Now we needed to ride fast, and the horses were put into a gallop.
Four arrows! I had to shoot four arrows, otherwise our risk was meaningless.
But I couldn't see crap around me, because this was my second fight.
The first had happened about six months ago when horse thieves attacked us. It had flown by quickly—we'd fought them off with bows, and I hadn't even had time to get scared.
But here I was flooded with adrenaline to the eyebrows, releasing the instincts of a hereditary warrior.
I had absolutely no time to think.
"Twang! Twang! Twang! Twang!"
Two arrows hit shields, another punched through a spearman's cheek, knocking out a fountain of tooth fragments, and another scraped along the bronze of an expensive helmet.
Strange one—usually worn by Pelasgians. A wide bronze tiara leaving the crown open but decorated on top with thickets of bright feathers.
Indescribable beauty, but if you got smacked from above with a club, ear amputation was guaranteed.
A remarkably idiotic design, caused more by lack of competent craftsmen than military necessity.
Twenty paces in front of me a chariot fell on its side and was dragged forward by maddened horses.
The wheel hit a rock and the driver didn't have time to go around it because a sling shot had knocked him to the ground.
There he lay with his arms spread. His head was smashed, and a puddle of blood was already soaking into the dusty earth beneath it.
His comrade lay nearby, but he was alive and not even wounded.
"Come here! Run!" I yelled and extended my hand to the warrior getting up from the ground.
He shook his head, driving away the noise after the impact, then threw away his broken bow and ran after us with all his might.
Our horses were still racing at full speed.
"We won't make it," the driver yelled. His name was Apira. He was a warrior but couldn't fight in formation—his left arm had been hacked in battle. He could barely raise it, and his hand resembled a bird's claw. However, this didn't prevent him from driving horses—he did it superbly.
"Turn the back to them!" I shouted. "I'll take the shield, cover us!"
The driver nodded silently and pulled the reins slightly, slowing down and turning the chariot backward.
I took the shield from the side and put it on my arm.
Just in time. Almost immediately there was an impact that made my hand go numb.
A stone hit!
"Go!" I yelled to the driver when the warrior fell right in front of me.
On his face, covered with large drops of sweat, an expression of confusion appeared first, then a spear tip grew like a terrible flower right from his chest.
He fell face down, not reaching me by five paces.
Now I came to my senses a bit and looked around.
The Achaeans had abandoned pulling out the ships, and they lazily rocked on the waves near the shore.
About twenty were killed, many wounded and hidden behind their friends' shields.
A wounded enemy was good! That was way better than a dead enemy. He couldn't fight and couldn't row. He had to be dragged around and fed.
The wounded were a serious burden for attackers. We had stone walls where you could recover. The Achaeans could only occupy fishing huts on the shore.
We'd lost two warriors and one team, and now we needed to retreat.
There was father waving his hand. He was right, because further exchange wouldn't be in our favor.
I suddenly felt unwell.
Homer lied that this was the age of heroes—I was definitely not a hero.
I was sitting in a shaking cart, completely exhausted, and fine trembling shook me.
I didn't even notice when we rode through the city gates.
"Drink!" father said demandingly and almost forcibly poured a cup of undiluted wine into me.
He lifted me and turned me this way and that. I heard a muffled curse.
"Well look at that, brother! And I thought my son was just wasting fabric. They got him with an arrow after all!"
Well, my armor came in handy, I thought detachedly and lapped up the wine to the bottom, my teeth chattering against the fired clay.
Seemed to be letting go.
Where were we?
I was sitting in one of the palace chambers. Not Troy, of course.
The walls were plastered with lime, but there was no talk of any paintings—there wasn't even a ceiling here. Just wooden beams covered with a fringe of soot, and right above them the roof tiles.
In one corner was a stone hearth that would only be lit in cold weather, and in another a statue of Tarhunt, god of thunder, roughly hewn from stone.
Along the walls were beds and two carved chairs on legs shaped like lion paws.
Light came through a tiny window under the ceiling, and there was enough of it, so the bronze lamp wasn't burning now.
"He fought well!" uncle smiled approvingly, standing next to father. "Everyone says so. You did good, nephew! Come on, they're waiting for you at the feast."
A feast!
Every battle ended with a feast, otherwise the chief wasn't a chief at all, but a greedy miser you shouldn't deal with.
People had risked their lives, and they deserved to have a cup or two raised for them.
The war god Shanta was our patron today—they'd sacrificed a lamb to him, pouring blood on the altar.
The lamb itself, however, would be taken by the priest—he had his own relationship with the god.
I sat at the table with everyone, and nobody said a word.
I'd earned the right to sit here.
The adult men silently moved apart on the bench so I could squeeze to the table and grab a cup. They slapped me on the shoulder, said something encouraging, but I didn't understand much.
The hops were already enveloping me, and the surrounding sounds seemed to break through a thick layer of cotton.
Toasts poured forth, and I raised cup after cup filled with wine along with everyone.
I shouldn't have done that, because my head was already making quite a racket. I was just a kid, and hungry as a wolf too.
Wine on an empty stomach was exactly what was needed for making sensible decisions.
"Where are our boats, uncle?" I asked when the drunken haze had completely covered my long-suffering head, where people were still screaming and blood was flowing.
"Why do you need them? What are you planning, Aeneas?" the king frowned, even putting his cup on the table. "You can't get to the ships. Don't do anything stupid."
"I've got some ideas," I looked at him stubbornly. "Just find me a boat and fifty fast-footed guys. And then I'll definitely burn one ship."
Everyone present in the hall turned and stared at me intently.
They even stopped chewing.
Father was silent and just shook his head reproachfully. Well, you're an idiot!—I read in his eyes.
But Acoetes only nodded, stood up and approvingly slapped me on the shoulder.
That's life here. A warrior had said his word, and the warrior was heard. If he did what he intended, honor and praise to him. If not—he was a blowhard not deserving respect.
And respect in this world was everything.
If you weren't respected and feared, it was tantamount to being marked as a victim. Sooner or later you'd lose what you had.
But if you took responsibility and achieved your goal, people blindly followed you, obeying the leader.
But just now that wasn't me, a crazy thought flashed through my head. That was Aeneas.
I was a grown, reasonable person. How could I get involved in such an adventure?
That was my last thought before going into saving darkness.
I'd really overdone it.