Fall of Kings (34 page)

“Back to the battle, Leukon,” he said.

“Aye, my king,” said the huge warrior, and struggled to stand up.

“Not you, you fool. Me!” Odysseus made to rise, but a hand on his shoulder
held him down and a cold voice said, “The battle is over for you today,
Odysseus.”

He looked up to see Agamemnon. With a massive effort Odysseus levered himself
up, trying to ignore the torment in his shoulder and the pain of the stitches
pulling in his leg. The Mykene king was right. He felt as weak as a pup, and it
took all his willpower to stay upright.

They were looking over the battlefield from a vantage point in front of the
main earthwork. The early sun had burned off the mist, and he could see clearly
the battle on the plain before them. It was a melee, foot soldiers on both sides
fighting desperately, neither side giving any quarter. Agamemnon’s cavalry had
deployed to the left, hitting the right flank of the enemy, forcing Hektor to
bring the bulk of his Trojan Horse to that side in a ferocious counterattack.
Odysseus could see that the Trojans had the upper hand, forcing Agamemnon’s
riders back from the river. Enjoy your success while you can, Hektor, my friend,
he thought.

Amid the sea of fighting and struggling men, he could see a group of
black-clad warriors forging an arrowhead into the Trojan infantry.

“Achilles and his men are fighting without armor,” he said angrily. During
their long night of planning, the western kings had agreed that once the alarm
was raised, the elite killing forces would fade back and armor themselves.
Achilles, with the battle fury upon him, had ignored that agreement and fought
on.

“He can never survive,” Odysseus muttered. “And his Myrmidons will not leave
him. He is condemning them all to death.”

“That would be a shame,” Agamemnon said flatly.

Odysseus looked at him, fury rising in his chest. “Have you no loyalty to
anyone, Mykene?” he asked angrily. “Achilles is fighting your war.”

Agamemnon turned and gazed at him, his dark eyes as cold and empty as a
winter sky. “Achilles fights for the glory of Achilles,” he said, and Odysseus
knew it was true.

The battle raged on as the sun climbed in the sky. Odysseus could see that
the western armies were being pushed back slowly, and Achilles and his band were
in danger of being surrounded. He glanced at the sun, standing proud of the
horizon now, and started watching anxiously southward, along the river valley.
Finally he saw a distant speck, a horseman riding with all speed toward them.
The scout edged his way around the rear of the fighting, galloped up, and threw
himself off his horse before Agamemnon.

“They are coming, lord!” he gasped.

“About time,” the Battle King said with satisfaction.

Sunlight glinted off the spear points of hundreds of marching men flanked by
cavalry as a new army marched toward Troy. Odysseus looked back to the battle
before him. The Trojans, lower down, had not seen the threat yet.

The approaching army’s cavalry broke into a gallop, riding straight for the
unprotected flank of the Trojan infantry, lances down. Now aware of the threat,
the battle-weary Trojans desperately tried to reform to face the attack, but the
shock as the armored riders hit them was devastating. Scores of men fell under
the trampling hooves of the horses.

Hektor reacted quickly. His Phrygian archers, at the rear of the battlefield,
started loosing volley after volley into the coming infantry. Arrows deflected
off shields and conical helms, but some men crashed to the ground, tripping
others as they came.

The Trojan Horse was isolated on the wrong side of the field, but at an order
from Hektor half of them peeled away and galloped to counter the new threat.
Hektor dug his heels into his great warhorse and charged at the enemy cavalry.
As he reached them, several horsemen rode against him. His sword lanced out,
spilling the first rider from his mount; the second fell as Hektor’s sword,
wielded with awesome anger, crushed his skull. Then a lance drove into the chest
of the stallion Ares, and he fell, throwing Hektor to the ground.

Odysseus could see him no more. Frustrated, he turned his gaze to the leader
of the newly arrived army, who, surrounded by his bodyguard, rode up the slope
toward him.

“Well, Kygones,” he commented as the Lykian king drew his horse to a halt,
“you are not joining the battle today?”

The Fat King pulled off his helm and smiled coolly.

“You should have more gratitude, Ithaka,” he said. “When last we met, you
acted with great moral outrage at the death of one man, a simple sailor. Now you
and your fellow kings ask me to help you kill thousands. Where is your thanks?”

He dismounted and handed his horse to one of his men.

“All our actions have consequences, Odysseus. By barring your ships from my
beaches over the death of this sailor, you and Helikaon dealt a body blow to
Lykia, crippling trade and draining its lifeblood. My people have suffered, and
for the first time in a generation children have starved in wintertime. When
Agamemnon sought me as an ally, are you surprised that I felt no loyalty to
Helikaon and his kinsman Priam?”

Odysseus had no answer for him. He turned back to the battlefield, then heard
Hektor’s horn blowing: two short blasts repeated over and over, signaling
retreat. Good, he thought. You cannot win the day, Hektor. The Scamander plain
belongs to us. Retreat in good order while you can.

But the Trojans were fighting every step of the way, protecting their wounded
as they backed slowly toward the river and its four bridges to an ephemeral
safety.

No more than a hundred soldiers had retreated across one of the wooden
bridges when a bright flame like a huge torch erupted among them. Suddenly the
entire bridge was ablaze, setting fire to the men on it. They screamed and
thrashed in agony. Many jumped into the Scamander, but their flesh kept burning
and their cries were awful to hear. Then a second bridge caught fire. Within
moments all four bridges, the Trojans’ only way to retreat, were burning
ferociously.

Stunned by the sight, Odysseus turned to Agamemnon. “Is this your work?” he
asked, but the Mykene king just shook his head, as surprised as he was.

They watched as desperate Trojans, trapped between the advancing enemy armies
and the river, started throwing themselves into the fast-flowing water, some
helping the wounded cross, others just swimming for their lives. Injured men
were being pulled under and swept down toward the bay, too weak to struggle
against the powerful current.

Then Agamemnon gasped and pointed as Hektor, mounted again on gallant Ares,
walked the stallion into the Scamander high above the blazing bridges. He reined
the warhorse in the center of the river and stood there as the waters crashed
around them. Others of the Trojan Horse joined them, guiding their horses to
stand by Ares, reducing the force of the water. Soon thirty warhorses stood in
the river, enduring as the waters struck them. The riders had only shields to
protect themselves and their mounts from the arrows and lances of the enemy, and
three fell in the Scamander and were swept away, but most of them stood firm,
allowing the Trojan injured to make their way across to safety. The Phrygian
archers ran along the riverbank to help protect the horses with a rain of arrows
at the advancing enemy.

Odysseus wanted to cheer, and he smiled to himself to see the anger on
Agamemnon’s face.

“Hektor lives,” the Mykene king hissed. “Can nothing kill him?”

“He charged an army, and yet he survives,” Odysseus said happily. “That is
why Hektor is Hektor and we kings are just standing here watching.”

Sick of Agamemnon’s company, he set off toward the battlefield, limping
heavily on his injured leg. Stretcher bearers were on the field, carrying
wounded men away. He saw healers and surgeons helping injured warriors of the
western armies and soldiers dispatching wounded Trojans. The ground was heavy
with churned-up mud and blood, and Odysseus felt himself tiring quickly.

Then he saw a figure he recognized, a fat warrior in outsize armor lying in
the mud, his back resting against the flank of a dead horse. Odysseus stomped
over to him.

The prince was bleeding from a score of cuts. “Well, well, Odysseus,” he
said, his voice a weak rasp, “have you come to finish me off?”

“No, Antiphones,” the Ithakan king said, sitting down beside him, suddenly
weary. “I just wanted to talk to an old friend.”

“Are we friends, you and I?” the prince asked.

Odysseus shrugged. “At this moment we are. Tomorrow is another day.”

“Tomorrow I shall be dead, Odysseus. This will be the death of me.” He
gestured to a deep wound in his side where dark blood was pumping out onto the
ground. “A thinner man would be dead already.”

The Ithakan king nodded. “What happened at the bridges?” he asked.

Antiphones scowled, and his ashen face darkened a little. “My fool of a
father, Priam, had secretly instructed his Eagles to torch the bridges using
nephthar
if our forces started retreating. Trojans do not retreat, he says.”

Odysseus felt a wave of revulsion. “Is he quite insane now?” he asked,
shocked by the ruthless cruelty of the Trojan king to his own troops. “It is
sometimes hard to tell the difference between insanity and cold-blooded
brutality.”

Antiphones tried to lift himself up into a sitting position, but he was too
weak and sank down again. Odysseus saw that the flow of his wound had lessened.
He knew the man did not have much longer to live.

The prince said, “He is the cruel and selfish king he always was.” He sighed.
“He has times of confusion. We thought it was the wine, for he hardly eats. Then
he has insane ideas like this one. Hektor just ignores them. But this…” He
gestured toward the river. “He is cunning still, you see. He told no one except
his Eagles. And they would all kill themselves for him on his command.”

A Mykene soldier walked over to them, his sword red with blood, looking for
enemy wounded. Odysseus waved him away.

Antiphones was silent for a while, and Odysseus thought he had died. Then the
big man said, despair in his voice, “Troy will fall. She cannot be saved.”

Odysseus nodded sadly. “Agamemnon will win, and the city will fall. Once we
reach the great walls and the city is under siege, it is only a matter of time.
There will be a traitor. There always is.”

Antiphones said weakly, “I thought she would last a thousand years. There is
a prophecy…”

Odysseus said irritably, “There is always a prophecy. I do not believe in
prophecies, Antiphones. In a thousand years the Golden City will be dust, its
walls ruined, flowers growing wild where Priam’s palace once stood.”

Antiphones smiled weakly. “That sounds like a prophecy, Odysseus.”

The king leaned toward him. “But she will not die, Antiphones. I promise you
this. Her story will not be forgotten.” Already in his mind a tale was forming
of a warrior’s wrath and the death of a hero.

The prince’s eyes had closed. He whispered, “I was the traitor…” Then he
died.

Weary, Odysseus stood. He saw the soldier he had sent away find another
Trojan soldier who was gravely wounded and unable to save himself. The Mykene
warrior thrust a sword through his heart cleanly, then moved on. His eye was
caught by the body of a young man lying in the mud, and he walked toward him.
Odysseus saw that the youngster had red hair and was without armor. One arm
moved feebly as if he were trying to turn himself over. As the Mykene soldier
raised his sword, Odysseus said, “Hold!”

The man paused and looked at him doubtfully.

“He is one of mine, soldier. Do you know me?”

“You are Odysseus, king of Ithaka. Everyone knows you.” The man lowered his
sword and moved away.

The boy was plastered with mud and blood and seemed dazed by a blow to the
head. Odysseus knelt beside him and helped him turn over.

“Xander! I never thought to see you here,” he said. “Being a hero again,
lad?”

Xander awoke with a start to find that it was evening and he was on a sandy
beach. He could hear the sound of waves crashing against rocks, the distant
sound of lyres and pipes, and low voices murmuring close by.

“Lie still, you fool,” said a deep voice, “and give that wound a chance to
heal. It may have pierced your vitals.”

“Then I am a dead man,” another man said irritably. “If I must walk the Dark
Road, I do not plan to do it sober. Give me that jug.”

Xander’s head hurt abominably, and as he tried to sit up, the world lurched
around him. He lay down again with a groan.

“How are you feeling, Xander?” a voice asked.

He opened his eyes a crack and was surprised to see Machaon looking down at
him, his face in shadow as the sun fell at his back.

“Where are we, Machaon?” he asked. “Why are we on a beach?” He tried to sit
up again and this time succeeded. He found that his leather satchel was lying by
his side.

“Drink this,” the healer said. Kneeling alongside him, he brought to Xander’s
lips a cup of delicious-smelling liquid. The boy sipped it, then drank it down
greedily. It was warm and tasted, he thought, of summer flowers. He had never
tasted anything so good. He found his head clearing a little, and he looked
around.

From where he sat, all he could see was soldiers, some wounded and lying
down, others sitting around campfires, laughing and joking. The black hulls of
ships pulled up on the sand hid his view of the sea, though he could smell its
salt air. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he realized where he
was.

“We are on the beach you call the Bay of Herakles, and I am not Machaon,”
said the healer. Sitting down, he poured thick liquid from a clay pot into a cup
of water warming over a fire. He looked up. Xander could see now that it was not
the face of his mentor, though the two men were very alike. This man was older
and nearly bald, and one of his eyes was strange, the eyeball pale and pearly.