He realized his sword was getting blunt. He always carried a spare on his back, but he’d used that one already. He’d have to watch out for a sharper one. After all, there was a chance he’d meet Achilles the Slayer. Everyone knew he was out there somewhere. Look for the thick of the fight, they said; that’s where he’ll be. Just like Hektor, Echios thought. And we could do with him right now. He’ll be here in five days, General Thyrsites said. With the Trojan Horse. Then these pigging Mykene won’t know what hit them.
In front of him a Trojan rider he knew called Olganos had been unhorsed. He was bleeding from several wounds and seemed dazed. Two enemy soldiers ran at him. Echios hurdled the horse’s dead body and lunged at one of the soldiers. His sword skewered into the man’s armpit and broke. He dived forward and swept up the man’s fallen sword, rolling to his feet. The second man lanced his blade into Olganos’ chest before Echios could hammer the sword into his skull. Olganos fell facedown in the mud and lay still. Echios stepped over the bodies.
Above the clash of battle and the screams of the dying he heard the sound of hoofbeats. There was no enemy soldier facing him, so he risked turning to look back toward the river.
Galloping over the plain and thundering across one of the temporary bridges toward them came a troop of riders led by a big warrior with golden hair and beard. He was waving two swords, and his mouth was open in a battle cry as he rode. Behind him Echios could see Trojan Horse and painted tribesmen.
Reinforcements, Echios thought. About pigging time!
He turned back to the battle just in time to glimpse the killing blow that took out his throat.
Later that afternoon Banokles sat on the south bank of the Scamander, washing blood and mud out of his hair and beard. The water trickled under his armor, and its coldness felt good against his hot skin. He had no wounds except for a nick on the arm from a deflected arrow. He was tired and hungry.
The river was red with gore, and men and horses floated there, moving swiftly down toward the bay. On the other bank he could see the figure of Kalliades walking among the wounded, dispatching enemy soldiers with his sword, calling stretcher bearers to Trojans and their allies. Youngsters were running among the wounded and dead, collecting arrows and abandoned swords and shields. Overhead, carrion birds gathered.
Nearby six men were trying to drag a dead horse out of the water. Banokles stood up angrily. “Our men first, you morons!” he shouted. “Not the poxy horses!” The soldiers hurried to obey, and he slumped down again. His back ached, and his stub of an ear itched intolerably.
I’m getting too old for this, he thought.
A vast shadow fell across him, and he looked up.
“Well done, Banokles,” said the king’s son Antiphones. Despite his bulky frame, he also seemed to be carrying no wounds. “Your ride was well timed, thank the war god Ares. We had the enemy on their back foot already. Your charge was the straw that broke the donkey’s back.”
“Some donkey,” Banokles grunted. “Best soldiers in the world, Mykene infantry.”
“Nevertheless, General, we were the better men today.”
“Not a general anymore,” Banokles said happily. “I was ordered to leave my Thrakians in Dardanos.”
“Yet some came with you, regardless,” the prince said, amusement in his voice.
Banokles shrugged. “I’m no good as a general, then. So dismiss me.”
Antiphones laughed then, and his bass bellow rang out rich and clear over the battlefield.
“To me you are a hero, Banokles,” he said. “I would grant any wish for you that was in my power. But I fear the king may see things differently.”
“The king?”
“We are commanded to attend King Priam at his palace immediately, you and I. So find a horse and come with me.” He turned away.
“Not me,” Banokles said stubbornly, staying where he was. “I’m going to see my wife first.”
Antiphones turned back. “Ah, yes, I remember. You are married to Big Red, the…former whore.”
“That’s right,” Banokles told him proudly. “She’s a good wife. She’ll be missing me and wondering where I am with all this fighting going on down here.”
“Kings take precedence over wives,” the fat man said impatiently. “Come with me,” he repeated.
“What about Kalliades?”
“By Hades, man,” Antiphones exploded in exasperation. “Who is Kalliades?”
“He’s my fr—my aide. Over there.” He pointed in the direction of the battlefield.
“You can send for your aide when you have spoken to Priam. Now, come with me before I have you arrested and brought to the king in chains.”
During the slow ride up to the city Banokles looked longingly down the Street of Potters where his small white house was situated. He wondered if Red was there now, waiting.
At Priam’s palace he and Antiphones dismounted and entered the megaron. Banokles looked around with interest. It was the first time he had been there since the palace siege when he and Kalliades had been among the besiegers. He remembered with nostalgia the battle on the stairs, the great Argurios, unconquerable, turning back the Mykene invaders with relentless strength and skill. Banokles rubbed the scar on his arm where Argurios’ sword had punched through it. He remembered the arrival of Hektor, godlike in his power, and the shield wall where the invaders had planned to make their last stand, then their mysterious retreat to the ships and the screams of Kolanos.
Banokles smiled grimly. That was a day to remember, all right.
When the king came down the stairs, Banokles’ eyes narrowed. He last had seen Priam in a parade at the summer’s end. Then he had looked strong and powerful, waving to the troops from his golden chariot. The change in him was shocking. Priam was a frail old man, leaning on his aide’s arm on one side and a wooden staff on the other. His face was as white as papyrus, and his steps uncertain. His aide, Polydorus, helped him to his throne, and the king sat down wearily, staring at the stone-flagged floor. Behind him stood a scrawny man Banokles knew was the chancellor Polites. Six Royal Eagles flanked the throne.
Finally Priam looked up. When he spoke, his voice was cracked and feeble.
“So this is the great Banokles, the hero who never loses, who turns the battle with every charge. Do you not kneel before your king, General Banokles?”
Banokles stepped forward. “I was taught soldiering as a Mykene, Priam King. In Mykene lands we do not kneel before our kings. We show our loyalty in our every action.”
The king smiled thinly. “It might not be wise to remind me you once fought in this megaron with every intention of killing me. But for the hero Argurios you would have been slaughtered where you stood, along with your fellows.”
“Well,” Banokles said, “you see, Argurios was Mykene, as you know.”
“Enough!” The king’s voice thundered out, suddenly full of power. “You are not here to debate me, soldier!”
“Now,” Priam said, leaning forward in his throne, “my son Hektor gave you leadership of the Thrakians because you gathered a loyal army in your retreat across Thraki. It seemed to me then a mistake to put a fool in charge. But now it appears Hektor was right and you are a lucky fool.”
Banokles opened his mouth to speak, but Priam silenced him. “Be quiet and listen, soldier! My general Thyrsites, the idiot, got himself killed in the battle today, so I need a new general for the Scamandrian regiment. I’ll take a lucky fool before an unlucky genius any day. So you are a general again, Banokles, general of the finest infantry force in the world.”
“Yes, but I think—” Banokles started.
The king stood up angrily. His anger had rejuvenated him, and Banokles could see the powerful man he once had been. “If you argue with me again, General Banokles, I will have my Eagles kill you where you stand!”
There was an angry silence, and then Banokles said mildly, “What about Kalliades?”
The king frowned. “Kalliades? I know that name. Ah, yes, t
he tall soldier who took command of the Mykene invaders after the arrest of Kolanos. What of him?”
“He’s my friend.”
Antiphones stepped in hastily. “He is the general’s aide, Father.”
“Then he will continue to be his aide. Now”—he turned to his son—“Antiphones, report.”
“The enemy has been forced back again to the earthwork they erected at the foot of the pass, Father. We calculate they lost at least a thousand over the two days of battle on the plain.”
“And our own dead?”
“Slightly less. Maybe seven hundred dead and two hundred so grievously wounded that they will not fight again soon, if ever. A hospital has been set up on the edge of the lower town, in the Ilean barracks. Many of our physicians and healers have moved there from the House of Serpents.”
“And the Ilos regiment?”
Antiphones shrugged. “They are soldiers. They will rest wherever they can.”
Priam looked around him. “And where is General Lucan? The Heraklions are not represented here.”
“The Heraklion regiment is still on the field. I thought it best to leave one general at the Scamander in case of a further attack tonight.”
“Do you expect such an attack?”
“No.”
Priam nodded. “My Hektor will be here in three or four days. We have only to hold until then. When the main force of the Trojan Horse arrives, these western jackals will be driven back to the sea, their tails between their legs.”
Banokles saw Antiphones and Polites exchange a glance. Priam saw it, too.
He leaned forward in his throne. “I know you think me an old fool, my sons. But my confidence in Hektor has never been misplaced. The Trojan Horse always prevails. It won at Kadesh, and it will win here. Agamemnon and his lackeys will be driven back to the pass. We will retake the pass and King’s Joy. Then the enemy will find itself trapped in the Bay of Herakles, with Hektor on one side and our ships on the other. We will pick them off like fleas off a dog.”
“At present, however, our fleet is trapped in the Bay of Troy, with Agamemnon’s ships holding the Hellespont,” Antiphones pointed out. “The Dardanian fleet was crippled in the sea battle off Carpea. And we don’t know where Helikaon is.”
Priam dismissed this impatiently. “When the Xanthos returns, Aeneas will deal with the enemy ships. All fear his fire hurlers. He will destroy the fleet as he destroyed the one at Imbros; then he will break the blockade of the Hellespont.”
Antiphones shook his head. “We cannot be sure the Golden Ship even survived the winter,” he argued. “We have heard nothing since the turn of the year. We cannot rely on Helikaon.” He paused. “You expect a lot from two men, even heroes like Hektor and Helikaon,” he added with a hint of impatience.
The king rounded on him. “Two men like them are worth a thousand of the likes of you! I despise you, all you naysayers and doom-mongers. My Hekabe warned me against you. Remember the prophecy, she said. Troy will prevail and be eternal.”
He sat back exhausted and for a while seemed deep in thought. The silence stretched, and Banokles shifted on his feet, anxious to be off.
When Priam spoke at last, his voice had become sharp and querulous. “Where is Andromache? Bring her to me. I have not seen her today.”
Polites spoke for the first time. He placed his hand on his father’s shoulder and said in a voice of great gentleness, “She is not here, Father. She is aboard the Xanthos with Aeneas.” He glared at Antiphones, then said, “Come, Father, you need your rest.”
“I need some wine,” the old man retorted, but he stood up uncertainly and allowed himself to be led back to the stone staircase.
Antiphones turned to Banokles with a sigh. “By the war god Ares, I hope Hektor gets here soon,” he said.
Free at last, Banokles hurried from the megaron, climbed on his waiting horse, and galloped back down through the city. The Scaean Gate, now closed all day as well as at night, was opened for him, and he sped toward the Street of Potters, his heart full. His mind already had shrugged off the problems of the day, the burdens of leadership, and the battles that awaited tomorrow in his eagerness to see Red.
He threw himself off his horse as he reached his home and only then realized that a crowd had gathered at the small white house.
A neighbor, a potter called Alastor, ran up to him, his face pale. “Banokles, my friend…”
Banokles grabbed him by the front of his tunic and looked around at the men’s anxious faces, the women’s red eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
“What’s happening?” he thundered. He shook Alastor. “What in Hades is going on?”
“It’s your wife, Red,” the man stuttered.
Banokles threw him to one side and rushed into the house. Lying on a sheet of white linen in the center of the main room was Red. Her body had been washed and clothed in a white gown, but no one could hide the blue sheen to her face or the dark bruises around her neck.
Banokles fell to the floor beside her, his mind in shock, his thoughts in turmoil.
“Red.” He took her shoulders and shook her gently. “Red!” But her body was stiff and cold under his trembling hands.
Banokles stood, his face white with fury, and the people crowding around him moved back nervously.
“What happened? You, potter! What happened?” He advanced menacingly toward the frightened man.
“It was the old baker, my friend,” Alastor told him. “The one who made the honey cakes she loved. He strangled her, Banokles, then opened his own throat with a knife. He is out there.” He gestured to the courtyard.
“He told his daughter he loved Red and couldn’t live without her. He was leaving the city and wanted her to go with him, but she refused him. He asked her over and over, but she laughed at him.”
But Banokles wasn’t listening. With an anguished roar he threw himself into the paved courtyard, where he found the small form of Krenio lying on the ground, one of Red’s gowns tightly gripped in one hand, the other holding a knife. His blood had soaked the ground around his head.
Banokles tore the dress from the man’s hand and flung it furiously to one side. Then he drew his dagger and drove it into the baker’s chest. Shouting incoherently, tears running down his face, he plunged the knife over and over into the dead man’s body.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HEKTOR’S RIDE
Skorpios was tired, and not just from the long day of riding. His weariness was bone-deep. He was tired of the war and tired of battle. He longed to see his father’s farm again and to sit at the table with his family, listening to their mundane stories of lost sheep or weevils on the vines.
He glanced down into the grassy hollow where his comrade Justinos, broad-shouldered and shaven-headed, was striking flint, sending glittering sparks into the dry tinder. A small flame flickered, and Justinos bent forward to blow gently. The fire caught, and he carefully added a few more twigs.
The two riders were making late camp just beneath the top of a hill. Scouts for Hektor’s Trojan Horse, they were ahead of the main army as it made speed to get back to Troy, crossing the Ida range on the well-worn route from Thebe Under Plakos to the Golden City. They were expecting the rest of the force to catch up with them by nightfall.
Skorpios sat staring out across the darkening country to the northwest. The air was fragrant with the scent of evening flowers. Finally he sighed and moved back down to the camp. Justinos glanced up at him but said nothing. He handed Skorpios a hunk of corn bread, and the two men ate in silence.
“You think Olganos will still be in Troy?” Skorpios asked, as Justinos spread his blanket on the ground, ready for sleep.
The big man shrugged. “There are only a hundred of the Horse in the city. They’ll be in the thick of it every day until we get there. They may all be dead already.”
“He is tough, though,” Skorpios persisted.
“We are all tough, boy,” Justinos muttered, stretching out and closing his eyes.
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“I want to go home, Justinos. I’m sick of all this.”
Justinos sighed and then sat up, adding more sticks to the blaze. “We are going home,” he said.
“I mean my home. Far away from war.”
Justinos smiled grimly. “Far away from war? There is nowhere on the Great Green that is far away from war.”
Skorpios stared at his friend. “It must end one day, surely.”
“This war? Of course. Then there’ll be another, and another. Best not to dwell on it. The land is quiet here, and we are safe for at least this night. That is good enough for me.”
“Not for me. I dread tomorrow.”
“Why? Nothing will happen tomorrow. We’ll just carry on riding north, watching for ambush. Hektor will stop beneath Gargaron, as he always does, to sacrifice to Father Zeus. What’s special about tomorrow?”
“Nothing. I don’t know.”
“Then what is there to dread? Listen to me, boy; now is all there is. Yesterday is gone. Nothing we can do about it. Tomorrow is a mystery. Nothing we can do about that, either, until we get there. Let Hektor and the generals worry about tomorrow. That’s their job.”
“And Banokles,” Skorpios pointed out.
Justinos chuckled. “Yes, and Banokles, I suppose. I’d feel sorry for the man, but anyone with the balls to marry Big Red should be able to cope with being a general.”
“Why would anyone marry a whore?” Skorpios asked.
“Now, that is just plain stupid,” Justinos snapped. “What does being a whore have to do with anything?”