Hektor reluctantly had called off the attacks. Instead he targeted the troops Agamemnon sent into the woods and valleys of the Ida foothills to hunt down the Trojan Horse. Hektor’s horsemen knew the heavily wooded country far better than the invading forces did, and they led the enemy on many a hazardous chase, luring them into blind gullies to be attacked and killed or fading away through hidden passes when the Trojans seemed to be trapped. Those pursuits always ended in death for the enemy. As a result, Agamemnon’s ally kings had refused to send their forces into the woods of Mount Ida even to cut down the oak trees that furnished them with timber and firewood.
But the summer was passing, and now Hektor’s own supplies were running low. These were the first wagons they had seen for thirty days and the first ever this far south.
Skorpios rolled back onto his stomach and peered over the ridge again. The train was almost level with him now. Its leader was a tall rider in black helm and breastplate. Skorpios tried to remember what Mestares, Hektor’s right-hand-man, had instructed them about enemy armor. Achilles always wore black armor—everyone knew that—but Skorpios doubted that Achilles the Slayer was leading a lowly supply convoy. Some of his Myrmidons, his bodyguards, also wore black in tribute to their leader, although most wore the ordinary armor of Thessaly. The only other warrior who always wore black was Meriones, Odysseus’ friend and an aide to the king of Kretos. Skorpios could see no Kretan armor below him.
He heard scuffling on the rocks behind him, and Justinos scrambled up alongside. “Well, lad? Who do you think they are?” the big man asked, looking cautiously over the ridge.
“I can’t tell. Fifty wagons, though.”
“Hmm,” Justinos said. “Maybe some foreign merchant thought he could make a killing sending supplies to Agamemnon’s forces. Thought it was worth the risk. They must have beached their ships in a cove somewhere to the south.”
Skorpios yawned. They had camped far to the south that night and had ridden since dawn. Hektor kept them always on the move, every night a new camp. The days were long and hard, the nights short. Skorpios had had nothing to eat since dawn on the previous day.
“I’m hungry,” he complained, not for the first time. “I’m with Banokles on this. You can’t do battle on an empty stomach.”
“Then if Banokles still lives, he’ll be moaning even more loudly than you, lad. But those wagons could mean a fine feast for us tonight. It would be pleasant to eat something other than horse meat.”
They crawled away from the ridge and climbed down the rocky slope to where their mounts were tethered. It was a short ride back to the glade where Hektor and the Trojan Horse were waiting. Some of the riders mounted their horses as soon as they spotted the scouts, but Hektor remained seated by a campfire, burnishing the gold and silver of his great breastplate.
“Can you tell what they’re carrying?” he asked them as they slid off their mounts.
Justinos shook his head. “The wagons are all tightly covered with canvas. But there’s about fifty of them. And they’re heavy.”
“And their guard?”
“A good three hundred. Their leader is all in black.”
Hektor raised his eyebrows. “Could it be Achilles?”
Justinos shook his head. “I have never seen him, but they say he is a big man, as big as you, lord.”
Hektor nodded. “Then it is not Achilles,” Justinos told him. “This warrior is tall but slender.”
Hektor sat for a while, deep in thought, until one of the riders asked him, “Do you fear a trap, Hektor?”
“Maybe,” he replied. “If I were to set an ambush, it would be with a large slow-moving convoy. But it is tempting. Our scouts have discovered no enemy forces lying in wait. There are no troops south of us; we can be sure of that.”
Justinos added, “And we have scouted north to within sight of Troy.”
Hektor made his decision. He stood up. “Then let’s kill them all,” he said grimly.
The riders trotted their mounts back up to the ridge. Skorpios felt the familiar hot fear flaring in his belly as he thought of the battle ahead. There were around six hundred horsemen left in this main force, plus the two smaller groups Hektor had deployed to the country north and east of Troy. They easily outnumbered the riders guarding the wagons, yet Skorpios felt sick with apprehension. His body was covered with cold sweat, and his head ached. He knew it would pass when the battle was under way. It always did.
Reaching the crest of the ridge, he saw Hektor dig his heels into his mount and gallop down the gentle slope toward the river, his riders streaming after him. The supply train was on the other side of the Scamander, but the river was just a trickle now. The six hundred riders galloped across it, a great dust cloud swirling around them.
Skorpios lay low on his mount’s neck and peered through the dust ahead of them. He saw the wagons slow to a halt. The riders guarding them were heavily armed with spears and lances as well as swords. They stood their ground, staying by the wagons and turning to face the charge rather than peeling off to meet the advancing cavalry. He saw Hektor’s sword raised high and swirling in a circle above his head. Surround them!
Skorpios, riding side by side with Justinos, deflected a flying spear with his shield and galloped his mount around to the rear of the donkey train. He singled out an enemy rider and charged him. The man launched his spear as Skorpios bore down on him, but it was poorly aimed, and the Trojan dodged it easily and plunged his sword into the man’s throat. He blocked a vicious sword cut to the head by another enemy rider and hacked at the man’s arm, half severing it. He spun around just in time to see a lance plunging toward him and got his shield in front of it, but the power of the blow unhorsed him, and he hit the ground hard.
Many of the donkeys started panicking and trying to get away from the melee, pulling the wagons in every direction. Skorpios rolled out of the way as a heavy wagon wheel rumbled past him. Then he scrambled up, looking for his horse.
At that moment everything changed. The canvas on the wagon in front of him was ripped open from the inside by sharp knives, and twenty or more armed warriors came surging out. From wagons all along the line soldiers were leaping, armed with swords.
It was a trap!
Two Mykene soldiers in leather breastplates jumped down from the wagon and ran at him with raised swords. Skorpios deflected one sword cut off the edge of his shield and parried the other with his own weapon. A rider appeared out of the dust cloud. It was Justinos. He hacked down one of the Mykene with a killing cut to the back of his neck. Skorpios dodged another sword thrust from the first Mykene. He ducked and plunged his sword into the man’s groin.
His eyes stinging from the dust and grit in the air, Skorpios looked around again for a horse. An enemy rider backed toward him out of the dust cloud, defending himself against a furious attack from a Trojan horseman. He did not see Skorpios, who grabbed his ankle and dragged him from his mount. Skorpios plunged his sword into the man’s face and leaped onto the horse. He turned the beast and galloped toward the front of the donkey train, where he could see the tall warrior in black armor.
But Hektor got there first. He, too, had been unhorsed, but he made no attempt to find a mount. He ran with a snarl toward the leader in black, ducked to pick up a spear, and hurled it at him with ferocious strength. The rider got his shield in the way, but the spear shattered it and punched into his armor, throwing him from his horse.
Despite the power of the blow, the warrior rolled and stood up, his helm falling to the ground. He was blond and handsome, his hair in long braids.
“Patroklos!” Hektor whispered.
Patroklos smiled and launched a vicious sword attack. The two were well matched in skill, but Hektor was the bigger man and the stronger. He knew that, but he also knew that Patroklos might have the best of the speed.