David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

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.

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.