Ilium (43 page)

“It’s a chance for survival,” said Mahnmut, pulling on lines to fill what was left of the mainsail with wind. He waited until they’d crested the next wave and swung the wheel, turning the heavy ship ponderously to starboard, swinging the bow toward that ever-widening gap in the coastal cliffs. “It’s a chance for survival,” he said again.

It ended on the afternoon of the eighth day. One hour the dust clouds were still low and scudding, the wind was still raging, and the seas within the great Candor Chasma basin remained white and wild; the next hour, after a final bloody rain, the skies were blue, the seas grew placid, and the little green men stirred from their niches and came up on deck like children rising from a restful nap.

Mahnmut was spent. Even with a recharge trickle from the portable solar cells and occasional jolts from their draining energy cubes, he was worn out organically, mentally, cybernetically, and emotionally.

The LGM seemed to marvel at what remained of the mended sails, at the spliced tiller cables, and at other repairs Mahnmut had carried out in the past three days. Then they got to work crewing the bilge pumps, hosing down the blood-red decks, mending more canvas, caulking the warped hull and bulkhead planks, repairing splintered masts, untangling lines, and sailing the ship. Mahnmut went to the mid-deck and supervised the lifting of Orphu from the soggy lower deck, helped secure his friend to the deck and rig the sun-tarp over him, and then Mahnmut found a warm, sunny place on the mid-deck, out of the way, with a wooden wall behind him and a coil of rope in front ameliorating the agoraphobia a bit, and there he allowed himself to float into a half-stupor. When he shut down his eyes, he could still see the high waves approaching, feel the pitching deck beneath, and hear the howl of wind, despite the calm seas around them now. He peeked. The ship was sailing south again, tacking into the mild southwestern wind, heading back toward the broad opening where Candor Chasma opened into the Valles Marineris at the place called Meles Chasma. Mahnmut shut down his vision again and allowed himself to doze off.

Something touched Mahnmut’s shoulder and he started awake. One by one, the forty LGM were filing past him, each green figure touching him on the shoulder as it passed. He reported this to Orphu, using the subvocal channel.

“Perhaps they’re expressing their gratitude for your saving them,” said the Ionian. “I know I would if I had arms or legs left to pat you with.”

Mahnmut said nothing, but he could hardly believe that this was the reason for the contact. He hadn’t seen any emotions from the LGM—not even when their translators had withered and died after communicating with him—and he found it hard to believe they were all grateful, even though the LGM were good enough sailors to realize that the ship would have sunk had it not been for Mahnmut’s intervention.

“Or maybe they just think you’re lucky and they’re trying to get some of it to rub off,” added Orphu.

Before Mahnmut could express his opinion of this idea, the last of the LGM in line had reached him, but instead of patting the moravec’s carbonfiber shoulder and moving on, the little green man went to his knees, lifted Mahnmut’s right hand, and set it against his chest.

“Oh, no,” Mahnmut groaned to Orphu. “They want to do the communication thing again.”

“That’s good,” said the Ionian. “We have questions to ask.”

“The answers aren’t worth the death of another of these little green men,” said Mahnmut. He was pulling his hand back as hard as the black-eyed LGM was tugging it toward his green chest.

“It might well be worth it,” said Orphu. “Even if the LGM unit does undergo anything similar to our idea of death, which I doubt. Besides, it’s his initiative. Let him make contact.”

Mahnmut quit struggling and let the LGM pull his hand against its chest—
into
its chest.

Once again there was the shocking, sickening feeling of his fingers sliding through flesh and being immersed in the warm, thick saline solution, of his hand contacting and then encircling that pulsing organ the size of a human heart.

“Try holding it a bit less tightly this time,” suggested Orphu. “If the communication is truly through molecular packets of organic nanobytes, less surface area of contact might cut down the volume of their thoughts.”

Mahnmut nodded, realized that Orphu could not see his nod, but then focused only on the strange vibration from his hand through his arm to his mind as the little green man began the conversation.

WE GIVE YOU
GRATITUDE FOR
SAVING
OUR SHIP.

“You’re welcome,” Mahnmut said aloud, focusing his thoughts through spoken language at the same time he shared the exchange with Orphu on the tightbeam band. “Who
are
you?” he asked. “What do you call yourselves?”

ZEKS.

The word meant nothing to Mahnmut. He felt the LGM’s communication organ pulse in his hand and had the wild urge to release it, to rip his fist from this doomed person’s chest—but that would help neither of them now.
Do you know this word—‘Zeks’?
Mahnmut asked Orphu.

Just a minute,
sent Orphu.
Accessing third-tier memory. Here it is—from
A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich
. It was a slang term related to the Russian word “sharashka”—“a special scientific or technical institute staffed with prisoners”—the prisoners of these Soviet labor camps were called zeks.

Well,
sent Mahnmut,
I don’t think these chlorophyll-based Martian LGM are prisoners of some short-lived Earth regime from more than two thousand years ago.
The entire exchange with Orphu had taken less than two seconds. To the little green man, he said, “Would you tell us where you’re from?”

This time the answer was not in words but images—green fields, a blue sky, a sun much larger than the one in Mars’s sky, a distant range of mountains hazy in the thick air. “Earth?” said Mahnmut, shocked.

NOT THE STAR IN THE NIGHT SKY HERE

was the LGM’s response.

A DIFFERENT EARTH.

Mahnmut pondered this but did not know how to phrase a clarifying question other than his clumsy “Which Earth, then?”

The little green man answered only with the same images of green fields, distant mountains, an Earthlike view of the sun. Mahnmut could feel this LGM’s energy fading, the heartlike organ pulsing with less vitality.
I’m killing him,
he thought in panic.

Ask about the stone faces
came Orphu on the commline.

“Who is the man represented in the stone faces?” Mahnmut asked dully.

THE MAGUS.
HE OF THE BOOKS.
LORD OF THE SON OF SYCORAX, WHO BROUGHT US HERE.
THE MAGUS IS MASTER EVEN OF SETEBOS, OUR LORD’S
MOTHER’S GOD.

Magus!
sent Mahnmut to Orphu.

It means magician, sorcerer—as in the Three Magi . . .

Goddammit,
Mahnmut sent fiercely, angrily—he was wasting this dying green person’s time. The heart-organ pulsed more weakly with every second that passed.
I
know
what “magus” means, but I don’t believe in magic and neither do you, Orphu.

But it appears that our LGM do,
responded Orphu.
Ask about the dwellers on Olympus.

“Who are the chariot people on Olympus?” Mahnmut asked dutifully, feeling that he was asking all the wrong questions. But he could think of none better to pose.

MERE GODS,

responded the little green man through bursts of nanobyte images decohering to words.

HELD IN THRALL HERE
BY A BITTER HEART THAT BIDES ITS TIME AND BITES.

“Who is . . .” began Mahnmut but too late—the little green man had suddenly toppled backward, the moravec’s hand holding nothing but a desiccated wrapper instead of a pulsing heart now. The LGM began to wither and contract as soon as his body hit the deck. Clear fluid ran across the boards as the little person’s anthracite eyes sank into its collapsing green face, then brown face as the skin changed color and wrinkled inward and ceased to be the shape of a man. Other LGM came closer and carried the shriveled brown skin-envelope away.

Mahnmut began shivering uncontrollably.

“We have to find another communicator and finish this conversation,” said Orphu.

“Not now,” said Mahnmut between shudders.

“ ‘
A bitter heart that bides its time and bites,
’ “ quoted Orphu. “You must have recognized that.”

Mahnmut shook his head dully, remembered his friend’s blindness, and said, “No.”

“But you’re the Shakespeare scholar!”

“That’s not from Shakespeare,” said Mahnmut.

“No,” agreed Orphu. “Browning. ‘Caliban upon Setebos.’ “

“I’ve never heard of it,” said Mahnmut. He managed to get to his feet—two feet—and stagger to the rail. The water curling back alongside the felucca now was more blue than red. Mahnmut knew that if he were human, he’d be vomiting over the side now.

“Caliban!” Orphu all but shouted over the tightbeam line.
“ ‘A bitter heart that bides its time and bites.’
The deformed creature, part sea-beast, part man, had a mother who was a witch—Sycorax—and her god was Setebos.”

Mahnmut remembered the dying LGM using those words, but he couldn’t concentrate on their meaning now. The entire conversation had been like stringing bloody beads on a sinew of living tissue.

“Could the LGM have heard us reciting from
The Tempest
three days ago when you first regained control of the felucca?” asked Orphu.

“Heard us?” echoed Mahnmut. “They don’t have ears.”

“Then it’s us, not them, echoing to this strange new reality,” rumbled the Ionian, but with a rumble more ominous than his usual laughter.

“What are you talking about?” asked Mahnmut. Red cliffs had become visible to the west. They rose seven or eight hundred meters above the water of the widening delta of Candor Chasma.

“We seem to be in some mad dream,” said Orphu. “But the logic here is consistent . . . in its own mad way.”

“What are you
talking
about?” repeated Mahnmut. He was in no mood for more games.

“We know the identity of the stone face now,” said Orphu.

“We do?”

“Yes. The magus. He of the books. Lord of the son of Sycorax.”

Mahnmut’s mind wouldn’t work to connect these obvious dots. His system was still filled with the alien surge of nanobytes, a peaceful but dying clarity that was alien to Mahnmut but welcome . . . very welcome. “Who?” he said to Orphu, not caring if his friend thought him dull.

“Prospero,” said Orphu.

30

So far this evening’s gone just as Homer said it would.

The Trojans have built their hundreds of watchfires just beyond the Achaean trench—the Greeks’ last line of defense down here on the beach—but the Achaeans, beaten so soundly through the long day and evening into night, have forgone even cooking fires in their milling confusion. I’ve morphed into the form of Old Phoenix and joined the gathering near Agamemnon’s tent where the weeping son of Atreus—weeping! This king of Greek kings weeping!—is urging his commanders to take their men and flee.

I’ve seen Agamemnon use this strategy before—pretending to want to run away so as to rally his men to defiance—but this time, it’s obvious, the older king is in earnest. Agamemnon, hair wild, armor bloody, muddy cheeks rivuleted with tears, wants his men to flee for their lives.

It’s Diomedes who challenges Agamemnon, all but calling their king a coward and promising, with Sthenelus alone if all the others flee, to “fight on alone until we see the fixed fate of Ilium.” The other Achaeans shout support for this bluster, and then it is Old Nestor, citing his years as his passport to speak, who suggests that everyone calm down, have something to eat, post sentries, send men to watch the trench and ramparts, and talk this over before stampeding for the ships, the sea, and home.

And this, just as Homer described, is what they do.

Then the seven chiefs of the guard, led off by Nestor’s middle-aged son, Thrasymedes, each take their hundred fighters out to set up new defensive positions between trench and rampart and to light their dinner fires. The handful of Greek fires—joined soon by Agamemnon’s feast fire—seems pitiful set against the hundreds of Trojan watchfires just beyond the trench, their sparks leaping high toward the lowering thunderclouds.

Here at Agamemnon’s council feast, attended by all the assembled Achaean lords and commanders, the dialogue continues just as Homer reported it. Nestor speaks first, praising Agamemnon’s courage and sagacity but telling him, essentially, that he really screwed the pooch when he chose to steal the slave girl Briseis from Achilles.

“You’re not lying there, old man,” is Agamemnon’s honest response. “I was insane. Insane
and
blind to offend Achilles so.”

The great king pauses, but no one of the dozens of chiefs hunkered around the central cooking fire rises to argue with him.

“Mad blind I was,” continues Agamemnon, “and not even I would deny it. Zeus loves that young man so that Achilles is worth an entire battalion . . . no, an entire army!”

Still no one argues the point.

“And since I
was
made mad and blind by my own rage, I’ll set things right now by paying a king’s ransom to bring him back to Achaean ranks.”

Here the assembled chieftains, Odysseus included, make grumbling sounds of agreement around their mouthfuls of beef and chicken.

“Here before you all assembled, I will count off my gifts in their splendor to purchase young Achilles’ love,” cries Agamemnon. “Seven tripods untouched by flame, ten talents’ weight of gold, twenty servant-shined and new-burnished cauldrons, twelve great stallions, fleet of foot, who’ve won races and prizes for me . . .”

And blah and blah and blah. Just as Homer wrote. Just as I predicted to you earlier. And, also as I predicted, Agamemnon vows to return Briseis, unbedded, as well as twenty Trojan women—if and after the walls of Ilium fall, of course—and, as a sort of pièce de résistance, the pick of Agamemnon’s own three daughters, Chrysothemis, Laodike, and Iphianassa—and as an inveterate scholic, I note the continuity error here with earlier and later tales, especially the absence of Elektra and the possible confusion of Iphigeneia’s name, but that’s not important right now—and then, for dessert, Agamemnon throws in the “seven citadels,” strongly settled.

And, just as Homer has reported, Agamemnon offers these things in lieu of an apology. “All this, I will offer him if he will end his wrath,” cries the son of Atreus to his listening commanders. Thunder rumbles and lightning flickers overhead as if Zeus is impatient. “But let Achilles submit to me! Only Hades, the god of death, is as pitiless and relentless as this upstart. Let Achilles yield place and bow to me! I am the elder-born and the kinglier king. I am—I claim—the greater man!”

Well, so much for apologies.

It’s raining now. A steady drizzle laced with Zeus’s lightning and drunken cries from the Trojan lines less than a hundred yards away drift across the rain-filled ditch and muddy ramparts. I want the embassy to Achilles to be chosen so I can walk up the beach with Odysseus and Ajax and get on with it. This is the most important night of my life—at least of this second life as a scholic—and I keep rehearsing what I will say to Achilles.

If you will change all of our fates, you must find the fulcrum.

I think I’ve found it. Or at least
a
fulcrum. Certainly nothing will be the same for the Greeks and gods and Trojans—or for me—if I do what I plan to do this night. When old Phoenix speaks at this embassy to Achilles, it will be not only to end Achilles’ wrath but to unite his cause with Hector’s—to turn both Greeks and Trojans against the gods themselves.

Nestor suddenly cries out, “Son of Atreus, generous marshal and lord of men, our Agamemnon—no man, not even our Prince of Men, Peleus’ son, Achilles, could spurn such gifts. Come, we’ll send a small embassy of carefully chosen men to carry these offers and our love to Achilles’ tent this night. Quick, whomever my eye lights on, let these take the duty!”

Robed in old Phoenix’s flesh, I step to the edge of the circle near Big Ajax, making myself visible to Nestor.

“First of all,” cries Nestor, “let Ajax the Great take up this task. And with Big Ajax, let our tactful and brilliant king, Odysseus, add his counsel. For heralds—I choose Odius and Eurybates to escort our embassy. Water for all their hands now! And a moment of prayerful silence while we all beseech Zeus in our own manner—that the great god will show us mercy and let Achilles smile on our entreaty!”

I stand in shock while the ablutions are administered and the commanders bow their heads in silent prayer.

Nestor ends the silence by urging on the embassy—the embassy of four, not five!—by shouting at the leaving men, “Try hard now! Bring him around and make him pity us, our invincible, pitiless Achilles!”

And the two ambassadors and the two heralds leave our circle of firelight and walk away up the beach.

I wasn’t chosen! Phoenix wasn’t chosen! He hasn’t even been mentioned!
Homer was wrong! The events of this Ilium have just wildly diverged from the events of the
Iliad,
and suddenly I’m as blind to future events as Helen and the other players here, as blind as the gods above, as blind as Homer himself, damn his missing eyes!

Stumbling on my old, skinny legs—on useless
Phoenix’
old, skinny legs—I shove my way through the circle of Greek chieftains and run along the crashing water’s edge to try to catch up to Big Ajax and Odysseus.

I catch up to the two halfway down the dark beach to Achilles’ compound. Ajax and Odysseus are alone, speaking softly as they walk along the wet sand. They stop when I come up to them.

“What is it, Phoenix, son of Amyntor?” asks Big Ajax. “I was surprised to see you at the king’s feast, since word is that you’ve stayed close to your Myrmidon healers in recent months. Has Agamemnon sent you after us with some final admonition?”

Gasping as if I’m actually as old as Phoenix, I say, “Greetings, noble Ajax and royal Odysseus—in truth, Lord Agamemnon has sent me to join you in your embassy to Achilles.”

Big Ajax looks perplexed at this but Odysseus looks downright suspicious. “Why would Agamemnon choose you for this duty, honorable elder? Why would you even be in Agamemnon’s camp this dangerous night when the Trojans bay across our ditch like hungry dogs?”

I have no answer for the second question, so I try to bluff my way through the first. “Nestor suggested that I join you to help gain Achilles’ ear, and Agamemnon thought it a wise suggestion.”

“Come then,” says Ajax the Greater. “Join us, Phoenix.”

“But do not speak unless I tell you to,” says Odysseus, still squinting at me as if I were the impostor I truly am. “Nestor and Agamemnon may have seen some reason for you to visit Achilles’ tent, but there can be no reason for you to speak.”

“But . . .” I begin. I have no argument. If I’m not allowed to speak, after Odysseus but before Ajax as Homer had it, I lose all leverage, lose the fulcrum, I fail. If I’m not allowed to speak, the events of this night will diverge from the
Iliad
. But, I realize, they already have diverged. Phoenix should have been chosen by Nestor, his presence in the embassy seconded by Agamemnon.
What’s going on here?

“If you join us in Achilles’ tent, Old Phoenix,” warns Odysseus, “you must wait in the foyer with the heralds, Odius and Eurybates, and enter or speak only on my command. These are my conditions.”

“But . . .” I begin again and see the uselessness of any protest. If Odysseus becomes more suspicious and marches me back to Agamemnon’s camp, my ruse will be up, and with it, my entire plan to turn the mortals against the gods. “Yes, Odysseus,” I say, nodding like the old horseman and tutor Phoenix was. “As you command.”

Odysseus and Big Ajax walk along the crashing sea and I follow.

I’ve talked about Achilles’ tent and you might picture some sort of backyard camping tent, but the son of Peleus lives in a canvas compound that’s closer in size to the main tent of a traveling circus I recall from my childhood . . . recall from what I
am beginning to remember
from my childhood. Thomas Hockenberry had a life, it seems, and after almost a decade here, some of the memories are leaking back into my mind.

This night, the hundreds of tents and campfires around Achilles’ main tent paint as chaotic a scene as the rest of the mile-long Achaean encampment, with some of Achilles’ loyal Myrmidons packing his black ships for departure, others looking to the ramparts to defend their area of beach should the Trojans win through before dawn, and still others gathering around campfires much as Agamemnon’s commanders had been.

Odius and Eurybates have announced our arrival to the captains of the guard, and Achilles’ personal guards snap to attention and allow us into the inner compound. We leave the beach and climb the low dune to the rise where Achilles’ main tent is situated. I follow the two Achaeans in—Big Ajax ducking his head to go through the lower inner entrance, Odysseus, almost a foot shorter than his comrade, entering without having to duck his head. Odysseus turns and gestures me to a place in the foyer near the entrance. I can see and hear what is happening within, but I won’t be part of it if I stay here.

Achilles, just as Homer described, is playing his lyre and singing an epic song of ancient heroes not so different than the
Iliad
itself. The lyre, I know, was a spoil of war, won when Achilles conquered Thebe and murdered Andromache’s father, Eetion. Hector’s wife had grown up listening to this same silver lyre being played in the hearth of her royal home there. Now Patroclus, Achilles’ dearest friend, sits across from him, waiting for Achilles to finish his part of the song so that Patroclus can sing the remaining lines.

Achilles quits plucking the instrument and stands in surprise as Ajax and Odysseus enter. Patroclus scrambles to his feet as well.

“Welcome!” cries Achilles. He gestures to Patroclus. “Look, dear friends have come—I must be needed badly to bring them here—and my dearest friends in all the Achaean ranks, even in my anger I acknowledge this.”

He leads the two emissaries to low couches and throws rich purple carpets across the cushioned frames. To Patroclus, Achilles says, “Come, son of Menoetius, a bigger wine bowl. Here . . . put it here. We’ll mix stronger wine. A cup for each of my noble guests—since these men who have come under my roof are those I love the best.”

I watch the unfolding of these surprisingly gracious rituals of heroic hospitality. Patroclus sets a heavy chopping block next to the fire and lays out the chines of a sheep and a goat, next to the fat-marbled back cut of a pig. Automedan, friend and charioteer of both Achilles and Patroclus, holds the slabs of meat while Achilles cuts off prize strips, salts each, and sets them on spits. Patroclus builds up the fire for a minute and then scatters the embers and sets the spits across the hottest part of the fire, salting each strip again.

I realize that I’m famished. If I am called in to speak now—if all of our fates depended on it—I couldn’t do it because my mouth is watering so.

As if hearing my stomach rumbling, Achilles looks out into the foyer and almost freezes with surprise. “Phoenix! Honored mentor, noble horseman! I thought you ill in your tent these weeks last. Come in, come in!”

With that the young hero comes into the foyer, embraces me, and leads me into the firelit center of his home, the air smelling now of roasting mutton and pork. Odysseus shoots daggers from his eyes, silently warning me to keep silent during the discussions.