Cassandra and Apollo

Chapter 18

A/N:  Statue of Ares above.  Likely waiting for Aphrodite to come tend to his wounds.

*

There is a kind of ant in central Attica, famed for its ferocity and speed. It is said that even a few hundred scouts will strip the flesh from a still living hind, each tearing the meat so mightily, and with such perfect coordination, that the wretched beast leaps to its death, believing it fights an invisible lion.

The Myrmidons—or ant men—were named by their enemies, enemies who hail from central Attica. And so, the name is not an insult, but a warning. Beware, the invisible lion roars.

The Trojan army has nearly pushed through to the Greek camp. Several Greek ships are on fire. In the distance, a masthead splinters and falls through a wooden deck. A king's ransom in gold pours, molten and screaming, into the ocean.

The Lord of the Seas becomes richer still.

Then, the ant-men come. Boldened by their golden, godborn general, they bound onto the field, spears in hand, and push against the Trojan line. They work as one—shields linked as if by invisible ties. One wall to break another.

Patroclus holds fast to the chariot's brass rail. Diomedes lashes Achilles's fine white horses, their coats shining with sweat as they break through the Trojan ranks.

The Myrmidon horn blows again. His standard flies high, catching the eye of yet more soldiers. A black river flowing through a field of gold. It recalls his journey to the river of the dead, where, as a baby, his mother had tried to assure his invulnerability.

The Greeks begin to cheer, they lift their heads to him and shield their eyes, as if following the sun itself.

Unexpectedly, Odysseus rides up next to them, his face a mask of concern.

"I'm sorry Patroclus, Ajax has been wounded in battle," he says, winded, "It appears I will have to protect your left side, if you'll allow it."

"I've known the prince of sheep for a long time, son," offers Diomedes with a hint of a smile, "He's never lost a lamb."

Just then, a spear arcs overhead, screeching as it cuts through the air. Odysseus leaps from his horse and onto the draft pole between Achilles's white mares. With impressive speed, he kicks the spear before it can pierce the left horse's rear flank.

"I try not to lose horses, either," he quips.

Patroclus blanches, knowing how close they have just gotten to tipping over on the field. A felled draft horse in the middle of battle was nothing to the true Achilles, but he was no Achilles.

"Good, thank you," he says, quickly. "Now get back on your own horse before you bend the axel!"

Odysseus smiles again, infuriatingly, and leaps back onto his chestnut destrier. The short, stocky creature had followed them through the field, apparently used to his master's antics.

**

It is exactly as Odysseus predicted, Trojan warriors trip over themselves to clear his path. They have survived ten years of siege and battle, and not by being foolish enough to challenge the Best of the Greeks.

Diomedes doubles back, carving a path for them near the vanguard, where every Greek and Trojan can see. The horses, too, are impossible to miss. They dwarf the average mare, and their golden manes gleam like burnished bronze—this is no surprise, of course, for they are direct descendants of Apollo's sun stallions. A gift from Thetis, just like the god forged armor Patroclus now wears.

It goes like this for nearly an hour, until the Greek army takes heart and repels the Trojans from the armada. The Trojans are falling back, and for a moment, it seems that they will call an early end to the battle.