by Diana Gainer
"If he can kill Qántili, if that is who he is facing, then Tróya is certainly doomed," Odushéyu announced, excited despite his throbbing side and weary limbs.
"But if Ak'illéyu dies, we may never leave these shores, dead or alive," T'érsite muttered from behind.
Ak'illéyu grew winded and began to slow down, at the foot of the hill on which the fortress city perched. Qántili outpaced him as they came back around to the oak tree and the six pillars, where the chase had begun. The Tróyan turned his head, but, in the darkness, he could not see his enemy's red face. He could hear the slowing of the pursuing feet, though, and the tortured breathing. "This is no way for a man to die," Qántili breathed to himself, and he raised his eyes to heaven in a brief prayer. "Poseidáon, Apúluno, great gods, give me strength."
He stopped and, turning to face Ak'illéyu, he spoke as fiercely as he could between gasps for breath. "Let us fight, Ak'áyan. But first, let us make a pact. I swear by my hearth, that, if I kill you, I will not, insult your corpse. I will take, your gear, as a symbol, of my victory, but, I will return, your body, to your kinsmen, for a proper, funeral. And, I will let them, sail home, in peace. Now, you swear."
Ak'illéyu stood panting, as Qántili spoke. "To 'Aidé with you!" the T'eshalíyan growled. "Wolves and sheep do not make pacts. I swear by the Stuks, that you will pay, for what you have done! Crows will be your only mourners. That is my oath." Immediately, he thrust his spear against the other man's shield.
Qántili dodged. Still winded and lacking spears, the Tróyan backed away, gripping his sword, seeking a good opening. Ak'illéyu sprinted around and jabbed with the spear again. A second time he missed. The Wilúsiyan prince gave a short, bitter laugh. "Death may be near, but I will give you something to remember me by," he spat at his enemy. With all his might, he swung his blade against Ak'illéyu. The Ak'áyan pulled his shield in against his chest, its battered rim protecting his face, the feathers waving on his headdress. Qántili's sword struck, again and again, and the T'eshalíyan was forced to back away. The blows came so quickly, so fiercely, that there was no time or opportunity for Ak'illéyu to use his spear for anything but to block the other man's weapon. He looked for an unprotected spot, some bit of flesh not covered with bronze, as he took each step backward.
The gear that Qántili wore had been Ak'illéyu's own, only that morning, the overlapping bronze plates those that Patróklo had worn into battle. Knowing this well, Ak'illéyu made for the Tróyan's swollen collarbone, where the top of the metal breastplates ended, but the base of the helmet did not reach. As Qántili charged forward once more, Ak'illéyu struck out with his long spear, driving his leaf-shaped blade into the Tróyan's neck.
Qántili fell back in the dirt, dropping his sword, and his shield rolled away beside him. His eyes rolled back in his head, blood bubbling from his mouth. His back arched in the agony of death. A high-pitched wail came from the tower above them, as Kashánda called her brother's name.
Ak'illéyu pressed his sandaled foot against the dying man's shuddering chest. "Did you think you could kill my brother, Patróklo, and live? Not while I can lift a spear! My kinsman's body will lie in honor but yours will be eaten by dogs."
Qántili's lips moved and gurgling came from his throat. His hands rose, trembling, toward Ak'illéyu. But death overtook him in a brief moment. His hands fell back into the dust.
On the tower above, Eqépa shrieked high and long. She dug her fingers into the dry flesh of her breasts and cheeks, bringing blood. Alongside her, her frenzied daughter danced on the battlements, tearing at her long, dark hair and shouting inarticulate cries. The older woman's legs collapsed beneath her and she struck her forehead again and again on the hard, wooden floor.
Alakshándu clapped his hands to his head and wailed, "My son, my son!" He swayed on his feet, nearly toppling over the side of the wall. The laments of the royal couple echoed among the soldiers on the walls, who had also witnessed the combat. Soon, the citizens in the streets below took up the cries. A great wail of hopelessness and despair filled the crowded paths.
"Tróya is betrayed!" Kashánda keened, "Wilúsiya is doomed. In times past, men sang of the day when heroes came from steep Wilúsiya. They told tales of Ak'áyan 'Éktor, born to bring an end to the age of the giants. When brave 'Éktor died, the city of the Titans shook itself until all the stones fell from the walls. Owái, Qántili, you were Tróya's 'Éktor. Areté itself has died with you. We are lost! We are lost! It is the end of the age of men! It is the end of the age of bronze! Only wolves and wild things will live on now!"
Ak'illéyu looked up at the small figures on Tróya's heights, grim satisfaction in his face. Raising his spear in triumph, he began a dance of victory around the body of his enemy, whooping and trilling the battle-cry, his tongue swinging quickly from side to side, in his mouth. The Ak'áyan troop leaders rushed forward from the river and gathered around him in wonder, bending low to check the identity of the corpse, clapping the triumphant T'eshalíyan on the back and shoulders.
"He is a little softer than this afternoon when he put his torches to my hut," Aíwaks crowed, driving his spear into the unmoving ribs of the still body on the ground. Every lawagéta mimicked his action. Arms on each other's shoulders, they danced about the silent corpse, singing the warrior's song of victory.
Automédon bent to strip his prince's gear from the dead man, praising the gods for this victory. T'eshalíyans of lower rank sprinted forward in disbelief, to cluster around Qántili's now-naked body. "Tell the Tróyans to give us tribute now, a great ransom for their leader's body," Automédon suggested, and he ran his dagger into the dead man's chest. "They cannot go on without Qántili."
Meneláwo began to laugh, a full-throated, hearty laugh, throwing back his head. "Yes, Tróya will have to ransom Qántili. They must pay back what Paqúr stole from me. I will have my wife beside me in the morning!"
Agamémnon embraced his brother, sharing his delight. "They must pay Argo a tribute of tin every year for a thousand generations! Tróya will be mine in the morning!"
"Patróklo has not been buried," the T'eshalíyan prince answered them all, his voice cold and deadly. "And I am not done with Qántili." He knelt and pierced the dead man's heels with his dagger. Taking the leather thong that had held up the Tróyan's kilt, Ak'illéyu threaded it through the bloody holes and tied the corpse's feet to his chariot. Ak'illéyu took the reins himself, shoving Automédon from the cart. The T'eshalíyan prince whipped his team into a run, heading toward the Sqámandro’s banks. Qántili's naked corpse was dragged over the field, his dark hair trailing behind, his limp arms and head flopping helplessly. The prince's sisters and mother, his wife and his brothers wept and shouted curses after the chariot disappearing toward the south.
The thread of Tróya's fate had been spun, nothing left of it now but frayed ends. With their arms across each other's shoulders, the Ak'áyan lawagétas turned to follow their T'eshalíyan ally back toward the river and the encampment, confident of victory. As they went, they sang the epic tale that all had learned at their fathers' knees, dancing in their delight:
"When he came from golden Mukénai,
Young 'Erakléwe was twelve years old.
The hero tied feathers on his head,
On his chest a lion skin.
His chariot wheels were painted red;
His enemies' blood was spilled in streams;
His beardless face soon painted black,
In the city's smoke and dust.
A sacker of cities
At twelve years old,
'Éra's glory,
Son of the gods!"
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