Shield of Thunder

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT THE TROJAN HORSE

A cool breeze was blowing through the Rhodope Mountains, shimmering the long grass of the Thrakian plain and whispering through the tops of the trees that flanked the high hills beyond.

Hidden beyond the tree line, Banokles sat on his mount and waited, along with a thousand other riders of the Trojan Horse. On the plain below fifteen hundred Trojan soldiers appeared to be preparing for a midday halt, clearing areas for cookfires. Three hundred Thrakian cavalry were with them, along with some two hundred archers. Banokles had little interest in strategy. Either the enemy would march into the trap or it wouldn’t. It didn’t matter much to the big warrior. If not today, then they would crush the rebels tomorrow. Or the next day.

He glanced at the rider to his left, the slim, yellow-haired Skorpios. The man had removed his helm. He was unnaturally pale, and there was a sheen of sweat on his face. Banokles looked along the line. Everywhere there were signs of nerves and fear. He couldn’t understand it. We are the Trojan Horse, he thought. We don’t lose battles. And Skorpios was a fine fighter and a superb horseman. So what was he worried about?

It was a mystery, and Banokles did not like mysteries. He promptly put all thoughts of Skorpios from his mind. There were more important things to think about.

For one, he was hungry. The food wagons had not reached them, and there had been no breakfast. That was intolerable to Banokles. No one should be asked to fight a battle without breakfast. The wagons that had come over the high pass had carried spare swords and a supply of arrows. This, while welcomed by those soldiers whose blades had been ruined by the battles of the last few weeks, had been a disappointment to Banokles. Supplies of cheese and dried meat had run out, and the men had eaten nothing but crushed oats soaked in water.

An itch began in Banokles’ armpit. That was especially irritating, as the armor worn by Trojan Horse riders was intricate: small, overlapping bronze disks, like fish scales, that covered the chest, belly, and lower throat. It was impossible to reach inside and scratch.

Banokles’ horse shifted under him, then tossed its head. Idly he patted the beast’s black neck. “Steady, Arse Face,” he said.

“By the gods, why don’t they come?” said another nervous man to his right, a heavyset warrior with a carefully trimmed trident beard. Justinos dragged his helm clear, then pulled a cloth from his belt and wiped the sweat from his shaved head. Banokles did not know how to answer him. How in Hades would he know why the enemy hadn’t arrived? “I hate this bastard waiting,” Justinos added.

“We should have had a better breakfast,” Banokles said.

“What?”

“Those oats make a man fart all day. Red meat before a battle. That’s how it should be.”

Justinos stared at him for a moment, then donned his helm and turned away.

Glancing along the line of riders, Banokles saw Kalliades dismount and walk to a tall tree. He removed his sword belt and helm and climbed up through the branches, seeking a clear view of the northern slopes. It was days since they had spoken, and even then it had been only a few words concerning where to picket the horses. Kalliades was an officer now and spent little time mixing with the men. Even at Banokles’ wedding the previous spring he had seemed distant, withdrawn.

He had never recovered from the death of Piria. That was what Red said. Kalliades had closed himself off. Banokles didn’t understand it. He, too, had been saddened by the girl’s death, but in equal measure he had been happy to have survived the fight. Hektor had rewarded them with gifts of gold and appointed them to the Trojan Horse. With the gold Banokles had bought a small house and persuaded Red to join him there. It had taken some doing.

“Why would I marry you, idiot? You’ll only go and get yourself killed somewhere.”

But he had worn down her resistance, and the wedding had been joyous.

Banokles loosened his saber in its scabbard. Kalliades climbed down from the tree and spoke to his aide. Word was passed along the line.

“They are coming.”

Banokles leaned forward, trying to see through the trees. He could make out the lower slopes of the Rhodope Mountains but as yet could see no enemy infantry. On the plain the Trojan soldiers were moving hurriedly to form battle lines, bumping into one another in an appearance of panic. He saw Hektor riding along the front line on a pale horse, his armor of bronze and gold gleaming in the afternoon sunshine.

“You think the supply wagons will have gotten through by now?” Banokles asked Skorpios.

The blond warrior paused in the act of donning his helm and turned to gaze at him. “How would I know? And why would I care?” he answered. “Any moment now we are going to be surrounded by blood and death.”

Banokles grinned at him. “But after that we’ll need to eat.”

Through a break in the trees Banokles saw the first ranks of the enemy move into sight. There were some heavily armored warriors carrying long shields, but the mass of men around them were rebels in breastplates of leather or padded linen. Their clothes were brightly colored, from their cloaks of garish yellow and green to their leggings of plaid and stripes. Many of them had painted their faces in streaks of crimson or blue. Their weapons were spears and axes, though some carried longswords with blades the length of a man’s leg.

A ululating battle cry began from the enemy ranks, and they broke into a charge toward the Trojan lines. Hektor had dismounted and now stood, shield ready, at the center of the front line.

The rebel horde was in full sight now, and Banokles scanned them. They outnumbered the force on the plain by at least ten to one. Twenty thousand men racing across the open ground, screaming their battle cries.

A volley of arrows ripped into the charging men, but it did not slow their advance.

The men on the Trojan front line braced themselves, leaning in to their shields, spears drawn back. Just as the enemy was upon them, the Trojan veterans surged forward to meet them. The sounds of battle were strangely muted within the forest. Banokles gathered up the reins of his mount in his left hand, the heavy lance sitting comfortably in his right.

“At a walk!” Kalliades shouted.

A thousand riders nudged their horses forward. Banokles ducked beneath an overhanging branch, guiding the black gelding out through the trees. Bright sunshine shone down on the armored riders as they moved out onto the hillside.

The rebels had not seen them yet, but they would hear them soon enough.

“Close formation!”

Banokles kicked the gelding into a run, and the thunder of hooves sounded on the hillside.

Hefting his spear, Banokles nestled the haft alongside his elbow, the point aiming forward and slightly down. The gelding was at full gallop now. Banokles saw the rebels on the flank turning to meet the charge. He was close enough to see the panic in their painted faces.

Then the Trojan Horse slammed into the horde. Banokles rammed his spear through the chest of a powerful warrior. As the man was thrown back, the spear was wrenched from Banokles’ hand. Drawing his saber, he slashed the blade down, cracking the skull of a rebel. All was chaos now, the air filled with the screams of the wounded and dying. Banokles drove the gelding on, deeper into the ranks of the enemy. An ax blade cut through the gelding’s neck, and it fell. Banokles jumped clear, launching himself at the axman. There was no time to bring up his saber, and he head butted the warrior, sending him staggering back. Another warrior thrust his sword at Banokles, who parried it, then sent a reverse cut slashing through the man’s throat. Justinos charged in, scattering the enemy around Banokles. Then other riders closed around him. Banokles saw a riderless horse and ran across to it. Just as he reached it, the beast reared, then galloped away. Two rebels rushed at Banokles. The first swung an ax, which he tried to block with his saber. The blade shattered. Banokles hurled the hilt at the second man, who ducked. The axman raised his weapon again. Banokles charged him, grabbing the haft and ramming his head into the warrior’s face. The warrior fell back, losing his grip on the ax. Banokles swept it up and with a bellowing war cry leaped toward the second warrior. The man’s nerve broke, and he tried to run. Skorpios came alongside him, his lance plunging through the warrior’s back.

Banokles ran to a fallen rider. Dropping the ax, he took up the man’s saber and hurled himself back into the fray, hacking, slashing, and stabbing. The enemy forces were hardy and tough, but they had no training. They fought as individuals, seeking space to swing their longswords or use their spears and axes. But they were being crushed together in a mass by a highly organized army of veterans. Desperate to find room to fight, the warriors began to peel away, running for open ground. The Trojan Horse cut them down as soon as they moved clear. Banokles knew what had to happen next. He had seen it a score of times. The horde began to scatter, the army sundering like a smashed plate. With no organized defensive lines to oppose them, the heavily armored riders surged in among the enemy and the slaughter began.

Panic swept through the Thrakians, and all across the battlefield the rebels began to flee. Horsemen rode after them, cutting and killing.

Horseless, Banokles remained where he was. Hektor came striding toward him. His helm and breastplate were smeared with blood, and his sword arm was crimson from the wrist to the elbow.

“Are you hurt?” he asked Banokles.

“No.”

“Then help with the wounded,” the big man said, moving past him.

“Any sign of the supply wagons?” Banokles called after him. Hektor ignored the question.

Banokles cleaned the sword and slid it back into his scabbard. Then he gazed around the battlefield.

The victory had been complete, but the losses had been high. He worked alongside soldiers and stretcher bearers until almost dusk, by which time he had helped to carry at least a hundred corpses. In all, more than four hundred Trojans had died that day. It mattered little that the enemy dead were in the thousands. There were thousands more waiting to take their place. Armor and weapons were stripped from the Trojan dead, and soldiers gathered around to replace broken swords, smashed helms, and ruined breastplates. Banokles himself acquired a short sword and an ornate scabbard. The saber was a fine weapon when hacking down from horseback, but once one was afoot, it was not as deadly as a good stabbing sword.

Off to the right he could see a group of Thrakian prisoners being questioned by Trojan officers, Kalliades among them. Banokles watched, and though he could not hear what was said, he could tell by the surly faces of the captured men that they were giving little away. Hektor did not allow torture of prisoners, which seemed to Banokles to be foolish in the extreme. Most men would tell you anything you desired to hear if their hands were being held in a fire. And how could a warrior like Hektor be so squeamish? Banokles had seen him ripping into the enemy like an angry lion. The minds of generals and princes were a mystery to Banokles.

The supply wagons arrived just after dark, and Banokles joined a group of warriors around a cookfire. Bald Justinos was there, and Skorpios, his long blond hair tied in a ponytail that hung between his narrow shoulders. Three of the men were unknown to Banokles, but the last was a slim, round-shouldered rider named Ursos. He and Banokles had trained together back in Troy.

“Another victory,” Ursos said, as Banokles sat beside him. “Beginning to lose count now.”

“Lost my horse,” Banokles grumbled. “Old Arse Face was a good mount.”

“Could be him cooking there,” Ursos muttered. “No meat on the wagons. Just more damn oats.”

As they were talking, a rider came thundering into the camp. Men scattered before him. The man dragged his horse to a halt close to where Hektor was sitting with his officers and leaped down.

“This looks important,” Ursos said, rising and walking across to listen to the message.

Banokles remained where he was. The night was cool, the fire warm, and the smell of roasting meat intoxicating.

Ursos returned a little while later and slumped down. “Well,” he said, “that robs today’s victory of any value.”

“Why?” Banokles asked.

“Achilles has invaded with the entire Thessalian army and has taken Xantheia. Rhesos has been driven back to Kalliros in the mountains. Perhaps worse, Odysseus has taken Ismaros, and enemy galleys now block the sea.”

“Doesn’t sound good,” Banokles agreed.

Ursos stared at him. “You don’t know where these places are, do you, or why they are important?”

Banokles shrugged. “Friendly cities or enemy cities. That is all I need to know.”

Ursos shook his head. “Xantheia guarded the Nestos River. Our supply ships travel that river, up to the old capital at Kalliros. With the city taken, we’ll get no supplies. And if Kalliros falls, we’ll have armies on three sides of us. North, south, and east.”

“And we’ll crush them all,” Banokles said.

“I appreciate your optimism. But we started out with over eight thousand men. We now have around three thousand. The enemy gets stronger every day, Banokles. With Ismaros in enemy hands, the seas are clear for Odysseus. His fleet could sail to Carpea and sink our barges. Then there’ll be no way home.”

Banokles didn’t feel like arguing. He had already forgotten the names of the cities Ursos had so carefully described. As far as he was concerned, they had won a battle, had eaten good red meat, and were being led by Hektor, the greatest general on the Great Green. They would fight on and win. Or they would fight on and lose. Either way there was nothing Banokles could do about it, so he pushed himself to his feet and went back to the cookfire for another slab of horse meat.

The interviews with the prisoners had yielded little Kalliades did not already know. The men were Idonoi tribesmen from the cities of the far west. The defeat would set them back for a while but do nothing to end the rebellion.

He wandered away from the captives and stood staring up at the Rhodope Mountains. There was still snow on the peaks, and dark rain clouds were gathering.

How many more battles could they be expected to win? Four hundred eleven men had been killed that day, with more than two hundred suffering wounds that would keep them from fighting for some while. Of the rest there were few men who hadn’t suffered some injury, from bruises and sprains to concussions and minor breaks of the toes or fingers.

Western Thraki and the lands of the Idonoi were lost to them now and would not be retaken. Beyond the line of the Rhodope Mountains the land was seething with discontent. To the south only the broad river Nestos and the citadel at Kalliros prevented the enemy from sweeping into eastern Thraki and cutting off the Trojans’ escape route. And now Achilles had taken Xantheia.

A chilly wind began blowing down from the snow peaks, fluttering Kalliades’ cloak. When Hektor had presented him with the garment a year earlier, on the day he had become an officer, the cloak had been as bright as a sunlit cloud. Now it was a murky gray, stained with dried blood. An aide brought him a plate of meat. Kalliades thanked the man and walked away to sit on a fallen tree. He had little appetite and ate mechanically. Some distance away he saw Banokles sitting beside a fire, chatting to the lantern-jawed Ursos.

Kalliades missed the big man’s company. He thought then of Piria and sighed. Three years now, and still her face haunted him. The weight of grief at her loss had never abated, and Kalliades knew he could not face another such burden. Better, he decided, never to love and to avoid comradeship.

The moment of decision had come at Banokles’ wedding. He had been standing by the far wall of the garden, watching the dancing and listening to the wine-fueled laughter. Banokles had been capering around, drunk and happy, Big Red watching him fondly. Kalliades had suddenly felt like a ghost, separate and disembodied. The joy of the occasion had floated around him, never touching his senses. He had stood quietly for a while, then slipped away, walking back along the broad avenues of Troy. A whore had approached him, a thin woman with yellow hair. Kalliades had allowed her to lead him to a small house that stank of cheap perfume. As if in a dream, he had removed his clothing and climbed with her to the bed. She had not taken off her yellow gown, merely hitched it up so that he could enter her. At some point he had whispered: “Piria!”

“Yes,” the whore had replied. “I am Piria for you.”

But she was not, and Kalliades had shamed himself by bursting into tears and sobbing uncontrollably. He had not cried since he was a small child, sitting beside his dead sister. The whore had moved away from him then, and he had heard her pouring wine. He had struggled to stem the flow of tears, but he did not know how.

In the end the whore had leaned over him. “You need to go,” she had said. The lack of compassion in her voice cut through his sorrow. Reaching into his pouch, he had pulled out a few copper rings and tossed them onto the bed. Then he had dressed and walked out into the sunlit city.

Now, sitting on the fallen tree, he heard someone approaching. He swung around and saw Hektor. The prince was carrying two cups of watered wine, one of which he passed to Kalliades before sitting down alongside him. “A cold night,” he said. “Sometimes I feel summer has no place in these mountains. As if the rocks hold winter deep within them.”

“It always seems cold after a battle,” Kalliades said. “I don’t know why that should be.”

“Nor I. Somehow, though, it seems appropriate. I take it the Idonoi prisoners gave nothing away?”

“They did not. Nor did I expect them to. Once they realized they faced no pain, their courage flowed back.”

Hektor gave a weary smile. “You are not alone in requesting torture, Kalliades. Many of my officers have urged me to harsher treatment.”

“They are right. As I recall, last year we found one of our scouts with his hands cut off and his eyes put out. The rules of behavior you insist upon are costing us lives.”

“Yes, they are,” Hektor agreed, “but I will not allow my actions to be swayed by the enemy’s malice. It falls to generals to look beyond the events of today or this season. Why do you think the rebellion has gathered such pace?”

“The death of King Eioneus,” Kalliades answered. “When he fell from his horse at the wedding games.”

“He did not fall,” Hektor said. “He was struck by a stone hurled by a slinger in the pay of Agamemnon. But his death alone is not why we are fighting here. When Eioneus invaded and conquered the Idonoi homelands twenty or more years ago, he butchered the royal line: men, women, and babes. He slaughtered cities, cutting the right hands from men who fought against him. Others he blinded. He cowed the people with a display of terribly savagery.”

“And he won,” Kalliades pointed out. “The land was unified.”

“Yes, he won. But he planted the seeds of this upheaval. There is not an Idonoi family without a martyr, without a relative who suffered horribly. Idonoi children have grown to manhood nursing deep hatred for the Kikones tribe. That is why Agamemnon found it so easy to inspire rebellion. One day, and I hope it is soon, Troy will need to make treaties with the Idonoi, perhaps future alliances. We will need to become friends. So I will not follow the path trodden by Eioneus. No man will say that the Trojans butchered their children or raped their wives and mothers. No blinded man will say to his sons: ‘Look what they did to me, those evil men!’”

Kalliades looked at the prince. “You are wrong, Hektor. This a war with only two possible endings. Either Agamemnon triumphs and Troy is a fire-gutted ruin or we destroy Agamemnon and his allies. If torturing a prisoner means learning of the enemy’s plans, we have a greater chance of defeating them. It is that simple.”

“Nothing is that simple,” Hektor told him. “In a hundred years what will victory or defeat here have meant?”

Kalliades was confused. “I don’t know what you mean. We won’t be here in a hundred years.”

“No, we won’t. But the Kikones will, and the Idonoi, and the Mykene, and hopefully the Trojans. What we do here now will have meaning then. Will we all still hate one another and yearn for vengeance for past atrocities? Or will we be at peace as neighbors and friends?”

“I don’t care about what might happen in a hundred years,” Kalliades stormed. “We are here now. We are fighting now. And we are losing, Hektor.”

Hektor finished his wine and sighed. “Yes, we are. You think torturing a few prisoners will change that? With Ismaros fallen, the enemy will swarm along the coast, cutting us off. With no reinforcements, no food supplies, and no fresh weapons, we risk being cut to pieces. As a general I know we should pull back to the coast now, get to Carpea and the barges, and cross to Dardania. Thraki is lost, and we should save the army. But as Hektor, son of Priam, I cannot follow my own advice. My father has ordered me to defeat all our enemies and reestablish Rhesos as king of a united Thraki.”

“That is impossible now,” Kalliades said.

“Yes, it probably is. But until defeat becomes inevitable, Kalliades, I must remain. I will ride to Kalliros and support the young king. With luck we will crush Achilles and his Thessalians and gather a new force to retake Xantheia.”

“You know we will not,” Kalliades said. “At best we will hold them back for a few months.”

“Anything can happen in those few months. The heavy rains of autumn will slow their supplies and open up the sea to us. A fierce winter will sap the morale of the besiegers. Priam could make peace with Agamemnon.”

Kalliades shook his head. “That last will not happen. You are right, Hektor: We are soldiers, and we have a duty to obey. The orders, though, are senseless now. They were given when there was some hope of success. Now, if we follow them blindly, we face our doom.”

“Yes, we do,” Hektor admitted. “So will you still ride with me, Kalliades?”

“We’ll all ride with you, Hektor. Whether it be to victory or to ruin.”