The Hittite

by Ben Bova

  At last he blurted, “Do you truly bring an offer of peace, or is this merely another Achaian bluff ?”

  So that was it. Beneath his confidence in the walls built by gods and the food and firewood gathered by their army and the eternal spring that Apollo himself protects, he was avid to have the war ended and his city safe and at peace once more.

  Before I could reply the heavy wooden door creaked open. Two men-at-arms pushed it, and an old man in a green cloak similar to my courtier’s motioned me to come in. He leaned heavily on a long wooden staff topped with a gold sunburst symbol. His beard was the color of ashes, his head almost totally bald. As I ducked through the doorway and approached him he squinted at me nearsightedly.

  “Your proper name, herald?”

  “Lukka.”

  “Of ?”

  I blinked, wondering what he meant. Then I replied, “Of the House of Ithaca.”

  He frowned at that, but turned and said, “Follow me.”

  19

  I walked behind the old man into a spacious chamber crowded with people. Five steps into it, he stopped and banged his staff on the floor three times. I saw that the stone floor was deeply worn at that spot.

  He called out, in a voice that may have once been rich and deep but now sounded like a cat yowling, “Oh Great King—Son of Laomedon, Scion of Scamander, Servant of Apollo, Beloved of the gods, Guardian of the Dardanelles, Protector of the Troad, Western Bulwark of the Hatti, Defender of Ilios—an emissary from the Achaians, one Lukka by name, of the House of Ithaca.”

  The chamber was wide and high-ceilinged. Its middle was open to the sky above a circular hearth that smoldered a dull red and sent up a faint spiral of gray smoke. Dozens of men stood among the painted columns on the far side of the hearth: the nobility of Troy, I supposed, or at least the noblemen who were too old to be with the army. And their ladies! There were women among them, in robes that were rich with vibrant colors and flashing jewels. That surprised me. Women were never allowed in the emperor’s audience chamber in Hattusas, I knew.

  I stepped forward and beheld Priam, the King of Troy, sitting on a splendid throne of carved ebony inlaid with gold. It was set on a threestep-high dais. He was flanked on his right by Hector, who must have come up from his camp on the plain, sitting in a high-backed chair of carved wood. On the king’s left sat a younger man and standing behind him was a woman who could only be Helen.

  My breath caught in my throat. She was truly beautiful enough to cause a war. Helen’s blond, golden curls fell past her shoulders. She had a small, almost delicate figure except for magnificent breasts covered only by the sheerest blouse. A girdle of gold cinched her waist, adding emphasis to her bosom. Her face was incredible, sensuous lips and alabaster skin, yet wide-eyed with an appearance of innocence that no man could resist.

  The young prince on Priam’s left had to be Paris, I thought. Helen leaned against the intricately carved back of Paris’ chair, resting one hand on his shoulder. It took an effort for me to look away from her and study Paris. He was almost prettily handsome, darker of hair than his older brother, his neatly trimmed beard seemed new, thin. He looked up at her and she smiled dazzlingly at him. Then they both turned their gaze toward me as I approached the throne. Helen’s smile disappeared the instant Paris looked away from her. She regarded me with cool, calculating eyes.

  Priam was older even than aged Nestor, and obviously failing. His white beard was thin and ragged, his long hair also, as if some wasting disease had hold of him. He seemed sunk into his robe of royal purple as he sat slumped on his gold-inlaid throne, too tired even this early in the morning to sit upright or lift his arms out of his lap.

  The wall behind his throne was painted in a seascape of blues and aquamarines. Graceful boats glided among sporting dolphins. Fishermen spread their nets into waters teeming with every kind of fish.

  “My lord king,” said Hector, dressed in a simple white tunic, “this emissary from Agamemnon brings another offer of peace.”

  “Let us hear it,” breathed Priam, as faintly as a sigh.

  They all looked to me.

  I glanced at the assembled nobility and saw an eagerness, a yearning, a clear hope that I carried an offer that would end the war. Especially among the women I could sense the desire for peace, although I realized that the old men were hardly firebrands.

  I had never been presented to the emperor in Hattusas, but I had a vague idea of how to behave in the presence of royalty. I bowed deeply to the king, then to Hector and Paris, in turn. I caught Helen’s eye as I did so, and she seemed to smile slightly at me.

  “Oh great king,” I began, “I bring you greeting from High King Agamemnon, leader of the Achaian host.”

  Priam nodded and waggled the fingers of one hand, as if urging me to get through the preliminaries and down to business.

  I did. “Great king, the Achaians are willing to leave your shores if you will return Helen to her rightful husband.”

  It seemed as if nobody in the wide chamber breathed. The very air went still.

  Then Priam wheezed, “And?”

  “Nothing further, my lord. Return Helen and the war will end.”

  Hector fixed me with a hard gaze. “No demand for tribute? No demand for Helen’s fortune to be returned?”

  “No, my lord.”

  Priam’s wizened face broke into a slow smile. “No demands except the return of Helen?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The old king turned toward Hector. “This is indeed a new and better offer.”

  Hector frowned slightly. “Yes. With our army camped at their rampart. They know that we’ll be storming their camp and driving them into the sea.”

  “At what cost?” Priam asked softly.

  “I will never surrender my wife,” Paris snapped. “Never!”

  “My lord,” I said, “I am a newcomer to this war. I know nothing of your grievances and rights. I have been instructed to offer you the terms for peace, which I have done. It is for you to consider them and make an answer.”

  Paris was clearly angry. “We refused their insulting terms when Agamemnon and his host were pounding on our gates. Why should we even consider returning my wife to them, now that we have the barbarians penned up on the beach? In a day or two we’ll be burning their boats and slaughtering them like the cattle they are!”

  Ignoring his son’s outburst, Priam asked me, “A newcomer, you say? Yet you claim to be of the House of Ithaca. When you ducked your head past the lintel of our doorway I thought you might be the one they call Great Ajax.”

  I replied, “King Odysseos has taken me into his house hold, my lord king. I arrived on these shores only a few days ago.”

  “And singlehandedly stopped me from storming the Achaian camp,” Hector said, somewhat ruefully. “Too bad Odysseos has adopted you. I wouldn’t mind having such a fearless man at my side.”

  Surprised by his offer, I answered merely, “I fear that would be impossible, my lord.”

  Priam stirred on his throne, coughed painfully, then said, “We thank you for the message you bring, Lukka of the House of Ithaca. Now we must consider before making answer.”

  He gestured a feeble dismissal. I bowed again and backed away from the throne. The courtier who had brought me escorted me back to the door of the anteroom. The guards closed the heavy door behind me and I was alone in the small chamber. I went to the window and looked out at the colorful garden, so peaceful, so bright with flowers and humming bees intent on their morning’s work. No hint of war there. I found myself wondering what my wife was doing, and where my sons might be.

  Useless daydreaming, I told myself. But still my thoughts wandered and my fears rose, dark and troubling.

  Then a different picture formed in my mind: Agamemnon and his warriors raging through this palace, destroying this beautiful garden, slaughtering Hector and aged Priam and all the rest.

  And Helen? What would they do with Helen? Return her to her husband, Menalaos? Would
he take her back after her willing marriage to Paris? Or would she be killed along with all the others?

  I clenched my fists and squeezed my eyes tight. I tried to regain the vision of my wife and sons.

  “Lukka of the House of Ithaca.”

  I wheeled from the window. A single soldier stood at the doorway, bareheaded, wearing a well-oiled leather harness rather than armor, a short sword at his hip.

  “Follow me,” he commanded.

  I went with him down a long hallway and up a flight of steps, then through several rooms that were empty of people, although richly furnished and decorated with gorgeous tapestries. They would burn well, I found myself thinking. Up another flight of stairs we went, and finally he ushered me into a comfortable sitting room with wide undraped windows that looked out onto a broad terrace and the distant dark blue sea. Lovely murals decorated the walls, scenes of peaceful men and languid women in a pastel world of flowers and gentle beasts.

  The soldier closed the door and left me alone. But not for long. Through the door on the opposite side of the room, a scant few moments later, stepped the beautiful Helen.

  20

  She was breathtaking, there is no denying it. She wore a flounced skirt of shimmering rainbow colors with golden tassels that tinkled as she walked toward me. Her corselet was now as blue as the Aegean sky, her white blouse so gauzy that I could see the dark circles of the areolae around her nipples. She wore a triple gold necklace and more gold at her wrists and earlobes. Jeweled rings glittered on her fingers.

  Behind her, standing just inside the doorway, stood an older, darker woman, in a hooded black robe that reached to the floor. Dark and silent as a specter, she watched me with eyes that seemed to glow from within the shadow of her hood. A servant, I thought, although she looked more like Death itself to me. I tried to ignore her, reasoning that Helen would not be alone with a man, especially an emissary from Agamemnon, the brother of her true husband.

  Helen was tiny, almost delicate despite her hourglass figure. Her skin was like cream, unblemished and much lighter than the women I had seen in the Achaian camp. Lighter even than my wife’s, she who had been born in the mountains of the Hatti homeland. Helen’s eyes were as deeply blue as the Aegean, her lips lush and full, her hair the color of golden honey, with ringlets falling well past her delicate shoulders. One stubborn curl hung down over her forehead. She wore a scent of flowers: light, clean, yet beguiling.

  She smiled at me and gestured toward a chair as she took a cushioned couch, her back to the open windows. I sat and waited respectfully for her to speak. She was a woman, of course, but she had been Queen of Sparta and was now a princess of Troy. No ordinary woman, she.

  “You say you are a stranger to this land.” Her voice was low, melodious. I could understand how Paris or any other man would dare anything to have her. And keep her.

  I nodded and found that I had to swallow once before I could speak. “My lady, I arrived here only two days ago.”

  “You are a traveler, then?”

  “Not by choice.”

  She looked at me with a hint of suspicion in those clear blue eyes. “A warrior?”

  “I have been a soldier in the army of the Hatti, my lady.”

  She blinked with surprise. “You are a Hittite?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Suddenly Helen was filled with happiness. “The Hittites are sending troops here to help us!”

  “I fear not, my lady. I am here to find my wife and young sons, who have been taken into slavery.”

  She looked genuinely surprised. “How can that be?”

  With a shake of my head, I replied, “It is a long tale, my lady. Best not to bore you with it.”

  “I see.” She hesitated, then asked, “What gods do the Hittites worship?”

  I was the surprised one now. I thought a moment. “Tesub, the Storm God, of course—”

  “Zeus,” she murmured.

  “Asertu, the goddess of love. Arina, the sun goddess. Kusa, goddess of the moon.”

  “You have no warrior goddess?”

  “A warrior goddess?” The idea seemed ridiculous to me. Men are warriors, not women. “No, my lady.”

  “Then you do not serve Athene, under any name.”

  I shook my head.

  “Athene despises me. She is the enemy of Troy.”

  I remembered the weathered little wooden statue in the garden courtyard. “The Trojans honor her image, though.”

  “You cannot fail to honor so powerful a goddess. No matter how much Athene hates me, the people of this city must continue to placate her as best they can. Certain disaster will overtake them if they do not.”

  “I was told that Apollo protects the city.”

  She nodded, her lips pressed into a tight line. “Yet I fear Athene.” Helen looked beyond me, looking into the past, perhaps. Or trying to see her future.

  I began to feel uneasy. The black-robed servant had not moved from where she stood in the doorway, her eyes boring into me from beneath her hood.

  “My lady, is there some service you wish me to perform for you?”

  Helen’s gaze focused on me again. A faint smile dimpled her cheeks. “You wonder why I summoned you.”

  “Yes.”

  The smile turned impish. “Don’t you think I might want a closer look at such a handsome stranger? A man so tall, with such broad shoulders? A man who stood against Hector and his chariot team and turned them away?”

  She was teasing me. Taunting, almost. And I felt a stirring in my blood. I realized that Helen could melt stone with those blue eyes of hers.

  It took me an effort of will to refrain from reaching out to her. I bowed my head slightly. “May I ask you a question, my lady?”

  “You may—although I don’t promise to answer it.”

  “The Achaians argue among themselves: did Paris actually abduct you or did you leave Sparta willingly?”

  Her smile faded. She lowered her eyes, as if thinking hard about what answer to make. At last she replied, “Lukka, you don’t understand the ways of women, do you?”

  “That’s true enough,” I admitted.

  “Let me tell you this much,” Helen said. “No matter how or why I accompanied Paris to this great city, I will not willingly return to Sparta.”

  I thought, But you will return, willingly or not, if Priam accepts the offer of peace that I gave him.

  Helen spread her arms. “Look about you, Lukka! You have eyes, use them! What woman would willingly live as the wife of an Achaian lord when she could be a princess of Troy?”

  “But your husband Menaleos is a king.”

  “And an Achaian queen is still regarded less than her husband’s horses and dogs. A woman in Sparta is a slave, be she wife or concubine, there is no real difference. Do you think there would be women present in the great hall at Sparta when an emissary arrives with a message for the king? Or at Agamemnon’s Mycenae or Nestor’s Pylos or even in Odysseos’ Ithaca? No, Lukka. Here in Troy women are regarded as human beings. Here there is civilization.”

  She seemed really angry.

  “Then your preference for Paris is really a preference for Troy,” I said.

  She put a finger to her lips, as if thinking over the words she wished to use. Then, “When I was wed to Menalaos I had no choice. The young lords of Achaia all wanted me … and my dowry. My father made the decision. If the Achaians should win this war, the gods forbid, and force me to return to Sparta with Menalaos, I will again be chattel.”

  Before I could reply she added, “That is, if Menalaos allows me to live. More than likely he will slit my throat.”

  The servant back at the doorway stirred at that, the first sign of life I had seen from her.

  “Would you agree to return to Menalaos if it meant that Troy would be spared from destruction?”

  “Don’t ask such a question! Do you think for one instant Agamemnon fights for his brother’s honor? The Achaians are intent on destroying this city. I am
merely their excuse for attacking.”

  “So I have heard in the Achaian camp.”

  “Priam is near death,” Helen went on, her voice lower. “Hector will die in battle, that is foretold. But Troy itself need not fall, even if Hector dies.”

  I thought, And if Hector dies Paris will become king. Making Helen the Queen of Troy.

  She turned and beckoned to the older, black-robed woman. “Apet, come here.”

  Still like a dark phantom, the older woman glided silently to her mistress’s side.

  “Lukka, I wish my maidservant to deliver a message to Menalaos. Will you promise to protect her in the Achaian camp?”

  I looked from Helen’s wide blue eyes to the coal-black eyes of the older woman, then back again. “My lady, I am only a common soldier, bound to the House of Ithaca.”

  “Do you promise to protect my servant?” Helen repeated, with some iron in her voice.

  I nodded once. “I will do my best, my lady.”

  “Good.” Turning to the servant, Helen said, “Apet, you will tell Menalaos that if he wants me to return to him he will have to win me on the field of battle. I will not go willingly to him as the consolation prize for losing this war.”

  I took a deep breath. Helen was far more daring than any woman I had ever heard of. And much more astute. I realized that she unquestioningly wanted Troy to win this war, wanted to remain in this city and one day become its queen. Yet she wanted her servant to tell her former husband that she will come back to him—if he wins! She wanted to tell him, through her servant, that she will return to Sparta and be a docile Achaian wife—if and when Troy is burned to the ground.

  Clever woman! No matter who loses this war, she will protect her own lovely skin.

  Helen rose to her feet, signaling that our meeting was ended. “Lukka, my servant Apet will go with you when you return to the Achaian camp. You will bring her to Menalaos, then see that she is returned safely to me.”

  If Menalaos doesn’t cut her head off, I thought, for such a message. And mine with her. But I said nothing as I bowed to Helen and went to the door by which I had entered.