The Hittite (4 page)

Muttering and complaining all the way, Poletes led us across a ford in the river and toward the camp of the Achaians, which stretched along the sandy shore of the restless sea. It was protected by an earthen rampart twice the height of a grown man running parallel to the shoreline. I saw sharpened stakes planted here and there along its summit. In front of the rampart was a deep ditch, with more stakes studding its bottom. There was a packed sandy rampway that led up to an opening in the rampart, which was protected by a wooden gate that stood wide open, defended by a handful of lounging spearmen. If this is a sample of Acha-ian discipline, I thought, a maniple or two of Hatti soldiers could take this gate and probably the whole camp with it.

We trudged up the ramp and through the open gate, unchallenged by the men who were supposed to be guarding it. Once inside the gate, I saw that what they called a camp looked more like a crowded, bustling noisy village than a military base, and smelled like a barn despite the breeze coming off the sea. People milled about, all of them talking at once, it seemed, at the top of their lungs. There was no hint of military or ganization or discipline among these Achaians.

They had pulled their long, pitch-blackened boats up onto the sandy beach and raised tents and even sizable huts of wood next to them. Between the boats stood roped-off corrals where horses neighed and
stamped, and makeshift pens of slatted wood for stinking goats and sheep that bleated and shitted endlessly. Noise and filth were everywhere; the stench almost gagged me at first.

It grew chilly as the sun sank below the flat horizon of the dark blue sea. They have been here for some time, I realized, as we made our way through the confused jumble of the camp. Men were gathering around cook fires; pale smoke wafted away on the wind. Dirty-faced slave women in rags stirred big pots of bronze while men sat close by, cleaning weapons, binding fresh wounds, jabbing daggers into the pots to yank out steaming half-cooked chunks of meat. The noise of men shouting back and forth and beasts yowling was enough to make my head hurt; the stench of dung and animals and smoke hung in the air like a palpable cloud.

There were plenty of women in the camp: slaves tending their masters’ cook fires, carrying heavy double-handled jugs of wine on their shoulders, polishing armor with the resigned, hopeless patience that slavery teaches.

As instructed, Poletes marched us to the camp of Agamemnon, High King among the Achaians. The old man pointed out the two dozen boats that Agamemnon had brought to Troy, all pulled far up on the sandy beach, side by side, each decorated with a golden lion painted on its prow. Agamemnon’s quarters was the largest wooden lodge I had yet seen, its main door guarded by no less than six armed warriors in shining bronze armor and helmets.

Poletes spoke to one of the guards, who walked off into the lengthening shadows of the noisy, busy camp.

“How long has this war been going on?” I asked Poletes.

Clutching his thin arms over his bare chest to try to ward off the growing cold, Poletes told me, “For years, now. Of course, much of that time has been spent raiding the villages and farms nearby. It took awhile for these mighty warriors to work up the courage to attack Troy itself.”

“The slave market . . .” I started to say.

But Poletes ignored me as he continued, “The city’s walls were built by Poseidon and Apollo, they say. No one can breach them. Yet Agamemnon and the other kings are determined to continue their siege until—”

“You there!” a haughty voice stopped Poletes as if his tongue had been ripped out.

I turned and saw a sour-faced man approaching us, with the guard Poletes had spoken to trailing a few paces behind him. The man wore no armor, but his straight back and sharp tone told me he was accustomed to giving orders. Even in a rough wool chiton he looked like a soldier.

Ignoring Poletes, he marched straight up to me, looked me up and down, then cast a baleful glance at my men.

“I am Thersandros, captain of the High King’s guards. Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded of me.

My men snapped to attention, spears erect. I, too, straightened the spear in my hand and answered, “I am Lukka, commander of this squad of Hatti troops. I want to offer my services to your king.”

The corner of his mouth ticked once. I could see there was gray in his thick beard and shaggy hair.

“Offer your services to the king, eh? More likely you’re looking for a free meal.”

“ We are trained Hatti soldiers,” I said evenly. “ We can be of great help to your king.”

He planted his fists on his hips. “A dozen more mouths to feed, that’s all I see here.”

I drew myself up to my full height, several fingers taller than he. “Are you going to announce our presence to your High King or not?”

He tried to outstare me, but soon blinked and looked away. “To the High King? You must be mad. I’ll tell his chief steward, he’s the one who’s always sending boats back to Argos for more warriors.”

“Fair enough,” I said, deciding to accept his decision.

“You,
thes
,” he growled at Poletes. “Get back to the work gang, where you belong.”

Poletes turned to me, his big frog’s eyes silently begging, like a sorrowful puppy.

“He’s with me,” I heard myself say, even as I thought it was foolish to be so softhearted. A Hatti soldier should be made of sterner stuff.

“Him?” Thersandros guffawed. “He’s nothing but a worthless
thes
.”

“He’s my servant,” I said evenly.

“You can’t—”

“He’s my servant,” I repeated, with more iron in it.

Thersandros shrugged and muttered, “Suit yourself, then. Find yourselves a fire for the night. Over there will do.” He pointed to a handful of men sprawled around one of the cook fires. “Tell them Thersandros said they should share what they can with you.”

I tried to hold back the anger that rose in me. Sending a pack of strangers to soldiers already huddling by their evening fire and ordering them to “share what they can” is an excellent way to start a fight.

Yet even as I stood before Thersandros, struggling to keep my temper, my eye chanced on the line of women who were carrying food and drink into Agamemnon’s cabin.

They were slaves, I knew. Most of them were young and slim, some were even pretty.

The third one in the line was my wife.

I started to call out to her, but she disappeared into the cabin before I could gather my wits and utter a sound. I started toward the lodge, but Thersandros grabbed my arm.

“You can’t go in there!” he snapped, frowning at me. “That’s the High King’s quarters.”

“That woman is my wife,” I said.

His frown changed into a look of sheer disbelief. “Those are slaves, Hittite. The High King’s slaves, at that.”

I pulled free of his grip. “She’s my wife,” I insisted.

Thersandros pointed to the guards in polished bronze armor standing on either side of the hut’s doorway. “They’ll spit you on your spears if you try to go in there.”

“Then you go in and bring her out to me.”

“Me?” He broke into a bitter, barking laugh. “The High King doesn’t give up his slaves, Hittite. Not to me and certainly not to the likes of you.”

He dragged me away from the cabin, back toward my men. “I’ll ask about her for you,” he said, grudgingly. “Don’t expect a miracle.”

My blood was hot. I gripped the pummel of my sword, thinking that I could slice this Thersandros’ liver out of him before he knew what hit him. Then, with my squad of men, I could break past those guards and take my wife out of Agamemnon’s lodge, out of slavery.

And then what? I asked myself. Twelve men against the whole Achaian camp? Madness. And where were my sons? What would happen to them if I started a brawl here in the camp? How could I save them, protect them, if I were killed battling like a hotheaded fool?

So I forced myself to remain silent, to walk slowly away from Thersandros and back toward my waiting men, seething with rage, trembling with the effort to control myself.

Aniti is alive, I told myself. A slave, but still alive. Where are my sons? I wondered. A bitter voice in my mind answered. Already dead, most likely. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to silence that voice.

Poletes broke my train of thoughts. Pointing to the Achaians gathering around their fire, he said, “Let’s get something to eat before everything’s gone. My stomach is as shriveled as a dried prune.”

As boldly as a free man he walked up to the knobby-kneed Achaian standing by the cook pot and said loudly, “Thersandros says that you must share what you have with these men.”

The Achaian didn’t hesitate an instant. He cuffed Poletes with a backhand swat that sent the old storyteller sprawling.

I stepped up to him, Zarton’s spear still in my hand. “This man is my servant. What you do to him you do to me.”

With my free hand I hauled Poletes to his feet. His lip was cracked and bleeding.

The Achaian eyed me up and down, took note of my spear and the sword at my hip, the shield strapped to my back, my travel-stained leather jerkin and iron helmet. He wore only a ragged wool chiton, belted at the waist. His hair and beard were dark and thickly curled, matted with sweat and grime. His bare arms and legs were lean but wiry, roped with muscle.

“And who in the name of Hades are you?” His voice was low, gruff.

The men who had been eating out of wooden bowls were looking up at us. Several of them got slowly to their feet. I knew my own men were drawing themselves up behind me.

“I am Lukka, of the Hatti. Hittites, in your tongue. I’ve offered the services of my men to your High King.”

The man blinked several times. He’s trying to find a way to deal with
us without humiliating himself, I reasoned. He doesn’t want a fight, and neither do I.

“I can pay for what ever food you provide,” I said.

“Pay?”

I held out the spear. “Take it. Its point is made of iron, far stronger than your bronze spearpoints.”

He hesitated. “Bronze holds a sharper edge.”

“And shatters where an iron point holds strong.” With a nod, he took the spear from my hand. He hefted it, then allowed a slow smile to creep across his bearded face.

“Hittites, eh? You’ve come a long way, then.”

“ We have,” I said, making myself smile back at him. “And we’re hungry.”

He nodded and turned to the stolid, thickset wench stirring the pot. With a kick to her rump he barked, “Find more meat for the stew! We have hungry mouths to feed.”

It turned out that he was not a difficult man, after all. His name was Oetylos, and like the rest of the High King’s men he was from Argos.

“Agamemnon is a mighty king,” he said over his wooden bowl as we sat together. “Who else could have brought all these kings and princes together to bring Helen back to her rightful husband?”

I ate the hot, spicy stew slowly and let him talk. I needed to know more about this Agamemnon. I needed to know how I could get this mighty king to release my wife from slavery. And my sons, if they still lived.

I woke with the sun. A chill wind swept in from the sea as the first rays of light peeped over the high wall of the city, up on the bluff. My men, who had been sleeping on the ground wrapped in their cloaks as I had, stirred and began to sit up, coughing and complaining, as usual. Looking around for Poletes, I saw him huddled with several of the dogs, scratching fleas as he still slept.

Silent, sad-faced women brought us wooden cups and filled them with a thin barley gruel. My wife was not among them. We sat in a circle and sipped at our breakfast while the Achaian camp slowly came astir. Poletes joined us, grateful to be given a steaming bowl.

Then Thersandros came striding among us, fists on his hips. “Hittite!” he called to me.

I got to my feet. There was little sense of discipline that I could see. Instead of saluting him I merely walked over and stood three paces before his wary eyes.

“Do Hittite warriors know how to dig?” he asked me, almost in a growl.

“All soldiers learn to use a shovel,” I replied. “My men have built—”

He cut me off with a curt gesture. Pointing to the top of the earthen rampart that protected the camp, he said, “Then take your men up there and do what you can to strengthen the wall.”

I wanted to tell him that he would be wasting our abilities; we were
soldiers, not laborers. Instead I said, “How soon can I see your High King? I want to offer—”

“Offer your backs to the shovels,” Thersandros said. “My lord Agamemnon has other things on his mind this morning.”

With that he turned and walked away from me.

A soldier learns to obey orders or he doesn’t remain a soldier for long. I decided there was nothing I could do but bide my time.

My men were on their feet by now. Walking back to them, I told them that our task this fine, breezy morning was an engineering detail.

Magro saw through my words immediately. “They want us to dig for them?”

I nodded and smiled grimly.

Oetylos had shovels waiting for us. Grousing and frowning, my men took the tools and started trudging up the slope of the rampart.

“You, too, storyteller,” Oetylos said to Poletes, and he threw the old man a filth-encrusted burlap sack: for carrying sand, I surmised.

We were not the only ones plodding up the rampart. Work gangs of slaves and
thetes
were also heading for the top, shovels on their shoulders, with whip-brandishing overseers behind them. At least we had no taskmaster to shout at us.

The rampart stretched along the length of the beach, protecting the camp and the boats pulled up onto the sand. I could see only one opening in the sandy wall, protected by a ramshackle wooden gate and guarded by half a dozen lounging spearmen. In front of the rampart was a broad ditch, studded with wooden spikes, as was the top of the fortification itself.

Once at the top of the rampart we had a fine view of the plain and the city of Troy up on the bluff. Its walls were crenellated, its gates tightly shut. Inside the Achaian camp warriors were eating a breakfast of broiled mutton and thick flat bread, while their slaves and men-at-arms yoked horses to chariots and sharpened swords and spears.

“They’re going to attack the city,” I surmised aloud.

Poletes answered in his surprisingly strong voice, “They will do battle on the plain. The Trojans will come out this day to fight.”

“Why should they come out from behind those walls?” I wondered.

Poletes shrugged his skinny shoulders. “It has been arranged by the heralds. Agamemnon offered battle and white-bearded Priam accepted. The princes of Troy will ride out in their fine chariots to fight the kings of the Achaians.”

That didn’t make much sense to me, and I wondered if the storyteller was trying to make up a dramatic scene out of whole cloth.

As the sun rose higher in the sparkling clear sky we worked at improving the rampart. I immediately saw that the best thing to do was dig sand out of the bottom of the ditch that fronted the defensive wall and carry it up to the top. That way the ditch got deeper and the rampart grew higher. It was hot work, and my men sweated almost as much as they grumbled and swore about their work.

I dug and sweated alongside them. I assigned Poletes to stay at the summit, watching over our weapons and shields and jerkins, which we had left there. We worked in our skirts, bare to the waist.

The morning was quite beautiful. Up at the top of the rampart the cool breeze from the sea felt good on my sweaty skin. The sky was a wondrously clear bowl of sparkling blue, dotted by screeching white gulls that soared above us. The sea was a much deeper blue where restless surges of white-foamed waves danced endlessly. Grayish brown humps of islands rose along the distant horizon. In the other direction Troy’s towers seemed to glower darkly at us from across the plain. The distant hills behind the city were dark with trees, and beyond them rose hazy bluish mountains, wavering in the heat.

Slaves and
thetes
of the other digging crews scrambled up the slope lugging woven baskets filled with sand.

I saw that Poletes had wandered off a ways to talk with some of the others, his skinny arms waving animatedly, his eyes big and round. At length he returned to our cache of weapons and clothes and beckoned to me.

“All is not well among the high and mighty this morning,” he halfwhispered to me, grinning with delight. “There’s some argument between
my lord Agamemnon and Achilles, the great slayer of men. They say that Achilles will not leave his lodge today.”

“Not even to help us dig?” I joked.

Poletes cackled with laughter. “The High King Agamemnon has sent a delegation to Achilles to beseech him to join the battle. I don’t think it’s going to work. Achilles is young and arrogant. He thinks his shit smells like roses.”

I laughed back at the old man.

My men and I toiled like laborers while the sun climbed higher in the cloudless sky. Agamemnon and the other Achaian leaders must be very fearful of the Trojans, I thought, to put us to work on improving their defensive barricade.

Then a handful of
thetes
began pushing on the wooden gate. It creaked and groaned as they pushed it slowly, slowly open. The chariots began to stream out onto the plain, the horses’ hooves thudding on the packedearth ramp that cut across the trench running in front of the rampart. All work stopped. The men still down in the trench scrambled up to the top of the rampart so they could watch the impending battle.