Six ships—that was over three hundred warriors.
A big detachment.
When they wanted to raid coastal villages, they'd go on one or two. These were coming for us specifically.
By the way, what did we do to deserve such an honor?
We'd need to take a prisoner and interrogate him.
I wondered how field interrogations were conducted here?
The people here were extremely straightforward and concrete, and human life was worth absolutely nothing, except in cases where you could collect blood money for it.
Our Hittite overlords had completely eliminated the death penalty from their laws, replacing all crimes with monetary fines. They'd scrupulously recorded everything possible, pricing each offense.
For example, if you bit a free man on the nose, you'd have to pay forty shekels of silver.
I wondered in what kind of delirium and who would get the desire to bite free men on the nose? I mean, until I heard about that law, I somehow didn't want to. But as soon as I learned about this possibility, my jaw even clenched.
I was just dreaming of checking out what kind of refined pleasure that was, for which you'd have to shell out a mountain of silver.
Yeah, here they were!
Six predatory silhouettes appeared in the dawn haze. Now they were visible not only from the tower but from the shore.
These weren't merchants. Or rather, no... They could trade, but such ships were adapted for transporting large numbers of people.
A typical merchant tub was about thirty cubits long, but these were no less than forty. There were no horses on the decks, and that was good.
Just infantry coming, but lots of it. Each ship had sixteen pairs of oars, which meant about fifty men were sailing on it.
There would be almost twice as many of them as us, and that was a bad setup, even though we were in a fortress.
And yeah, we had defenses, but we wouldn't sit in there when they started harvesting our crops—we'd definitely come out.
"Forward!" father raised his hand, and the chariots went out through the city gates one after another.
He'd done everything right—he'd been fighting for so many years.
The Danaans hadn't seen us, because the chariots had exited through the eastern gate facing inland and hidden behind a hill.
Father and I climbed to the top. We'd see from there when to attack.
This was a very delicate science: the enemy had to come ashore and start pulling out the ships. That was the perfect moment, when half of them, without weapons, would be pulling ropes, and the other half would be looking for a suitable tree to set up camp.
We'd attack at exactly that moment, because they'd be afraid to abandon the ships.
This wasn't a lake—the current would carry them out to open sea. They didn't know anchors here—they were replaced by stones on ropes, but when they came for a long time, they'd dig long trenches through which they'd drag the vessels ashore, then prop them up with logs on all sides.
Without this a strong wave could carry them away.
Our bay was empty.
Those three little ships that belonged to the king and Dardanian merchants had been moved away, and we had no war fleet.
And where would it come from, anyway?
The broad backs of the Danaans rocked back and forth in unison, and the splash of oars was almost inaudible because of the wind that carried the sound toward the sea.
That was it.
The sharp prows of the ships cut into the shallow pebbles of the shore, and the keel scraped along the bottom.
The warriors pulled the oars aboard, threw ropes down and tumbled ashore like peas.
Now we had a quarter hour, maybe a bit more.
Father and I tumbled down the hill and waved to the guys. Time!
The drivers barely touched the reins, and the trained horses started walking, gradually transitioning to a light trot.
Nobody would gallop—that's how you'd wind the horses. The horses had to breathe evenly. They had to be calm and cheerful, because a horse was a skittish animal and required careful handling.
Anyone who didn't understand that would scrape their brains off the rocks lying along the road.
Rocks were the only thing we had in abundance here.
I took four arrows in my palm and calmed my heart, which was trembling like a caught sparrow.
I'd done this hundreds of times.
You know how to learn to shoot while swaying on the leather weaving of straps that served as the chariot floor? It was elementary. You just took and shot for eight to ten years, two hours a day, and you'd definitely learn.
That's how they raised noble youths while slaves worked their fields.
The tactics of chariot combat were extremely simple: you'd gallop past the infantry and pour arrows on them, and in return they'd pour on you.
True, there weren't many archers among ordinary warriors—they mostly fought with spears, so infantry didn't have much chance against chariots.
Some kind of cavalry, anyway.
However, there were options: instead of arrows the charioteer could use javelins, and the enemy instead of a bow—a sling. And most likely that's exactly how it would be.
Because many here could handle a sling. Great thing, and all-weather, unlike a bow.
"Ha-ha!" we shouted, circling near the Danaans, who pointlessly rushed around the beach, dropping ropes and grabbing shields and spears.
These were Achaeans, a Danaan tribe—we quickly identified them by their speech.
I'd shoot four arrows on the first pass, aiming from twenty paces at half-naked bodies.
Now! Now was the most convenient time!
A little more and they'd form up and hide behind a scale of shields, and then barely one arrow in ten would find its target.
"Twang!" the bowstring hit the leather bracer, and the sharp sting pierced the body of a rower who stood looking at me with helpless hatred.
He didn't have time to grab a shield and raised his spear to throw it at me. He fell like that, disbelievingly clutching the shaft that had pierced his chest.
"Twang!" this arrow hit the arm of a slinger who'd swung his simple weapon.
Got him—the stone flew in a completely different direction. If the projectile hit me in the head, even a bronze helmet wouldn't help. The brains would stay inside, but it would scramble them thoroughly. Concussion guaranteed.
"Twang!" miss—the arrow scraped along the pebbles covering the shore. "Damn!"
"Twang!" the Achaean raised a round shield, but I hit his muscular thigh and he sank to the ground with a groan.
Not a fighter.
Done, we'd galloped along the ships.
Now we'd make a circle and come back. The next pass would be farther than this one—we'd shoot from about forty paces.
Going closer was madness—they'd get us with spears.
The Achaeans had already dropped the ropes and were clustering in groups, sheltering behind shields. There was no talk of any formation yet.
Many were stringing bows or had moved aside and were spinning slings that they wore instead of belts.
A good slinger could hit a clay pot from twenty paces. One bright spot: hitting a moving chariot was much harder.