“Good. I wonder if they’ve still got some of that drink of theirs, that Mountain Fire.”
“The drink you said tastes like old sandals left to stew all winter, then set ablaze?”
“Yes, it was good. I wonder if they’ve got any left.”
Kalliades stopped suddenly, and Banokles walked on a few paces before coming back to him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Banokles, have you thought what we should do, you and I, if we survive this?”
His friend shrugged. “Go somewhere else, I suppose. We can’t go back west anymore. We’ll go north with Hillas and the Thrakians, maybe, help them get their land back. Why?”
Kalliades took a deep breath. “I believe I will give up the sword,” he told his friend.
“The sword of Argurios? Can I have it?”
“No, I mean I will give up soldiering.”
“You can’t,” Banokles said, frowning. “We’re sword brothers. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Do you remember when we first came here to Troy?”
Banokles grinned. “That was quite a scrap, wasn’t it? One of the best.”
“We nearly died that day,” Kalliades reminded him. “A lot of our friends did die, including Eruthros, the man you say you wanted for a sword brother.” Banokles shrugged, and Kalliades went on. “We’ve been through a lot since then, haven’t we?”
His friend nodded.
“Then I thought the world was divided into lions and sheep. We were the lions, and our strength gave us power over the sheep.” Kalliades shook his head. “I don’t feel like that now. Everything is more complicated. But I have come to the conclusion, my friend, that the evils of the world are caused by men like you and me.”
“We didn’t start this war.” Banokles looked baffled.
“I could argue with that. Or I could argue that Alektruon started it. Or Helikaon. But that’s not the point. Look at all those armies out there beyond the walls. Some of them have left. But not because they have given up war but because there are no battles to be had here, no plunder to be won. They have gone elsewhere to kill and maim. Men like you and me, selling their swords for death or glory or to plunder a kingdom.”
“Then what will you do? Become a priest?” Banokles asked scornfully.
“I don’t know,” Kalliades admitted sadly. “But I know you understand me, Banokles. Not long ago you were talking about leaving the army and becoming a farmer.”
“That was then,” Banokles said shortly, his face darkening. He turned his back and started to walk on. Since their conversation long before on the Scamander battlefield, Banokles had not spoken of Red and his short marriage. If Kalliades tried to bring the subject up, Banokles simply walked away from him.
They reached the Thrakian camp in silence. The tribesmen were camped under the west wall. In the evening it was one of the coolest places in the city, but in the heat of the day the Thrakians erected brightly colored canopies to protect them from the ferocious sun.
Young Periklos, son of the dead King Rhesos and rightful heir to the lost land of Thraki, had abandoned the life of the palaces and was living with his people. The boy was fourteen and old beyond his years. He chose to dress in the traditional costume of the Kikones, and Kalliades had no doubt that when he went to battle, for however brief a time that would be, he would paint his face like his men.
There were only ten of the Thrakians still unwounded. Another five were in the healing houses, but only two of those were expected to live. The rest of the fifty riders had died in the retreat from the river and the defense of the lower town. Looking around the small camp, Kalliades wondered how their leader felt about his sudden decision at Dardanos to bring his men to Troy.
“Welcome to our camp, friends,” said Hillas, Lord of the Western Mountain, standing up to greet them. “We have a little water to offer you, and some bread.”
Kalliades shook his head. Then, as if he had heard his thoughts, Hillas told him, “I would not have chosen to end my days in a foreign city, but I do not regret a day of it. We have a saying in my country, ‘Old age is not as honorable as death, but most people seek it.’ Kikones warriors do not seek old age. All my sons are dead. If we die with honor, it does not matter which land we die in.” He spit on the ground.
“I have come to ask a favor of you, Hillas,” Kalliades said.
“Ask it.”
“You have fine bowmen among your countrymen. I would like to borrow one to demonstrate his skills.”
Hillas frowned. “I thought the Mykene despised archers. Why do you ask this?”
“The lady Andromache is teaching women to shoot.” At this there were shouts and guffaws of disbelieving laughter from the men in the camp. Banokles grinned with them.
Kalliades explained, “The princess is a fine archer, but she knows it instinctively and has no experience at teaching others. Also, many of the bows need adjusting for the strength of a woman. Perhaps one of your men…?”
Hillas laughed and shook his head, his braids shaking with merriment. “No, my friend. My men could teach these Trojan women many things, but not to make fools of themselves with bows and arrows.”
“I will help,” said the boy Periklos, walking over to stand alongside Kalliades. “The city of Troy and its people have given me sanctuary. The lady Andromache has been kind, taking me and my brother into her home when we first arrived. Our nurse Myrine has been given a place in the royal household, though she is old and infirm and needs caring for herself. If I can do anything to repay the people of the city, I will do it.”
He turned to the Thrakian tribesman. “Have you any objections, Hillas?”
The man shook his head. “No, my king. It is an honorable gesture. And you will be a better teacher than any of this rabble.” He grinned and gestured to his men.
At that moment they heard the sound of shouting from nearby. They heard running feet, then more shouts, screams, and the clash of metal.
Drawing their swords, Kalliades and Banokles ran as one toward the source of the sounds.
A crowd had gathered around one of Troy’s two wells. Three men were on the ground, two apparently dead and one nursing a broken arm. The six guards at the well all had swords in their hands and were facing the angry mob. An empty bucket lay on the ground, its precious water soaking into the earth.
“What’s going on?” Banokles demanded.
One of the guards told him. “The well is dry, General. These fools were fighting over the last bucket of water.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
AMBUSH
Far to the south of the city Skorpios lay on his belly on rocky ground at the crest of a ridge, gazing down on the long train of wagons stretching along the valley of the Scamander.
Skorpios smiled. In his years as a scout for the Trojan Horse he had never seen such a tempting, slow-moving target. He counted forty donkey wagons, followed by ten oxcarts. From time to time the donkeys were halted so that the slower-moving oxen could catch up. There were more than three hundred riders guarding the train, armed with spears and lances. But behind Skorpios, waiting in the woods for his report, were more than six hundred Trojan Horse.
Skorpios wondered what was in the oxcarts. Heavy armor, perhaps, for the Mykene infantry or copper ingots from Kypros. Or jugs of wine from Lesbos.
He rolled onto his back, and as he did so, his stomach gurgled. He was hungry, and it had been a long time since he had tasted wine. The last jugs of wine they had captured had been taken after their final attack on the convoys traveling between the Bay of Troy and the armies camped outside the city. Agamemnon had learned caution since then. Every convoy on that busy route now was surrounded by an army of outriders, heavily armored and bristling with spears and lances.