Fall of Kings

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN HEKTOR’S RIDE

Skorpios was tired, and not just from the long day of riding. His weariness was bone-deep. He was tired of the war and tired of battle. He longed to see his father’s farm again and to sit at the table with his family, listening to their mundane stories of lost sheep or weevils on the vines.

He glanced down into the grassy hollow where his comrade Justinos, broad-shouldered and shaven-headed, was striking flint, sending glittering sparks into the dry tinder. A small flame flickered, and Justinos bent forward to blow gently. The fire caught, and he carefully added a few more twigs.

The two riders were making late camp just beneath the top of a hill. Scouts for Hektor’s Trojan Horse, they were ahead of the main army as it made speed to get back to Troy, crossing the Ida range on the well-worn route from Thebe Under Plakos to the Golden City. They were expecting the rest of the force to catch up with them by nightfall.

Skorpios sat staring out across the darkening country to the northwest. The air was fragrant with the scent of evening flowers. Finally he sighed and moved back down to the camp. Justinos glanced up at him but said nothing. He handed Skorpios a hunk of corn bread, and the two men ate in silence.

“You think Olganos will still be in Troy?” Skorpios asked, as Justinos spread his blanket on the ground, ready for sleep.

The big man shrugged. “There are only a hundred of the Horse in the city. They’ll be in the thick of it every day until we get there. They may all be dead already.”

“He is tough, though,” Skorpios persisted.

“We are all tough, boy,” Justinos muttered, stretching out and closing his eyes.

“I want to go home, Justinos. I’m sick of all this.”

Justinos sighed and then sat up, adding more sticks to the blaze. “We are going home,” he said.

“I mean my home. Far away from war.”

Justinos smiled grimly. “Far away from war? There is nowhere on the Great Green that is far away from war.”

Skorpios stared at his friend. “It must end one day, surely.”

“This war? Of course. Then there’ll be another, and another. Best not to dwell on it. The land is quiet here, and we are safe for at least this night. That is good enough for me.”

“Not for me. I dread tomorrow.”

“Why? Nothing will happen tomorrow. We’ll just carry on riding north, watching for ambush. Hektor will stop beneath Gargaron, as he always does, to sacrifice to Father Zeus. What’s special about tomorrow?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.”

“Then what is there to dread? Listen to me, boy; now is all there is. Yesterday is gone. Nothing we can do about it. Tomorrow is a mystery. Nothing we can do about that, either, until we get there. Let Hektor and the generals worry about tomorrow. That’s their job.”

“And Banokles,” Skorpios pointed out.

Justinos chuckled. “Yes, and Banokles, I suppose. I’d feel sorry for the man, but anyone with the balls to marry Big Red should be able to cope with being a general.”

“Why would anyone marry a whore?” Skorpios asked.

“Now, that is just plain stupid,” Justinos snapped. “What does being a whore have to do with anything?”

“Would you marry a whore?”

“Why not? If I loved her and if she could give me sons.”

Skorpios looked at him in disbelief. “But they are ungodly and impure.”

Justinos’ eyes narrowed, and his face darkened. “Ungodly? By the balls of Ares, I am glad I wasn’t raised in your little village. You listen to me, Skorpios. My mother was a whore, my father unknown. I was raised among whores. A few were nasty, some evil, some grasping. But most were ordinary, like you and me. Many were loving, honest, and compassionate. Just people doing whatever they had to in order to survive. Ungodly and impure? If you weren’t my friend, I’d ram your head against that tree trunk there. Now shut up and let me sleep.”

Justinos lay down once more, turning his back on his friend and tugging his blanket over his shoulder.

Skorpios sat with his back against an oak tree and dozed for a while. The moon was high in a clear sky when they heard the thunder of hoofbeats, hundreds of them, that told him Hektor’s Trojan Horse had caught up with them. He kicked Justinos awake, and they both quickly lit prepared torches and stood holding them high. Within heartbeats they were surrounded by riders on horseback, dust kicking up around them, their armor shining in the moonlight.

Out of the darkness rode a huge warrior on a bay stallion. He leaned down toward them, and his golden hair seemed to flicker in the torchlight.

“Justinos. Skorpios. Anything to report?” Hektor asked.

Justinos stepped forward. “Nothing, lord. All we’ve seen all day are birds and rabbits and some bear. It’s as if the countryside is deserted.”

“It is deserted,” the prince agreed. “I expected Agamemnon to mount an ambush on our route. He knew we would be coming. But it seems I’m wrong. Perhaps he has thrown everything he has at Troy.”

He sat back on his horse and looked up for a moment at the full moon. Then, raising his voice above the snorting of horses and the quiet conversation of the riders, he shouted. “No stopping tonight, lads! We ride through the night!”

Justinos and Skorpios quickly began to pack their equipment as horses surged around them.

“It seems, boy,” Justinos said quietly, “tomorrow has arrived earlier than we expected.”

The time passed with excruciating slowness as the bloody slaughter on the plain went on. For Kalliades the days were starting to blur together. In the light of day he fought alongside the men of the Scamandrian regiment, the sword of Argurios hacking and slashing at the enemy. There was no place here for sword-fighting skills, just bloody butchery. At night he rested where he could, sheer exhaustion tumbling him into sleep despite the moans and cries of the dying and the thick stench of hundreds of burning corpses in his nostrils.

On the fifth morning, he awoke to find that dawn had long passed and the sun was high in the sky, yet the enemy still had not attacked.

Weary beyond words, Kalliades sat his horse alongside Banokles, Antiphones, and General Lucan of the Heraklion regiment, a small wiry man with bandy legs, his hair grizzled and his face deeply lined, who had served his king and Troy for time out of mind.

Kalliades looked at Banokles, who sat staring at Agamemnon’s armies, his face expressionless, his blue eyes as cold as winter rain. When Kalliades had heard of Red’s death, he had rushed to his friend’s house and found him slumped in the corner of the courtyard, his eyes fixed on the mutilated corpse of the old baker. Banokles had not spoken but had stood and left his home without looking again at his wife’s body. He had returned to the battlefield and sat all night by the river, waiting for the enemy’s attack. Since then he had fought like a man possessed, his two swords dealing death wherever he walked. The Scamandrians worshipped him as Herakles reborn and fought like demons beside him, awed by his untiring and relentless attacks on the enemy.

“Here we go,” Banokles said, his voice flat, and Kalliades turned back to the field of battle, where the enemy armies were forming up. In the center was the Mykene phalanx, but narrower than they had seen it before, flanked on each side by another infantry phalanx, then cavalry at the wings.

“Thessalian infantry and cavalry on our left. Achilles will be there with his Myrmidons,” said old Lucan, squinting. “I can’t make out who they’ve got on the right today.”

“Kretans,” Banokles said. “Kretan horsemen, anyway. Gutsy bunch, they are. I’m surprised they haven’t thrown them in before.”

“They may have just arrived,” Antiphones rumbled. “Ships are sailing into the Bay of Herakles every day, and not just with food and weapons. Mercenaries are coming from all over the Great Green in the hope of winning some of Priam’s treasure. That’s probably a mercenary regiment on the right.”

“They’ll be fresh,” Kalliades said. “Fresh horses, too.”

“Fresh or not, they’ll be dead come nightfall,” Banokles said, stepping down from his horse. Kalliades followed him.

Antiphones leaned down from his mount. “A general should start a battle at the rear of his army,” he said tiredly, as he had said each day. “He cannot judge the disposal of his forces from the front.”

Banokles ignored him as usual and walked along the ranks to his left to stand at the head of his Scamandrians. The foot soldiers cheered, and Kalliades saw some of the weariness fall away from them as the chant rippled down the infantry front line: “Banokles! Banokles! Banokles! BANOKLES!”

Kalliades looked up at Antiphones and shrugged, then went to take his place beside his friend, drawing the sword of Argurios. Antiphones and Lucan turned their horses and guided them back through the ranks.

Antiphones had ordered the Scamandrians to take the left of the field, the Heraklions the right. At the center was the elite infantry, Priam’s Eagles, and behind them a force of three hundred Phrygian archers, flanked on each side by the Ilos regiment and mercenaries from Maeonia. The tiny force of surviving Trojan Horse was left in reserve on the far side of the river. Most carried wounds, as did their mounts.

Kalliades saw sunlight glittering off armor as the Mykene army began to move toward them. He settled his helm into place and checked the straps of his breastplate.

“What are we waiting for, lads?” Banokles shouted. Drawing both of his swords, he started to run toward the enemy.

At the rear Antiphones waited until he could see the faces of the advancing Mykene. Then he gave an order, and the Phrygian archers bent their bows to rain arrows over the heads of their own troops and into the front lines of the oncoming soldiers. Just three times they shot, and then, as ordered, they retreated across the wooden bridges to the north bank, ready to halt the enemy if they reached the river.

Kalliades, running side by side with Banokles toward the phalanx, saw the arrows soar over their heads and glance off Mykene shields and helms. But some cut through, gouging into faces, arms, and legs and making the advancing line falter as men stumbled and fell.

As he ran, Kalliades found new strength. He focused on a gap in the phalanx where one soldier had been brought down by an arrow, leaving the comrade on his left unprotected. Kalliades screamed wordlessly as he ran at the man, hacking at his sword arm. The blow half severed the arm above the elbow. Kalliades ripped his sword up again, catching the Mykene in the face as he fell forward.

A Mykene warrior swung his sword at Kalliades’ head. It glanced off the edge of his shield. Kalliades lanced the sword of Argurios at the man’s throat, but it deflected off his heavy armor. Kneeling, he parried a blow from the man’s sword, then hacked at his thigh. A bright fountain of blood gouted out. Falling to his knees, the Mykene desperately swung at Kalliades again. Kalliades stepped lightly back, leaving the man to die.

For a moment he was clear of the action. He saw that Banokles had fought his way into the thick of the battle. He was surrounded on three sides by the enemy, both Mykene and Thessalians.

Kalliades started in that direction, but from the corner of his eye he saw movement to his right. He blocked a savage thrust, slashing his sword across the man’s neck in a deadly riposte. Glancing left, he raised his shield just in time to block a blow from an ax. He lost his footing in the mud, and the axman swung at him again. He rolled away desperately.

Then a Trojan soldier leaped at the axman, slashing at his arm but catching him with a glancing blow on his mailed shoulder. The axman turned to the young soldier and swung the ax at his head. The Trojan carried an old tower shield, and the ax deflected off its edge. As the axman raised his weapon again, Kalliades leaped up and thrust his sword between the man’s back ribs. He wrenched it out as the man fell heavily.

Kalliades nodded his thanks to the youngster with the tower shield and turned back to see where Banokles was. He could not see him. Kalliades glanced around. Even in the middle of a battle Kalliades could feel the way it was going, and he knew the Trojans were making ground.

He swept aside a sword thrust to his belly from the right and killed the man with a lightning riposte to the throat.

A gap had opened up in front of him, and again he spotted Banokles, fighting with controlled intensity, his two swords flashing and darting, keeping the surrounding enemy at bay. Kalliades ran toward him, hurdled a body, and slashed his sword across the raised arm of a Thessalian soldier. The man stood for a moment, staring at his ruined arm. Kalliades lanced his sword into the Thessalian’s throat.

He saw that Banokles had lost one sword, so he picked up the Thessalian’s sword and yelled, “Banokles!” But in his full-faced helm Banokles did not hear him.

Kalliades saw a Mykene kill his Trojan opponent, then turn to see Banokles’ exposed back. Grinning, he raised his sword for a killing blow. Kalliades ran forward. But before the blow could fall, Banokles reversed his sword and thrust it, without looking, into the man’s belly.

Kalliades hacked his sword into the neck of one of Banokles’ opponents. He saw Banokles notice him and threw him the new sword. There was a pause while he looked around for his next target.

Banokles shouted, “Don’t worry, there are enough for both of us!”

Then the two friends were fighting back to back, the pile of enemy corpses around them growing.

And the long morning wore on.

Kalliades knew that the Scamandrians, fighting furiously, were battling their way slowly into the enemy ranks. But there lay the problem. The enemy cavalry on the wings, Thessalians and Kretans, would be trying to get around the sides of the Trojans and their allies, hoping to encircle them. Antiphones had only the small force of Trojan Horse and Zeleian cavalry to stop that from happening.

In a lull in the fighting Kalliades paused for breath. His sword arm was tired, and his legs felt as if they could not carry him another step. He and Banokles and a dozen or so Scamandrians were deep in the enemy ranks now. Around them were scores of dead and dying, some Trojans but mostly Mykene and warriors of Thessaly.

Banokles dispatched a heavily armored Mykene with a deft thrust to the side, then paused and glanced around to reorient himself. To their left they could see Trojan troops falling back in disarray. A giant warrior in black armor was driving into them, his swords moving like lightning, his body moving with awesome power and grace compared with the tired soldiers around him.

“Achilles!” Banokles shouted to Kalliades, pointing his sword in that direction. “That’s Achilles!”

Through the eye slits of his helm, Kalliades could see Banokles’ face light up with anticipation. He nodded to him, and the two set out to fight their way toward the Thessalian king.

Then there was a deep rumbling sound, and the blood-sodden earth beneath them started to vibrate.

“Earthquake!” Kalliades heard one man yell, and the cry was taken up all around them. The fighting started to falter as soldiers on both sides felt the ground tremble under their feet.

Kalliades found two Mykene corpses fallen one on top of the other. Steadying himself with a hand on Banokles’ shoulder, he climbed up onto them for a better view.

In the distance to the south, along the line of the Scamander, he could see a great dust cloud rising. As it came closer to the embattled armies, the rumbling in the ground increased. He grinned. Hoofbeats!

“It’s not an earthquake,” Kalliades shouted joyfully to his exhausted men. “It’s the Trojan Horse!”

Skorpios bent low over his gelding’s neck and felt the fear in his gut melting away as the Trojan Horse thundered across the plain toward the flank of the enemy.

Only moments before the riders had trotted their horses out of the tree line on the north bank of the Scamander where the oak-covered foothills ended and the river flowed fast toward the Bay of Troy. Then they had stopped, aghast at the sight of the battle being played out before them. Skorpios had had only heartbeats to take it in, the plain south of the Scamander filled with battling warriors, indistinguishable in their blood-and mud-covered armor. Then Hektor had plunged his great warhorse Ares into the foaming river, and the stallion had breasted his way across, followed quickly by the rest of the Trojan Horse.

Once on the southern bank, Hektor had not even turned to see if his men were getting safely across the fast-flowing river before drawing his sword and kicking his horse into a gallop toward the battle.

Skorpios, with Justinos beside him, was in the fourth rank of riders, bearing down on the enemy’s flank, his sword in hand. Rubbing the swirling dust from his eyes, he could see the enemy’s cavalry frantically trying to turn their mounts to face the new threat, but they were hampered by the bodies of horses and men littering the ground about them.

Hektor was already far ahead of the rest. His shield bearers Mestares and Areoan were trying their best to catch up with him, but few horses could keep pace with Ares at full gallop.

The gallant warhorse hit the panicking line of the enemy with the force of a battering ram. One horse fell screaming as Ares broke both of its front legs with the power of his attack. Hektor killed the injured horse’s rider with a blow to the head, and others fell back in disarray.

Then the shield bearers punched into the enemy ranks, too, followed by the rest of the Trojan Horse.

Skorpios slowed his mount to wait his turn as the riders in front of him plunged into the action. Then a Thessalian rider, breaking through the Trojan line, swept toward him with his lance leveled. Skorpios swayed to the left, and the lance point slashed to his right, plunging into his gelding’s flank. The gelding reared in pain, giving Skorpios the height to plunge his spear deep into the Thessalian’s throat. Maddened with pain, the gelding reared again, then fell.

Skorpios jumped clear and, rolling, rose to his feet, drawing his sword. He ran at the first rider he saw, a heavily armored Mykene. The man’s lance thrust toward him but glanced from his breastplate. Skorpios grabbed the lance and pulled; caught by surprise, the Mykene slid off his horse. Skorpios killed him with a lightning sword cut to the throat. Then, sheathing his sword, he grabbed the man’s horse by the mane and vaulted onto its back, lance in hand.

He looked around for someone else to kill. He saw that the enemy cavalry had buckled under the attack; some of the wounded riders were trying to make their way back, away from the field. Snarling, he sighted and threw the Thessalian lance at a fleeing rider. It hit the man in the center of his back, and he slumped from his mount. Skorpios punched the air in triumph.

“Skorpios!” He turned to see Justinos, his face and sword covered with blood. He was grinning. “Still want to be back on your father’s farm herding sheep?”

The red battle fury in Skorpios started to drain away as he saw that the enemy was fleeing to the west.