Fall of Kings (33 page)

For here he was, within sight of the Golden City, his loyal men fighting side
by side with the Mykene for Agamemnon, whose obsession was to destroy the city,
kill Odysseus’ former friends, and take its wealth for himself.

He remembered Helikaon’s words to him at their last meeting:
“I have not
seen Priam’s hoard of gold, but it would have to be mountainous to maintain the
expense of this war. Gold passes from the city every day, to hire mercenaries,
to bribe allies. And there is little coming in now. If the fighting goes on much
longer and you do take the city, you may find nothing of real worth.”

Odysseus smiled grimly to himself. Agamemnon and his fellow kings still had
faith in the riches of Priam. At least they had a reason to fight.
What is
your excuse, Ugly One?
he heard Penelope say.
Because you gave your word?
Is your word so powerful, so sacred, that you must fight with your enemies
against your friends?

Three days before, battling on the plain alongside the armies of the Mykene,
he had seen the Trojan Horse thundering down the valley. And he had felt his
heart leap as if Hektor and his riders were coming to his own rescue.

Odysseus sighed. War made strange sword brothers. He despised Agamemnon and
his fellow kings. Idomeneos was greedy and mendacious. Menestheos of Athens and
Agapenor of Arcadia were no better. The weakling Menelaus did whatever his
brother told him. Nestor was a kinsman of Penelope, and Odysseus liked the old
man, yet he had been beguiled by the promise of Priam’s treasure, too. Only
Achilles was at Troy on a mission of honor, to find the warrior who had ordered
his father’s death and avenge him.

He thought back to Hektor’s wedding games, when wily Priam had declared
Odysseus an enemy of Troy. A less prideful man merely would have left the city.
But Odysseus, slighted and insulted, had allowed his pride to force him into the
arms of this rabble of kings. It was true that he was guilty as accused of
hiring an assassin to kill Helikaon’s father, but only to protect Helikaon, whom
the same assassin had been paid to kill.

Now Odysseus, sick to the soul, had left his loathsome allies drinking and
quarreling in the
megaron
of King’s Joy and had walked up to the terrace
for fresher air.

He looked around. Agamemnon’s Followers, his henchmen, had roasted two pigs
there earlier, and the terrace smelled of blood and burned meat. Then they had
played a game with one of the pigs’ heads, kicking it around until it was a
shapeless black mass. Odysseus picked it up and gazed at it for a moment before
throwing it over the wall. He smiled to himself, thinking of the pig Ganny,
first rescued from the sea and then, in his yellow cloak, sitting as if
listening to Odysseus’ tale of the golden fleece on the pirates’ beach.

“By Apollo’s balls, Ganny, my boy, we had some adventures together!” he said
out loud.

Cheered by the memory, he strolled to the western side of the terrace. In the
starlight he could see down to the Bay of Herakles, its white sand scarcely
visible under the hulls of the hundreds of ships beached there. A sitting target
for Helikaon’s fire hurlers, he thought. Had Agamemnon learned nothing from his
disaster at Imbros? Odysseus had heard no news of the
Xanthos
since it
had left Ithaka but prudently had quietly moved most of his own fleet farther
down the coast to a small hidden cove.

He turned and looked in the other direction, to the walls of Troy lying
moonlit in the distance, like a city of magic from one of his stories, and,
before him, the plain of the Scamander, where the Trojan army was camped,
waiting. The myriad lights of their campfires showed they were formed in
defensive squares. Hektor would not be stupid enough to attack, he knew, as the
idiot Menelaus had claimed. A man with no sense of strategy assumes others are
as stupid as he is. Odysseus glanced down to where soldiers had labored to dig
an inner earthwork. A waste of time and energy, he thought, and just another
obstacle when we attack. The stupidity angered him. Looking south, along the
valley of the Scamander, he saw that a blanket of thick mist was forming over
the river and starting to roll slowly toward the Trojan armies on the plain.
They cannot see it coming, he realized. Before long they will not be able to see
their swords in front of their noses.

His mind working quickly, he left the terrace and stomped back down the stone
stairs to the
megaron,
to be greeted by drunken shouts and laughter.
Menelaus was lying on the floor in a pool of wine, apparently unconscious.
Agamemnon gazed expressionlessly at the Ithakan king. Agamemnon never drank, and
Odysseus always was careful not to drink in his company.

“Well,” said the Mykene king, “the tale spinner has chosen to join us again.
We are honored. Have you a story to entertain us tonight, Prince of Lies?”

Odysseus ignored the insult and said nothing, merely standing in the doorway
until he had their attention.

“Sober up quickly, you drunken sots,” he bellowed. “I have a plan.”

Achilles, unarmored and wearing a simple black kilt and leather breastplate,
his face smeared with soot, crouched in the entrance to the narrow pass and
stared into the thick mist. “This is madness,” he said cheerfully.

Odysseus, resting on one knee beside him, chuckled. “We have to attack at
dawn, anyway,” he replied. “Our allies have pledged to be here soon after sunup.
By attacking now, this fog gives us the extra element of surprise.”

“Well, it surprised
me,
” a red-bearded warrior said gloomily. “It’s
the middle of the night, and the mist is so thick, I can’t see the end of my
sword. We won’t know who we’re killing.”

“The ones lying down, Thibo, either sleeping or dead, will be the enemy,”
Odysseus told him.

He thought the plan through again. Agamemnon was committed to attack that
day, which meant funneling his armies through the pass. The heavy mist gave him
the perfect opportunity to get them through under cover. Hektor, of course,
would expect that, and by dawn he would have his forces ready. By attacking in
the dead of night they might catch him unprepared.

Odysseus and Achilles, the fifty Myrmidons, and another hundred handpicked
warriors were to creep out of the pass under cover of the dark and mist, cross
the earthworks, and descend on the Trojans as they slept. None were wearing
armor lest any clink of metal on metal betray their presence. The Trojans would
raise the alarm quickly, but Odysseus calculated that as many as a thousand
would die first, slaughtered as they dreamed.

Far behind them, through the pass, the rest of Agamemnon’s armies waited
restlessly. Once the silent band of killers had done their grisly work and the
alarm had been raised, the infantry would come charging through.

The cavalry would have to wait on the seaward side of the pass until the dawn
came and the mist cleared. But the enemy was in the same position. Even the
Trojan Horse could not attack if they could not see.

Odysseus moved his shoulder and grimaced at the pain, then licked dry lips.
Just one more battle, he thought to himself. You’ve done this before, old man.
He grasped his sword in one hand and a long dagger in the other. He glanced at
Achilles, who had his swords on his back and two daggers drawn, and nodded.

The pair crept forward, silent in the muffling mist, their small army moving
noiselessly behind them. Odysseus climbed the new earthwork, cursing it under
his breath. By the time he reached the main earthwork, he had fallen well behind
Achilles, who had disappeared ahead of him like a wraith. Hurrying to keep up,
Odysseus clambered over the bank of earth and mud, glimpsing dark-garbed
warriors, swords and knives in hand, passing him silently on either side. It was
an eerie sight.

Then the killing began. Ahead, Odysseus heard the small muffled sounds of
cold bronze plunging into flesh and soft gasps quickly cut off. He hurried
forward. Soon he was walking in the dim light of campfires, bodies strewn around
them, the dead and the dying, blood still gushing from slashed throats, eyes
staring up at him, hands reaching out for aid that would not come.

It was so quiet that he could hear his heart beating. Then there was a loud
cry. “Awake! Awake! We are under attack!”

In an instant the air was filled with the sounds of clashing blades, the
screams of the wounded, the snarls and grunts of fighting men, the snapping of
bones and the rending of flesh. Odysseus heard Achilles’ booming battle cry from
somewhere up ahead and moved toward the sound.

A warrior appeared in the half-light, a Thrakian tribesman with a painted
face. The Ithakan king leaped to the attack, but the man moved like quicksilver,
blocking his thrust and turning into him. His shoulder struck Odysseus in the
chest, knocking him back. He fell to the ground and rolled quickly as a sword
blade was thrust into the ground beside him. Odysseus plunged his dagger into
the unprotected thigh of the tribesman. Blood sprayed out, and the man fell.
Odysseus jumped up and slashed his sword across the man’s head.

He bent to pull out his dagger, but one of Priam’s Eagles leaped at him with
a snarl, recognizing the Ithakan king. Odysseus parried his sword blow and
reversed a cut to the warrior’s neck. The blade hammered into the breastplate
and snapped. Dropping the useless hilt, Odysseus grabbed the man by his
breastplate and hauled him forward, butting him savagely, then crashing his fist
into the man’s belly. The Eagle doubled over, and then his head snapped back as
Odysseus’ knee exploded into his face.

He picked up the Eagle’s sword and plunged it into the man’s neck. Then,
screaming his battle cry, “Ithaka! Ithaka!” he powered into the Trojan ranks,
cutting and cleaving, an awesome fury upon him, his injured shoulder forgotten.

An unarmored Trojan warrior ran forward, ducking under Odysseus’ plunging
sword and stabbing his blade toward the Ugly King’s belly. Odysseus leaped
backward and tripped over a body. He rolled and came up swinging his sword
two-handed, half beheading the warrior.

He glimpsed a movement to his right and blocked a lightning attack from a
sword. Twisting his wrists and returning the blow, he cleaved the attacker from
neck to belly.

There were Trojans all around him now. His sword rose and fell in the melee,
cutting through leather and flesh and bone. He twisted and swung and then, too
late, saw a sword slashing toward his neck. Another sword flashed up to block
it, parrying the death blow. Odysseus recognized the braided red beard and
grinned at Achilles’ shield bearer.

“Be careful, old man,” Thibo shouted. “I can’t watch out for both of us.”

Odysseus ducked under a two-handed cut from his right and drove his sword
home in the man’s chest. Beside him Thibo leaped and twisted, slashing and
killing. Odysseus saw dawn light gleam off his bloody blade and realized that
the night mist was starting to clear.

Two Trojan soldiers ran at Thibo. He blocked a blow from the first, gutting
the man with a reverse stroke. His sword stuck in the man’s belly. The second
warrior’s sword arced toward his head. Odysseus parried the blow, chopping his
sword through the man’s neck.

“Where is Achilles?” he asked, panting. “You’re supposed to be watching out
for
him.
”

Thibo shrugged. “Achilles can take care of himself.”

Daylight was clearing the mist quickly, and Odysseus could see warriors
struggling and dying all around him.

Three Trojans came at him at once, and he cursed aloud as he cleaved one neck
and ducked under a slashing blade. Then, dropping to his haunches, he charged
into the two other soldiers like a bull. He caught one in the belly with his
injured shoulder and grunted in agony. The other fell back, stumbling over a
body, and was disemboweled by a slashing sword.

Odysseus saw Achilles standing over him, his two swords dripping blood.

“Go back, Ithaka,” the Thessalian king shouted above the noise of battle, “or
that wound will kill you. Only the dagger is saving you.”

Odysseus looked down and saw a knife blade stuck in his thigh. Blood had
drenched his leg. In the fury of battle he had not noticed it.

“And get yourself armored,” Achilles ordered. Swaying to one side as a sword
scythed past his chest, he chopped his attacker down with a blow to the neck.

Odysseus shouted back, “You have no armor, Achilles!”

Achilles grinned at him and charged back into the fray.

Odysseus realized he felt dizzy from blood loss, and he cursed. As he stepped
forward, he felt his knees give way. Hands grabbed him and pulled him upright,
and then he felt a powerful shoulder lift him up under the arm. The sounds of
fighting receded as, cursing, he was dragged from the battlefield.

He was on the
Penelope
again, the wind in his hair, the fresh sea air
filling his chest. A huge flock of gulls was flying over the ship, darkening the
sky with their wings. The clamor of their cries was deafening. Stupid birds,
gulls, he thought to himself. Then he saw that the birds had the faces of women,
contorted with hatred and spite. Harpies, he thought, coming to rend his flesh.

The sharp pain of teeth tearing his leg brought him around, and he found
himself lying on muddy ground clear of the battlefield. One of his crewmen, the
powerful fighter Leukon, was stitching the wound in his thigh, his thick fingers
clumsy on the blood-soaked thread. Leukon’s leg had been broken three days
before, and he could not fight. Now he sat awkwardly and was clearly in agony
from the splinted leg.

Odysseus sat up. “Give me wine, someone,” he demanded, and was handed a
goblet. He drank it down, asked for another, and watched impatiently as Leukon
tied off the stitches. The blood had stopped flowing, and he felt the wine
reviving him.