David Gemmell: Lord of the Silver Bow

This was to be expected. They were an elite force, and would not be used early in the battle. They will come when we are weary, he thought, striking like a hammer at the heart of the defence. Arrows and spears would be largely useless against them. Well-armoured and carrying tall, curved tower shields of bronze-reinforced ox hide, and armed with both heavy spears and stabbing swords, they would advance in formation, forcing the defenders back. The spears would give them a reach advantage over the sword-wielding Eagles. The only hope of success against such a force would be to break their formation. This could be done on the open field of battle, but not inside the confines of a palace megaron. Argurios knew that the Eagles were well disciplined, and fine fighters.

Could they hold, though, against the finest of the Mykene? He doubted it.

Time wore on, and still the Thrakians did not attack.

Polydorus returned to the battlements, and then Helikaon emerged from the palace and joined them. ‘When will the Mykene come?’ he asked.

‘When the gates are open.’ Argurios turned to Polydorus. ‘Go back into the palace and gather the tallest and the strongest of the Eagles. No more than thirty of them. Hold them back from the initial fighting. When the Mykene come we will need the best we have. See if you can arm them with heavy spears, as well as their swords.’

‘Yes, Argurios.’

After Polydorus had gone Argurios raised his head above the battlements. ‘Not long now, I would think.’

‘This must be hard for you,’ said Helikaon, as Argurios sat back down.

Argurios felt his anger surge, but swallowed it down. He looked at the young man beside him. ‘In a little while I will be slaying my comrades. I will be fighting alongside a man I have sworn to kill. Hard does not begin to describe this night.’

‘There are times,’ said Helikaon softly, ‘when you can almost hear the gods laugh. I am truly sorry, Argurios. I wish I had never asked you to accompany me on that walk to Kygones’ palace. Had I known the heartache it would bring you I never would have.’

Argurios’ anger ebbed away. ‘I do not regret my actions that day,’ he said. ‘As a result I met Laodike. I had not realized until then that my life had been lived in the darkness of a perpetual winter night. When I saw her it was as if the sun had risen.’ He fell silent for a moment, embarrassed at this display of emotion. ‘I sound like a doting fool, I expect.’

‘No. You sound like a man in love. Did you feel as if some invisible fist had struck your chest? Did your tongue cleave to the roof of your mouth?’

‘Exactly that! You have experienced it?’

‘Every time I see Andromache.’

Just then an Eagle away to the left shouted, ‘Here they come!’

Argurios pushed himself to his feet. ‘Now it begins in earnest,’ he said.

Prince Agathon watched his Thrakians rushing towards the walls. There were no battle cries now, merely a grim determination to kill and conquer, and earn the riches Agathon had offered. He longed to be with them, scaling a ladder and cutting his way through to Priam. He wanted to be there when the king was dragged to his knees, begging for his life. Yet he could not be with them yet.

With Priam’s death success was his, but if he were to die in the assault all these years of planning and scheming would come to nothing. He would walk the dark road to Hades as a failure.

A failure.

In Priam’s eyes he always had been. When Agathon defeated the rebel Hittites at Rhesos his father had railed at the losses he sustained. ‘Hektor would have crushed them with half your men and a tenth of your dead.’ No parade for Agathon. No wreath of laurels.

When had it ever been different? As a child of ten, frightened of the dark, and fearful of cramped, gloomy places, he had been taken by his father to the subterranean Caves of Cerberus. Priam had told him of demons and monsters who inhabited the caves, and that a wrong path would lead straight to the Underworld. Father had been carrying a torch. Agathon had stayed close, his panic growing. Deeper and deeper they travelled. Then they had come to an underground stream. Father had doused the torch and stepped away from him.

Agathon had screamed, begging his father to take his hand.

The silence had grown. He had cowered in the darkness for what seemed an eternity, weeping and terrified.

Then he had seen a light. It was his eleven-year-old half-brother Hektor, carrying a flaming torch. ‘Father is gone. Demons have taken him,’ Agathon had wailed.

‘No, he is outside, waiting for you.’

‘Why did he leave me?’

‘He thinks it will cure your fear of the dark.’

‘Can we go now?’

‘I cannot leave with you, Agathon. Father does not know I came here. I entered on the south side. We will douse the torch, and you will take my hand. I will lead you to where you can see the sunlight. Then you must walk out on your own.’

‘Why does he hate me, Hektor?’

‘He just wants you to be strong. I am going to douse the torch now. Are you ready?’

Hektor had led him slowly up through the tunnels, holding close to the walls.

Agathon had not been afraid then, for he could feel the warmth of Hektor’s hand, and knew his brother would not abandon him. The gloom had slowly lifted, and ahead Agathon had seen sunlight against the cave walls.

‘I’ll see you later, little brother,’ said Hektor, ducking back into the darkness.

Agathon had walked out, to see father, mother, and twenty or more counsellors and advisers, all sitting in the sunshine. As Agathon emerged Priam looked over to him. ‘Gods, boy, have you been weeping? You are a disgrace to me.’

Shaking himself free of the memory he watched his Thrakians scale the walls.

Strangely there was no sound of fighting.

The white-haired Kolanos appeared alongside him. ‘They have retreated to the citadel,’ he said.

Then came the cries of wounded and dying men. Agathon knew what was happening.

Archers were shooting down into the massed ranks of his Thrakians. Swinging round, he called out to one of the officers commanding the reserves. ‘Send in bowmen!’ he shouted. ‘The enemy will be massed on the balcony above the doors.

Pin them down!’ The officer gathered his men and a hundred archers ran to the ladders.

This should have been so simple. Agathon’s men were to march to the palace, overpower the few guards, and allow the Mykene in to complete the massacre.

Instead the gates were barred, and a defence had been organized.

Who would have thought that Fat Antiphones could have fought off the assassins?

There was no doubt in Agathon’s mind that he had lived long enough to warn Helikaon. Agathon had heard that a rider on a golden horse had swept past his Thrakians as they marched to the citadel. Helikaon alone bred these mounts. Then had come the news that a warrior in Mykene armour had scattered his men when they were about to storm the gates.

Helikaon and Argurios. Two men who were never a part of his original plan. Two men who were only invited at the request of Kolanos.

Ultimately their actions could do nothing but delay the inevitable, yet it was still galling.

The gates to the courtyard swung open. ‘Prepare your fighters,’ he told Kolanos, then crossed the open ground to seize his destiny.

Argurios entered the megaron, easing his way past the three ranks of Eagles preparing to defend the wide doorway. Helikaon, a curved shield slung across his back, approached him. ‘Ensure the men know they must hold their position,’ said Argurios. ‘If the enemy fall back there must be no chase.’