On top of the buildings all around the Scaean Gate and on the walls behind the invaders, bowmen were gathering. Arrows started to pepper the enemy troops from all sides, and Kalliades saw several go down, hit in neck, throat, or face.
Satisfied that the south battlements were well defended, Kalliades followed Banokles’ footsteps and ran around the wall and down the steps to make his way to the rear of the main barricade. There he found Polites conferring anxiously with General Lucan and Ipheus, the commander of the Eagles.
“Your Eagles are fine warriors,” Kalliades told Ipheus. “Would that we had a thousand of them.”
“Would that they followed orders,” Lucan growled. “Those three at the barricade died needlessly. Three warriors might have made a difference come the last days.”
“They were valiant men,” Ipheus said quietly.
“I’m not denying it,” the old general grunted. “But just as we have learned to conserve food and water and weapons, so we must learn to conserve valor. We have deep reserves of it, but it cannot be thrown away on suicidal adventures.”
Polites pointed out grimly, “We hoped the fires would spread and send the enemy fleeing. What next? How long will this barricade hold?”
Kalliades replied, “They have hundreds of men ready to attack it, but on a narrow front. There are thousands more outside the gate waiting to come in. If they keep throwing warriors at it, which they will, eventually they will break through. We can probably hold the barricade into the night, possibly through tomorrow. I cannot see it lasting longer.”
He glanced at Lucan, who nodded his agreement. At that moment Banokles arrived at a run. “We need more archers,” he demanded. “They’re packed like cattle in there. Good bowmen can pick them off like ticks off a dog.”
Kalliades admitted, “We are short of bowmen.” Then he reluctantly added, “The lady Andromache has been training the Women of the Horse to shoot. Some remain in the city. They might—”
“No!” Polites cut across him with unaccustomed anger. “When the enemy breaks through, those buildings will be cut off and the bowmen in them doomed. I will not put the women in danger.”
Kalliades thought that any women still in the city were doomed, anyway, but he responded, “Then I will call on the Thrakian leader Hillas. His archers are the finest in Troy.”
In front of them a burly warrior in Kretan armor was the first to cross the fire gully and clamber over the man-high barricade, killing a Trojan soldier with a massive ax blow to the head. He was cut down immediately, but two more Kretans followed close behind. One slipped and fell on the shifting timber and stone of the new barricade and was lanced in the side by a Trojan warrior. The other managed a wild sweep with his sword before he was stunned by a blow from a shield and then half beheaded.
Kalliades turned away to seek out the Thrakians and found the tribesmen waiting mere paces away. They had painted their faces for battle and were armed to the teeth, including the boy-king Periklos.
“This will not last long,” Hillas commented as he walked up, waving dismissively at the barricade. “When it falls, we will be waiting. A barricade of flesh and bone will be stronger than one of stone and timber.”
“We need more bowmen,” Kalliades told him. “On the killing ground the enemy forces are sitting targets for your shafts.”
Young Periklos stepped forward. “I and my archers will go where we are needed. Where do you want us?”
Kalliades was torn. If he placed the young king and his Thrakians on a building, they would be trapped when the enemy broke through. But if he put them on the wall, along which they could escape if necessary, there would be no cover from enemy arrows.
“Do not fear for my safety, Kalliades,” the young man urged, seeing him hesitate. “Put us where you need us. I will take the same risks as my men.”
“How many are you?”
“Just eight bowmen, plus Penthesileia.”
Only then did Kalliades realize that one of the archers, standing slightly apart from the men, was the stern-faced woman he had seen at Andromache’s first training session. She was wearing a short leather cuirass over her white ankle-length tunic, and a Phrygian bow was slung from one shoulder. In one hand she held two quivers.
“Penthesileia is one of Andromache’s handmaidens. She has a wondrous natural skill with a bow,” young Periklos explained, flushing slightly. “She will be a valuable warrior.”
Kalliades wondered what the other Thrakians thought of the newcomer. He asked the woman, “Why did you not leave the city while you had the chance?”
“My father, Ursos, gave his life for Troy,” the woman told him. Her voice was husky, and he saw she had piercing green eyes under heavy brows. “I can do no less.”
Kalliades was reminded suddenly of Piria. Yes, he thought, she would have been here with her bow. He told Periklos, “Go around to the wall to the east of the gate. If you stand well back, you will have some protection from enemy arrows.”
The battle for the barricade went on all day and long after sunset. Fortunately for the beleaguered Trojan defenders, the night was moonless and starless. Fighting continued by torchlight for a while, but at last the enemy troops were ordered back to the gate. The Trojans immediately set about rebuilding the defenses that had been pulled down during the day.
When they stood down for the night, Kalliades and Banokles walked to the temple of Athene, where food and water were being handed out. They waited in line in the darkness. Around them exhausted men lay sprawled asleep on the ground. Others sat in small groups, too tired for conversation, staring with deadened eyes.
“Weevil bread and a sip of water,” Banokles snorted, dragging off his helm and scratching his sweat-soaked blond hair. “A man can’t fight all day on that.”
“If Agamemnon had held his troops back for another ten days, we wouldn’t even have had weevil bread to fight on.”
“That was a good ploy, though, wasn’t it? The Trojan Horse. Who wouldn’t open the gates for them, riding like that?” Banokles shook his head in admiration.
“I expect Odysseus had a hand in it,” Kalliades replied. “He has a cunning mind.”
“Do you sometimes forget who you’re fighting for?” Banokles asked suddenly.
Kalliades frowned. “No, but I know what you mean. We see Mykene warriors coming over the barricade to be cut down and know some of them were our comrades. If our fate had been slightly different, we’d be the ones on the other side.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Banokles shook his head. “I mean, what are we fighting for? Troy? There’s nothing left of it. The lower town is wrecked, and most of the city. Agamemnon King wants Priam’s treasury, they say, but Polites tells us there’s nothing left in it. So are we fighting to save the king? He doesn’t even know who he is anymore.”
He scratched his head again. “It doesn’t matter, not really. We’re warriors, you and I, and we’ve picked our side, and we’ll go on fighting until we win or we’re killed. I just wondered…” He trailed off.
Kalliades thought about it, standing there in the line for food. They had fled Mykene lands to escape Agamemnon’s wrath, and since then they had taken the line of least resistance. They had joined Odysseus on his way to Troy because he had offered them a way off the pirate island. By the fickle will of the gods they had been there to rescue Andromache when she had been attacked by assassins. That had won them a place in Hektor’s Trojan Horse. Kalliades smiled to himself. And Banokles’ baffling success as a leader of men had rescued them from the jaws of defeat at Carpea, at Dardanos, and outside the walls of Troy.