When they walked back out into the moonlight, Helikaon stared out over the starlit sea. Gershom said: “Are you ready to talk about what you learned?”
Helikaon took a deep breath. “Ismaros has fallen, as has Xantheia,” he said. “That leaves only Kalliros. The fortifications there are not strong. So we must assume it will be under siege or lost by now.”
“But Hektor is in Thraki,” Oniacus said. “He never loses. He will crush the enemy.”
“According to Oniganthas, Hektor has won several battles, but more and more enemy forces are pouring in from Thessaly and Mykene lands. The last reports said Hektor was in the Rhodope Mountains, facing three enemy armies.”
“He will fight them and defeat them,” Oniacus insisted.
“Perhaps,” Helikaon agreed, “but small victories will mean nothing. Thraki is lost. I think Hektor will try to get his army back to Carpea and the barges, then cross to Dardania. It is his only hope of survival.”
“What about the fleet of Menados?” Gershom put in.
“Either they are heading into the Hellespont to intercept Hektor or they are planning to raid Dardania. If it is the former and Hektor’s barges attempt to cross the channel unprotected, they will be sunk.”
“You will forgive me for pointing out,” Gershom said, “that there are a number of assumptions here. Hektor may not be heading for Carpea. He may have gone to the aid of Kalliros. And even if you are right, he may already be at Carpea and preparing to make the crossing. There is no certainty that we will be in time to help him.”
Helikaon walked away from them both, leaving them arguing. He needed time to think.
If he sailed for Carpea and the Mykene admiral Menados attacked Dardania, the slaughter would be great. If he sailed home to defend his lands and the Mykene destroyed Hektor and the Trojan Horse, the war was lost.
And there was another nagging thought, one that he had no intention of sharing with his lieutenants. The fortress of Dardanos could withstand a siege unless the enemy was sure that the city gates would be opened to them. Agamemnon was a cunning enemy and had already used traitors once against Troy, when he had bribed Priam’s son Agathon to rebel against him. What if he had agents within Dardanos?
He thought then of Halysia. The last time the Mykene had attacked, they had raped and stabbed her and murdered her son before her eyes. Will you see her put through that again? whispered a voice from his heart.
Not a man given to passionate outbursts or foul oaths, Helikaon suddenly swore long and colorfully. His two companions fell silent. “There is no rational way to reach a decision,” he said at last. “There are too many imponderables. Menados may already be in the Hellespont, or he may have landed an army in Dardania. Hektor may be fighting at Kalliros or battling his way to the coast. Then there are the fleets that Odysseus used to attack Ismaros. Where are they? We know nothing.”
“Then we are starting from the right place,” Gershom said, glancing back at the moonlit temple.
Banokles edged his gray clear of the trees and rode out onto the downward slope. Behind him came Justinos, with the young Prince Periklos sharing his horse. After that came the nurse Myrine and the child Obas, riding Kerio’s mount. Skorpios and Ennion followed them. Banokles glanced back. Skorpios was carrying his bow. Ennion, his head wound still seeping blood through the stitches, looked all in, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed.
Some way ahead Banokles saw Olganos dismount just before the crest of a low hill and creep to the top, peering out over the open land beyond.
The midday sun blazed down from a clear sky, but a cool wind was blowing through the mountains. Banokles was sick of being in command, and a dull headache was throbbing at his temples. He had no idea where they were heading, save that Olganos had talked of a high pass. Banokles recalled traveling through such a place but would not be able to find it again if his life depended on it.
Which, of course, it did.
The throbbing increased. Banokles pulled off his helmet, allowing the breeze to cool his sweat-drenched fair hair.
Justinos drew alongside. “Ennion is suffering,” he said. “That blow may have cracked his skull.”
Banokles donned his helm and heeled the gray into a run up the hillside. Reining in alongside Olganos’ mount, he crept up to crouch alongside the young soldier.
“See anything?” he asked.
Olganos shook his head. “I think we are close to the pass,” he said, pointing to the towering snow-capped mountains forming a massive wall across their path. “We have to cross that dry valley and the hills beyond. There are stands of beech and pine along the way that could hide an army.”
Banokles peered down into the valley. There was no sign of horsemen or soldiers. However, as Olganos had said, there could be men hidden from view within the trees. Olganos voiced the same concern. “Once we move into the open,” he said, “we will be spotted by any enemy scouts within the tree line.”
“You have a plan?” Banokles asked hopefully.
“We don’t have a choice. We must reach the pass.”
Banokles was relieved. He didn’t want any more choices. “Good,” he said. “Can we make it by dusk?”
“On fresh horses, yes. Ours are tired, and once we come out of the valley, the land rises all the way to the pass.”
Rising to his feet, Banokles waved the others forward, then mounted his gray and led them over the crest.
As they approached the valley floor, the heat began to rise. The horses plodded on, heads down, their hooves raising small plumes of dust, sweat streaking their flanks. The valley was dry and hot, with little vegetation.
The going was slow, and the afternoon wore on. Then Skorpios called out. Banokles looked back to see that Ennion had fallen from his mount. Calling a halt, Banokles swung the gray and rode to where the wounded man was struggling to rise. Banokles dismounted and walked over to him, taking hold of his arm and hauling him to his feet. Ennion’s eyes were glazed, his face ashen. Suddenly he doubled over, fell to his knees, and vomited.
Banokles stepped away from him, then looked around at the small group. The horses had little more in them, and the men were exhausted. “How far to the pass now?” he asked Olganos.
The young man shrugged. “In the state we are in? Not before nightfall, I’d say.”
Off to the right was a thick stand of beech trees. “Ride in and see if you can find water.”
“If we don’t reach the pass ahead of the Idonoi…”
“I know what might happen,” Banokles snapped. “Now go!”
Olganos rode off. Banokles helped Ennion to his feet and lifted him to his horse. “Do not fall off again. Hear me?”
“I hear you,” the warrior mumbled.
“Let’s get into the trees,” Banokles told the others. “It will be cooler there.”
Olganos found a hidden glade and led the group to it. There were boulders of white marble and flowering bushes sprouting between the stones, their crimson blooms trailing down into a wide rock tank full of cool water. The tank was fed by a stream that gushed down over the boulders in a succession of tiny waterfalls. There was good grass there, and the glade was of such beauty that Banokles could almost believe that nymphs and dryads were hidden close by.
The old nurse limped to the waterside and eased herself down, splashing her face and hair, then drinking deeply. The two princes went with her. Justinos and Skorpios helped Ennion from his horse and sat him down with his back to a tree. Banokles filled his helmet with water and took it to the injured man. Ennion drank a little. His face was still gray, but his eyes were less glazed. Banokles examined the man’s head wound. The long cut to his skull had been stitched, but the flesh was now swollen and discolored. Head wounds were always problematic. Banokles once had known a man who had taken an arrow through the temple and survived. Another soldier, a tough, burly man, had been struck by a fist in a tavern fight and had died on the spot.