“It only takes a single arrow to kill a king,” she answered him briskly.
They went on to discuss more stringent rationing, for Polites was concerned about the rapidly dwindling stores of grain. Andromache told them she had visited every baker in the city, gathering advice on keeping grain fresh and free of weevils and ensuring that all the bakers knew of it.
When the men started to talk about rotating troops at the Scaean Gate, she left the megaron. She was feeling restless and, on a whim, gathered her bodyguards, who were playing knucklebones in the portico, and made her way to Priam’s palace. With Polydorus busy in the meeting, Andromache had a sudden urge to speak to the king alone. The young soldier was constantly at his side, and although she liked Polydorus, she felt constrained from speaking openly to Priam when he was present.
She was shown up to the queen’s apartments, where the king had resided since the death of Hekabe. She had expected to find him resting. But when a soldier showed her into a chamber, she was surprised to find the old man out on the wide stone balcony. He was standing staring at the darkening sky, wrapped in a white wool cloak despite the heat. He turned to her, and for a moment she was reminded of the man she first had met on the Great Tower of Ilion. He was still powerful and vital then, and she was a girl of twenty who was risking death because she refused to kneel to a king. Such arrogance, the older Andromache thought ruefully, such pride.
“I hope I find you well, my king,” she said to him.
“Andromache of Thebe!” he cried, and in the torchlight his eyes glittered with life. She realized that this was not the confused old man of recent days but the powerful and capricious king she once had feared, though she did not show it.
“Come, stand with me and gaze upon our city.” He held out his hand, and she took it. He drew her out onto the balcony. She gazed sideways at his profile, the high beaked nose and firm jaw, and wondered if mischievous gods had transported her back to her first days in Troy.
“Tell me of the Eagle Child,” he demanded, his voice strong. And he quoted the prophecy of Melite: “Beneath the Shield of Thunder waits the Eagle Child on shadow wings, to soar above all city gates till end of days and fall of kings.”
“Astyanax, they call him,” he went on. “Lord of the city. Foolish old women try to touch his tunic as he walks in the streets, I’m told. He is the hope of Troy.” His voice changed and became more urgent. “He must stay in the city, Andromache.”
She was about to agree with him when he grabbed her by the arms, pushing her against the stone balcony. “I will not let him leave Troy!” he rasped, his voice angry in her ear. “I know what you’re thinking, girl! You will smuggle him out of the gates, bundled in a basket, just a soldier’s whore with a bag of clothes. But you will not. I will have him guarded night and day. My Eagles will see that you do him no harm!”
With manic strength he lifted her off her feet, attempting to push her over the wide stone wall of the balcony. “I will stop you now!” he cried. “You will not take him!”
She tried to fight against him, but her arms were pinned, and she was helpless as he pushed her out over the high drop to the stones below. Forcing herself to stay calm, she made herself go limp in his arms. Recalling her last interview with Queen Hekabe, she whispered seductively to him the words she had heard, though they meant little to her, “Where do we sail today, my lord? The Scamandrios is waiting.”
His body jerked with shock, and he released her. Andromache dragged herself back to safety, her heart pounding, and stepped away from him, watching him carefully.
“Hekabe?” he asked her uncertainly, his voice quavering, his eyes pained and confused.
“Go to your rest, my husband,” she said softly. “I will join you in a heartbeat.”
Priam hesitated and then shuffled over to his wide bed, lifting his feet up with effort, and lay there as obedient as a child. Andromache gazed at him, emotions warring in her breast. Fear of the powerful king on the balcony quickly gave way to pity for the confused old man. She hurried from the room.
Deep in thought, she was walking down a torchlit corridor when a voice behind her said, “Lady, are you all right?”
Turning swiftly, her nerves in a jangle, she saw that it was Kalliades. She realized she must have looked flushed and disheveled, and she collected her thoughts.
“I am glad you are here, Kalliades,” she told him. “I wish to talk with you. I need any bows and arrows you can spare brought to me in the palace gardens tomorrow. I am going to teach the Women of the Horse to shoot.”
“Women of the Horse?” he queried, frowning.
“They are daughters of riders of the Trojan Horse who died in the service of the city. They are given places in the royal household. My two handmaids are the daughters of a rider called Ursos.”
“I knew Ursos,” Kalliades replied. “A good man. He died in the battle for Dardanos.”
“His daughters are among many young women still in the city. If the walls fall, their fate will be appalling. I would like to teach them how to defend themselves.”
The warrior looked gravely at her, as if reluctant to say what he was thinking.
“Speak your mind, Kalliades,” she demanded.
“When the enemy armies come, lady, they will come in the thousands. A bow and arrow will make little difference to a woman’s fate.” He looked down, unwilling to meet her eye.
“You were at the palace siege,” she said to him.
“I was with the Mykene invaders, with Banokles. It is well known, but that part of our lives is past.”
“I did not mention it to embarrass you. Did you see me there?”
He nodded. “With your bow you killed and injured many of our men.” He paused and then said, “You were magnificent, lady.”
She blushed at his unexpected words.
“But,” he went on, “we Mykene came ready for hand-to-hand combat. There were few bowmen in our ranks. Had there been, you would have been a dead woman.”
She accepted the truth of his words but said, “Kalliades, if you were being attacked by armed men, would you rather be completely helpless or armed with a bow?”
Kalliades nodded. “I will see you have the bows and arrows you need. It can do no harm. How many?”
“There are more than thirty Women of the Horse in the city still.”
“I will let you have what we can spare. But we must not leave our bowmen short.”
Deep in thought, Kalliades left the palace and strolled back through the quiet city to the east wall. He followed it along to the East Tower, where he climbed the steps to the battlements. Men of the Scamandrian regiment were sitting around, talking quietly, eating, playing games of chance. Many were fast sleep on the hard stones, as only veteran soldiers could sleep in the most uncomfortable conditions.
Kalliades looked for Banokles, but there was no sign of his friend, so he eased himself down, back against the battlements, legs outstretched. He sighed and closed his eyes gratefully. He thought about Andromache’s words about bowmen. It was not true, although there was nothing to be gained by arguing with the woman. If he were unarmed and facing armed men, he would rely on his strength and his skills as a fighter rather than on a flimsy bow. His distrust of bowmen was deeply ingrained. The warriors of Mykene despised archers, slingers, or anyone who fought from a distance. True warriors armed themselves with sword or dagger, spear or lance, facing their enemies eye to eye. He remembered Kolanos killing the great Argurios with a coward’s arrow, and even after all this time, the gorge rose in his throat at the thought. He had asked Father Zeus to curse Kolanos for that act. He smiled grimly, recalling Kolanos’ agonized death.
It did no harm giving serving women bows to play with, he thought. It would keep them occupied and take their minds off their fate. And Andromache had been right about one thing: It took only a single arrow to kill a king.
Kalliades gradually became conscious that someone was looking at him and opened his eyes. A young soldier w
ith floppy flaxen hair was standing in front of him.
“Yes, soldier?” he said, closing his eyes again.
“Lord, General,” the lad stammered.
“I am not a lord, and I am not a general. I am a simple soldier. Speak up.”
“You wanted to see me,” the youngster said. Kalliades opened his eyes. The young soldier was nodding vehemently as if confirming his own words.
“I did? Why, who are you?”
“I am Boros, sir. Boros the Rhodian they call me.”
Daylight dawned. Kalliades grinned. “You are the soldier with the tower shield!”
“Yes, I am, sir, although I lost it in the retreat from the river.” Boros hung his head. “My brother gave it to me. I was sorry to lose it. It was a good shield.”
“Sit down, lad. You saved my life. I only wanted to thank you. I would not have recognized you.”
The soldier blushed and sat down nervously beside Kalliades. “I was told you were looking for me. I didn’t know why. I thought I had done something wrong.”
Kalliades laughed. “But that was long ago, in the spring. You managed to avoid me for all this time?”
Boros smiled nervously, then rubbed at his left eye. “I was injured. I broke a leg and was in the house of healing. It took a long time to knit.” He rubbed at his eye again.
“Is something wrong with your eye, Boros?”
“No, nothing. I had a blow to the head once. It aches sometimes, that’s all.”
“I know what you mean,” Kalliades replied. “I suffered this sword cut to my face…a long time ago. My face still hurts in cold weather or when I’m tired.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, then Boros asked, “I have never been in a siege, sir. Will they slaughter everyone if they break in?”
Kalliades nodded. “They will, lad. Pent-up frustration and blood lust make men do truly terrible things. They will kill the soldiers, anyone in armor, cleanly. That is the Mykene way. But the people of the city, the refugees, men, women, and children, face a ghastly fate.”
“But the walls cannot be taken,” Boros argued. “Everyone says so. They have not even tried to attack since we dropped the burning sand on them. Many of our men say we should seal up the last gate, the Scaean Gate, then wait them out.”
He added more confidently, “The Scaean Gate’s our weak point; that’s for certain.”
Kalliades nodded. “What you say is true, soldier. But our generals believe the enemy will lose heart as the siege goes on. Already one mercenary army has left, and others will go, too. Most of them are not here for honor and glory; they are here because they smell plunder. And the plunder smells less sweet if you are camped in a ruined town with little food and no women to entertain you. We know the Mykene will stay come what may, and Sharptooth’s Kretans, and the Myrmidons of Achilles. But when they are the only armies remaining outside the walls, we will throw open the Scaean Gate and sally forth and take them on. Then, with Ares to guide our swords, the men of Troy will prevail.”
A cheer arose around him, and he realized he had spoken loudly and the Trojan soldiers had been listening. It was a ragged cheer and it faded quickly away, but talk of victory raised the men’s spirits. Kalliades sighed. He did not believe his own words, but some soldiers might sleep more soundly that night because of them.
The following morning Kalliades made his way to the royal gardens, where Andromache was attempting to teach a group of nervous women how to shoot.
The serving women were faring badly with their bows. Most of them were too awed by Andromache’s presence to pay enough attention to what she was telling them. Many of the bows were strung too tightly for women to draw. He could see that the princess quickly was becoming exasperated, and he wondered if she was regretting her idea already.
He heard her say to a slender dark-haired girl, “Listen to what I say, Anio. Breathe out, and when all the breath has left your body, sight the arrow, then release.” The black-shafted arrow missed its target, but only by a handbreadth, and Anio smiled as Andromache praised her.
The only woman who showed real promise stood on her own at the end of the line. She was tall, no beauty, Kalliades thought, with a strong chin, heavy brows, and long dark hair in a thick plait down her back. She was strong, though, and had mastered the pull of her bow, and she sent arrow after arrow at the target, determined to learn the skill. He wondered who she was, then heard Andromache call her Penthesileia.
Kalliades was there only a short while before he realized he was not helping. The presence of a veteran warrior was making the women more self-conscious. They kept glancing at him anxiously and murmuring to one another. He left the gardens swiftly, to find Banokles waiting outside, leaning against a wall.
“I couldn’t watch,” his friend said, shaking his head. “They’re all useless.”
“Do you remember the first day you picked up a bow?” Kalliades retorted, finding himself defending Andromache’s ambitions. “You were no better then than they are.”
“I’m no better now,” Banokles admitted. “Neither are you.”
Kalliades set off toward the west of the city, with Banokles following. The big warrior went on. “The men told me you were talking last night about riding out and taking them all on. Agamemnon’s armies, I mean.”
Kalliades shook his head and said, “I was saying that if a few more of the armies give up and go home, we might sally out and take the battle to them. But they still have at least five warriors to every one of ours. And they’re stronger. They have water to spare.”
“Well, I was going to say it’s a stupid plan,” Banokles replied. “I’d go along with it, though. I’m sick of this waiting around. Where are we going?” the big man asked, looking about him.
Kalliades was leading the way through the maze of refugee shanties. Women and children sat dull-eyed in the doorways of the shacks, watching the two warriors pass. Babies cried pitifully, but otherwise there was silence in the city of refugees.
“To the Thrakian camp,” he replied. “I wish to speak to Hillas.”
“Good. I wonder if they’ve still got some of that drink of theirs, that Mountain Fire.”
“The drink you said tastes like old sandals left to stew all winter, then set ablaze?”
“Yes, it was good. I wonder if they’ve got any left.”
Kalliades stopped suddenly, and Banokles walked on a few paces before coming back to him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Banokles, have you thought what we should do, you and I, if we survive this?”
His friend shrugged. “Go somewhere else, I suppose. We can’t go back west anymore. We’ll go north with Hillas and the Thrakians, maybe, help them get their land back. Why?”
Kalliades took a deep breath. “I believe I will give up the sword,” he told his friend.
“The sword of Argurios? Can I have it?”
“No, I mean I will give up soldiering.”
“You can’t,” Banokles said, frowning. “We’re sword brothers. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Do you remember when we first came here to Troy?”
Banokles grinned. “That was quite a scrap, wasn’t it? One of the best.”
“We nearly died that day,” Kalliades reminded him. “A lot of our friends did die, including Eruthros, the man you say you wanted for a sword brother.” Banokles shrugged, and Kalliades went on. “We’ve been through a lot since then, haven’t we?”
His friend nodded.
“Then I thought the world was divided into lions and sheep. We were the lions, and our strength gave us power over the sheep.” Kalliades shook his head. “I don’t feel like that now. Everything is more complicated. But I have come to the conclusion, my friend, that the evils of the world are caused by men like you and me.”
“We didn’t start this war.” Banokles looked baffled.
“I could argue with that. Or I could argue that Alektruon started it. Or Helikaon. But that’s not the point. Loo
k at all those armies out there beyond the walls. Some of them have left. But not because they have given up war but because there are no battles to be had here, no plunder to be won. They have gone elsewhere to kill and maim. Men like you and me, selling their swords for death or glory or to plunder a kingdom.”
“Then what will you do? Become a priest?” Banokles asked scornfully.
“I don’t know,” Kalliades admitted sadly. “But I know you understand me, Banokles. Not long ago you were talking about leaving the army and becoming a farmer.”
“That was then,” Banokles said shortly, his face darkening. He turned his back and started to walk on. Since their conversation long before on the Scamander battlefield, Banokles had not spoken of Red and his short marriage. If Kalliades tried to bring the subject up, Banokles simply walked away from him.
They reached the Thrakian camp in silence. The tribesmen were camped under the west wall. In the evening it was one of the coolest places in the city, but in the heat of the day the Thrakians erected brightly colored canopies to protect them from the ferocious sun.
Young Periklos, son of the dead King Rhesos and rightful heir to the lost land of Thraki, had abandoned the life of the palaces and was living with his people. The boy was fourteen and old beyond his years. He chose to dress in the traditional costume of the Kikones, and Kalliades had no doubt that when he went to battle, for however brief a time that would be, he would paint his face like his men.
There were only ten of the Thrakians still unwounded. Another five were in the healing houses, but only two of those were expected to live. The rest of the fifty riders had died in the retreat from the river and the defense of the lower town. Looking around the small camp, Kalliades wondered how their leader felt about his sudden decision at Dardanos to bring his men to Troy.
“Welcome to our camp, friends,” said Hillas, Lord of the Western Mountain, standing up to greet them. “We have a little water to offer you, and some bread.”