by Diana Gainer
Qántili called to them, "Do not stop now, men. Leave the booty until we have burned their camp. Attack now or die! I will kill any man I see running away." He tore the belt from the nearest corpse and used it as a whip, lashing at those who were slow to leave war's trophies.
Patróklo, in Ak'illéyu's painted chariot, slaughtered several Mírans who were continuing their headlong flight. The northerner whipped his horses into a run, leaving his men behind to meet the Lúkiyans. The T'eshalíyan qasiléyu outran the fleeing warriors of Míra and, turning on them, drove them back toward the camp. There, between the rampart and the river, T'eshalíyans took revenge for the earlier deaths of their fellow Ak'áyans, toppling heads, crushing ribs, and piercing unprotected limbs.
Patróklo came upon a Míran chariot that had lost a wheel, one of its horses dead and the other whinnying shrilly, the mare unable to stand on her broken legs. In the battered remains of the royal cart, a one-armed man sat with his knees to his chest. Weaponless, in shock, he crouched low, bathed in his own blood. Patróklo drove his spear through the man's exposed cheek, shattering his teeth, then jerked at the spear to toss the body down from the cart. Life passed from the Míran prince as he hit the earth.
"Take the breast-plates," Patróklo shouted to his rear. "And carry the helmet back to my tent."
But his T'eshalíyans were now far behind and did not hear the command. Lúkiyans in scattered groups came swirling around Patróklo's chariot. Unafraid of death, a fierce southern warrior caught hold of the cart's rim and reached for the qasiléyu, trying to pull him down to the ground. Others targeted the T'eshalíyan's wheels, aiming their spears at the spokes. Patróklo was hard-pressed to keep them off and his driver exerted all his skill to escape their hands. Sharpaduwánna saw the knot of warriors, from a distance. Turning his own heavy cart toward the T'eshalíyan, Sharpaduwánna called upon his men, "Lúkiyans, kill the Ak'áyan's horses!"
Patróklo heard and saw the southern king coming. Turning to face Sharpaduwánna, Patróklo urged his driver to charge straight for the Lúkiyan king. As the two carts came close to one another, each warrior thrust his spear at his enemy. Patróklo's struck Sharpaduwánna's charioteer below the navel. The man fell backward from the cart, loosing the reins. Doubled up on the spear, he screamed and quivered, his life draining from him.
Sharpaduwánna's lance caught Patróklo's right-hand horse behind the shoulder. The animal neighed and reared. The other horse shied and strained to escape. The yoke creaked and the chariot threatened to fall apart as the traces tangled. The stricken horse collapsed, panting its life away.
"Automédon!" Patróklo cried, gripping the chariot basket for all he was worth. "Cut the dead horse loose!"
Patróklo's driver drew his only weapon, a dagger, from the short scabbard at his hip. Leaping down from the cart, he slashed at the harness. He freed the dead horse and called to the living one, grasping for the reins to halt the animal's wild movements.
Sharpaduwánna could not take advantage of the delay, as he was occupied with his own chariot, uncontrolled once his driver had fallen. "Tushrátta!" the southern king cried toward his rear. "Catch my horses!" A Lúkiyan officer jumped upon his king's nearest horse, pulling hard on the traces to stop the animal and its mate. When the mares were quieted, Tushrátta took his post in the cart, replacing the mortally wounded driver still writhing and wailing on the dark, damp ground, close by.
The din of the battle beckoned the T'eshalíyan qasiléyu and he directed his chariot toward more distant clumps of fighting men. Automédon managed to catch a Wilúsiyan mare to complete the T'eshalíyan's team. Across the fields, Patróklo continued to drive the Assúwans, back against the banks of the Sqámandro, slaughtering those whose weapons were shattered and lost. Fewer and fewer of Wilúsiya's warriors opposed him as he neared the riverbank.
Qántili directed his charioteer against the T'eshalíyan, enraged at the slaughter of his people. Shouting the battle-cry, the Tróyan readied his spear. The qasiléyu had lost his own spear, and his sword could not reach the onrushing cart. Unafraid, Patróklo hurled his dagger, catching Qántili's driver in the ribs. The injured man fell back into the mud. As the Tróyan prince struggled to regain control of his horses, Patróklo left his cart and took up a jagged stone. With this he smashed Powolúdama's forehead. Both the man's eyes burst from their sockets. Patróklo withdrew his sword from his scabbard just as Qántili, abandoning his panicked horses, met him to fight for possession of the driver’s body. Qántili caught the beaten head of his charioteer while Patróklo held onto one foot, each slashing at the other with the sword in his free hand. Red mud splashed up on their legs, sweat washing over their arms and faces.
The T'eshalíyan again won his fight, driving Qántili back. And Powolúdama was stripped of what little gear he had possessed in life. Patróklo tossed the man's bronze helmet into his chariot, the last Ak'áyan cart still intact. He turned again to combat, well isolated from his companions.
From behind, a Wilúsiyan foot-soldier caught the T'eshalíyan between the shoulders with a flat rock. The missile broke through no bronze-plated armor, and brought no blood. But it knocked the breath out of him and Patróklo grew dizzy from the blow. His sword now fell from his hand. His horses' hooves smashed and fouled the metal with mud and blood.
"Pant'ówo has killed you," the foot-soldier taunted, trotting behind the cart. The thought made him bold. The low-ranked man spurted forward and leapt up into Patróklo's chariot. He grasped the T'eshalíyan's shield, pulling backward with all his strength.
Patróklo, still stunned, gripped the rim of his cart with his right hand, clinging to the shield with his left. He stared with uncomprehending eyes at the unarmed Wilúsiyan who was grinning maniacally at him, still pulling backward on the shield, trying to jerk him down off the chariot and into the muddy field.
"Kill him!" Automédon shouted frantically, struggling with the mismatched horses. "What is wrong with you, Patróklo? Kill him!"
The Ak'áyan leaned backward, trying to maintain possession of his shield. The leather grip gave way and Pant'ówo fell away in the mud, the bronze-edged shield on his chest. He gasped and coughed and then laughed before regaining his sense and his feet. Looking about, he found a broken spear on the ground and took it up. Though less than half of the shaft's original length remained, the head was whole. And it was sharp.
Unarmed now and unprotected, Patróklo shouted to his driver, "Get us out of here!" The ground seemed to churn below him and he could not force his fingers to take hold of the dagger at Automédon's hip. Pant'ówo ran close behind and rammed his spear between the Ak'áyan's shoulder blades.
"Ai Díwo," Patróklo said, choking. He leaned forward, barely able to keep his feet in the moving chariot.
Automédon, beside him, caught the edge of his corselet with one hand, still holding the reins with the other. "Patróklo!" the charioteer cried in disbelief and horror. "By all the gods and goddesses, what has this Tróyan dog done to you?"
Still running, Patróklo's attacker pulled backward on the spear, tearing the point free. Patróklo collapsed in the chariot with a strangled cry, one sandaled foot dragging behind the cart on the ground. Automédon struggled to retain his hold on both the horses and his leader, shouting to the other T'eshalíyans scattered about the field to come to his aid.
Pant'ówo was left behind among the mass of bodies, as the chariot careened across the plain. "Crows will enjoy you tonight, Ak'áyan, not a Tróyan woman!" the foot-soldier exulted, as the chariot made its escape.
In a faint voice that only Automédon heard, Patróklo answered, "Ak'illéyu will feed you to the dogs for this."
In his panic, Automédon found he had come back to Qántili's battered cart and he screamed at the horses, realizing his mistake. But the Tróyan prince was faster. Seeing the blood pouring down his enemy's back, Qántili thrust his sword into Patróklo's exposed backside, the point driving through to the bladder in front. Patróklo tumbled from the chariot, screami
ng. On the ground he lay in silence, his limbs twitching. The Tróyan stood over the corpse and, setting his heel on the body, pulled the sword free. Qántili turned then to finish Patróklo's driver. But the horses had already carried Automédon away.
The Tróyan's eye fell on Meneláwo, coming forward on foot, trilling the battle-cry. The wánaks of Lakedaimón had seen Patróklo fall and rushed to protect the body. Slashing at the air with his blood-stained sword, he drove Qántili back and stood over the corpse, one foot on either side.
Pant'ówo had followed the Ak'áyan chariot over the field. Now he hopped about Meneláwo, laughing madly, flaunting Patróklo's shield. "I got your friend, I did!" the Tróyan shouted. "Better watch out for me."
Hoping that this show distracted Meneláwo, Qántili jumped forward with his dagger. It struck Meneláwo's shield, and tore through to slice across the Lakedaimóniyan's knuckles. Meneláwo hardly felt the blow through clouds left by poppy-tinged wine. He lunged forward with his sword, piercing Pant'ówo's throat, shoving the blade on through the man's neck. Pant'ówo collapsed, blood bathing his long, brown hair. Tróya's prince took hold of Patróklo's arm as he did so, and began to drag the corpse away. But, having disposed of one Tróyan, Meneláwo turned to deal with the other, raising a blood-washed sword. The two warriors stood on opposite sides of the T'eshalíyan corpse, brandishing their weapons and glaring at one another through opium-dimmed eyes.
"St'énelo! Diwoméde!" the Lakedaimóniyan wánaks called, glancing around. But no ally heard his call for aid, as Patróklo had crossed much of the field alone. Now Ainyáh came bearing down on the Lakedaimóniyan, his Lúkiyan allies close behind. Reluctantly, Meneláwo abandoned the dead T'eshalíyan.
As Ak'áiwiya's warriors swept toward the river again, in pursuit of the Assúwans, Meneláwo found himself beside his brother's tallest qasiléyu. "Come with me, Aíwaks," the Lakedaimóniyan called over the tumult. "Patróklo is dead. Help me bring his body back to Ak'illéyu."
Aíwaks remained stock still a moment. "Patróklo? Dead?"
"Yes. Come with me!"
The stunned giant followed Meneláwo back to where Ak'illéyu's friend lay in the mud, now stripped. As the Ak'áyans approached, Qántili had Patróklo's long hair in his hand, his sword raised.
"Quick!" Meneláwo cried. "Do not let the Tróyan behead him."
Qántili heard the shout and fell back as the giant and the Lakedaimóniyan rushed at him. Taking up the dead man's armor, Qántili hurried away with Ainyáh covering his retreat. The big qasiléyu of Sálami raised Patróklo's limp body to his shoulder and turned back toward the camp, shouting imprecations against Tróya. Behind him, Meneláwo struck out at any Assúwans who came near.
In sudden inspiration, Qántili tore off his own dented and muddied gear and donned what he had taken from Patróklo. The prince took another sip from the poppy flask tied to his sword-belt and laughed, throwing back his head. The dark bruise on his collarbone was clearly visible then and his eyes were rimmed with dark circles. But the prince was oblivious to them. Calling to his men to follow, Qántili hurled himself back into the melee. "Half the spoils of war for the man who captures Patróklo's body," he promised.
A Tróyan managed to loop his sword belt around the dead man's ankles, and dragged Patróklo's body backward a few steps, before the giant could stop him. But the Tróyan took only those few steps before an Ak'áyan spear crashed through his skull. T'eshalíyans rushed forward and regained their qasiléyu's body, pushing back the sons of Dáwan, until Patróklo's limp body was washed in blood.
aaa
Beyond the tumult of the battle, Ak'illéyu's charioteer stopped the horses. Bending their tired heads to the ground, the animals stood and panted, while Automédon bemoaned the fate of his fellow qasiléyu.
Beside the cart, a youthful Ak'áyan came up to catch Automédon's elbow. "You cannot both fight and drive. Take me with you."
Automédon gratefully gestured for the other to enter the cart with him. "Who are you?" he asked, for the slightly built warrior was so covered in mud and blood that the T'eshalíyan did not know him.
"Antílok'o," came the answer. "I will take the reins. Let us get back to the fight."
"Look there, Ainyáh," Paqúr called, pointing out Ak'illéyu's cart as it careened across the field once more. "That must be the only chariot left on wheels. We must get it from them."
The Tróyan prince did not hear when Ainyáh protested, but charged the chariot unafraid. The color left Automédon's face as he saw Paqúr coming. "Stop!" Automédon shouted. "Turn around. They are too strong for us, Antílok'o." The T'eshalíyan tried to turn the cart, yanking the right hand traces in, and holding them close to his waist. The horses fought against his control and each other, trying to toss their heads, whinnying shrilly.
Antílok'o cursed him and the two men struggled over the reins. "Worthless dog! What are you doing?" the young Mesheníyan demanded. "Let me drive."
"Aíwaks! Meneláwo!" Automédon cried, his voice high-pitched with fear. "Help us! Never mind that body. Save the living!"
Nearly overtaken by Assúwan warriors, Antílok'o hurled his dagger. Though the missile passed Paqúr's ear without touching him, the blade drove into the bowels of a lesser ranked man behind. Screaming, the injured soldier staggered back and fell. Paqúr sought revenge with his own knife, but it too missed its target. Antílok'o left the disputed chariot, Automédon vainly cursing and flailing the reins. The two princes drew swords and fought hand to hand, Tróyan and Mesheníyan. Antílok'o's blade splintered under the impact of repeated blows. Dropping the useless hilt and falling to his knees, he cried out and threw up his hands, thinking he was a dead man.
Meneláwo came to the Mesheníyan's defense, driving Paqúr backward with renewed fury. Aíwaks urged Antílok'o to his feet as the Lakedaimóniyan pursued his enemy. "Go back to the camp," Aíwaks told the young man. "Tell Ak'illéyu that his foster brother is dead. He will have to help us now." As the battle wound down around him, the young Mesheníyan ran obediently toward the rampart, tears coursing down his filthy cheeks.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
AK'ILLEYU
In the lengthening shadows of the Ak'áyan huts and tents, Antílok'o hesitated. "Ak'illéyu will surely kill me if I bring him this evil news," he told himself. Uncertain what to do, he stood and watched isolated men trying halfheartedly to restore order to the encampment. He recognized 'Ékamede and Wíp'iya following a low-ranked Argive. Their eyes were red and swollen from weeping and T'érsite was dragging the younger woman by one wrist. The whole place had a desolate air, even aside from the women's wailing. Stones from the many hearths were scattered about, everything strewn with a fine layer of ashes and splashed with dark blood, thin wisps of smoke still rising from the heart of the camp where huts and tents had formerly been burning.
"Owái," the young prince groaned. "Qálki was right. It is the end of the world. Agamémnon must have lied about his dream, after all. I will be dead soon regardless of what I do." Slowly, he dragged himself the rest of the way to the T'eshalíyan shelters.
Ak'illéyu was sitting on the roof of his hut when Antílok'o arrived. Shaking in his sandals, the youthful Mesheníyan called up to him. "Patróklo is dead and Qántili has your armor. By Díwo, I wish this had not happened…."
The northern wánaks leaped down from the hut, his eyes and mouth wide, unbelieving. He ran quickly to the rampart gate, where wounded Ak'áyans were straggling in, spattered with mud and blood. The T'eshalíyan strode about without direction, cursing Agamémnon and his own father, clenching his fists. Turning around to find Antílok'o right behind him, he took the young man's shoulder, as if to ask something.
"I am sorry," Antílok'o gulped, steeling himself for a blow.
Ak'illéyu's face contorted with pain and he fell to his knees. A great cry tore through him and he threw himself face down on the ground. He gripped his hair with both hands and rolled from side to side, howling. He rubbed dirt on his face and beat the earth with his f
ists. Like a woman, the prince scraped his face with his fingernails, keening loudly.
Antílok'o knelt and caught Ak'illéyu's hands to keep him from taking hold of his dagger. "You have to help us now!" the youth shouted.
The T'eshalíyan prince got to his knees, beating back the youth, shouting incoherent threats. He cast about, as if looking for something. Suddenly, he turned on the young messenger. "Who killed him?" Ak'illéyu demanded, tears running down his face. "Was it Qántili?"
Antílok'o nodded, although in truth he did not know.
"I will slit that dog's throat!" the T'eshalíyan cried, shoving Antílok'o away and kicking up clouds of dirt and ash. "If I do not blacken my spear with Qántili's blood, Préswa take me to 'Aidé this very night!" He headed out the open gateway.