Lord of the Silver Bow (39 page)

“Not while I have a sword in my hand, you gutless worm. I know you, Kolanos. You’ll slink in the shadows while braver men die for you.” He leaned toward Polydorus. “Get ready! They are coming!”

Polydorus hefted his Phrygian bow, noching a shaft to the string. All along the wall the Eagles followed his lead.

Suddenly there came the sound of pounding feet, and once more the Thrakian battle cry filled the air.

The Eagles stood and sent a volley into the charging men. Polydorus shot again and saw a man dragging a ladder go tumbling to the ground. The ladder was swept up by the fallen man’s comrades. Volley after volley slashed into the Thrakians, but there were too few archers to turn the charge. Scores of ladders clattered against the walls. An enemy shaft bounced from Polydorus’ breastplate. Another hissed past his face.

Then the Thrakians began to storm the walls. Dropping his bow, Polydorus drew his leaf-shaped short sword and took up his shield.

Beside him Argurios waited, sword in hand.

“Move along a little,” he said calmly. “Give me some fighting room.”

Polydorus edged to his right.

The first of the Thrakians appeared. Polydorus leapt forward, thrusting his sword into the man’s face. Desperately the Thrakian tried to haul himself over the ramparts, but Polydorus struck him again and he fell. Now the night was full of the sounds of battle: men screaming in pain or fury, swords ringing, shields clashing. Several warriors clambered over the battlement wall to Poydorus’ right. He rushed them, plunging his sword into the chest of the first. The blade went deep and lodged there. Unable to drag it clear, Polydorus threw the man from the wall, down into the courtyard below, then hammered his shield into the face of the second. Argurios appeared alongside him, stabbing and cutting. Picking up a fallen sword, Argurios tossed it to Polydorus, then swung to face a fresh attack.

All along the wall the Thrakians were gaining a foothold. The Eagles did not break but fought on with relentless courage. Glancing along the line, Polydorus saw that around a third of his men were down. Then he saw Helikaon and some thirty Eagles running across the courtyard. They surged up the battlement steps to join the fighting. The lightly armored Thrakians fell back. Some even jumped from the walls to the street below. Others already on ladders leapt clear. Letting his shield fall, Polydorus swept up his bow and shot into the fleeing men.

A feeling of exultation swept over him. He was alive, and he had conquered.

Argurios approached him. “Get our wounded back into the
megaron,
” he said. “And strip our dead of all weapons and armor. Also, gather the swords and spears of the enemy. Do it swiftly, for we will not have long before the next attack.”

“We will beat them again,” said Polydorus. “We are the Eagles, and we are invincible.”

The older man looked at him closely. “That was merely the first attack. They will come harder and faster now. Look around you. We lost fourteen men, with six others wounded. Half of the fighting men on the wall. Next time we would be overrun. That is why we will not be here next time. Now do as I say.”

All the excitement drained out of the young soldier. He ran down the rampart steps, calling out orders. Other men raced from the
megaron
to assist in the collection of weapons. Argurios strode along the ramparts, occasional arrows flashing by him.

III

Argurios moved among the defenders left on the rampart walls. Like Polydorus they were exultant now, for they had met the enemy and vanquished him. Their spirits were high, and Argurios had no wish to douse them with cold reality. The first attack had been rushed and ill conceived, an attempt to sweep over the ramparts in a wide front. It would have been better to have come at both ends of the wall, drawing the defenders out of position and then assaulting the center. The next charge would be better planned.

Even so, Argurios was content. This first action had lifted the hearts of the defenders and dispirited the enemy. The confidence of the Thrakians had been dented. The enemy leaders would know it was vital for them to score a swift victory to repair the damage. Even now the officers would be gathered, with Agathon seeking to inspire them, building their confidence for the next assault. He would be assuring them of victory, promising them riches.

Argurios called a soldier to him. “Go to Prince Dios on the balcony. Tell him we will be pulling back from the wall before the next attack. Ask that he hold back his archers until the enemy reaches the courtyard. They will be massed there and easy targets. Then go to the lord Helikaon. Fifty men with shields are to be ready to defend the palace doorway.”

Swinging his shield to his back, the soldier ran down the rampart steps and across the stone courtyard.

Argurios raised his head above the ramparts. The moon was rising, silver light bathing the streets and houses. He could see the Thrakians standing ready, officers moving among them. There was still no sign of the Mykene.

That was to be expected. They were an elite force and would not be used early in the battle. They will come when we are weary, he thought, striking like a hammer at the heart of the defense. Arrows and spears would be largely useless against them. Well armored and carrying tall, curved tower shields of bronze-reinforced ox hide and armed with both heavy spears and stabbing swords, they would advance in formation, forcing the defenders back. The spears would give them a reach advantage over the sword-wielding Eagles. The only hope of success against such a force would be to break its formation. That could be done on the open field of battle but not inside the confines of a palace
megaron.
Argurios knew that the Eagles were well disciplined and fine fighters. Could they hold, though, against the finest of the Mykene? He doubted it.

Time wore on, and still the Thrakians did not attack.

Polydorus returned to the battlements, and then Helikaon emerged from the palace and joined them. “When will the Mykene come?” he asked.

“When the gates are open.” Argurios turned to Polydorus. “Go back into the palace and gather the tallest and the strongest of the Eagles. No more than thirty of them. Hold them back from the initial fighting. When the Mykene come, we will need the best we have. See if you can arm them with heavy spears as well as their swords.”

“Yes, Argurios.”

After Polydorus had gone, Argurios raised his head above the battlements. “Not long now, I would think.”

“This must be hard for you,” Helikaon said as Argurios sat back down.

Argurios felt his anger surge but swallowed it. He looked at the young man beside him. “In a little while I will be slaying my comrades. I will be fighting alongside a man I have sworn to kill.
Hard
does not begin to describe this night.”

“There are times,” Helikaon said softly, “when you can almost hear the gods laugh. I am truly sorry, Argurios. I wish I had never asked you to accompany me on that walk to Kygones’ palace. Had I known the heartache it would bring you, I never would have.”

Argurios’ anger ebbed away. “I do not regret my actions that day,” he said. “As a result I met Laodike. I had not realized until then that my life had been lived in the darkness of a perpetual winter night. When I saw her, it was as if the sun had risen.” He fell silent for a moment, embarrassed at his display of emotion. “I sound like a doting fool, I expect.”

“No. You sound like a man in love. Did you feel as if some invisible fist had struck your chest? Did your tongue cleave to the roof of your mouth?”

“Exactly that! You have experienced it?”

“Every time I see Andromache.”

Just then an Eagle away to the left shouted, “Here they come!”

Argurios pushed himself to his feet. “Now it begins in earnest,” he said.

IV

Prince Agathon watched his Thrakians rushing toward the walls. There were no battle cries now, merely a grim determination to kill and conquer and earn the riches Agathon had offered. He longed to be with them, scaling a ladder and cutting his way through to Priam. He wanted to be there when the king was dragged to his knees, begging for his life. But he could not be with them yet. With Priam’s death success was his, but if
he
were to die in the assault, all the years of planning and scheming would come to nothing. He would walk the dark road to Hades as a failure.

A failure.

In Priam’s eyes he always had been one. When Agathon had defeated the rebel Hittites at Rhesos, his father had railed at the losses he sustained. “Hektor would have crushed them with half your men and a tenth of your dead.” No parade for Agathon. No wreath of laurels.

When had it ever been different? As a child of ten, frightened of the dark and fearful of cramped, gloomy places, he had been taken by his father to the subterranean caves of Cerberus. Priam had told him of demons and monsters who inhabited the caves and had said that a wrong path would lead straight to the Underworld. His father had been carrying a torch. Agathon had stayed close, his panic growing. Deeper and deeper they had traveled. Then they had come to an underground stream. His father had doused the torch and stepped away from him. Agathon had screamed, begging his father to take his hand.

The silence had grown. He had cowered in the darkness for what seemed an eternity, weeping and terrified.

Then he had seen a light. It had been his eleven-year-old half brother Hektor, carrying a flaming torch.

“Father is gone. Demons have taken him,” Agathon wailed.

“No, he is outside, waiting for you.”

“Why did he leave me?”

“He thinks it will cure your fear of the dark.”

“Can we go now?”

“I cannot leave with you, Agathon. Father does not know I came here. I entered on the south side. We will douse the torch, and you will take my hand. I will lead you to to where you can see the sunlight. Then you must walk out on your own.”

“Why does he hate me, Hektor?”

“He just wants you to be strong. I am going to douse the torch now. Are you ready?”

Hektor had led him slowly up through the tunnels, holding close to the walls. Agathon had not been afraid then, for he could feel the warmth of Hektor’s hand and knew his brother would not abandon him. The gloom had slowly lifted, and ahead Agathon had seen sunlight against the cave walls.

“I’ll see you later, little brother,” said Hektor, ducking back into the darkness.

Agathon had walked out, to see Father, Mother, and twenty or more counselors and advisers, all sitting in the sunshine. As Agathon had emerged, Priam had looked over to him.

“Gods, boy, have you been weeping? You are a disgrace to me.”

Shaking himself free of the memory, he watched his Thrakians scale the walls. Strangely, there was no sound of fighting.

The white-haired Kolanos appeared alongside him. “They have retreated to the citadel,” he said.

Then came the cries of wounded and dying men. Agathon knew what was happening. Archers were shooting down into the massed ranks of his Thrakians. Swinging around, he called out to one of the officers commanding the reserves. “Send in bowmen!” he shouted. “The enemy will be massed on the balcony above the doors. Pin them down!”

The officer gathered his men, and a hundred archers ran to the ladders.

This should have been so simple. Agathon’s men were to march to the palace, overpower the few guards, and allow the Mykene in to complete the massacre. Instead, the gates were barred and a defense had been organized.

Who would have thought that fat Antiphones could have fought off the assassins? There was no doubt in Agathon’s mind that he had lived long enough to warn Helikaon. Agathon had heard that a rider on a golden horse had swept past his Thrakians as they marched to the citadel. Helikaon alone bred those mounts. Then had come the news that a warrior in Mykene armor had scattered his men when they were about to storm the gates.

Helikaon and Argurios. Two men who were never part of his original plan. Two men who were only invited at the request of Kolanos.

Ultimately their actions could do nothing but delay the inevitable, yet it was still galling.

The gates to the courtyard swung open.

“Prepare your fighters,” he told Kolanos, then crossed the open ground to seize his destiny.

XXXIII

THE SHIELD OF ILOS

I

Argurios entered the
megaron,
easing his way past the three ranks of Eagles preparing to defend the wide doorway. Helikaon, a curved shield slung across his back, approached him. “Ensure that the men know they must hold their position,” said Argurios. “If the enemy fall back, there must be no chase.”

“Already done,” said Helikaon. “When do you expect the Mykene?”

“Soon.”

Argurios left him then and strode across the mosaic floor. He needed a shield, but the walls had been all but stripped of weapons and armor. Then he saw it. It was an ancient piece, beautifully wrought, decorated with tin and blue enamel. At its center was a battle scene featuring the great hero Herakles fighting the nine-headed Hydra. Borrowing a spear from a soldier, he hooked the point under the strap and lifted the shield from the wall.

Swinging it to his back, he walked across to where Polydorus stood with some thirty Eagles, tall men and wide-shouldered, their faces grim. He scanned them all, looking into their eyes. He was unsure of two of them and sent them to join Helikaon at the doorway. The rest waited for his orders.

“When the Mykene come,” he told them, “I want you to form three lines behind the defenders. At my order . . .” Just then came the sounds of screams and battle cries from outside as the Thrakians surged toward the doorway. The Eagles tightened their grips on their weapons and adjusted their shields.

“Look at me and listen,” said Argurios calmly. “Your turn will come soon enough. You are to face the Mykene. When they come, they will be in a tight formation. They will charge the doorway and seek to scatter the defenders with their weight and power. As they rush forward, Helikaon will break his line to the left and right. We will counter the Mykene charge with one of our own. Thus we will form three sides of a square. We will hold the Mykene while Helikaon’s men attack them on the flanks. Is this clear?”

“It is clear, sir,” said Polydorus. “But how long can thirty hold back two hundred?”

“I do not know,” said Argurios, “but this is how legends are carved. We will be forced back. We will conduct a fighting retreat to the stairs below the queen’s apartments. We will not break and scatter. Each man here will stand beside his comrades as if we were all brothers of the blood.” As he spoke, he swung the shield around, settling his left arm into the straps. He saw the Eagles staring at it, shock on their faces.

“Brothers of the Blood,” said Polydorus. “We will not fail you, Argurios.”

“Then let us form up behind the defenders. Rank of Three.”

The Eagles moved into position, Argurios at the center of the first line.

Ahead of them Helikaon and his warriors were battling the Thrakians.

Argurios took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Torches flickered in brackets on the walls, and the sounds of war echoed around the
megaron.
On the stairs leading to the balcony above the doorway Argurios saw wounded men being helped down. Thrakian archers were beginning to take their toll on Dios and his men. Several of the Eagles with Helikaon also had fallen, the men behind dragging them clear.

And the long night wore on.

II

Andromache rose from beside the sleeping Laodike and gazed around the queen’s apartments. Men were being brought in all the time now, some with hideous wounds. Priam’s chief physician, Zeotos, was tending them, his long white robes bloodstained, his hands and arms crimson with gore. The elderly physician had arrived a little while ago and moved straight to Laodike’s side.

“She is all right,” Andromache assured him. “The bleeding has all but stopped, and she is resting well.”

“We will all be resting well after this night,” he said despondently.

Axa and several other servants were assisting the noblewomen, bandaging wounds and administering stitches. Even young Kassandra was busy cutting up linens. By the balcony wall there were six bodies, all stripped of armor and weapons. There was little space to lay them out, and they had been laid atop one another, arms entwined.

Andromache walked out of the apartments onto the gallery above the stairs. Quivers of arrows had been laid there, along with a stack of throwing spears. Moving to the far left of the gallery, she looked down into the
megaron.
Men were battling by the doors, and she saw Helikaon among them, his bright bronze armor gleaming like gold in the torchlight.

Behind the defenders stood another group of warriors, tall shields on their arms and heavy thrusting spears in their hands.

Off to the right she saw the king and around a dozen of his counselors. Many of them were older men, but they were holding swords or spears and a few bore shields. From her high vantage point Andromache could see past the fighting men and out into the courtyard beyond. Hundreds of Thrakians were massing there. It seemed inconceivable that the few defenders could keep them out for long.

More wounded were dragged back from the front line. She saw Priam gesture to his counselors, and several of them ran forward, heaving the injured to their feet and half carrying them back toward the stairs. One soldier, an older man, perhaps in his forties, was gouting blood from a neck wound. He sagged against the men assisting him, then slumped to the floor.

Andromache watched as the pumping blood slowed and the man died. Almost immediately other men crowded around him, unbuckling his breastplate and untying his greaves. Within moments the dead Eagle was merely another body, hauled unceremoniously back and left against the wall so as not to encumber the living. The dead man had been flung on his back, and his head lolled, his vacant eyes staring up at her. Andromache felt suddenly light-headed, a sense of unreality gripping her. The clashing sounds of battle receded, and she found herself staring into the eyes of the corpse below. The difference between life and death was a single heartbeat. All that man’s dreams, hopes, and ambitions had been dashed in one bloody moment.

Her mouth was dry, and she felt the beginnings of terror clawing at the pit of her stomach.

Would she, too, be dead in a little while?

Would Helikaon fall, his throat slashed, his body stripped and discarded?

Her hands were trembling. Soon the enemy would sweep past the tiring defenders and surge into the
megaron.
She pictured them running at her, their faces distorted with rage and lust. Strangely, the image calmed her.

“I am not a victim waiting for the slaughter,” she said aloud. “I am Andromache.”

Kassandra came running from the queen’s apartments. “We need more bandages,” she said.

Andromache reached out. “Give me the scissors.” Kassandra did so, and Andromache hacked into her own full-length white gown just above the knees, cutting the material clear. Kassandra clapped her hands.

“Let me help!” she cried as Andromache struggled to complete the circular cut. The child took the scissors, slicing swiftly through the cloth. The lower half of Andromache’s gown fell away.

“Do mine! Do mine!” said Kassandra.

Adromache knelt by the child and swiftly snipped through the thin cloth. Kassandra swept up the material and darted away. Andromache followed her back into the main rooms, then took up her bow. Returning to the gallery, she hefted a quiver of arrows and settled it over her shoulder.

“Fear is an aid to the warrior,” her father had said. “It is like a small fire burning. It heats the muscles, making us stronger. Panic comes when the fire is out of control, consuming all courage and pride.”

There was still fear in her as she stared down at the battle in the doorway.

But the panic had gone.

III

The two hundred twelve warriors of the Mykene stood patiently before the temple of Hermes, awaiting the call to battle. There was little tension among them, even with the distant sounds of battle and the screams of dying men echoing over the city. Some joked, and others chatted to old comrades. Kalliades the tall, his tower shield swung to his back, walked along a line of statues outside the temple doors, marveling at the workmanship. In the moonlight they could almost be real, he thought, gazing up into the face of Hermes, the winged god of travelers. The face was young, little more than a youth, the wings on the heels beautifully fashioned. Reaching out, he stroked his thick fingers across the stone. Banokles the one-eared joined him.

“It’s said they brought in Gyppto sculptors,” said Banokles. “I had an uncle once who went to Luxor. They got statues there tall as mountains, so he said.”

Kalliades glanced at his friend. Banokles was already wearing his full-faced helmet, and his deep voice was muffled. “You must be sweating like a pig in that,” he ventured.

“Better to be ready,” answered Banokles.

“For what?”

“I don’t trust the Trojans. They have a thousand men on the great walls.”

Kalliades chuckled. “You never were a trusting man. They opened the gates for us, didn’t they? They serve the new king. No problem for us.”

“No problem?” countered Banokles. “Does it sound to you like no problem? There was to be no major battle. The Thrakians would take the citadel, and we were to clean out a few guests at a funeral feast. It is not going well, Kalliades.”

“We’ll put it right when they call us.” Kalliades pointed to the statue of a woman holding a sheaf of corn in one hand and a sword in the other. “I can recognize most of the gods, but who is that?”

Banokles shrugged. “I don’t know. Some Trojan deity, maybe.”

A powerfully built warrior with a square-cut black beard emerged from an alleyway and made his way over to join them.

“What news, Eruthros?” Banokles asked him.

“Good and bad. The gates are open,” the man answered. “Won’t be long now.”

“And the bad?” inquired Banokles.

“I spoke to Kolanos. Argurios is with the Trojans.”

“By Hades, I wouldn’t have thought it possible,” said Kalliades. “When word came he’d turned traitor, I didn’t believe it for one heartbeat.”

“Nor me,” admitted Banokles.

“Well, I hope it’s not me who cuts him down,” said Eruthros. “The man is a legend.”

Kalliades wandered away from his friends. He had no fear of battle and no qualms about fighting inside a foreign city. It seemed to him that the world was neatly divided into lions and sheep. The Mykene were lions. Any who could be conquered were sheep. It was a natural order and one Argurios understood. Indeed, it had been Argurios who had first offered him this simple philosophy.

Now Argurios, the Mykene Lion, was standing with the sheep. It made no sense. Still worse was the fact that Kalliades and his friends were being led by Kolanos. They called him the Breaker of Spirits, but the Despicable was closer to the truth. For the first time since they landed Kalliades felt uneasy.

He had fought with Argurios at Partha, and in Thessaly, and on the Athenian plains. He had stormed towns and sacked cities alongside him and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him in a score of skirmishes and fights. Argurios had never been interested in plunder or riches. His entire life had been one of service to his king. There was not enough gold in all the world to buy a man like Argurios. So how was it possible that he had betrayed the Mykene and allied himself with the Trojan enemy?

Banokles approached him. “The Eagles are holding the Thrakians at the palace doors. The butcher Helikaon is with them.”

This was better news. The thought that the vile Burner would pay for his hideous crimes lifted Kalliades’ spirits. “If the gods will it,” he said, “I shall cut his head clear.”

“And put out his eyes?”

“Of course not! You think I am a heathen savage like him? No, his death will be enough.”

Banokles laughed. “Well,
you
can hunt down the Burner. Once we’ve cleaned out the Eagles, I’ll be looking for some softer booty. Never shagged a king’s daughter before. It is said that Priam’s daughters are all beautiful. Big round tits and fat asses. You think they’ll let me take one home?”

“Why would you want to?” countered Kalliades. “With the gold we’ve been promised you can buy a hundred women.”

“True, but a king’s daughter is special. Something to brag about.”

“It seems to me you’ve never needed anything
special
to brag about.”

Banokles laughed with genuine good humor. “I used to think I was the greatest braggart on the Great Green. Then I met Odysseus. Now,
that
man can brag. I swear he could weave a magical tale about taking a shit in a swamp.”

All around them the Mykene troops began to gather. Kalliades saw Kolanos moving among the men.

“Time to earn our plunder,” said black-bearded Eruthros, putting on his helmet.

Kalliades strode back to where he had left his helmet, shield, and spear. Banokles went with him. As Kalliades garbed himself for battle, Banokles removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his long yellow hair.

“Now that it is time to put on your helmet you are removing it,” Kalliades pointed out.

“Sweating like a pig,” Banokles responded with a wide grin.

They lined up with their comrades and waited as Kolanos mustered the men.

“You know what is required of you, men of Mykene,” shouted Kolanos. “The palace is held by a few royal guardsman. This is a night of blood. This is a night of slaughter. Drench your spears. Kill them all. Leave not a man alive.”

IV

The bodies of dead Thrakians were piled high around the palace doors, and scores more corpses littered the courtyard, shot down by arrows from the balcony above. Helikaon lowered his sword as the surviving Thrakians pulled back toward the shelter of the gates.

Around him the Eagles relaxed, and there was silence at last.

Helikaon turned to the warriors alongside him. “Now the Mykene will come,” he said. “When they charge, take up positions to the left and right of the doors.”

“Not many of us left,” said a tall soldier, glancing around at the surviving defenders.

No more than twenty Eagles manned the doorway. Argurios and his twenty-eight men stood a little way back, shields and spears at the ready.