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 strategy 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?”
“Maybe he’s lost his mind,” Banokles observed.
Kalliades shook his head. “It would be good to think so. But I fear he has a plan and we can’t see it.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
OMENS IN THE STARS
Late in the night Kalliades went in search of Tudhaliyas. A sentry directed him to the battlements above the Seagate, and he found the Hittite prince staring out to the north over the moonlit Hellespont.
Five galleys were beached on the bay below, the crews asleep on the sand. In better days they would have come up to the town that clutched the skirts of the fortress, there to drink and purchase the company of whores. But the town was deserted now; the populace had fled to the interior, away from the fear of war. The vessels had come in for supplies before maintaining their patrol of the straits.
Tudhaliyas glanced at Kalliades but made no greeting.
“You are still angry?” Kalliades asked him.
“I have been angry for most of the winter,” Tudhaliyas replied. “There is no sign of it passing yet. But do not concern yourself, Kalliades. It is not the oaf that fires my rage.”
“What, then?”
Tudhaliyas gave a cold smile. “It would take too long to explain. So why have you sought me out?”
Kalliades did not reply at once. Tudhaliyas was a prince, raised among foreign noblemen. Kalliades had no experience in dealing with such men. Their ways and customs were alien to him. What he did know was that the Hittite was a proud man, and he would need to choose his words with care.
“Tempers were raised tonight,” he said at last. “I thought it best not to leave them festering for the night.”
“You are bringing his apology?”
Kalliades shook his head and spoke softly. “There is no need for him to apologize. You offered the first insult.”
An angry light appeared in the Hittite’s eyes. “You expect me to apologize?”
“No. Banokles will have forgotten the incident by morning. That is his way. He is not a complicated man, nor does he hold grudges. Everything you said was true enough. I know it. Even Banokles knows it. What is important is that we put it behind us.”
“If he was a Hittite general,” Tudhaliyas commented, “and one of his officers had spoken as I did, an assassin would have been called for, and the officer swiftly dispatched.”
“Happily, Banokles is not a Hittite general. And if there was a battle tomorrow and you were in dire need, Banokles would ride through fire and peril to rescue you. That is the nature of the man.”
“He already did that,” Tudhaliyas conceded, and Kalliades saw his anger fade.
The Hittite prince stared out once more over the sea. “I have never been enamored of the Great Green,” he offered. “I do not understand why men yearn to sail it in flimsy vessels of wood. You sea people are a mystery to me.”
“I have never loved the sea, either,” Kalliades told him, “but then, my life has been one of soldiering.”
“Mine, too. I was fifteen and beardless when Father sent me to fight at Kadesh. I have fought ever since against the Egypteians and now against Idonoi tribesmen and Thessalians who came with the Mykene. Men always talk of final victory. I have never seen one.”