Fall of Kings (45 page)

“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. Look 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.”

Kalliades shook his head. Then, as if he had heard his thoughts, Hillas told
him, “I would not have chosen to end my days in a foreign city, but I do not
regret a day of it. We have a saying in my country, ‘Old age is not as honorable
as death, but most people seek it.’ Kikones warriors do not seek old age. All my
sons are dead. If we die with honor, it does not matter which land we die in.”
He spit on the ground.

“I have come to ask a favor of you, Hillas,” Kalliades said.

“Ask it.”

“You have fine bowmen among your countrymen. I would like to borrow one to
demonstrate his skills.”

Hillas frowned. “I thought the Mykene despised archers. Why do you ask this?”

“The lady Andromache is teaching women to shoot.” At this there were shouts
and guffaws of disbelieving laughter from the men in the camp. Banokles grinned
with them.

Kalliades explained, “The princess is a fine archer, but she knows it
instinctively and has no experience at teaching others. Also, many of the bows
need adjusting for the strength of a woman. Perhaps one of your men…?”

Hillas laughed and shook his head, his braids shaking with merriment. “No, my
friend. My men could teach these Trojan women many things, but not to make fools
of themselves with bows and arrows.”

“I will help,” said the boy Periklos, walking over to stand alongside
Kalliades. “The city of Troy and its people have given me sanctuary. The lady
Andromache has been kind, taking me and my brother into her home when we first
arrived. Our nurse Myrine has been given a place in the royal household, though
she is old and infirm and needs caring for herself. If I can do anything to
repay the people of the city, I will do it.”

He turned to the Thrakian tribesman. “Have you any objections, Hillas?”

The man shook his head. “No, my king. It is an honorable gesture. And you
will be a better teacher than any of this rabble.” He grinned and gestured to
his men.

At that moment they heard the sound of shouting from nearby. They heard
running feet, then more shouts, screams, and the clash of metal.

Drawing their swords, Kalliades and Banokles ran as one toward the source of
the sounds.

A crowd had gathered around one of Troy’s two wells. Three men were on the
ground, two apparently dead and one nursing a broken arm. The six guards at the
well all had swords in their hands and were facing the angry mob. An empty
bucket lay on the ground, its precious water soaking into the earth.

“What’s going on?” Banokles demanded.

One of the guards told him. “The well is dry, General. These fools were
fighting over the last bucket of water.”

Far to the south of the city Skorpios lay on his belly on rocky ground at the
crest of a ridge, gazing down on the long train of wagons stretching along the
valley of the Scamander.

Skorpios smiled. In his years as a scout for the Trojan Horse he had never
seen such a tempting, slow-moving target. He counted forty donkey wagons,
followed by ten oxcarts. From time to time the donkeys were halted so that the
slower-moving oxen could catch up. There were more than three hundred riders
guarding the train, armed with spears and lances. But behind Skorpios, waiting
in the woods for his report, were more than six hundred Trojan Horse.

Skorpios wondered what was in the oxcarts. Heavy armor, perhaps, for the
Mykene infantry or copper ingots from Kypros. Or jugs of wine from Lesbos.

He rolled onto his back, and as he did so, his stomach gurgled. He was
hungry, and it had been a long time since he had tasted wine. The last jugs of
wine they had captured had been taken after their final attack on the convoys
traveling between the Bay of Troy and the armies camped outside the city.
Agamemnon had learned caution since then. Every convoy on that busy route now
was surrounded by an army of outriders, heavily armored and bristling with
spears and lances.