Shield of Thunder (43 page)

“Banokles is my friend,” he said, hearing just how defensive those words were.

She shook her head, dismissing even that small attempt to stand his ground. “My Banokles is not a thinker or he would have understood you better. He is a friend to you, yes, but in your mind, whether you know it or not, he is no more than a big hound whose adoration allows you to deceive yourself, to let you believe you are like other people. He saved your life, Kalliades, and you have dragged him into every dangerous folly. Friends do not do that. The day you finally decide to die, do not allow Banokles to be beside you.”

She had walked away then, but he had called out to her. “I am sorry that you despise me, Red.”

“If I despise you,” she had told him, sadness in her voice, “it is only that I despise myself. We are so alike, Kalliades. Closed off from life, no friends, no loved ones. That is why we need Banokles. He
is
life, rich and raw, in all its glory. No subtlety, no guile. He is the fire we gather around, and his light pushes back the shadows we fear.” She had fallen silent for a moment. Then she had looked at him.

“Think of a childhood memory,” she said.

He blinked as an image flared to life.

“What was it?” she asked him.

“I was a child, hiding from raiders in a flax field.”

“The day your sister died?”

“Yes.”

She sighed. “And that is your tragedy, Kalliades. You never came out of that flax field. You are still there, small and frightened and hiding from the world.”

High in the rocks Kalliades pushed thoughts of Red from his mind. The men had lit cookfires, and he was about to stroll down and eat with them, when he saw riders in the distance.

At first they were little more than specks, but as they came closer, he recognized the glint of Trojan armor.

On the far side of the pass he saw that his archers had also spotted the group and were notching arrows to their bows. Calling out to them not to shoot, he climbed down and walked out to meet the small group.

Banokles came riding up toward him, then lifted his leg and jumped clear of the weary gray horse he was riding. “Good to see you,” he said. “We’ve rescued the sons of Rhesos, and now you can take charge. I’m sick of command.” He gazed around. “Where’s the army?”

“Heading for Carpea. I am in charge of the rear guard.”

“You’ve not enough men. We caught sight of the Idonoi horde. They’re close. Thousands of the cowsons.”

“We only have to hold them for two days.”

“Ah, well, I expect we can do that.”

“There is no ‘we,’ Banokles. This is my duty. You must take the sons of Rhesos on to Carpea. Hektor will be glad to see them.”

Banokles pulled off his helm and scratched his short blond hair. “You are not thinking clearly, Kalliades. You’ll need me and my boys here. These Thrakian sheep shaggers will probably run at the first sight of a painted face.”

“No, they won’t.” Kalliades sighed and thought back to his conversation with Red. “Listen to me,” he said. “This is your troop. Ursos told Hektor he had placed you in command. So I am now ordering you to ride on with them. I’ll see you at Carpea or over in Dardania if you have already crossed the Hellespont.”

“Have you forgotten we are sword brothers?”

Kalliades ignored the question. “Stay wary as you head east. There are other, smaller passes through the mountains, and there may be enemy riders out there.”

“I take it you won’t object if we rest the horses for a while,” Banokles said coldly. “The climb has taken it out of them.”

“Of course. Get yourself some food, too.”

Without another word Banokles led his horse up the pass. Kalliades watched his riders follow him.

It was close to midday when they rode away. Banokles did not say goodbye or even look back. Kalliades watched as they cleared the crest of the pass. “Farewell, Banokles, my friend,” he whispered.

“I see them!” an archer shouted, pointing down the pass. Kalliades drew his sword and called his infantrymen to him. Far below he saw sunlight glinting from thousands of spears and helms.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

THE RELUCTANT GENERAL

Banokles was still angry as he led his small troop over the crest of the pass and down toward the wide flatlands below. After all they had been through together, why would Kalliades have treated him so curtly? It was hurtful, and it confused him.

The old nurse Myrine urged her horse alongside his. Untrained as a rider, she looked uncomfortable on Ennion’s bay mare, clinging with one hand to the reins, with the other to its mane. Her face was red with the effort of maintaining her balance. “Is it far to Carpea?” she asked.

“Yes,” Banokles told her.

“I don’t know if I can sit this horse for much longer. I have bad knees, you know. They pain me.”

Banokles didn’t know what to tell her. She was too old to walk to Carpea. “It’ll get easier,” he said, though he didn’t know if that was true. Wheeling his horse away, he rode back to where Justinos and Skorpios were bringing up the rear. “You know how far it is to Carpea?” he asked Justinos.

The big warrior shrugged. “A few days, I guess. Perhaps four. I didn’t count the traveling days when we set out.”

“Me neither.”

Skorpios spoke up. “Olganos says it will take us around three days.”

“I vote we put Olganos in charge,” Banokles said. “He seems to know what he’s doing.”

Justinos shook his head. “Too young. We’ll stick with you. The old woman looks ready to fall off the mare.”

“Bad knees,” Banokles said.

Skorpios touched heels to his mount and rode over to her. Banokles and Justinos followed. The youngster dismounted and held the reins of the mare while Myrine eased her right leg over the beast’s back until she was sitting side on. “Ennion’s horse is a gentle creature,” Skorpios told her. “She will not be startled or throw you. Is that easier on the knees?”

“Yes,” the old nurse told him, settling Obas more comfortably on her lap. “Thank you. You are a sweet boy.”

The afternoon sun was strong, but a cool wind was blowing through the mountains as they rode on. The land was wide and open, rising and falling through gentle wooded hills and gullies. High above Banokles saw a flight of geese heading north toward a distant lake. He had always liked geese, especially roasted in their own fat. His stomach churned.

The dark-haired young Prince Periklos brought Kerio’s mount alongside him as they approached a small wood. Banokles glanced at the lad. His pale tunic was edged with gold thread, and there was more gold in his belt than Banokles would earn in a season.

“We should find you a sword,” Banokles said, “or perhaps a long dagger.”

“Why? I could not defeat an armored foe.”

“Perhaps not,” Banokles said, “but you could slash off his balls as he killed you.”

Periklos grinned. It made him look even younger and more vulnerable. “I’m sorry about your father,” Banokles said. “People say he was a great man.”

The boy’s smile faded. “What will we do in Troy?” he asked.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Will I even be welcome there? I have no lands, no army, no fortune.”

Banokles shrugged. “Neither have I. Maybe you could train to be a metalsmith. I always wanted to do that when I was young. Melt metal and bash it.”

“Not me,” the prince said. “They all become crippled. My father said that heating the ore makes the air bad. All the smiths lose feeling in their fingers and then their toes.”

“You are right,” Banokles said. “Never really thought of it before. Bad air, eh? Never heard of that.”

Periklos leaned in. “We have deep caves in the mountains where the air is really bad sometimes. People go into them to sleep and then just die. When I was small, some travelers took refuge in just such a cave. Five men and several women. A passer-by found them all dead and ran to a nearby village to alert the headman. They returned to the cave, but it was night, and they were carrying torches. The headman went into the cave, and there was a sound like thunder and a great brightness. The headman was hurled from the cave, his eyebrows and beard singed off.”

“Was he dead?” Banokles asked.

“I don’t think so. After that no one went near the caves. They say a fire-breathing monster lived there.”

“Maybe he liked the bad air,” Banokles offered.

Periklos sighed. “What is Troy like?”

“Big.”

“Do you live in a palace?”

“No. I did once. For a while, anyway. I have a house with my wife, Red.”

“You have children?”

“No.”

“Maybe Obas and I could stay with you. Myrine could cook.”

“The cooking sounds good,” Banokles said. “Red is a wonderful woman, but the food she prepares tastes like goat droppings. Except for the cakes, but then, she gets them from a baker she knows. Anyway, I expect Hektor will give you rooms in his palace. Have you met him?”

Periklos nodded. “My father likes him a lot.” His head bowed. “
Liked
him, I should say.” His expression hardened. “One day I will come back with an army, and I will kill every Idonoi. There will be nothing left of them. Not even memories.”

“Always good to have a plan,” Banokles said.

“What is your plan?”

Banokles grinned. “To get home and snuggle up to Red, put my head on the pillow, and sleep for several days. After getting drunk, of course.”

Periklos smiled. “I was drunk once. I crept into Father’s rooms and drank a cup of wine without any water. It was horrible. The room spun, and I fell. Then I puked. I felt sick for days.”

“You need to work at it,” Banokles told him. “After a while you find the golden moment. That’s what my father called it. All worries cease, all problems shrink, and the world just seems…seems happy.”

“What then?”

“Then the room spins, you puke, and you feel sick for days.”

Periklos laughed. “I shall never drink wine again. Even the thought of it makes my stomach tremble.” They rode in silence for a while, then Periklos said: “You seemed angry when you spoke to the officer in the pass. Why was that?”

“He used to be my sword brother. But when I offered to help him hold the pass, he refused.”

“Perhaps he didn’t want you to die with him. I spoke to some of the Kikones. One of them was an officer at the palace. He said they were there to fight to the death.”

Banokles shook his head. “Kalliades will have a plan. He’ll outwit the enemy. He always does.”

“If you say so,” Periklos said.

Banokles heeled his horse forward and headed it up toward the top of a low hill. Periklos was just a boy and knew nothing of the skills of Kalliades. Even so, the lad’s pessimism nagged at him. Banokles had seen the Idonoi horde. No way could a few defenders hold them for long.

Lost in thought, he rode over the crest of the hill and straight into a large group of some fifty cavalrymen, their faces smeared with paint.

Banokles swore and drew both of his swords.

∗ ∗ ∗

Kalliades was once more back on the
Penelope,
a fresh wind filling the sail. Piria was beside him, staring back at a black pig struggling in the sea. Her expression was one of concern.

“Can he make it?” she asked.

“He will outlive us both,” Kalliades told her.

She tried to speak to him again, but a great wall of noise shrouded her words: the clash of swords, the screams of men. Her face faded.

Kalliades opened his eyes. He was lying in a group of boulders, his head pounding, his vision blurred. Struggling to rise, he felt a lancing pain in his chest. The sword of Argurios lay on the ground beside him, the blade smeared with blood. Kalliades looked down at his arms. They, too, were blood-covered. Rolling to his knees, he tried to straighten his legs beneath him but fell again and rolled onto his back. Blood dripped into his right eye, and he brushed it away. Dragging himself farther back from the battle, he sat against a rock. His right eye was swollen and closing fast. He remembered then the bronze ax that had hammered against his helm, shattering it and hurling him from his feet.

Five attacks they had survived. In the first the enemy had not even reached the infantry, forced back by the deadly rain of shafts coming from the rising ground. Then they had regrouped, bringing shield-men to the front and advancing again. Still the arrows had found targets, thudding into legs, arms, and shoulders. Kalliades had led a charge that had splintered their front rank, and again they had fallen back.

The third attack had come swiftly, showing Kalliades that the enemy general was a man of stern discipline. His troops would not crack. They would pound on the Thrakian lines like an angry sea.

For a while then the strategy had changed. Enemy archers creeping forward, shooting up at the Thrakian bowmen, pinning them down.

Then had come a charge of horsemen. Kalliades had ordered his men to stand firm, locking shields. No horse would willingly ride into a wall.

Instead the Idonoi riders leaped them up and into the massed ranks, scattering the defenders. The fight was short and bloody, the riders lightly armored. Even so, the losses among the Thrakians were high: broken bones from the kicking horses and wounds from lances that had driven through helms and breastplates.

By the fifth attack the Thrakian bowmen were running out of shafts, and the enemy advanced with great confidence.

More than half the Thrakians were dead, and now there were barely enough to hold the narrow pass.

Kalliades gazed at the hundred or so fighting men. He wanted to join them, but there was no strength left in his limbs. A great tiredness settled on him, and he found himself leaning back and staring up at the sky. The clouds above the mountains were streaked with gold from the dying sun. He saw a flock of birds flying there. It was a beautiful sight. How fine it must be, he thought, to spread your arms and take to the skies, soaring and dipping high above the worries of the world.

The pain in his chest flared again. Glancing down, he saw that his breastplate was torn and blood was seeping over the scales. He couldn’t remember the wound at first. Then he recalled the leaping horse and the lance that had struck him, knocking him back.

From where he sat he could see the complete fighting line. It was becoming more concave, almost ready to burst inward. At that point the battle would be over. The line would fragment into groups of skirmishers, the warriors surrounded.

Instinctively Kalliades looked around for somewhere to hide. What are you doing? he asked himself. There is no escape.

And he saw again the child he had been, hiding in the flax field.

Red was right. There was a part of him that had never left it. His sister had been the sun and the stars to him, her love a constant on which he could rely. Her death, so sudden and violent, had scarred him more than he could have known. The little boy in the flax field had decided never to allow love into his life again, with its terrible pain, its awful anguish.

Do you want to live? he asked himself.

In that moment, with the last of the sunlight bathing the pass, he knew that he did.

Then get out of the flax field!

With a cry of rage and pain Kalliades took up the sword of Argurios and forced himself to his feet. Then he staggered forward into the fray.

As he did so, he heard the thunder of hooves on stone. Turning, he saw a force of some fifty horsemen galloping down the pass.

At the center, swords raised, rode Banokles.

The Thrakian defenders cut away to the left and right, allowing the cavalry through. The lancers tore into the Idonoi warriors, cutting them down. Panic swept through the enemy ranks, and they turned and ran back down the pass, pursued by the cavalry.

Kalliades tried to sheathe his sword, but his arm was too weary, and the blade clanged to the ground. He sank down to sit on a boulder. Curiously, he could hear the sounds of the sea in his ears.

Then he slid from the boulder.

When he finally awoke, he found he had been stripped of his armor and the wound in his chest had been stitched tight. Fires had been lit. Banokles was beside him.

“Good to see you,” Kalliades said.

“A pox on you, dung brain,” Banokles told him. “You might have said you were waiting to die.”

“Would you have gone if I had?”

“Of course I wouldn’t. That’s what I’m saying. Sword brothers stand together.”

Taking hold of Banokles’ arm, Kaliades drew himself up to a sitting position. “Where did you find the cavalry?”

“Down on the plain. They fled the fall of the city. I thought they were enemies at first and charged them. But they rode away from me, laughing. Bastards. Anyway, once they’d had their fun, I told them there was a battle coming and led them here. Just as well, eh? Who’s the thinker now?”

“That would be you, Banokles, my friend. My good, dear friend.”

Banokles peered at him suspiciously. “I think that crack to your skull has loosened your wits. So how much longer do we have to hold this place?”

“No longer,” Kalliades said. “To stay now would be foolish and achieve nothing. Leave the fires burning brightly and then lead the horses out as quietly as you can. Bind their hooves with cloth. We’ll slip away in the darkness and make a run for the sea at Carpea. With luck the Idonoi will not mount an attack until morning, and we should be far away from here by then.”