03 - Fall of Kings Read online

  “Not all of the army. Only the Trojan Horse. We can still man the walls with infantry and archers and sally out with our regiments when the occasion permits. We must have hidden supplies out in the far hills and the woods where the enemy will not venture,” he continued, warming to his theme. “And we will need a way to communicate with Hektor so that we can link strategically.”

  “You are a wonder, little brother,” Antiphones said admiringly. Polites blushed at the compliment.

  “But,” Antiphones said, sobering a little, “we cannot rely solely on the Trojan Horse. It is our spear and our shield, but even the strongest shield can be shattered.”

  “Do you believe Agamemnon will bring his own cavalry? Surely not!”

  “No, the strength of the Mykene is in their infantry. The Mykene phalanx is the best in the world, experienced and disciplined. We will not want to be drawn into any pitched battles with them.”

  “But Brother,” Polites argued, “we have the finest infantry. Surely the Scamandrian and Heraklion regiments and your own Ileans are a match for any army. They are all doughty warriors.”

  Antiphones shook his head. “With the exception of the Eagles, we have no foot soldiers to compare with the Mykene,” he admitted. “And our infantry is buttressed by Hittite and Phrygian mercenaries, with their flimsy armor. The Mykene would cut through them like a scythe through long grass. Only Hektor and the Horse can defeat the elite warriors of Agamemnon. The Mykene are the finest fighters, but heavily armored, they are slow to react. Only a cavalry charge will break their formation and scatter them.”

  Polites nodded. “But surely Father’s Eagles would be a match for them.”

  “Yes, but there are only three hundred Eagles. The Mykene infantry will number in the thousands, and most of them will be veterans of a score of wars. They are deadly, Polites, and they know how to win. They get a lot of practice.”

  Antiphones gazed up at the city, his mood bleak. Since his brush with death he had thanked the gods daily for his continued life and attacked each day with vigor, determined to wring the last dregs of enjoyment from it. But now, for the first time in years, blackness threatened to engulf him. What had started as a mild intellectual exercise, discussing the defenses of Troy with his brother, had blossomed into black dread for the future. He could see in his mind’s eye enemy camps on the plain of the Scamander, the river running with blood, the lower town empty and burned, Mykene troops clamoring at the walls of Troy.

  Polites said encouragingly, “We also know how to win, Brother. And the great walls are impregnable. The city cannot be taken.”

  Antiphones turned to him. “If the Mykene reach the walls, Polites, then Troy cannot stand. There are only two wells in the city. Most of our water comes from the Scamander and the Simoeis. And how long can we feed all our people? We could not last the summer. And eventually there would be a traitor. There always is. Dardanos was not taken by siege, remember. It needed just one traitor, and the enemy troops merely walked in the gates.”

  He fell silent. I was the traitor, he thought, the last time Agamemnon tried to take Troy. Through my arrogance I almost caused the death of the king and the fall of Troy to a foreign power. Only the courage of the hero Argurios prevented that. Two Trojans plotted the fall of Troy, and a Mykene saved the city. How the gods enjoy such elegant irony, he thought.

  Antiphones smiled grimly, trying to rouse himself from gloom, cursing his self-pity. “If only I had remained fat, I could have sat behind the Scaean Gate, and all the troops in Mykene could never have opened it.”

  Polites laughed. “Then we should head for home and a mountain of honey cakes.”

  The big woman trudged through the streets of the lower town, a basket of honey cakes on her arm. As she walked, many of the older traders called out greetings. She knew them all: Tobios the jeweler with his henna-dyed hair, Palicos the cloth merchant, Rasha the spindly meat seller, and more. To them she was still Big Red, the servant of Aphrodite.

  But those days were gone now. She was married to Banokles, a soldier of the Trojan Horse. She smiled. A general now, no less. Thoughts of her husband warmed her as she walked through the morning cold.

  When young and beautiful, she had dreamed of marrying a rich man, tall and handsome, and of living in a palace with servants to tend her needs. There would be perfumed baths and jeweled robes. Her husband’s adoration would shine brighter than the summer sun, and she would walk through Troy like a queen of legend. Such were the dreams of the young. The woman of those times had believed she never would grow old. There never would be a day when men did not desire her, when one glance from those violet eyes did not capture their hearts.

  Yet that day had come, creeping unnoticed through the shadows of her life. The rich clients had fallen away, and Red had found herself plying her trade among foreign sailors or common soldiers or among the poorer merchants and travelers.

  Until the night Banokles had come into her life.

  Red cut through the alleys toward her small neat house in the Street of Potters, passing on the way the square where she first had seen the blond-bearded Mykene soldier. He had been roaring drunk and in the company of thieves and cutthroats. He had called out, then staggered toward her. “By the gods,” he had said, “I think you are the most beautiful woman I ever saw.” Fumbling in the pouch by his side, he had pulled out a silver ring, which he had thrust into her hand. She had told him she was finished with work for the night, but it had not concerned him. “That is for your beauty alone,” he had told her.

  Despite her years of dealing with men and their hungers, she had been touched by the gesture. And she had felt sorry for the drunken fool. She knew the men with him. They were robbers, and before the night was over they would kill or cripple him for the rings he carried.

  But she had left him there and walked, just as she had this morning, to the house of the baker, Krenio.

  Later, retracing her steps, she had braced herself for the sight of the soldier dead on the stones. When finally she had reached the square, she had seen him sitting quietly and drinking, the thieves sprawled out around him.

  In the days that followed she had watched him take part as a fistfighter in Hektor’s wedding games, had walked with him along the beach, had slept beside him, listening to his breathing. And somewhere in that time she had realized with great surprise that she was fond of him. Why remained a mystery. He was not intelligent or intuitive. In many ways he was like an overgrown child, quick to anger, swift to forgive. Even now her love for him surprised her.

  Banokles the general. The thought amused her.

  Reaching her house, she put the basket of honey cakes on the table and poured herself a cup of wine. The fire had died down, and she added fuel, then sat before the flames. Banokles was still in Dardania. Word had reached the city that he had won a battle. His name was on everyone’s lips.

  Red sipped her wine, then reached for a honey cake. Just the one, she promised herself. The taste was divine. Krenio’s talent as a baker was second to none.

  The old man had wept again when she had visited him that morning, telling her over and over how much he loved her.

  “I am going to leave the city,” he said once more.

  “You have been saying that for a year,” she replied. “But you haven’t done it yet.”

  “I am waiting for you to see sense, my dear, and come with me.”

  “Do not start that again, old man. I am married now.”

  “But still you can’t stay away from me, can you? We are destined to be together. I know this with all my heart. Come east with me, Red.”

  She did not have the heart to tell him she pleasured him, as she always had, for his honey cakes. Red bit into a second one. It was so good.

  Her mind drifted back to Banokles. “I miss you,” she whispered.

  Banokles was bored. Outside the fortress of Dardanos soldiers were still celebrating their latest victory over the Mykene. Banokles could hear laughter and singing, th
e sounds of joy from men who had survived a battle. He could smell roasting meats, and he yearned to be out among the warriors, drinking and dancing without a care. Instead he was stuck in this chilly chamber while Kalliades and the Hittite with the curly beard and the name that tangled his tongue spoke endlessly about beaches and bays, landing places and possible battle sites. They talked about food supplies, scouts, and promotions to replace officers who had fallen in battle. The words washed over him, and he found himself growing steadily more irritable.

  Truth was, he was missing Big Red. Her absence was like a rock on his heart. He pictured her sitting in her small courtyard, her back propped up by cushions, feet resting on a padded stool. The image calmed him a little.

  Their parting had not been a happy one. Her violet eyes had glared at him. “You big oaf,” she had told him. “This is a war that cannot be won. Troy cannot stand against the western kings and their armies. All the intelligent merchants are leaving the city. We should do the same. Head east. You have gold now and a reputation. You could find work among the Hittites. We could be happy.”

  “I am happy,” Banokles had replied, trying to take her into his arms. She had shrugged him off, then sighed.

  “So am I,” she had admitted reluctantly. “And it frightens me. I never expected it. Look at me, Banokles. I am a fat, aging whore. I thought all my dreams had died a long time ago. I was content in my little house. Then you came along.”

  Banokles had stepped in then, putting his arms around her. She did not struggle but laid her head on his shoulder. “You are the joy of my life,” he told her.

  “Then you are an idiot, and your life must have been wretched before me.”

  “It was, but I didn’t know it. Don’t worry. I’ll be home in the spring. You just rest and enjoy yourself. Get more of those cakes from the old baker.”

  “You truly are a numbskull,” she said, but her voice had softened. Then a soldier had called out for Banokles. Red gave Banokles his helm, and he leaned in to kiss her.

  “Make sure you listen well to Kalliades,” she warned him. “And don’t go getting yourself killed.”

  “No danger of that. We’ve already crushed their army. They won’t come again before spring, and by then I’ll be home.”

  But the Mykene had come again, and the battle had been fierce, with slashing blades and plunging spears. If not for the storm that had scattered their fleet, the enemy numbers would have been overwhelming.

  Banokles stared with dislike at the Hittite prince. The man was young, but his beard was long and artificially curled. His clothes were of shiny cloth the color of the sky, and they gleamed in the torchlight. He dresses like a woman, Banokles thought contemptuously, seeing the glint of gems sewn into the sleeves. Even his boots, embossed with silver, glittered. There were precious stones set into his sword hilt. The man was a walking treasury.

  Banokles drained his wine cup and belched. The belch was a good one, rich and throaty. It caused a break in the conversation. His friend Kalliades looked up and grinned.

  “I fear we are losing the attention of our comrade,” he told the Hittite prince.

  Tudhaliyas shook his head. “At the risk of being called a pedant, I should point out that one cannot lose something one never had.” Rising smoothly, the Hittite walked across the room and out onto the balcony.

  “The man does not like me,” Banokles observed, scratching his closely-trimmed blond beard. “And I don’t like him.”

  Heaving himself to his feet, he gazed around the room, his eyes focusing on a platter of sliced meat and cheese. “All the cakes are gone,” he complained. Moving to the door, he hauled it open and shouted for more cakes. Then he slumped down again.

  “It is not dislike,” Tudhaliyas continued, strolling back into the room. “I was raised by philosophers and teachers of rare skill, historians and thinkers. I have studied the strategies of ancient wars and the words of great generals and poets and lawmakers. Now I am banished from my father’s realm and in the company of a soldier whose chief joy is to piss up a tree. Dislike does not begin to describe my feelings.”

  Banokles glared at him, then glanced at Kalliades. “I think that was an insult, but I stopped listening when he got to philosophers. Never liked the cowsons. Don’t understand a word they say.”

  “I accept that they don’t say much that would interest you, my friend,” Kalliades told him. “But if we can drag ourselves back to the matters at hand, I would appreciate it.”

  “What is there to talk about? The enemy came; we destroyed them. They are dead. We are not.” He saw the Hittite staring at him balefully.

  “We are trying to anticipate where the next invasion might take place and how to prepare for it. It is what intelligent officers do.” Tudhaliyas sneered.

  “Intelligent, eh?” Banokles snapped. “If you are so clever, how come you were banished? How come you ended up here with us peasants?”

  “I was banished because I am clever, you dolt. My father is sick and senile. He thought I was planning to overthrow him.”

  “Then why didn’t he kill you?”

  “Because he is sick and senile.” Tudhaliyas swung to Kalliades. “Can we not discuss the essentials of the campaign alone?”

  “We could,” Kalliades agreed, “but that would be disrespectful to the great general here. And perhaps we should remember that it was his cavalry charge that ruptured the enemy line, allowing your regiment to scatter the foe.”

  “I had not forgotten that, Kalliades,” the prince said. “Nor do I make light of his courage or his fighting ability. It is the laziness of his stupid mind that offends me.”

  Banokles surged to his feet, drawing his sword. “I am tired of your insults, turd face, and your stupid beard. Let me cut it off for you—at the throat!”

  Tudhaliyas’ saber hissed from its scabbard. Kalliades leaped between the two men.

  “Now, this is a scene to inspire our enemies,” he cried. “Two victorious generals cutting each other to pieces. Put away your swords! Perhaps we should meet later, when tempers have cooled.”

  For a moment neither of the swordsmen moved. Then Tudhaliyas slammed his saber back in its scabbard and strode away.

  As the door closed, Banokles sighed. “What is wrong with you?” Kalliades asked him.

  “I miss Red. Haven’t seen her for months.”

  “Red will be waiting for you. But that’s not what is troubling you. We have been friends for a long time. Not once in that time have I seen you draw a sword on a brother soldier. You would have killed a good man, a brave warrior. This is not like you, Banokles.”

  Banokles swore softly. “I hate being a general. I miss the old life, Kalliades. Fight, kill the enemy, get drunk, and pay for some whores. That’s a proper soldier’s life. I am just a pretend general. You do all the thinking and planning. The Hittite knows it. By the gods, everyone knows it. I used to be someone. I was a great fighter, and men looked up to me.”

  “You still are, and they still do.”

  “That’s not the point. I knew what I was doing, and I did it as well as any other man. Now I don’t, and I have foreigners insulting me to my face. I tell you, one more insult and I’ll take his curling tongs and ram them so far up his ass, he’ll be able to curl the damned thing from the inside.”

  Kalliades chuckled. “I don’t know why the beard annoys you. Many of the Hittite warriors sport them, and as we have seen, they are ferocious fighters. Why don’t you go out and join in the revels. Get drunk.”

  Banokles shook his head. “Can’t do that anymore, Kalliades. Men stop talking when I walk up. They go quiet, as if they expect me to piss on their joy fires.”

  “You are their commander. They revere you.”

  “I don’t want to be revered,” Banokles shouted. “I want to be me! Why can’t you be the general? You are the one who makes all the plans.”

  Kalliades looked at him. “There is more to war than planning, my friend,” he said quietly. “All the str
ategy comes to nothing if the men are not willing. When you led that charge, the men followed you, their hearts full of fire and belief. That is something gold cannot buy. You are their inspiration. They believe in you. They would ride into Hades if you asked them to. You need to understand this. You make Tudhaliyas angry not because you are stupid but because he cannot learn to be like you. He can understand the logistics of war, he can master all the skills and the strategies, but he cannot inspire. Truth is, neither can I. It is a rare gift, Banokles. You have it.”

  “I don’t want it!” the big man protested. “I want everything the way it was.”

  “You want us dead back in Thraki?”

  “What? I mean I want… I don’t know what I want. But it isn’t this! A pox on Hektor for leaving me in command!”

  “Hektor couldn’t take the Thrakians back to Troy with him. You know what happened the last time there were Thrakians there.”

  “What?” Banokles asked.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake!” Kalliades snapped. “You and I were there, in the invading army! Troy’s Thrakian regiment rebelled and joined us, and we almost took the city.”

  Banokles sagged back into his chair and sighed.

  “I told Red there wouldn’t be any more battles here in Dardanos in the winter. Just how many poxy armies does Agamemnon have waiting across the straits?”

  “Obviously more than we thought,” Kalliades responded. “But why come in winter? Food supplies are short, the land inhospitable. Snow and heavy rains make much of Thraki impassable. It makes no sense.”

  “If that’s true, why are you worried?” Banokles asked.

  “Because Agamemnon is no fool. He has conquered cities in the past and led successful invasions all across the west. You and I fought in many of them. Common sense tells me that an attack on Troy would need to be coordinated with an invasion of Dardania in the north and a major push through the Ida mountains in the south. Only then could he bring an invasion fleet to the Bay of Troy. But to attack here in winter, with his army isolated? Even if they made a successful landing and pushed on south, reinforcements from Troy could be brought up to destroy them. What is he thinking?”