01 - Lord of the Silver Bow by David Gemmell
“We will all be resting well after this night,” he said despondently.
Axa and several other servants were assisting the noblewomen, bandaging wounds and administering stitches. Even young Kassandra was busy cutting up linens. By the balcony wall there were six bodies, all stripped of armor and weapons. There was little space to lay them out, and they had been laid atop one another, arms entwined.
Andromache walked out of the apartments onto the gallery above the stairs. Quivers of arrows had been laid there, along with a stack of throwing spears. Moving to the far left of the gallery, she looked down into the megaron. Men were battling by the doors, and she saw Helikaon among them, his bright bronze armor gleaming like gold in the torchlight.
Behind the defenders stood another group of warriors, tall shields on their arms and heavy thrusting spears in their hands.
Off to the right she saw the king and around a dozen of his counselors. Many of them were older men, but they were holding swords or spears and a few bore shields. From her high vantage point Andromache could see past the fighting men and out into the courtyard beyond. Hundreds of Thrakians were massing there. It seemed inconceivable that the few defenders could keep them out for long.
More wounded were dragged back from the front line. She saw Priam gesture to his counselors, and several of them ran forward, heaving the injured to their feet and half carrying them back toward the stairs. One soldier, an older man, perhaps in his forties, was gouting blood from a neck wound. He sagged against the men assisting him, then slumped to the floor.
Andromache watched as the pumping blood slowed and the man died. Almost immediately other men crowded around him, unbuckling his breastplate and untying his greaves. Within moments the dead Eagle was merely another body, hauled unceremoniously back and left against the wall so as not to encumber the living. The dead man had been flung on his back, and his head lolled, his vacant eyes staring up at her. Andromache felt suddenly light-headed, a sense of unreality gripping her. The clashing sounds of battle receded, and she found herself staring into the eyes of the corpse below. The difference between life and death was a single heartbeat. All that man’s dreams, hopes, and ambitions had been dashed in one bloody moment.
Her mouth was dry, and she felt the beginnings of terror clawing at the pit of her stomach.
Would she, too, be dead in a little while?
Would Helikaon fall, his throat slashed, his body stripped and discarded?
Her hands were trembling. Soon the enemy would sweep past the tiring defenders and surge into the megaron. She pictured them running at her, their faces distorted with rage and lust. Strangely, the image calmed her.
“I am not a victim waiting for the slaughter,” she said aloud. “I am Andromache.”
Kassandra came running from the queen’s apartments. “We need more bandages,” she said.
Andromache reached out. “Give me the scissors.” Kassandra did so, and Andromache hacked into her own full-length white gown just above the knees, cutting the material clear. Kassandra clapped her hands.
“Let me help!” she cried as Andromache struggled to complete the circular cut. The child took the scissors, slicing swiftly through the cloth. The lower half of Andromache’s gown fell away.
“Do mine! Do mine!” said Kassandra.
Adromache knelt by the child and swiftly snipped through the thin cloth. Kassandra swept up the material and darted away. Andromache followed her back into the main rooms, then took up her bow. Returning to the gallery, she hefted a quiver of arrows and settled it over her shoulder.
“Fear is an aid to the warrior,” her father had said. “It is like a small fire burning. It heats the muscles, making us stronger. Panic comes when the fire is out of control, consuming all courage and pride.”
There was still fear in her as she stared down at the battle in the doorway.
But the panic had gone.
III
The two hundred twelve warriors of the Mykene stood patiently before the temple of Hermes, awaiting the call to battle. There was little tension among them, even with the distant sounds of battle and the screams of dying men echoing over the city. Some joked, and others chatted to old comrades. Kalliades the tall, his tower shield swung to his back, walked along a line of statues outside the temple doors, marveling at the workmanship. In the moonlight they could almost be real, he thought, gazing up into the face of Hermes, the winged god of travelers. The face was young, little more than a youth, the wings on the heels beautifully fashioned. Reaching out, he stroked his thick fingers across the stone. Banokles the one-eared joined him.
“It’s said they brought in Gyppto sculptors,” said Banokles. “I had an uncle once who went to Luxor. They got statues there tall as mountains, so he said.”
Kalliades glanced at his friend. Banokles was already wearing his full-faced helmet, and his deep voice was muffled. “You must be sweating like a pig in that,” he ventured.
“Better to be ready,” answered Banokles.
“For what?”
“I don’t trust the Trojans. They have a thousand men on the great walls.”
Kalliades chuckled. “You never were a trusting man. They opened the gates for us, didn’t they? They serve the new king. No problem for us.”
“No problem?” countered Banokles. “Does it sound to you like no problem? There was to be no major battle. The Thrakians would take the citadel, and we were to clean out a few guests at a funeral feast. It is not going well, Kalliades.”
“We’ll put it right when they call us.” Kalliades pointed to the statue of a woman holding a sheaf of corn in one hand and a sword in the other. “I can recognize most of the gods, but who is that?”
Banokles shrugged. “I don’t know. Some Trojan deity, maybe.”
A powerfully built warrior with a square-cut black beard emerged from an alleyway and made his way over to join them.
“What news, Eruthros?” Banokles asked him.
“Good and bad. The gates are open,” the man answered. “Won’t be long now.”
“And the bad?” inquired Banokles.
“I spoke to Kolanos. Argurios is with the Trojans.”
“By Hades, I wouldn’t have thought it possible,” said Kalliades. “When word came he’d turned traitor, I didn’t believe it for one heartbeat.”
“Nor me,” admitted Banokles.
“Well, I hope it’s not me who cuts him down,” said Eruthros. “The man is a legend.”
Kalliades wandered away from his friends. He had no fear of battle and no qualms about fighting inside a foreign city. It seemed to him that the world was neatly divided into lions and sheep. The Mykene were lions. Any who could be conquered were sheep. It was a natural order and one Argurios understood. Indeed, it had been Argurios who had first offered him this simple philosophy.
Now Argurios, the Mykene Lion, was standing with the sheep. It made no sense. Still worse was the fact that Kalliades and his friends were being led by Kolanos. They called him the Breaker of Spirits, but the Despicable was closer to the truth. For the first time since they landed Kalliades felt uneasy.
He had fought with Argurios at Partha, and in Thessaly, and on the Athenian plains. He had stormed towns and sacked cities alongside him and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him in a score of skirmishes and fights. Argurios had never been interested in plunder or riches. His entire life had been one of service to his king. There was not enough gold in all the world to buy a man like Argurios. So how was it possible that he had betrayed the Mykene and allied himself with the Trojan enemy?
Banokles approached him. “The Eagles are holding the Thrakians at the palace doors. The butcher Helikaon is with them.”
This was better news. The thought that the vile Burner would pay for his hideous crimes lifted Kalliades’ spirits. “If the gods will it,” he said, “I shall cut his head clear.”
“And put out his eyes?”
“Of course not! You think I am a heathen savage like him? N
Banokles laughed. “Well, you can hunt down the Burner. Once we’ve cleaned out the Eagles, I’ll be looking for some softer booty. Never shagged a king’s daughter before. It is said that Priam’s daughters are all beautiful. Big round tits and fat asses. You think they’ll let me take one home?”
“Why would you want to?” countered Kalliades. “With the gold we’ve been promised you can buy a hundred women.”
“True, but a king’s daughter is special. Something to brag about.”
“It seems to me you’ve never needed anything special to brag about.”
Banokles laughed with genuine good humor. “I used to think I was the greatest braggart on the Great Green. Then I met Odysseus. Now, that man can brag. I swear he could weave a magical tale about taking a shit in a swamp.”
All around them the Mykene troops began to gather. Kalliades saw Kolanos moving among the men.
“Time to earn our plunder,” said black-bearded Eruthros, putting on his helmet.
Kalliades strode back to where he had left his helmet, shield, and spear. Banokles went with him. As Kalliades garbed himself for battle, Banokles removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his long yellow hair.
“Now that it is time to put on your helmet you are removing it,” Kalliades pointed out.
“Sweating like a pig,” Banokles responded with a wide grin.
They lined up with their comrades and waited as Kolanos mustered the men.
“You know what is required of you, men of Mykene,” shouted Kolanos. “The palace is held by a few royal guardsman. This is a night of blood. This is a night of slaughter. Drench your spears. Kill them all. Leave not a man alive.”
IV
The bodies of dead Thrakians were piled high around the palace doors, and scores more corpses littered the courtyard, shot down by arrows from the balcony above. Helikaon lowered his sword as the surviving Thrakians pulled back toward the shelter of the gates.
Around him the Eagles relaxed, and there was silence at last.
Helikaon turned to the warriors alongside him. “Now the Mykene will come,” he said. “When they charge, take up positions to the left and right of the doors.”
“Not many of us left,” said a tall soldier, glancing around at the surviving defenders.
No more than twenty Eagles manned the doorway. Argurios and his twenty-eight men stood a little way back, shields and spears at the ready.
“Might be a good time to shut the doors,” offered another warrior.
“No,” said Helikaon. “They would not hold for more than a few moments. It would also give them time to move the bodies. As it is, their charge will be slowed as they clamber over them.”
“Never fought Mykene,” said the first man. “Said to be fine fighters.”
“They think they are the greatest warriors in all the world,” said Helikaon. “They are going to learn a sad truth tonight.”
He moved back to where Argurios waited. The men were standing in three ranks. Polydorus shuffled to his right, allowing Helikaon to stand alongside Argurios.
No one spoke, and the silence grew. Then Prince Dios came running down from the upper balcony, followed by his archers.
“No more shafts,” said Dios.
“Take your men to the far balcony,” said Argurios. “There are quivers there.”
“You don’t have enough men to hold them here,” said Dios. “We’ll stand with you.”
“No,” said Argurios. “Your men have no armor. They will be cut to pieces. Defend the stairwell.”
Dios moved away without a word, and the warriors waited. From where he stood Helikaon could see out into the courtyard. It was deserted except for the dead and dying. So many had died this night, and many more would walk the dark road before the dawn. Time drifted by. Helikaon’s mouth was dry.
Then he heard the sound of marching feet. “They are coming!” shouted a warrior in the doorway.
At that moment Prince Dios appeared, dressed in a breastplate of bronze and silver and carrying a long shield. An Eagle’s helmet was pushed back on his head. At his side was a stabbing sword, and in his hand a heavy spear.
He moved in alongside Argurios. “Do you object to fighting alongside the runt of the litter?” he asked with a tight smile.
“It will be an honor, Prince Deiphobos,” Argurios said softly.
“Call me Dios,” said the young man with a smile. “And try to forget I can be a pompous fool sometimes.”
“As can we all,” Argurios told him. Then he raised his voice to address the waiting warriors. “Do not stab for the body,” he said. “Their armor is well made and will turn any blade. Go for the throat, the lower thigh, or the arms.”
Helikaon gazed out into the courtyard. The Mykene had formed up in tight ranks of eight abreast. Then they began to march toward the palace. As they came closer, they surged into a run.
The Eagles in the doorway faded to the left and right. The Mykene slowed as they reached the wall of Thrakian corpses.
Argurios hefted his spear. “For the king and for Troy!” he bellowed.
And the Eagles charged.
XXXIV
THE LOST GARDEN
I
Andromache felt her heart go out to those valiant men. From her vantage point on the rear gallery she could see how unequal the struggle was. There seemed to be hundreds of heavily armed Mykene warriors powering forward with brute strength into a mere four ranks of Eagles. Even so, the Mykene charge faltered as the Eagles from the doorway gathered on both sides of the advancing phalanx, hacking and cutting at the Mykene flanks.
The archers on the gallery could not afford to shoot yet for fear of hitting their own men. But slowly, as the phalanx inexorably entered the megaron, some bowmen began to send shafts into the warriors still massing in the doorway. Few arrows pierced the great shields or the heavy helmets and breastplates of the invaders, but they caused the fighting men at the center to raise their shields against the new attack, lessening the pressure on the front of the line.
Argurios gave no ground, fighting with ruthless economy of effort, his spear lancing into the enemy, his shield a wall they could not pass. Beside him Helikaon was also holding, and Andromache saw the first Mykene fall to his spear. Soon other bodies were falling as the fighting became ever more brutal. At least two Mykene were going down for every Eagle.
It was not enough.
Noching an arrow to her bow, she took careful aim and sent a black shaft slashing through the air to bury itself in the eye socket of a glittering bronze helmet. The victim vanished under the feet of his comrades.
The battle wore on, the Eagles now being pushed back, bent like a bow of human flesh. Andromache and the other archers continued to shoot down into the fighting, scoring less than one good hit in twenty.
The Eagles were engaged in a fighting retreat, with the Mykene seeking to circle them and cut them off from the stairs. At the center of the Trojan line Argurios, Helikaon, and Dios were fighting hard, but the flanks were giving way faster than the center. At any moment the Mykene would sweep around and encircle the battling men.
Andromache saw the danger. “Aim for the wings!” she cried to the bowmen around her.
A greater concentration of shafts hammered into the Mykene on the left of the battle line, and they were forced to raise their shields and pull back, allowing the Trojan line to hold steady.
At the back of the melee Andromache saw the white-haired figure of Kolanos urging his men on but keeping back from the point of impact.
Just then Andromache felt the frayed hem of her chiton being tugged. She glanced down and saw little Kassandra standing there.
“You must come. Quickly,” said Kassandra.
Andromache struggled to hear her above the clash of swords and shields and the screams of wounded men. Kneeling down, she drew the girl to her. “What is it?”
“Laodike! She is dying!”
“No, she is just rest
Kassandra shook her head. “You must come,” she said.
Allowing the child to take her hand, she followed her back into the queen’s apartments. They was filled now with wounded men, and she saw Axa helping to carry a soldier to a wide table where the physician Zeotos, his robes utterly drenched with gore, sought to save him.
Kassandra moved away, and Andromache hurried to where Laodike lay. The young woman’s face was unnaturally pale and shone with sweat. Her lips and eyelids had a bluish tinge. Andromache knelt beside her, taking her hand. The fingers seemed thick and swollen, and they, too, were bruised and discolored.
“Zeotos!” she shouted. The sounds of fighting outside were closer now, and Andromache sensed the battle was all but over. In that moment she did not care. “Zeotos!” she screamed again.
The old physician came to her side. His face showed his exhaustion.
“What is happening to her?” cried Andromache.
Zeotos hauled at Laodike, half turning her and using a small knife to slice through her dress. Once the skin of her back was exposed, Andromache saw a huge black and swollen bruise extending from her shoulder to her hip.
“Why did you not tell me she had such a wound?” said Zeotos. “I thought she was merely scratched.”
“I believed her to be healing,” Andromache answered.
“Well, she’s not,” said the physician. “She’s dying. The sword or spear must have pierced a vital organ. She is bleeding to death from within.”
“There must be something you can do.”
Zeotos’ shoulders sagged. “Within a few heartbeats I will be able to do nothing for anyone. We are lost. As she is lost. We are going to die.” With that he returned to the wounded man on the table.
Priam approached. He had a sword in his hand. He looked down at his stricken daughter. “Her death will be a merciful release,” he said. Then he looked at Andromache. “When they come, do not struggle. Do not fight. Women have been raped before and have survived. Live, Andromache.” Then he strode away toward the gallery.