Shield of Thunder

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE FALLEN HERO

More than twenty thousand people were present at the fight, though less than a tenth could say truthfully they witnessed it. People farther back than the first few rows could occasionally get a glimpse of the two men, but those at the rear could only listen to the roars of the crowd. And yet, decades later, men from all nations would say their fathers or their grandfathers had stood close by on that day. Two hundred years on a king from Macedonia named Antipas would insist that his ancestor had held the cloak of the victor. For seven generations his family claimed the title Cloakbearer. Bards would later sing of the battle, maintaining that Zeus and the gods had descended on Troy that day, disguised as mortals, and that ownership of the stars was wagered by them.

Odysseus saw no gods as he stood on the far side of the circle with the kings of the west. He saw two proud men in the full glory of youth and strength circling one another under a blazing sun. Achilles made the first attack, stepping in and feinting with a left before flashing a right hand that thundered against Hektor’s face. The Trojan champion reacted with an uppercut that hammered into his opponent’s belly and a left cross that glanced from Achilles’ temple. Then they pulled back and circled again. This time it was Hektor who moved in. Achilles swayed back from a straight left, then stepped inside, throwing a combination of blows that drove Hektor back. The punches were blindingly fast, each one pounding into Hektor’s face. The Trojan covered up, blocking further blows with his forearms, then counterattacked with a left hook that clubbed into Achilles’ cheek.

Achilles was bigger and faster than the Trojan and was landing more punches. Odysseus watched intently as the fighters circled once more. Each man had now tested the other, and both knew there would be no swift conclusion.

Odysseus stood quietly, the roars of the crowd washing over him. He knew Achilles was the stronger man, but he knew also that skill and speed alone would not dictate the outcome. The plan had been Agamemnon’s, and Odysseus had offered no argument against it. If Hektor could be defeated, it would damage the morale of the Trojans, whereas if Achilles lost, it would dent only the confidence of the Thessalians and have little effect on men from other nations drawn into the battle for Troy.

Even so he was torn as he watched the combat. He liked Hektor and had no desire to see him humbled. Equally, he longed to see the look on Priam’s face when his beloved son was defeated. Odysseus glanced at the Trojan king. Priam was watching the fight, his expression calm and untroubled.

That will change, Odysseus thought.

Both fighters now glistened with sweat, and there was a swelling beneath Hektor’s right eye. Achilles was unmarked. He surged forward, ducking under a murderous right, then smashing two blows into Hektor’s face, opening a cut under the left eye that sprayed blood over the nearby spectators. A gasp went up from the crowd. Hektor countered with a left hook that slashed above Achilles’ ducking head. Achilles hammered a blow into Hektor’s belly and a right cross that cracked against his chin. Off balance, Hektor tumbled to the dirt and rolled onto his back.

Odysseus flicked a glance at Priam and smiled. The Trojan king was ashen, his mouth open in shock.

Hektor rose to his knees, shook his head, and remained where he was for a moment, dragging in deep breaths. Then he stood, walked to the spear plunged into the ground, and patted the haft. Blood was running down his face.

The crowd was silent now.

Achilles launched a swift attack, but he was overconfident and ran into a straight left that jarred him to his heels and an uppercut to the belly that lifted him from his feet. Hektor followed in, but Achilles spun away, sending a stinging right that further opened the cut on Hektor’s face.

The day wore on, the sun sinking slowly over the sea.

Hektor was slowing, fewer of his punches hitting the target, whereas Achilles seemed to be growing in strength. Twice more Hektor was downed, and twice more he rose to touch the spear haft.

At that point Odysseus thought that the end was inevitable. Hektor’s strength was being leached away by every blow. Only pride and courage kept him on his feet.

Achilles, sensing victory was close, stepped in, thundering two right crosses into Hektor’s face, hurling him from his feet.

Hektor hit the ground hard and rolled to his knees. He struggled to rise, fell back, then slowly made it to his feet to touch the spear.

Then Achilles made a terrible mistake.

“Come on, you Trojan dog,” he said with a sneer. “There is more pain here for you.”

Odysseus saw the change come over Hektor. His head came up, and his pale eyes narrowed. Then, amazingly, he smiled.

Achilles, oblivious to the change in his opponent, charged in. Hektor stepped in to meet him, blocking a right cross and sending yet another uppercut into Achilles’ belly. Breath whooshed from the Thessalian’s lungs. A clubbing left hook exploded against his forehead, splitting the skin above his right eye. Achilles tried to back away. Hektor hit him with a ferocious left, then a right that pulped his lips against his teeth, shredding them. Desperately Achilles ducked his head, trying to protect his face with his forearms. An uppercut swept between the raised limbs. Achilles’ head snapped back. A straight left shattered his nose. Achilles stumbled back, but there was no escape. Hektor moved in, hammering punch after punch into Achilles’ ruined face. Blood was flowing into both eyes now, and Achilles did not see the blow that ended the fight. Hektor stepped back and with all his strength hit his opponent with an explosive right that spun the Thessalian through a full circle before his unconscious body hit the dirt.

A huge cheer went up from the crowd. Hektor turned and strode back to the dais, where he lifted clear the laurel wreath of victory. Walking back to where Achilles lay, he dropped the wreath onto his chest, then swung to face Odysseus and the kings of the west. As the cheering faded away, he pointed down at the fallen hero. When he spoke, his voice was cold.

“Hail to mighty Achilles,” he said. “Hail to the champion of the games.”

Banokles was furious to have missed the fight. He’d had no desire to watch Leukon humbled by the awesome Achilles and had walked down to the lower town to enjoy the company of Big Red. Only later, as he walked back to Hektor’s palace, did he learn of the contest he had missed. Crowds streaming away from the stadium were talking of nothing else, their mood jubilant.

Back at the palace the crewmen of the Penelope were gathering their belongings for departure. Banokles found Kalliades sitting in the shade of a flowering tree in the rear gardens. Slumping down beside him, he said: “I would have wagered on Hektor.”

Kalliades laughed. “You said you thought Achilles was unbeatable. In fact, you said even Hektor would have no chance against him. I remember that.”

“You always remember too much,” Banokles grumbled. “Was it a great bout?”

“The best I have ever seen.”

“And I missed it.”

“Do not be so downcast, my friend. In days to come you will brag about being there, and no one will be the wiser.”

“That’s true,” Banokles said, his mood lifting. Several crew members left the palace building, carrying their bedrolls. “Where is everyone going? I thought they were going to sail in the morning.”

“Odysseus is leaving the city now,” Kalliades said. “Says he will find a bay somewhere up the coast.”

“Why?”

“The neutrality of the games ends tonight. I hear most of the kings of the west are leaving with him.”

“What will we do?” Banokles asked.

“We’ll head south, down to Thebe Under Plakos. The king there is troubled by bandits raiding his trade caravans.”

“Is that a long distance from Troy?”

Kalliades glanced at him. “Are your legs weary?”

“No. Just asking.” Banokles called out to a passing servant for some wine, but the man ingored him. “Seems like we are not welcome anymore,” he said.

Odysseus came strolling from the palace. “You lads can stay with the Penelope, if you will. I have spoken to Agamemnon, and he has lifted the sentence from you. As far as he is concerned, you are Ithakan warriors, and I would be glad to have you.”

“That’s good,” Banokles said. He glanced at Kalliades. “It is good, isn’t it?”

Kalliades rose to stand before Odysseus. “I thank you, Odysseus King, but I promised to take Piria to her friend, to see her safely to the end of her journey.”

“A man should always honor his word,” Odysseus said, “but I fear nowhere is safe for that girl. You understand?”

“I believe I do.”

“Her actions, though inspired by love and prophecy, have been reckless. I think she is beginning to realize that now.”

“Not so long ago,” Kalliades said, “you told me she would need friends. Loyal friends. She has those, Odysseus. We will keep her safe. Banokles and I will allow no one to harm her or take her. If she is not welcomed by her friend, she can accompany us to Thebe Under Plakos. There she will not be known.”

“I do not think her friend will turn her away,” Odysseus said, “though good sense would dictate otherwise.” Reaching out, he gripped Kalliades’ hand. “You lads take care. If ever you are in need of a friend, you can look to Ithaka or to any Ithakan ship. You tell them you are friends of Odysseus, and they will carry you wherever they are sailing.”

“That is good to know,” Kalliades told him.

“My last words of advice are these. I have given Piria directions to Hektor’s farm. Get her to wait until dusk. There are a number of Thessalians still in the city who might recognize her in daylight.”

“We will see her there safely,” Kalliades promised.

Odysseus turned to Banokles. “I did not see you at the fight, big man.”

“Oh, I was there,” Banokles insisted. “Wouldn’t have missed it.”

“Aye, it was something to see, and I doubt Achilles will ever forget it. You don’t taunt a man like Hektor. Heroes can always delve deeper than ordinary men. They have a well of courage that is bottomless. I think both of you understand that. It has been good to know you.”

As he walked away, Bias, Leukon, and others of the crew wandered over to say their goodbyes, and then Kalliades and Banokles were alone in the garden.

A little while later Piria joined them. She was wearing a long hooded cloak of dark green and carrying a Phrygian bow, and a quiver of arrows was slung across her shoulder.

“Going hunting?” Banokles asked.

“No,” the blond girl said. “This is Andromache’s bow. A servant told me she had asked for it to be brought to the farm. I said I would carry it. Why are you still here?”

“We thought you might like our company on the road,” Kalliades said.

Piria gave a shy smile. “I would like that… my friends,” she told them.

Banokles strolled away to the room he shared with Kalliades. There he donned his old cuirass and strapped his sword belt to his side. This night they would leave Troy. The thought hung heavily on him. He pictured Big Red as he had last seen her, sitting in an old wicker chair in her small garden. She had been mending a tear at the hem of a gown.

She looked up as he prepared to leave. “You have cake crumbs in your beard,” she said.

Banokles brushed them away. “See you tomorrow?” he asked.

Red shrugged. “The games are over today,” she said. “Everyone will be leaving.”

There had been no hugs, no farewell kiss. He considered going back to the lower town and seeking her out. But what would be the purpose? He didn’t want to say goodbye to her. With a sigh he left the room and strode through the palace. There will be plenty of women in the countryside, he told himself. With luck he could buy some slave girls to tend him.

Curiously, the thought saddened him.

Andromache held tightly to the bronze rail of the war chariot as Cheon guided the vehicle along the paved roads of the city and out toward the open land leading to the farm. The chariot, drawn by two bay geldings, was of flimsy construction: a narrow wickerwork base of heat-molded wood strengthened at the upper rim by copper wire. There was a rack, which would normally hold four javelins, and two bronze hooks for stowing a bow and a quiver of arrows. There was scarcely room for two people on board. But then, the vehicle was built for speed and maneuverability on the battlefield, to bring an archer into range of the enemy and away again before a counterattack could be mounted. Cheon had commandeered it at the palace, since all the passenger carts were in use and Andromache had been eager to return to the farm.

Andromache glanced at the handsome, dark-haired soldier. His helm was hanging from the bow hook, for he was still sporting the laurel wreath of victory he had won at the archery tourney. Along the way he was recognized by the crowds on the streets, and they cheered him loudly.

Once they were clear of the city, the crowds thinned, and Cheon allowed the geldings to slow to a walk. Andromache was relieved, for the vehicle had juddered alarmingly on the stone streets and her knees ached from trying to remain upright.

“I am sorry to have missed your victory,” she told the young soldier.

He grinned at her. “I was lucky that Meriones did not have his own bow. I have practiced with mine for almost a year. Yet he came close to beating me with a weapon he had never handled before. And as for regret, nothing can match mine, for I was in the palaistra being massaged when Hektor defeated Achilles. You must be very proud.”

Andromache did not reply, but the question echoed in her mind. Was she proud? Was that the feeling she had experienced as the two champions had pounded their fists against one another, splitting skin and spraying blood? Was it pride that had caused her stomach to turn so that it required all her will to prevent herself from vomiting? She had turned her eyes away during much of the contest, watching instead the reactions of the men surrounding her. Priam had at first seemed unconcerned, merely waiting for the inevitable victory. Slowly she had watched his confidence fade. The man seemed to age ten years in a matter of heartbeats. Only at the end, as Achilles fell for the last time, did he surge from his seat.

Yet despite her revulsion at the brutality of the fight, Andromache was elated by the outcome, especially as she gazed upon the stricken face of Peleus, the Thessalian king. This was the man who had raped Kalliope, ripping her childhood from her. This was the wretch who had left his daughter damaged beyond repair. Even in the sanctuary of Thera, where men were forbidden, Kalliope would wake screaming, her body bathed in sweat. Then she would fall into Andromache’s arms, weeping at the awful memories.

With the fight over, Andromache had returned to the king’s palace with Hektor. He had said little during the walk. His breathing was labored, and he held his left arm to his side. Andromache had been with him when the physician came. Three ribs were broken, and several of his teeth had been loosened. She had sat with him for a while, but then he had patted her arm.

“Go back to the farm,” he said, forcing a smile. “I will rest here awhile.”

“You fought well,” she told him, “with great courage.”

His reply surprised her. “I hated it,” he said. “Every brutal heartbeat of it. It hurts me to think of what Achilles must be feeling at this moment, his pride in the dust.”

She gazed at him, at his bruised face and his bright blue eyes. Without thinking, she lifted her hand and gently stroked the golden hair back from his brow. “We are what we are, Hektor. You need have no sympathy for Achilles. He is a brute, from a family of brutes. Come to the farm when you can.”

His huge hand reached out, and he took her fingers gently and raised them to his lips. “I am glad you are my wife, Andromache. You are everything I could ever have desired. I am sorry I cannot be—”

“Do not say it again,” she said, interrupting him. “Rest now and come to the farm when you can.”

Leaving the room, she had walked out onto the gallery beyond, her eyes misting with tears. Sadness clung to her. It struck her then that Hektor and Kalliope were not so unalike. Both had been damaged. Both, in different ways, had been cursed by the Fates.

Servants moved by silently, and she could hear the sound of raised voices from the megaron below. Priam’s voice suddenly boomed out.

“Are you insane? She is the wife of my son.”

Andromache moved away from the balcony to the gallery rail, staring down into the columned megaron. Priam was seated upon his throne, facing the Mykene king, Agamemnon, and some of the kings of the west. Andromache recognized the vile Peleus and Nestor, Idomeneos, and Menestheos. Helikaon, Antiphones, and Dios were standing alongside Priam.

“You must understand, Priam King,” said Agamemnon, “that there is no intent here to cause undue offense. You sanctioned the marriage of Paris to the woman Helen. This was not your right. Helen is a princess of Sparta, sent here by her father during the recent war. My brother Menelaus is now king of Sparta, and Helen is his subject. He has decided, in the interests of his people, to wed her.”

Priam’s laughter was harsh. “Menelaus led a Mykene army into Sparta and killed the king. He seized the throne and now faces insurrections. In order to bolster his fabricated claim to the crown he seeks to wed someone of royal blood. You think I would send Helen home to rut with the man who murdered her father?”

Agamemnon shook his head. “You have no choice. All of us here are allies, and we are allies because we have agreed to respect each other’s rights and borders and internal laws. Without such respect there can be no alliance. Let us suppose that one of your daughters was to visit a kingdom of the west and that the ruler there suddenly married her to one of his sons. What would be your reaction? And what would you expect when you demanded her return?”

“Spare me the clever words, Agamemnon. You desire a war with Troy, and you have been seeking allies in that venture for years now. I tire of your duplicity, the fair speeches that cloak foul deeds. Let me make it simple for you. Helen remains in Troy. The alliance is at an end. Now get you gone from my city.”

Agamemnon spread his arms, and his reply was full of regret. “It saddens me to hear you speak in this way, Priam King. However, as you say, the alliance is at an end. You may come to rue this decision.” With that he turned and strode out, followed by the other kings.

Back in the present the voice of Cheon cut through her memories. “Do you wish to stop by the shrine to Artemis?” he asked as the chariot neared the little stream.

“Not today, Cheon. Take me home.”

The journey seemed interminable, and the afternoon sun blazed brightly in a cloudless sky. By the time they reached the old stone house, Andromache felt weary beyond belief. They were greeted by Hektor’s housekeeper, the elderly Menesthi, a Hittite woman, whose true age was a mystery. Cheon maintained she was the oldest woman alive, a claim Andromache could well believe, for the old woman’s face had the texture of pumice stone.

Inside the main building Menesthi’s husband, the equally ancient Vahusima, prepared a bath for her. Shedding her yellow gown, she stepped into it, laying her head back on a folded towel. The feeling of the cool water on her overheated skin was exquisite. She called Menesthi to her to remove the gold wire that bound her hair, then ducked her head below the surface.

Menesthi brought her fresh clothing, a simple loose robe of white linen. Rising from the bath, Andromache stood naked, allowing the warm air to dry her body. Then she moved to the rear window and stared out over the fields toward the wooded hillside.

In that moment she saw two men duck into the trees. It seemed to her they were acting furtively. She stared out, seeking another glimpse of them, but there was no further sign of movement. The first of the men appeared familiar, but she could not place him. He must be one of Hektor’s woodsmen, she thought.

Donning the robe, she walked back through the house. Cheon was sitting on the porch in the shadows, watching two youths leading a powerful gray stallion around the paddock. The beast was high-spirited and nervous, and when one of the boys tried to mount him, he reared and threw him to the grass. Cheon laughed. “He has no wish to be ridden,” he said. “Those lads will have some deep bruises by this evening.”

Andromache smiled. “I see you are still wearing your laurel crown. Are you intending to sleep with it on?”

“I think I will,” he said. “I think I will wear it until it rots and falls off.”

“Does that not seem a little vain, Cheon?”

“Entirely,” he agreed with a grin.

Andromache seated herself beside him. “The farm seems deserted.”

“Most of the men went to the city for the last day. They’ll be getting drunk about now. I doubt we’ll see them until tomorrow, when they will drift in looking sheepish and bleary-eyed.”

As the light began to fade Andromache moved back inside. Menesthi brought her a simple meal of bread and cheese and a dish of sliced fruit. Andromache finished it and stretched out on a couch, resting her head on a thick cushion.

Her dreams were confused and full of anxiety, and she awoke with a start. Suddenly she remembered where she had seen the man in the woods before. He was not one of Hektor’s men. She had noticed him as she had stood with Kassandra on the day Agamemnon arrived in Troy.

The man was a Mykene soldier.

Fearful now, she rose and went toward the main rooms. Perhaps they were assassins come to kill Hektor, not realizing he had remained at the palace. She needed to find Cheon and warn him.

As she neared the front of the house, she saw a red glow through the window. Pulling open the door, she saw old Vahusima and the two boys running toward a blazing barn. From within the building she heard the sounds of terrified horses and ran out to help them just as Cheon emerged from behind the house.

One of the boys suddenly stumbled and fell. Vahusima reached the doors of the stable and struggled to lift clear the locking bar. Then he cried out, and Andromache saw an arrow jutting from his back.

Dark figures came rushing from the shadows, swords in their hands.