The Hittite (19 page)

I slept fitfully that night, my dreams filled with visions of Helen and Aniti, Hector and Achilles, all in a confusing, troubling whirlwind. I awoke with the sun. The morning dawned bright and windy.

Although the single combat between Hector and Achilles was what everyone looked forward to, still the whole army prepared to march out onto the plain. Partly they went because a single combat between champions can degenerate into a general melee easily enough. Mostly they went to get a closer look at the fight.

Odysseos came to me as my men were tugging on their leather jerkins and strapping their helmets under their chins.

“I want you and your Hittites to stand close behind my chariot,” said the King of Ithaca to me. “If a battle arises you must follow my chariot.”

“I understand, my lord,” I said. Then I added, “But we could be starting to fell trees for the siege towers. There’s plenty of timber on the other side of the river.”

“Not today,” Odysseos said. “If all goes well, we may not need your towers.”

I had no choice but to accept his decision.

Virtually the entire Achaian force marched out through the gate and drew itself up, rank upon rank, on the windswept plain before the camp’s sandy rampart. By the beetling walls of the city the Trojans were drawing themselves up likewise, chariots in front, foot soldiers behind them.
Swirls of dust blew into the cloudless sky and quickly dissipated. I could see pennants fluttering along the battlement of the city’s walls. I even imagined I saw Helen’s golden bright hair at the top of the tallest tower, by the Scaean Gate.

Odysseos ordered us to stand at the left side of his chariot. “Protect my driver if we enter the fray,” he said. So I stood with my men, each of us clasping our heavy shields that extended from chin to ankle. Five plies of hides stretched across a thin wooden frame and bossed with iron studs, our shields would stop almost anything except a spear driven with the power of a galloping chariot behind it.

Poletes was up on the rampart with the slaves and
thetes
, straining his old eyes for a view of the fight. He would interrogate me for hours this night, I knew, dragging every detail of what I had seen out of my memory. If either of us still lives after this day’s fighting, I told myself.

As I stood on the windy plain, squinting into the morning sun, a roar went up among the Trojans. I saw Hector’s chariot, pulled by four magnificent white stallions, kicking up a cloud of dust as it sped from the Scaean Gate and drove toward the front of the arrayed ranks of Trojan soldiery. Hector stood tall and proud, his great shield at his side, wearing the gleaming bronze armor I had seen him with the previous night in the armory. A clutch of spears stood in their holder on the chariot, their points aimed heavenward.

For many minutes nothing more happened. Muttering started among the Achaian footmen. I glanced up at Odysseos standing in his chariot. The King of Ithaca merely smiled tolerantly. Achilles was behaving like a self-appointed idol, making everyone anxious for his appearance. I thought that it would have been a good trick against any opponent except Hector. That man will use the time to study every rock and bump on the field, I said to myself. He is no child to be frightened by waiting.

At last an exultant roar sprang up among the Achaians. Turning, I saw four snorting, spirited, midnight-black horses, heads tossing, groomed so perfectly that they seemed to glow, pounding down the earthen ramp that cut across our trench. Achilles’ chariot was inlaid with
ebony and ivory, and his armor— only his second-best since Hector had stripped Patrokles’ dead body— gleamed with burnished gold.

With his plumed helmet on, there was little of Achilles’ face to be seen. But as his chariot swept past us I saw that his mouth was set in a grim line and his eyes burned like furnaces.

He did not stop for the usual prebattle formalities. He did not even slow down. His charioteer cracked his whip over the black horses’ ears and they plunged forward at top speed as Achilles took a spear in his right hand and screamed loud enough to echo off the walls of Troy: “PATROKLES! PA . . . TRO . . . KLES!”

His chariot aimed straight for Hector’s. The Trojan driver, startled, whipped his horses into motion and Hector hefted one of his spears.

The chariots pounded toward each other. Both warriors cast their spears simultaneously. Achilles’ struck Hector’s shield and staggered him. He almost tumbled out of the chariot, but he regained his balance and reached for another spear. Hector’s shaft struck between Achilles and his charioteer, splintering the wooden floor of the chariot.

A chill went through me. Achilles had not raised his shield when Hector’s spear drove toward him. He had not even flinched as the missile passed close enough to shave his chin. Either he did not care what happened to him or he was mad enough to believe himself invulnerable.

The chariots swung past each other and again the two champions hurled spears. Hector’s bounced off the bronze shoulder of Achilles’ armor. Again he made no move to protect himself or to avoid the blow. His own spear caught Hector’s charioteer in the face. With an awful shriek he toppled over backward, both hands pawing at the shaft that had turned his face into a bloody shambles.

The Achaians shouted and surged a few steps forward. Hector, knowing he could not control his horses and fight at the same time, jumped lightly from his chariot, two spears gripped in his left hand. The horses raced on, their reins slack, heading back for the walls of the city.

Achilles had the advantage now. His chariot drove around Hector, circling the stranded prince of Troy again and again, seeking an advantage, a momentary dropping of his guard. But Hector held his massive
hourglass-shaped shield firmly in front of him and pivoted smoothly to present nothing more to Achilles than a bronze plumed helmet, the body-length shield and the greaves that protected his lower legs.

Achilles cast another spear, but it went slightly wide. Hector remained in place, or seemed to. I noticed, though, that each time he wheeled to keep his front to Achilles’ chariot, he edged a step or two closer to his own ranks.

Achilles must have noticed this, too, and jumped out of his chariot. A great gusting sigh of expectation went through both armies. The two champions now faced each other on foot, at spear’s length.

Hector advanced confidently toward the smaller Achaian. He spoke to Achilles, who spat out a reply, but they were too far away for me to make out their words.

Then Achilles did something that wrenched a great moaning gasp from the Achaians. He threw his shield down thumping on the bare ground, then unstrapped his helmet and tossed it atop the shield. With the wind tousling his shoulder-length locks, he faced Hector with nothing but his body armor and his last remaining spear.

The fool! I thought. He must actually believe he’s invincible. Achilles gripped his spear in both hands and faced Hector without a shield.

Dropping the lighter of his two spears, Hector drove straight at Achilles. He had the advantage of size and strength, and of experience, and he knew it. Achilles, smaller, faster, seemed to be absolutely crazy. He did not even try to parry Hector’s spear thrusts or run out of their reach. Instead he dodged this way and that, avoiding Hector’s spear by scant finger widths, keeping his own spear point aimed straight at Hector’s eyes.

It is a truth that in any kind of hand-to-hand combat you cannot attack and defend yourself at the same time. The successful fighter can switch from attack to defense and back again in the flick of an eye. Hector knew this; his obvious aim was to keep the shieldless Achilles on the defensive. But Achilles refused to defend himself, except for dodging Hector’s thrusts. I began to see a method in Achilles’ madness: his greatest advantages were speed and daring. The heavy shield would have slowed him down.

He gave ground and Hector moved steadily forward, but even there I saw that Achilles was edging around, maneuvering to place himself between Hector and the Trojan ranks, moving Hector closer and closer to our side of the field.

I saw the look on Achilles’ face as they sweated and grunted beneath the hot sun. He was smiling. Like a little boy who enjoys pulling the wings off flies, like a man who was happily looking forward to driving his spear through the chest of his enemy, like a madman intent on murder.

Hector realized that he was being maneuvered. He changed his tactics and tried to engage Achilles’ spear, knowing that once he made contact with it his superior strength could force his enemy’s point down, and then he could drive his own bronze spearhead into Achilles’ unguarded body.

Achilles danced away from Hector’s spear, his long hair flowing, then dashed slightly forward. He feinted and Hector followed the motion of his spear for a fraction of an instant. It was enough. Launching himself completely off his feet like a distance jumper, Achilles drove his spear with all the strength in both his arms into Hector’s body. The point struck Hector’s bronze breastplate; I could hear the screech as it slid up along the armor, unable to penetrate, and then caught under Hector’s chin.

The impact knocked Hector backward but not off his feet. For an instant the two champions stood locked together, Achilles ramming the spear upward with both his hands white-knuckled against its haft, his eyes blazing hatred and bloodlust, his lips pulled back in a feral snarl. Hector’s arms, one holding his long spear, the other with his great shield strapped to it, slowly folded forward, as if to embrace his killer. The spear point went deeper into his throat, up through his jaw, and buried itself in the base of his brain.

Hector went limp, hanging on Achilles’ spear point. Achilles wrenched it free and the Trojan prince’s dead body slumped to the dusty ground.

“For Patrokles!” Achilles screamed, holding his bloodied spear aloft.

A triumphant roar went up from the Achaians, while the Trojans seemed frozen in gaping horror.

Achilles threw down his bloody spear and pulled his sword from its scabbard. He hacked at Hector’s head once, twice, three times. He wanted the severed head as a trophy.

The Trojans screamed and charged at him. Without a word of command the Achaians charged, too. In the span of a heartbeat the single combat turned into a wild, brawling battle.

My men and I ran after Odysseos’ chariot. I couldn’t help but think that the very men who had hoped so dearly that this fight between the two champions would end the war were now racing into battle themselves, unthinking, uncaring, driven by bloodlust and blind hatred.

Then there was no more time for thought. My sword was in my hand and enemies were charging at me, blood and murder in their eyes. My iron sword served me well. Bronze blades and spearpoints chipped or broke against it. Its sharp edge slashed through bronze armor. We caught up with Odysseos’ chariot. He and several other mounted noblemen had formed a screen around the body of Hector as Achilles and his Myrmidones stripped the corpse down to the skin. I saw the brave prince’s severed head bobbing on a spear and turned away in disgust. Then someone tied his ankles to a chariot’s tail and tried to fight through the
growing melee and force his way with the body back toward the Achaian camp.

Instead of being unnerved by these barbarities the Trojans seemed infuriated. They fought with a rage born of desecration and battled fiercely to recover Hector’s body before it could be dragged back behind our rampart.

While the struggle grew wilder I realized that none of the Trojans were protecting their line of retreat or even thinking about guarding the gate from which they had left their city.

I rushed to Odysseos’ chariot and shouted over the cursing and clanging of the battle, “The gate! They’ve left the gate unprotected!”

Odysseos’ eyes gleamed. He looked out toward the city walls, then back at me. He nodded once.

“To the gate!” he called in a voice that roared across the plain. “ To the gate before they can close it.”

Screaming his blood-curdling battle cry, Odysseos fought his way clear of the struggle around Hector’s corpse, followed by two more chariots. I ran after them, slashing my way clear until there was nothing between us and the walls of Troy but empty bare ground.

“ To the gate!” I heard another voice bellow, and a chariot clattered past, its horses leaning into their harnesses, nostrils blowing wide, eyes white and bulging.

Within moments Hector’s corpse was forgotten. The battle had turned into a race for the Scaean Gate. Odysseos led the Achaians who were trying to get there before the Trojans could close it. The Trojan army streamed toward it so they could get inside the protection of the city’s walls before the gate was closed and they were cut off.

Achilles was back in his chariot, cutting a bloody path through the Trojans, hacking with his sword until the foot soldiers and chariot-riding noblemen alike gave him a wide berth. Then he snatched the whip from his driver’s hands and lashed his horses into a frenzied gallop toward the city gate.

I saw Odysseos fling a spear into the chest of a Trojan guarding the gate. More Trojans appeared in the open gateway, graybeards and young
boys armed with light throwing javelins and bronze swords. From up on the battlements that flanked the gate others were firing arrows and hurling stones. Odysseos was forced to back away.

But not Achilles. His long hair streaming in the wind, he drove straight for the gate, oblivious to the bombardment from above. The rear guard scattered before him, ducking behind the massive wooden doors. From behind, someone started to push them closed. Seeing that the gap between the two doors was too small for his chariot to pass through, Achilles jumped to the ground, his bloodstained great spear in his hands, and charged at the gate while his charioteer tried to regain control of the frightened horses. Achilles met a hedgehog of spear points but dived at them headlong, jabbing and slashing two-handed with his own spear.

Odysseos and another chariot-mounted warrior rushed up to help him, their great shields strapped to their backs to protect them from neck to heel from the stones and arrows being aimed at them from above. I saw the main mass of the Trojans not far behind us, a wild tangled melee battling with the rest of the Achaians, fighting to reach the protection of the city’s walls.

I pushed my way between Achilles and Odysseos’ chariot, hacking with my sword at the spears sticking out from the gap between the doors. I grabbed a spear with my right hand and pulled it out of the hands of the frightened boy who had been holding it. Flinging it to the ground, I reached for another. I grasped the spear and pulled on it, dragging the graybeard holding it until he was within reach of my sword. He saw the blow coming and released the spear, raising his arms over his head and screaming, as if that would protect him. I hesitated for just a heartbeat, but that was long enough for the old man to drop to his knees and scrabble away from me.

A teenager thrust his spear at me. I dodged it and swung at the youth, but there was little purpose in my swing except to scare him off. He backed away slightly, then came at me again. I did not give him a second chance.

The struggle at the gate seemed to go on endlessly, although common sense tells me it took only a few moments. The rest of the Trojans came
up, still battling furiously with the main body of the Achaians. Chariots and foot soldiers hacked and slashed and cursed and screamed their final cries in that narrow passage between the walls that flanked the Scaean Gate. Dust and blood and arrows and stones filled the deadly air. The Trojans were fighting for their lives, desperately trying to get inside the gate, just as the Achaians had been trying to escape Hector’s spear only a few days earlier.

Despite our efforts the Trojans still held the gate ajar and kept us from entering it. Sometimes a few determined men can keep an army at bay, and the Trojan rear guard at the gate had the determination born of sheer desperation. They knew that if we forced that gate their city was finished: their lives, their families, their homes would be wiped out. So they held us at bay, new men and boys taking the place of those we killed, while the main body of their army slipped through the open doors, fighting as they retreated to safety.

Then I saw the blow that ended the battle. Still fighting at the narrow entrance to the gate, I had to turn to face the Trojan warriors who were battling their way to the doors in their effort to get inside the city’s walls. I saw Achilles, his eyes burning with battle fury, his mouth open with wild laughter, hacking any Trojan who dared to come within his spear’s reach. Up on the battlements one of the Trojans leaned out with a bow in his hands and fired an arrow toward Achilles’ unprotected back.

As if in a dream, a nightmare, I shouted a warning that was drowned out in the cursing, howling uproar of the battle. I pushed past a halfdozen furiously battling men to reach Achilles as the arrow streaked toward its target. I managed to get a hand on his shoulder and push him out of the way.

Almost.

The arrow struck him on the back of his leg, slightly above the heel. Achilles went down with a high-pitched scream of pain.