He turns questioningly to glare at the boy - moments are precious - but it is done now. 

The whole area of the old gate collapses in dust and ruin. A road leads now into a district of the city itself, its wide and well-planned streets open invitingly for the invaders. 

And the hue-and-cry is raised, citizens screaming and fleeing before the Grecian hordes, men scrambling for swords or knives or tools to stand or die fighting.

Troy is large, but it is widely and evenly paved; the cohorts will be here within minutes. 

There is a terrible roar as the Greeks charge.

In the very distance, there is screaming. The bell of Troy begins to toll.

The guards will be at the other gates, distracted now by Ambrosios and his forces. Ophellios and Aetos must act swiftly. The granaries are close.

Corpses already litter the streets like flowers in a meadow. Civilians.

It matters not.

Ahead. Ahead. Only there.

Four men with hammers and knives surge at him from a doorway - an ambush, hastily planned in under a minute. 

He takes one man in half at the waist, ducks a wild blow and stabs another, crushes one throat in his hands and sends the fourth sprawling with a savage kick.

They had no hope, but they made their choice and went before Hades with honour, more than can be said of many of their countrymen. 

The Pylians are looting, running about and seizing captives and lighting fires; he has a better idea. 

"Bring us Paris!"

His men take up the cry as they push forwards, forwards; the city's streets are well in order, which means it will not take long for reinforcements to come, but also makes it harder for the Trojans to ambush them and cut off the retreat. 

They are making a wild dash now for the centre - they might perhaps light fires at Priam's citadel, but they will at least frighten the noble families and lordly households. 

He shouts directions to the others, his horse like a blur of snow.

In the corner of his eye, somebody else comes behind Aetos. He draws his bow quickly and shoots. There is a cry as the arrow finds home.

“There! The food reserves! The well!”

Burn the food, poison the water–

A young girl is snatched from her grandfather’s arms.

A woman runs desperately, her robes on fire.

Ahead, ahead–

A soldier, red and black, Cretan, kicks down a temple door. There is screaming from inside. A holy man is torn from sacred ground.

The bells toll, louder, louder–

The king of Pylos curses. “Aetos, carry on! I will join you in a moment!”

He rides swiftly back to the temple.

No, he too does not wish to invite the anger of the gods.

"I want that man's head," he grinds out to the men near him, "all his lands and treasure to the one who brings it to me."

A few peel off; the rest stay the course. 

They might actually do this. 

This should not be possible. 

The walls of Troy are inviolate. They have had many hard years - would probably all have starved if not for the favour of the gods - but they have never been invaded. 

Paris is left to hold off the forces at the main gate - they may lose, may lose everything, but his heart tells him that the frontal assault is a distraction. The Greeks cannot hope to shatter the portal Hephaestus made, or if they can all is lost anyway. 

He charges.

“What are you doing, you fool?” He snarls at the soldier, striking him hard with the wood of his bow. “Let the priest go.”

A sound like thunder causes him to turn. A sound like doom.

Hector.

Aetos cannot face him alone. Ophellios drops it all and races back ahead, but he is precious moments behind–

He falls upon the Pylians like a wolf upon sheep, hacking and slashing, until he meets the Cretan King.

Kill or be killed - it was ever thus.

Blades meet in a dreadful clash of shining iron. 

The Cretan King is strong and cunning, but he has the favour of Zeus, and the Trojan forces massing behind him outnumber this party by a long way. 

He roars and rushes Hector - no special fighting skill here, no warriors' duel. He spits and shoves and kicks the man's legs out in a quick and dirty manoeuvre that sends them both sprawling, and he clutches at the Trojan prince's throat where the gap shows in his armour, swords pinned, forcing the pommel down into Hector's ribcage-

He yells and rushes in, driving his spear with enough force to skewer a wild boar.

He twists with snake-like speed and interposes his shield. 

It still isn't enough. The force of the blow splinters the wood and sends him reeling, blood flowing down his arm; he snatches up his sword in time to parry two, three swings, but now Hector is gasping and rising up-

There is no path to escape, and he cannot defend against both the Trojan heroes; the mighty strength of Aeneas has notched his sword and sends jagged pain through his shoulders with each exchange.

But he can bring one of them down with him. 

He throws himself in close, leaving his side exposed to Hector, and with a swift motion shoves a dagger through Aeneas's ribs.

...A stray arrow swerves through the air and pierces the Cretan King's hand.

The knife scrapes agonisingly along a rib and sticks in the side of his armour; he staggers and falls.

He rises.

A familiar white stallion rears and kicks, driving a path between Hector and Aetos.

The Pylian king’s eyes burn blue into the Trojan prince with the wrath of a demigod. He swings his sword. Aetos will have a precious moment to recover.

There is movement in the corner of his eye. Hector’s second-in-command recovers, rushing in – Ophellios turns towards him and their blades clash like lightning.

He whirls back and strikes up, and in the brief moment of space rams his shoulder hard into the horse's flank; a great white stallion, which no men of these days could shift, and yet when he applies his shoulder the horse stumbles.

He brings his sword back to guard in time to hold Hector off and distract Aeneas with a jab at his face. 

"Hold firm, Ophellios!"

“I could say the same to you!”

He manages to keep control of his horse, only just.

A strike of inspiration. A manoeuvre that would perhaps be considered insane. Aetos is a great warrior and can hold off one foe alone, but not both.

He sets his beast on Aeneas and gives chase. Sheathing his sword he takes the god-crafted bow into his hands once more.

The general cannot avoid his arrows forever. At the very least he will buy Aetos some time.

A kick from the horse sends him reeling, and he is driven backwards.

Yes, that was insane. 

Ophellios is now mounted on a horse in the middle of the narrow alleyways where there isn't really even room to turn the horse around, and the common folk of Troy are slowly beginning to lose their fear and remember all these paving-stones.

He rallies and turns, slashing at the white horse with his mighty sword.