by Ben Bova
More Trojans were pouring up the stairs to the platform, buckling armor over their nightclothes as they ran. These were the nobility, the cream of their fighting strength; I could tell from the gaudy plumes of their helmets and the gold that glinted in the light of the new day against the bronze of their breastplates.
Archers were leaning across the battlements, too, firing flaming arrows at our tower. Others fired at us. An arrow chunked into my shield. Another hit the man on my right in his leg; he staggered and went down. Instantly a Trojan spear drove through the unprotected back of his neck.
The archers were lofting their shots now, to get over our shield wall. Flaming arrows fell among us; men screamed and fell to the stone flooring, their clothes and flesh on fire.
The barrage of arrows would quickly break our shield wall, and then what was left of my men would go down individually under the weight of Trojan numbers. I felt a burning fury rising inside me, a rage against these men who were trying to kill us and against the gods that drove us to such murderous games. Call it battle frenzy, call it bloodlust, I felt the civilized compunctions, the veneer of morality burning away; and out of that flame of hatred and fear there arose an Orion who was beyond civilization, a barbarian with a spear in his hand that thirsted for blood.
"Hold here," I said to Lukka. Before he could do more than grunt I drove forward, surprising the Trojans in front of me. Holding my spear in two hands, level with the floor, I pushed four of them off their feet and slipped between the others, dodging their clumsy thrusts as they turned in dreamlike slow-motion to cut me down. I killed two of them; Lukka and his men killed several more, and the others quickly turned back to face the Hatti soldiers.
I dashed toward the archers. Most of them turned and ran, although two stood their ground and fired arrows at me as rapidly as they could. I picked them off with my shield as I ran. I caught the first archer on my spear, a lad too young to have more than the wisp of a beard. His companion started to pull out the sword at his side but I knocked him spinning with a swipe of my shield. He toppled off the platform to the ground below.
The other archers had retreated out of range of my Hatti troops, who were still battling to hold their foothold on the wall. For the span of a heartbeat I was alone. But only for that long. The Trojan nobles were rushing along the platform toward me, a dozen of them, with more behind them. I hefted my long spear in one hand and threw it at the closest man. Its heavy weight drove it completely through his shield and into his chest. He staggered backward into the arms of his two nearest companions.
I threw my shield at them to slow them down further, then picked up the bow from the archer I had slain. It was a beautiful, gracefully curved thing of horn and smooth-polished wood. But I had no time to admire its construction. I fired every arrow in the dead youth's quiver, forcing the nobles to cower behind their bodylength shields, holding them at bay for a precious few minutes.
Once the last arrow was gone and I threw down the useless bow, their leader dropped his shield enough for me to recognize him: Aleksandros, a sardonic smile on his almost-pretty face.
"So the herald is a warrior, after all," he called to me.
Sliding my sword from its sheath, I responded, "Yes. Is the stealer of women a warrior, as well?"
"A better one than you," Aleksandros said.
"Prove it then," I stalled. "Face me man to man."
He glanced at the Hatti battling behind me. "Much as I would enjoy that, today is not the day for such pleasures."
"Today is the last day of your life, Aleksandros," I said.
As if on cue, a piercing, blood-curdling war cry came from behind me. Odysseus!
Aleksandros looked startled for a moment, then he screamed to his followers, "Clear the wall of them!"
The Trojans charged. They had to get past me before they could reach Lukka and Odysseus. I faced a dozen long spears with nothing but my sword. They ran at me in slow-motion, bronze spear points glinting in the dawning light, bobbing slightly with each pounding step they took. I noticed that Aleksandros slid toward the rear and let others come at me first.
I moved a step toward the edge of the platform, then dived between the two nearest spears and got close enough to use my sword. Two Trojans went down, and the others turned toward me. I barely avoided one point jamming toward my belly as I hacked at another spear haft and cut it in two with my iron blade. I ducked another thrust and stepped back—onto empty air.
As I tottered on the edge of the platform, another spear came thrusting at me. I banged its bronze head with the metal cuff around my left wrist, deflecting it enough to save my skin. But the motion sent me tumbling off the platform.
I turned a full somersault in midair and landed on my feet. The impact buckled my knees and I rolled on the bare dirt of the street. A spear thudded into the ground next to my shoulder. Turning, I saw a pair of arrows heading my way. I dodged them and ducked behind the corner of a house.
Aleksandros and his men rushed toward the battle still raging farther along the platform, at the top of the wall: my Hatti contingent and Odysseus's Ithacans against the growing numbers of Trojans roused so rudely from their sleep. We needed a diversion, something to draw off the Trojan reinforcements.
I sprinted down the narrow alley between houses until I found a door. I kicked it open. A woman screamed in sudden terror as I stamped in, sword in hand. She crouched in a corner of her kitchen, her arms around two small children huddling against her. As I strode toward them they all shrieked and ran along the wall, screeching and skittering like mice, then bolted for the open door. I let them go.
A small cooking fire smoldered in the hearth. I yanked down the flimsy curtains in the doorway that separated the kitchen from the next room and tossed them onto the fire. It flared into open flame. Then I smashed the wooden table and fed it to the blaze. Striding into the next room, I grabbed straw bedding and blankets and added them to the fire.
Two houses, three, then the whole row of them I set ablaze. People were screaming and shouting. Men and women alike raced toward the fire with buckets of water drawn from the fountain at the end of the street.
Satisfied that the fire would keep them busy, I started up the nearest flight of steps to return to the battle on the platform.
Achaians were pouring over the parapet now and the Trojans were giving way. I leaped on them from the rear, yelling out to Lukka. He heard me and led his contingent to my side, cutting a bloody swath through the defending Trojans.
"The watchtower by the Scaean gate," I said, pointing with my reddened sword. "We've got to take it and open the gate."
We fought along the length of the wall, meeting the Trojan warriors as they came up in groups of five or ten or a dozen and driving away those few we did not kill. The fires I had started were spreading to other houses now, and a pall of black smoke hid the palace from our sight.
The watchtower was only lightly guarded; most of the Trojan strength was being thrown against Odysseus on the western wall. We broke into the guard room, the Hatti using their spear butts to batter the door down, and slaughtered the men there. Then we raced down to the ground and started to lift the heavy beams that barricaded the Scaean gate. A wailing scream arose, and I saw that Aleksandros and the other nobles were racing down the stone steps from the parapet toward us.
We had them on the horns of uncertainty now. If they allowed Odysseus to hold the wall, the rest of the Achaians would enter the city that way. But if they concentrated on clearing the wall, we would open the gate and allow the Achaian chariots to drive into the city. They had to stop us at both places, and stop us quickly.
Archers began shooting at us, but despite them the Hatti tugged and pushed to open the massive gate. Men fell, but the three enormous beams were slowly lifting, swinging up and away from the doors.
I ducked an arrow and saw Aleksandros rushing toward me across the open square behind the gate.
"You again!" he shouted at me.
They were
his last words. He charged at me with his spear. I dodged sideways, forced it down with my left forearm, and drove my iron sword through his bronze breastplate up to the hilt. As I yanked it out, bright red blood spattered over the golden inlays and I felt a mad surge of pleasure, battle joy that I had taken the life of the man who had caused the war.
Aleksandros sank to the ground. I saw the light go out of his eyes. But in that moment an arrow struck me in my left shoulder. Pain flared for an instant before I reacted automatically and shut it down. I pulled the arrow out, its barbed head tearing at my flesh. Blood spurted, but I consciously clamped down those vessels and willed the wound to clot.
Even as I did so, the other Trojans came at me. But they stopped in their tracks as a great creaking groan of huge bronze hinges told me that the Scaean gate was swinging open at last. A roar went up and I turned to see chariots plunging through the open gate, bearing down directly on me.
The Trojans scattered and I dived out of the way. Agamemnon was in the first chariot. His horses pounded over Aleksandros's dead body and the chariot bumped, then clattered on, chasing the fleeing Trojan warriors.
I stepped backward, dust from the charging chariots stinging my eyes, coating my skin, my clothes, my bloody sword. The battle lust began to ebb and I watched Aleksandros's mangled body tossed and crushed by chariot after chariot. Lukka came up beside me, a gash on his cheek and more on both his arms. None of them looked serious, though.
"The battle is over," he said. "The slaughter begins."
I nodded, suddenly bone weary.
"You are hurt," he saw.
"It's not serious."
He examined the wound, shaking his head and muttering. "It looks halfway healed already."
"I told you it's not serious."
The men gathered around us, looking uneasy. Not frightened, but edgy, nervous.
"This is the time when soldiers collect their pay," Lukka told me.
Loot, he meant. Stealing everything you can carry, raping the women, and then putting the city to the torch.
"Go," I said, remembering that the first fires had been set by me. "I'll be all right. I'll see you back at the camp."
Lukka touched his fist lightly to his chest, then turned to what was left of his men. "Follow me," he commanded. "And remember, don't take any chances. There are still plenty of armed men left alive. And some of the women will try to use knives on you."
"Any bitch tries to cut me will regret it," said one of the men.
"Any bitch who sees your ugly face will probably use her knife on herself."
They all laughed and marched off together. I counted thirty-five of them. Seven had been killed.
For a while I stood there near the wall and watched Achaian chariots and foot soldiers pouring through the open, undefended gate. The smoke was getting thicker. I squinted up at the sky and saw that the sun had barely topped the wall. It was still early in the morning.
So it is done, I said to myself. Your city has fallen, Apollo. Your plans are ruined.
I felt no exultation, no joy at all. This is not revenge, I realized. Killing a thousand or so men and boys, burning down a city that had taken centuries to build, raping women and carrying them off into slavery—that is not triumph.
Slowly I pulled myself to my feet. The square was empty now, except for the mangled body of Aleksandros and the other slain men. Behind the first row of columned temples I could see flames rising into the sky, smoke billowing toward heaven. A sacrifice to the gods, I thought bitterly.
Raising my bloody sword over my head I cried out, "I want your blood, Golden One! Your blood!"
There was no answer.
I looked down at what was left of Aleksandros. We all die, prince of Troy. Your brothers have died. Your father is probably dying at this very moment. Some of us die many times. The lucky ones, only once.
Then a thought struck me, like a telepathic message beamed into my brain. Where is Helen, the beautiful Helen who was the reason for this slaughter, the calculating woman who had tried to use me as a messenger?
Chapter 20
I strode up the main street of burning Troy, sword in hand, through a morning turned dark by the smoke of fires I had started. Women's screams and sobs filled the air, men bellowed and laughed raucously. The roof of a house collapsed in a shower of sparks, forcing me back a few steps. Perhaps it was the house I had slept in; I could not be sure.
Up the climbing avenue I walked, my face blackened with dust and soot, my arms spattered with blood—most of it Trojan. I saw that the gutter running along the center of the dirt street also ran red.
A pair of children ran shrieking past me, and a trio of drunken Achaians lurched laughingly after them. I recognized one of them: giant Ajax, lumbering along with a huge wine jug in one hand.
"Come back!" he yelled drunkenly. "We won't hurt you!"
The children fled into the smoke and disappeared down an alley.
I climbed on, toward the palace, past the market stalls that now blazed hot enough to singe the hair on my arms, past a heap of bodies where some of the Trojans had tried to make a stand. Finally I reached the steps at the front of the palace. They too were littered with fallen bodies.
Sitting on the top step, leaning against one of the massive stone pillars, was Poletes. Weeping.
I rushed to him. "Are you hurt?"
"Yes," he said, bobbing his old head. "In my soul."
I almost felt relieved.
"Look at the desolation. Murder and fire. Is this what men live for? To act like beasts?"
"Yes," I replied. Grabbing him by his bony shoulder, I said, "Sometimes men do act like beasts. Sometimes they behave like angels. They can build beautiful cities and burn them to the ground. What of it? Don't try to make sense out of it, just accept us as we are."
Poletes looked up at me through eyes reddened by tears and smoke. "So we should accept the whims of the gods, and dance their dance whenever they pull our strings? Is that what you tell me?"
"There are no gods, Poletes. Only vicious bullies who laugh at our pain."
"No gods? That cannot be. There must be some reason for our existence, some order in the world."
"We do what we have to do, old moralizer," I said gruffly. "We obey the gods when we have no other choice."
"You speak in riddles, Orion."
"Go back to the camp, old man. This is no place for you. Some drunken Achaian might mistake you for a Trojan."
But he did not move, except to lean his head against the pillar. I saw that its once-bright red paint was now blackened and someone had scratched his name into the stone with the point of a sword: Thersites.
"I'll see you back at the camp," I said.
He nodded sadly. "Yes, when mighty Agamemnon divides the spoils and decides how many of the women and how much of the treasure he will take for himself."
"Go to the camp," I said, more firmly. "Now. That's not advice, Poletes, it is my command."
He drew in a long breath and sighed it out, then raised himself slowly to his feet.
"Take this sign." I handed him the armlet Odysseus had given me. "It will identify you to any drunken lout that wants to take off your head."
He accepted it wordlessly. It was much too big for his frail arms, so he hung it around his skinny neck. I had to laugh at the sight.
"Laughter in the middle of the sack of a great city," Poletes said. "You are becoming a true Achaian warrior, my master."
With that he started down the steps, haltingly, like a man who really did not care which way he went.
I went through the columned portico and into the hall of statues, where Achaian warriors were directing slaves to take down the gods' images and carry them off toward the boats. Into the open courtyard that had been so lovely I went. Pots were overturned and smashed, flowers trampled, bodies strewn everywhere staining the grass with their blood. The little statue of Athene was already gone. The big one of Apollo had toppled and broken into several pieces. I smi
led grimly at that.
One wing of the palace was afire. I could see flames crackling in the windows. I closed my eyes momentarily, picturing in my mind the chamber where Helen had spoken to me. It was there where the fire blazed.
From a balcony overhead I heard shouts, then curses. The clash of metal on metal. A fight was still going on up there.
"The royal women have locked themselves into the temple of Aphrodite," I heard a man behind me yell. "Come on!" He sounded like someone rushing to a party, or hurrying to get back to his seat before the curtain rose on the final act of the drama.
I snatched my sword from its scabbard and rushed up the nearest stairs. A handful of Trojans were making a last-ditch defense of the corridor that led to the royal temples, fighting desperately against a shouting, bellowing mob of Achaian warriors. Behind the doors locked at the Trojans' backs waited aged Priam and his wife, Hecuba, together with their daughters and grandchildren, I realized.
Helen must be there too, I thought. I saw Menalaos, Diomedes, and Agamemnon himself thrusting their spears at the few desperate Trojan defenders, laughing at them, taunting them.
"You sell your lives for nothing," shouted Diomedes. "Put down your spears and we will allow you to live."
"As slaves!" roared Agamemnon.
The Trojans fought bravely, but they were outnumbered and doomed, their backs pressed against the doors they tried so valiantly to defend, as more and more Achaians rushed up to join the sport.
I sprinted down the next corridor and pushed my way through rooms where soldiers were tearing through chests of gorgeous robes, grabbing jewels from gold-inlaid boxes, and pulling silken tapestries from the walls. This wing of the palace would also be in flames soon, I knew. Too soon.
I found a balcony, swung over its ballustrade, and, leaning as far forward as I dared, clamped one hand on the edge of a window in the otherwise blank rear wall of the temple wing. I swung out over thirty feet of air and pulled myself up onto my elbows, then hoisted a leg onto the windowsill. Pushing aside the beaded curtain, I peered into a small, dim inner sanctuary. The walls were bare, the tiles of the floor old and worn to dullness. Small votive statues stood lined on both sides of the room, some of them still decked with rings of withered flowers. The palace smelled of incense and old candles. Standing by the door, her back to me, her hands clasped in fear, stood Helen.
