Priam dismissed this impatiently. “When the Xanthos returns, Aeneas will deal with the enemy ships. All fear his fire hurlers. He will destroy the fleet as he destroyed the one at Imbros; then he will break the blockade of the Hellespont.”
Antiphones shook his head. “We cannot be sure the Golden Ship even survived the winter,” he argued. “We have heard nothing since the turn of the year. We cannot rely on Helikaon.” He paused. “You expect a lot from two men, even heroes like Hektor and Helikaon,” he added with a hint of impatience.
The king rounded on him. “Two men like them are worth a thousand of the likes of you! I despise you, all you naysayers and doom-mongers. My Hekabe warned me against you. Remember the prophecy, she said. Troy will prevail and be eternal.”
He sat back exhausted and for a while seemed deep in thought. The silence stretched, and Banokles shifted on his feet, anxious to be off.
When Priam spoke at last, his voice had become sharp and querulous. “Where is Andromache? Bring her to me. I have not seen her today.”
Polites spoke for the first time. He placed his hand on his father’s shoulder and said in a voice of great gentleness, “She is not here, Father. She is aboard the Xanthos with Aeneas.” He glared at Antiphones, then said, “Come, Father, you need your rest.”
“I need some wine,” the old man retorted, but he stood up uncertainly and allowed himself to be led back to the stone staircase.
Antiphones turned to Banokles with a sigh. “By the war god Ares, I hope Hektor gets here soon,” he said.
Free at last, Banokles hurried from the megaron, climbed on his waiting horse, and galloped back down through the city. The Scaean Gate, now closed all day as well as at night, was opened for him, and he sped toward the Street of Potters, his heart full. His mind already had shrugged off the problems of the day, the burdens of leadership, and the battles that awaited tomorrow in his eagerness to see Red.
He threw himself off his horse as he reached his home and only then realized that a crowd had gathered at the small white house.
A neighbor, a potter called Alastor, ran up to him, his face pale. “Banokles, my friend…”
Banokles grabbed him by the front of his tunic and looked around at the men’s anxious faces, the women’s red eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
“What’s happening?” he thundered. He shook Alastor. “What in Hades is going on?”
“It’s your wife, Red,” the man stuttered.
Banokles threw him to one side and rushed into the house. Lying on a sheet of white linen in the center of the main room was Red. Her body had been washed and clothed in a white gown, but no one could hide the blue sheen to her face or the dark bruises around her neck.
Banokles fell to the floor beside her, his mind in shock, his thoughts in turmoil.
“Red.” He took her shoulders and shook her gently. “Red!” But her body was stiff and cold under his trembling hands.
Banokles stood, his face white with fury, and the people crowding around him moved back nervously.
“What happened? You, potter! What happened?” He advanced menacingly toward the frightened man.
“It was the old baker, my friend,” Alastor told him. “The one who made the honey cakes she loved. He strangled her, Banokles, then opened his own throat with a knife. He is out there.” He gestured to the courtyard.
“He told his daughter he loved Red and couldn’t live without her. He was leaving the city and wanted her to go with him, but she refused him. He asked her over and over, but she laughed at him.”
But Banokles wasn’t listening. With an anguished roar he threw himself into the paved courtyard, where he found the small form of Krenio lying on the ground, one of Red’s gowns tightly gripped in one hand, the other holding a knife. His blood had soaked the ground around his head.
Banokles tore the dress from the man’s hand and flung it furiously to one side. Then he drew his dagger and drove it into the baker’s chest. Shouting incoherently, tears running down his face, he plunged the knife over and over into the dead man’s body.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HEKTOR’S RIDE
Skorpios was tired, and not just from the long day of riding. His weariness was bone-deep. He was tired of the war and tired of battle. He longed to see his father’s farm again and to sit at the table with his family, listening to their mundane stories of lost sheep or weevils on the vines.
He glanced down into the grassy hollow where his comrade Justinos, broad-shouldered and shaven-headed, was striking flint, sending glittering sparks into the dry tinder. A small flame flickered, and Justinos bent forward to blow gently. The fire caught, and he carefully added a few more twigs.
The two riders were making late camp just beneath the top of a hill. Scouts for Hektor’s Trojan Horse, they were ahead of the main army as it made speed to get back to Troy, crossing the Ida range on the well-worn route from Thebe Under Plakos to the Golden City. They were expecting the rest of the force to catch up with them by nightfall.
Skorpios sat staring out across the darkening country to the northwest. The air was fragrant with the scent of evening flowers. Finally he sighed and moved back down to the camp. Justinos glanced up at him but said nothing. He handed Skorpios a hunk of corn bread, and the two men ate in silence.
“You think Olganos will still be in Troy?” Skorpios asked, as Justinos spread his blanket on the ground, ready for sleep.
The big man shrugged. “There are only a hundred of the Horse in the city. They’ll be in the thick of it every day until we get there. They may all be dead already.”
“He is tough, though,” Skorpios persisted.
“We are all tough, boy,” Justinos muttered, stretching out and closing his eyes.
“I want to go home, Justinos. I’m sick of all this.”
Justinos sighed and then sat up, adding more sticks to the blaze. “We are going home,” he said.
“I mean my home. Far away from war.”
Justinos smiled grimly. “Far away from war? There is nowhere on the Great Green that is far away from war.”
Skorpios stared at his friend. “It must end one day, surely.”
“This war? Of course. Then there’ll be another, and another. Best not to dwell on it. The land is quiet here, and we are safe for at least this night. That is good enough for me.”
“Not for me. I dread tomorrow.”
“Why? Nothing will happen tomorrow. We’ll just carry on riding north, watching for ambush. Hektor will stop beneath Gargaron, as he always does, to sacrifice to Father Zeus. What’s special about tomorrow?”
“Nothing. I don’t know.”
“Then what is there to dread? Listen to me, boy; now is all there is. Yesterday is gone. Nothing we can do about it. Tomorrow is a mystery. Nothing we can do about that, either, until we get there. Let Hektor and the generals worry about tomorrow. That’s their job.”
“And Banokles,” Skorpios pointed out.
Justinos chuckled. “Yes, and Banokles, I suppose. I’d feel sorry for the man, but anyone with the balls to marry Big Red should be able to cope with being a general.”
“Why would anyone marry a whore?” Skorpios asked.
“Now, that is just plain stupid,” Justinos snapped. “What does being a whore have to do with anything?”
“Would you marry a whore?”
“Why not? If I loved her and if she could give me sons.”
Skorpios looked at him in disbelief. “But they are ungodly and impure.”