Vengeance of Orion Part 2

I focused my vision on the chariot nearest us and saw the warrior in it setting his sandaled feet in a pair of raised sockets, to give him a firm base for using his spears. He held his body-length shield before him and plucked one of the lighter, shorter spears from the handful rattling in their holder on his right.

"Diomedes," said Poletes, before I asked. "The prince of Argos. A fine young man."

The chariot approaching his swerved suddenly and the warrior in it hurled a spear. It sailed past harmlessly.

Diomedes threw his spear and hit the rump of the farthest of his opponent's four horses. The horse whickered and reared, throwing the other three so off stride that the chariot skewed wildly, tumbling the warrior onto the dusty ground. The charioteer either fell or ducked behind the chariot's siding.

Other combats were turning the worn-bare field into a vast cloud of dust, chariots wheeling, spears hurtling through the air, shrill battle cries and shouted curses ringing everywhere. The foot soldiers seemed to be holding back, letting the n.o.blemen fight their single encounters for the first few moments of the battle.

One voice pierced all the other noises, a weird screaming cry like a seagull gone mad.

"The battle cry of Odysseus," Poletes said. "You can always hear the King of Ithaca above all others."

But I was still concentrating on Diomedes. His charioteer reined in his team and the warrior hopped down to the ground, two spears gripped in his left hand, his ma.s.sive figure-eight shield b.u.mping against his helmet and greaves.

"Ah, a lesser man would have speared his foe from the chariot," Poletes said admiringly. "Diomedes is a true n.o.bleman. Would that he had been in Argos when Clytemnestra's men put me out!"

Diomedes approached the fallen warrior, who clambered back to his feet and held his shield before him, drawing his long sword from its scabbard. The prince of Argos took his longest and heaviest spear in his right hand and shook it menacingly. I could not hear what the two men were saying to each other, but they shouted something back and forth.

Suddenly both men dropped their weapons, rushed to each other, and embraced like a couple of long-lost brothers. I was stunned.

"They must have relatives in common," Poletes explained. "Or one of them might have been a guest in the other's household sometime in the past."

"But the battle..."

He shook his gray head. "What has that to do with it? There are plenty of others to kill."

The two warriors exchanged swords, then they both got back onto their chariots and drove in opposite directions.

"No wonder this war has lasted ten years," I muttered.

But although Diomedes and his first encounter of the day ended nonviolently, that was the only bit of peace I saw amid the carnage of the battle. Chariots hurtled at each other, spearmen driving their fourteen-foot weapons into their enemies like medieval knights would use their lances nearly two thousand years later. The bronze spear points were themselves the length of a man's arm. When all the energy generated by a team of four galloping horses was focused on the gleaming tip of that sharp spear point, it was if a high-velocity cannon sh.e.l.l tore into its target. Armored men were lifted off their feet, out of their chariots, when those spears found them. Bronze armor was no protection against that tremendous force.

The warriors preferred to fight from the chariots, I saw, although here and there men had alighted and faced their opponents afoot. Still the infantry soldiers hung back, skulking and squinting in the swirling clouds of dust, while the n.o.blemen faced each other singly. Were they waiting for a signal? Was there some tactic in this bewildering melee of individual combats? Or was it that the foot soldiers knew that they could never face an armored n.o.bleman and those deadly spears?

Here two chariots clashed together, the spearman of one driving his point through the head of the other's charioteer. There a pair of armored n.o.blemen faced each other on foot, dueling and parrying with their long spears. One of them whirled suddenly and rammed the b.u.t.t of his spear into the side of his opponent's helmet. The man dropped to the ground and his enemy drove his spear through his unprotected neck. Blood gushed onto the thirsty ground.

Instead of getting back into his chariot, or stalking another enemy, the victorious warrior dropped to his knees and began unbuckling the slain man's armor.

"A rich prize," Poletes explained. "The sword alone should buy food and wine for a month, at least."

Now the foot soldiers came forward, on both sides, some to help strip the carca.s.s, others to defend it. A comical tug-of-war started briefly, but quickly turned into a serious fight with knives, axes, cudgels, and hatchets. The armored n.o.bleman made all the difference, though. He cut through the enemy foot soldiers with his long sword, hacking limbs and lives until the few who could ran for their lives. Then his men resumed stripping the corpse while the warrior stood guard over them, as effectively out of the battle for the time being as if he himself had been killed.

Most of the chariots were overturned or empty of their warriors by now. Men were fighting on foot with long spears or swords. I saw armored n.o.blemen pick up stones and throw them, to good effect. Archers-many of them charioteers who fired from the protection of their cars' leather-covered side paneling-began picking off unprotected infantry. I saw an armored warrior suddenly drop his spear and paw, howling, at an arrow sticking in his beefy shoulder. A chariot raced by and the warrior in it spitted an archer on his spear, lifting him completely out of his chariot and dragging him in the dust until his dead body wrenched free of the spear's barbed point.

All this took only a few minutes. There seemed to be no order to the battle, no plan, no tactics. The n.o.ble contestants seemed more interested in looting the bodies of the slain than defeating the enemy forces. It was more like a game than a war. A game that soaked the ground with blood and filled the air with screams of pain and terror.

The one thing that stood out above all others was that to turn and attempt to flee was much more dangerous than facing the enemy and fighting. I saw a charioteer wheel his team about to get away from two chariots converging on him. Someone threw a spear that caught him between the shoulder blades. His team ran wild, and while the warrior in the chariot attempted to take the reins from the dead hands of his companion and get the horses under control, another spearman drove up and killed him with a thrust in the back.

Foot soldiers who turned away from the fighting took arrows in the back or were cut down by chariot-mounted warriors who swung their swords like scythes.

It was getting difficult to see, the dust was swirling so thickly. But I heard a fresh trumpet blast and the roar of many men shouting in unison. Then the thunder of horses' hooves shook the ground.

Through the dust came three dozen chariots, heading straight toward the place where we stood atop the earthworks rampart.

"Prince Hector!" said Poletes, with awe in his voice. "Look how he slices through the Achaians."

Hector had either regrouped his main chariot force or had held them back from the opening melee of the battle. Whichever, he was now driving them like shock troops through the Achaian forces, slaughtering left and right. Hector's ma.s.sive long spear was stained with blood halfway up its fourteen-foot length. He carried it as lightly as a wand, spitting armored n.o.blemen and leather-jerkined foot soldiers alike, driving relentlessly toward the rampart that protected the beach, the camp, and the ships.

For a few minutes the Achaians fought back, but when Hector's chariot broke past the ragged line of Greek chariots and headed for the gate in the rampart, the Achaian resistance crumbled. n.o.blemen and foot soldiers alike, chariots and infantry, they all ran screaming for the safety of the earthworks.

Hector and his Trojan chariots wreaked b.l.o.o.d.y havoc among the panicked Achaians. With spears and swords and arrows they killed and killed and killed. Men ran hobbling, limping, bleeding toward us. Screams and groans filled the air.

An Achaian chariot rushed b.u.mping and rattling to the gate, riding past and even over the fleeing footmen. I recognized the splendid armor of the squat, broad-shouldered warrior in it: Agamemnon the High King.

He did not look so splendid now. His plumed helmet was gone. His armor was coated with dust. An arrow protruded from his right shoulder and blood streaked the arm.

"We're doomed!" he shrieked in a high girlish voice. "Doomed!"

Chapter 4.

THE Achaians were racing for the safety of the rampart, with the Trojan chariots in hot pursuit, closely followed by the Trojan infantry brandishing swords and axes. Here and there a foot soldier would stop for a moment to sling a stone at the retreating Achaians or drop to one knee to fire an arrow.

An arrow whizzed past me. I turned and saw that Poletes and I were alone on the crest of the rampart. The other thetes thetes, even the whipmaster, had gone down into the camp.

A noisy struggle was taking place at the gate. It was a ramshackle wooden affair, made of planks taken from some of the ships. It was not a hinged door but simply a wooden barricade that could be lifted and wedged into the opening in the earthworks.

Some men were frantically trying to put the gate in place, while others were trying to hold them back until the remainder of the fleeing Achaians could get through. I saw that Hector and his chariots would reach the gate in another minute or less. Once past that gate, I knew, the Trojans would slaughter everyone in the camp.

"Stay here," I said to Poletes. Without looking to see if he obeyed, I dodged among the stakes planted in the rampart's crest, heading toward the gate.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a light spear hurtling toward me. My senses seemed to be heightened, sharpened. The world around me went into slow-motion as my body surged into hyperdrive. The javelin came floating lazily through the air, flexing slightly as it flew. I skipped back a step and it struck the ground at my feet, quivering. I yanked it loose and raced toward the gate.

Hector's chariot was already pounding up the sandy ramp that cut across the trench in front of the rampart. There was no time for anything else, so I leaped from the rampart's crest onto the ramp, right in front of Hector's charging horses. I yelled and threw up both arms, and the startled horses reared up, neighing.

For an instant the world stopped, frozen as in a painting on a vase. Behind me the Achaians were struggling to put up the barricade that would hold the Trojans out of the camp. Before me Hector's team of horses reared high, the unshod hooves of their forelegs flashing inches from my face. I stood crouched slightly, holding the light javelin in both my hands at chest level, ready to move in any direction.

The horses shied away from me, their eyes bulging white with fear, twisting the chariot almost sideways along the pounded-earth ramp. I saw the warrior in the chariot still standing, one hand on the rail, the other raised over his head, holding a monstrously long blood-soaked spear.

Aimed at my chest.

I looked into the eyes of Hector, prince of Troy. Brown eyes they were, calm and deep. No anger, no battle l.u.s.t. He was a cool and calculating warrior, a thinker among hordes of adrenaline-soaked brutes. I noticed that he wore a small round shield buckled to his left arm instead of the ma.s.sive body-length type most of the other n.o.bles carried. On it was painted a flying heron, almost in a style that would be called j.a.panese in millennia to come.

He jabbed the spear at me. I sidestepped and, dropping the javelin I had been carrying, grabbed the hefty ash wood shaft and pulled Hector clear over the railing of his chariot. Wrenching the spear from his one-handed grasp, I swung it against the charioteer's head, knocking him over the other side of the car.

The horses panicked and stumbled over each other in the narrow pa.s.sage of the ramp. One of them started sliding along the steep edge of the trench. Whinnying with fear, they backed away and turned, trampling the poor charioteer as they bolted off back down the ramp and toward the distant city, dragging the empty chariot with them.

Hector scrambled to his feet and came at me with his sword. I parried with the spear, holding it like an elongated quarterstaff, and knocked his feet out from under him again.

By this time more Trojans were rushing up the ramp on foot, their chariots useless because Hector's panicked team had scattered the others.

I glanced behind me. The barricade was up now, and Achaian archers were firing through the slits between its planks. Others were atop the rampart, hurling stones and spears. Hector held his shield up to protect himself against the missiles and backed away. A few Trojan arrows came my way, but I avoided them easily.

The Trojans retreated, but only beyond the distance of a bowshot. There Hector told them to stand their ground.

And just like that the morning's battle was ended. The Achaians were penned up in their camp, behind the trench and rampart, the sea at their backs. The Trojans held the corpse-strewn plain.

I clambered up the barricade and threw a leg over its top. Hesitating for a second, I glanced back at the battlefield. How many of those youthful lords who had come on our boat were now lying out there, stripped of their splendid armor, their jeweled swords, their young lives? I saw birds circling high above in the clean blue sky. Not gulls: vultures.

Poletes called to me. "Orion, you must be a son of Ares! A mighty warrior to best Prince Hector!"

Other voices joined the praise as I let myself over the rickety barricade and dropped lightly to the ground. They surrounded me, clapping my back and shoulders, smiling, shouting. Someone offered me a wooden cup of wine.

"You saved the camp!"

"You stopped those horses as if you were Poseidon himself!"

Even the whipmaster looked on me fondly. "That was not the action of a thes thes," he said, looking me over carefully, perhaps for the first time, out of his bulging frog's eyes. "Why is a warrior working as a paid man?"

Without even thinking about it, I replied, "A duty I must perform. A duty to a G.o.d."

They edged away from me. Their smiles turned to awe. Only the whipmaster had the courage to stand his ground before me. He nodded and said quietly, "I understand. Well, the G.o.d must be pleased with you this morning."

I shrugged. "We'll know soon enough."

Poletes came to my side. "Come, I'll find you a good fire and hot food."

I let the old storyteller lead me away.

"I knew you were no ordinary man," he said as we made our way through the scattered huts and tents. "Not someone with your shoulders. Why, you're almost as tall as Great Ajax. A n.o.bleman, I told myself. A n.o.bleman, at the very least."

He chattered and yammered, telling me how my deeds looked to his eyes, reciting the day's carnage as if he were trying to set it firmly in his memory for future recall. Every group of men we pa.s.sed offered us a share of their midday meal. The women in the camp smiled at me. Some were bold enough to come up to us and offer me freshly cooked meats and onions on skewers.

Poletes shooed them all away. "Tend to your masters' hungers," he snapped. "Bind their wounds and pour healing ointments over them. Feed them and give them wine and bat your cow-eyes at them."

To me he said, "Women cause all the trouble in the world, Orion. Be careful of them."

"Are these women slaves or thetes thetes?" I asked.

"There are no women thetes thetes. It's unheard of. A woman, working for wages? Unheard of!"

"Not even prost.i.tutes?"

"Ah! In the cities, yes, of course. Temple prost.i.tutes. But they are not thetes thetes. It's not the same thing at all."

"Then the women here..."

"Slaves. Captives. Daughters and wives of slain enemies, captured in the sack of towns and farms."

We came to a group of men sitting around one of the larger cook fires, down close beside the black-tarred boats. They looked up and made room for us. Up on the boat nearest us a large canvas had been draped to form a tent. A helmeted guard stood before it, with a well-groomed dog by his side. I stared at the carved and painted figurehead of the boat, a grinning dolphin's face against a deep blue background.

"Odysseus's camp," Poletes explained, in a low voice, as we sat and were offered generous bowls of roasted meat and goblets of honeyed wine. "These are Ithacans."

He poured a few drops of wine on the ground before drinking, and made me do the same. "Reverence the G.o.ds," Poletes instructed me, surprised that I did not know the custom.

The men praised me for my performance at the barricade, then fell to wondering which particular G.o.d had inspired me to such heroic action. The favorites were Poseidon and Ares, although Athene was a close runner and Zeus himself was mentioned now and then. Being Greeks, they soon fell to arguing pa.s.sionately among themselves without bothering to ask me about it.

I was happy to let them speculate. I listened, and as they argued I learned much about the war.

They had not been camped here at Troy for ten years, although they had been campaigning in the region each summer for nearly that long. Achilles, Menalaos, Agamemnon, and the other warrior kings had been ravaging the eastern Aegean coast, burning towns and taking captives, until finally they had worked up the nerve-and the forces-to besiege Troy itself.

But without Achilles, their fiercest fighter, the men thought that their prospects were dim. Apparently Agamemnon had awarded Achilles a young woman captive and then taken her back for himself, and this insult was more than the haughty warrior could endure, even from the High King.

"The joke of it all," said one of the men, tossing a well-gnawed lamb bone to the dogs hovering beyond our circle, "is that Achilles prefers his friend Patrokles to any woman."

They all nodded and murmured agreement. The strain between Achilles and Agamemnon was not over a s.e.xual partner; it was a matter of honor and stubborn pride. On both sides, as far as I could see.

As we ate and talked the skies darkened and thunder rumbled from inland.

"Father Zeus speaks from Mt. Ida," said Poletes.

One of the foot soldiers, his leather jerkin stained with spatters of grease and blood, grinned up at the cloudy sky. "Maybe Zeus will give us the afternoon off."

"Can't fight in the rain," someone else agreed.

Sure enough, within minutes it began pelting down. We scattered for whatever shelter we could find. Poletes and I hunkered down in the lee of Odysseus's boat.

"Now the great lords will meet and arrange a truce, so that the women and slaves can go out and recover the bodies of the dead. Tonight their bodies will be burned and a barrow raised over their bones." He sighed. "That's how the rampart began, as a barrow to cover the remains of the slain heroes."

I sat and watched the rain pouring down, turning the beach into a quagmire, dotting the sea with splashes. The gusting wind drove gray sheets of rain across the bay, and it got so dark and misty that I could not see the headland. It was chill and miserable and there was nothing to do except wait like dumb animals until the sun returned.

I crouched as close to the boat's hull as I could, feeling cold and utterly alone. I knew I did not belong in this time and place. I had been exiled here by the same power that had killed my love.

I serve a G.o.d, I had told these gullible Achaians. Yes, but not willingly. Like a poor witless creature blundering through a fathomless forest, I am reacting to forces beyond my comprehension.

Who did inspire my heroics? I wondered. The golden figure in my dream called himself Apollo. But from what the men around the campfire had said, Apollo supported the Trojans in this war, not the Achaians. I found myself dreading sleep. I knew that once I fell asleep I would again have to face that... G.o.d. I had no other word for him.

Suddenly I realized a man was standing in front of me. I looked up and saw a st.u.r.dy, thick-torsoed man with a grizzled dark beard and a surly look on his face. He wore a wolf's skin draped over his head and shoulders. The rain pounded on it. Knee-length tunic, with a sword buckled to his hip. Shins and calves muddied. Ham-sized fists planted on his hips.

"You're the one called Orion?" he shouted over the driving rain.

I scrambled to my feet and saw that I stood several inches taller than he. Still, he did not look like a man to be taken lightly.