“I will let you have what we can spare. But we must not leave our bowmen short.”
Deep in thought, Kalliades left the palace and strolled back through the quiet city to the east wall. He followed it along to the East Tower, where he climbed the steps to the battlements. Men of the Scamandrian regiment were sitting around, talking quietly, eating, playing games of chance. Many were fast sleep on the hard stones, as only veteran soldiers could sleep in the most uncomfortable conditions.
Kalliades looked for Banokles, but there was no sign of his friend, so he eased himself down, back against the battlements, legs outstretched. He sighed and closed his eyes gratefully. He thought about Andromache’s words about bowmen. It was not true, although there was nothing to be gained by arguing with the woman. If he were unarmed and facing armed men, he would rely on his strength and his skills as a fighter rather than on a flimsy bow. His distrust of bowmen was deeply ingrained. The warriors of Mykene despised archers, slingers, or anyone who fought from a distance. True warriors armed themselves with sword or dagger, spear or lance, facing their enemies eye to eye. He remembered Kolanos killing the great Argurios with a coward’s arrow, and even after all this time, the gorge rose in his throat at the thought. He had asked Father Zeus to curse Kolanos for that act. He smiled grimly, recalling Kolanos’ agonized death.
It did no harm giving serving women bows to play with, he thought. It would keep them occupied and take their minds off their fate. And Andromache had been right about one thing: It took only a single arrow to kill a king.
Kalliades gradually became conscious that someone was looking at him and opened his eyes. A young soldier with floppy flaxen hair was standing in front of him.
“Yes, soldier?” he said, closing his eyes again.
“Lord, General,” the lad stammered.
“I am not a lord, and I am not a general. I am a simple soldier. Speak up.”
“You wanted to see me,” the youngster said. Kalliades opened his eyes. The young soldier was nodding vehemently as if confirming his own words.
“I did? Why, who are you?”
“I am Boros, sir. Boros the Rhodian they call me.”
Daylight dawned. Kalliades grinned. “You are the soldier with the tower shield!”
“Yes, I am, sir, although I lost it in the retreat from the river.” Boros hung his head. “My brother gave it to me. I was sorry to lose it. It was a good shield.”
“Sit down, lad. You saved my life. I only wanted to thank you. I would not have recognized you.”
The soldier blushed and sat down nervously beside Kalliades. “I was told you were looking for me. I didn’t know why. I thought I had done something wrong.”
Kalliades laughed. “But that was long ago, in the spring. You managed to avoid me for all this time?”
Boros smiled nervously, then rubbed at his left eye. “I was injured. I broke a leg and was in the house of healing. It took a long time to knit.” He rubbed at his eye again.
“Is something wrong with your eye, Boros?”
“No, nothing. I had a blow to the head once. It aches sometimes, that’s all.”
“I know what you mean,” Kalliades replied. “I suffered this sword cut to my face… a long time ago. My face still hurts in cold weather or when I’m tired.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, then Boros asked, “I have never been in a siege, sir. Will they slaughter everyone if they break in?”
Kalliades nodded. “They will, lad. Pent-up frustration and blood lust make men do truly terrible things. They will kill the soldiers, anyone in armor, cleanly. That is the Mykene way. But the people of the city, the refugees, men, women, and children, face a ghastly fate.”
“But the walls cannot be taken,” Boros argued. “Everyone says so. They have not even tried to attack since we dropped the burning sand on them. Many of our men say we should seal up the last gate, the Scaean Gate, then wait them out.”
He added more confidently, “The Scaean Gate’s our weak point; that’s for certain.”
Kalliades nodded. “What you say is true, soldier. But our generals believe the enemy will lose heart as the siege goes on. Already one mercenary army has left, and others will go, too. Most of them are not here for honor and glory; they are here because they smell plunder. And the plunder smells less sweet if you are camped in a ruined town with little food and no women to entertain you. We know the Mykene will stay come what may, and Sharptooth’s Kretans, and the Myrmidons of Achilles. But when they are the only armies remaining outside the walls, we will throw open the Scaean Gate and sally forth and take them on. Then, with Ares to guide our swords, the men of Troy will prevail.”
A cheer arose around him, and he realized he had spoken loudly and the Trojan soldiers had been listening. It was a ragged cheer and it faded quickly away, but talk of victory raised the men’s spirits. Kalliades sighed. He did not believe his own words, but some soldiers might sleep more soundly that night because of them.
The following morning Kalliades made his way to the royal gardens, where Andromache was attempting to teach a group of nervous women how to shoot.
The serving women were faring badly with their bows. Most of them were too awed by Andromache’s presence to pay enough attention to what she was telling them. Many of the bows were strung too tightly for women to draw. He could see that the princess quickly was becoming exasperated, and he wondered if she was regretting her idea already.
He heard her say to a slender dark-haired girl, “Listen to what I say, Anio. Breathe out, and when all the breath has left your body, sight the arrow, then release.” The black-shafted arrow missed its target, but only by a handbreadth, and Anio smiled as Andromache praised her.
The only woman who showed real promise stood on her own at the end of the line. She was tall, no beauty, Kalliades thought, with a strong chin, heavy brows, and long dark hair in a thick plait down her back. She was strong, though, and had mastered the pull of her bow, and she sent arrow after arrow at the target, determined to learn the skill. He wondered who she was, then heard Andromache call her Penthesileia.
Kalliades was there only a short while before he realized he was not helping. The presence of a veteran warrior was making the women more self-conscious. They kept glancing at him anxiously and murmuring to one another. He left the gardens swiftly, to find Banokles waiting outside, leaning against a wall.
“I couldn’t watch,” his friend said, shaking his head. “They’re all useless.”
“Do you remember the first day you picked up a bow?” Kalliades retorted, finding himself defending Andromache’s ambitions. “You were no better then than they are.”
“I’m no better now,” Banokles admitted. “Neither are you.”
Kalliades set off toward the west of the city, with Banokles following. The big warrior went on. “The men told me you were talking last night about riding out and taking them all on. Agamemnon’s armies, I mean.”
Kalliades shook his head and said, “I was saying that if a few more of the armies give up and go home, we might sally out and take the battle to them. But they still have at least five warriors to every one of ours. And they’re stronger. They have water to spare.”
“Well, I was going to say it’s a stupid plan,” Banokles replied. “I’d go along with it, though. I’m sick of this waiting around. Where are we going?” the big man asked, looking about him.
Kalliades was leading the way through the maze of refugee shanties. Women and children sat dull-eyed in the doorways of the shacks, watching the two warriors pass. Babies cried pitifully, but otherwise there was silence in the city of refugees.
“To the Thrakian camp,” he replied. “I wish to speak to Hillas.”