Fall of Kings (46 page)

Hektor reluctantly had called off the attacks. Instead he targeted the troops
Agamemnon sent into the woods and valleys of the Ida foothills to hunt down the
Trojan Horse. Hektor’s horsemen knew the heavily wooded country far better than
the invading forces did, and they led the enemy on many a hazardous chase,
luring them into blind gullies to be attacked and killed or fading away through
hidden passes when the Trojans seemed to be trapped. Those pursuits always ended
in death for the enemy. As a result, Agamemnon’s ally kings had refused to send
their forces into the woods of Mount Ida even to cut down the oak trees that
furnished them with timber and firewood.

But the summer was passing, and now Hektor’s own supplies were running low.
These were the first wagons they had seen for thirty days and the first ever
this far south.

Skorpios rolled back onto his stomach and peered over the ridge again. The
train was almost level with him now. Its leader was a tall rider in black helm
and breastplate. Skorpios tried to remember what Mestares, Hektor’s
right-hand-man, had instructed them about enemy armor. Achilles always wore
black armor—everyone knew that—but Skorpios doubted that Achilles the Slayer was
leading a lowly supply convoy. Some of his Myrmidons, his bodyguards, also wore
black in tribute to their leader, although most wore the ordinary armor of
Thessaly. The only other warrior who always wore black was Meriones, Odysseus’
friend and an aide to the king of Kretos. Skorpios could see no Kretan armor
below him.

He heard scuffling on the rocks behind him, and Justinos scrambled up
alongside. “Well, lad? Who do you think they are?” the big man asked, looking
cautiously over the ridge.

“I can’t tell. Fifty wagons, though.”

“Hmm,” Justinos said. “Maybe some foreign merchant thought he could make a
killing sending supplies to Agamemnon’s forces. Thought it was worth the risk.
They must have beached their ships in a cove somewhere to the south.”

Skorpios yawned. They had camped far to the south that night and had ridden
since dawn. Hektor kept them always on the move, every night a new camp. The
days were long and hard, the nights short. Skorpios had had nothing to eat since
dawn on the previous day.

“I’m hungry,” he complained, not for the first time. “I’m with Banokles on
this. You can’t do battle on an empty stomach.”

“Then if Banokles still lives, he’ll be moaning even more loudly than you,
lad. But those wagons could mean a fine feast for us tonight. It would be
pleasant to eat something other than horse meat.”

They crawled away from the ridge and climbed down the rocky slope to where
their mounts were tethered. It was a short ride back to the glade where Hektor
and the Trojan Horse were waiting. Some of the riders mounted their horses as
soon as they spotted the scouts, but Hektor remained seated by a campfire,
burnishing the gold and silver of his great breastplate.

“Can you tell what they’re carrying?” he asked them as they slid off their
mounts.

Justinos shook his head. “The wagons are all tightly covered with canvas. But
there’s about fifty of them. And they’re heavy.”

“And their guard?”

“A good three hundred. Their leader is all in black.”

Hektor raised his eyebrows. “Could it be Achilles?”

Justinos shook his head. “I have never seen him, but they say he is a big
man, as big as you, lord.”

Hektor nodded. “Then it is not Achilles,” Justinos told him. “This warrior is
tall but slender.”

Hektor sat for a while, deep in thought, until one of the riders asked him,
“Do you fear a trap, Hektor?”

“Maybe,” he replied. “If I were to set an ambush, it would be with a large
slow-moving convoy. But it is tempting. Our scouts have discovered no enemy
forces lying in wait. There are no troops south of us; we can be sure of that.”

Justinos added, “And we have scouted north to within sight of Troy.”

Hektor made his decision. He stood up. “Then let’s kill them all,” he said
grimly.

The riders trotted their mounts back up to the ridge. Skorpios felt the
familiar hot fear flaring in his belly as he thought of the battle ahead. There
were around six hundred horsemen left in this main force, plus the two smaller
groups Hektor had deployed to the country north and east of Troy. They easily
outnumbered the riders guarding the wagons, yet Skorpios felt sick with
apprehension. His body was covered with cold sweat, and his head ached. He knew
it would pass when the battle was under way. It always did.

Reaching the crest of the ridge, he saw Hektor dig his heels into his mount
and gallop down the gentle slope toward the river, his riders streaming after
him. The supply train was on the other side of the Scamander, but the river was
just a trickle now. The six hundred riders galloped across it, a great dust
cloud swirling around them.

Skorpios lay low on his mount’s neck and peered through the dust ahead of
them. He saw the wagons slow to a halt. The riders guarding them were heavily
armed with spears and lances as well as swords. They stood their ground, staying
by the wagons and turning to face the charge rather than peeling off to meet the
advancing cavalry. He saw Hektor’s sword raised high and swirling in a circle
above his head. Surround them!

Skorpios, riding side by side with Justinos, deflected a flying spear with
his shield and galloped his mount around to the rear of the donkey train. He
singled out an enemy rider and charged him. The man launched his spear as
Skorpios bore down on him, but it was poorly aimed, and the Trojan dodged it
easily and plunged his sword into the man’s throat. He blocked a vicious sword
cut to the head by another enemy rider and hacked at the man’s arm, half
severing it. He spun around just in time to see a lance plunging toward him and
got his shield in front of it, but the power of the blow unhorsed him, and he
hit the ground hard.

Many of the donkeys started panicking and trying to get away from the melee,
pulling the wagons in every direction. Skorpios rolled out of the way as a heavy
wagon wheel rumbled past him. Then he scrambled up, looking for his horse.

At that moment everything changed. The canvas on the wagon in front of him
was ripped open from the inside by sharp knives, and twenty or more armed
warriors came surging out. From wagons all along the line soldiers were leaping,
armed with swords.

It was a trap!

Two Mykene soldiers in leather breastplates jumped down from the wagon and
ran at him with raised swords. Skorpios deflected one sword cut off the edge of
his shield and parried the other with his own weapon. A rider appeared out of
the dust cloud. It was Justinos. He hacked down one of the Mykene with a killing
cut to the back of his neck. Skorpios dodged another sword thrust from the first
Mykene. He ducked and plunged his sword into the man’s groin.

His eyes stinging from the dust and grit in the air, Skorpios looked around
again for a horse. An enemy rider backed toward him out of the dust cloud,
defending himself against a furious attack from a Trojan horseman. He did not
see Skorpios, who grabbed his ankle and dragged him from his mount. Skorpios
plunged his sword into the man’s face and leaped onto the horse. He turned the
beast and galloped toward the front of the donkey train, where he could see the
tall warrior in black armor.

But Hektor got there first. He, too, had been unhorsed, but he made no
attempt to find a mount. He ran with a snarl toward the leader in black, ducked
to pick up a spear, and hurled it at him with ferocious strength. The rider got
his shield in the way, but the spear shattered it and punched into his armor,
throwing him from his horse.

Despite the power of the blow, the warrior rolled and stood up, his helm
falling to the ground. He was blond and handsome, his hair in long braids.

“Patroklos!” Hektor whispered.

Patroklos smiled and launched a vicious sword attack. The two were well
matched in skill, but Hektor was the bigger man and the stronger. He knew that,
but he also knew that Patroklos might have the best of the speed.

Their blades met time and again, with Patroklos constantly being forced back.
But the Myrmidon grinned arrogantly. Again Hektor attacked, and Patroklos sent
back a lightning riposte that opened a wound in Hektor’s cheek. Now it was
Patroklos pushing forward, but Hektor parried each stroke. Suddenly Hektor
stepped in. Their blades clashed, and Hektor sent a mighty punch to Patroklos’
jaw. Patroklos grunted and went down. Hektor swept his sword at Patroklos’ head.
Patroklos rolled, then lanced his sword up at Hektor’s groin.

As Hektor’s blade blocked the thrust, he twisted his wrist and the sword
flashed back at Patroklos’ belly. The blade deflected off the black breastplate
but lanced into the Myrmidon’s side. Patroklos scrambled away and got up, then
circled to the left, trying to guard the wound.

Hektor surged forward into a riposte that all but tore the helm from his
head. Still, he knew Patroklos was weakening. He saw the blood streaming from
the man’s side and down his leg and knew it was only a matter of time. The
Myrmidon had only one chance: a lightning attack and a killing blow to the head
or neck. Hektor gave him the opening. Patroklos’ sword flashed forward. Hektor
ducked and rammed his sword up under Patroklos’ breastplate, driving into the
heart.

Before Patroklos hit the ground, Hektor was turning, checking the thrust of
the battle. Donkeys were dragging their carts away frantically, throwing up
great dust clouds. Many riders still were mounted, but some of the horses had
walked clear of the battle and were standing waiting, as they had been trained
to do. Hektor ran to one and leaped onto it. All he could see around him was
clouds of dust. The battle was a melee. It was impossible to see who had the
upper hand.

Hektor saw a movement at the corner of his eye and got his shield up just in
time to block a sword cut to the throat. The enemy rider hacked at him again.
Hektor dodged the blow, then thrust his sword into the man’s side. The weapon
got stuck and was ripped from Hektor’s grip as the rider’s horse reared.
Weaponless, Hektor saw another Mykene rider bearing down on him, sword raised.
He put up his shield, but a Trojan rider appeared beside the enemy horseman and
plunged his sword into the man’s unprotected armpit.

Justinos dragged his sword out, and the enemy rider slumped from his horse.
Justinos grinned at Hektor, who nodded his thanks.

Just then an enemy horseman rode out of the dust cloud, his lance leveled at
Justinos’ back. Hektor shouted a warning. Justinos half turned, but it was too
late. The lance plunged through his back with such force that it exited in a
bloody eruption at his belly. Justinos gave one agonized look at Hektor, then
slumped over his horse’s neck. His mount trotted away into the dust.

With a roar, Hektor pulled out his dagger and launched himself at the enemy
rider. The man, having lost his lance, scrabbled desperately for his sword. He
was too late. Hektor grabbed him by his breastplate and pulled him in, slicing
his throat with the dagger. He took the dead man’s sword, then heeled his horse
and galloped around the battlefield, peering through the dust, counting corpses
and wounded. An enemy rider spotted him and came after him, lance leveled.
Hektor swayed his body at the last moment, and the lance went by him. He
beheaded the rider with one sweep of the sword.

Out of the dust came Mestares on his mount Warlord. His shield bearer was
leaning heavily to one side, guarding a wound.

“They have us, Hektor!” he shouted. “We are outnumbered. We cannot win!”

Cursing, Hektor dragged his battle horn from his back and put his lips to it.
He blew the short notes to signal retreat. For a few heartbeats no one seemed to
have heard; then Trojan riders started appearing out of the dust, some injured,
some helping wounded colleagues. Within moments they were streaming away,
heading back toward the river. Hektor gathered the uninjured riders and forged
his way into the chasing enemy horsemen, forcing them back, making space for the
Trojan Horse to get away.

Finally Hektor heeled his mount and galloped back toward the wooded hills.

The next morning at dawn Skorpios sat in the tree line at the point where the
Scamander broke out of the woods and dipped under a wooden bridge before joining
the flat plain.

He was supposed to be scouting, but his eyes kept misting up. He had always
feared for his own life before battles, but never for that of Justinos. The big
man had seemed indestructible. The two had ridden together for years, first with
Ennion, Kerio, Ursos, and Olganos, now all dead. He was the only one left of the
six.

The power of his grief had unmanned him. He could not sleep in the night. As
he listened to the other riders snoring around him, he kept going over and over
in his mind how that last battle should have gone. Justinos always had looked
out for him, watched his back, yet he had failed to do that for his old friend.
The thought churned around and around until his brain was worn out; then he fell
into a shallow troubled sleep.

He woke before dawn, his body weary, his mood melancholy. Hektor sent him
back to the site of the battle to see if the enemy forces had taken away their
dead and wounded. They had. Even the broken wagons had been carried away for
firewood.

In the night Skorpios had decided that when the war ended, he would return to
his father’s farm. A veteran soldier now, with years in the Trojan Horse behind
him, he no longer would be afraid of the old man. With the gold Hektor would
give him for his loyal service he would buy a small house and help his father
with the cattle and sheep. The settlement lay far to the east, on the edge of
Hittite lands. Now, for the first time, he wondered whether the farm was still
there, his father and brothers still waking in the dark each morning to start
work or sleeping out in the fields to guard the livestock from predators, his
mother working from dawn to dusk to keep the family fed. His youngest sister
would be twelve now, he thought, almost a woman. He shook his head sorrowfully.
He knew nothing about them anymore. Perhaps his brothers had left to become
soldiers. If they had, maybe they were dead, too.