It was close to midday when they rode away. Banokles did not say goodbye or even look back. Kalliades watched as they cleared the crest of the pass. “Farewell, Banokles, my friend,” he whispered.
“I see them!” an archer shouted, pointing down the pass. Kalliades drew his sword and called his infantrymen to him. Far below he saw sunlight glinting from thousands of spears and helms.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE RELUCTANT GENERAL
Banokles was still angry as he led his small troop over the crest of the pass and down toward the wide flatlands below. After all they had been through together, why would Kalliades have treated him so curtly? It was hurtful, and it confused him.
The old nurse Myrine urged her horse alongside his. Untrained as a rider, she looked uncomfortable on Ennion’s bay mare, clinging with one hand to the reins, with the other to its mane. Her face was red with the effort of maintaining her balance. “Is it far to Carpea?” she asked.
“Yes,” Banokles told her.
“I don’t know if I can sit this horse for much longer. I have bad knees, you know. They pain me.”
Banokles didn’t know what to tell her. She was too old to walk to Carpea. “It’ll get easier,” he said, though he didn’t know if that was true. Wheeling his horse away, he rode back to where Justinos and Skorpios were bringing up the rear. “You know how far it is to Carpea?” he asked Justinos.
The big warrior shrugged. “A few days, I guess. Perhaps four. I didn’t count the traveling days when we set out.”
“Me neither.”
Skorpios spoke up. “Olganos says it will take us around three days.”
“I vote we put Olganos in charge,” Banokles said. “He seems to know what he’s doing.”
Justinos shook his head. “Too young. We’ll stick with you. The old woman looks ready to fall off the mare.”
“Bad knees,” Banokles said.
Skorpios touched heels to his mount and rode over to her. Banokles and Justinos followed. The youngster dismounted and held the reins of the mare while Myrine eased her right leg over the beast’s back until she was sitting side on. “Ennion’s horse is a gentle creature,” Skorpios told her. “She will not be startled or throw you. Is that easier on the knees?”
“Yes,” the old nurse told him, settling Obas more comfortably on her lap. “Thank you. You are a sweet boy.”
The afternoon sun was strong, but a cool wind was blowing through the mountains as they rode on. The land was wide and open, rising and falling through gentle wooded hills and gullies. High above Banokles saw a flight of geese heading north toward a distant lake. He had always liked geese, especially roasted in their own fat. His stomach churned.
The dark-haired young Prince Periklos brought Kerio’s mount alongside him as they approached a small wood. Banokles glanced at the lad. His pale tunic was edged with gold thread, and there was more gold in his belt than Banokles would earn in a season.
“We should find you a sword,” Banokles said, “or perhaps a long dagger.”
“Why? I could not defeat an armored foe.”
“Perhaps not,” Banokles said, “but you could slash off his balls as he killed you.”
Periklos grinned. It made him look even younger and more vulnerable. “I’m sorry about your father,” Banokles said. “People say he was a great man.”
The boy’s smile faded. “What will we do in Troy?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Will I even be welcome there? I have no lands, no army, no fortune.”
Banokles shrugged. “Neither have I. Maybe you could train to be a metalsmith. I always wanted to do that when I was young. Melt metal and bash it.”
“Not me,” the prince said. “They all become crippled. My father said that heating the ore makes the air bad. All the smiths lose feeling in their fingers and then their toes.”
“You are right,” Banokles said. “Never really thought of it before. Bad air, eh? Never heard of that.”
Periklos leaned in. “We have deep caves in the mountains where the air is really bad sometimes. People go into them to sleep and then just die. When I was small, some travelers took refuge in just such a cave. Five men and several women. A passer-by found them all dead and ran to a nearby village to alert the headman. They returned to the cave, but it was night, and they were carrying torches. The headman went into the cave, and there was a sound like thunder and a great brightness. The headman was hurled from the cave, his eyebrows and beard singed off.”
“Was he dead?” Banokles asked.
“I don’t think so. After that no one went near the caves. They say a fire-breathing monster lived there.”
“Maybe he liked the bad air,” Banokles offered.
Periklos sighed. “What is Troy like?”
“Big.”
“Do you live in a palace?”
“No. I did once. For a while, anyway. I have a house with my wife, Red.”
“You have children?”
“No.”
“Maybe Obas and I could stay with you. Myrine could cook.”
“The cooking sounds good,” Banokles said. “Red is a wonderful woman, but the food she prepares tastes like goat droppings. Except for the cakes, but then, she gets them from a baker she knows. Anyway, I expect Hektor will give you rooms in his palace. Have you met him?”
Periklos nodded. “My father likes him a lot.” His head bowed. “Liked him, I should say.” His expression hardened. “One day I will come back with an army, and I will kill every Idonoi. There will be nothing left of them. Not even memories.”
“Always good to have a plan,” Banokles said.
“What is your plan?”
Banokles grinned. “To get home and snuggle up to Red, put my head on the pillow, and sleep for several days. After getting drunk, of course.”
Periklos smiled. “I was drunk once. I crept into Father’s rooms and drank a cup of wine without any water. It was horrible. The room spun, and I fell. Then I puked. I felt sick for days.”
“You need to work at it,” Banokles told him. “After a while you find the golden moment. That’s what my father called it. All worries cease, all problems shrink, and the world just seems… seems happy.”
“What then?”
“Then the room spins, you puke, and you feel sick for days.”
Periklos laughed. “I shall never drink wine again. Even the thought of it makes my stomach tremble.” They rode in silence for a while, then Periklos said: “You seemed angry when you spoke to the officer in the pass. Why was that?”
“He used to be my sword brother. But when I offered to help him hold the pass, he refused.”
“Perhaps he didn’t want you to die with him. I spoke to some of the Kikones. One of them was an officer at the palace. He said they were there to fight to the death.”
Banokles shook his head. “Kalliades will have a plan. He’ll outwit the enemy. He always does.”
“If you say so,” Periklos said.
Banokles heeled his horse forward and headed it up toward the top of a low hill. Periklos was just a boy and knew nothing of the skills of Kalliades. Even so, the lad’s pessimism nagged at him. Banokles had seen the Idonoi horde. No way could a few defenders hold them for long.
Lost in thought, he rode over the crest of the hill and straight into a large group of some fifty cavalrymen, their faces smeared with paint.
Banokles swore and drew both of his swords.
Kalliades was once more back on the Penelope, a fresh wind filling the sail. Piria was beside him, staring back at a black pig struggling in the sea. Her expression was one of concern.
“Can he make it?” she asked.
“He will outlive us both,” Kalliades told her.