Menados ignored him, addressing Kalliades. “You are free to join us, Kalliades, as an outcast yourself. We are going not to the Golden City but back to Mykene and the Lion’s Hall, there to suffer Agamemnon’s judgment—if he ever returns.”
Kalliades answered him coolly, “The Law of the Road states that Helikaon’s battle is mine. I will stand with him.”
Menados nodded, as if he had expected that response. “Loyalty has been much prized among the Mykene, although that loyalty seemed often misplaced. You are not the first Mykene warrior to stand side by side with the Trojans. The great Argurios was a comrade of mine. We fought together in many battles. I admired him more than any man I have ever known. Now, Helikaon, when last we encountered each other, you chose the path of mercy. You undoubtedly are regretting that now. And you told me that if we were ever to meet again, you would cut out my heart and feed it to the crows. Is that still your intention?”
Helikaon snarled, “Try me, Menados!”
A voice behind Menados yelled, “Let’s take them, Admiral! The Burner is accursed and must die!”
Another shouted, “The gods are with us, lord. They have brought the Burner into our hands!” There was a chorus of agreement, and in the predawn gloom Helikaon heard swords rasping from scabbards.
Menados turned to his men, annoyance in his voice. “I was speaking of loyalty and mercy, two qualities which used to be admired by the Mykene.”
Behind Helikaon one of the boys started to cry from tiredness or fear.
Menados sighed and sheathed his sword. “Go your way, Helikaon. Matters are now equal between us. I give you and your people your lives, just as you once gave me mine. In the name of the great Argurios.”
There were angry shouts from Menados’ men, but no one made a move. Helikaon guessed that their loyalty to Menados or fear of him was stronger than their need for vengeance.
Swords still at the ready, the two warriors walked watchfully past the Mykene band. Andromache, with Astyanax on one hip and holding Dex by the hand, followed them.
As they raced on, Helikaon strained his eyes to find the dark bulk of the Xanthos in the distance. The ball of the sun, rising out of the mist to their right, was almost clear of the horizon, and they still had a way to go.
“We cannot make it,” Kalliades calmly pointed out. Helikaon’s heart sank. The man was right. It was impossible to get to the ship before she sailed.
Then, from out of the west, he heard a shout. He paused and turned. A horse was cantering toward them across the rough ground, leaping the ditches, its rider waving to them and shouting. As he came closer, Helikaon saw that he was wearing the armor of the Trojan Horse.
“Skorpios!” Kalliades cried out in delight. “How in Hades are you here? We thought you long dead!”
“It does not matter!” Helikaon shouted. “Get down, lad! I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but I need that horse!”
The fair-haired rider slid quickly off his mount, and Helikaon vaulted on. He grabbed the reins and kicked the beast into a run, heading north toward the river at full pelt. Behind them he heard the newcomer ask, “Where’s he going with my horse? And where’s Banokles?”
Banokles watched Helikaon climb down the rope into the night. Then he heard Kalliades’ voice call to him for a torch. He grabbed one off the wall and threw it down to him. He watched it spiral into darkness, then returned to the crowded gathering room to see who else could be saved. But among the many wounded and dying there were none who had the strength to lower themselves to safety—only the healer.
He told the boy curtly, “On your way, lad. There is a rope from the window of the rear chamber leading down to the ground. Climb down it and save yourself.”
The boy continued sewing a soldier’s scalp wound. There was blood everywhere, and his fingers kept slipping on the bronze needle as he worked.
Without looking up, the healer replied, “I will stay.”
Banokles grabbed the boy by the front of his clothing and dragged him upright, shaking him like a rat.
“That was not a polite request, boy, but an order. Go when I tell you!”
“With respect, sir,” the healer said, his face reddening, “I am not a soldier for you to command, and I will not go. I am needed here.”
Frustrated, Banokles flung him down. He could not force the boy to go. What could he do, throw him out the window? He stalked back to the rear chamber and without hesitation cut the rope. He waited, grinning to himself, and shortly he heard Kalliades’ voice shouting, “Banokles!”
He leaned over the window ledge and called down to his old friend, “May Ares guide your spear, Kalliades!”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Kalliades shouted back, “He always does, sword brother.”
Banokles waved farewell. Red always had told him that Kalliades would get him killed, and here he was saving his friend from certain death. In high good humor, he went out to the stone corridor where the last three Eagles were holding back the enemy. There was room only for one man at a time to swing a sword, so each combatant faced a duel to the death. He saw one Eagle cut down, a sword through his belly, and a comrade take his place. Two more to go, he thought, and went back into the gathering room.
He saw the king’s aide Polydorus lying propped against a wall, blood drying on his chest and stomach. He always had liked the man. He was a thinker, like Kalliades, and a doughty fighter, too. Looking at Polydorus’ face with his veteran’s eye, he guessed the warrior probably would survive if given time to heal. Banokles always told Kalliades that he knew if a wounded soldier would live or die, and he was very seldom wrong. Well, actually he was often wrong, but he was the only one keeping score.
He squatted down.
“How are we doing?” Polydorus asked with a faint smile.
“There are two Eagles left, holding the corridor, then I’ll go in.”
“You’d better go now, Banokles.”
Banokles shrugged. “In a moment. You Eagles are a gutsy bunch.” He frowned. “Can you believe that boy refused to leave?” He nodded toward the healer.
Polydorus smiled. “You could leave, Banokles. You chose not to. What’s the difference?”
For a moment Banokles was astonished. It never had entered his head that he could have climbed down the rope, too.
“I’m a soldier,” he answered lamely.
“Yet you are under no man’s orders. Has it occurred to you, Banokles, that now that Hektor’s son has left the city, you, as the senior soldier here, are truly king of Troy?”
Banokles was delighted by the idea, and he laughed. “The king? I never thought I’d be a king. Shouldn’t I have a crown or something?”
Polydorus shook his head weakly, “I never saw Priam wearing a crown.”
“Then how will people know I’m king?”
“I suspect you will tell them, my friend, if you get the chance.” Then Polydorus’ face became grave. “May the All-Father guard you, Banokles. It is time now.”
Banokles stood up, then turned and walked to the corridor.
The last Eagle was battling courageously. The stone corridor was littered with bodies, and Banokles dragged two corpses back into the gathering room to give himself room to fight. One Trojan soldier lay slumped against the corridor wall, clutching a wound in his belly. He raised a warding hand as Banokles approached him.
“I would rather die here than in there,” he told him.
Banokles nodded. He closed the oak door to the gathering room behind him and waited. He did not have to wait long. The last Eagle, weakened by his wounds, fell to one knee, and his Mykene opponent swung his sword at the man’s neck, half beheading him.
Banokles stepped up. The Mykene warrior looked familiar, but he could not name him. It doesn’t matter, anyway, Banokles thought. He wrenched one sword from his scabbard, blocked a fierce overhead cut, and sent a slashing riposte across the warrior’s face. The man stumbled, and Banokles plunged the blade into his chest.