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, the 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.”