‘Use the women too, and the older girls,’ Vala snapped. ‘I can throw a spear. Remember what that Hatti corporal said. The Trojans will need more attackers than defenders, two to one, three to one. The more of us we can muster the better chance we will have.’
Hadhe glanced around, trying to think, to contribute. What else? ‘What about the children? The infants should be taken to the flood mound, with their mothers. If the Trojans do break through the rampart, at least we can fall back there and make a stand. As for the older children, Mi-’
Mi stood with Hesh. ‘I’ll fight.’
‘Oh, no, you won’t,’ Vala snapped.
Mi flared, ‘Mother, I’m old enough to choose.’
Vala held her shoulders. ‘Oh, child, but you’re not old enough to die!’
Hadhe stepped forward. ‘Mi — listen. We need someone to evacuate the older children. Those old enough to walk, not old enough to fight. Your brother Puli, he’s only four. And my kids, Keli, Blane… There are plenty of others. Round them up and get them out of here before the Trojans come — if they come. Take them to the Wall, where they will be safe. Please, Mi. Find a couple of others to help you.’
‘They won’t leave their mothers.’
Hadhe squeezed her arm. ‘That’s why it must be you. Tell them it’s a treat, a hunt for eels or grass snakes. They’ll believe you. Go.’ She pushed her away, gently. ‘Take blankets, water flasks, fire-making gear, mashed food for the little ones. Oh, and take Caxa. I think the Annids would want her to be kept safe. She can help with the children. And, Mi. This is most important.’
‘Yes?’
‘When you get to the Wall, tell them what’s happening here. Tell them we need help.’
Vala hugged Mi. ‘Maybe you’ll be back here in a few days and the sun will be shining and everybody will be fine, and nothing will have happened.’
‘I’ll have been wrong,’ Mi pointed out. ‘But I could live with that.’
‘Good girl,’ Vala said. ‘Go now. Go!’ She turned away quickly, and Hadhe saw how she was fighting back a sudden tear.
As Mi ran off to find the children, the adults huddled, talking urgently. Through his wooden teeth the priest began muttering prayers to the little mothers, while checking that his bronze knife was in its sheath at his waist.
The Trojans had marched through the night, behind their king.
The hundred or so warriors were mostly Anatolian, equipped in the Hatti fashion, and some even sported thick Hatti queues. But in the months since the landing Protis the Spartan had trained them up as infantry in the disciplined Greek style. So they marched as quietly as a hundred such men could be expected to, though there were always muffled coughs, muttering voices, the creak of leather shields and the clank of bronze weapons and armour. Further back came the chariots, and the neighing of horses carried in the moist night air. The soldiers had grumbled about being woken for the march, but soldiers always grumbled, and the promise of the first real action since the landing was enough to stir most of them. And there would be women, and boys for those who preferred that kind of thing. The women of Northland had proven to be big healthy animals, a much better ride than the dead-eyed forced whores of the booty people brought over from the Continent, or the dusty, worn-out, slack-uddered farmers’ wives you would find on a raid in Anatolia or Greece. They were ready. Qirum was sure of it.
And at last, only a little before the dawn, Qirum stood before a Northland community, a king with his army at his back, and Protis and the Spider at his side, his basileis. They were here in force, for Qirum was determined to make this first serious assault a statement of intent.
Not that the prize they had come so far to take looked like much in the blue-grey dawn light. Just a rough earth rampart and ditch around a huddle of houses, with that one big dwelling up on its mound. But you could only fight what the enemy put in front of you; you could only take what he had to lose.
First they had to cross that ditch. Qirum turned and murmured a command to Erishum. The sergeant gathered half a dozen engineers. They moved forward, dragging logs and sections of a wooden platform.
In response a gate in the rampart opened, and men came filing out. It was too dark to see clearly, but Qirum thought there could be no more than fifty of them. All seemed armed, though, and some were armoured, in leather or bronze. They lined up on the far side of the ditch, and shouted threats and launched the odd arrow at the engineers. But the Trojans were already in the ditch; they raised their shields and kept working. Soon the bridge would be ready.
‘So here we are,’ murmured Protis, standing by Qirum. He had learned to speak a coarsely accented Trojan, as an honour to his new king. But his voice was as expressionless as his eyes, even as they were about to give battle. The man made Qirum shudder. ‘We have no element of surprise. We came walking in by the most obvious route, straight up the road from the south that runs through the heart of this country. We could split our forces and come in from the back, the sides…’
‘Or the chariots,’ murmured the Spider. ‘Get them across that ditch and let them run at the defences.’
Qirum snorted. ‘You Hatti love your chariots. Look at this place. We don’t need chariots, or subtlety of tactics. Do you really think we need more than a frontal assault to finish off this lot?’
Erishum hurried back and reported that the engineers had completed their work.
‘No more talk.’ Qirum pulled his sword from its scabbard with a ringing sound, and he raised his voice so the men could hear. ‘Let’s get this done. Are you ready to live like men, or die like heroes?’ In response Erishum slammed the shaft of his spear against his leather shield, over and over. Soon all the men were banging their shields, stamping their feet, yelling. Qirum raised his sword. ‘Onwards!’ And he marched forward, closely flanked by the Spider and Protis, with the best of their men following. The heroes always led the charge.
Immediately there was a whoosh and clatter, and the blue-grey sky above the settlement darkened. Arrows and stones, hurled from within the settlement. The defenders weren’t entirely unprepared, then. Good — it would make for a better fight, and the men needed it.
Protis roared, ‘Shields!’ He raised his own shield, as did Qirum, as they marched. The order was repeated up and down the line, but Protis’s bellow had been so loud there was scarcely a need; like most successful commanders he had lungs like an iron smelter’s leather bellows.
The arrows and heavy stones clanged against the bronze face of Qirum’s shield, making him stagger. But he kept advancing. And javelins were thrown from the ranks behind him; they fell on Northlander flesh, and there were screams and cries.
Now there was a roar ahead. The Northlanders outside the rampart were coming forward. Evidently they meant to meet the Trojans as they reached the bottleneck of the engineers’ bridge. Better not to have let the bridge be built in the first place, Qirum thought; it showed the typical indecisiveness of the untrained, the inexperienced. No matter.
Suddenly the Northlanders were only paces away. Qirum saw their strange red hair, their faces pale with anger or fear.
The two sides closed in a hail of slingshot and arrows. At first it was just the three of them, Qirum, Protis and the Spider, side by side on the bridge’s rough panels. The first man Qirum faced was tall, young, healthy- looking, with an odd little beard around his mouth. He looked astonished when Qirum thrust the tip of his own sword into his throat, almost delicately, as a surgeon would lance a wound. Here was the benefit of training, which beat the hesitancy out of a man; it was easier to die than to kill for the first time, as the man was no doubt already explaining to the little mothers, his feeble goddesses. Qirum got his boot on the man’s chest and shoved him back, thus retrieving his sword, and he surged forward once more, laying into the next man, and the next. Beside him, Protis swung his sword and the Spider stabbed with his spear, flesh was broken and blood spurted. Protis especially was extraordinary in such a situation, a whirl of slashing blades.
Surrounded by roars, in a mist of blood, the three companions slew and maimed, driving on as the defenders fell back before them. Soon the three of them, just three against fifty or so, had driven a deep hole into the ranks of the defenders. Behind them, Erishum led more men over the bridge to pour into the attack, hacking, screaming, driving the foe back.
A cry went up from the defenders, in their own strange tongue. Fall back! At the rear, men streamed back through the rampart gate. Those at the front had to scramble backwards, fighting as they went. Erishum and the other sergeants yelled encouragement at the Trojan forces, to keep pushing, keep killing.
It didn’t take long for the Trojan surge to reach the gate. There was a final brave stand by a handful of
