The Hittite

by Ben Bova

  I said nothing. Odysseos had commanded me to give Hector his message and nothing more.

  “Well?” Hector demanded. “Troy has always been loyal to the Hittite empire. We appealed to the emperor for help. Is this his answer? Has the emperor sent his army to fight against us?”

  “I cannot say, my lord. I am commanded by King Odysseos to give you High King Agamemnon’s offer to end the war.”

  “I’ve heard Agamemnon’s offers before,” Hector growled.

  “But my lord—”

  “Why are you fighting against us?” Hector demanded, his voice iron hard.

  “My lord, I arrived at the Achaian camp last night, with eleven spearmen.”

  “Hittite warriors.”

  “Soldiers, yes. We had never seen Troy before, we didn’t know that you were at war. I was atop the rampart when the day’s battle started. Suddenly, in the midst of the fighting, I acted on impulse. I don’t know what made me jump in front of your chariot like that. It all happened in the flash of a moment.”

  Hector looked into my eyes, as if to judge the truth of my words. “Battle frenzy,” he murmured. “A god took control of your spirit, Hittite, and inspired you to deeds no mortal could accomplish unaided. It has happened to me more than once.”

  I was happy to take that path. “Yes, perhaps that is what happened to me.”

  “Have no doubt of it. Ares or Athene seized your spirit and filled you with battle frenzy. You could have challenged Achilles himself in such a state.”

  He turned and stepped inside the tent, beckoning me to follow him. The two noblemen standing guard stirred momentarily, then returned to their positions beside the fire. Inside the tent there was only a rough cot of stretched ropes and a small table with a single chair bearing a bowl of fruit and a flagon of wine with two silver cups flanking it. Hector took an apple and gestured for me to help myself.

  He sat and poured wine into both cups.

  “Sit, Hittite. Sit and drink.”

  The quality of Trojan wine was far superior to that of the Achaians.

  “You carry the wand of a herald and say that you are here as an emissary of Agamemnon.” Hector leaned back tiredly in the creaking chair.

  “I bring an offer of peace, my lord.”

  “We have heard such offers before. Is there anything new in what Agamemnon proposes?”

  I wondered if Agamemnon knew what Odysseos was offering, but decided that it was not my station to get involved in such matters.

  “The High King offers to leave Troy and return to the lands of the Achaians if Troy will return Helen to her rightful husband.”

  Hector nodded wearily. “And?”

  “Nothing else, my lord.”

  “Nothing?” He was suddenly alert. “No demand for ransom, or for the return of Helen’s so-called fortune?”

  “No, my lord.”

  Sitting up straighter in his chair, Hector ran a hand across his beard. “So now that we have him pinned against the sea, Agamemnon is willing to end the war if we return Helen to his brother.”

  “That is what I have been instructed to tell you, my lord.”

  Hector thought for several long moments, then began to speak slowly. “When he had us penned inside our city walls Agamemnon was not so generous. Now that we have the upper hand, he wants to run away.”

  “With Helen returned to her husband, my lord,” I reminded him.

  “Helen. She’s nothing but an excuse to make war against us. If we let Agamemnon go, he’ll be back next year with more fire and death.”

  There was nothing I could say to that.

  “No,” Hector muttered, more to himself than to me. “We have the upper hand now. We can drive them into the sea once and for all.”

  My mind immediately painted a picture of the Achaian boats burning, Trojans killing with their long spears, slaves and women put to the sword in the orgy of looting and raping that follows battle. My sons, my wife, torn to pieces.

  To Hector I said, as calmly as I could, “My lord, the Achaians believe your success in yesterday’s fighting was helped greatly by the fact that Achilles did not enter the battle. He will not remain on the sidelines forever.”

  “One man,” Hector countered.

  “The best warrior among the Achaians,” I pointed out. “And his Myrmidones are a formidable fighting unit, I am told.”

  Hector fixed me with those steady brown eyes again. “No, Hittite. It was you who stopped me at the gate. If not for you, those black boats would be smoldering piles of ashes this very night.”

  That staggered me.

  “I hold no resentment against you. You were in the thrall of a god, and no man can undo what the gods bring forth.”

  “Perhaps the gods will favor the Achaians tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then what am I to tell the High King, my lord?”

  Hector slowly rose to his feet. “That is not my decision to make. I command the army, but my father is still king in Troy. He and his council must consider your offer.”

  I stood up, too.

  “Polydamas,” Hector called, “conduct this herald to the king. Aeneas, spread the word that we will not attack until King Priam has considered the latest peace offer from Agamemnon.”

  And suddenly I understood the subtlety of Odysseos. The Trojans will not attack the Achaian camp as long as I am dickering with their king. That will give Agamemnon and all the others a day’s respite from battle, at least. A chance to rest, bind their wounds, perhaps even convince Achilles to come back to the fight. Odysseos had sent an expendable hero, me—a man that Hector would recognize and respect, yet not a man important to the Achaian strength—into the Trojan camp in a crafty move to gain a day’s recuperation from the morning’s disaster.

  Marveling at Odysseos’ cunning, I followed the Trojan nobleman called Polydamas through the moonlit night, across the scattered campfires dotting the plain and up to the walls of Troy.

  18

  I entered the besieged city of Troy in the dead of night. The moon was sinking toward the sea; it was so dark I could see practically nothing. The city wall loomed above me like a threatening shadow. I could see feeble lanterns by the gate as we passed a massive old oak tree, tossing and sighing in the night breeze, leaning heavily, bent by the incessant wind of Ilios.

  To approach the gate we had to follow a road that led along the high wall. Very sound construction: troops attempting to storm the gate would have to go along the base of the wall, where defenders from above could fire arrows, stones, boiling water on them. Just before the gate a second curtain wall extended on the other side of the road, so attackers would be vulnerable to fire from both sides, as well as straight ahead, above the gate itself.

  The gate was built of heavy oak, wide enough for two chariots to pass through side by side. It was slightly ajar and seemed only lightly defended at this hour of the night. Virtually the entire Trojan force was encamped down by the beach, I realized. A trio of teenagers were sitting by the open gateway, wearing neither armor nor helmets. Their shields and long spears rested against the stone wall. A few more stood on the battlements above, visible in the flickering of a fire they had going to keep themselves warm up there.

  Inside, a broad packed-earth street meandered between buildings that seemed no more than two stories tall. The moon’s fading light only made the shadows of their shuttered fronts seem deeper and darker. No one was stirring at this time of night along the main street or in the black alleyways leading off it, not even a cat.

  My impression was that Troy was much smaller than Hattusas. Then I remembered that Hattusas was in ruin and ashes. Was that the fate that awaited this city?

  Polydamas was not a wordy fellow. Unlike the Achaians, he spoke to me only when it was necessary. In almost total silence he led me to a low-roofed building and into a tiny room lit by the fluttering yellowblue flame of a small copper oil lamp sitting on a wooden stool next to a narrow bed, covered by a rough woolen blanket.
The only other furniture in the room was a chest made of cedarwood, its front intricately carved.

  “You will be summoned to the king’s presence in the morning,” said Polydamas, his longest speech of the night. With not another word he left me, closing the wooden door softly behind him.

  And bolting it.

  With nothing better to do I undressed, pulled back the scratchy blanket, and sat out on the bed. It was springy: a thin mattress of feathers atop a webbing of ropes. Reaching under it, I found a chamber pot. After using it, I stretched out and quickly fell asleep.

  I dreamed of my dying father again, and of Hattusas burning as drunken gangs of looters raged through its streets while I did nothing, nothing. Aniti was in my dream, but she was nothing more than a shadow, featureless, like a fragile, feeble wraith, already dead and in Hades.

  I was jolted awake by the sound of the door bolt snapping back. I sat up, immediately alert, my hand automatically reaching for the sword that I had left with my men back at the Achaian camp along the beach.

  A serving woman backed into the room, carrying a basin and an earthen jug of water. When she turned around and saw me sitting there naked, she dropped her eyes and made a little curtsy, then turned and deposited the pottery atop the cedarwood chest. She scurried out of the room and shut the door. Within a moment I heard the giggling of several women from beyond the door.

  I washed hurriedly and pulled my clothes on. As I was awkwardly tying the white cloth of truce onto my arm, a Trojan man entered my room after a single sharp rap on the door. He seemed more a courtier than a warrior. He was fairly tall, but round-shouldered, soft-looking, with a bulging middle. His beard was quite gray, his pate balding, his tunic richly embroidered and covered with a long sleeveless robe of deep green.

  “I am to conduct you to King Priam’s audience chamber, once you have had your morning meal.” His voice was high and soft, much like his stature.

  Diplomacy moved at a polite pace, and I was glad of it. The Trojan courtier led me to the urinals in back of the house, then to the large kitchen that fronted it. Breakfast consisted of fruit, cheese, and flat bread, washed down with goat’s milk. I ate alone, with the Trojan courtier standing over me. No one else was in the room. Half the kitchen was taken up by a big circular hearth under an opening in the roof. It was cold and empty except for a scattering of gray ashes that looked as if they had been there a long time.

  Through the kitchen’s only window I could see men and women out on the street, going about their morning chores. Two serving women came in and sat patiently by the hearth while I ate in silence. The courtier ignored them, except to order them to bring a plate of figs and honey for himself.

  Finally we walked out onto what seemed to be Troy’s only major street, sloping gently uphill toward a majestic building of graceful fluted columns and a steeply pitched roof. Priam’s palace, I guessed. Or the city’s main temple. Perhaps both. The sun was not high yet, but still it felt much warmer here in the street than out on the windy plain.

  “Is that where we’re going?” I pointed toward the palace.

  The courtier bobbed his head. “Yes, of course. The king’s palace. A more splendid palace doesn’t exist anywhere in the world—except perhaps in Egypt, of course.”

  I thought of the emperor’s citadel in Hattusas. It made Priam’s palace look like a toy. But it was gone now, gone. As we walked up the street, I saw how small Troy really was. And crowded. Houses and shops clustered together tightly. The street was unpaved, and sloped like a V so that water could run down its middle when it rained. Cart wheels had worn deep grooves in it. The city buzzed and hummed with voices talking, bargaining, calling out wares for sale. Somewhere a woman was singing, high and sweet. The men and women bustling about their morning’s work seemed curious yet courteous. I received bows and smiles as we strolled up toward the palace.

  “The royal princes such as Hector and Paris and their brothers live in the palace with the king.” My courtier was turning into a tour guide. He gestured back down the street. “Near the Scaean Gate are the homes of the lesser nobility. Fine homes they are, nevertheless, far finer than you will find in Mycenae or even in Miletus.”

  We were walking through the market area now. Awning-shaded stalls lined the two-story brick homes here, although I saw precious little foodstuff for sale: dried vegetables, a skinny lamb that bleated mournfully. Freshly baked bread filled the street with its aroma, though.

  The merchants, men and women both, seemed happy and smiling despite their lack of goods.

  “You bring a day of peace,” the courtier told me. “Farmers can bring their produce to market this morning. Woodcutters can go out to the forest and bring back fuel before night falls. The people are grateful for that.”

  “The siege has hurt you,” I murmured.

  “To some extent, of course. But we are not going hungry. There is enough grain stored in the royal treasury to last for years! The city’s water comes from a spring that Apollo himself protects. And when we really need firewood or cattle or anything else, our troops escort the necessary people on a foray inland.” He lifted his gray-bearded chin a notch or two. “We will not starve.”

  I said nothing.

  He took my silence for agreement. “Look at those walls! The Achaians will never scale them.”

  I followed his admiring gaze down a crooked alley and saw the towering walls that rose above the houses. They did indeed look high and strong and solid. But I had led Hatti troops past walls that were even higher and thicker, more than once.

  “Apollo and Poseidon helped old King Laomedon build those walls, and they have withstood every assault made on them. Of course, Herakles once sacked the city, but he had divine help and still even he didn’t dare try to breach those walls. He attacked over on the western side, where the oldest wall stands. But that was long ago.”

  I perked up my ears. The western wall was weaker? As if sensing he had said too much, my guide lapsed into a red-faced silence. We walked the rest of the way to the palace without further words.

  Men-at-arms held their spears stiffly as we passed the crimson-painted columns at the front of the palace and entered its cool, shadowed interior. I saw no marble, which surprised me. Even in distant Hattusas, the peoples of the Aegean Sea were known for their splendid work in marble. Instead, the columns and the thick palace walls were made of a grayish, granitelike stone, polished to gleaming smoothness. Inside, the walls were plastered and painted in bright yellows and reds, with blue or green borders running along the ceilings.

  The interior of the palace was actually cold. Despite the heat of the morning sun those thick stone walls insulated the palace so well that I almost imagined I could see my breath frosting in the shaded air.

  The hall beyond the entrance was beautifully decorated with painted landscapes on its plastered walls: scenes of lovely ladies and handsome men in green fields rich with towering trees. No battles, not even hunting scenes. No proclamations of royal power or fighting prowess.

  Statues lined this corridor, most of them life-sized, some smaller, several so huge that their heads or outstretched arms scraped the polished beams of the high ceiling.

  “The city’s gods,” my courtier explained. “Most of these statues stood outside our four main gates, before the war. Of course, we brought them in here for safekeeping from the despoiling Achaians. It wouldn’t do for them to capture our gods! What fate would befall us then?”

  “Indeed,” I muttered.

  Some of the statues were made of marble, most of wood. All were brightly painted. Hair and beards were deep black, tinged with blue. Gowns and tunics were mostly gold, and real jewels adorned them. The flesh was delicately colored, and the eyes were painted so vividly they almost seemed to be watching me.

  I could not tell one of their gods from another. The males were all broad-shouldered and bearded, the goddesses ethereally beautiful. Then I recognized Poseidon, the sea god, a nearly naked, magnificently muscled figure who
bore a trident in his right hand.

  We stepped out of the chilly entrance hall and into the warming sunlight of a courtyard. A huge statue, much too large to fit indoors, stood just before us. I craned my neck to see its face against the crystal-blue morning sky.

  “Apollo,” said the courtier. “The protector of our city.”

  We started across the sunny courtyard. It was decked with blossoms and flowering shrubs. Potted trees were arranged artfully around a square central pool where fish swam lazily. These people are not warriors, I realized. Not like the Hatti or the Achaians. Artists and tradesmen, I thought, content to control the straits that led into the Sea of Black Waters and the rich lands beyond.

  “We also have the Palladium, our statue of Athene,” the courtier said, pointing across the pool to a smaller wooden piece, scarcely five feet tall. “It is very ancient and very sacred.”

  It certainly looked very ancient. Its face and draperies had been worn smooth from years of weathering. It seemed to be the image of a woman, but she was wearing a warrior’s helmet and carried spear and shield. A female warrior? I had heard of such but always dismissed the tales as mere legend.

  We quickly crossed the courtyard and entered the other wing of the palace. As we stepped into the shade of its wide entrance hall, the temperature dropped instantly.

  More guards in polished armor stood in this hallway, although their presence seemed more a matter of pomp and formality rather than security. The courtier led me to a small chamber comfortably furnished with chairs of stretched hide and a gleaming polished table inlaid with beautiful ivory and silver. There was one window, which looked out on another, smaller courtyard, and a massive wooden door reinforced with bronze strapping. Closed.

  “The king will see you shortly,” my guide told me, looking nervously toward the closed door.

  I took a chair and tried to relax. I did not want to appear tense or apprehensive in front of the Trojan king. The courtier, whom I assumed had spent much of his life in this palace, paced the floor anxiously. He seemed to grow more apprehensive with each passing moment.