David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

“Come and see,” she said. They walked together into Astyanax’s room, where the red-haired boy was awake and fretting, anxious to go out to play. Naked, he squirmed from the small bed and, dodging around his young nurse, ran out onto the terrace, his chubby arms and legs pumping as he tried to escape.

The nursemaid called out to him in vain, then Dios said firmly, “Astyanax!”

The child stopped instantly at the deep male voice and turned back to look at his uncle. His mouth open, he stared at Dios in wonder.

Dios picked the boy up and swung him around high in the air. The child gurgled, then screamed with delight, his piercing cry echoing in their ears. Dios, with no sons of his own, grinned at the joyous reaction from the boy. As he put him down, Astyanax reached up his arms to be spun around again.

“He’s a brave one,” Dios said. “Truly his father’s son.”

He swung the boy again, higher and higher. Watching their noisy play, Andromache did not see Kassandra quietly come onto the terrace. When she spotted the girl, she turned to her with a smile. Kassandra stood with her hands behind her back, her face half-hidden, as usual, by her long black hair. She wore a drab dark robe, unbelted, and her feet were bare.

“Kassandra, I’ve not seen you for days. You wanted to speak to me?”

Dios put the boy down and went to embrace his sister, but she moved away from him into the shade of the building.

“You tried to stop me going to Thera,” she said to Andromache, ignoring Dios and the child. Her voice was trembling.

“Only immediately, while there is a war on,” Andromache told her. “Once the Great Green is safe again, you can go to the Blessed Isle if you still wish to. There is plenty of time. You are only fourteen.”

“There is not plenty of time,” the girl said angrily. “I must go there. I have no choice. Father is right, Andromache—you are always trying to interfere in other people’s lives. Why don’t you leave me alone?”

Andromache said, “I am only trying to keep you safe, Sister.”

Kassandra drew herself up, and when she spoke, the shrillness had gone from her voice. “You cannot keep other people safe, Andromache,” she said gently. “You should know that by now. Have the last few years taught you nothing? You could not save Laodike or Kalliope. You cannot guard this boy from the world’s hurt.” She gestured at the child, who stood silent, staring at the girl with wide eyes. “You cannot keep his father safe on the Great Green.”

“No, I cannot,” Andromache said sadly. “But I will try to save those I love. And I love you, Kassandra.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed, and she said, “Mother tells me you loved her, too.” Then she swung on her heel and left the room.

A cool breeze was blowing through the Rhodope Mountains, shimmering the long grass of the Thrakian plain and whispering through the tops of the trees that flanked the high hills beyond.

Hidden beyond the tree line, Banokles sat on his mount and waited, along with a thousand other riders of the Trojan Horse. On the plain below fifteen hundred Trojan soldiers appeared to be preparing for a midday halt, clearing areas for cookfires. Three hundred Thrakian cavalry were with them, along with some two hundred archers. Banokles had little interest in strategy. Either the enemy would march into the trap or it wouldn’t. It didn’t matter much to the big warrior. If not today, then they would crush the rebels tomorrow. Or the next day.

He glanced at the rider to his left, the slim, yellow-haired Skorpios. The man had removed his helm. He was unnaturally pale, and there was a sheen of sweat on his face. Banokles looked along the line. Everywhere there were signs of nerves and fear. He couldn’t understand it. We are the Trojan Horse, he thought. We don’t lose battles. And Skorpios was a fine fighter and a superb horseman. So what was he worried about?

It was a mystery, and Banokles did not like mysteries. He promptly put all thoughts of Skorpios from his mind. There were more important things to think about.

For one, he was hungry. The food wagons had not reached them, and there had been no breakfast. That was intolerable to Banokles. No one should be asked to fight a battle without breakfast. The wagons that had come over the high pass had carried spare swords and a supply of arrows. This, while welcomed by those soldiers whose blades had been ruined by the battles of the last few weeks, had been a disappointment to Banokles. Supplies of cheese and dried meat had run out, and the men had eaten nothing but crushed oats soaked in water.

An itch began in Banokles’ armpit. That was especially irritating, as the armor worn by Trojan Horse riders was intricate: small, overlapping bronze disks, like fish scales, that covered the chest, belly, and lower throat. It was impossible to reach inside and scratch.

Banokles’ horse shifted under him, then tossed its head. Idly he patted the beast’s black neck. “Steady, Arse Face,” he said.

“By the gods, why don’t they come?” said another nervous man to his right, a heavyset warrior with a carefully trimmed trident beard. Justinos dragged his helm clear, then pulled a cloth from his belt and wiped the sweat from his shaved head. Banokles did not know how to answer him. How in Hades would he know why the enemy hadn’t arrived? “I hate this bastard waiting,” Justinos added.

“We should have had a better breakfast,” Banokles said.

“What?”

“Those oats make a man fart all day. Red meat before a battle. That’s how it should be.”

Justinos stared at him for a moment, then donned his helm and turned away.

Glancing along the line of riders, Banokles saw Kalliades dismount and walk to a tall tree. He removed his sword belt and helm and climbed up through the branches, seeking a clear view of the northern slopes. It was days since they had spoken, and even then it had been only a few words concerning where to picket the horses. Kalliades was an officer now and spent little time mixing with the men. Even at Banokles’ wedding the previous spring he had seemed distant, withdrawn.

He had never recovered from the death of Piria. That was what Red said. Kalliades had closed himself off. Banokles didn’t understand it. He, too, had been saddened by the girl’s death, but in equal measure he had been happy to have survived the fight. Hektor had rewarded them with gifts of gold and appointed them to the Trojan Horse. With the gold Banokles had bought a small house and persuaded Red to join him there. It had taken some doing.

“Why would I marry you, idiot? You’ll only go and get yourself killed somewhere.”

But he had worn down her resistance, and the wedding had been joyous.

Banokles loosened his saber in its scabbard. Kalliades climbed down from the tree and spoke to his aide. Word was passed along the line.

“They are coming.”

Banokles leaned forward, trying to see through the trees. He could make out the lower slopes of the Rhodope Mountains but as yet could see no enemy infantry. On the plain the Trojan soldiers were moving hurriedly to form battle lines, bumping into one another in an appearance of panic. He saw Hektor riding along the front line on a pale horse, his armor of bronze and gold gleaming in the afternoon sunshine.

“You think the supply wagons will have gotten through by now?” Banokles asked Skorpios.

The blond warrior paused in the act of donning his helm and turned to gaze at him. “How would I know? And why would I care?” he answered. “Any moment now we are going to be surrounded by blood and death.”

Banokles grinned at him. “But after that we’ll need to eat.”