Off to the right he could see a group of Thrakian prisoners being questioned by Trojan officers, Kalliades among them. Banokles watched, and though he could not hear what was said, he could tell by the surly faces of the captured men that they were giving little away. Hektor did not allow torture of prisoners, which seemed to Banokles to be foolish in the extreme. Most men would tell you anything you desired to hear if their hands were being held in a fire. And how could a warrior like Hektor be so squeamish? Banokles had seen him ripping into the enemy like an angry lion. The minds of generals and princes were a mystery to Banokles.
The supply wagons arrived just after dark, and Banokles joined a group of warriors around a cookfire. Bald Justinos was there, and Skorpios, his long blond hair tied in a ponytail that hung between his narrow shoulders. Three of the men were unknown to Banokles, but the last was a slim, round-shouldered rider named Ursos. He and Banokles had trained together back in Troy.
“Another victory,” Ursos said, as Banokles sat beside him. “Beginning to lose count now.”
“Lost my horse,” Banokles grumbled. “Old Arse Face was a good mount.”
“Could be him cooking there,” Ursos muttered. “No meat on the wagons. Just more damn oats.”
As they were talking, a rider came thundering into the camp. Men scattered before him. The man dragged his horse to a halt close to where Hektor was sitting with his officers and leaped down.
“This looks important,” Ursos said, rising and walking across to listen to the message.
Banokles remained where he was. The night was cool, the fire warm, and the smell of roasting meat intoxicating.
Ursos returned a little while later and slumped down. “Well,” he said, “that robs today’s victory of any value.”
“Why?” Banokles asked.
“Achilles has invaded with the entire Thessalian army and has taken Xantheia. Rhesos has been driven back to Kalliros in the mountains. Perhaps worse, Odysseus has taken Ismaros, and enemy galleys now block the sea.”
“Doesn’t sound good,” Banokles agreed.
Ursos stared at him. “You don’t know where these places are, do you, or why they are important?”
Banokles shrugged. “Friendly cities or enemy cities. That is all I need to know.”
Ursos shook his head. “Xantheia guarded the Nestos River. Our supply ships travel that river, up to the old capital at Kalliros. With the city taken, we’ll get no supplies. And if Kalliros falls, we’ll have armies on three sides of us. North, south, and east.”
“And we’ll crush them all,” Banokles said.
“I appreciate your optimism. But we started out with over eight thousand men. We now have around three thousand. The enemy gets stronger every day, Banokles. With Ismaros in enemy hands, the seas are clear for Odysseus. His fleet could sail to Carpea and sink our barges. Then there’ll be no way home.”
Banokles didn’t feel like arguing. He had already forgotten the names of the cities Ursos had so carefully described. As far as he was concerned, they had won a battle, had eaten good red meat, and were being led by Hektor, the greatest general on the Great Green. They would fight on and win. Or they would fight on and lose. Either way there was nothing Banokles could do about it, so he pushed himself to his feet and went back to the cookfire for another slab of horse meat.
The interviews with the prisoners had yielded little Kalliades did not already know. The men were Idonoi tribesmen from the cities of the far west. The defeat would set them back for a while but do nothing to end the rebellion.
He wandered away from the captives and stood staring up at the Rhodope Mountains. There was still snow on the peaks, and dark rain clouds were gathering.
How many more battles could they be expected to win? Four hundred eleven men had been killed that day, with more than two hundred suffering wounds that would keep them from fighting for some while. Of the rest there were few men who hadn’t suffered some injury, from bruises and sprains to concussions and minor breaks of the toes or fingers.
Western Thraki and the lands of the Idonoi were lost to them now and would not be retaken. Beyond the line of the Rhodope Mountains the land was seething with discontent. To the south only the broad river Nestos and the citadel at Kalliros prevented the enemy from sweeping into eastern Thraki and cutting off the Trojans’ escape route. And now Achilles had taken Xantheia.
A chilly wind began blowing down from the snow peaks, fluttering Kalliades’ cloak. When Hektor had presented him with the garment a year earlier, on the day he had become an officer, the cloak had been as bright as a sunlit cloud. Now it was a murky gray, stained with dried blood. An aide brought him a plate of meat. Kalliades thanked the man and walked away to sit on a fallen tree. He had little appetite and ate mechanically. Some distance away he saw Banokles sitting beside a fire, chatting to the lantern-jawed Ursos.
Kalliades missed the big man’s company. He thought then of Piria and sighed. Three years now, and still her face haunted him. The weight of grief at her loss had never abated, and Kalliades knew he could not face another such burden. Better, he decided, never to love and to avoid comradeship.
The moment of decision had come at Banokles’ wedding. He had been standing by the far wall of the garden, watching the dancing and listening to the wine-fueled laughter. Banokles had been capering around, drunk and happy, Big Red watching him fondly. Kalliades had suddenly felt like a ghost, separate and disembodied. The joy of the occasion had floated around him, never touching his senses. He had stood quietly for a while, then slipped away, walking back along the broad avenues of Troy. A whore had approached him, a thin woman with yellow hair. Kalliades had allowed her to lead him to a small house that stank of cheap perfume. As if in a dream, he had removed his clothing and climbed with her to the bed. She had not taken off her yellow gown, merely hitched it up so that he could enter her. At some point he had whispered: “Piria!”
“Yes,” the whore had replied. “I am Piria for you.”
But she was not, and Kalliades had shamed himself by bursting into tears and sobbing uncontrollably. He had not cried since he was a small child, sitting beside his dead sister. The whore had moved away from him then, and he had heard her pouring wine. He had struggled to stem the flow of tears, but he did not know how.
In the end the whore had leaned over him. “You need to go,” she had said. The lack of compassion in her voice cut through his sorrow. Reaching into his pouch, he had pulled out a few copper rings and tossed them onto the bed. Then he had dressed and walked out into the sunlit city.
Now, sitting on the fallen tree, he heard someone approaching. He swung around and saw Hektor. The prince was carrying two cups of watered wine, one of which he passed to Kalliades before sitting down alongside him. “A cold night,” he said. “Sometimes I feel summer has no place in these mountains. As if the rocks hold winter deep within them.”
“It always seems cold after a battle,” Kalliades said. “I don’t know why that should be.”
“Nor I. Somehow, though, it seems appropriate. I take it the Idonoi prisoners gave nothing away?”
“They did not. Nor did I expect them to. Once they realized they faced no pain, their courage flowed back.”
Hektor gave a weary smile. “You are not alone in requesting torture, Kalliades. Many of my officers have urged me to harsher treatment.”
“They are right. As I recall, last year we found one of our scouts with his hands cut off and his eyes put out. The rules of behavior you insist upon are costing us lives.”
“Yes, they are,” Hektor agreed, “but I will not allow my actions to be swayed by the enemy’s malice. It falls to generals to look beyond the events of today or this season. Why do you think the rebellion has gathered such pace?”