Lord of the Silver Bow (40 page)

“Might be a good time to shut the doors,” offered another warrior.

“No,” said Helikaon. “They would not hold for more than a few moments. It would also give them time to move the bodies. As it is, their charge will be slowed as they clamber over them.”

“Never fought Mykene,” said the first man. “Said to be fine fighters.”

“They think they are the greatest warriors in all the world,” said Helikaon. “They are going to learn a sad truth tonight.”

He moved back to where Argurios waited. The men were standing in three ranks. Polydorus shuffled to his right, allowing Helikaon to stand alongside Argurios.

No one spoke, and the silence grew. Then Prince Dios came running down from the upper balcony, followed by his archers.

“No more shafts,” said Dios.

“Take your men to the far balcony,” said Argurios. “There are quivers there.”

“You don’t have enough men to hold them here,” said Dios. “We’ll stand with you.”

“No,” said Argurios. “Your men have no armor. They will be cut to pieces. Defend the stairwell.”

Dios moved away without a word, and the warriors waited. From where he stood Helikaon could see out into the courtyard. It was deserted except for the dead and dying. So many had died this night, and many more would walk the dark road before the dawn. Time drifted by. Helikaon’s mouth was dry.

Then he heard the sound of marching feet. “They are coming!” shouted a warrior in the doorway.

At that moment Prince Dios appeared, dressed in a breastplate of bronze and silver and carrying a long shield. An Eagle’s helmet was pushed back on his head. At his side was a stabbing sword, and in his hand a heavy spear.

He moved in alongside Argurios. “Do you object to fighting alongside the runt of the litter?” he asked with a tight smile.

“It will be an honor, Prince Deiphobos,” Argurios said softly.

“Call me Dios,” said the young man with a smile. “And try to forget I can be a pompous fool sometimes.”

“As can we all,” Argurios told him. Then he raised his voice to address the waiting warriors. “Do not stab for the body,” he said. “Their armor is well made and will turn any blade. Go for the throat, the lower thigh, or the arms.”

Helikaon gazed out into the courtyard. The Mykene had formed up in tight ranks of eight abreast. Then they began to march toward the palace. As they came closer, they surged into a run.

The Eagles in the doorway faded to the left and right. The Mykene slowed as they reached the wall of Thrakian corpses.

Argurios hefted his spear. “For the king and for Troy!” he bellowed.

And the Eagles charged.

XXXIV

THE LOST GARDEN

I

Andromache felt her heart go out to those valiant men. From her vantage point on the rear gallery she could see how unequal the struggle was. There seemed to be hundreds of heavily armed Mykene warriors powering forward with brute strength into a mere four ranks of Eagles. Even so, the Mykene charge faltered as the Eagles from the doorway gathered on both sides of the advancing phalanx, hacking and cutting at the Mykene flanks.

The archers on the gallery could not afford to shoot yet for fear of hitting their own men. But slowly, as the phalanx inexorably entered the
megaron,
some bowmen began to send shafts into the warriors still massing in the doorway. Few arrows pierced the great shields or the heavy helmets and breastplates of the invaders, but they caused the fighting men at the center to raise their shields against the new attack, lessening the pressure on the front of the line.

Argurios gave no ground, fighting with ruthless economy of effort, his spear lancing into the enemy, his shield a wall they could not pass. Beside him Helikaon was also holding, and Andromache saw the first Mykene fall to his spear. Soon other bodies were falling as the fighting became ever more brutal. At least two Mykene were going down for every Eagle.

It was not enough.

Noching an arrow to her bow, she took careful aim and sent a black shaft slashing through the air to bury itself in the eye socket of a glittering bronze helmet. The victim vanished under the feet of his comrades.

The battle wore on, the Eagles now being pushed back, bent like a bow of human flesh. Andromache and the other archers continued to shoot down into the fighting, scoring less than one good hit in twenty.

The Eagles were engaged in a fighting retreat, with the Mykene seeking to circle them and cut them off from the stairs. At the center of the Trojan line Argurios, Helikaon, and Dios were fighting hard, but the flanks were giving way faster than the center. At any moment the Mykene would sweep around and encircle the battling men.

Andromache saw the danger. “Aim for the wings!” she cried to the bowmen around her.

A greater concentration of shafts hammered into the Mykene on the left of the battle line, and they were forced to raise their shields and pull back, allowing the Trojan line to hold steady.

At the back of the melee Andromache saw the white-haired figure of Kolanos urging his men on but keeping back from the point of impact.

Just then Andromache felt the frayed hem of her chiton being tugged. She glanced down and saw little Kassandra standing there.

“You must come. Quickly,” said Kassandra.

Andromache struggled to hear her above the clash of swords and shields and the screams of wounded men. Kneeling down, she drew the girl to her. “What is it?”

“Laodike! She is dying!”

“No, she is just resting,” Andromache said.

Kassandra shook her head. “You must come,” she said.

Allowing the child to take her hand, she followed her back into the queen’s apartments. They was filled now with wounded men, and she saw Axa helping to carry a soldier to a wide table where the physician Zeotos, his robes utterly drenched with gore, sought to save him.

Kassandra moved away, and Andromache hurried to where Laodike lay. The young woman’s face was unnaturally pale and shone with sweat. Her lips and eyelids had a bluish tinge. Andromache knelt beside her, taking her hand. The fingers seemed thick and swollen, and they, too, were bruised and discolored.

“Zeotos!” she shouted. The sounds of fighting outside were closer now, and Andromache sensed the battle was all but over. In that moment she did not care. “Zeotos!” she screamed again.

The old physician came to her side. His face showed his exhaustion.

“What is happening to her?” cried Andromache.

Zeotos hauled at Laodike, half turning her and using a small knife to slice through her dress. Once the skin of her back was exposed, Andromache saw a huge black and swollen bruise extending from her shoulder to her hip.

“Why did you not tell me she had such a wound?” said Zeotos. “I thought she was merely scratched.”

“I believed her to be healing,” Andromache answered.

“Well, she’s not,” said the physician. “She’s dying. The sword or spear must have pierced a vital organ. She is bleeding to death from within.”

“There must be something you can do.”

Zeotos’ shoulders sagged. “Within a few heartbeats I will be able to do nothing for anyone. We are lost. As she is lost. We are going to die.” With that he returned to the wounded man on the table.

Priam approached. He had a sword in his hand. He looked down at his stricken daughter. “Her death will be a merciful release,” he said. Then he looked at Andromache. “When they come, do not struggle. Do not fight. Women have been raped before and have survived. Live, Andromache.” Then he strode away toward the gallery.

Little Kassandra appeared from a hiding place behind the couch. “I didn’t want Father to see me,” she said. “He is angry with me.”

“He is not angry, little one.”

Kassandra grabbed Andromache’s hand. “Yes, he is. Ever since I told him Hektor is coming home. He won’t be angry when he sees him. He’ll be here soon.”

“Oh, Kassandra.” Andromache reached out and hugged the girl. “Hektor is dead.”

“No!” exclaimed Kassandra, pulling away. “Listen to me. I thought he was dead, too. But the voices told me. Then they showed me.”

“What did they show you?”

“Climbing high cliffs. Perils and adventures. Down long rivers . . .”

“Slow down!” said Andromache. “Tell me calmly from the beginning. What cliffs?”

Kassandra took a deep breath. “Hektor and his men were trapped. It was night. Hektor knew the enemy would come again at dawn to kill him, so he exchanged armor with a dead man. Then he and his men climbed the cliffs. Hektor is a good climber. We used to climb sometimes—”

“Stay with your story,” Andromache interrupted. “What happened after they climbed the cliffs?”

“It took them a long time to reach a big river and then to find a boat to bring them to the sea. A long time. That is why no word came. But he is here tonight. Please believe me, Andromache. Hektor will be here soon with lots of soldiers. He will.”

Just then Laodike cried out and opened her swollen eyes. She saw Andromache, who once more gripped her hand and kissed her cheek.

“Rest, Sister,” she whispered.

“I think I’m dying. Oh, Andromache!” A tear fell, and she blinked more away. “I don’t want to die!”

Andromache’s vision misted, and she bit her lip. “I’m so sorry.”

Laodike sighed. “It was all to be so perfect. Argurios and I would . . . live in a palace overlooking the Scamander. I went there only yesterday. It is so . . . beautiful . . . I . . . sat in the garden . . . in the garden. . . .” Her voice trailed away. Then she spoke again. “Where is Argurios?”

“He is fighting. For you. For all of us.”

“He will win. Like my Hektor. Always wins. I am very thirsty.”

Kassandra ran away to find some water. There was little to be had, and she came back with a small goblet containing barely a mouthful.

Andromache held it to Laodike’s lips. She drank a little and then sagged back. “Will you find him for me, Andromache?” she asked. “Bring him to me. I . . . don’t . . . want to be alone when . . . I die.”

“I will find him.”

Laodike closed her eyes and smiled. “Find . . . my . . . Argurios,” she whispered.

II

Argurios was exultant. Everything had worked precisely to plan, and now was the moment he had waited for. Once he was on the stairs, Helikaon beside him, Polydorus and Dios behind, the enemy advance had been halted. Now the Mykene were forced to attack in twos, driving up toward the warriors above them, while the mass of enemy soldiers milled below, helpless against arrows shot at them from above or spears hurled from the gallery. In essence it was the bridge at Partha yet again, the entire battle being fought on a narrow line between consistently equal fighting men. It no longer mattered that the Mykene outnumbered them, for at the point of impact there could only be two enemy facing them on the stairs.

Argurios hammered his shield against his next opponent, forcing an opening. His spear plunged forward, lancing up between helmet and flesh. The warrior stumbled and fell. Argurios slammed his foot against the man’s shoulder, sending him rolling into his comrades. Another Mykene leapt into the fray. He stumbled over the fallen man, and Helikaon killed him.

Again and again fresh warriors surged against the men on the stairs, but there was no give in them, and the death toll continued to rise.

As Argurios had hoped, the Mykene were no longer thinking clearly about their objective. Instead they were focused only on the need to kill the men facing them. That blinded them to alternatives. Argurios knew what they were thinking. One last push and the citadel would be theirs. All they had to do was brush aside the few fighting men on the stairs and victory was within their grasp.

All forward momentum had ceased. Argurios and Helikaon, their legs braced against the rising steps, their shields held firmly, their deadly lances cleaving the enemy, were blocking the way like a wall of death.

At first it would have seemed to the Mykene that they were winning. Now they had been balked, and were losing men without reply. One after another strong warriors were being cut down, their bodies dragged back to make way for the men behind. Now, Argurios knew, the worms of doubt would start to burrow into the hearts of the Mykene. This was not like an ordinary battle. There was no retreat for them here, no safe camp to return to at the end of a day’s fighting. They were no less trapped than the Trojans. If they could not clear this citadel and kill the king before the dawn, other troops would come to Priam’s rescue, thousands of them, from the forts on the Scamander plain or from the barracks in the lower town.

Argurios fought on, no longer tired, every sense alert. He was fighting for more than life now, more than honor. He was fighting for love and was determined that nothing would destroy his chance at happiness with Laodike. He held her face in his mind’s eye, the sweetness of her smile, the radiance of her company. Not one Mykene warrior would be allowed to mount these stairs.

A spear scraped along his cuirass, ripping clear two more of the bronze disks. Argurios twisted to the right, his weapon lunging home. It was a poor hit, thudding into the armored shoulder and spinning the man. Helikaon kicked the man in front of him, spilling him to the stairs, then spun and drove his lance through the throat of Argurios’ opponent. Then both heroes brought their shields to bear against the next attackers.

Moments later it was Helikaon who was thrown back, losing his footing. Argurios blocked a downward lunge that would have ripped out Helikaon’s throat, then hammered his shield against the Mykene, forcing him back. Helikaon made it to his feet and fought on.

The stairs were slippery with blood now, but there was no letup in the fighting. There were no more arrows to shoot from the gallery, and men and women stood there helplessly, staring down at the combatants.

∗ ∗ ∗

At the top of the stairs Priam waited, sword in hand, staring down at the two men who stood between triumph and disaster.

It was hard to believe these were men of flesh, for they fought like gods, untiring and unbending. The king had come to believe the battle was lost. Now he was not so sure. Hope flickered. The king glanced around. On every face there was grim determination and a sense of awe and pride at what they were witnessing.

For the first time in many years Priam gazed with pride on his son, Deiphobos, standing behind Argurios, ready to take his place in the battle on the stairs.

Transferring his gaze to the Mykene, he saw there was no give in them, either. They were not frightened or dismayed. They waited patiently for their chance at the fighters on the stairs, their expressions hard and unyielding.

The fragile hope faded in the king’s breast. No matter how valiant the heroes on the stairs, nothing would hold back these blood-hungry barbarians. Soon either Helikaon or Argurios would be cut down, and the murderous assault on the upper levels would begin.

Well, he thought, I shall show these savages how a king dies.

Hefting his sword, he strode forward to stand beside the last defenders.

III

Kalliades spit blood from his mouth and wedged a lump of cloth into his cheek. Argurios’ spear had sliced up under his helmet, ripping through the flesh of his face. He had been lucky. The point had missed his eye by a hair’s breadth. He had been kicked ignominiously back down the stairs and was now sheltering in a rear doorway. Banokles was beside him, his tall shield swung to his back.

“At least there are no more arrows,” said Banokles, passing Kalliades a fresh cloth. Blood was flowing freely now. “Thought he had you,” he added.

“Too damn close,” answered Kalliades, spitting more blood.

“He killed Eruthros. Opened his throat.”

“I saw.”

Kalliades gazed back at the stairs. “We should pull back,” he said. “Gather ladders from the walls. Then we could hit them from several sides.”

“They can’t hold much longer,” said Banokles.

“That is Argurios,” Kalliades pointed out. “He could hold all night.”

“Ah, well,” Banokles answered with a wide grin, “when the king makes you a general, I’ll be your ladder man. Until then I think I’ll keep my head down.”

“I need stitches; otherwise I’ll bleed to death,” grumbled Kalliades. Together the two men moved out into the
megaron.
There were some forty wounded Mykene warriors already there, being attended to by comrades. Kalliades pulled off his helmet and sat down on Priam’s throne. Banokles doffed his helmet and reached into the small pouch at his sword belt, drawing out a curved needle and a length of thread. With a cloth he tried to wipe away the blood, but it was flowing too freely.

“Made a real mess of your face,” he offered. “Luckily you always were an ugly whoreson.”

“Just stitch it,” snapped Kalliades.