Shield of Thunder (44 page)

“That’s more like it,” Banokles said happily. “You rest here. I’ll get Olganos to organize the withdrawal. He’s good at organizing. Did they leave you any wine?”

“No,” Kalliades said. Banokles swore and moved away.

Kalliades dozed a little and dreamed once more of Piria. She was on the deck of a dark ship, sailing toward a sunset. He was standing on a golden beach. Kalliades lifted his arm and waved to her, but she was facing the setting sun and did not see him.

∗ ∗ ∗

The journey east was slow, much of the flatlands marshy and impassable and thick with midges and flies. The allied force of 142 men led by the reluctant Banokles was forced to take a meandering route, seeking firmer ground. On the first morning they had come across six deserted supply wagons. They had been looted, the horses gone. Banokles, on the advice of young Olganos, had horses hitched to them. Some of the more seriously wounded, Kalliades among them, were transferred to the wagons.

Toward midafternoon they came across more fleeing Thrakian soldiers. There were forty-three infantrymen, well armored, and twenty light horsemen. They were heading from the northwest, where a garrison fort had been taken by an Idonoi force.

Banokles had hoped Kalliades would be well enough to take charge of the journey, but his condition had worsened during the night. He was now sleeping in the lead wagon, and even when he occasionally regained consciousness, his mind wandered. A fever had begun, and he was sweating heavily. Banokles had stitched the wound in his chest, but there was no way of knowing how deep it was and whether it had pierced any vital organs.

Olganos sent out scouts to the north, south, east, and west to watch for signs of enemy movement. As the slow journey progressed, the scouts came across more refugee Kikones warriors and sent them on to the main force. By dusk there were more than three hundred soldiers under Banokles’ command.

“We are attracting them like flies to shit,” he complained to Olganos.

The young man shrugged. “It makes us stronger if we come under attack.”

The first good news came in as they were making camp for the night. One of the scouts from the west reported that the Idonoi army at the pass had made no move to march east and was now almost a day behind them.

As the men rested, Banokles sought out Kalliades. He was awake but weak. Banokles brought him some water. “There’s no food,” he said.

Kalliades said nothing for a moment. His face was ashen and glistening with sweat. “There will be farms and settlements to the north and east,” he said. “Send out riders tomorrow morning. Gather some cattle or sheep.”

“Good plan,” Banokles said.

“And walk among the men, Banokles. Make your presence felt. The Thrakians are proud men, but they are volatile, swift to anger or despair. You need to hold them steady.”

Kalliades stretched out and began to shiver. Banokles covered him with his cloak. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “You’re tough. You’ll be fine.” Still trembling, Kalliades fell asleep. Banokles sat with him for a while, then stood. All around him men were sitting in small groups. Mostly there was no conversation among them, and an air of dejection hung over the camp. Banokles strolled over to where Periklos was sitting with the old nurse and the sleeping Obas. “We’ll find food tomorrow,” he said. “Farms and suchlike to the east.”

Periklos nodded, but he, too, looked dejected.

Banokles moved on. A group of the riders he had brought to the pass were sitting together. They looked up as he approached.

“Any of you know this area?” he asked. They shook their heads.

“We are Kalliros men,” said one, a tall man with blue streaks on his brow. Banokles recalled that his name was Hillas.

“Good fighters, you Kalliros men,” he told him.

“Not good enough,” Hillas grunted.

“You gave those Idonoi at the pass a good arse kicking. And you are still alive. By Hades, lads, I’ve been in worse situations than this. And I’m still here.”

Hillas hawked and spit on the ground. “What could be worse than this? Our families are either dead or enslaved. All our cities have fallen, and we are running for the sea.”

Banokles had no answer. Then Periklos appeared. “My grandfather took all the Idonoi cities,” he said. “They also were a conquered people. Now look at them. Today is not forever. Serve me faithfully and one day we will return and take back our homeland.”

The warriors fell silent; then the blue-streaked soldier rose to his feet. “We pledged our allegiance to King Rhesos. It may be that one day you will be a great man like him. But now you are just a boy. I am Hillas, Lord of the Western Mountain. I will not pledge allegiance to a boy.”

Periklos appeared undaunted by the insult. “You need to look beyond my years, Hillas. My father has an alliance with Troy. As his son and heir, I
am
that alliance. In Troy we will regroup and gather to us a new army. It will take time. In that time I will grow into a man.”

“And in that time,” Hillas asked, “who will be our war leader? Whoever it is will seek to establish his own claims to the crown. I see Vollin over there.” He pointed to another group of warriors nearby. “He would not follow me, and I certainly would never ride under his inept leadership.”

The man Vollin, barrel-chested and bald, surged to his feet, along with his men. Swords hissed from scabbards, and knives were drawn.

“No one move!” Banokles bellowed angrily. “By the gods, you are a bunch of stupid cowsons. You,” he said, glaring at Hillas. “I don’t care if you are the high pigging Lord of the Western Sheep Shaggers. You rule nothing now. Understand? Nothing. And you,” he snarled at the bald warrior, “you don’t draw your sword on any of my men. At any time and for any reason. What is wrong with you people? Not enough bastard enemies for you? You need to kill each other?”

“We are not
your
men, Trojan,” Hillas snapped. Banokles was about to step forward and punch the man from his feet when the young prince spoke again.

“He is
my
general,” Periklos said. “And he is right. It is stupid to fight among ourselves. Yesterday,” he went on, turning toward Vollin, “you were preparing to die at the pass like a Kikones hero. Today you are alive. And why? Because another Kikones hero—Hillas, Lord of the Western Mountain—rode to your defense.
That
is how we will survive and return to conquer. By standing together and putting aside petty differences.”

Hillas took a deep breath, then sheathed his sword. He glared at Banokles. “How can this man be our general? He is a Trojan.”

Banokles was about to point out that he was not a Trojan, but the bald Vollin spoke first. “I think it is a good idea,” he said.

“You would! Because I am against it,” Hillas retorted.

“That may be true, but what the lad says has merit. There has always been discord between the nobles. Likely there always will be. This is why we need a strong king. If I was twenty years younger, I might try for the crown myself and cut your throat in the bargain. But I am not, and my sons are all dead. With a foreigner as the war chief there should be no jealousy, no vying for position. We can unite behind Periklos.”

“We are three hundred men,” Hillas said, his anger fading. “We are not going to retake Thraki.”

“We are three hundred
now,
” Periklos said. “Yesterday we had less than half that number. Others will have escaped and with the blessing of the gods will make their way to Troy. When we return, we will gather men from the northern mountain tribes and others who will have tired of Mykene and Idonoi domination.”

“Sounds like his father, doesn’t he?” Vollin said.

“Yes, he does,” Hillas agreed. “I am still unsure about being led by a Trojan.”

“He has already led you into battle,” Periklos said. “And to a victory. More than this, though, when I stood alone in a forest, surrounded by Idonoi warriors who were ready to kill me, this man walked out and risked his life for me. I have seen him now in three fights. Each one should have been lost, but Banokles is a great warrior and a fine leader.”

Hillas suddenly laughed. “When he first saw my fifty men, he drew his swords and charged us.” Banokles felt the mood change like a fresh breeze after a storm. “Very well. I will accept him as general.”

Banokles walked away, hungry and confused. No one had bothered to ask
him
whether he wanted to be a general, and no one had mentioned payment of any kind. Not that it mattered, since when they reached Carpea, he would happily pass the problem to real officers.

A cool breeze was blowing, and Banokles found a spot where a thick bush acted as a windbreak. Stretching himself out, he prepared for a dreamless sleep. He was just floating off when he heard someone approach. Opening his eyes, he saw the youngster Periklos. The boy squatted down beside him.

“I thank you for your actions back there,” Periklos said. “I fear there would have been bloodshed.”

“How old are you?” Banokles asked.

“Almost thirteen. Why?”

“You don’t talk like any thirteen-year-old boy I’ve ever known.”

“I don’t know how else to talk,” Periklos said.

“I meant you don’t sound like a boy. You sound like an old teacher.
I fear there would have been bloodshed,
” he mimicked. “Boys don’t talk like that where I come from. They talk about games and girls, and they brag about all the great deeds they will do when they are grown.”

“All my teachers were old men,” Periklos said. “Father did not believe in games unless they served a purpose, like running to make me stronger or maneuvering formations of toy soldiers to better understand strategies. Mostly I spent my days with old men who talked of old wars and old histories and the deeds of the great. I know how deep to build foundations for a house and how to fit dowels into timbers. He was preparing me to be a king.”

“Did he not play with you when you were young?”

“Play? No. We spent little time together. Last year, on my birthday, he took me aside and told me he had a special gift for me. Then he took me to the palace dungeons, where a traitor was kneeling on the floor, his hands tied behind his back. Father let me cut his throat and watch him die.”

“Not exactly what I meant,” Banokles said.

“I shall spend time with my sons if I live long enough to have any.” He glanced at Banokles. “Do you mind if I sleep here with you?”

“I don’t mind,” Banokles lied, not relishing the prospect of sleeping alongside a weird youngster trained to slit throats. Periklos stretched himself out, his head pillowed on his arm. Banokles decided to wait until the boy was asleep, then find somewhere else to rest.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

THE BATTLE OF CARPEA

Peleus of Thessaly had never believed in the principles of heroic leadership, where the king fought in the first rank among his men. It was simply stupid, for a stray arrow or a lucky javelin could then alter the whole course of the battle. It had nothing to do with cowardice, he told himself. The king must keep himself in a position close enough to the battle to make decisions based on events but out of harm’s way at all times.

So it was that he sat back on his tall white horse, surrounded by his elite bodyguard of three hundred heavily armored foot soldiers while his Thessalian warriors and their Idonoi allies charged at the Trojans on the plain of Carpea. It was the perfect battleground, wide and flat, no high hills for the enemy to hold, no woods for them to escape into. Only grassland and the sea beyond. Even the small settlement offered no secure hiding places. Carpea was not even a stockaded town.

In most circumstances, Peleus knew, Hektor would have withdrawn to more suitable ground against an army well nigh four times his strength. But he could not on this occasion, for drawn up on the beach were the barges he needed to escape from Thraki.

A lesser commander would have withdrawn anyway, knowing his cause was lost against twelve thousand enemy soldiers. But Peleus had guessed correctly that Hektor’s arrogance would lead him to risk all on one last great battle. Only, now he had no woods to hide his cavalry, no time to plan elaborate traps. His forces, less than three thousand men, were fighting for their lives.

Peleus began to feel gleeful as the battle progressed. From his vantage point he could see the Trojan line being forced back. The enemy was fighting mostly on foot, though a small force of Trojan cavalry was riding on the right, holding back the Idonoi horsemen who sought to cut in and attack the enemy flanks.

Hektor had adopted a phalanx formation, three blocks of some nine hundred men each, armed with long spears and tall shields. It was a fine defensive maneuver for an outnumbered army. Peleus knew it might even have succeeded against a foe with only twice the advantage in numbers. But the Thessalian force was far greater than that. At any moment now one of the three Trojan lines would crack, and his soldiers would stream around the enemy, forcing them in on themselves, limiting their ability to move and fight.
That
was when the slaughter would begin. And that time was not far off.

How wonderful it would be to see Hektor’s head on a spike. The bliss of the moment would wash away the gall he had tasted these last few years.

Peleus had always been proud of his son Achilles and gloried in his achievements. He was renowned as the son of Peleus the king, and the triumphs of the son had shone upon the father. Then had come a change, unwelcome and bitter. The brilliant Achilles, master of war, had begun to radiate his own light. And somewhere along the way the fame of Peleus dimmed, save that he was father to the hero.

The words should have meant the same: son of Peleus or father to Achilles. But the emphasis had changed. This had nagged at Peleus. With each new victory Achilles was growing more famous. The conqueror now of Xantheia and Kalliros, the liberator of Thraki.

In a bid to wrest back his rightful share of fame Peleus had led his own army against the city of Ismaros. Odysseus had been given the task of blockading the port. Then the Ithakan king had led a night raid, his men scaling the walls and opening the gates for Peleus and his Thessalians. The city had been taken. And whom did men acclaim?

Odysseus, the Sacker of Cities. Cunning Odysseus. Clever Odysseus.

But not today. This triumph would be for Peleus the king, the battle king, the conqueror of the mighty Hektor.

Some way ahead the Trojan phalanx on the left looked about to break. Peleus watched the scene with eager eyes. His triumph was coming, and the taste of it was strong.

Then he saw Hektor, in his armor of bronze and silver, surge to the front of the faltering line. His men gathered around him, their courage renewed.

A little longer, then, to wait. All the better, Peleus thought. The anticipation will make the victory more sweet.

His breastplate was tight and chafing at the neck. In the last few years his weight had been growing steadily. It was good for him to come to war, he realized. He could become strong again and lean as he once was. Like his children.

He thought then of Kalliope. She was slim, and he had so loved to hold her to him when she was a child. So like her mother.

But just like her mother, she had turned on him. Treacherous, deceitful girl. Had she not been raised in privilege, wanting for nothing? And how did she repay him? By flaunting herself naked and seducing him. Yes, that was what she had done. Turned him into a Gyppto, lusting after his own flesh.

It should have come as no surprise. All women were sluts. Some could disguise it better than others, but they were all the same.

Now she was dead. Which proved that the gods were just.

Kovos, the general of his bodyguard, approached him. The man was a veteran of many battles and a good soldier, but he had little imagination. “We should move forward, lord. They are ready to crack.”

“Not yet, Kovos,” Peleus told him.

“If we hurl ourselves at the center, we will break through. The Trojans are exhausted.”

Yes, and I would have to move in with you, Peleus thought, close to the slashing swords and plunging spears.

“We move when I say,” he told the general. Kovos moved back to stand with his men.

He should be grateful to me, Peleus thought. He does not have to face death. But then, he is a stupid man without the brains to appreciate his good fortune.

Beyond the battle Peleus could see the huts and shacks of the fishing village and the barges pulled up on the beach behind, the barges that would now allow his army to cross the narrow straits into Dardania. Peleus had feared he would be forced to ride those ghastly, low-lying boats. But now, basking in the glory of the defeat of Hektor, he would be able to return to Thessaly in triumph and let Achilles lead his men across the sea.

Returning his gaze to the battle, he saw that the losses endured by his men were heavy. Apart from his bodyguard the Thessalian force was armored lightly in padded leather breastplates that offered little protection against the heavy spears of the Trojan Horse. But then, breastplates of bronze were expensive and men were cheap. The Idonoi were also being cut down at a rate of three to every one Trojan. The tribesmen were less well protected even than his own men. Many of them had no armor at all.

It mattered not. The battle was almost over.

Then he saw the men of his bodyguard swinging around to stare back toward the west. Peleus turned.

A line of horsemen had appeared, lance points glinting in the sunlight.

Peleus called out to Kovos. “Send a messenger to them. Tell them to attack on the flank.”

“They are not our men,” Kovos said grimly.

“Of course they are our men. There are no enemy forces behind us.”

“Look at the man at the center,” Kovos said, “on the gray horse. He is wearing Trojan armor.”

“Plundered from the dead,” Peleus said, but a small worm of doubt gnawed at him.

The man on the gray horse drew two swords and held them high.

Then the horsemen began to move, slowly at first. The thunder of hooves sounded, and they swept toward the Thessalian rear.

“Form up!” Kovos bellowed. “Turn, you dogs! Death is upon you!”

The three hundred men of the king’s bodyguard carried no spears, only short swords and long shields. Hastily they tried to re-form, facing west. Peleus backed his horse through them, terrified.

He could see the man on the gray horse clearly now. He was broad-shouldered and blond-bearded. He carried no shield. In his right hand was a cavalry saber, in his left a stabbing sword.

He must turn, Peleus thought. No horse will charge into a wall of shields.

But the shield wall had not formed completely. The rider found a gap and powered into it, his saber slashing down and opening the throat of a guardsman.

All was suddenly chaos. Peleus did not even draw his sword. Panic swept through him as he watched his battle line being sundered. All he could think of was flight. Heeling his horse, he forced his way through his men, scattering them and further widening the gaps in their ranks. Then, on open ground, he kicked the stallion into a gallop. The guardsmen close by, seeing the king in flight, followed him. Within moments the battle became a rout.

Peleus did not care. His mind was no longer functioning save for the need to run and run and never stop. To find some hiding place. Anywhere! Behind him he heard the screams of dying men.

The stallion was at full gallop now, heading west, along the line of the sea.

A spear hurtled past Peleus, then another. Glancing back, he saw that four of the enemy riders were closing on him. Then a spear went between the legs of his mount. The white stallion stumbled, pitching Peleus over its head. He landed hard, rolled, and came to his knees, the breath all but knocked out of him. The horsemen rode up, surrounding him.

He struggled to his feet. “I am Peleus the king,” he managed to say. “There will be a mighty ransom paid for me.”

One of the riders touched heels to his mount and rode forward, his lance extended. He was fair-haired and lean, and there were blue streaks on his face. “I am Hillas, Lord of the Western Mountain,” he said. “How big a ransom?”

Relief swept through Peleus. He would be taken to Hektor, who was a man of honor and understanding. Achilles could pay the ransom from the plunder of Xantheia and Kalliros.

Then the rider on the gray horse appeared. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“The king here is talking of a golden ransom,” Hillas said.

“Just kill the cowson. The battle’s not over yet.”

Hillas grinned. “As you say, General, so let it be.”

Peleus heard the words but could not believe them. “I am Peleus!” he shouted. “Father to Achilles!” The blue-streaked rider heeled his horse forward, his lance leveled. Peleus threw up his arms, but the lance plunged between them, ripping into his throat.

Choking on his own blood, the king fell to his knees. Then his face struck the ground, and he could smell the scent of summer grass.

“Come on, you sheep shaggers!” he heard someone cry. “Kill them all!”