David Gemmell: Lord of the Silver Bow

Andromache held it to Laodike’s lips. She drank a little, then sagged back.

‘Will you find him for me, Andromache?’ she asked. ‘Bring him to me. I… don’t want to be alone when… I die.’

‘I will find him.’

Laodike closed her eyes and smiled. ‘Find… my… Argurios,’ she whispered.

Argurios was exultant. Everything had worked precisely to plan, and now was the moment he had waited for. Once he was on the stairs, Helikaon beside him, Polydorus and Dios behind, the enemy advance had been halted. Now the Mykene were forced to attack in twos, driving up towards the warriors above them, while the mass of enemy soldiers milled below, helpless against arrows shot at them from above, or spears hurled from the gallery. In essence it was the Bridge of Partha yet again, the entire battle being fought on a narrow line between consistently equal fighting men. It no longer mattered that the Mykene outnumbered them, for at the point of impact there could only be two enemy facing them on the stairs.

Argurios hammered his shield against his next opponent, forcing an opening. His spear plunged forward, lancing up between helmet and flesh. The warrior stumbled and fell. Argurios slammed his foot against the man’s shoulder, sending him rolling into his comrades. Another Mykene leapt to the fray. He stumbled over the fallen man and Helikaon killed him.

Again and again fresh warriors surged against the men on the stairs, but there was no give in them, and the death toll continued to rise.

As Argurios had hoped, the Mykene were no longer thinking clearly about their objective. Instead they were focused only on the need to kill the men facing them. This blinded them to alternatives. Argurios knew what they were thinking.

One last push and the citadel would be theirs. All they had to do was brush aside the few fighting men on the stairs and victory was within their grasp.

Now all forward momentum had ceased. Argurios and Helikaon, their legs braced against the rising steps, their shields held firmly, their deadly lances cleaving into the enemy, were blocking the way like a wall of death.

At first it would have seemed to the Mykene that they were winning. Now they had been baulked, and were losing men without reply. One after another strong warriors were being cut down, their bodies dragged back to make way for the men behind. Now, Argurios knew, the worms of doubt would start to burrow into the hearts of the Mykene. This was not like an ordinary battle. There was no retreat for them here, no safe camp to return to at the end of a day’s fighting. They were no less trapped than the Trojans. If they could not clear this citadel and kill the king before the dawn, then other troops would come to Priam’s rescue, thousands of them, from the forts on the Scamander plain, or from the barracks in the lower town.

Argurios fought on, no longer tired, every sense alert. He was fighting for more than life now, more than honour. He was fighting for love, and determined that nothing would destroy his chance at happiness with Laodike. He held her face in his mind’s eye, the sweetness of her smile, the radiance of her company. Not one Mykene warrior would be allowed to mount these stairs.

A spear scraped along his cuirass, ripping clear two more of the bronze discs.

Argurios twisted to the right, his own weapon lunging home. It was a poor hit, thudding into the armoured shoulder and spinning the man. Helikaon kicked the man in front of him, spilling him to the stairs, then spun and drove his lance through the throat of Argurios’ opponent. Then both heroes brought their shields to bear against the next attackers.

Moments later it was Helikaon who was thrown back, losing his footing. Argurios blocked a downward lunge that would have ripped out Helikaon’s throat, then hammered his shield against the Mykene, forcing him back. Helikaon made it to his feet, and fought on.

The stairs were slippery with blood now, but there was no let up in the fighting. There were no more arrows to shoot from the gallery, and men and women stood there helplessly, staring down at the combatants.

At the top of the stairs Priam waited, sword in hand, staring down at the two men who stood between triumph and disaster.

It was hard to believe these were men of flesh, for they fought like gods, untiring and unbending. The king had already come to believe the battle was lost. Now he was not so sure. Hope flickered. The king glanced around him. On every face there was grim determination, and a sense of awe and pride at what they were witnessing.

For the first time in many years Priam gazed with pride on his son Deiphobos, standing behind Argurios, and ready to take his place in the battle on the stairs.

Transferring his gaze to the Mykene he saw there was no give in them either.

They were not frightened, nor dismayed. They waited patiently for their chance at the fighters on the stairs, their expressions hard and unyielding.

The fragile hope faded in the king’s breast. No matter how valiant the heroes on the stairs, nothing would hold back these blood-hungry barbarians. Soon either Helikaon or Argurios would be cut down, and the murderous assault on the upper levels begin.

Well, he thought, I shall show these savages how a king dies.

Hefting his sword he strode forward to stand beside the last defenders.

Kalliades spat blood from his mouth, and wedged a lump of cloth into his cheek.

Argurios’ spear had sliced up under his helmet, ripping through the flesh of his face. He had been lucky. The point had missed his eye by a hair’s breadth. He had then been ignominiously kicked back down the stairs, and was now sheltering by a rear doorway, Banokles beside him, his tall shield swung to his back.

‘At least there are no more arrows,’ said Banokles, passing Kalliades a fresh cloth. Blood was flowing freely now. ‘Thought he had you,’ he added.

‘Too damn close,’ answered Kalliades, spitting more blood.

‘He killed Eruthros. Opened his throat.’

‘I saw.’

Kalliades gazed back at the stairs. ‘We should pull back,’ he said. ‘Gather ladders from the walls. Then we could hit them from several sides.’

‘They can’t hold much longer,’ said Banokles.

‘That is Argurios,’ Kalliades pointed out. ‘He could hold all night.’

‘Ah well,’ answered Banokles, with a wide grin, ‘when the king makes you a general I’ll be your ladder man. Until then I think I’ll keep my head down.’

‘I need stitches, otherwise I’ll bleed to death,’ grumbled Kalliades. Together the two men moved out into the megaron. There were some forty wounded Mykene warriors already there, being attended by comrades. Kalliades pulled off his helm and sat down on Priam’s throne. Banokles doffed his own helmet, then reached into the small pouch at his sword belt, drawing out a curved needle and a length of thread. With a cloth he tried to wipe away the blood, but it was flowing too freely.

‘Made a real mess of your face,’ he offered. ‘Luckily you always were an ugly whoreson.’

‘Just stitch it,’ snapped Kalliades.

Leaning his head back he gritted his teeth against the stinging of the needle, and the tightening of the raw flesh. Banokles’ fingers kept slipping as fresh blood pumped over them, but eventually the flow slowed.

‘Are you going to try Argurios again?’ asked Banokles, as he tied the last knot.

Kalliades shook his head. ‘I did my duty once. I don’t want to be the man who killed Argurios. Let someone else send his shade on the dark road. He may be the enemy now, but I’ll be sad when he falls.’

‘Well, I’m going back,’ said Banokles. ‘If someone doesn’t clear the path I’ll never get to ride one of Priam’s daughters.’