Shield of Thunder

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR TRAITOR’S GATE

Earlier that afternoon the Mykene admiral Menados had sat on a hillside, gazing down at his army camped on the beach below. But he was not thinking of his mission or the capricious nature of war. He was thinking instead of his grandchildren. During forty years of warfare Menados had learned that often, when faced with a particularly complex problem, it helped to close one’s mind to it for a time and summon other, happier thoughts. And so he relived his last visit to his son’s farm and the chase through the woods, the children squealing with mock fear as he pretended to be the monster pursuing them. Menados smiled at the memory. When he had caught little Kenos hiding in a bush, the boy suddenly had burst into tears and cried out: “Don’t be a monster anymore!”

Menados had swept him into his arms and kissed his cheeks. “It is only a game, Kenos. It is me. Grandpapa.”

Now, in the afternoon sunshine, his army and fleet hidden in a secluded bay only a short march from the fortress city of Dardanos, the old admiral allowed the happy memories to fade back into the scriptorium of his mind. He sighed and focused once more on the bleak prospects facing him.

Every martial instinct now told him he would be best advised to get his men back on the ships and transports and sail for safer waters. Unfortunately, as a longtime follower of Agamemnon, he also understood that matters martial were inextricably linked with politics.

Agamemnon had ordered him to take the fortress of Dardanos and kill Helikaon’s wife and child—retribution for the savage attacks on the Mykene homeland. This raid was to be combined with an invasion led by the victorious Peleus. What a fine plan it had sounded. With an army rampaging across the Dardanian countryside and the fortress held by loyal Mykene troops, Dardania would fall. That would give Agamemnon a good land route to Troy.

Menados scratched at his black and silver beard. A fine plan, he thought again, save that Peleus had not followed it. The last he had heard, before this day, was that the Thessalian king was leading an army in pursuit of the fleeing Hektor. Now, according to the traitor within the fortress, Peleus was dead, and the war fleet of Helikaon had been sighted heading into the Hellespont. Menados had no way of knowing how many of the Trojan Horse had survived the battle with Peleus, but based on the numbers of barges the traitor claimed were being used, he assumed there would be at least two thousand. Helikaon himself was known to have around fifty ships. Another two thousand fighting men at the very least.

Soon the Mykene would be facing a battle on two fronts, against the Trojan Horse on land and Helikaon’s war galleys out beyond the bay. Taking the fortress was not a problem. They could hold Dardanos for a while, but with no food and no means of supply, they would be starved out by the autumn.

Yet if he slipped away and returned to Agamemnon, his decision would be made to seem cowardly rather than practical. The vile Kleitos would say: “Let me understand this, Admiral. You had a man inside the city ready to open the gates to a fortress containing no more than two hundred Dardanians. Yet you, with your three thousand men, decided to run?”

Agamemnon would be furious. Menados would not survive his anger.

So, sadly, withdrawal was not an option. The message from the traitor had been specific. Attack tonight! The Seagate will be open!

But what then?

With the queen and her son dead, he could try to hold the fortress and send his fleet to Ismaros, requesting more men and supplies. Menados dismissed the thought. For reinforcements to reach him, the fleet would have to battle its way past the dreaded Helikaon. It would not survive. Most of his sailors were recruits, the ships newly launched, the crews untried. The Dardanians would destroy them.

Equally, the men of his army were not the finest. Agamemnon had scoured the mainland for troops, and the soldiers under Menados’ command were of mixed quality: mercenaries from the high country, former pirates from the islands, robbers and brigands. All of them served for gold alone. Menados had no way of knowing if they would hold when the battle turned grim. What he did know was that they were hard, cruel men, pitiless and violent.

The officers were little better, save perhaps for Katheos and Areion. Katheos was young and ambitious, determined to seek the favor of Agamemnon and rise through the ranks. He had shown himself to be skillful and resourceful. That went some way toward offseting the fact that he had been selected for this mission to spy on Menados. Areion was an older man who had served with him for close to twenty years. Unimaginative yet solid, he could be relied on to obey any order and see it through.

Menados ran through all the possible outcomes of an attack on Dardanos. There was no doubt they would take the fortress, but was there any way to hold it? Peleus was dead, but there would still be forces at Ismaros. Perhaps by now Achilles was there. Would he gather men swiftly enough to make the crossing and attack the Trojans? Unlikely. His father slain, Achilles would now be the king of Thessaly. Custom and honor would dictate that he take his father’s remains home for proper entombment.

At last Menados was forced to the only decision that made sense. He would take the fortress this night and torch the gates and the warehouses and all the buildings of timber. That would render Dardanos useless for months. Then he would withdraw and sail for Ismaros, having at least completed the main part of his mission, the murder of Halysia and the boy.

Walking down the hillside, he called his officers to him. From his tunic he took the drawings the traitor had supplied of the defenses inside the city and the place where the queen and the child were likely to be found.

“It is imperative,” he said, “that the traitor is not accidentally slain when we attack. He is a senior officer. We want him to survive and rejoin Helikaon. He will be wearing a white tunic, no armor. He will have two swords belted to his waist. Make sure that every man knows this description.” Swinging to a gaunt young officer with deep-set blue eyes and a forked chin beard, he said: “You, Katheos, will lead the attack through the Seagate. Hold the gatehouse until reinforcements, led by Areion, arrive. Once they are with you, send a swift force into the palace to seek the queen and the boy. The rest will close in on the defenders and burn every building they can.”

“Are we not to hold the fortress?” the gray-bearded Areion asked.

Menados shook his head. “It seems that our Thessalian ally Peleus got himself killed. No reinforcements are coming from Thraki, and the Trojan Horse is likely to be here soon. So now it becomes a punitive raid, and then we get out and sail for Ismaros. We need to cause as much damage as possible. It is possible we could return this season. If so, we want Dardanos crippled when next we face it. Douse the gates with oil; pile them high with bracken and dried wood. There is also a bridge close to the fortress that cuts the journey to and from Troy. We will burn this also. The success of this raid,” he went on, “depends on discipline and speed. Make it clear to the men that there is to be no rape and plunder.”

“I am not sure we can stop them, Admiral,” Katheos said. “They have little loyalty to the king. They are ruled entirely by lust and greed.”

Menados considered this. “You are correct, Katheos. Tell them that a portion of Helikaon’s treasury will be shared among them. That will take the edge from their greed. Tell them also that any man found on a personal raid will have his guts ripped out and tied around his throat.”

Katheos nodded and gave a grim smile. “That will help a little, Admiral. But some of them, like wild dogs, will follow their murderous natures. Speaking of which, we none of us know what the queen looks like, nor her brat.”

“Our man inside has told us where they are likely to be found. The queen should pose no problems as to identity. She is young, golden-haired, and beautiful and will be dressed in clothes befitting her rank.”

“That may well be true, Admiral,” Areion put in. “But once she knows we are coming, she could change clothes and flee with the other women. Surely Agamemnon King will desire proof of her death.”

“The traitor will identify her body and that of her son,” Menados said at last. “But you make a good point. We will not have long in the fortress and cannot risk their escape. Every woman with pale hair and every small child must be put to the sword.”

The forked-bearded Katheos looked uncomfortable with the order. “A problem, General?” Menados asked.

“Only with the timing, Admiral. We have one night to kill the Dardanians, take the fortress, burn the gates and the buildings and the bridge, and then board our ships. Scouring the area for every child and pale-haired woman will divert us.”

“Organize three death squads, ten men in each. Give them the order to hunt through the fortress buildings. Now, dusk is approaching. So let us move.”

The old general stepped from his dark apartments and squinted into the low light of evening. Storm clouds lay heavy above the high fortress, but the westering sun shone like a golden shield on the horizon. Pausanius paused for a moment before firmly grasping his black wooden staff and setting off for the Seagate.

The pain that nagged at him constantly had eased a little. It had troubled him for more than a year now, eating deep into his back and groin. The physician had given him a series of increasingly disgusting potions.

“And these will heal me?” Pausanius had asked him.

“Only the gods could heal you, General,” the man had answered. “My potions will take away much of the pain, though not all.”

In the last few days the pain had increased, making it hard for him to think of anything else and forcing him to stay in his rooms. To piss was almost impossibly painful and difficult, and when urine finally dribbled out, it was dark red with blood. A shiver of fear went through him each time he saw it. However, a little while earlier he had stood bent over the piss pot and finally had managed to empty his bladder. The relief had been immense.

Pausanius saw that it would be a moonless night. Looking down from his chamber balcony a few moments earlier, he had seen two new ships arriving. They are cutting it fine, he had thought, wondering where they came from. He had decided to find out.

It would annoy young Menon, he knew. The boy had become increasingly concerned for his uncle’s health. “You need rest,” he had said earlier that day.

“I have a feeling I will be resting more than I would like soon enough,” Pausanius had grunted. “Fetch me some wine, would you, boy?”

Menon had laughed. “If you feel like wine, you must be improving.”

They sat together then and talked for a while of the problems they faced. Pausanius gazed affectionately at the young man, the sunlight glinting on his red-gold hair. So like me, he thought.

“What are you thinking, Uncle?”

“I am proud of you, Menon. I know it has not been easy to walk in my footsteps. But you have it in you to be a great man and to help save this kingdom. I hope the gods bless you, as they have me.”

Menon blushed. Like Pausanius he was obviously uncomfortable with compliments. The old general chuckled. “Am I sounding maudlin?”

“Not at all, Uncle. Rest here today and gather your strength. Tomorrow, if you are feeling better, we will ride together.”

But Pausanius no longer felt like resting. For nearly sixty years he had been charged with the safety of the fortress, and few visitors arrived of whom he was unaware. So he plodded on toward the Seagate.

The fool Idaios worried him. Did Priam have so little faith in the army at Dardanos that he thought a moron like Idaios could be of any help? Idaios had been given the Seagate to guard. A simple task—let no one pass this gate bearing a weapon. But Pausanius doubted he was up to it.

As he walked, his mind drifted back to his conversation with the queen four days before. He regretted criticizing her treatment of the boy Dexios. She has enough problems to contend with, he thought. Adversity was a harsh tutor but a good one. Perhaps the boy was too sensitive and needed to find some backbone. Pausanius dismissed the thought almost instantly. Dex was only three years old, unloved by his mother and raised by servants. On the rare occasions when Helikaon was home, he would talk to the boy and take him riding or fishing in the sheltered lake. There were few such opportunities when the king was absent.

It had heartened Pausanius to see young Menon playing with the child a few days back. The young soldier had perched Dex on his shoulders and run around the courtyard, making neighing sounds like a horse. The child’s laughter had been joyous to hear.

Pausanius thought of his own son, dead these thirty years. When he had first heard the gorge called Parnio’s Folly, he had been offended, as if a joke had been made out of his private tragedy. But over the long years his grief had been washed clean by the relentless waves of time.

He pressed on. Crossing the busy stable yard, he walked with care down the sloping stone roadway to the Seagate. When he arrived there, Pausanius was surprised to see the gates open. They were always closed tightly before sunset. Who had opened them? He looked for the guards but could not see them. A maggot of fear wormed into his heart.

As he stood there unnoticed, an old man with a staff, a troop of soldiers came running up through the gateway and past him. Pausanius peered at them, his vision blurred by his eighty years and the light of the low sun. By Ares, they are Mykene, he thought. Mykene soldiers in the fortress? For a moment he thought the pain was making him hallucinate and recall the invasion three years earlier.

Another troop of Mykene in their distinctive bronze-disked armor charged unchallenged through the Seagate and up into the fortress. From far away Pausanius heard the sounds of combat beginning, screams and shouts and clashing metal.

Confused and uncertain, he stumbled forward, leaning heavily on his staff. Through the open gate he saw Mykene troops still pouring off the two ships and climbing the hill to the fortress. More ships were beaching, soldiers leaping to the sand. A group of Mykene officers stood outside the gates a few paces away, talking casually. They glanced at the old man but ignored him.

The gate guards lay dead. On a sagging wooden table beyond the two bodies Pausanius saw a sad pile of old swords, knives, and battered clubs confiscated from visitors during the day. As Pausanius had feared, the fool Idaios had no system for dealing with the weaponry. It was just dumped in a heap and guarded by two bored soldiers. Two dead soldiers now.

The body of Idaios lay with them, a great wound in his throat.

Traitor! Pausanius thought with rage. I believed him to be just a fool, but he was a traitor, too. He opened the gates for them, then was slain by his new masters. A fool and a traitor both.

One of the group of Mykene officers noticed him and said something to the others. They all turned to look at the old general struggling toward them. Some of them smiled. One man dressed all in white stepped forward, two swords belted at his side.

Flame-haired Menon spoke. “I am sorry to see you here, Uncle.”

The shock was almost too great to bear, and Pausanius groaned as if in pain. Dead Idaios was not the traitor. The man who had delivered the fortress to the enemy was his own flesh and blood.

“How could you do this?” he said. “Why, Menon?”

“For the kingdom, Uncle,” Menon said calmly. “You said I could help it be great. And I will. As king. You think Dardania and Troy can withstand the might of all the western kings? If we continue to resist Agamemnon, the land will be laid waste, the people slaughtered or enslaved.”

Pausanius stared at him, then at the Mykene officers close by. In the distance the sounds of battle echoed through the fortress. “People who trusted you are being slaughtered now,” he said. “You have broken my heart, Menon. Better for me to have died than to see you as a traitor and a cur.”

Menon flushed and stepped back. “You never did understand the nature of power, Uncle. When Anchises died, you could have seized the throne. That is how dynasties are born. Instead, you pledged allegiance to a simpering woman and her get. And look where it led. To a war we cannot win. Go back to your apartment, Uncle. You do not have to die here.”

“Of course he has to die,” said a Mykene officer with a forked beard. “He knows you, and once we have left, he will tell Helikaon of your deeds.”

“Best listen to your master, little dog,” Pausanius said contemptuously. “When he says bark, you bark!”

Menon’s face turned crimson. Drawing one of his swords, he stepped in. “I did not wish to kill you,” he said, “for you have always been good to me. But you have lived too long, old man.”

The general’s body was ancient, but it remembered sixty years of battles. As the sword swung down at his neck, wielded with casual arrogance, he lunged and head butted the younger man. Grabbing the front of Menon’s white tunic, he dragged him forward, then curled his hand around the hilt of Menon’s second sword. Blood streaming from his broken nose, Menon wrenched himself clear of the old man’s grip. As he stepped back, he failed to notice Pausanius pulling the sword clear. The old general stepped in with a straight thrust that stabbed through Menon’s jugular. Blood sprayed over the white tunic. Menon gave a gurgling cry and staggered back, his hands clamped around his throat, seeking to stem the gouting flow.

Pausanius fell to his knees, his strength suddenly gone. He heard the sound of running feet and felt a blow, two blows, to his back. All pain ceased. Menon collapsed before him, his head drooping onto Pausanius’ shoulder. The old general looked at the dying Menon as his own vision blurred and darkened.

“I… so loved you… boy,” he said.