Authors: David Gemmell
“You have a plan?” Banokles asked hopefully.
“We don’t have a choice. We must reach the pass.”
Banokles was relieved. He didn’t want any more choices. “Good,” he said. “Can we make it by dusk?”
“On fresh horses, yes. Ours are tired, and once we come out of the valley, the land rises all the way to the pass.”
Rising to his feet, Banokles waved the others forward, then mounted his gray and led them over the crest.
As they approached the valley floor, the heat began to rise. The horses plodded on, heads down, their hooves raising small plumes of dust, sweat streaking their flanks. The valley was dry and hot, with little vegetation.
The going was slow, and the afternoon wore on. Then Skorpios called out. Banokles looked back to see that Ennion had fallen from his mount. Calling a halt, Banokles swung the gray and rode to where the wounded man was struggling to rise. Banokles dismounted and walked over to him, taking hold of his arm and hauling him to his feet. Ennion’s eyes were glazed, his face ashen. Suddenly he doubled over, fell to his knees, and vomited.
Banokles stepped away from him, then looked around at the small group. The horses had little more in them, and the men were exhausted. “How far to the pass now?” he asked Olganos.
The young man shrugged. “In the state we are in? Not before nightfall, I’d say.”
Off to the right was a thick stand of beech trees. “Ride in and see if you can find water.”
“If we don’t reach the pass ahead of the Idonoi…”
“I know what
might
happen,” Banokles snapped. “Now go!”
Olganos rode off. Banokles helped Ennion to his feet and lifted him to his horse. “Do not fall off again. Hear me?”
“I hear you,” the warrior mumbled.
“Let’s get into the trees,” Banokles told the others. “It will be cooler there.”
Olganos found a hidden glade and led the group to it. There were boulders of white marble and flowering bushes sprouting between the stones, their crimson blooms trailing down into a wide rock tank full of cool water. The tank was fed by a stream that gushed down over the boulders in a succession of tiny waterfalls. There was good grass there, and the glade was of such beauty that Banokles could almost believe that nymphs and dryads were hidden close by.
The old nurse limped to the waterside and eased herself down, splashing her face and hair, then drinking deeply. The two princes went with her. Justinos and Skorpios helped Ennion from his horse and sat him down with his back to a tree. Banokles filled his helmet with water and took it to the injured man. Ennion drank a little. His face was still gray, but his eyes were less glazed. Banokles examined the man’s head wound. The long cut to his skull had been stitched, but the flesh was now swollen and discolored. Head wounds were always problematic. Banokles once had known a man who had taken an arrow through the temple and survived. Another soldier, a tough, burly man, had been struck by a fist in a tavern fight and had died on the spot.
Leaving Ennion to rest, the others saw to the horses, using dried grass to wipe the foamy sweat from their flanks. Once they were cooled down, the beasts were led to the pool and allowed to drink their fill.
As the men settled down in the shade of the beech trees, the horses cropping the rich grass nearby, Banokles stripped off his armor and jumped into the rock pool. It was deeper than he had thought, and he sank beneath the surface. The water was cold, the feeling as it closed over him exquisite. All sounds faded away, as did the headache he had endured for most of the day.
Coming to the surface, he swam back to the bank and hauled himself clear of the water. He saw Olganos and the slender blond-haired Skorpios sitting quietly together. There was no sign of Justinos. Banokles dried himself off and walked over to the two warriors. “You lads should take a swim,” he said.
“What if the enemy comes?” Olganos asked.
Banokles laughed. “If they send an army, you’ll be just as dead whether you’re hot and stinking like a pig or cool and refreshed.”
“Truth in that,” Skorpios said, rising to his feet and unstrapping the ties of his cuirass.
“Where’s Justinos?” Banokles asked.
“I told him to wait back in the trees, watching the valley,” Olganos replied.
“Good. While he’s doing that, I think I’ll take a nap.”
Olganos and Skorpios leaped into the rock pool with a mighty splash, and Banokles walked over to sit beside Ennion. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Better. Head feels like there’s a horse trapped inside, trying to kick its way out. Shame about Kerio. Miserable cowson, but he could fight.”
“The time to think about the dead is when you are safe back home,” Banokles said.
“You think we’ll get safely back home?”
“Why shouldn’t we?”
Ennion smiled. “It doesn’t bother you that we’re outnumbered and trapped in an enemy land?”
“Never saw the point in worrying about tomorrow,” Banokles told him. “At this moment we have water, the horses are resting and eating, and I’m about to have a blissful sleep. If the enemy comes, I’ll kill as many of the cowsons as I can. If they don’t, well, we’ll ride on, find Hektor and the rest of the lads, and then go home. Get some sleep, man.”
“I think I will,” Ennion said. Suddenly he chuckled. “All my life I’ve wanted to do something heroic, something to be remembered for. And now I’ve rescued two sons of a king and fought off twenty enemy soldiers. It feels very fine, Banokles. Very fine. Everything I could have hoped for—except for this bastard headache.”
“It’ll be gone by morning,” Banokles said, stretching himself out on the grass and closing his eyes. Sleep came almost immediately.
It was dark when he woke, bright stars shining in the night sky. Sitting up, he glanced at Ennion. The warrior was lying on his back and staring up at the stars.
“How is the head?” Banokles asked.
Ennion made no reply. Banokles passed his hand over the warrior’s face. There was no response. Leaning over him, Banokles closed the dead man’s eyes, then pushed himself to his feet.
Olganos was swimming, Justinos sitting beside the pool. The old nurse and the boys were asleep. Olganos climbed out of the water. Banokles strolled over to him. “You put Skorpios on watch?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll relieve him in a while.”
“How is Ennion? You think he’ll be able to travel tomorrow?”
“He is already traveling,” Banokles answered. “He’s walking the Dark Road. His horse is in better shape than the others. Let the fat old nurse ride him. You should take his sword. Yours is looking battered and likely to break the next time you use it.”
“By Ares, you are a cold bastard,” Olganos told him.
“He is dead. We are not. We leave at first light.”
∗ ∗ ∗
The boulder-strewn road leading up and through the high pass of Kilkanos was littered with the debris of a departed army. Broken swords lay among the stones. A shattered helm glinted in the early-morning sunshine. Discarded items that had once been of value now gathered dust. Here and there Kalliades could see splashes of dried blood where the wounded had been tended. The pass itself was narrow and winding, climbing ever higher into the mountains. Kalliades and his three hundred volunteers had taken up a defensive position some eighty paces below the highest point, where the pass narrowed to a mere thirty paces across. Towering rock faces rose on either side. Kalliades placed his hundred archers on the higher ground to the left and right, where they could find shelter behind rocks. The more heavily armored infantry was stationed at the center. The men were all Kikones with nowhere left to run.
Scouts had warned Hektor that an Idonoi army some seven thousand strong was marching toward them. They were close and would be in sight before noon.
Kalliades had volunteered to remain with the rear guard for the two days Hektor had requested the pass be held. Hektor had urged him not to stay. “I will need you in the days to come, Kalliades. I don’t want you dead on some Thrakian rock.”
“If you know of a better man to plan a defense, then let him stay,” Kalliades had said. “The Thrakians are good fighters, but there is not a strategist among them. And you need this pass held. We can’t afford to have armies coming at us from two sides.”
Reluctantly Hektor had agreed, and they had said their farewells that morning.
The Thrakians were grim men who had fought well during the long campaign. It irked them that it had all ended so badly. Hektor had offered them the chance to come with him back to Troy, but they had decided to stay and fight on against the invaders.
Kalliades moved among them, giving orders. They responded with instant obedience but little warmth. Though they trusted his judgment and respected his skills, he was a foreigner and a stranger to them.
A foreigner and a stranger.
It suddenly occurred to Kalliades that he had always been a stranger, even among his own people. Climbing to a high rock, he sat down and gazed back down the pass. When the enemy came, they would be tired from the climb. They would be hit with volley after volley of arrows and then, when closer, bronze-tipped javelins. The sheer walls of rock would compress their formations, making it difficult to dodge the missiles. Then Kalliades would attack them with his heavily armored Thrakian infantry, forcing them back. They would retreat and regroup. He had no doubts the defenders could hold for several charges. But they would take losses, their arrows would soon be exhausted, and concerted attacks by an enemy with the advantage of numbers would wear them down. No matter what strategies he concocted, the result would be the same. If the enemy forces were determined and brave, they would break through before dusk.
Hektor had understood this. The rear guard was doomed. It was unlikely that any of them would leave the pass alive.
The face of Piria appeared in his mind, sunshine glinting from her shorn blond hair. In his memory she was standing on the beach, laughing as the men of the
Penelope
struggled to catch the errant pigs. It had been a good day, and it had taken on a golden hue these last three years.
Then the image blurred, and he saw again Big Red standing in the doorway of his small house, wearing robes of scarlet and black. It was the day before the army was due to return to Thraki for the spring campaign. Kalliades had invited her in, but she had stood her ground.
“I will not enter your home, Kalliades. I do not like you, and you have no affection for me.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I want Banokles to come home safely. I do not want him drawn into your need for death.”
The words surprised him. “I don’t want to die, Red. Why would you think that?”
She looked at him, her expression softening. “I have changed my mind. I will come in. You have wine?”
He led her through to the small garden at the rear of the house, and they sat together on a curved bench in the shade of a high wall.
The wine was cheap and mildly bitter on the tongue, but Red did not seem to mind. She looked him in the eye, her gaze direct. “Why did you rescue the priestess?” she asked.
He shrugged. “She reminded me of my sister, who was killed by violent men.”
“That may be true, but it is not the whole reason. Banokles talks of you with great respect and affection, so I have heard all the stories of your travels. I am not young anymore, Kalliades, but my wisdom has grown with the years. I know men. By Hera, I know more about men than I would ever have wished to know. So many of you are quick to notice flaws and weaknesses in others while being completely blind to your own faults and fears. Why do you have no friends, Kalliades?”
The question made him uncomfortable, and he began to regret inviting her in. “I have Banokles.”
“Yes, you do. Why no others? And why no wife?”
He rose from the seat. “I do not answer to you,” he said.
“Are you afraid, Kalliades?”
“I fear nothing.”
He could not escape her gaze, and it disconcerted him. “Now,
that
is a lie,” she said softly.
“You do not know me. No one does.”
“No one does,” she repeated. “And you are wrong again. I know you, Kalliades. I don’t know
why
you are the way you are. Perhaps a favorite pony died when you were young or you were buggered by a friendly uncle. Perhaps your father fell off a cliff and drowned. It doesn’t matter. I know you.”
Anger surged through him. “Just go!” he said. “When I need the wisdom of a fat whore, I’ll send for you.”
“Ah,” she said, no trace of anger in her voice, “and now I see that deep down you also know. You are just too frightened to hear it.”
In that moment he had wanted to strike her, to wipe that smug look from her face. Instead he had stepped back away from her, feeling trapped in his own home.
“Tell me, then,” he demanded. “Speak this dreadful truth. I do not fear it.”
“The dreadful truth is that deep down you have one great fear. You fear life.”
“What is this nonsense? Have you been chewing meas root?”
“You saved a woman who meant nothing to you and faced almost certain death as a result.”
“She was worth saving.”
“I’ll not disagree with that. On its own it was a fine deed. Heroic. The stuff of legends. When Odysseus walked down to face the pirates, you went with him. You told Banokles you wanted to see what would happen. You are an intelligent man. You
know
what should have happened. They should have cut you to pieces. Banokles thinks you are a man of enormous courage. But I am not Banokles. There is a part of you, Kalliades, that yearns for death. An empty part with nothing to fill it. No love, no intimacy, no dreams, no ambition. That is why you have no friends. You have nothing to give them, and you fear what they could give to you.”
Her words cut through his defenses like an icy blade. “I have known love,” he argued. “I loved Piria. That is no lie.”
“I believe you. And that is how I came to know you. You are close to thirty years old, and you have had
one
great love. How curious, then, that it should have been for a woman who could never return that love. A woman you
knew
could never return it. Shall I tell you what you saw in that frightened, abused, and doomed girl? A reflection of yourself. Lost and alone, friendless and deserted.” She stood then and brushed the creases from her robes.