Lord of the Silver Bow (36 page)

“That is magnificent,” she said.

“That is the shield of Ilos, one of the great warriors of Troy,” Axa explained happily. “There is a legend that says only the greatest hero can take it down from the wall. The king offered it to Hektor, but he refused. Prince Agathon asked for it last year after winning a battle in the east. The king said that if Hektor did not consider himself worthy of it, then no man was.”

“That may change now,” said Andromache. “I imagine Agathon will succeed Priam.”

“Priam will outlive all his sons,” Kassandra said suddenly, her high voice cold and detached. Andromache felt the hairs on her arms stand up, and a shiver ran like sweat down her spine. The child’s eyes suddenly became wide and frightened. “There is blood on the walls,” she cried, then bolted away, back up the stairs toward the queen’s apartments.

They heard her sandals slapping on the stone steps as she ran. Leaving Axa where she was, Andromache set out after the fleeing girl.

But Kassandra was running fast, sidestepping the servants, twisting and weaving through the crowd. Andromache followed as swiftly as dignity allowed. She could hardly hitch up her ankle-length gown and give chase, and so she walked on until she reached the women’s quarters and her own apartment. The door opened, and Kassandra stepped out, carrying Andromache’s bow and quiver of arrows.

“You will need these,” she said. “They are coming.”

XXXI

THE SIEGE BEGINS

I

A brisk wind had begun to blow as Argurios made his way up toward the palace of Priam. In the marketplace traders were struggling to take down the linen or canvas covers on their stalls. The cloths billowed, and one tore itself loose and lifted into the air like a sail. Several men ran after it, and there was much laughter from the many onlookers.

The sun was setting over the distant isles of Imbros and Samothraki, and rain clouds were scudding over the city.

Argurios walked on across the square before the temple of Hermes, the wind buffeting him. He hoped he would make it to the palace before the rain came. He did not relish the thought of standing before King Priam with water dripping from his armor.

Truth to tell, he did not relish the thought of standing before the man at all.

For as long as he could remember Argurios had found conversation awkward. Invariably he would say something that alienated a listener or at best gave the wrong impression. He had been able to relax with very few people. One had been Atreus the king, and Argurios still missed him.

He recalled the night at the battle-site campfire. Argurios had been drawn into a furious row with one of Atreus’ generals. Afterward the amused king had sat him down, urging him to breathe deeply and find calm. Atreus had struggled not to laugh, and that had made Argurios all the more angry.

“I do not find this amusing,” he snapped.

“Of course you don’t,” Atreus agreed amiably. “You are Argurios. Nothing amuses you. You are a serious man and a compulsive truth teller.”

“The truth should be valued,” Argurios argued.

“Indeed it should. However, the truth has many faces. You told Rostides that he was an idiot for leading an attack against a position he had not scouted. You said the losses suffered were inexcusable.”

“All true.”

“I agree. However, it was I who ordered Rostides to attack. He merely followed my orders as any loyal soldier should. Am I an idiot?”

“Yes,” answered Argurios, “for the situation remains the same. There was no reconnaissance, and therefore our men were caught in a trap.”

“You are quite correct, my friend,” Atreus said, his smile fading. “I acted rashly and in this instance was less than wise. You acted no less rashly by insulting Rostides before you had scouted the situation. By your own terms of reference that makes you an idiot. Not so?”

“I shall apologize to him.”

“That would be wise. You know, Argurios, I have always valued your honesty. I always will. Kings tend to surround themselves with flatterers.” He laughed suddenly. “Indeed, I have gathered quite a few myself. There should, however, always be one truth teller. But try to remember that not all men think as I do.”

“I cannot be anything but what I am, lord.”

“I know. So let us hope we both live long, eh?”

Atreus had died two years later, and now Argurios understood exactly what he had meant. Agamemnon was not like his father. He wanted no truth tellers.

Would Priam?

Argurios doubted it.

He paused in his walk and looked up at the lowering sky. “In all my life, Father Zeus, I have asked you for nothing,” he said. “Be with me on this day and guide me so that I will not lose Laodike.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Argurios glanced back down toward the sea. In the setting sun he saw four dark-sailed galleys slowly beating their way toward the beach far below. The last of the sunlight glistened on the bright helmets and shields carried by the warriors on board.

Argurios walked on, composing in his mind his speech to Priam.

Reaching the open area before the gates, he saw several finely clad Trojan nobles speaking to soldiers of Priam’s Eagles. Voices were raised. “This is outrageous!” he heard someone say. “Not even a dagger? How are we to eat, or are they serving only soup at Hektor’s feast?”

Inside the gateway two long tables had been set side by side. They were covered with swords, daggers, and knives.

“I am sorry my lord,” said a soldier. “The orders were specific. No one is to take a weapon into the
megaron.
They will be here for you when you leave.” Argurios recognized the speaker as Polydorus, the soldier who had walked with him to the beach on the day he had swum with Andromache. Still grumbling, the visitor slammed his dagger to the tabletop and stalked off. As the light faded, servants came out of the king’s palace, lighting torches and placing them in brackets on the walls of the gate tower. Lamps also were suspended from poles lining the walkway to the high palace doors.

Argurios waited until the last of the Trojan nobles had entered and then approached Polydorus.

The young soldier looked harassed but smiled when he saw the Mykene. “I will take personal care of your weapon, sir,” he said. “Is that the blade you wielded at Partha?”

“No. That broke long ago.”

Just then they heard the clatter of a horse’s hooves on the road. A golden horse galloped up to the gateway. Helikaon leapt from its back. He was wearing a fitted breastplate and helmet and bearing two swords in scabbards over his shoulders.

“Where is the officer of the watch?” he demanded.

A tall soldier stepped forward from the shadows beyond the gateway. “I am Aranes, my lord. You must leave your weapons here on the orders of Prince Agathon.”

“You must close the palace gates, Aranes,” said Helikaon. “Traitors are coming to kill the king. They are close behind me. And there is a Mykene force to aid them. Even now their ships are beaching.”

“What is this nonsense? Are you drunk?”

“Do I look drunk? The prince Antiphones has been stabbed. Agathon is a traitor, and his Thrakians are heading here, intent on murder. Now close the damned gates or we are all dead.”

The soldier shook his head. “I need to seek authorization. We are ordered to keep the gates open.”

Helikaon stood silently for a moment, then stepped in and slammed a sudden blow to the man’s jaw. Aranes spun, then hit the ground face-first. Several of the Eagles ran forward, drawing their swords.

“Listen to me!” shouted Helikaon. “Death is coming. Gather all the men you can. And for pity’s sake, bar those gates!”

“Do as he says!” called out Polydorus, running to the first of the gates.

Argurios went with him, and slowly they began to swing it shut. Soldiers moved to the other gate.

A hurled javelin slammed into the timber.

From the darkness beyond armed men surged forward, screaming war cries.

And the gates were still open.

II

Helikaon swung around as the javelin thudded home. Thrakian soldiers were rushing toward the gates. Some held javelins or spears, others short swords. In that fraction of a heartbeat Helikaon noted that the warriors were wearing light leather breastplates and round leather helmets. They carried no shields. Fury swept through him. They had not even returned to their barracks to change into battle armor, so confident were they in their mission of murder. All they expected to face were a few Eagles and a hundred unarmed men mourning a dead hero.

Drawing the two leaf-bladed swords from the scabbards at his back, Helikaon charged at the milling Thrakians. There was no thought in his mind of glory, no thought of death, no thought of anything except a savage, reckless desire to visit vengeance on these treacherous men, see their blood flow, and hear their anguished cries.

Some of the Thrakians had hurled themselves against the gates, forcing them back. Some twenty Eagles were on the inner side, straining to close them. Helikaon darted between the yawning gap, slashing his right-hand blade through the throat of a blond warrior, then lancing the left-hand sword into the neck of a second. His assault was sudden, his swords slashing, cutting, and cleaving. A few Thrakians tried to rush him; others sought to pull back from the fray, dismayed by the deadly speed of his blades. Swords clattered against his breastplate, and a thrusting spear struck against his helmet.

Now he was in their midst. Bodies lay at his feet, and his swords glittered as they rose and fell. Even in his battle fury he realized he had advanced too far. They were all around him now, and it would not be long before he was hamstrung or dragged from his feet. Even as the thought came, a huge Thrakian leapt at him, his shoulder cannoning into Helikaon’s breastplate. As Helikaon fell back, he plunged a blade through the man’s cheek. A hand grabbed him, steadying him. He saw Argurios alongside him. A Thrakian ran in, thrusting his spear at Argurios. The Mykene swayed aside from the thrust, killing the wielder with a ferocious cut that split his skull.

“Kill them all!” bellowed Argurios, his voice ringing with authority. A few of Priam’s Eagles rushed into the fray, tall men, wide-shouldered and strong. Heavily armored and bearing great shields of bronze, they cleaved the Thrakian ranks. The enemy fell back to regroup.

Helikaon started to charge toward them.

“Not now!” shouted Argurios, grabbing him again. “Back to the gates!”

The red battle fury seeped away, and Helikaon raced back with the others. The Thrakians, realizing too late what was happening, gave chase.

Helikaon was the last man through the closing gates. As they slammed shut, Polydorus and another soldier tipped a long timber locking bar into place.

Men were streaming from the palace now. “Arm yourselves with bows,” Helikaon yelled at the soldiers. “Get to the walls. More will come.” Turning to Argurios, he said: “My thanks to you.”

“There were only around fifty or so out there,” said Argurios. “Must have been an advance party. How many Thrakians are there in all?”

“A thousand.”

“And you say there are Mykene coming?”

“So I am informed.”

“I believe I saw them. Four galleys beached as I was walking here. At least two hundred warriors, maybe more. I thought they were Trojans.”

Priam the king pushed through the crowd. “What in Hades is happening here?” he asked Helikaon, his breath stinking of unwatered wine, his legs unsteady.

“Betrayal,” said Helikaon. “Agathon’s Thrakians have been ordered to kill every man in the palace. And there are two hundred Mykene warriors marching toward us as we speak.”

Priam rubbed at his eyes and sucked in a great breath. “This is madness,” he said. “One regiment of Thrakians? As soon as word reaches the other garrisons, they will come in the thousands. And it is after dark. The great gates will be closed. No Mykene will be allowed to enter.”

“You are wrong, sire,” said Helikaon. “The soldiers at the Scaean Gate have been ordered to let them in and then close the gate behind them. No other troops will be allowed to enter. The Eagles here are the only loyal men left in the upper city. We are on our own.”

Priam said nothing for a moment, then swung to a nearby Eagle. “Fetch me my armor,” he ordered. Turning back to Helikaon, he said, “We’ll hold them. By the gods, we’ll teach them the price to be paid for treachery.”

“You’ll not hold these palace walls for long,” said Argurios. “They are not high enough, and you don’t have the men. Even now they will be searching for ladders, carts, timber . . . anything to allow them to scale the ramparts.”

“Do I know you?” retorted Priam, squinting in the torchlight.

“I am Argurios, Priam King.”

“
The
Argurios?”

“Even so.”

“And
you
are fighting for
me
?”

“It appears that I am.”

The drunken king suddenly laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “My Hektor has been taken from me. His brother wants me dead, and my city is under attack. Now a Mykene hero has come to aid me.” His face hardened. “Oh, how the gods favor me!”

“I share your feelings,” said Argurios. “It was no dream of mine to fight for Troy. However, we can talk of capricious gods at another time.
Now
we need to arm every one of your guests with whatever weapons are inside the palace. We will need bowmen on the palace balcony covering this courtyard. Even so the odds will be long indeed.”

Priam gave a cold smile. “Odds fit for a hero, Argurios. Where is that damned armor?” Priam turned away and staggered off in search of his weapons.

On the walls above a few Eagles began loosing shafts down into the Thrakian ranks.

“We cannot hold the walls for long,” repeated Argurios, this time to Helikaon. “They will come back with ladders and ropes and grappling hooks. They will swarm over like ants.”

“I know.” Helikaon swung to Polydorus. “You go inside. Get all the older counselors and servants up into the queen’s apartments, away from the fighting. Then barricade all unnecessary entrances. Make sure all windows are shuttered and barred. If you can find tools, have them nailed shut.”

The officer he had struck earlier was now on his feet but still groggy. Helikaon approached him. “How many men are at the outside gate to the women’s quarters?” he asked.

“No one is stationed there,” said the officer, rubbing his jaw. “The gates are locked. There is no way through.”

“Then the enemy will scale the walls unopposed!” stormed Helikaon. “Argurios, you stay here and command the defense. You!” he said to Aranes. “Gather twenty good swordsmen and follow me!”

III

Outside her apartments deep in the palace Andromache looked into Kassandra’s gray eyes, seeing the terror there. “Who is coming?” she asked softly.

Kassandra blinked. “Swords and daggers and spears.” She gazed around, eyes wide. “Blood on the walls. Blood . . . everywhere. Please take the bow.”

The child had begun to tremble. Andromache stepped forward, lifting the weapon from her hand. Kassandra offered her the quiver with its twenty black-shafted arrows.

Andromache swung it over her shoulder. “There now! I have the bow. Be calm, little one. No one is going to hurt you.”

“No,” Kassandra agreed with a sigh. “No one is going to hurt
me.
”

Holding out her free arm, Andromache took Kassandra by the hand. “Let us go down and listen to the priestess. She is said to be very dull. Then later you and I will sit in the starlight and talk.”

“Helikaon is coming for you,” said Kassandra as they walked hand in hand along the wide corridor toward the gathering hall of the women’s quarters.