The Hittite - Ben Bova [78]
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