“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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE BATTLE OF CARPEA
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.
So it was that he sat back on his tall white horse, surrounded by his elite bodyguard of three hundred heavily armored foot soldiers while his Thessalian warriors and their Idonoi allies charged at the Trojans on the plain of Carpea. It was the perfect battleground, wide and flat, no high hills for the enemy to hold, no woods for them to escape into. Only grassland and the sea beyond. Even the small settlement offered no secure hiding places. Carpea was not even a stockaded town.
In most circumstances, Peleus knew, Hektor would have withdrawn to more suitable ground against an army well nigh four times his strength. But he could not on this occasion, for drawn up on the beach were the barges he needed to escape from Thraki.
A lesser commander would have withdrawn anyway, knowing his cause was lost against twelve thousand enemy soldiers. But Peleus had guessed correctly that Hektor’s arrogance would lead him to risk all on one last great battle. Only, now he had no woods to hide his cavalry, no time to plan elaborate traps. His forces, less than three thousand men, were fighting for their lives.
Peleus began to feel gleeful as the battle progressed. From his vantage point he could see the Trojan line being forced back. The enemy was fighting mostly on foot, though a small force of Trojan cavalry was riding on the right, holding back the Idonoi horsemen who sought to cut in and attack the enemy flanks.
Hektor had adopted a phalanx formation, three blocks of some nine hundred men each, armed with long spears and tall shields. It was a fine defensive maneuver for an outnumbered army. Peleus knew it might even have succeeded against a foe with only twice the advantage in numbers. But the Thessalian force was far greater than that. At any moment now one of the three Trojan lines would crack, and his soldiers would stream around the enemy, forcing them in on themselves, limiting their ability to move and fight. That was when the slaughter would begin. And that time was not far off.
How wonderful it would be to see Hektor’s head on a spike. The bliss of the moment would wash away the gall he had tasted these last few years.
Peleus had always been proud of his son Achilles and gloried in his achievements. He was renowned as the son of Peleus the king, and the triumphs of the son had shone upon the father. Then had come a change, unwelcome and bitter. The brilliant Achilles, master of war, had begun to radiate his own light. And somewhere along the way the fame of Peleus dimmed, save that he was father to the hero.
The words should have meant the same: son of Peleus or father to Achilles. But the emphasis had changed. This had nagged at Peleus. With each new victory Achilles was growing more famous. The conqueror now of Xantheia and Kalliros, the liberator of Thraki.
In a bid to wrest back his rightful share of fame Peleus had led his own army against the city of Ismaros. Odysseus had been given the task of blockading the port. Then the Ithakan king had led a night raid, his men scaling the walls and opening the gates for Peleus and his Thessalians. The city had been taken. And whom did men acclaim?
Odysseus, the Sacker of Cities. Cunning Odysseus. Clever Odysseus.
But not today. This triumph would be for Peleus the king, the battle king, the conqueror of the mighty Hektor.
Some way ahead the Trojan phalanx on the left looked about to break. Peleus watched the scene with eager eyes. His triumph was coming, and the taste of it was strong.
Then he saw Hektor, in his armor of bronze and silver, surge to the front of the faltering line. His men gathered around him, their courage renewed.
A little longer, then, to wait. All the better, Peleus thought. The anticipation will make the victory more sweet.
His breastplate was tight and chafing at the neck. In the last few years his weight had been growing steadily. It was good for him to come to war, he realized. He could become strong again and lean as he once was. Like his children.
He thought then of Kalliope. She was slim, and he had so loved to hold her to him when she was a child. So like her mother.
But just like her mother, she had turned on him. Treacherous, deceitful girl. Had she not been raised in privilege, wanting for nothing? And how did she repay him? By flaunting herself naked and seducing him. Yes, that was what she had done. Turned him into a Gyppto, lusting after his own flesh.
It should have come as no surprise. All women were sluts. Some could disguise it better than others, but they were all the same.
Now she was dead. Which proved that the gods were just.
Kovos, the general of his bodyguard, approached him. The man was a veteran of many battles and a good soldier, but he had little imagination. “We should move forward, lord. They are ready to crack.”
“Not yet, Kovos,” Peleus told him.
“If we hurl ourselves at the center, we will break through. The Trojans are exhausted.”
Yes, and I would have to move in with you, Peleus thought, close to the slashing swords and plunging spears.
“We move when I say,” he told the general. Kovos moved back to stand with his men.
He should be grateful to me, Peleus thought. He does not have to face death. But then, he is a stupid man without the brains to appreciate his good fortune.
Beyond the battle Peleus could see the huts and shacks of the fishing village and the barges pulled up on the beach behind, the barges that would now allow his army to cross the narrow straits into Dardania. Peleus had feared he would be forced to ride those ghastly, low-lying boats. But now, basking in the glory of the defeat of Hektor, he would be able to return to Thessaly in triumph and let Achilles lead his men across the sea.
Returning his gaze to the battle, he saw that the losses endured by his men were heavy. Apart from his bodyguard the Thessalian force was armored lightly in padded leather breastplates that offered little protection against the heavy spears of the Trojan Horse. But then, breastplates of bronze were expensive and men were cheap. The Idonoi were also being cut down at a rate of three to every one Trojan. The tribesmen were less well protected even than his own men. Many of them had no armor at all.