“Then the wager stands and you win five Ithakan ships.”
The young warrior tied his braided blond hair back at his neck, kicked off his sandals, and ran at the wall, leaping lightly onto the first high stone. Then, finding easy hand-and footholds, he swiftly climbed to the point where the wall became vertical. There he paused, looking up. He found a handhold to his right and, stretching, just managed to catch the tips of his fingers to it. He moved his feet up carefully one at a time, then looked for a new handhold to the left. There wasn’t one. The top of the huge stone he was clinging to was far above his searching hand.
Seeing his predicament, the Ithakans began jeering, but Odysseus hushed them. He glanced at the top of the wall. He could not see sentries in the darkness but knew they were there.
Patroklos carefully moved his right foot up to a narrow crack in the stone. He wriggled his bare toes as far as he could into the poor foothold. He glanced up again to check where he was going. Then, taking a deep breath, he leaped for the top of the stone. He just made it, clinging with his fingertips. His right foot slipped, but he managed to get his right hand to the top of the stone and held on, scrabbling for a foothold.
But the sound had alerted the sentries. Odysseus saw a soldier peer over the battlements high above and pull back quickly, shouting to his fellows. An archer leaned over with his bow, an arrow to the string. Patroklos was an easy target.
Then, from his right, Odysseus saw a flash of movement. In a heartbeat Achilles had drawn a dagger and thrown it at the bowman high above them. Odysseus saw it flash through the air, turning over and over in the moonlight, and thunk into the dark shape of the bowman’s head. It was an impossible feat: so small a target, at such a height, and in starlight.
Achilles dashed forward. “Get down, Patroklos, now!”
His shield bearer quickly climbed down the wall, jumping down the last section, and the two ran back to the Myrmidons who were covering their retreat, shooting arrows up at the gathering Trojan bowmen. Patroklos was laughing when they reached the waiting Odysseus.
“Well, old king,” he said. “What of our wager now?”
“You did not reach the top of the wall.”
“I was stopped by enemy action.”
“Enemy action was not taken into account. It was a flawed wager.”
Patroklos shrugged amiably, and they all returned to the palace. But word had reached Agamemnon of the young warrior’s climb, and the next day the Battle King had come up with the doomed plan to scale the walls and take the Scaean Gate.
Odysseus smiled to himself as he walked back through the sunlit town two days later. He liked Patroklos. Everyone did. He was always cheerful, often playing the fool to amuse his king, and he was as brave as a lion. Strange, Odysseus thought, that the fact that Patroklos clearly liked Achilles made the Thessalian king, often brooding and uncommunicative, more well liked among his troops.
Patroklos provided some entertainment through the long days; that was much needed by Odysseus, who spent as little time as possible with Agamemnon and the western kings. Quarrels always broke out among them. Nestor and Idomeneos seldom spoke after Sharptooth suddenly had withdrawn his archers from the field one day, leaving Nestor’s troops without cover as they attacked one of the lower town’s palaces. Sharptooth avoided Odysseus, for the Ithakan king never failed to remind him that he owed Odysseus his gold and silver breastplate, wagered on Banokles’ fistfight long ago at Apollo’s Bow. And Agamemnon and Achilles now loathed each other and were constantly at war over something, even falling out over the ownership of a female slave, the daughter of a priest. Odysseus knew it would suit Agamemnon well if Achilles were to die at Troy. When they returned at last to their homelands, he would not want such a strong king as a neighbor and potential enemy.
As he walked through the lower town, the Ugly King looked around with sadness. There were few palaces in this part of Troy. Here had been the homes of craftspeople—dyers, potters, textile workers—and many of the servants to the great houses of the mighty. Before the war there had been children running through the streets and alleyways, colorful marketplaces in every square, traders making deals, arguing and laughing, often fighting. Now all was desolation, and the stink of death was everywhere. Bodies had been cleared from the streets, but the Trojan families that had been killed in their homes were still there, the corpses corrupting in the warmth of early summer.
In the distance he could hear the words of a funeral chant: “Hear our words, O Hades, Lord of the Deepest Dark.” Dead warriors of the western armies went to the funeral pyre after an honorable ritual. The families killed by them were left to rot.
Deep in thought, Odysseus arrived at the hospital. It once had been the Ilean barracks, then a hospital for the Trojan wounded, who had been slaughtered when the lower town had been captured. Now it held the injured and dying soldiers of Agamemnon’s armies. Odysseus hesitated before going in. He planned to visit his wounded men but did not relish the duty. Pausing before the doorway, he met the young healer Xander coming out. The boy looked tired beyond words, his tunic covered in blood, both dried and fresh. There were even blood specks among the freckles on his face.
“Odysseus!” the boy cried, his features lighting up. “Are you here to see your men? You are the only king to visit his wounded troops, apart from Achilles.”
“How is Thibo? Is he dead yet?”
“No, he has left here. He will be back in action in days. He is very tough.”
“You are the toughest among us, lad,” Odysseus said, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Dealing with the stench and the screams of the dying every day, the horrors of gangrene and amputations. Even the bravest soldiers avoid this place. I confess I would rather be anywhere else.”
The boy nodded sadly. “The enemy—I mean, your armies brought few surgeons and healers. They rely on whores and camp followers to help the wounded. The women have stronger stomachs than the soldiers, but they have no skill. White-Eye works all day and all night. I fear for him. Did you know Machaon died?” Xander seemed dazed with exhaustion, and his thoughts were wandering. “I’m told he died at noon on the day your troops took the Scamander. But he spoke to me, I heard him, late that day, in the mist. He tried to get me to leave. But I was too slow. I should have returned to the city while I still could. I let him down.”
He gazed at Odysseus, his eyes brimming with tears. The king pushed him gently down onto a wooden bench outside the makeshift hospital.
“You are tired, lad, tired beyond reason. When did you last sleep?”
The boy shook his head dumbly. He did not know.
“I will see to it that you get more help. Is my man Leukon here?”
Xander nodded, seeming too tired to speak.
“Listen to me, lad,” Odysseus urged. “When the city falls, you must leave here straightaway. Leave this place and get down to the Bay of Herakles as quickly as you can. There are always Kypriot ships there, bringing supplies. Board one of them and tell the master I sent you.”
But Xander was shaking his head. “No, Odysseus, I cannot. If the city falls, I must try to help my friends. Zeotos is still at the House of Serpents, and other healers. And there is the lady Andromache and her son. She is my friend. I am a Trojan now, even if I am aiding your warriors.”
Suddenly angry, Odysseus cursed and grabbed the young healer by the front of his tunic. “Listen to me, lad,” he rasped, “and listen to me well. I have seen cities fall, too many to count over the years. Soldiers become animals at such times. Every civilian, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered when the gates open. None will escape. If you are there, they will kill you, maybe even someone you helped, whose life you saved. You will be no more to them than a lamb among the wolves.”