Fall of Kings (24 page)

Despite her years of dealing with men and their hungers, she had been touched
by the gesture. And she had felt sorry for the drunken fool. She knew the men
with him. They were robbers, and before the night was over they would kill or
cripple him for the rings he carried.

But she had left him there and walked, just as she had this morning, to the
house of the baker, Krenio.

Later, retracing her steps, she had braced herself for the sight of the
soldier dead on the stones. When finally she had reached the square, she had
seen him sitting quietly and drinking, the thieves sprawled out around him.

In the days that followed she had watched him take part as a fistfighter in
Hektor’s wedding games, had walked with him along the beach, had slept beside
him, listening to his breathing. And somewhere in that time she had realized
with great surprise that she was fond of him. Why remained a mystery. He was not
intelligent or intuitive. In many ways he was like an overgrown child, quick to
anger, swift to forgive. Even now her love for him surprised her.

Banokles the general. The thought amused her.

Reaching her house, she put the basket of honey cakes on the table and poured
herself a cup of wine. The fire had died down, and she added fuel, then sat
before the flames. Banokles was still in Dardania. Word had reached the city
that he had won a battle. His name was on everyone’s lips.

Red sipped her wine, then reached for a honey cake. Just the one, she
promised herself. The taste was divine. Krenio’s talent as a baker was second to
none.

The old man had wept again when she had visited him that morning, telling her
over and over how much he loved her.

“I am going to leave the city,” he said once more.

“You have been saying that for a year,” she replied. “But you haven’t done it
yet.”

“I am waiting for you to see sense, my dear, and come with me.”

“Do not start that again, old man. I am married now.”

“But still you can’t stay away from me, can you? We are destined to be
together. I know this with all my heart. Come east with me, Red.”

She did not have the heart to tell him she pleasured him, as she always had,
for his honey cakes. Red bit into a second one. It was so good.

Her mind drifted back to Banokles. “I miss you,” she whispered.

Banokles was bored. Outside the fortress of Dardanos soldiers were still
celebrating their latest victory over the Mykene. Banokles could hear laughter
and singing, the sounds of joy from men who had survived a battle. He could
smell roasting meats, and he yearned to be out among the warriors, drinking and
dancing without a care. Instead he was stuck in this chilly chamber while
Kalliades and the Hittite with the curly beard and the name that tangled his
tongue spoke endlessly about beaches and bays, landing places and possible
battle sites. They talked about food supplies, scouts, and promotions to replace
officers who had fallen in battle. The words washed over him, and he found
himself growing steadily more irritable.

Truth was, he was missing Big Red. Her absence was like a rock on his heart.
He pictured her sitting in her small courtyard, her back propped up by cushions,
feet resting on a padded stool. The image calmed him a little.

Their parting had not been a happy one. Her violet eyes had glared at him.
“You big oaf,” she had told him. “This is a war that cannot be won. Troy cannot
stand against the western kings and their armies. All the intelligent merchants
are leaving the city. We should do the same. Head east. You have gold now and a
reputation. You could find work among the Hittites. We could be happy.”

“I
am
happy,” Banokles had replied, trying to take her into his arms.
She had shrugged him off, then sighed.

“So am I,” she had admitted reluctantly. “And it frightens me. I never
expected it. Look at me, Banokles. I am a fat, aging whore. I thought all my
dreams had died a long time ago. I was content in my little house. Then you came
along.”

Banokles had stepped in then, putting his arms around her. She did not
struggle but laid her head on his shoulder. “You are the joy of my life,” he
told her.

“Then you are an idiot, and your life must have been wretched before me.”

“It was, but I didn’t know it. Don’t worry. I’ll be home in the spring. You
just rest and enjoy yourself. Get more of those cakes from the old baker.”

“You truly are a numbskull,” she said, but her voice had softened. Then a
soldier had called out for Banokles. Red gave Banokles his helm, and he leaned
in to kiss her.

“Make sure you listen well to Kalliades,” she warned him. “And don’t go
getting yourself killed.”

“No danger of that. We’ve already crushed their army. They won’t come again
before spring, and by then I’ll be home.”

But the Mykene
had
come again, and the battle had been fierce, with
slashing blades and plunging spears. If not for the storm that had scattered
their fleet, the enemy numbers would have been overwhelming.

Banokles stared with dislike at the Hittite prince. The man was young, but
his beard was long and artificially curled. His clothes were of shiny cloth the
color of the sky, and they gleamed in the torchlight. He dresses like a woman,
Banokles thought contemptuously, seeing the glint of gems sewn into the sleeves.
Even his boots, embossed with silver, glittered. There were precious stones set
into his sword hilt. The man was a walking treasury.

Banokles drained his wine cup and belched. The belch was a good one, rich and
throaty. It caused a break in the conversation. His friend Kalliades looked up
and grinned.

“I fear we are losing the attention of our comrade,” he told the Hittite
prince.

Tudhaliyas shook his head. “At the risk of being called a pedant, I should
point out that one cannot lose something one never had.” Rising smoothly, the
Hittite walked across the room and out onto the balcony.

“The man does not like me,” Banokles observed, scratching his closely-trimmed
blond beard. “And I don’t like him.”

Heaving himself to his feet, he gazed around the room, his eyes focusing on a
platter of sliced meat and cheese. “All the cakes are gone,” he complained.
Moving to the door, he hauled it open and shouted for more cakes. Then he
slumped down again.

“It is not dislike,” Tudhaliyas continued, strolling back into the room. “I
was raised by philosophers and teachers of rare skill, historians and thinkers.
I have studied the strategies of ancient wars and the words of great generals
and poets and lawmakers. Now I am banished from my father’s realm and in the
company of a soldier whose chief joy is to piss up a tree. Dislike does not
begin to describe my feelings.”

Banokles glared at him, then glanced at Kalliades. “I think that was an
insult, but I stopped listening when he got to philosophers. Never liked the
cowsons. Don’t understand a word they say.”

“I accept that they don’t say much that would interest you, my friend,”
Kalliades told him. “But if we can drag ourselves back to the matters at hand, I
would appreciate it.”

“What is there to talk about? The enemy came; we destroyed them. They are
dead. We are not.” He saw the Hittite staring at him balefully.

“We are trying to anticipate where the next invasion might take place and how
to prepare for it. It is what intelligent officers do.” Tudhaliyas sneered.

“Intelligent, eh?” Banokles snapped. “If you are so clever, how come you were
banished? How come you ended up here with us peasants?”

“I was banished
because
I am clever, you dolt. My father is sick and
senile. He thought I was planning to overthrow him.”

“Then why didn’t he kill you?”

“
Because
he is sick and senile.” Tudhaliyas swung to Kalliades. “Can
we not discuss the essentials of the campaign alone?”

“We could,” Kalliades agreed, “but that would be disrespectful to the great
general here. And perhaps we should remember that it was
his
cavalry
charge that ruptured the enemy line, allowing your regiment to scatter the foe.”

“I had not forgotten that, Kalliades,” the prince said. “Nor do I make light
of his courage or his fighting ability. It is the laziness of his stupid mind
that offends me.”

Banokles surged to his feet, drawing his sword. “I am tired of your insults,
turd face, and your stupid beard. Let me cut it off for you—at the throat!”

Tudhaliyas’ saber hissed from its scabbard. Kalliades leaped between the two
men.

“Now, this is a scene to inspire our enemies,” he cried. “Two victorious
generals cutting each other to pieces. Put away your swords! Perhaps we should
meet later, when tempers have cooled.”

For a moment neither of the swordsmen moved. Then Tudhaliyas slammed his
saber back in its scabbard and strode away.

As the door closed, Banokles sighed. “What is wrong with you?” Kalliades
asked him.

“I miss Red. Haven’t seen her for months.”

“Red will be waiting for you. But that’s not what is troubling you. We have
been friends for a long time. Not once in that time have I seen you draw a sword
on a brother soldier. You would have killed a good man, a brave warrior. This is
not like you, Banokles.”

Banokles swore softly. “I hate being a general. I miss the old life,
Kalliades. Fight, kill the enemy, get drunk, and pay for some whores. That’s a
proper soldier’s life. I am just a pretend general. You do all the thinking and
planning. The Hittite knows it. By the gods,
everyone
knows it. I used to
be
someone.
I was a great fighter, and men looked up to me.”

“You still are, and they still do.”

“That’s not the point. I knew what I was doing, and I did it as well as any
other man. Now I don’t, and I have foreigners insulting me to my face. I tell
you, one more insult and I’ll take his curling tongs and ram them so far up his
ass, he’ll be able to curl the damned thing from the inside.”

Kalliades chuckled. “I don’t know why the beard annoys you. Many of the
Hittite warriors sport them, and as we have seen, they are ferocious fighters.
Why don’t you go out and join in the revels. Get drunk.”

Banokles shook his head. “Can’t do that anymore, Kalliades. Men stop talking
when I walk up. They go quiet, as if they expect me to piss on their joy fires.”

“You are their commander. They revere you.”

“I don’t want to be revered,” Banokles shouted. “I want to be
me
! Why
can’t you be the general? You are the one who makes all the plans.”

Kalliades looked at him. “There is more to war than planning, my friend,” he
said quietly. “All the strategy comes to nothing if the men are not willing.
When you led that charge, the men followed you, their hearts full of fire and
belief. That is something gold cannot buy.
You
are their inspiration.
They believe in
you.
They would ride into Hades if you asked them to. You
need to understand this. You make Tudhaliyas angry not because you are stupid
but because he cannot
learn
to be like you. He can understand the
logistics of war, he can master all the skills and the strategies, but he cannot
inspire.
Truth is, neither can I. It is a rare gift, Banokles. You have
it.”

“I don’t want it!” the big man protested. “I want everything the way it was.”

“You want us dead back in Thraki?”

“What? I mean I want… I don’t know what I want. But it isn’t this! A pox on
Hektor for leaving me in command!”

“Hektor couldn’t take the Thrakians back to Troy with him. You know what
happened the last time there were Thrakians there.”

“What?” Banokles asked.

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Kalliades snapped. “You and I were there, in the
invading army! Troy’s Thrakian regiment rebelled and joined us, and we almost
took the city.”

Banokles sagged back into his chair and sighed.

“I told Red there wouldn’t be any more battles here in Dardanos in the
winter. Just how many poxy armies does Agamemnon have waiting across the
straits?”

“Obviously more than we thought,” Kalliades responded. “But why come in
winter? Food supplies are short, the land inhospitable. Snow and heavy rains
make much of Thraki impassable. It makes no sense.”

“If that’s true, why are you worried?” Banokles asked.

“Because Agamemnon is no fool. He has conquered cities in the past and led
successful invasions all across the west. You and I fought in many of them.
Common sense tells me that an attack on Troy would need to be coordinated with
an invasion of Dardania in the north and a major push through the Ida mountains
in the south. Only then could he bring an invasion fleet to the Bay of Troy. But
to attack here in winter, with his army isolated? Even if they made a successful
landing and pushed on south, reinforcements from Troy could be brought up to
destroy them. What is he thinking?”

“Maybe he’s lost his mind,” Banokles observed.

Kalliades shook his head. “It would be good to think so. But I fear he has a
plan and we can’t see it.”

Late in the night Kalliades went in search of Tudhaliyas. A sentry directed
him to the battlements above the Seagate, and he found the Hittite prince
staring out to the north over the moonlit Hellespont.

Five galleys were beached on the bay below, the crews asleep on the sand. In
better days they would have come up to the town that clutched the skirts of the
fortress, there to drink and purchase the company of whores. But the town was
deserted now; the populace had fled to the interior, away from the fear of war.
The vessels had come in for supplies before maintaining their patrol of the
straits.

Tudhaliyas glanced at Kalliades but made no greeting.

“You are still angry?” Kalliades asked him.