The Hittite

by Ben Bova

  Helen glanced at Hector. Gently, Hector said to his father, “If the Hatti have not come in all the time since we sent our emissary to them, Father, they are not coming at all.”

  “Not so,” argued the king, his brow wrinkling. “Their capital is far to the east. They will come … any day now … they must come!”

  Hector smiled sadly and said nothing more to disillusion his father.

  Priam shook his white head. “The Achaians send back to their homeland for fresh warriors. We have only the villagers nearby to help us. The Hatti are our only chance to win this war.”

  Both men looked at Helen. The brief surge of hope she had felt sank away like water seeping into sand.

  “Call Odysseos,” she said. “Arrange a truce and offer to make peace.”

  Priam blinked his watery eyes at her. I could see the conflict in his soul.

  Hector said to his father, “Once we try to negotiate they will think we are weakening. It would be better to drive the Achaians away in fair battle than to barter for peace. Otherwise they will take Helen and then continue the war.”

  “Yes, I agree,” Priam said, with a sigh. “But we have not been able to drive them away, have we?”

  “Achilles was not on the field of battle this afternoon, Father. Perhaps he is hurt, or ill.”

  Priam’s red-rimmed eyes flashed with sudden hope. “Their camp has been struck by disease more than once.”

  “Let us beat them off and drive them into the sea before Achilles returns to the battle,” Hector urged. “Then there will be no need to send Helen to them.”

  Priam seemed lost in thought.

  “What guarantees have we that they will leave us in peace once Helen has been returned to them?” Hector asked. “Agamemnon wants to break our power! He’s come too far to sail meekly back home without destroying us.”

  Hector did not want Helen to leave Troy! He was adamantly against the idea! I could see her cheeks flush with emotion. She knew it was foolish, but she could not help but think that he cared for her, perhaps without even realizing it in his conscious mind.

  Then Hector added, “It would break Paris’ heart to part with Helen. Just as it would break mine to part with Andromache. No man willingly gives up his wife.”

  Helen’s face sank. Hector was thinking of his brother, of his city, not of her.

  Priam gazed at Helen for long moments. I held my breath.

  Finally the king said, “If Achilles does not come out to fight tomorrow morning, we will do our utmost to drive the Achaians into the sea. But if he is in their battle line, we will ask Odysseos for a truce to discuss terms of peace.”

  Hector glanced at Helen once more, then turned back to his father. “Agreed,” he said.

  Helen fled the room as quickly as she decently could, fighting to hold back her tears as she ran through the corridors of the dark and silent palace.

  III

  THE DOWNFALL OF TROY

  1

  “It was three days ago,” said Apet to me, “when Helen realized that she loved Hector, not his brother. That was the day that she fled to the temple of Aphrodite to seek the goddess’ help.”

  “When she told King Priam she would return to Menalaos to stop the war,” I said.

  The fire was down to nothing but cold ashes by the time Apet finished her tale. The sky to the east was beginning to turn milky white with the coming dawn.

  Apet stared at me with her coal-black eyes. “I wonder, Hittite, if you are the answer to her prayer.”

  “Me?” I scoffed at the idea.

  “Perhaps Aphrodite has sent you to Helen,” Apet murmured. “The gods move in strange paths, far beyond our poor powers of understanding.”

  I shook my head, refusing to accept the possibility. The old crone had told me too much, especially about Prince Hector. It’s a mistake to know your enemies too well, I thought. Better that they be faceless, soulless figures to be cut down without thinking about their loves, their fears, their hopes.

  “Now you know how Helen came to Troy,” Apet said, her voice dry and hoarse. “Now you know how her heart aches.”

  I nodded and got slowly to my feet. My legs were stiff from sitting for so long. I reached down and helped her to get up.

  “What do you intend to do, Hittite?” the old woman asked me.

  “What I must, Egyptian,” I replied. “My wife and children are in this camp, among Agamemnon’s slaves. I must save them.”

  Her dark eyes lit with understanding. “Then you will fight against Hector.”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you will be the instrument the fates have chosen to deal him his death.”

  I didn’t answer, but I thought it more likely that I would be one of those to die in the morning’s battle.

  “Come,” I said at last, “I’ll escort you to the gate. From there the Trojans can take you back to the city.”

  I took up my spear and shield. Apet pulled up the hood of her robe and followed me, silent as a shadow again, to the ramshackle gate in the parapet. A team of men were working in the dawn’s pale light to reinforce the gate with additional planks. I thought it would be better to tear down the ramp leading up to the gate, so that the Trojan chariots couldn’t rush up on it. But these Achaians seemed to have no head for engineering, or any other military finesse.

  We squeezed through the planks of the gate while the workmen hammered away and their foreman frowned at us. Out beyond, the plain was dotted by hundreds of tiny points of light: the last smoldering remains of the Trojans’ campfires.

  I walked Apet down the rampway and out onto the bare earth of the battleground perhaps a hundred paces before a Trojan sentry cried, “Halt! You there! Stop!”

  He was alone, armed with a spear as I was. He held his shield before him as he slowly, reluctantly, approached us.

  “This woman is a servant of Princess Helen,” I said, keeping my voice firm and even. “She is to be returned to the city.”

  Without waiting for him to reply I turned and headed back toward the gate. Apet will be safe enough, I told myself. The lad will take her to his officer who will see to it that she gets back to her mistress.

  I saw men up atop the rampart, silhouetted against the brightening sky: archers sticking handfuls of arrows into the sand, skinny wide-eyed youths piling up javelins and stones for slinging. Footmen were gathering behind the gate now, stacking up spears in preparation for battle. Servants were strapping armor onto their lords, who looked grim and tense as I walked alone past them. By the time I got back to my own men, the sky was turning pink. The dawn bugle sounded. I would get no sleep at all before the battle started.

  Odysseos clambered down from his boat in bronze breastplate, arm guards and greaves. Behind him came four young men bearing his helmet, his heavy oxhide shield and spears of various lengths and weights.

  “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 h
ad 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 struggle. Trojan chariots were milling about, the warriors jabbing at the Achaians with their long spears.

  Like a machine we marched toward the boat and the chariots attacking it. We were a wall of shields, with bristling spears taking the blood of any man foolish enough to come near us. A chariot wheeled about, the warrior in it looking surprised at the sight of us advancing upon him. His charioteer urged the matched pair of roans at us, but they balked at our spear points. He swerved them to our right and I led my men into a charge. We killed the closer horse and slammed into the chariot with our shields. I myself dispatched the warrior with a spear thrust to his unprotected side. The charioteer leaped out of the chariot and ran away into the milling, roaring, fighting mass.

  With our backs to the boat’s curving black hull, we joined the defensive line and killed any fool who came within the length of our spears. But their sheer numbers forced us back, slowly, inexorably, until my feet were splashing in the water.

  The women were behind us, screaming and wailing. The Trojan chariots dared not approach us as long as we held our line of shields with our blood-soaked spears leveled. Even the footmen kept their distance, pelting us with javelins and arrows. Two more of my men went down. It was only a matter of time before we were all killed.

  And then a roar
shook the camp.

  “Achilles!”

  “The Myrmidones!”

  The Trojans looked to their right, their faces white with sudden fear. I urged my men forward and the footmen before us melted away. As we rounded the prow of the boat I saw down the beach that a formation of chariots was charging against the Trojans. Standing in the foremost chariot was a man in splendid golden armor who could only have been Achilles.

  The Trojans ran. They broke before the spearpoints of Achilles and his Myrmidones and ran like mice. Footmen scrambled back over the palisade. Chariots raced for the gate. One of the Trojan warriors tried to rally the chariots and make a stand but it was useless: Hector himself could not stop the sudden panic that raced through them.

  “It’s Achilles!” said a joyful voice. I turned and saw Odysseos standing beside me, his helmet and armor grimed with dust and blood, his shield split and battered, a broken spear in his free hand.

  “Achilles has saved us,” Odysseos said gratefully.

  But the battle was not yet over. The retreating Trojans were still hurling arrows and javelins at us as they scrambled up the rampart. A chariot raced past us and I recognized Hector standing in it, spattered with the blood of his victims. He half-turned and looked straight at me.

  The world seemed to slow down. Even the roar and groans of battle dwindled as if my head had been ducked under water. Time itself seemed to stretch out like soft taffy. I could see Hector standing in his chariot, his eyes focus on me; see him raise his heavy, bloody spear; see him hurl it at me. I tried to raise my shield but it was as if it weighed a hundred times its normal weight. Hector’s heavy spear soared languidly through the air, directly at me.

  I ducked, but everything went black.

  3

  When I opened my eyes again I saw nothing but the clear blue sky. Am I dead? I wondered.