The Hittite (7 page)

The rain petered out although the wind still gusted cold and sharp as I rounded up my squad. Antiklos said nothing until the dozen of us, plus Poletes, were standing before him with spears and shields.

“Are those helmets iron?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “The Hatti know how to work iron.”

Antiklos gave a grudging grunt. “You’d better sleep lightly. There are thieves in camp.”

I made a smile for him. “If I see any man wearing any piece of our equipment I’ll give him an iron sword— in his belly.”

He smiled back. “Follow me, then.”

He led us past several Ithacan boats pulled up onto the beach. Then we came to a sizable hut made of logs and daubed with the same smelly black pitch that caulked the boats. It was the largest structure that I had seen in the Achaians’ camp, taller than two men’s height, big enough to house several dozen men or more, I estimated. There was only one doorway, a low one with a sheet of canvas tacked over it to keep out the rain and wind.

Inside, the shed was a combination ware house and armory that made Poletes whistle with astonishment. Chariots were stored against the far wall, tilted up with their yokes nearly touching the beams of the ceiling. Stacks of helmets and armor were neatly piled along the wall on our
right, while racks of spears, swords and bows lined the wall opposite. The ground was covered with rows of chests stuffed with clothes and blankets.

“So much!” Poletes gasped.

Antiklos made a grim smile. “Spoils from the slain.”

Poletes nodded and whispered, “So many.”

A wizened old man stepped across the sand floor from his hideaway behind a table piled high with clay tablets.

“What now? Haven’t I enough to do without you dragging in a troop of strangers?” he whined. He was a lean and resentful old grump, his hands gnarled and twisted into claws, his back stooped.

“New ones for you, scribe,” said Antiklos. “My lord Odysseos wants them outfitted properly.” And with that, Antiklos turned and ducked through the shed’s doorway. But not before giving me a wink and a grin.

The scribe shuffled over close enough almost to touch me, then squinted at Poletes and my men. “My lord Odysseos, heh? And how does he expect me to find proper gear for the dozen of you?”

“Thirteen,” Poletes said.

The scribe made a gesture in the air with his deformed hands. “An unlucky number! Zeus protect me!”

He grumbled and muttered as he led me past tables laden with bronze cuirasses, arm protectors, greaves and plumed helmets. I stopped and picked up one of the fancy bronze helmets.

“Not that!” the scribe screeched. “Those are not for the likes of you.”

I tossed the helmet back onto the table with a dull clunk. “ We have our own arms and armor,” I said. “What we require is clothes and blankets. And tenting.”

Scowling as he replaced the helmet in its proper spot on the table, the scribe then sank one of his clawlike hands into my forearm and tugged me to a pile of clothes on the ground, close by the entrance to the shed.

“Here,” he said. “See what you can find among these.”

It took awhile. Poletes grumbled about fleas while my men rummaged
among the pile, shaking out garments and blankets and joking among themselves about it.

“In finery like this,” Harta said, grinning, “I’ll make the women swoon when I walk up to them.”

“They’ll swoon from your stink,” Magro answered him. “Try taking a bath first. You won’t smell so bad then.”

At length we had dressed ourselves in linen tunics and leather skirts. They were stained and hardly new, but much better than the travel-worn togs we had arrived in. While the scribe glared and grumbled at us, I made certain that Poletes got a tunic and a wool shirt.

The scribe resisted with howls and curses but I made certain that each of my men took a good blanket, Poletes included. We also took canvas, poles and pegs for making tents. He squealed and argued and threatened that he would tell the king himself what a spendthrift I was. He wouldn’t stop until I picked him off his feet by the front of his tunic and shook him a few times. Then he shut up and let us take what we needed. But his scowl would have curdled milk.

By the time we left the shed the rain had stopped altogether and the westering sun was rapidly drying the puddles along the beach. We found a clear space and settled down. The men began putting up tents. I sent Karsh and Tiwa to find wood for a fire; Poletes scampered off to dicker for food and a couple of slaves to do the cooking. He came back with a flagon of wine in his skinny arms— and two chunky, unwashed women who stared at us with frightened eyes.

Sitting down next to our little fire, Poletes opened the flagon and handed it to me. “There are benefits to being of the house of Odysseos,” he said happily.

Yes, I thought. But how do I get to see my wife and sons, off in Agamemnon’s part of the camp?

By the time we had eaten our sparse meal and drunk the wine, the sun had set. A pale sliver of a moon rose over the hills to the east, but the everlasting wind off the water turned even chillier. I watched as my men crawled into their newly built tents and prepared for sleep. Yawning, I realized that I was ready for sleep myself.

But I still thought of my wife and sons. I could go to Agamemnon’s camp, I told myself. I could search for them there.

Then Poletes stepped to me, fell to his knees and grasped my right hand in both of his, tightly, with a strength I would not have guessed was in him.

“Hittite, my master, you have saved my life twice this day.”

I wanted to pull my hand loose. I could see my men watching us in the deepening shadows.

“You saved the whole camp from Hector’s spear and his vengeful Trojans, but in addition you have lifted me out of a life of misery and shame. I will serve you always, Hittite. I will always be grateful to you for showing mercy to a poor old storyteller.”

He kissed my hand.

I felt my cheeks redden. Reaching down, I lifted him by his frail shoulders to his feet.

“Poor old windbag,” I said gruffly. “You’re the first man I’ve ever seen who’s grateful for becoming a slave.”

“
Your
slave, Hittite,” he corrected. “I am happy to be that, indeed.”

I shook my head, uncertain of what to do or say. Finally I muttered, “Well, get some sleep.”

“Yes. Certainly. May Phantasos send you happy dreams.”

I sat down on my blanket and drew up my knees, thinking that my wife was in this camp, hardly an arrow’s shot away from me. And my sons. My boys. I decided that sleep could wait. I was going to find them. I got to my feet.

“Hittite?” a voice called softly.

I automatically grasped the hilt of my sword.

“Hittite, the king wants you.” In the wan moonlight I saw that it was Antiklos standing before me, silhouetted against the starry sky.

“Bring your iron helmet and spear,” Antiklos said. “Leave your shield.”

“Why does the king summon me?” I asked.

Antiklos made a grunt. “He wants you to help him impress sulking Achilles.”

Ordering Poletes to stay, I followed Antiklos past the tents of my men to the prow of Odysseos’ boat. The King of Ithaca was standing on the beach. As I had suspected, he was almost a head shorter than I. The plume of his helmet reached no higher than my brows.

He nodded a greeting to me and said simply, “Follow me, Hittite.”

The three of us walked in silence through the sleeping camp and up to the crest of the rampart, not far from the gate where I had won their respect that morning. Men stood guard up there, gripping their long spears and peering into the darkness nervously. Beyond the inky shadows of the trench the plain was dotted with Trojan campfires. Above them the crescent moon rode past scudding silvery clouds.

Odysseos gave a sigh that seemed to wrench his powerful chest. “Prince Hector holds the plain, as you can see. Tomorrow his forces will storm the rampart and try to break into our camp and burn our boats.”

“Can we hold them?” I asked.

“The gods will decide, once the sun comes up.”

I said nothing. I suspected that Odysseos was trying to hit upon a plan that might influence the gods his way.

A strong tenor voice called up from the darkness below us. “Odysseos, son of Laertes, are you counting the Trojan campfires?”

Odysseos smiled grimly. “No, Big Ajax. There are too many for any man to count.”

He motioned to me and we went back down into the camp. Ajax was indeed something of a giant among these Achaians: he towered over Odysseos and even topped me by several fingers. He was big across the shoulders as well, his arms as thick as young tree trunks. I felt a sudden pang of remorse: he reminded me of Zarton, my stubborn young ox.

Ajax stood bareheaded beneath the stars, dressed only in a tunic and leather vest. His face was broad, with high cheekbones and a little pug of a nose. His beard was thin, new-looking, not like the thick curly growth of Odysseos and the other chieftains. With something of a shock I realized that Big Ajax could hardly be out of his teens, no older than Zarton was when I killed him.

A much older man stood beside him, hair and beard white, wrapped in a dark cloak that reached to the ground.

“I brought Phoenix along,” said Ajax. “Maybe he can appeal to Achilles better than we can.”

Odysseos nodded his approval.

“I was his tutor when Achilles was a lad,” Phoenix said, in a frail voice that quavered slightly. “He was proud and touchy even then.”

Ajax shrugged his massive shoulders. Odysseos said, “Well, let us try to convince mighty Achilles to rejoin the army.”

We started off for the far end of the camp, where Achilles’ Myrmidones had beached their boats. Half a dozen armed Ithacans trailed the three nobles and I fell in with them. The wind was blowing in off the water, cold and sharp as a knife. The sky above was clouding over. Perhaps it will rain tomorrow, I thought. Perhaps there will be no battle, after all.

Once we entered the Myrmidones’ portion of the camp we passed several sentries on duty, fully armed and armored, with helmets strapped on tightly, heavy shields and long spears in their hands. They wore cloaks, which the wind plucked at and whipped around their gleaming suits of bronze. They recognized giant Ajax and the squat King of Ithaca, and allowed the rest of us to pass unchallenged.

Finally we were stopped by a pair of guards whose armor glittered in the light of a big bonfire, just before a large cabin built of planks.

“ We are a deputation from the High King,” said Odysseos, his voice
deep and grave with formality, “sent to see Achilles, prince of the Myrmidones.”

The guard saluted by clasping his fist to his heart and answered, “Prince Achilles has been expecting you and bids you welcome.”

He stepped aside and gestured them to the open door of the cabin. Odysseos turned and beckoned me to accompany him, Ajax and Phoenix. The other Ithacan troops remained outside.

Mighty warrior that he was, Achilles apparently enjoyed his creature comforts. His cabin’s interior was draped with rich tapestries and the floor was covered with carpets. Couches and pillows were scattered across the spacious room. In one corner a hearth fire smoldered red, keeping out the cold and damp. I could hear the wind moaning through the smoke hole in the roof, but inside the cabin it was reasonably snug and warm.

Three women sat by the fire, staring at us with great dark eyes. They were slim and young, dressed modestly in sleeveless gray chemises. Iron and copper pots stood on tripods at the hearth, faint wisps of steam rising from them. I smelled spiced meat and garlic.

Achilles himself sat on a wide couch against the far wall of the cabin, his back to a magnificent arras that depicted a gory battle scene. The couch was atop a dais, raised above the carpeted floor of the cabin like a king’s throne.

My first sight of the fabled warrior was a surprise. He was not a mighty-thewed giant, like Ajax. His body was not broad and powerful, as Odysseos’. He seemed small, almost boyish, his bare arms and legs slim and virtually hairless. His chin was shaved clean and the ringlets of his long black hair were tied up in a silver chain. He wore a splendid white silk tunic, bordered with a purple key design, cinched at the waist with a belt of interlocking gold crescents. He wore no weapons, but behind him a half-dozen long spears rested against the arras, within easy reach.

His face was the greatest shock. Ugly, almost to the point of being grotesque. Narrow beady eyes, lips curled in a perpetual snarl, a sharp hook of a nose, skin pocked and cratered. In his right hand he gripped a jeweled wine cup; from the bleary look in his eyes it seemed to me that he had already drained it more than once.

At his feet sat a young man who was absolutely beautiful, gazing not at the four of us but up at Achilles. His tightly curled hair was reddish brown, rather than the usual darker tones of these Achaians. I wondered if it was his natural color. Like Achilles, he was beardless. But he seemed young enough not to need to shave. A golden pitcher of wine stood on the carpet beside him.

I looked at Achilles again and thought that I understood the demons that drove him. A small ugly boy born to be a king. A boy destined to rule, but always the object of taunts and derisive laughter behind his back. A young man possessed with fire to silence the laughter, to stifle the taunting. His slim arms and legs were iron-hard, knotted with muscle. His dark eyes were absolutely humorless. There was no doubt in my mind that he could outfight Odysseos or even powerful Ajax on sheer willpower alone.

“Greetings, Odysseos the Ever-Daring,” he said in a calm, clear tenor voice that was close to mocking. “And to you, mighty Ajax, King of Salamis and champion of the Achaian host.” Then his voice softened, “And to you, Phoenix, my well-loved tutor.”

I glanced at the old man. He bowed to Achilles but his eyes were on the beautiful young man at Achilles’ feet.

“You bring a stranger with you,” Achilles said, his cold eyes inspecting me.

“A Hittite,” Odysseos replied, “who has joined my house hold, together with his squad of men. They will make a fine addition to our forces.”

“Indeed,” Achilles said thinly.

Odysseos got down to the subject at hand. “We bring you greetings, Prince Achilles, from Agamemnon the High King.”

“Agamemnon the bargain-breaker, you mean,” Achilles snapped. “Agamemnon the gift-snatcher.”

“He is our High King,” Odysseos said, in a tone that suggested they were all stuck with Agamemnon and the best they could do was to try to work with him.

“So he is,” admitted Achilles. “And well-beloved by Father Zeus, I’m sure.” The sarcasm in his voice dripped like acid.

It was going to be a difficult parley, I could see.

“Perhaps our guests are hungry,” suggested the young man in a soft voice.

Achilles tousled his curly mop of hair. “Always the thoughtful one, Patrokles. Always thoughtful.”

He bade us sit and ordered the serving women to feed us and bring wine cups. Odysseos, Ajax and Phoenix took couches arranged near Achilles’ dais. I stepped back, as befitted a common soldier. Patrokles got to his feet and filled all their cups from his pitcher of gold. The women passed trays of broiled lamb with onions among the noblemen. No one paid the slightest attention to me.

After a round of toasts and polite banter, Achilles said, “I thought I heard mighty Agamemnon bawling like a frightened woman earlier today. He breaks into tears quite easily, doesn’t he?”

Odysseos frowned slightly. “Our High King was wounded this morning. A cowardly Trojan archer hit him in the right shoulder.”

“Too bad,” said Achilles. “I see that you did not escape the day’s fighting without a wound. Did it bring you to tears?”

Ajax burst out, “Achilles, if Agamemnon cries it’s not from pain or fear. It’s from shame! Shame that the Trojans have penned us up in our camp. Shame that our best fighter sits here on a soft couch while his comrades are being slaughtered by Hector and his Trojans.”

“Shame is what he
should
feel,” Achilles shouted back. “He’s robbed me! He’s treated me like a slave or even worse. He calls himself High King but he behaves like a thieving whoremaster!”

And so it went, for nearly an hour. Achilles was furious with Agamemnon for taking back a prize he had been awarded, some captive woman. He claimed that he did all the fighting while Agamemnon was a coward, but after the battle the High King parceled out the spoils to suit himself and even then reneged on what Achilles felt was due him.

“I have sacked more towns and brought the Achaians more captives and loot than any man here, and none of you can say that I haven’t,” he insisted hotly. “Yet that fat lard-ass can steal my rightful rewards away
from me, and you— all of you!— allow him to do it. Did any of you stick up for me in the council? Do you think I owe you anything? Why should I fight for you when you won’t even raise your voices on my behalf ?”

Patrokles tried to soothe him, without much success. “Achilles, these men are not your enemies. They come to you on a mission of reconciliation. It isn’t fitting for a host to bellow at his guests so.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Achilles replied, almost smiling down at the young man. Turning to Odysseos and the others, he said, “It’s not your fault. I’m not angry at you. But I’ll see myself in Hades before I help Agamemnon again. He’s not trustworthy. You should be thinking about appointing a new leader among yourselves.”

Odysseos tried tact, praising Achilles’ prowess in battle, downplaying Agamemnon’s failures and shortcomings. Ajax, blunt and straightforward as a shovel, flatly told Achilles that he was helping the Trojans to slay the Achaians. Old Phoenix appealed to his former student’s sense of honor and recited childhood homilies to him.

Achilles remained unmoved. “Honor?” he snapped at Phoenix. “What kind of honor would I have left if I put my spear back into the service of the man who robbed me?”

Odysseos coaxed, “ We can get the girl back for you, if that’s what you want. We can get a dozen women for you.”

“Or boys,” Ajax added. “What ever you want.”

I thought of my sons and felt glad that they were still as young as they were.

Achilles got to his feet, and Patrokles scrambled to stand beside him. I was right, he was terribly small, although every inch of him was hard with sinew. Even slender Patrokles topped him by a few finger widths.

“When Hector breaks into the camp I will defend my boats,” Achilles said. “Until Agamemnon comes to me personally and apologizes, and begs me to rejoin the fighting, that is all that I will do.”

Odysseos rose, realizing that he was being dismissed. Phoenix stood up beside him and Ajax, after glancing around, finally understood and got ponderously to his feet also.

“What will the poets say of Achilles in future generations?” Odysseos asked, firing his last arrow at the warrior’s pride. “That he sulked in his cabin while the Trojans slaughtered his friends?”

The shot glanced off Achilles without penetrating. “They will never say that I humbled myself and threw away my honor by serving a man who humiliated me.”

They walked slowly to the doorway, speaking polite formal farewells. I fell in behind Odysseos, as befitted my station in his house hold. Phoenix hung back and I heard Achilles invite his old mentor to remain the night.

Outside, Ajax shook his head wearily. “There’s nothing we can do. He just won’t listen to us.”

Odysseos clapped his broad shoulder. “We tried our best, my friend. Now we must prepare for tomorrow’s battle without Achilles.”

Ajax trudged off into the darkness, followed by his men. Odysseos turned to me, a thoughtful look on his face.

“I have a task for you to perform,” he said. “If you are successful you can end this war.”

“And if I am not?”

Odysseos smiled grimly. “No man lives forever, Hittite.”