by Diana Gainer
From the back of the Wilúsiyan army, Paqúr determined that the Ak'áyans' gate was the weakest point. "We must break that door," the prince called out, sending Powolúdama back to the citadel for axes and fire. Paqúr shouted after the disappearing charioteer, "We will burn their camp today, by the will of the Divine Horse!"
aaa
The T'eshalíyan prince still stood on the roof of his hut, watching the progress of the battle, when Patróklo returned. Beneath him, Ak'illéyu saw his T'eshalíyans prepare to fight to save their own lives. Chewing his thin mustache at the sight, he neither ordered them to drop their gear nor to move forward with it.
"What is wrong with you?" the young T'eshalíyan wánaks asked, when Patróklo climbed to Ak'illéyu's side. "Have you heard some news from home? Is my father, Péleyu, dying? That would be something to grieve for. Or can it be that you are worried about these Ak'áyan dogs? If they die by their tents, it will be their own fault."
"Prince Ak'illéyu," Patróklo said, taking the younger man's shoulders in his hands. "Listen to me. The situation is desperate. No one shares this madness, this anger of yours. What good can possibly come of it, if the other Ak'áyans are massacred? I swear Péleyu is not your father and T'éti is not your real mother. You are the son of the cold sea and the cliffs!"
Ak'illéyu violently threw off Patróklo's hands. "Traitor!" he spat, reaching for his dagger.
But Patróklo was prepared and grasped his foster brother's forearm. "Lead us into battle. We are fresh and the Assúwans are tired. We could easily push them all the way back to Tróya. Please, brother, be reasonable. Is your pride worth so very much?"
Ak'illéyu's face contorted with pain. "Pride? No, not pride. But what can I do? If I go home, I will look weak with the great Agamémnon my enemy. Every pirate in Ak'áiwiya will strike at T'eshalíya then. But if I fight, I break my word and lose areté. Then it is my rank that is at risk. The men will not follow an oath-breaker. Tell me, Patróklo, what can I do?"
Patróklo struck his thighs with his hands, shouting aloud in frustrated rage. "Send me, Ak'illéyu, that is what you can do. Send me in your place! I took no oath not to fight."
Ak'illéyu sighed, looking long and hard at Patróklo. "All right, brother. I will take your advice. Go, lead the men."
Patróklo gripped his prince's shoulder with a strong hand, his eyes flashing. "I will go at once." He climbed down from the roof, and entered the prince's hut to collect his armor.
Ak'illéyu followed, watching in anguish. "You know it was Agamémnon who started this," he said, inside the ramshackle dwelling. "I do not want you to think I am to blame."
"Yes, yes," Patróklo responded quickly. "But your status is not as threatened as you think. When T'eshalíya saves the Ak'áyan army, no one will remember anything else."
Ak'illéyu smiled without warmth. "Afterward, perhaps Agamémnon will give 'Iqodámeya back to me."
"I am sure of it," Patróklo answered him fiercely, unwrapping his armor from the protecting fleeces.
"No, take my armor," Ak'illéyu insisted and he helped his foster brother with the feathered crown of a northern prince, the heavy corselet with bronze plates, strong greaves of stiffened leather, and a round, ox-hide shield. The qasiléyu took his own spear and sword.
"Ai, Patróklo," Ak'illéyu said when his friend was ready. "The two of us alone could tear down all of Tróya's towers." Both men laughed harshly, thoughts of war making their hearts beat faster.
aaa
Paqúr and Qántili began to shove a large, jagged stone up the path of rammed earth that led to the rampart gate. Soldiers alongside them held up their shields to protect their leaders. Others came from the ranks and strove with the princes to move the heavy rock, calling on the gods. With a crash, the stone struck the wooden door. The wood groaned and bent inward, but the gate remained standing. Inside, across the back, light wooden bars gave way and one of the leather hinges tore.
"Apúluno, help us destroy this unholy gate!" Paqúr called and, with his men, moved back for a second attempt. Again, he and his men turned the big rock against the gate, chanting the name of the god of entrances, "Apúluno! Apúluno!" This time the planks broke, the bars splintered, and the leather hinges gave way.
Pieces of the gate fell with a clatter and Qántili leaped into the opening. "Die, Ak'áyans!" he shouted and impaled the first, unlucky soul with his blood-thirsty spear.
"Burn the tents!" Paqúr called to the Assúwans. In a thin stream, Wilúsiyans and allies entered the Ak'áyan camp. Again, the ground shook beneath the feet of the running men, dropping them to their knees. Out in the harbor, choppy waves were rising. Any boats lucky enough to escape the Assúwans’ flames would be devoured by the angry water. "Poseidáon is with us!" the Wilúsiyans cried.
"Tarqún!" Sharpaduwánna shouted triumphantly, as his countrymen streamed forward, once again. This time the Lúkiyans pushed back the rampart's defenders and scaled the wall. Only the desire to stop and strip the dead slowed the Assúwan advance into the encampment. Ak'áyan boatmen and captive women, terrified of death, rushed to the southern side of the camp to clamber over the wall at the end away from the battle, hoping to escape with their lives. Archers abandoned the north wall en masse, turning to the huts for fresh supplies of arrows, which they soon cast soaring into the oncoming enemy warriors.
Idómeneyu was among the fleeing bowmen. But, in his flight, Meneláwo caught his arm and stopped him. "Remember your areté," the Lakedaimóniyan roared. "Better to die defending your honor than to live like swine! Any man who turns tail will be food for dogs. Get your gear and come on."
Without a word, Idómeneyu took up a brace of arrows from beside his hut and hurried after the wánaks of Lakedaimón. Despite the Kep'túriyan's gray-streaked hair, his arms were strong, and though his heart was no longer in it, he would not shame himself in front of his friend. From the cover of Meneláwo's shield, he shot arrow after arrow into the massed sons of Dáwan. Bronze breastplates did not stop either his slender missiles or Meneláwo's spear. Nevertheless, the two Ak'áyans were forced backward, step by step, by the implacable advance of their enemies.
The young prince Dapashánda saw one of his countrymen die and turned his spear against Idómeneyu, while Meneláwo's attention was diverted. The Kep'túriyan dodged the thrust. But, behind the southern wánaks, one of his qasiléyus caught the spear below the diaphragm. It easily pierced his leather armor and he tumbled to the earth to die, screaming and clutching the imbedded shaft.
The Tróyan prince exulted. He could not resist the bronze helmet that rolled from the head of the fallen Kep'túriyan and reached for it. Meneláwo sent an avenging spear through his outstretched arm. Dapashánda drew back with an anguished cry and staggered away from the fight, cradling his shattered limb. Ainyáh helped him out of the thick of the fighting, away from the encampment, and back to the river's edge. The wounded man huddled among a mounting number of casualties, in a Tróyan ferry boat, groaning as blood poured into his lap.
Ainyáh slowly worked his way back into the encampment and to Qántili's side to give advice. "By the gods," said the Kanaqániyan, "cool your battle frenzy for a moment before we are all killed. Among the tents here, we are outnumbered. The main part of our force is still outside the rampart. It is dangerous to split your forces in the face of an unknown enemy. Who knows how long their northern ally will sit in his tent? If Ak'illéyu rejoins the fight, those of us on this side of the wall will have no chance to survive. Pull back, assemble our leaders, and make a plan."
Winded, aching in every limb, Qántili listened, although it was not his usual way. "All right, Ainyáh. I will do as you say, for once. Find Paqúr and Sharpaduwánna. We will hold a quick council just outside the rampart." But, as Ainyáh and Qántili pushed toward the broken gate, a pale-eyed giant came to stand in their path.
"Prepare to die!" Aíwaks bellowed, brandishing a blood-darkened spear.
Ainyáh shouted back, "You will be food for Tróyan dogs tonig
ht!" When Aíwaks swung around toward the Kanaqániyan, carelessly exposing his chest, Qántili thrust his own stained lance at the big man. The Tróyan's bronze struck leather and metal, but did not pass through the armor. Aíwaks fell back a step, gasping for breath, the wind knocked out of him, but his blood was not spilled.
Qántili began to move away, still seeking the opening in the earthen wall. When the Tróyan turned his head, Aíwaks bent and picked up a stone that had kept a nearby tent prop in place. With a curse on his lips, the tall qasiléyu hurled the rock. Passing just over the rim of Qántili's shield, the stone caught the prince in the neck. The prince was spun around by the force of the blow. He dropped his spear and shield and collapsed in the ashes of an extinct campfire.
Triumphant shouts rose from the Ak'áyans, who had been backed against their huts, and they sprang forward, in hopes of finishing off the Tróyan champion. But loyal Wilúsiyans quickly gathered around their fallen leader, protecting him with their round shields. Behind them, Ainyáh lifted Qántili to his shoulder, with an effort, and bore him out of the battle, crying out in anguish against the perfidy of Wilúsiya's guardian deities.
Ainyáh found Powolúdama beyond the walled encampment, his arm roughly bandaged in a piece of cloth torn from the hem of his own calf-length robe. The charioteer took charge of the Tróyan prince so that Ainyáh could return to the struggle. Powolúdama commandeered the nearest chariot and drove it to the riverbank, somewhat awkwardly, with his wounded arm. Qántili lay slumped by his feet, his eyes closed, groaning hoarsely. By the Sqámandro River, the driver stopped and helped the prince down from the cart to the grassy bank. Powolúdama splashed water on the prince, and washed the dust and blood from his face, whispering prayers to Dáwan and Poseidáon for his safety.
At length, Qántili took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He lay still a short while longer, his breathing labored, then slowly, achingly, got up on his knees. A shudder ran through his body and he vomited blood. The prince lost consciousness again and fell, face down, on the dry grass.
aaa
'Iqodámeya crouched in the darkness of Agamémnon's tent, covering her ears with her hands. While the sounds of battle grew loud and warriors were close around the tent, the captive woman made no sound. Trembling overtook her limbs and she dug through Agamémnon's chest of booty. As the fighting veered away and the sounds of clashing bronze grew dimmer, she crept from the tent, clutching a dagger.
Toward the southern edge of the Ak'áyan encampment she went, passing screaming women and dying men. Two women had scaled the rampart and 'Iqodámeya recognized 'Ékamede's and Wíp'iya's braids flying behind them as they ran toward the east. Away from the citadel of Tróya they fled, away from the scene of battle and toward Mount Ida's wooded foothills. 'Iqodámeya hesitantly turned in that direction, halting her steps just before the earthen wall. Wringing her hands in indecision, she thought of the wolves that lurked in those forests, and of the tusked boars that ran wild beneath the canopy of leaves.
As she hesitated, Lúkiyan archers caught sight of the fleeing women alone on the plain. The southern warriors raced after them, shouting to each other of their good fortune. With tears in her eyes, 'Iqodámeya turned back to the tent of the high wánaks. She covered her face with her hands so that she would not see her companions dragged to the banks of the Sqámandro River by their long hair, and bitterly she wept. Captives of the Ak'áyans no more, 'Ékamede and Wíp'iya would now be raped a second time, and allotted to the Wilúsiyan allies as booty. Thinking of their fate, 'Iqodámeya pressed her dagger to her ribs, over her pounding heart. Trembling, her eyes squeezed shut, she tried to steel herself to take her own life.
In Mak'áwon's tent, Dáuniya's hands grew clammy with fear as the roar of the battle rose in her ears. But she continued to tend the wounded Ak'áyans brought there in increasing numbers. The surgeon was no longer washing the men’s injuries with care. He only tossed a little flour on each wound to help slow the bleeding and wrapped it with a bit of cloth. His captive gave each patient a few sips from the store of poppy jugs, enough to return them to the battle, less aware of their pain. Between patients, Mak'áwon and his woman put the little flasks to their own lips, to keep up their strength and spirits, their eyes on the blur of events outside the tent.
Fire appeared within the circuit of the Ak'áyan wall, carried from the citadel beyond the river or drawn from the Ak'áyans' own hearths. Assúwan torches threatened the rough shelters from one end of the camp to the other. His spear in hand, Aíwaks took up a position on the roof of his own hut, lunging forward to run any man through who approached with a torch.
Ainyáh pushed through the crowd toward the big qasiléyu, the rage of battle overwhelming the Kanaqániyan. He had seen his heroic brother-in-law fall and the desire for revenge consumed him. Saliva foamed at his mouth and his black eyes flamed. "Bring fire!" the commander roared to his men, his heart pounding against his ribs as if it were a caged animal trying to escape. Assúwans came forward with burning torches, one after the other, only to meet their deaths on the big Ak'áyan's lance.
Big, blue-eyed Aíwaks fought on without resting, though the muscles in his spear arm burned and sweat poured over his body. Ainyáh moved closer, little by little, and with a tremendous sword blow sliced through the giant's spear shaft, severing the bronze point. Aíwaks howled in despair, but he continued to wield the headless shaft, shoving away his attackers with brute strength. The big man was only driven from his rooftop perch when the Assúwans tossed one torch after another onto the little building. The fire quickly caught and, fanned by Wilúsiya's constant wind, soon engulfed the shelter. A shout of triumph came from the Assúwans at the sight, cries of anguish from the Ak'áyans.
Ak'illéyu and his armed qasiléyu came from the leader's hut to see the dark smoke rising. "Go, Patróklo! Quickly, call the troops." Patróklo ran shouting among his men while Ak'illéyu harnessed his horses to a chariot. The T'eshalíyans soon marched forth, ravenous wolves hungry for blood. Raising their spears, the T'eshalíyans cried, "Díwo!" Against the beleaguered tents they rushed, slaughtering surprised Wilúsiyans from the rear, giving much needed encouragement to the rest of the weary Ak'áyans. With the speed and vigor of his fresh men battling the exhausted Assúwans, Patróklo's army soon drove the enemy forces away from the burning hut. Leaving Aíwaks and his men to douse the fire with dirt shoveled from the ground with their shields, Patróklo led the T'eshalíyans on to the next center of the battle.
Before his onslaught, the Assúwans backed away, but not in rout. They withdrew close to the Ak'áyan rampart and regrouped, shoulder to shoulder, to stand against Patróklo. The T'eshalíyans' spears and swords were sharp and little bloodied, their shields still whole. With a great clash of bronze on bronze, they shattered the flagging Assúwan line, driving them back toward the banks of the Sqámandro River outside the encampment.
Chariots were few when the Assúwans began their retreat toward the river. Fewer still survived to attempt the crossing, the wheels knocked to pieces on the uneven ground, the axles cracked beneath the weight of the many dying horses. Like seedlings caught in a sudden storm, the Assúwans' last carts were swept away before the T'eshalíyans.
aaa
Beyond the approaching tumult, by the river, Qántili lay on his side, struggling for breath and spitting blood. Powolúdama removed the prince's heavy helmet and plated armor. He carried water continually in shaking hands to bathe Qántili's head. Panting and sweating, the prince turned to lie on his back, staring up at the sky.
"Apúluno? Is it your falcon?" Qántili whispered hoarsely, blinking.
Powolúdama's face was grim. "Owái, the man sees a god," he lamented. "Death must be near." From a Wilúsiyan boatman the charioteer took a poppy flask and pressed it to his leader's lips. Then, believing he had done all he could, Powolúdama sat beside the prince, his head in his hands.
After a long silence, Qántili opened his eyes and rubbed them with a grimy hand. A moment later, he st
ruggled to a sitting position with Powolúdama's help. Rubbing the bruise where the stone had hit his collarbone, the prince winced. "I thought I saw the gates of 'Aidé. But the god is with me."
"Are you all right?" his charioteer fretted, noting his commander's pallor.
Qántili stood, his knees wobbling. "Yes, yes." He lost his balance and sat again, suddenly. After another attempt, he managed to maintain his footing. He looked around, seeing clearly at last. "Help me get my armor back on. Where is my chariot?"
Powolúdama laughed in relief at the sight of the prince so restored. He helped Qántili with his helmet and breastplate, gave him water to drink, and the poppy juglet to tie at his belt. Seeing Sharpaduwánna approaching with the retreating Assúwans, the two remounted the chariot. Toward the oncoming Ak'áyans, Powolúdama sent the horses running, shouting to the god of the earthquake.
While groups of Mírans fled back across the river in disorder, Sharpaduwánna roared curses at his pursuers and his allies alike. Above the men's heads, dark clouds rumbled and distant lightning flashed. At this sign of the storm god's support, the Lúkiyans stopped their headlong flight and turned around to tear into the battle-hungry T'eshalíyans who had been pursuing them. Many Wilúsiyans began to follow suit, but stopped here and there to strip the bronze gear from the bodies of the dead.