The Hittite

by Ben Bova

  “To where?”

  Over his shoulder he answered, “My lord Odysseos wants to see what kind of man could stop Prince Hector in his tracks. Now move!”

  Poletes scrambled up and pranced happily in the mud beside me around the prow of the boat, through the soaking rain, to a rope ladder that led up to the deck.

  “I knew Odysseos was the only one here wise enough to make use of you,” he cackled. “I knew it!”

  14

  It was slippery going, clambering up the rope ladder in the wind-whipped rain. I feared that Poletes would fall. But, following Odysseos’ man, we made it to the boat’s deck and ducked under the striped canvas. The Ithacan opened a wooden chest and tossed a pair of large rags at us.

  “Dry yourselves,” he said curtly. We did, gladly, as he shucked the dripping wolf’s pelt he’d been wearing and slung it to the deck with a wet slapping sound.

  I threw my towel next to his sodden pelt. Poletes did the same. For long moments we stood there while the Ithacan looked us up and down.

  “Presentable enough,” he muttered, more to himself than to us. Then he said, “Follow me.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance as we walked behind him around a wooden cabin. And there sat Odysseos, King of Ithaca.

  He was sitting behind a bare trestle table, flanked on either side by two standing noblemen in fine woolen cloaks. He did not appear to be a very tall man; what I could see of legs seemed stumpy, though heavily muscled. His chest was broad and deep. Later I learned that he swam in the sea almost every morning. His thick strong arms were circled with leather wristbands and a bronze armlet above his left elbow that gleamed with polished onyx and lapis lazuli even in the gloom inside his shipboard tent. Puckered white scars from old wounds stood out against the dark skin of his arms, parting the black hairs like roads through a forest.There was a fresh gash on his right forearm, as well, red and still oozing blood slightly.

  The rain drummed against the canvas, which bellied and flapped in the wind scant finger widths above my head. The tent smelled of dogs, musty and damp. And cold. I felt chilled and Poletes, with nothing but his ragged loincloth, hugged his shivering body with his bare arms.

  Odysseos wore a sleeveless tunic, his legs and feet bare, but he had thrown a lamb’s fleece across his wide shoulders. His face was thickly bearded with dark curly hair that showed a trace of gray. His heavy mop of ringlets came down to his shoulders and across his forehead almost down to his black eyebrows. Those eyes were as gray as the sea outside on this rainy afternoon, probing, searching, judging.

  “You are a Hittite?” were his first words to me.

  “I am, my lord.”

  “Why have Hittites come to Troy?”

  I hesitated, trying to decide how much of the truth I should speak to him. Swiftly I realized that it had to be either everything or nothing.

  “I seek my wife and two young sons who have been taken captive, my lord.”

  He rocked back on his stool at that. Clearly it was not an answer he had expected.

  “Your wife and sons?”

  “My wife is among the High King’s slaves,” I added. “If my sons live, they must be with her.”

  Odysseos glanced up at the nobleman standing on his left, whose hair and long beard were dead white. His limbs seemed withered to bones and tendons, his face a skull mask. He had wrapped a blue cloak around his chiton, clasped at the throat with a medallion of gold. Both noblemen appeared weary and drained by the morning’s battle although neither of them bore fresh wounds as Odysseos did.

  The King of Ithaca returned his attention to me. “Who is he?” he asked, pointing to Poletes.

  “My servant,” I answered.

  Odysseos nodded, accepting the storyteller. Lightning flashed and he looked up, waiting for the thunder. When it came at last he muttered, “The storm moves away.”

  Indeed, the rain seemed to be slacking off. Its pelting on the canvas of the tent was noticeably lighter.

  At last Odysseos said, “You did us a great service this morning. Such service should be rewarded.”

  The frail old whitebeard at his left spoke in an abrasive nasal voice, “You fought this morning like a warrior born and bred. Facing Prince Hector by yourself! Half naked, too! By the gods! You reminded me of myself when I was your age! I was absolutely fearless then! As far away as Mycenae and even Thebes I was known. Let me tell you—”

  Odysseos raised his right hand. “Please, Nestor, I pray you forgo your reminiscences for the moment.”

  The old man looked displeased but sank back in silence.

  “You say you seek your wife and sons,” Odysseos resumed. “Then you are not here as a representative of your emperor?”

  Again I hesitated. And again I decided there was nothing to tell him but the truth.

  “There is no emperor, my lord. The lands of the Hatti are torn with civil war. The empire has crumbled.”

  Their jaws dropped open. Odysseos swiftly recovered, but he could not hide the smile that crossed his face.

  Nestor blurted, “Then the Hittites are not sending troops to aid the Trojans?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “You came here by yourself ?” Odysseos asked.

  “With the eleven men of my squad.” Poletes coughed beside me, and I added, “And my servant.”

  Rubbing his beard with one hand, his eyes going crafty, Odysseos murmured, “Then Troy can expect no help from the Hittites.”

  Nestor and the other nobleman broke into happy smiles. “This is indeed good news,” said Nestor. “Wonderful news!”

  Odysseos nodded, then said, “But it doesn’t change the situation we face. Hector is camped on the plain outside our rampart. Tomorrow he will try to break through and drive us into the sea.”

  That sobered the other two.

  He looked up at me again. “We owe you a reward. What would you have?”

  Immediately I replied, “My wife and sons.”

  “You say they are among Agamemnon’s slaves.”

  “I saw my wife there, yes, my lord.”

  Odysseos breathed out a sigh. “Slaves are the property of he who owns them.”

  “They are my sons,” I said firmly. “Little more than babies. And she is my lawful wife.”

  He rubbed at his beard again. “The High King is touchy these days about giving up his slaves. He’s in the midst of a dispute with young Achilles about a slave woman.”

  “That’s none of my affair, my lord.”

  “No, it isn’t. But still …” He glanced up at Nestor again, who remained stone silent now. For long moments Odysseos sat there, saying nothing. It appeared to me that he was thinking, planning. At last he got to his feet and stepped around the table to clasp me on the shoulder.

  “What is your name, Hittite?”

  “I am called Lukka, my lord.”

  “Very well, Lukka,” he said. “I will speak to Agamemnon—when the time is right. Meanwhile, welcome into the house hold of the King of Ithaca. You and your men.” Poletes shuffled his feet slightly. “And your servant,” Odysseos added.

  I was not certain of what I should do until I saw Nestor frowning slightly and prompting me by motioning with both hands, palms down. I knelt on one knee before Odysseos.

  “Thank you, great king,” I said, hoping it was with the proper degree of humility. “I and my men will serve you to the best of our abilities.”

  Odysseos took the armlet from his bicep and clasped it on my arm. “Rise, Lukka the Hittite. Your courage and strength shall be a welcome addition to our forces.” To the officer who had led us in, still standing behind Poletes and me, he said, “Antiklos, see that they get proper garb and all else that they require.”

  Then he nodded a dismissal at me. I turned and we marched away from Odysseos and the two others. Poletes was beaming at me, but I realized that my travel-worn clothes must look threadbare to the Achaians. Antiklos looked me up and down again as if measuring me, not for clothing, but as a fighter.


  As we left the tent and went back into the weakening rain I could hear Nestor’s piercing voice, “Very crafty of you, son of Laertes! By bringing him into your house hold you gain the favor of Athene, whom he undoubtedly serves. I couldn’t have made a wiser move myself, although in my years I’ve made some very delicate decisions, let me tell you. Why, I remember when Dardanian pirates were raiding the coast of my kingdom and nobody seemed to be able to stop them, since King Minos’ fleet had been destroyed in the great tidal wave. Well, the pirates captured a merchant boat bearing a load of copper from Kypros. Worth a fortune, it was, because you know that you can’t make bronze without copper. No one knew what to do! The copper was …”

  His voice, loud as it was, finally faded as we made our way through the faltering drizzle back down the rope ladder to the beach.

  15

  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.”

  16


  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.