Shield of Thunder (46 page)

Then the barge tipped forward. Olganos was hurled against the deck rail and cartwheeled into the water.

As he surfaced, an arrow slashed past his head, slicing into the water and bobbing up alongside him. Sucking in a deep breath, he dived down. When he came up for air, the black galley was moving away in search of fresh kills.

He heard someone cry out and saw Skorpios holding on to Justinos, whose heavy armor was dragging them both down. Swimming swiftly across to them, he helped support the powerful warrior while struggling to untie the straps of his cuirass.

More arrows slashed by them. One glanced from Skorpios’ arm, ripping the skin. Olganos had managed to loosen Justinos’ cuirass, but there was no way to remove it.

“You will have to duck out of your armor,” he told his friend. “Sink below the surface and push it away.”

Justinos’ eyes were wide and frightened. “No,” he said.

“You must! Or you’ll kill us all. I won’t let you drown. I swear it!”

Justinos sucked in a great breath, then lifted his arms—and sank.

As Skorpios dragged at the armor, Olganos dived below the surface. The heavy cuirass came free, but Justinos suddenly panicked and began to thrash out madly, bubbles of air whooshing from his mouth. Olganos dived deeper, grabbing hold of Justinos’ shirt and kicking out for the surface. But the weight was too much, and they both began to sink. Then Skorpios dived down alongside him, and together they pulled Justinos’ head clear of the water.

“Calm yourself and breathe!” Olganos shouted. Justinos took in great gulps of air.

Just below the surface the body of a soldier floated past them, an arrow through his neck. Another Mykene galley was closing in on them, and Olganos could see a line of archers on the port bow. Some of them were grinning as they notched arrows to their weapons. The only way to survive was to dive deep, yet the moment they let go of Justinos, he would drown.

Justinos understood this and said grimly, “Save yourselves! Go!”

Then Olganos saw something dark flying through the air toward the galley. It was a skull-sized ball of dried clay. It struck a bowman and shattered, spraying what appeared to be water over the man and those around him. Then another hit the deck.

Olganos twisted around and saw a massive golden ship with a black horse sail bearing down on the Mykene. Archers were massed along its deck, and they sent a hail of fire arrows at the enemy.

What happened then made Olganos gasp. He expected the arrows to smolder, perhaps even setting fire to the Mykene sail. Instead the entire deck burst into flame. The archer who had been struck by the pottery ball was ablaze from head to toe. Olganos saw him leap from the ship. When he surfaced, his body was still burning, his screams awful to hear.

The golden ship thundered into the Mykene galley, splintering its hull. From the upper deck Olganos saw more pottery balls sail out toward other enemy vessels.

Black smoke was pouring from the stricken galley, and the bowmen, who only moments before had been preparing to use Olganos and his friends for target practice, were leaping into the sea. Elsewhere Olganos could see the Mykene fleet desperately swinging away from the pursuit of the barges as more and more Dardanian galleys bore down on them.

A Dardanian ship drew alongside the men in the water. Someone called down: “Who are you?”

“Three Trojan Horse,” Olganos called back.

Ropes were lowered. Justinos grabbed the first and hauled himself up to the deck. Skorpios followed and then Olganos. A stocky sailor approached them, offering Skorpios a cloth to bind his wounded arm.

Olganos walked to the rail and watched the sea battle unfold. There were six Mykene ships ablaze, four others rammed and sinking. The golden
Xanthos
continued to rain fire down upon the surviving vessels. The strong current that had swept the Mykene toward the barges was now their most powerful enemy. Their rowers, tired after maintaining ramming speed to intercept the Trojan fleet, had little strength left to escape from the avenging Dardanians. A group of archers pushed past Olganos, then leaned over the rail. In the sea below Mykene sailors were shouting for help. They received only death.

By late afternoon the battle was over. Five Mykene vessels managed to escape to the north and one slipped past the Dardanians, heading out toward open sea.

Dusk was approaching as the Dardanian ship carrying Olganos and his friends crossed the straits and beached close to the barges.

Once ashore, Olganos, Skorpios, and Justinos made their way to where the Trojan army was gathering. Despite their escape, the mood was somber among the survivors. Almost two hundred men and sixty horses had been lost in the crossing.

Food fires were lit, and the soldiers gathered around them. There was little conversation. Olganos stretched out on the ground, enjoying the warmth of the blaze, and slept for a while.

When Justinos nudged him awake, it was dark. Olganos sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. All around him men were hastily putting on their armor and gathering horses. Olganos climbed wearily to his feet.

“What is going on?” he asked.

“Fires to the south. Dardanos is burning,” Justinos said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

TRAITOR’S GATE

Earlier that afternoon the Mykene admiral Menados had sat on a hillside, gazing down at his army camped on the beach below. But he was not thinking of his mission or the capricious nature of war. He was thinking instead of his grandchildren. During forty years of warfare Menados had learned that often, when faced with a particularly complex problem, it helped to close one’s mind to it for a time and summon other, happier thoughts. And so he relived his last visit to his son’s farm and the chase through the woods, the children squealing with mock fear as he pretended to be the monster pursuing them. Menados smiled at the memory. When he had caught little Kenos hiding in a bush, the boy suddenly had burst into tears and cried out: “Don’t be a monster anymore!”

Menados had swept him into his arms and kissed his cheeks. “It is only a game, Kenos. It is me. Grandpapa.”

Now, in the afternoon sunshine, his army and fleet hidden in a secluded bay only a short march from the fortress city of Dardanos, the old admiral allowed the happy memories to fade back into the scriptorium of his mind. He sighed and focused once more on the bleak prospects facing him.

Every martial instinct now told him he would be best advised to get his men back on the ships and transports and sail for safer waters. Unfortunately, as a longtime follower of Agamemnon, he also understood that matters martial were inextricably linked with politics.

Agamemnon had ordered him to take the fortress of Dardanos and kill Helikaon’s wife and child—retribution for the savage attacks on the Mykene homeland. This raid was to be combined with an invasion led by the victorious Peleus. What a fine plan it had sounded. With an army rampaging across the Dardanian countryside and the fortress held by loyal Mykene troops, Dardania would fall. That would give Agamemnon a good land route to Troy.

Menados scratched at his black and silver beard. A fine plan, he thought again, save that Peleus had not followed it. The last he had heard, before this day, was that the Thessalian king was leading an army in pursuit of the fleeing Hektor. Now, according to the traitor within the fortress, Peleus was dead, and the war fleet of Helikaon had been sighted heading into the Hellespont. Menados had no way of knowing how many of the Trojan Horse had survived the battle with Peleus, but based on the numbers of barges the traitor claimed were being used, he assumed there would be at least two thousand. Helikaon himself was known to have around fifty ships. Another two thousand fighting men at the very least.

Soon the Mykene would be facing a battle on two fronts, against the Trojan Horse on land and Helikaon’s war galleys out beyond the bay. Taking the fortress was not a problem. They could hold Dardanos for a while, but with no food and no means of supply, they would be starved out by the autumn.

Yet if he slipped away and returned to Agamemnon, his decision would be made to seem cowardly rather than practical. The vile Kleitos would say: “Let me understand this, Admiral. You had a man inside the city ready to open the gates to a fortress containing no more than two hundred Dardanians. Yet you, with your three thousand men, decided to run?”

Agamemnon would be furious. Menados would not survive his anger.

So, sadly, withdrawal was not an option. The message from the traitor had been specific. Attack tonight! The Seagate will be open!

But what then?

With the queen and her son dead, he could try to hold the fortress and send his fleet to Ismaros, requesting more men and supplies. Menados dismissed the thought. For reinforcements to reach him, the fleet would have to battle its way past the dreaded Helikaon. It would not survive. Most of his sailors were recruits, the ships newly launched, the crews untried. The Dardanians would destroy them.

Equally, the men of his army were not the finest. Agamemnon had scoured the mainland for troops, and the soldiers under Menados’ command were of mixed quality: mercenaries from the high country, former pirates from the islands, robbers and brigands. All of them served for gold alone. Menados had no way of knowing if they would hold when the battle turned grim. What he did know was that they were hard, cruel men, pitiless and violent.

The officers were little better, save perhaps for Katheos and Areion. Katheos was young and ambitious, determined to seek the favor of Agamemnon and rise through the ranks. He had shown himself to be skillful and resourceful. That went some way toward offseting the fact that he had been selected for this mission to spy on Menados. Areion was an older man who had served with him for close to twenty years. Unimaginative yet solid, he could be relied on to obey any order and see it through.

Menados ran through all the possible outcomes of an attack on Dardanos. There was no doubt they would take the fortress, but was there any way to hold it? Peleus was dead, but there would still be forces at Ismaros. Perhaps by now Achilles was there. Would he gather men swiftly enough to make the crossing and attack the Trojans? Unlikely. His father slain, Achilles would now be the king of Thessaly. Custom and honor would dictate that he take his father’s remains home for proper entombment.

At last Menados was forced to the only decision that made sense. He would take the fortress this night and torch the gates and the warehouses and all the buildings of timber. That would render Dardanos useless for months. Then he would withdraw and sail for Ismaros, having at least completed the main part of his mission, the murder of Halysia and the boy.

Walking down the hillside, he called his officers to him. From his tunic he took the drawings the traitor had supplied of the defenses inside the city and the place where the queen and the child were likely to be found.

“It is imperative,” he said, “that the traitor is not accidentally slain when we attack. He is a senior officer. We want him to survive and rejoin Helikaon. He will be wearing a white tunic, no armor. He will have two swords belted to his waist. Make sure that every man knows this description.” Swinging to a gaunt young officer with deep-set blue eyes and a forked chin beard, he said: “You, Katheos, will lead the attack through the Seagate. Hold the gatehouse until reinforcements, led by Areion, arrive. Once they are with you, send a swift force into the palace to seek the queen and the boy. The rest will close in on the defenders and burn every building they can.”

“Are we not to hold the fortress?” the gray-bearded Areion asked.

Menados shook his head. “It seems that our Thessalian ally Peleus got himself killed. No reinforcements are coming from Thraki, and the Trojan Horse is likely to be here soon. So now it becomes a punitive raid, and then we get out and sail for Ismaros. We need to cause as much damage as possible. It is possible we could return this season. If so, we want Dardanos crippled when next we face it. Douse the gates with oil; pile them high with bracken and dried wood. There is also a bridge close to the fortress that cuts the journey to and from Troy. We will burn this also. The success of this raid,” he went on, “depends on discipline and speed. Make it clear to the men that there is to be no rape and plunder.”

“I am not sure we can stop them, Admiral,” Katheos said. “They have little loyalty to the king. They are ruled entirely by lust and greed.”

Menados considered this. “You are correct, Katheos. Tell them that a portion of Helikaon’s treasury will be shared among them. That will take the edge from their greed. Tell them also that any man found on a personal raid will have his guts ripped out and tied around his throat.”

Katheos nodded and gave a grim smile. “That will help a little, Admiral. But some of them, like wild dogs, will follow their murderous natures. Speaking of which, we none of us know what the queen looks like, nor her brat.”

“Our man inside has told us where they are likely to be found. The queen should pose no problems as to identity. She is young, golden-haired, and beautiful and will be dressed in clothes befitting her rank.”

“That may well be true, Admiral,” Areion put in. “But once she knows we are coming, she could change clothes and flee with the other women. Surely Agamemnon King will desire proof of her death.”

“The traitor will identify her body and that of her son,” Menados said at last. “But you make a good point. We will not have long in the fortress and cannot risk their escape. Every woman with pale hair and every small child must be put to the sword.”

The forked-bearded Katheos looked uncomfortable with the order. “A problem, General?” Menados asked.

“Only with the timing, Admiral. We have one night to kill the Dardanians, take the fortress, burn the gates and the buildings and the bridge, and then board our ships. Scouring the area for every child and pale-haired woman will divert us.”

“Organize three death squads, ten men in each. Give them the order to hunt through the fortress buildings. Now, dusk is approaching. So let us move.”

∗ ∗ ∗

The old general stepped from his dark apartments and squinted into the low light of evening. Storm clouds lay heavy above the high fortress, but the westering sun shone like a golden shield on the horizon. Pausanius paused for a moment before firmly grasping his black wooden staff and setting off for the Seagate.

The pain that nagged at him constantly had eased a little. It had troubled him for more than a year now, eating deep into his back and groin. The physician had given him a series of increasingly disgusting potions.

“And these will heal me?” Pausanius had asked him.

“Only the gods could heal you, General,” the man had answered. “My potions will take away much of the pain, though not all.”

In the last few days the pain had increased, making it hard for him to think of anything else and forcing him to stay in his rooms. To piss was almost impossibly painful and difficult, and when urine finally dribbled out, it was dark red with blood. A shiver of fear went through him each time he saw it. However, a little while earlier he had stood bent over the piss pot and finally had managed to empty his bladder. The relief had been immense.

Pausanius saw that it would be a moonless night. Looking down from his chamber balcony a few moments earlier, he had seen two new ships arriving. They are cutting it fine, he had thought, wondering where they came from. He had decided to find out.

It would annoy young Menon, he knew. The boy had become increasingly concerned for his uncle’s health. “You need rest,” he had said earlier that day.

“I have a feeling I will be resting more than I would like soon enough,” Pausanius had grunted. “Fetch me some wine, would you, boy?”

Menon had laughed. “If you feel like wine, you must be improving.”

They sat together then and talked for a while of the problems they faced. Pausanius gazed affectionately at the young man, the sunlight glinting on his red-gold hair. So like me, he thought.

“What are you thinking, Uncle?”

“I am proud of you, Menon. I know it has not been easy to walk in my footsteps. But you have it in you to be a great man and to help save this kingdom. I hope the gods bless you, as they have me.”

Menon blushed. Like Pausanius he was obviously uncomfortable with compliments. The old general chuckled. “Am I sounding maudlin?”

“Not at all, Uncle. Rest here today and gather your strength. Tomorrow, if you are feeling better, we will ride together.”

But Pausanius no longer felt like resting. For nearly sixty years he had been charged with the safety of the fortress, and few visitors arrived of whom he was unaware. So he plodded on toward the Seagate.

The fool Idaios worried him. Did Priam have so little faith in the army at Dardanos that he thought a moron like Idaios could be of any help? Idaios had been given the Seagate to guard. A simple task—let no one pass this gate bearing a weapon. But Pausanius doubted he was up to it.

As he walked, his mind drifted back to his conversation with the queen four days before. He regretted criticizing her treatment of the boy Dexios. She has enough problems to contend with, he thought. Adversity was a harsh tutor but a good one. Perhaps the boy was too sensitive and needed to find some backbone. Pausanius dismissed the thought almost instantly. Dex was only three years old, unloved by his mother and raised by servants. On the rare occasions when Helikaon was home, he would talk to the boy and take him riding or fishing in the sheltered lake. There were few such opportunities when the king was absent.

It had heartened Pausanius to see young Menon playing with the child a few days back. The young soldier had perched Dex on his shoulders and run around the courtyard, making neighing sounds like a horse. The child’s laughter had been joyous to hear.

Pausanius thought of his own son, dead these thirty years. When he had first heard the gorge called Parnio’s Folly, he had been offended, as if a joke had been made out of his private tragedy. But over the long years his grief had been washed clean by the relentless waves of time.

He pressed on. Crossing the busy stable yard, he walked with care down the sloping stone roadway to the Seagate. When he arrived there, Pausanius was surprised to see the gates open. They were always closed tightly before sunset. Who had opened them? He looked for the guards but could not see them. A maggot of fear wormed into his heart.