The Hittite (18 page)

Odysseos bade me wait with my men while he changed into clothing more fitting for a visit to the High King. And he sent a messenger to Agamemnon to tell him of his desire for an audience.

I went down to our little camp, where Magro and the others were gathering around the evening cook fire. Poletes scrambled to his feet, eager to know what had transpired with Odysseos.

“We’re going to Agamemnon,” I said, perhaps a bit pompously, “to tell the High King how to win this war.” And get my sons and wife back, I added silently.

Once I outlined the idea of the siege towers, Poletes shook his head. “You’re too greedy for victory, my master. You want to win everything and leave nothing for the gods to decide.”

He seemed almost angry.

I asked, “But men fight wars to win, don’t they?”

“Men fight wars for glory, for spoils, and for tales to tell their grandchildren. A man should go into battle to prove his bravery, to face a champion and test his destiny. You want to use tricks and machines to win your battle.” Poletes actually spat into the sand to show his displeasure.

I reminded him, “Yet you yourself have scorned these warriors and called them bloodthirsty fools.”

“That they are! But at least they fight fairly, champion to champion, as men should fight.”

I laughed. “Windy old storyteller, all’s fair in love and war.”

For once Poletes had no answer. He grumbled to himself and turned back to the fire and the kettle with supper simmering in it.

Odysseos came down from his boat, dressed in a clean robe and a deep blue cloak. Two young men in leather vests and helmets walked a respectful three paces behind him.

“Come, Hittite, we go to Agamemnon.”

As we walked through the camp, Odysseos asked me, “You can put wheels on these towers and pull them up to the walls?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“While under fire?”

“Yes, my lord.”

And these men you have with you know how to build such towers?”

“We have done it before, sire. We’ll need a team of workers: axmen, carpenters, workmen.”

He nodded. “No problem there.”

As we walked toward the cabin of Agamemnon, I wondered that none of these Achaians had thought of building siege towers earlier. Then I realized that these barbarians weren’t real soldiers. These kings and princelings might fancy themselves to be mighty warriors, but my own squad of troops could beat five times their number of these fame-seeking simpletons. It was as Poletes said: these Achaians fight for glory— and loot.

The High King seemed half asleep when we were ushered into his cabin. Odysseos’ two guards stayed outside in the gathering night. Agamemnon sat drowsily in a camp chair, a jewel-encrusted wine goblet in his right hand. Apparently the wound in his shoulder did not prevent him from lifting his arm to drink. No one else was in the cabin except a pair of women slaves, dark-eyed and silent in thin shifts that showed their bare arms and legs.

Odysseos took a stool facing the High King. I squatted on the carpeted ground at his side. He was offered wine. I was not.

“A tower that moves?” Agamemnon muttered after Odysseos had
explained it to him twice. “Impossible! How could a stone tower be made to move?”

“It would be made of wood, son of Atreos. And covered with hides for protection.”

Agamemnon looked down at me blearily and let his chin sink to his broad chest. He seemed almost asleep. Still, the lamps casting long shadows across the room made his heavy-browed face seem sinister, even threatening.

“I had to return the captive Briseis to that young pup,” he grumbled. “And hand over a fortune of booty. Even with his loverboy slain by Hector the little snake refused to reenter the war unless his ‘rightful’ spoils were returned to him.” The scorn that he put on the word
rightful
could have etched granite.

“Son of Atreos,” Odysseos soothed, “if this plan of mine works we will sack Troy and gain so much treasure that even overweening Achilles will be satisfied.”

Agamemnon said nothing. He waved his goblet slightly and one of the slave women came immediately to fill it. Then she filled Odysseos’ golden cup.

“Achilles,” Agamemnon growled. I could hear the hatred in his voice. “If he slays Hector tomorrow the bards will sing his praises forever.”

“But the walls of Troy will still stand between us and the victory you deserve, High King,” said Odysseos.

Agamemnon smiled slyly. “On the other hand, Hector might kill Achilles. Then I’ll be rid of him.”

Lower, Odysseos repeated, “But the walls of Troy will still stand.”

“Three more weeks,” Agamemnon muttered. He slurped at his wine, spilling much of it over his already stained tunic. “Three more weeks is all I need.”

“Sire?”

Agamemnon let the goblet slip from his beringed fingers and plonk onto the carpeted ground. He leaned forward, a sly grin on his fleshy face.

“In three more weeks my ships will bring the grain harvest from the Sea of Black Waters through the Dardanelles to Mycenae. And neither Priam nor Hector will be able to stop them.”

Odysseos made a silent little “oh.” I saw at that moment that Agamemnon was no fool. If he could not conquer Troy, he would at least get his ships through the straits and back again, loaded with golden grain, before breaking off the siege. And if the Achaians had to sail away from Troy without winning their war, at least Agamemnon would have the year’s grain supply in his own city of Mycenae, ready to use it or sell it to his neighbors as he saw fit.

Odysseos had the reputation of being cunning, but I realized that the King of Ithaca was merely careful, a man who considered all the possibilities before choosing a course of action. Agamemnon was the crafty one: greedy, selfish and grasping.

Recovering quickly from his surprise, Odysseos said, “But now we have the chance of destroying Troy altogether. Not only will we have the loot of the city and its women, but you will have clear sailing through the Dardanelles for all the years of your kingship!”

Agamemnon slumped back on his chair. “A good thought, son of Laertes. A good thought. I’ll consider it and call a council to decide upon it. After tomorrow’s match.”

With a reluctant nod, Odysseos said, “After we see whether Achilles remains among us or dies on Hector’s spear.”

Agamemnon smiled broadly.

“He’s a fool,” I muttered as we walked away from Agamemnon’s cabin.

Odysseos laid a hand on my shoulder. “No, Hittite. He is the High King and you could have your tongue cut out for speaking that way.”

The sun had set. The stars were coming into sight. That everlasting chill wind was again blowing in from the sea, through the camp and across the plain of Ilios, toward the dark brooding walls of Troy. The camp seemed quiet, subdued; the betting and excited anticipation over the coming bout between Achilles and Hector seemed to be over now. Men were crawling into their tents or making up their bedrolls for the night’s sleep. Some were pairing off with slave women, I saw. I wondered what Aniti was doing. Was she with Agamemnon? The thought made my stomach turn.

“The High King is many things,” Odysseos said to me, his voice low, grave, “but he is no fool. If Achilles wins tomorrow, the Trojans will be so demoralized they might agree to return Helen and end the war. If Hector wins, then Agamemnon is rid of a thorn in his flesh.”

Understanding dawned in me. “Either way, he wins.”

It was too dark to see the expression on Odysseos’ face, but I heard the iron hardness in his voice. “Either way.”

“But my sons,” I said. “My wife.”

“Too soon to ask for them, Hittite. You saw how angry he was over
returning the slave to Achilles. You can imagine how he’d react to your request.”

“But he has no right to them!”

Very softly, Odysseos replied, “He is the High King. That is all the right he needs.”

I had no answer for that.

“Tomorrow, Hittite. Be patient for a few more hours.”

My teeth clenched hard enough to snap an iron blade.

Odysseos seemed to be lost in thought as we walked in silence the rest of the way back to the Ithacans’ section of the camp. All was quiet. Most of the men were already asleep.

At last he said, “I have another task for you, Hittite.”

“Sire?”

“You will be a herald again and return to Troy. With a message for Helen. From me.”

Wearing a white armband and carrying the willow reed of an emissary, I once again headed for Troy’s Scaean Gate, across the blood-soaked plain of Ilios, lit by the fattening crescent of the moon and the glittering stars that spangled the night sky. There were no troops camped on the plain this night; I walked alone and unchallenged until I stood before the city’s high walls.

The guards at the gate were fully-grown warriors in bronze armor, their shields and spears resting within an arm’s reach. As before, I carried only a slim dagger tucked into my belt. As before, they took it from me before sending me under escort to Prince Hector.

He received me in the armory, a long hall filled with shields and weapons and empty chariots. The place rang with voices and the hum of work. Slaves and warriors alike were polishing, sharpening, mending wheels, stacking sheaves of arrows. Hector was inspecting a suit of bronze armor, checking its leather straps, pointing out to a slave scratches that he wanted buffed away by morning.

Paris was nowhere in sight. I was glad of that; the young prince would get angry if he knew the message I bore.

Hector looked up as I stopped before him, flanked by my two armed escorts.

“You again,” he said.

I made a small bow. “My lord Odysseos has sent me—”

“With another offer of peace?”

“No, my lord. I bear a message for Helen.”

“From Odysseos?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Tell it to me, I’ll see that she gets it.”

I drew myself up a bit taller. “My instructions are to give the message to Helen and no one else.”

Hector fell silent for a moment, appraising me with those steady brown eyes of his. If he felt anxious about the morning’s duel against Achilles, he gave no sign of it.

“ We could force the message from you, Hittite,” he said calmly.

“Perhaps,” I replied.

For several moments more he said nothing, obviously thinking over the situation. At last he said to my escorts, “Take this emissary to Princess Helen, then escort him back to the Scaean Gate and send him on his way.”

They clenched their fists on their breasts and started to turn.

“My lord Hector,” I heard myself say. “May the gods be with you tomorrow.” I had no idea why I blurted out those words, except that I thought Hector was a far better man than vainglorious Achilles.

Hector almost smiled. “The gods will do as they wish, Hittite. As usual.”

Those were the last words I heard from Hector, prince of Troy.

If Hector was calm, Helen was in a frenzy. She burst into the little sitting room that my escorts brought me to, her eyes red and puffy. Apet lingered at the doorway, again in her black Death’s robe.

“What does Odysseos want to tell me?” Helen fairly shouted. “Can he prevent tomorrow’s fight?”

Her golden hair was disheveled, she wore a plain shift belted at the waist. It was obvious she had been crying. Yet still she was so beautiful that it took a conscious effort of will not to reach out to her and try to comfort her.

“Nothing can prevent tomorrow’s fight, my lady,” I said. “Or, rather, no one will take a step to prevent it.”

She sank onto the sofa against the little chamber’s far wall. “No. It’s ordained by the Fates. Hector will die tomorrow. It’s foretold. Troy is doomed. I’m doomed.” She bowed her head and began to sob softly.

Still wondering where Paris was, I knelt on one knee before her. “My lady, Odysseos wants me to tell you how to survive.”

Helen looked at me, her soft cheeks runneled by tears. “How can I survive if he dies?” she demanded. “Why should I survive? I’m the cause of his death!”

Apet hurried to her side. “Not so, my dear one. Hector is doomed, truly, but it’s not your fault. It’s his destiny and there’s nothing anyone can do to avoid it.”

Helen shook her golden-tressed head and broke into more sobs.

Kneeling at her feet, I told her, “My lord Odysseos instructed me to tell you that if the worst happens, if the Achaians break into Troy, you are to flee to the temple of Aphrodite and take sanctuary there. He will seek you there, in the temple of Aphrodite.”

Helen’s sobbing eased. “Odysseos will seek me?”

“So he told me. He will protect you while the city is being sacked.”

Her face went cold. “And then return me to Menalaos.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I’d rather die.”

“No!” I urged. “You must live.”

“Not as Menaloas’ wife. He’d probably kill me, after he’s had his fill of beating me, raping me, humiliating me in front of his kinsmen.”

Apet said, “Fly to Egypt, my pet! You’ll be safe in the Land of the Two Kingdoms.”

Egypt? I was stunned. The old woman must be insane. Egypt was a thousand leagues distant. Farther.

Helen echoed my thoughts. “How can we get to Egypt? How can we get away from Troy when the city falls? What good is anything if he’s killed?”

She had lost all hope. And suddenly I felt pity for beautiful Helen. She had nothing to look forward to if Troy fell; nothing but pain and humiliation and ultimately death. Hector had been her real hope, her one chance for survival. If he died . . .

But it was more than that, I realized. She loved Hector. More than her girlish infatuation with Paris. She truly loved Hector. She was terrified that he would be killed by Achilles. That frightened her more than her own fate at the hands of Menalaos.

I found myself wondering what love truly is. How can one person be willing to die so that another could live? With a shock of surprise, I found myself envying Hector.

But such thoughts were not for me. I was a soldier; she was a queen, and a princess of Troy. Slowly I got to my feet. “My lady, that is Odysseos’ message. If the Achaians enter the city, fly to the temple of Aphrodite. Not even the barbarians would despoil the temple of so powerful a goddess. He will find you there and protect you.”

Helen nodded bleakly. “And then turn me over to Menalaos.”

I spread my hands. “I have nothing to say about that, my lady.” Yet I wished that I did.

Helen breathed a long, shuddering sigh. Then she stood up and said to me, “Thank you, Lukka, for bringing me Odysseos’ message. Now you must return to your master and give him my thanks for offering me his protection.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Apet said, in a half-whisper.

“Is it?” Helen asked. Then she dismissed me.

The same two young men escorted me to the Scaean Gate. I left Troy, my mind in a turmoil over Helen. She was too beautiful to die, to be killed by Menalaos. Even though he was her rightful husband and had the power of life and death over her . . . I shook my head and tried to clear
away such thoughts. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to picture my Aniti in my mind. Would she cry for me if I were killed? Would I cry for her?

It wasn’t until I was halfway back to the Achaian camp strung out along the beach, trudging alone beneath the moon as it glided among clouds of silver, that the full import of Odysseos’ message to Helen suddenly struck me.

He expected the Achaians to break through Troy’s walls. He knew that if Achilles killed Hector the Trojans would shut themselves inside those walls and defy the invaders. He knew that the only way to get past those walls was to build the siege towers that I had described to him.

Haughty Agamemnon might not believe that the towers could work, but Odysseos did. He believed in them! He believed in me!

I wished that Helen did, too.