Fall of Kings

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR WITH SHAFT AND BOW

The warm spring turned into a hot, dry summer. The besieged city was parched.

As Andromache walked from the House of Serpents back to Hektor’s palace, she thought longingly of the cool goblet of water that would greet her when she arrived. She slipped through the gates of the palace, shedding her bodyguards with a nod, and stepped into the gardens.

The plants were dying. The tender ones were long dead; the pots and troughs fashioned from stone and wood were filled only with brown twigs. Even the trees were drooping from lack of water. In the early evening light, Andromache’s two boys were running around on the dry cracked earth, playing catch, unaware of the dead plants and the city’s desperate plight.

“Mama!” Astyanax shouted joyfully, and ran to her with his arms out. She lifted the boy up onto her hip with a groan. “You’re getting too heavy for me!” she protested. Dex ran up to her, too, and she ruffled his fair hair, smiling down into his dark eyes.

He was a thoughtful little boy, still shadowed by grief. Sometimes at night, when he was afraid to sleep because of nightmares, he would creep into her bed and whisper to Andromache about his mother, whom he called Sun Woman, and Gray One and Old Red Man. She had learned that Gray One had been his elderly nurse, and Old Red Man the Dardanian general Pausanius, both killed in the Mykene attack on Dardanos. The little boy would chatter about them, mixing them up with stories of gods and goddesses he had been told. He recited the same tales over and over, comforting himself with their familiarity. One night recently he had brought “Mama” into his stories. She recognized herself, and her heart lifted. He was starting to add his present life here in Troy to his past life with the dead of Dardanos. He was still heart-scarred, but she believed the boy eventually would heal.

She put Astyanax down and, taking both boys by the hand, led them into the palace. She passed through the anteroom and found her handmaids Penthesileia and Anio talking together in whispering voices. They blushed when she appeared and made a show of looking busy, polishing the heavy gold jewelry once worn by Laodike, now left unused in a carved ivory box. Andromache smiled at the two girls and walked out to the pleasantly shady terrace.

Axa bustled about, bringing the boys sweet cakes and milk. She handed Andromache a goblet of water, and the princess drank it down gratefully. The taste was sublime. “I have put a basin of water in your chamber if you want to wash,” the maid said.

Andromache looked at her sternly. “I’ve told you, Axa, that we cannot waste water on washing. I do not expect you to wash, or the boys, or your babies.” Before the fall of the lower town, Axa’s three small children had been moved into the palace.

“But lady, Prince Polites has asked you to meet him and the generals tonight. You will want to wash before you change your dress,” the maid said pointedly.

Andromache looked down at her saffron gown, which was stained from her day working with the sick and wounded in the healing house. “Why would I get changed?” she asked. “I have nothing clean to wear.”

“I have ordered six white gowns for you,” Axa told her. “The dyemakers cannot work, but the seamstresses can. And it gives them something to do,” she added defensively.

“But white cloth is needed for bandages.”

Axa shook her head vigorously. “I asked Zeotos, and he said since there are few injured these days, he has enough bandages stored away to last for ten years.”

Andromache laughed. “Then you are right, Axa,” she admitted. “There is no reason why we shouldn’t have clean white dresses. Order some for yourself and for Penthesileia and Anio. But you must still pour that water back into the water barrel for drinking.”

“But I have already perfumed it, lady,” her maid replied stubbornly. “No one can drink it now.”

“Then give it to the horses. They won’t mind the taste of rose petals.”

“But—”

“Now, Axa. The horses will be grateful.”

Axa fetched the basin, grumbling to herself, then left the apartments. Andromache walked across the terrace, which overlooked the stables in the Street of Bright Dancers, and looked down. Eventually she saw the plump figure of her maid walking from the palace, the water basin cradled in her arms. The woman paused and looked up. Andromache waved at her. Axa walked on into the stables.

Smiling, Andromache threw herself down on a couch. Strange days, she thought. There was a listless stillness in the city she never had known before. The heat lay like a wool blanket, stifling movement and keeping everyone indoors in the shade. The streets were empty except in the evenings, when weary people lined up for bread and water. No one had enough water or enough to eat.

Although they all lived under the daily threat of death, Andromache felt strangely content. Her husband and her lover were both away at war, and she no longer felt the exhausting conflict of desires and responsibility. Her choice had been made. She would stay with her son and with Dex until the end came and the blood-hungry soldiers poured in and then protect the boys with her life.

Each day she worked in the House of Serpents. It was more than fifty days since the last major attack by the armies of Agamemnon, and the only injuries now were arrow wounds and broken limbs sustained when soldiers who had received their wine ration tumbled off the walls. The work at the healing houses was not hard. Xander had disappeared mysteriously, and Andromache wondered what had become of him, but most of the priests and healers had stayed. The dying were not fed and were given only enough water to moisten their mouths. Those thought likely to recover were given water until they complained of hunger, when they were fed as well. Andromache hated being in the palace all day, with its air of heavy anxiety, and preferred to keep herself busy working among the injured and dying, feeding them, talking to them, sometimes holding their hands until they died.

The truth was, she thought, no one had enough to do. The daily routines of the city had broken down because of the lack of supplies and exhaustion brought on by the shortage of food and water and the energy-sapping heat. Most people, when not standing in line for food, stayed home. Inactivity sparked gossip and fueled people’s fears. Her handmaids Penthesileia and Anio had too much time on their hands, she thought, and spent it discussing the plight of the city with other royal servants.

Her mind drifted back to the previous autumn and Kassandra’s words to the girls when she last had been in these rooms. “You must learn to shoot! The Women of the Horse with shaft and bow! You see? You see, Andromache?”

“Yes, Kassandra,” Andromache said to the empty room. “I see now.”

Polites was waiting in the megaron with Banokles and Kalliades when Andromache arrived. She smiled at the two warriors, the one blond-bearded and powerful, the other tall and dark. She always would remember them running down the hillside to her rescue on the night Kalliope died. Then they were Mykene rebels fighting assassins who had come to kill her. Now they were the most respected soldiers in the Trojan army. She had heard of the death of Banokles’ wife and was filled with sympathy, but the only time she had tried to raise the subject with him, he had ignored her and rudely walked away.

“I assume,” she said to Polites, sitting on a padded chair and folding her hands, “that we are to discuss rationing and the care of the wounded. You would not have asked me to a meeting of strategy.”

Polites sighed. “Our only strategy is staying alive. We have not been attacked for fifty-five days. The heat and lack of food and water are our worst enemies now. Our food will only barely last until the autumn. The wells may run dry any day.”

“Is that likely?” Kalliades asked.

“It has happened before.” General Lucan hurried into the megaron alongside the king’s aide Polydorus and Ipheus, the young commander of the Eagles. “Both wells ran dry in the summer heat some forty years ago,” he explained. “The rivers were down to a trickle, too. It was a hard summer. All the livestock died. We had to slaughter most of the horses. I’ve never seen its like. But the rains came early that year, and we survived.”

“The enemy is suffering, too,” Kalliades put in. “They have water aplenty, but their food supplies are not getting through. We have Hektor and Helikaon to thank for that. Agamemnon’s armies have ravaged the countryside all around the city. There are no crops left, no livestock. And hungry soldiers are unhappy soldiers. We know one army of mercenaries departed ten days ago, heading south. Others will start defecting if they see no end to the war.”

“It is our best hope,” Polites said.

“No,” Banokles put in, scratching his beard, “our best hope is that Agamemnon and his bunch of poxy kings lay down their arms and surrender to us. But it’s not very likely.”

The men all smiled, but Andromache said impatiently, “What are we here to discuss, Polites? The situation at the House of Serpents is the same as it was before, when we met three days ago. Many old people and babies are being cared for now, suffering from the heat and drought. Ten more injured bowmen have been brought in. Two died. Three have infected wounds and are likely to die. The others will live, Zeotos says.”

Angrily, she added, “I don’t understand why our bowmen are being put in danger when we are not under attack. Taking potshots at the enemy below the walls achieves little. If each of our archers was to kill one enemy soldier every day, it would still be like a drop of water in the Great Green.”

“We need to remind the enemy, Sister,” Polites replied, “that Troy is stoutly defended. Each attack, even a single arrow shot over the battlements, has to be met with an answer from the city.”

Kalliades added gravely, “And if the city falls, lady, and the Scaean Gate is opened, then a few bowmen will not make a difference to our fortunes.”

“It only takes a single arrow to kill a king,” she answered him briskly.

They went on to discuss more stringent rationing, for Polites was concerned about the rapidly dwindling stores of grain. Andromache told them she had visited every baker in the city, gathering advice on keeping grain fresh and free of weevils and ensuring that all the bakers knew of it.

When the men started to talk about rotating troops at the Scaean Gate, she left the megaron. She was feeling restless and, on a whim, gathered her bodyguards, who were playing knucklebones in the portico, and made her way to Priam’s palace. With Polydorus busy in the meeting, Andromache had a sudden urge to speak to the king alone. The young soldier was constantly at his side, and although she liked Polydorus, she felt constrained from speaking openly to Priam when he was present.

She was shown up to the queen’s apartments, where the king had resided since the death of Hekabe. She had expected to find him resting. But when a soldier showed her into a chamber, she was surprised to find the old man out on the wide stone balcony. He was standing staring at the darkening sky, wrapped in a white wool cloak despite the heat. He turned to her, and for a moment she was reminded of the man she first had met on the Great Tower of Ilion. He was still powerful and vital then, and she was a girl of twenty who was risking death because she refused to kneel to a king. Such arrogance, the older Andromache thought ruefully, such pride.

“I hope I find you well, my king,” she said to him.

“Andromache of Thebe!” he cried, and in the torchlight his eyes glittered with life. She realized that this was not the confused old man of recent days but the powerful and capricious king she once had feared, though she did not show it.

“Come, stand with me and gaze upon our city.” He held out his hand, and she took it. He drew her out onto the balcony. She gazed sideways at his profile, the high beaked nose and firm jaw, and wondered if mischievous gods had transported her back to her first days in Troy.

“Tell me of the Eagle Child,” he demanded, his voice strong. And he quoted the prophecy of Melite: “Beneath the Shield of Thunder waits the Eagle Child on shadow wings, to soar above all city gates till end of days and fall of kings.”

“Astyanax, they call him,” he went on. “Lord of the city. Foolish old women try to touch his tunic as he walks in the streets, I’m told. He is the hope of Troy.” His voice changed and became more urgent. “He must stay in the city, Andromache.”

She was about to agree with him when he grabbed her by the arms, pushing her against the stone balcony. “I will not let him leave Troy!” he rasped, his voice angry in her ear. “I know what you’re thinking, girl! You will smuggle him out of the gates, bundled in a basket, just a soldier’s whore with a bag of clothes. But you will not. I will have him guarded night and day. My Eagles will see that you do him no harm!”

With manic strength he lifted her off her feet, attempting to push her over the wide stone wall of the balcony. “I will stop you now!” he cried. “You will not take him!”

She tried to fight against him, but her arms were pinned, and she was helpless as he pushed her out over the high drop to the stones below. Forcing herself to stay calm, she made herself go limp in his arms. Recalling her last interview with Queen Hekabe, she whispered seductively to him the words she had heard, though they meant little to her, “Where do we sail today, my lord? The Scamandrios is waiting.”

His body jerked with shock, and he released her. Andromache dragged herself back to safety, her heart pounding, and stepped away from him, watching him carefully.

“Hekabe?” he asked her uncertainly, his voice quavering, his eyes pained and confused.

“Go to your rest, my husband,” she said softly. “I will join you in a heartbeat.”

Priam hesitated and then shuffled over to his wide bed, lifting his feet up with effort, and lay there as obedient as a child. Andromache gazed at him, emotions warring in her breast. Fear of the powerful king on the balcony quickly gave way to pity for the confused old man. She hurried from the room.

Deep in thought, she was walking down a torchlit corridor when a voice behind her said, “Lady, are you all right?”

Turning swiftly, her nerves in a jangle, she saw that it was Kalliades. She realized she must have looked flushed and disheveled, and she collected her thoughts.

“I am glad you are here, Kalliades,” she told him. “I wish to talk with you. I need any bows and arrows you can spare brought to me in the palace gardens tomorrow. I am going to teach the Women of the Horse to shoot.”

“Women of the Horse?” he queried, frowning.

“They are daughters of riders of the Trojan Horse who died in the service of the city. They are given places in the royal household. My two handmaids are the daughters of a rider called Ursos.”

“I knew Ursos,” Kalliades replied. “A good man. He died in the battle for Dardanos.”

“His daughters are among many young women still in the city. If the walls fall, their fate will be appalling. I would like to teach them how to defend themselves.”

The warrior looked gravely at her, as if reluctant to say what he was thinking.

“Speak your mind, Kalliades,” she demanded.

“When the enemy armies come, lady, they will come in the thousands. A bow and arrow will make little difference to a woman’s fate.” He looked down, unwilling to meet her eye.

“You were at the palace siege,” she said to him.

“I was with the Mykene invaders, with Banokles. It is well known, but that part of our lives is past.”

“I did not mention it to embarrass you. Did you see me there?”

He nodded. “With your bow you killed and injured many of our men.” He paused and then said, “You were magnificent, lady.”

She blushed at his unexpected words.

“But,” he went on, “we Mykene came ready for hand-to-hand combat. There were few bowmen in our ranks. Had there been, you would have been a dead woman.”

She accepted the truth of his words but said, “Kalliades, if you were being attacked by armed men, would you rather be completely helpless or armed with a bow?”

Kalliades nodded. “I will see you have the bows and arrows you need. It can do no harm. How many?”

“There are more than thirty Women of the Horse in the city still.”

“I will let you have what we can spare. But we must not leave our bowmen short.”

Deep in thought, Kalliades left the palace and strolled back through the quiet city to the east wall. He followed it along to the East Tower, where he climbed the steps to the battlements. Men of the Scamandrian regiment were sitting around, talking quietly, eating, playing games of chance. Many were fast sleep on the hard stones, as only veteran soldiers could sleep in the most uncomfortable conditions.

Kalliades looked for Banokles, but there was no sign of his friend, so he eased himself down, back against the battlements, legs outstretched. He sighed and closed his eyes gratefully. He thought about Andromache’s words about bowmen. It was not true, although there was nothing to be gained by arguing with the woman. If he were unarmed and facing armed men, he would rely on his strength and his skills as a fighter rather than on a flimsy bow. His distrust of bowmen was deeply ingrained. The warriors of Mykene despised archers, slingers, or anyone who fought from a distance. True warriors armed themselves with sword or dagger, spear or lance, facing their enemies eye to eye. He remembered Kolanos killing the great Argurios with a coward’s arrow, and even after all this time, the gorge rose in his throat at the thought. He had asked Father Zeus to curse Kolanos for that act. He smiled grimly, recalling Kolanos’ agonized death.

It did no harm giving serving women bows to play with, he thought. It would keep them occupied and take their minds off their fate. And Andromache had been right about one thing: It took only a single arrow to kill a king.

Kalliades gradually became conscious that someone was looking at him and opened his eyes. A young soldier with floppy flaxen hair was standing in front of him.

“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.”