“Bring your men and come with me, Hittite,” he commanded, smiling grimly. “Mighty Agamemnon has given us the honor of defending the gate.”
I gestured to my men to follow me. As we paced briskly toward the gate I asked Odysseos, “My lord, may I make a suggestion?”
He nodded as he took the helmet from one of his men and pulled it over his curly dark locks.
“It’s not enough to defend the gate, sire. You must be prepared for Hector to break through it.”
He gave me a sidelong glance as he fastened his helmet strap beneath his chin. With the nosepiece down and the cheek flaps pulled tight, there was little I could see of his face except for eyes and curly beard. “Don’t you think we can hold the gate?”
“That’s in the hands of the gods, my lord. But we should be prepared for the worst.”
“You don’t have a very high opinion of us, do you, Hittite?” With his helmet strapped on tightly, I could not see the expression on Odysseos’ face, but I thought I heard the ghost of a smile in his voice.
We were at the gate now. It looked flimsier than ever in my eyes, despite the extra planks the work crew had hammered onto it. There weren’t even any sizable logs or tree trunks bolstering it; all the trees inside the camp had been cut down long ago and used for fuel. Armed and armored men milled around behind it. I thought that they expected to lean against it and hold it in place with their weight when the Trojans tried to push it open.
Pointing to the ramshackle pile of boards, I explained, “My lord, if Hector breaks through this gate his chariots will run wild through the camp.”
Odysseos nodded grimly. “So what would you do?”
“I would take as many men as could be spared and erect a wall of shields on either side of the gate. If the Trojans break through they will be trapped between the two walls.”
“And our men could spear them from behind their wall of shields!”
“Archers could fire at them point-blank,” I added.
“Yes,” he said. “I see.” Turning, he called to one his servants. “Find Antiklos. Hurry!”
It was a good plan, I was convinced. And it would have worked well … if we’d had the time to put it into action.
But suddenly the early-morning air was split by the blast of dozens of horns. I looked up and saw the men atop the rampart pointing, wild-eyed.
“Here they come!”
2
Through the gaps between the gate’s boards I saw a formation of chariots pouring out of Troy’s Scaean Gate and boiling across the plain, raising an enormous cloud of dust as they raced toward us.
Odysseos pushed me aside and peered through the gate. With a shake of his helmeted head he muttered, “They won’t get through the gate with chariots. The horses will bolt halfway up the ramp.”
The horses have more sense than the men, I thought.
“They’ll have to dismount and charge the gate on foot,” Odysseos said.
But I wondered why Hector was leading such a wild charge toward the gate. What did he have in mind? The crown prince of Troy was no vainglorious fool. He knew that his chariot horses would not gallop blindly into a barrier, especially a barrier that now bristled with spears.
I had never seen such a cloud of dust before. Even considering that there were scores of chariots racing across the worn-bare plain, the dust they raised was enormous, choking, impenetrable. I pitied any foot soldiers trying to follow those chariots.
The formation of chariots plunged ahead, racing closer to us, closer. They were spread out in a broad line, I saw, not the kind of wedge formation that we Hatti used to break an enemy’s line. It seemed to me that each chariot was dragging something: a collection of brush, dead limbs from trees and bushes. That’s what was raising the thick cloud of dust, I realized.
And then, in an instant, Hector’s wily plan became clear.
Just as the chariots approached to within an arrow’s shot of the ramp they swerved to right and left. Out of that cloud of blinding dust raced a team of six powerful horses, blindfolded, three of them on each side of a massive tree trunk. Young men rode atop each horse, flattening themselves on their backs and necks, flogging them with slim whips to urge them on. The tree trunk that the team carried bobbed and jounced as the horses pounded blindly toward us. The youngsters guiding the horses wore kerchiefs over their noses and mouths; their faces and bodies were caked with gray dust.
A battering ram, I realized. A battering ram driven by six wildly charging horses.
The men up atop the rampart started firing arrows and hurling javelins. A few struck the horses but they kept plunging wildly ahead, spittle flying from their gasping mouths. One of the youths guiding the horses took an arrow between the shoulder blades and slid off his mount to be trampled by the others behind him.
And then the battering ram smashed into the gate, shattering it to splinters. The horses plowed on blindly across the beach and splashed into the foaming sea while Hector’s chariots streamed up the ramp and into the heart of the camp.
Footmen and nobles alike scattered, screaming for their lives, as Hector and other Trojans speared left and right from their wheeling chariots.
“Stand fast!” I shouted to my men. We formed a line behind our shields and leveled our spears at the chariots racing past us. The Trojans kept their distance from us, driving deeper into the camp, toward the boats lining the beach.
I had lost sight of Odysseos. Footmen were running down from the crest of the rampart, staggering and tumbling in their haste. A few knelt here and there to fire arrows at the chariots.
A dozen men cannot stop an army, even if they are disciplined Hatti soldiers. But I ordered my little squad forward as the chariots poured through the shattered gate in a blur of madly charging horses and armored spearmen.
“Kill the horses!” I shouted to them.
Some of the footmen behind us must have heard my command. Arrows began to fly at the horses. Several were hit, stumbling to the ground, spilling the warriors in the chariots. My men and I made short work of them before they could struggle to their feet.
But Trojan footmen were climbing over the rampart now and firing down at us. Little Karsh took a javelin through his throat and fell face-first, spewing blood. We would soon be overwhelmed, I saw, if we remained where we stood.
“Forward!” I roared, and the eleven of us charged into the Trojan footmen swarming down the rampart. They scattered before us like leaves blown on the wind.
Screams and curses filled the air. Blood was everywhere. An arrow nicked my bare calf, a pinprick that I ignored. Another one of my men went down, but we closed ranks behind our shields and continued pressing forward.
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
