the Hittites in their wars and even hired out horsemen, foot soldiers, and charioteers to neighboring kingdoms so that the men would gain combat experience. While Troy itself had suffered no wars in more than two generations, its soldiers were battle-hardened men. It had been difficult to gauge the exact number of fighting men Troy could call upon, but Argurios believed it to be no less than ten thousand, including the thousand warriors of the Trojan Horse riding with Hektor against the Egypteians.

On first analysis it seemed Troy was unassailable, but Argurios knew that no fortress was ever unconquerable. How, then, to breach its defenses? How many men would be needed?

For overwhelming force to destroy a besieged enemy the normal calculation was a factor of five. The Trojans had ten thousand men; therefore, the minimum force to gather would be fifty thousand warriors. That in itself precluded any Mykene invasion, for Agamemnon could not muster more than fifteen thousand fighting men if he conscripted every warrior in Mykene. And even if fifty thousand could be gathered, a second logistical problem would arise: How to feed such an army? They would need to raid surrounding territories, and that would inflame the populations, causing uprisings and disaffection. The problem was a thorny one, but Argurios was determined to return to his king with a positive plan.

Then, on the seventh day, he learned that Erekos the ambassador had returned from Miletos.

III

The screams echoed through his head, and Argurios felt his skull starting to pound. He looked up at the high roof of the circular tomb, trying to ignore the thick smell of blood and fear and the sounds of the thrashing, dying horses. The sacrifice of noble horses to Zeus was an appropriate ritual at the funeral of a great king, and his heart lifted at the thought that Atreus King would ride such fine steeds on his journey to the Elysian Fields.

The two horses, dead at last, were being hauled into place at the sides of the king’s bier in the center of the tomb. Atreus lay in his gold and silver armor, his favorite sword at his right side, three jeweled daggers and a bow to his left. At his head was a great golden cup embossed with the Lion of Mykene and flagons of wine and oil for his journey. Three of the king’s beloved hounds lay slaughtered at his feet.

The dark, musty tomb was filled with the king’s Followers, his grieving family, counselors, and mourners. Agamemnon stood dressed in a simple woolen robe, tears pouring down his cheeks. His brother Menelaus was dry-eyed but looked stricken, his face ashen and empty.

There was a cacophony of noise from the musicians and singers milling around in the darkness. Then the sounds of lute and lyre started to fade away.

Argurios stepped forward to take a last look at his king. He frowned. The bearded face resting peacefully on the bier was not that of Atreus. The beard was wrong, and the face was too broad. Was this an impostor?

Confusion and fear in his heart, he moved forward reluctantly and saw that the face on the bier was his own.

He looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. But there was no one there. The mourners and musicians, sons and counselors, had all vanished, and the great circular tomb was dark and cold, the air heavy with damp and rot.

He was alone. No one mourned Argurios. No one marked his passing, and he would go to the earth unnoticed. No one would know his name.

His head was splitting now. A terrible pain erupted in his stomach as well. He had just noticed it, but he knew it had been there all the time. He cried out. . . .

He was lying in a stone doorway in the cool night air. The moon was high, and by its light Argurios could see that his tunic was drenched in blood. Three bodies lay close by, and he saw a blood-smeared sword by the doorway. He tried to rise but fell again, a stabbing pain searing his back and chest. Gritting his teeth, he rolled to his knees. His vision swam, and he fell against the door frame.

After a while the pain ebbed a little, and he gazed around him. In the moonlight he could see a small street of modest houses looking over a silver sea. Then he remembered. He was in Troy.

A fresh wave of pain surged over him. His head began to pound, and he vomited on the ground. There was blood in the vomit. Once again he tried to rise, but there was no strength in his legs. He stared at the bodies of the men he had killed. One was facing him. He recognized him as the guard who had been on duty on the seventh day of his visit to the house of Erekos.

The man had informed him that Erekos had returned and had gestured Argurios into the courtyard.

“Wait here, sir,” he said.

The courtyard was shadeless and without greenery. Argurios paced back and forth a few times and then sat stiffly on a stone bench facing the westering sun.

From an inner door three men came out. The leader was tall and lean, with thin red hair. His beardless face was gray, and his eyes red-rimmed as if from the cold. He wore a long dark cape over tunic and leggings and was unarmed. The two others, one dark and one fair, both wore swords. Argurios noted their expressions and felt uneasy. They were staring at him unblinkingly. He rose from the bench.

“I returned last night,” said the red-haired man without any form of greeting. This display of ill manners annoyed Argurios, but he held his anger in check. “I was with the king when the lord Kolanos spoke of the cowardly slaughter by the killer Helikaon. He also named you as a traitor, in the pay of Helikaon.”

“Ah,” said Argurios coldly. “A coward and a liar as well.”

The ambassador’s eyes narrowed, and he reddened. “The lord Kolanos claimed you killed one of his crew and saved the life of Helikaon.”

“That is true.”

“Perhaps you would care to explain yourself.”

Argurios glanced at the armed men with Erekos. “I am Argurios, Follower of Agamemnon and a Mykene noble. I answer only to my king, not to some overpromoted peasant sent to a foreign land.”

The men with the ambassador reached for their swords, but Erekos waved them back. He smiled. “I have heard in full of the events in Lykia. Many good Mykene men died, including my nephew Glaukos. You did nothing to save them; indeed, you aided the killer Helikaon. You are not welcome here, Argurios. The rules of hospitality dictate that no blood will be shed in my house. But know that Agamemnon has spoken the words of banishment against you. You are no longer Mykene. Your lands are forfeit, and you are named as an enemy of the Lion’s Hall.”

Argurios strode from the house, back straight and head reeling. He was not a diplomat, and this journey to Troy had not been one he had sought. Yet he was proud to serve his king, both to gather information on Priam’s political and military situation and to deliver messages to his brother Mykene abroad. Delving into his leather bag, he pulled out the sealed papyrus letters he carried for Erekos. Anger tempted him to throw them to the winds, but he hesitated and then put them away again. They had been given to him by Agamemnon’s chief scribe as he had left the palace on that last day. The man had come running out into the street. “I hear you are sailing for Troy,” he had said. “These messages were meant to have been sent three days ago, but a fool of a servant forgot to give them to the captain. Will you take them, Lord Argurios?”

Each bore the seal of Agamemnon, and he had carried them with reverence. He could not throw the king’s words into the mud of the street.

Banishment!

He could scarcely believe such a sentence, but it hurt him more that Agamemnon, whom he had served with total loyalty, could have acted in such a fashion. Surely, he thought, the king, of all men, should have known he would never have sold out to Helikaon or any other enemy of his people. Did the works of his life count for nothing? he wondered. In the twenty years since he had reached manhood he had never sought riches or succumbed to any temptations that would hinder his service. He had not lied or taken part in the palace intrigues that saw men plotting against one another to rise in Agamemnon’s favor. He had even remained unwed so that his life could be dedicated entirely to the king and to the people.

And now he had been named a traitor, stripped of his lands and his citizenship.

As he walked from the house of Erekos, he decided to take ship back to Mykene and appeal to the king directly. Surely, he thought, he will realize he has been misled. His spirits rose. Once back in Mykene he would expose Kolanos for the liar and villain that he was, and all would be well.

He was close to his lodgings when he realized he was being followed.

And he knew then that there would be no easy return to his homeland. The killers had been unleashed. He was an enemy of the people, and his life was worth only the price Agamemnon or Kolanos had placed on it.

Cold anger rose, and he swung to await the assassins. He had carried no sword or dagger with him to the ambassador’s house, and he stood there unarmed as the five men approached.

The leader was swathed in a dark hooded cloak. He stepped forward and spoke. “Renegade, you know what dark deeds have brought you to this judgment.”

Argurios stood calmly and looked the man in the eye. “There are no dark deeds to my name. I am Argurios and the victim of a coward’s lies. I intend to sail home and appeal to my king.”

The man laughed harshly. “Your life ends here, traitor. There are no appeals.”

A knife flashed into his hands, and he leapt forward. Argurios stepped in to meet him, grabbing the knife wrist and thundering a fierce blow into the man’s face. As the man fell back, Argurios gripped his wrist with both hands, spun him around, and twisted the arm savagely, dislocating his shoulder. The assassin screamed and dropped his knife. The other four men surged forward. Lifting his foot, Argurios propelled the crippled assassin into his comrades, then swept up the dagger.

“I am Argurios!” he thundered. “To come at me is to die.”

They hesitated then, but all were armed with swords. The injured leader was on his knees. “Kill him!” he screamed.

They rushed in. Argurios charged to meet them. A sword plunged into his side, a second cleaving his left shoulder. Ignoring the pain, he stabbed one man through the heart, kicked a second man in the right knee, causing him to fall, and then grappled with the third. The fourth man stabbed at him, the blade glancing from his ribs. Argurios could feel his strength failing. Smashing a blow to one attacker’s face, he followed up with a head butt that broke another’s nose. Half-blinded, the assassin staggered. Argurios twisted to one side, then hammered his foot against an attacker’s knee. There was a sickening crack as the joint snapped, followed by a piercing shriek of agony. The third attacker was on his feet again. Argurios dived to the ground, grabbing a fallen sword, then rolled just in time to block a downward cut. Surging up, he shoulder charged the attacker, hurling him back. Before the man could recover Argurios drove his sword through the assassin’s chest. Tearing the blade clear, he swung in time to parry a ferocious lunge that would have disemboweled him. His sword lanced up, skewering the man through the chin and up into his brain. Argurios wrenched the blade loose and let him fall.

The man with the shattered knee was groaning loudly. Argurios glanced to his left, where the leader now stood, his knife held in his left hand, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side.

“Your comrade cannot walk,” said Argurios. “He will need you to help him to a house of healing.”

“There will be another day,” said the man.

“Maybe, but not for you, puppy dog. It’ll take real hounds to hunt down this old wolf. Now get you gone.”

He stood tall and apparently strong as the leader hauled the groaning man upright. Then the two of them made their slow way back into the darkness.

Argurios managed to stay upright for a few moments more.

He had no idea how much time had passed since then. The pain in his stomach had ceased, and he was cold, though he could still feel warm blood flowing under his hand. He tried to lift himself up with one arm, and the pain ripped through him again. Then he heard footsteps. So they had come back to finish their work. Anger gave him strength, and he levered himself upright, determined to die on his feet.

Several soldiers in crested helmets moved into sight. Argurios sagged back against the door frame.

“What happened here?” asked the first soldier, stepping in close. The world spun, and Argurios fell. The soldier dropped his spear and caught him, lowering him to the ground.

A second soldier called out: “One of the dead men is Philometor the Mykene. He was said to be a fine warrior.”