Shield of Thunder

CHAPTER THIRTY THE TEMPLE OF THE UNKNOWN

Helikaon stood at the stern of the Xanthos alongside Oniacus at the port steering oar. The long journey around the western coastline had been largely without incident. They had seen few ships, and those they had had been small trading vessels that had hugged the coastline and sped for land the moment the Dardanian fleet was sighted.

No war galleys, however, had patrolled the seas, and that worried Helikaon.

By now Agamemnon’s fleets were huge, and the uneasy question remained: Where were they?

The rocky coastline of Argos was close off the port bow, and the fleet sailed on past small villages and ports, cutting toward the east and the islands southwest of Samothraki.

Toward dusk they spotted a high-prowed trading galley heading east. The ship made no effort to evade them, and Helikaon signaled two of his flanking galleys to intercept her. The trader complied, edging his vessel alongside the Xanthos.

Helikaon strode to the starboard rail and gazed down onto the decks of the trader. The rowers were sitting idle now, their oars drawn in. A fat-bellied merchant wearing voluminous robes of bright purple looked up at him. The man had long dark hair and a beard that had been curled with hot irons in the Hittite manner. “We travel under the protection of the emperor and have no part in your wars,” he called out.

“Where are you headed?” Helikaon asked him.

“Through the Hellespont and home.”

“Come aboard and share a cup of wine with me,” Helikaon said. A rope was lowered, and the chubby merchant heaved his way up to the taller ship, clambering over the rail red-faced and breathing hard. He gazed around with interest.

“I have heard of the Xanthos, King Aeneas,” he said. “A very fine vessel.”

“My friends call me Helikaon, and I have always been a friend to those who serve the emperor.”

The man bowed. “I am Oniganthas. Last year I could have described myself as a rich merchant. These days poverty beckons. This war of yours is ruinous to trade.”

Helikaon ordered wine brought and led Oniganthas to the high rear deck. The merchant sipped his wine, murmured appreciative comments concerning its quality, and then stood silently, his large dark eyes watching Helikaon.

“Where has your voyage taken you?” Helikaon asked.

“From Athens along the coast and up to Thraki. No trade there any longer.”

“So you sailed down to Argos?”

Oniganthas nodded. “And sold my cargo at a small loss. These are not good days, Helikaon.”

“And what news did you carry to Argos?”

“News? I carried spices and perfumes.”

“Let us not play games, Oniganthas. You are a neutral vessel. Were I one of Agamemnon’s generals or admirals, I would seek to use such a vessel to carry information. Have you been asked to perform such a service?”

“We must be wary here,” Oniganthas said with a sly smile. “Many people will talk on beaches or at ports, but as a neutral it would be ill advised of me to offer my services to one side or the other. That would make me an agent of one of the powers, and my neutrality would be forfeit.”

Helikaon considered his words. On the surface the argument seemed reasonable enough, but neither Agamemnon nor his generals would respect the neutrality of a Hittite vessel unless it suited their purpose. The only way Oniganthas could sail safely through the war zone would be if he carried evidence of Mykene safe conduct. With trade so savagely disrupted, the Hittite merchant was probably supplementing his income by relaying messages to and from Mykene generals.

“I can see,” Helikaon said at last, “that you are a man of subtlety.”

The merchant drained his wine and handed the cup back to a waiting sailor. “As all merchants must, I seek profit. There is no profit for me without neutrality. With it I am free to conduct business with any of the city-states or nations around the Great Green. Indeed, it has always been my hope to strengthen my dealings with Dardania.”

“And no reason why we should not,” Helikaon said. “I have been looking for a man of enterprise to hold some gold for me against such time when I might need that gold.”

Helikaon saw the glint of greed in the man’s eyes. “How much gold are we speaking of, Helikaon?”

“Enough, were it to be used so, to build several trading galleys, and certainly enough to offset a poor trading season.” Helikaon paused, watching the man and allowing the lure of the suggested bribe to work on him.

“And this man would merely hold the gold for you?” Oniganthas asked.

Helikaon smiled. “Or perhaps make it grow to our joint advantage.”

“Ah, you seek a business alliance, then?”

“Indeed so. We should talk more of this. Perhaps you would stay with us for the night.”

“I would enjoy that,” Oniganthas said, “for I have been starved of intelligent company recently. Most of my nights have been spent listening to Mykene sailors and soldiers and”—he looked into Helikaon’s eyes—“their endless talk of wars and victories and plans.”

The fleet beached on a barren uninhabited island, and Helikaon, Oniganthas alongside him, watched as Oniacus and several of the sailors brought out items they had plundered during their raids. There were cups and goblets of gold inset with gems and heavy jewelry of Mykene design. Everything was laid on a blanket on the sand.

Oniganthas knelt to examine the pieces in the fading light. “Exquisite,” he said.

While the cookfires were being lit, Helikaon led Oniganthas away from the men, and they sat and talked until they were called to eat. Later, as the merchant slept, Helikaon walked away from the campsite and up to the crest of a high hill. What he had heard from Oniganthas was dispiriting.

Gershom and Oniacus joined him. “Did you learn much from the merchant?” Gershom asked.

“I did, and little of it good. I need time to think. Let us walk awhile.”

The island was rocky and inhospitable, but on a nearby hilltop someone had built a temple. Moonlight shone on its white columns.

“I wonder who it is dedicated to,” Oniacus said.

Helikaon did not care, but he strolled with the others to the deserted building. There were no statues around the perimeter and none inside. The dust of centuries lay on the stone-slabbed floor. Part of the roof had collapsed, allowing moonlight to shine through. They searched the building but found no carvings, no implements, no broken cups or lamps.

Helikaon knelt and brushed away the thick dust from a section of the floor. Beneath it was a deep curved line carved into the stone slabs. Gershom and Oniacus joined him, and together they scraped back the dust from adjoining slabs. The symbol they revealed covered the entire floor. There were two circles, the larger enclosing the smaller, and a diagonal line cutting through them both.

“What does it mean?” Oniacus asked.

“It is an ancient symbol,” Helikaon told him. “You can find it on old maps. Merchants once used the symbols to mark areas of trade or military power. The outer circle, if broken, means there are no hostile forces. A broken inner circle means little trade exists in the area. Unbroken circles mean the opposite: strong defenses but good trade.”

“And a line like this, running through two unbroken circles?” Oniacus asked.

“It means the area has not been scouted. It is unknown.”

“So,” Gershom said, staring down at the carving. “Someone came to this barren rock and built a temple to the unknown?”

“It would appear so,” Helikaon answered. “How strange. They would have had to transport the marble and timber across the Great Green, then haul it up here. Scores, perhaps hundreds, of workers and stonemasons constructing a building no one would visit on an island without a settlement.”

Gershom laughed. “I think it is a grand jest. We all worship the unknown and the unknowable. That is the essence of our lives. All we can ever know is what was, not what will be. Yet we yearn to know, to understand the mystery. Whoever built this had a fine sense of humor and an eye for the future. A temple to the unknown, built by someone unknown, for an unknown purpose. It is delightful.”

“Well, I think it is nonsense,” Oniacus complained. “A waste of good marble and labor.”

When they walked back out into the moonlight, Helikaon stared out over the starlit sea. Gershom said: “Are you ready to talk about what you learned?”

Helikaon took a deep breath. “Ismaros has fallen, as has Xantheia,” he said. “That leaves only Kalliros. The fortifications there are not strong. So we must assume it will be under siege or lost by now.”

“But Hektor is in Thraki,” Oniacus said. “He never loses. He will crush the enemy.”

“According to Oniganthas, Hektor has won several battles, but more and more enemy forces are pouring in from Thessaly and Mykene lands. The last reports said Hektor was in the Rhodope Mountains, facing three enemy armies.”

“He will fight them and defeat them,” Oniacus insisted.

“Perhaps,” Helikaon agreed, “but small victories will mean nothing. Thraki is lost. I think Hektor will try to get his army back to Carpea and the barges, then cross to Dardania. It is his only hope of survival.”

“What about the fleet of Menados?” Gershom put in.

“Either they are heading into the Hellespont to intercept Hektor or they are planning to raid Dardania. If it is the former and Hektor’s barges attempt to cross the channel unprotected, they will be sunk.”

“You will forgive me for pointing out,” Gershom said, “that there are a number of assumptions here. Hektor may not be heading for Carpea. He may have gone to the aid of Kalliros. And even if you are right, he may already be at Carpea and preparing to make the crossing. There is no certainty that we will be in time to help him.”

Helikaon walked away from them both, leaving them arguing. He needed time to think.

If he sailed for Carpea and the Mykene admiral Menados attacked Dardania, the slaughter would be great. If he sailed home to defend his lands and the Mykene destroyed Hektor and the Trojan Horse, the war was lost.

And there was another nagging thought, one that he had no intention of sharing with his lieutenants. The fortress of Dardanos could withstand a siege unless the enemy was sure that the city gates would be opened to them. Agamemnon was a cunning enemy and had already used traitors once against Troy, when he had bribed Priam’s son Agathon to rebel against him. What if he had agents within Dardanos?

He thought then of Halysia. The last time the Mykene had attacked, they had raped and stabbed her and murdered her son before her eyes. Will you see her put through that again? whispered a voice from his heart.

Not a man given to passionate outbursts or foul oaths, Helikaon suddenly swore long and colorfully. His two companions fell silent. “There is no rational way to reach a decision,” he said at last. “There are too many imponderables. Menados may already be in the Hellespont, or he may have landed an army in Dardania. Hektor may be fighting at Kalliros or battling his way to the coast. Then there are the fleets that Odysseus used to attack Ismaros. Where are they? We know nothing.”

“Then we are starting from the right place,” Gershom said, glancing back at the moonlit temple.

Banokles edged his gray clear of the trees and rode out onto the downward slope. Behind him came Justinos, with the young Prince Periklos sharing his horse. After that came the nurse Myrine and the child Obas, riding Kerio’s mount. Skorpios and Ennion followed them. Banokles glanced back. Skorpios was carrying his bow. Ennion, his head wound still seeping blood through the stitches, looked all in, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed.

Some way ahead Banokles saw Olganos dismount just before the crest of a low hill and creep to the top, peering out over the open land beyond.

The midday sun blazed down from a clear sky, but a cool wind was blowing through the mountains. Banokles was sick of being in command, and a dull headache was throbbing at his temples. He had no idea where they were heading, save that Olganos had talked of a high pass. Banokles recalled traveling through such a place but would not be able to find it again if his life depended on it.

Which, of course, it did.

The throbbing increased. Banokles pulled off his helmet, allowing the breeze to cool his sweat-drenched fair hair.

Justinos drew alongside. “Ennion is suffering,” he said. “That blow may have cracked his skull.”

Banokles donned his helm and heeled the gray into a run up the hillside. Reining in alongside Olganos’ mount, he crept up to crouch alongside the young soldier.

“See anything?” he asked.

Olganos shook his head. “I think we are close to the pass,” he said, pointing to the towering snow-capped mountains forming a massive wall across their path. “We have to cross that dry valley and the hills beyond. There are stands of beech and pine along the way that could hide an army.”

Banokles peered down into the valley. There was no sign of horsemen or soldiers. However, as Olganos had said, there could be men hidden from view within the trees. Olganos voiced the same concern. “Once we move into the open,” he said, “we will be spotted by any enemy scouts within the tree line.”

“You have a plan?” Banokles asked hopefully.

“We don’t have a choice. We must reach the pass.”

Banokles was relieved. He didn’t want any more choices. “Good,” he said. “Can we make it by dusk?”

“On fresh horses, yes. Ours are tired, and once we come out of the valley, the land rises all the way to the pass.”

Rising to his feet, Banokles waved the others forward, then mounted his gray and led them over the crest.

As they approached the valley floor, the heat began to rise. The horses plodded on, heads down, their hooves raising small plumes of dust, sweat streaking their flanks. The valley was dry and hot, with little vegetation.

The going was slow, and the afternoon wore on. Then Skorpios called out. Banokles looked back to see that Ennion had fallen from his mount. Calling a halt, Banokles swung the gray and rode to where the wounded man was struggling to rise. Banokles dismounted and walked over to him, taking hold of his arm and hauling him to his feet. Ennion’s eyes were glazed, his face ashen. Suddenly he doubled over, fell to his knees, and vomited.

Banokles stepped away from him, then looked around at the small group. The horses had little more in them, and the men were exhausted. “How far to the pass now?” he asked Olganos.

The young man shrugged. “In the state we are in? Not before nightfall, I’d say.”

Off to the right was a thick stand of beech trees. “Ride in and see if you can find water.”

“If we don’t reach the pass ahead of the Idonoi…”

“I know what might happen,” Banokles snapped. “Now go!”

Olganos rode off. Banokles helped Ennion to his feet and lifted him to his horse. “Do not fall off again. Hear me?”

“I hear you,” the warrior mumbled.

“Let’s get into the trees,” Banokles told the others. “It will be cooler there.”

Olganos found a hidden glade and led the group to it. There were boulders of white marble and flowering bushes sprouting between the stones, their crimson blooms trailing down into a wide rock tank full of cool water. The tank was fed by a stream that gushed down over the boulders in a succession of tiny waterfalls. There was good grass there, and the glade was of such beauty that Banokles could almost believe that nymphs and dryads were hidden close by.

The old nurse limped to the waterside and eased herself down, splashing her face and hair, then drinking deeply. The two princes went with her. Justinos and Skorpios helped Ennion from his horse and sat him down with his back to a tree. Banokles filled his helmet with water and took it to the injured man. Ennion drank a little. His face was still gray, but his eyes were less glazed. Banokles examined the man’s head wound. The long cut to his skull had been stitched, but the flesh was now swollen and discolored. Head wounds were always problematic. Banokles once had known a man who had taken an arrow through the temple and survived. Another soldier, a tough, burly man, had been struck by a fist in a tavern fight and had died on the spot.

Leaving Ennion to rest, the others saw to the horses, using dried grass to wipe the foamy sweat from their flanks. Once they were cooled down, the beasts were led to the pool and allowed to drink their fill.

As the men settled down in the shade of the beech trees, the horses cropping the rich grass nearby, Banokles stripped off his armor and jumped into the rock pool. It was deeper than he had thought, and he sank beneath the surface. The water was cold, the feeling as it closed over him exquisite. All sounds faded away, as did the headache he had endured for most of the day.

Coming to the surface, he swam back to the bank and hauled himself clear of the water. He saw Olganos and the slender blond-haired Skorpios sitting quietly together. There was no sign of Justinos. Banokles dried himself off and walked over to the two warriors. “You lads should take a swim,” he said.

“What if the enemy comes?” Olganos asked.

Banokles laughed. “If they send an army, you’ll be just as dead whether you’re hot and stinking like a pig or cool and refreshed.”

“Truth in that,” Skorpios said, rising to his feet and unstrapping the ties of his cuirass.

“Where’s Justinos?” Banokles asked.

“I told him to wait back in the trees, watching the valley,” Olganos replied.

“Good. While he’s doing that, I think I’ll take a nap.”

Olganos and Skorpios leaped into the rock pool with a mighty splash, and Banokles walked over to sit beside Ennion. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Better. Head feels like there’s a horse trapped inside, trying to kick its way out. Shame about Kerio. Miserable cowson, but he could fight.”

“The time to think about the dead is when you are safe back home,” Banokles said.

“You think we’ll get safely back home?”

“Why shouldn’t we?”

Ennion smiled. “It doesn’t bother you that we’re outnumbered and trapped in an enemy land?”

“Never saw the point in worrying about tomorrow,” Banokles told him. “At this moment we have water, the horses are resting and eating, and I’m about to have a blissful sleep. If the enemy comes, I’ll kill as many of the cowsons as I can. If they don’t, well, we’ll ride on, find Hektor and the rest of the lads, and then go home. Get some sleep, man.”

“I think I will,” Ennion said. Suddenly he chuckled. “All my life I’ve wanted to do something heroic, something to be remembered for. And now I’ve rescued two sons of a king and fought off twenty enemy soldiers. It feels very fine, Banokles. Very fine. Everything I could have hoped for—except for this bastard headache.”

“It’ll be gone by morning,” Banokles said, stretching himself out on the grass and closing his eyes. Sleep came almost immediately.

It was dark when he woke, bright stars shining in the night sky. Sitting up, he glanced at Ennion. The warrior was lying on his back and staring up at the stars.

“How is the head?” Banokles asked.

Ennion made no reply. Banokles passed his hand over the warrior’s face. There was no response. Leaning over him, Banokles closed the dead man’s eyes, then pushed himself to his feet.

Olganos was swimming, Justinos sitting beside the pool. The old nurse and the boys were asleep. Olganos climbed out of the water. Banokles strolled over to him. “You put Skorpios on watch?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll relieve him in a while.”

“How is Ennion? You think he’ll be able to travel tomorrow?”

“He is already traveling,” Banokles answered. “He’s walking the Dark Road. His horse is in better shape than the others. Let the fat old nurse ride him. You should take his sword. Yours is looking battered and likely to break the next time you use it.”

“By Ares, you are a cold bastard,” Olganos told him.

“He is dead. We are not. We leave at first light.”

The boulder-strewn road leading up and through the high pass of Kilkanos was littered with the debris of a departed army. Broken swords lay among the stones. A shattered helm glinted in the early-morning sunshine. Discarded items that had once been of value now gathered dust. Here and there Kalliades could see splashes of dried blood where the wounded had been tended. The pass itself was narrow and winding, climbing ever higher into the mountains. Kalliades and his three hundred volunteers had taken up a defensive position some eighty paces below the highest point, where the pass narrowed to a mere thirty paces across. Towering rock faces rose on either side. Kalliades placed his hundred archers on the higher ground to the left and right, where they could find shelter behind rocks. The more heavily armored infantry was stationed at the center. The men were all Kikones with nowhere left to run.

Scouts had warned Hektor that an Idonoi army some seven thousand strong was marching toward them. They were close and would be in sight before noon.

Kalliades had volunteered to remain with the rear guard for the two days Hektor had requested the pass be held. Hektor had urged him not to stay. “I will need you in the days to come, Kalliades. I don’t want you dead on some Thrakian rock.”

“If you know of a better man to plan a defense, then let him stay,” Kalliades had said. “The Thrakians are good fighters, but there is not a strategist among them. And you need this pass held. We can’t afford to have armies coming at us from two sides.”

Reluctantly Hektor had agreed, and they had said their farewells that morning.

The Thrakians were grim men who had fought well during the long campaign. It irked them that it had all ended so badly. Hektor had offered them the chance to come with him back to Troy, but they had decided to stay and fight on against the invaders.

Kalliades moved among them, giving orders. They responded with instant obedience but little warmth. Though they trusted his judgment and respected his skills, he was a foreigner and a stranger to them.

A foreigner and a stranger.

It suddenly occurred to Kalliades that he had always been a stranger, even among his own people. Climbing to a high rock, he sat down and gazed back down the pass. When the enemy came, they would be tired from the climb. They would be hit with volley after volley of arrows and then, when closer, bronze-tipped javelins. The sheer walls of rock would compress their formations, making it difficult to dodge the missiles. Then Kalliades would attack them with his heavily armored Thrakian infantry, forcing them back. They would retreat and regroup. He had no doubts the defenders could hold for several charges. But they would take losses, their arrows would soon be exhausted, and concerted attacks by an enemy with the advantage of numbers would wear them down. No matter what strategies he concocted, the result would be the same. If the enemy forces were determined and brave, they would break through before dusk.

Hektor had understood this. The rear guard was doomed. It was unlikely that any of them would leave the pass alive.

The face of Piria appeared in his mind, sunshine glinting from her shorn blond hair. In his memory she was standing on the beach, laughing as the men of the Penelope struggled to catch the errant pigs. It had been a good day, and it had taken on a golden hue these last three years.

Then the image blurred, and he saw again Big Red standing in the doorway of his small house, wearing robes of scarlet and black. It was the day before the army was due to return to Thraki for the spring campaign. Kalliades had invited her in, but she had stood her ground.

“I will not enter your home, Kalliades. I do not like you, and you have no affection for me.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I want Banokles to come home safely. I do not want him drawn into your need for death.”

The words surprised him. “I don’t want to die, Red. Why would you think that?”

She looked at him, her expression softening. “I have changed my mind. I will come in. You have wine?”

He led her through to the small garden at the rear of the house, and they sat together on a curved bench in the shade of a high wall.

The wine was cheap and mildly bitter on the tongue, but Red did not seem to mind. She looked him in the eye, her gaze direct. “Why did you rescue the priestess?” she asked.

He shrugged. “She reminded me of my sister, who was killed by violent men.”

“That may be true, but it is not the whole reason. Banokles talks of you with great respect and affection, so I have heard all the stories of your travels. I am not young anymore, Kalliades, but my wisdom has grown with the years. I know men. By Hera, I know more about men than I would ever have wished to know. So many of you are quick to notice flaws and weaknesses in others while being completely blind to your own faults and fears. Why do you have no friends, Kalliades?”

The question made him uncomfortable, and he began to regret inviting her in. “I have Banokles.”

“Yes, you do. Why no others? And why no wife?”

He rose from the seat. “I do not answer to you,” he said.

“Are you afraid, Kalliades?”

“I fear nothing.”

He could not escape her gaze, and it disconcerted him. “Now, that is a lie,” she said softly.

“You do not know me. No one does.”

“No one does,” she repeated. “And you are wrong again. I know you, Kalliades. I don’t know why you are the way you are. Perhaps a favorite pony died when you were young or you were buggered by a friendly uncle. Perhaps your father fell off a cliff and drowned. It doesn’t matter. I know you.”

Anger surged through him. “Just go!” he said. “When I need the wisdom of a fat whore, I’ll send for you.”

“Ah,” she said, no trace of anger in her voice, “and now I see that deep down you also know. You are just too frightened to hear it.”

In that moment he had wanted to strike her, to wipe that smug look from her face. Instead he had stepped back away from her, feeling trapped in his own home.

“Tell me, then,” he demanded. “Speak this dreadful truth. I do not fear it.”

“The dreadful truth is that deep down you have one great fear. You fear life.”

“What is this nonsense? Have you been chewing meas root?”

“You saved a woman who meant nothing to you and faced almost certain death as a result.”

“She was worth saving.”

“I’ll not disagree with that. On its own it was a fine deed. Heroic. The stuff of legends. When Odysseus walked down to face the pirates, you went with him. You told Banokles you wanted to see what would happen. You are an intelligent man. You know what should have happened. They should have cut you to pieces. Banokles thinks you are a man of enormous courage. But I am not Banokles. There is a part of you, Kalliades, that yearns for death. An empty part with nothing to fill it. No love, no intimacy, no dreams, no ambition. That is why you have no friends. You have nothing to give them, and you fear what they could give to you.”

Her words cut through his defenses like an icy blade. “I have known love,” he argued. “I loved Piria. That is no lie.”

“I believe you. And that is how I came to know you. You are close to thirty years old, and you have had one great love. How curious, then, that it should have been for a woman who could never return that love. A woman you knew could never return it. Shall I tell you what you saw in that frightened, abused, and doomed girl? A reflection of yourself. Lost and alone, friendless and deserted.” She stood then and brushed the creases from her robes.

“Banokles is my friend,” he said, hearing just how defensive those words were.

She shook her head, dismissing even that small attempt to stand his ground. “My Banokles is not a thinker or he would have understood you better. He is a friend to you, yes, but in your mind, whether you know it or not, he is no more than a big hound whose adoration allows you to deceive yourself, to let you believe you are like other people. He saved your life, Kalliades, and you have dragged him into every dangerous folly. Friends do not do that. The day you finally decide to die, do not allow Banokles to be beside you.”

She had walked away then, but he had called out to her. “I am sorry that you despise me, Red.”

“If I despise you,” she had told him, sadness in her voice, “it is only that I despise myself. We are so alike, Kalliades. Closed off from life, no friends, no loved ones. That is why we need Banokles. He is life, rich and raw, in all its glory. No subtlety, no guile. He is the fire we gather around, and his light pushes back the shadows we fear.” She had fallen silent for a moment. Then she had looked at him.

“Think of a childhood memory,” she said.

He blinked as an image flared to life.

“What was it?” she asked him.

“I was a child, hiding from raiders in a flax field.”

“The day your sister died?”

“Yes.”

She sighed. “And that is your tragedy, Kalliades. You never came out of that flax field. You are still there, small and frightened and hiding from the world.”

High in the rocks Kalliades pushed thoughts of Red from his mind. The men had lit cookfires, and he was about to stroll down and eat with them, when he saw riders in the distance.

At first they were little more than specks, but as they came closer, he recognized the glint of Trojan armor.

On the far side of the pass he saw that his archers had also spotted the group and were notching arrows to their bows. Calling out to them not to shoot, he climbed down and walked out to meet the small group.

Banokles came riding up toward him, then lifted his leg and jumped clear of the weary gray horse he was riding. “Good to see you,” he said. “We’ve rescued the sons of Rhesos, and now you can take charge. I’m sick of command.” He gazed around. “Where’s the army?”

“Heading for Carpea. I am in charge of the rear guard.”

“You’ve not enough men. We caught sight of the Idonoi horde. They’re close. Thousands of the cowsons.”

“We only have to hold them for two days.”

“Ah, well, I expect we can do that.”

“There is no ‘we,’ Banokles. This is my duty. You must take the sons of Rhesos on to Carpea. Hektor will be glad to see them.”

Banokles pulled off his helm and scratched his short blond hair. “You are not thinking clearly, Kalliades. You’ll need me and my boys here. These Thrakian sheep shaggers will probably run at the first sight of a painted face.”

“No, they won’t.” Kalliades sighed and thought back to his conversation with Red. “Listen to me,” he said. “This is your troop. Ursos told Hektor he had placed you in command. So I am now ordering you to ride on with them. I’ll see you at Carpea or over in Dardania if you have already crossed the Hellespont.”

“Have you forgotten we are sword brothers?”

Kalliades ignored the question. “Stay wary as you head east. There are other, smaller passes through the mountains, and there may be enemy riders out there.”

“I take it you won’t object if we rest the horses for a while,” Banokles said coldly. “The climb has taken it out of them.”

“Of course. Get yourself some food, too.”

Without another word Banokles led his horse up the pass. Kalliades watched his riders follow him.

It was close to midday when they rode away. Banokles did not say goodbye or even look back. Kalliades watched as they cleared the crest of the pass. “Farewell, Banokles, my friend,” he whispered.

“I see them!” an archer shouted, pointing down the pass. Kalliades drew his sword and called his infantrymen to him. Far below he saw sunlight glinting from thousands of spears and helms.