Stella Gemmell - Fall of Kings

“Helikaon!” he cried.

Helikaon turned and smiled. “Polydorus, it is pleasant to see you alive.”

“Have your brought an army, my friend?”

“No. I bring only my sword.”

“Then you bring us hope. There is little enough here now.”

Helikaon nodded. Looking down, he saw horse droppings on the floor. He frowned. “Horses?” he asked.

Banokles grinned. “There are a few left. I’ve had them locked away somewhere safe.”

“Who commands here?” Helikaon asked. “Lucan?”

Banokles shook his head and grunted. “Lucan fell at the Scaean Gate. Tough old bastard. Thought he’d live forever.”

He told Helikaon curtly, “You’re the only king on this side of those doors.”

But Helikaon shook his head. “You have fought for this city all summer, General. You know every man here and what he is capable of. You command here. I am just a foot soldier, Banokles. My sword and my life are yours.”

Banokles sighed and shot a glance at Kalliades, who threw his head back and laughed. The laughter rang around the megaron, and men turned their heads at the unaccustomed sound. “Tell us your plan, then, General,” Kalliades asked his friend, grinning.

“There are thousands of the bastards, most of them Mykene veterans,” Banokles replied. “Not one soft-bellied puker among them. We’re just a hundred. When the thunder rolls, they’ll have the better of us. But by the bloody spear of Ares we’ll make them pay for every step they take!”

The hundred defenders stood in line three deep facing the doors. In the front two lines were the last of the Eagles. Front and center was Helikaon, wearing the armor of a Royal Eagle, with Banokles and Kalliades. Behind them stood Polydorus. Out in front, on either side of the doors, were two Thrakian archers.

Andromache was on the gallery watching them, bow in hand. She remembered the last time the four men had been together in this megaron, when Banokles and Kalliades had fought for the Mykene and Helikaon and Polydorus had defended the stairs. She wondered at the irony of life and the tyrannical whims of the gods that had brought them together again.

She could see Helikaon’s profile and saw him turn his head briefly to glimpse her. She wondered if this would be her last sight of him alive. She knew he had come there with the intention of rescuing her. Yet once here, he could not leave friends and comrades to fight on without him. In the heat of the battle he would forget about her and her boys. For a moment only she felt sorry for herself. To be in his arms once again and then to have him snatched away by duty and loyalty seemed so cruel. Then she hardened her heart. Helikaon must follow his duty, and he would live or die. Her duty this day was to fight until the battle was lost, then escape with her sons somehow down the cliff. She thought again of Kassandra’s words, “ We will meet again, Sister, before the end, ” and took courage from their message.

The ax heads tearing relentlessly at the heavy oak doors finally had cut a hole. She could see movement on the other side. Then she saw Banokles step forward from the front line, hefting a lance, and with astonishing accuracy and strength throw it through the gap. There was an explosion of curses on the other side, and the Trojans all cheered. The cry was taken up all around the megaron: “Banokles! Banokles! BANOKLES!”

Then the hole in the door was hacked wider, and warriors started forcing their way through. The two archers loosed arrow after arrow into them. Six Mykene fell before their comrades managed to get as far as the Trojan line. At first they only climbed in one at a time, and the men on the front line dispatched them with ease. Then they started pouring in and succeeded in releasing the metal bars. The ruined doors groaned open.

Andromache watched with pride and fear as the small band of Trojan fighters held back the forces of Agamemnon. Despite the power of the Mykene attack, the slaughter was terrible in their ranks. Helikaon, Kalliades, and Banokles fought with cool efficiency, each armed with shield and sword. Every attacker fell swiftly to their blades, and for a moment Andromache gave in to hope. Then she looked through the doors and saw the ranks of the enemy, all armed to the teeth, ready to replace their fallen comrades. All hope drained away.

She looked around. The narrow Trojan line across the megaron was protecting the stone staircase and the gallery. If it was pushed back even a few paces, the enemy could reach the side of the gallery, throw ladders up, and get behind the defenders. The Mykene would not make the mistake they had made the last time and be drawn by arrogance to attack the stairs while neglecting the gallery. Agamemnon, a cool thinker, would have made sure of that.

The women archers had been ordered to protect the gallery. With them were some civilians, traders and farmers, and a number of old soldiers well past their fighting years who were charged with pushing away the ladders and guarding the women.

The brute strength of the Mykene advance soon started to take its toll on the exhausted defenders, and the line was being forced back at each end. Andromache saw Trojans falling, to be replaced instantly by their comrades behind. Yet slowly the two wings of the line were being bent back. Only the center held.

“Be ready!” she shouted, and the women raised their bows. Ladders were passed from hand to hand over the heads of the Mykene, and then she heard one bang against the gallery wall. Half a dozen arrows slammed into the first warrior to climb a ladder.

Below them one wing of the defending line had been pushed back farther. “Hold the line!” someone bellowed. A group of old soldiers hurried down the stone stairs, bellowing their battle cries, to lend their support to the collapsing wing.

More and more ladders were raised, and soon Mykene warriors were climbing onto the gallery. Andromache saw the civilians attacking them with swords and clubs, fighting without skill but with desperation. Still the women stood their ground, raining their shafts into the enemy.

The defenders below had been forced back to the stone staircase, and Andromache saw a few Trojan soldiers fleeing up the stairs. Then she realized they were racing to defend the gallery.

Kalliades left Helikaon and Banokles fighting side by side on the stairway and sprinted up the steps toward her. As he passed, he snarled, “Retreat now, Andromache!” Armed with two swords, he slammed into the advancing Mykene.

Andromache shouted to the women to retreat to the queen’s apartments. One was already dead, but several wounded archers limped past, including little Anio, blood streaming down one arm. The others fought on, loosing arrow after arrow into the Mykene. Two were cut down. Penthesileia stood her ground alone, then fell with a dagger in her side.

Andromache grabbed her bundle of arrows and turned to flee—and saw two Mykene warriors stalking toward her, cutting off her path of retreat. The first lunged his sword at her. Instinctively she blocked the blow with her bundle of arrows, then grabbed an arrow in her fist and stepped in. With a cry she plunged it into the eye of the attacker. He fell, clutching the shaft.

The second warrior raised his sword for a killing blow. Then he fell to his knees, hit on the head from behind by a man wielding a club. The Mykene, dazed, twisted around and rammed his sword into the belly of his attacker. Andromache picked up the first Mykene’s sword and hacked at the second man’s neck until he was still. She stepped over the bodies to reach her rescuer, who was slumped against the wall, thick blood staining the front of his clothing. She knelt down.

“Remember me, lady?” the man whispered, blood trickling from his mouth.