The Hittite - Ben Bova [69]
Ahead of us the Trojan chariots were wheeling and careening in a melee of killing and bloodlust. All semblance of order and control was gone now. The beach was too narrow for organized maneuvers, each chariot was operating on its own. The armored noblemen didn’t step down from their chariots this day; they fought from inside them, spearing Achaians while their charioteers drove the maddened horses deeper into the camp.
There was little dust in the air, there on the sandy beach. In the distance I could see the boats of Agamemnon, with their proud golden lions emblazoned on their prows. The Achaians seemed to be making a stand there, of sorts. Other boats were already burning. Giant Ajax stood huge and grimacing on the prow of his own boat, hurling benches and paddles down on the Trojan chariots.
I led my men toward Agamemnon’s boats. I could see a mass of women huddled against the side of a boat, practically in the lapping waves of the sea. My sons must be there, I thought. With Aniti. Terrified. Awaiting death.
We cut our way through the Trojan footmen, heading toward that boat. A ragged line of Achaians was forming there, behind their mantall shields. I heard Odysseos’ high-pitched battle cry from somewhere in the struggle. Trojan chariots were milling about, the warriors jabbing at the Achaians with their long spears.
Like a machine we marched toward the boat and the chariots attacking it. We were a wall of shields, with bristling spears taking the blood of any man foolish enough to come near us. A chariot wheeled about, the warrior in it looking surprised at the sight of us advancing upon him. His charioteer urged the matched pair of roans at us, but they balked at our spear points. He swerved them to our right and I led my men into a charge. We killed the closer horse and slammed into the chariot with our shields. I myself dispatched the warrior with a spear thrust to his unprotected side. The charioteer leaped out of the chariot and ran away into the milling, roaring, fighting mass.
With our backs to the boat’s curving black hull, we joined the defensive line and killed any fool who came within the length of our spears. But their sheer numbers forced us back, slowly, inexorably, until my feet were splashing in the water.
The women were behind us, screaming and wailing. The Trojan chariots dared not approach us as long as we held our line of shields with our blood-soaked spears leveled. Even the footmen kept their distance, pelting us with javelins and arrows. Two more of my men went down. It was only a matter of time before we were all killed.
And then a roar shook the camp.
“Achilles!”
“The Myrmidones!”
The Trojans looked to their right, their faces white with sudden fear. I urged my men forward and the footmen before us melted away. As we rounded the prow of the boat I saw down the beach that a formation of chariots was charging against the Trojans. Standing in the foremost chariot was a man in splendid golden armor who could only have been Achilles.
The Trojans ran. They broke before the spearpoints of Achilles and his Myrmidones and ran like mice. Footmen scrambled back over the palisade. Chariots raced for the gate. One of the Trojan warriors tried to rally the chariots and make a stand but it was useless: Hector himself could not stop the sudden panic that raced through them.
“It’s Achilles!” said a joyful voice. I turned and saw Odysseos standing beside me, his helmet and armor grimed with dust and blood, his shield split and battered, a broken spear in his free hand.
“Achilles has saved us,” Odysseos said gratefully.
But the battle was not yet over. The retreating Trojans were still hurling arrows and javelins at us as they scrambled up the rampart. A chariot raced past us and I recognized Hector standing in it, spattered with the blood of his victims. He half-turned and looked straight at me.
The world seemed to slow down. Even the roar and groans of battle dwindled as if my head had been