The Hittite - Ben Bova [79]
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.
8
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