David Gemmell - Lord of the Silver Bow

‘Already done,’ said Helikaon. ‘When do you expect the Mykene?’

‘Soon.’

Argurios left him then and strode across the mosaic floor. He needed a shield, but the walls had been all but stripped of weapons and armour. Then he saw it.

It was an ancient piece, beautifully wrought, decorated with tin and blue enamel. At its centre was a battle scene, featuring the great hero Herakles fighting the nine-headed Hydra. Borrowing a spear from a soldier, he hooked the point under the strap and lifted the shield from the wall.

Swinging it to his back he walked across to where Polydorus stood, with some thirty Eagles, tall men and wide-shouldered, their faces grim. He scanned them all, looking into their eyes. He was unsure of two of them, and sent them to join Helikaon at the doorway. The rest waited for his orders. ‘When the Mykene come,’ he told them, ‘I want you to form three lines behind the defenders. At my order…’ Just then came the sounds of screams and battle cries from outside, as the Thrakians surged towards the doorway. The Eagles tightened their grips on their weapons and adjusted their shields. ‘Look at me and listen,’ said Argurios calmly. ‘Your turn will come soon enough. You are to face the Mykene. When they come they will be in tight formation. They will charge the doorway and seek to scatter the defenders with their weight and power. As they rush forward Helikaon will break his line to left and right. We will counter the Mykene charge with one of our own. Thus we will form three sides of a square. We will hold the Mykene while Helikaon’s men attack them on the flanks. Is this clear?’

‘It is clear, sir,’ said Polydorus. ‘But how long can thirty hold back two hundred?’

‘I do not know,’ said Argurios, ‘but this is how legends are carved. We will be forced back. We will conduct a fighting retreat to the stairs below the queen’s apartments. We will not break and scatter. Each man here will stand beside his comrades, as if we were all brothers of the blood.’ As he spoke he swung the shield round, settling his left arm into the straps. He saw the Eagles staring at it, shock on their faces.

‘Brothers of the Blood,’ said Polydorus. ‘We will not fail you, Argurios.’

‘Then let us form up behind the defenders. Rank of Three.’

The Eagles moved into position, Argurios at the centre of the first line.

Ahead of them Helikaon and his warriors were battling the Thrakians.

Argurios took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Torches flickered in brackets upon the walls, and the sounds of war echoed around the megaron. On the stairs leading to the balcony above the doorway Argurios saw wounded men being helped down. Thrakian archers were beginning to take their toll on Dios and his men. Several of the Eagles with Helikaon had also fallen, the men behind dragging them clear. And the long night wore on.

Andromache rose from beside the sleeping Laodike and gazed around the queen’s apartments. Injured men were being brought in all the time now, some with hideous wounds. Priam’s chief physician, Zeotos, was tending them, his long white robes now bloodstained, his hands and arms crimson with gore. The elderly physician had arrived a little while ago, and moved straight to Laodike’s side.

‘She is all right,’ Andromache assured him. ‘The bleeding has all but stopped and she is resting well.’

‘We will all be resting well after this night,’ he said despondently.

Axa and several other servants were assisting the noblewomen, bandaging wounds and administering stitches. Even young Kassandra was busy cutting up linens. By the balcony wall there were six dead bodies, all stripped of armour and weapons.

There was little space to lay them out, and they had been laid atop one another, arms entwined.

Andromache walked out of the apartments onto the gallery above the stairs.

Quivers of arrows had been laid here, and a stack of throwing spears. Moving to the far left of the gallery she looked down into the megaron. Men were battling by the doors, and she saw Helikaon among them, his bright bronze armour gleaming like gold in the torchlight.

Behind the defenders stood another group of warriors, tall shields on their arms, heavy thrusting spears in their hands.

Off to the right she saw the king and around a dozen of his counsellors. Many of them were older men, but they were holding swords or spears, and a few bore shields. From her high vantage point Andromache could see past the fighting men, and out into the courtyard beyond. Hundreds of Thrakians were massing there. It seemed inconceivable that the few defenders could keep them out for long.

More wounded were dragged back from the front line. She saw Priam gesture to his counsellors, and several of them ran forward, heaving the injured to their feet and half carrying them back towards the stairs. One soldier – an older man, perhaps in his forties – was gouting blood from a neck wound. He sagged against the men assisting him, then slumped to the floor.

Andromache watched as the pumping blood slowed, and the man died. Almost immediately other men crowded round him, unbuckling his breastplate and untying his greaves. Within moments the dead Eagle was merely another body, hauled unceremoniously back and left against the wall, so as not to encumber the living. The dead man had been flung on his back, and his head lolled, his vacant eyes staring up at her. Andromache felt suddenly light-headed, a sense of unreality gripping her. The clashing sounds of battle receded, and she found herself staring into the eyes of the corpse below. The difference between life and death was a single heartbeat. All that man’s dreams, his hopes and his ambitions, had been dashed in one bloody moment.

Her mouth was dry, and she felt the beginnings of terror clawing at the pit of her stomach.

Would she too be dead in a little while?

Would Helikaon fall, his throat slashed, his body stripped and discarded?

Her hands were trembling. Soon the enemy would sweep past the tiring defenders, and surge into the megaron. She pictured them running at her, their faces distorted with rage and lust. Strangely the image calmed her.

‘I am not a victim waiting for the slaughter,’ she said aloud. ‘I am Andromache.’

Kassandra came running from the queen’s apartments. ‘We need more bandages,’ she said.

Andromache reached out. ‘Give me the scissors.’ Kassandra did so, and Andromache hacked into her own full-length white gown just above the knees, cutting the material clear. Kassandra clapped her hands.

‘Let me help!’ she cried, as Andromache struggled to complete the circular cut.

The child took the scissors, slicing swiftly through the cloth. The lower half of Andromache’s gown fell away.

‘Do mine! Do mine!’ said Kassandra.

Andromache knelt by the child and swiftly snipped through the thin cloth.

Kassandra swept up the material and darted away. Andromache followed her back into the main rooms, then took up her bow. Returning to the gallery she hefted a quiver of arrows, and settled it over her shoulder.

‘Fear is an aid to the warrior,’ her father had said. ‘It is like a small fire burning. It heats the muscles, making us stronger. Panic comes when the fire is out of control, consuming all courage and pride.’

There was still fear in her, as she stared down at the battle in the doorway.

But the panic had gone.

The two hundred and twelve warriors of the Mykene stood patiently before the Temple of Hermes, awaiting the call to battle. There was little tension among them, even with the distant sounds of battle, and the screams of dying men echoing over the city. Some joked, others chatted to old comrades. Kalliades the Tall, his tower shield swung to his back, walked along a line of statues outside the temple doors, marvelling at the workmanship. In the moonlight they could almost be real, he thought, gazing up into the face of Hermes, the winged god of travellers. The face was young, little more than a youth, the wings on the heels beautifully fashioned. Reaching out he stroked his thick fingers across the stone. Banokles One Ear joined him. ‘It’s said they brought in Gyppto sculptors,’ said Banokles. ‘I had an uncle once who went to Luxor. They got statues there tall as mountains, so he said.’