A troop of Phrygian archers came running up the stone steps, prepared to target the bowmen on the ground. But tall Kalliades, the general’s aide, stopped them with a shout. “Don’t shoot! They are too far away for accuracy. Let them keep shooting at us. We may need their arrows later.”
Kalliades glanced at Polites, who nodded his agreement. “Yes, we need their arrows. And we need other missiles. They are an open target, all those enemy soldiers milling down below us.”
Banokles strolled up to them, wiping blood off one of his swords on a piece of cloth. “That was fun,” he commented.
He leaned over the battlements, then jumped back as an arrow glanced off his helm. “Boiling oil, that’s what we need,” he said, echoing Polites’ words. “Or water. That’ll give them something to think about.”
“There is little oil and no spare water in the city,” Polites answered. “We cannot use the water we might need to drink come the end of summer.” The men looked at each other, all no doubt thinking the same thing: Will we still be here come summer’s end?
Khalkeus stepped forward. “Sand,” he said. The three men looked at him. “Sand is what we need. Ordinary sand from the beach. Plenty of it. Is there any inside the city?”
Polites frowned. “Sand is used in the royal gardens. There are piles of it there. It is mixed with soil for plants which need drainage.” He saw Kalliades’ and Banokles’ expressions of surprise and smiled slightly. “As has been said already today, I am not a military man. But I do know about plants.”
He turned to Khalkeus. “You can have all you want, smith, but what do you want it for?”
At that moment a powerful Mykene warrior levered himself over the wall beside them. As he cleared the battlements, Kalliades leaped toward him and skewered his heart with a sword thrust. The man slumped across the wall, his sword clattering to the stone floor. Kalliades and Banokles grabbed an arm each and threw him back over. Khalkeus peered down and saw the warrior’s leg catch on the ladder he had climbed and bring it down, along with four men climbing behind him.
“They’re just wasting their men,” Banokles snorted. “We can go on doing this all day. It makes no sense.”
“You’re right,” Polites replied, his face creased with worry. “It makes no sense. Agamemnon is an intelligent man.” He looked to Kalliades, his face suddenly clearing. “It is a diversion!”
Kalliades ran for the steps. “If they attack the east and west walls, they will expect us to pull our troops away from the south!”
“The Scaean Gate!” Polites shouted, following him. To Banokles he yelled, “Bring some men!”
Instead of pursuing them down the stone steps, Khalkeus trotted hurriedly along the top of the western wall, then along the south wall as far as the Great Tower of Ilion. Below him, behind the Scaean Gate, there was a furious battle going on. The guards, defending the gate desperately against a group of dark-garbed warriors, were being forced back. As he watched, the last of the guards was brought down and the attackers sprang for the great oak locking bar. It took six men to lift the bar, Khalkeus knew, but there were eight men, and they had just laid their hands on it when Kalliades and Banokles arrived at a run.
Banokles charged into them with a roar, half beheading one and slashing a second across the face. The locking bar had cleared its support at one end. There was a tremendous crash from outside, and the gate shifted inward slightly under the blow. Kalliades leaped onto the end of the bar and threw his weight on it, helped by soldiers who had arrived behind him. The huge oak bar locked back into place just as a second blow hit it from the outside.
On the wall above them, Khalkeus hurried to the other side and looked down. Outside the gate the massive trunk of an oak tree was being wielded as a battering ram by fifty or more men. Behind them warriors waited, armed and armored. The battering ram powered forward once again, but the great gate barely shuddered. It was firmly locked.
As the bronzesmith watched, one of the waiting warriors turned his gaze up toward him, and Khalkeus saw it was the king of Ithaka. Their eyes locked, and Khalkeus slowly shook his head. Odysseus sheathed his sword, then turned and walked away from the gate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
KINGS AT WAR
Odysseus tore off his helm angrily as he stomped through the streets of the ruined lower town. Just as he had predicted, the Trojans had seen through the ploy quickly. Agamemnon’s diversionary tactic had not been a bad idea, he admitted to himself. If it had worked, it might have been worth sacrificing the hundreds of men injured and killed in the attack on the walls. But it had not worked, and they had wasted brave soldiers and, more important, lost eight agents inside the city. Those of the eight who survived would be interrogated, but they knew nothing that would help the Trojans. The Ithakan king had no idea how many agents Agamemnon had infiltrated into the city, but he was certain there would be no more now. Hektor or whoever commanded in Troy certainly would seal the last gates now to stop more refugees—and Mykene spies—from getting in.
Odysseus always had predicted that sooner or later there would be a bid by the attackers to scale the great walls. He thought back to two nights previously. He and some of his crew from the Bloodhawk were camped in the courtyard of a palace once owned by Antiphones, now the home of Achilles’ Myrmidons. There had been no fighting that day, but fresh deliveries of wine had arrived, and the mood was festive.
Achilles’ shield bearer Patroklos, standing with a goblet of wine in one hand and a hunk of roasted sheep in the other, was arguing for an attempt on the walls.
“Look at them,” Patroklos argued, swaying a little as he spoke, waving his goblet toward the south walls. “A child could climb them. Plenty of handholds between the stones.” He swigged wine and swallowed.
“We wait for a dark night; then the Myrmidons will be over the west wall before the Trojans see us coming. Fight our way to the Scaean Gate, and the city is ours. What do you say, Odysseus?”
“I say my climbing days are over, boy. And the west wall is a poor choice. Because everyone knows it is the lowest, the weak link in the chain of walls, it is more heavily defended than the others.”
“Which would be your choice, Odysseus?” asked Achilles, who was lying on his back, staring at the stars.
“I would try the north wall.”
Patroklos snorted with derision. “A vertical cliff face with sheer walls above? I wager no one could climb that.”
“I wager,” Odysseus replied, “that you couldn’t climb the west wall.”
Patroklos never could resist a wager, as the Ugly King knew well. He and Odysseus and Achilles, followed by a happy wine-soaked band of Myrmidons and Ithakans, left the palace and made their way around to the west wall. Framed by the starlit sky, the walls soared high above them.
“What will you wager, old king?” Patroklos asked.
“Five of my ships against Achilles’ breastplate.”
Achilles raised his eyebrows. “Why my breastplate?” he queried.
“Because it is well known that Patroklos has not a copper ring to his name and always reneges on his wagers. You, on the other hand, are a man of honor and will pay your friend’s debts, as you always do.”
Patroklos grinned, uncaring, and Achilles shrugged. “So be it,” he said. “What if Patroklos climbs the wall and is killed when he reaches the top?”