The Hittite

by Ben Bova

  She was blazing with fury. The boys looked wide-eyed, frightened.

  I heard myself say—mutter, really—”I’ll get you back from Agamemnon. You and the boys.”

  “No you won’t. The High King doesn’t give away his slaves. Especially those he enjoys having.”

  I slapped her face. I didn’t mean to, my hand flashed out on its own. Aniti stood there in shocked silence, the mark of my fingers white on her reddened skin. My sons both burst into tears.

  I turned and stalked away from them.

  24

  Feeling utterly miserable, furious with Aniti and even more so with myself, I made my way back to Odysseos’ camp. My men were sitting around the embers of their midday fire, honing their swords, checking their shields, doing the things soldiers do the day before battle.

  Apet sat off to one side, silent and dark. I sat on the sand beside her, silent and dark myself. Dark as a thundercloud. My men took one look at my face and knew enough to steer clear of me.

  My sons are alive, I told myself. That’s the important thing. No matter what Aniti has become, she has kept the boys alive and well. I’ll have to take them from her. They can’t remain with a whore, even if she’s their mother. Better she were dead! I’ll take them from her after tomorrow’s battle. If I live through it. If any of us live through it.

  But what will I do with her? I can’t take her back, not now. I thought that perhaps what she had become was not her fault; she did what she had to do to protect my sons. Yet how could I take her back? Giving herself willingly to other men. How could I even think of taking her back?

  For hours I sat there in silence, my mind spinning. Almost I hoped that tomorrow’s battle would bring my death. That would be a release. Yet who would protect my sons if I died? Who would shield them from the blood lust that turns men into beasts during battle? And Aniti? What will become of her? I knew I shouldn’t care, yet somehow I did.

  It was nearly sunset when Odysseos strode up, dressed in a fine wool chiton, and ordered me to come with him to the meeting. I welcomed his command; I needed something to do to take my mind off my sons.

  “Leave your sword,” the King of Ithaca told me. “No weapons are allowed in a council meeting.”

  I unstrapped my sword and handed it to Magro for safekeeping, then fell in step beside Odysseos.

  “Agamemnon will be unhappy,” he told me as we walked through the camp toward the cabin of the High King. “I did not inform him beforehand that I was sending you to Hector.”

  I thought the King of Ithaca should have looked worried, even grim, at the prospect of displeasing Agamemnon. Instead, he seemed almost amused, as if the prospect of defending himself before the council did not trouble him one bit.

  Despite myself I longed for a glimpse of my wife and sons as we made out way toward Agamemnon’s cabin in the lengthening shadows of sunset. They were nowhere in sight. I tried to blot out of my mind the images of what Aniti did in the night. I tried to focus my thoughts on the boys instead. I tried.

  The High King’s cabin was larger than Achilles’, but nowhere near as luxurious. The log walls were bare except for shields hung on them as ornaments, although the king’s bed was hung with rich tapestries. For all his bluster, Agamemnon kept no dais. He sat on the same level as the rest of the council members. The loot of dozens of villages was scattered around the cabin: armor, jeweled swords, long spears with gleaming bronze points, iron and bronze tripods, chests that must have contained much gold and jewelry. The High King had cleared the cabin of women and other slaves. None were there except the council and a few servants. And me, as Odysseos’ chosen emissary to the Trojans.

  As soon as we all were seated in a circle around the gray ashes of the hearth, Agamemnon squawked in his high piping voice, “You offered them peace terms?” He leveled a stubby finger at Odysseos. “In my name? Without asking me first?”

  The High King looked angry. His right shoulder was swathed in strips of cloth smeared with blood and some smelly poultice. He was broad of shoulder and body, built like a squat turret, round and thick from neck to hips. He wore a sleeveless coat of gilded chain mail over his tunic, which was cut away at the right shoulder for the bandaging. Over the mail was a harness of gleaming leather, with silver buckles and ornaments. A jeweled sword hung at his side. His sandals had gold tassels on their thongs. All in all, Agamemnon looked as if he were dressed for a parade rather than a council of his chief lieutenants, the kings and princes of the various Achaian tribes.

  Perhaps he thought to overawe them with his panoply, I thought, knowing their penchant for argument.

  I counted thirty-two men sitting in a rough circle around the glowing hearth fire in Agamemnon’s hut, the leaders of the Achaian contingents. Every tribe allied to Agamemnon and his brother Menalaos was there, although the Myrmidones were represented by Patrokles rather than Achilles. I sat behind Odysseos, who was placed two seats down on the High King’s right, near enough to give me the opportunity to study Agamemnon closely.

  There was precious little nobility in the features of the High King’s fleshy face. Like his body, his face was broad and heavy, with a wide stub of a nose, a thick brow, and deep-set eyes that seemed to look out at the world with suspicion and resentment. His hair and beard were just beginning to turn gray, but they were well combed and glistening with fresh oil perfumed so heavily that it made my nostrils itch, even from where I sat.

  He held a bronze scepter in his left hand; his right rested limply on his lap. The one rule of sanity and order in the council meeting, apparently, was that only the man holding the scepter was allowed to speak.

  “Well?” he demanded of Odysseos. “How dare you offer peace terms in my name?”

  Odysseos reached for the scepter. Agamemnon let him take it, grudgingly, I thought.

  “Son of Atreos, it was nothing more than a ruse for gaining a day’s rest from the Trojan attack. A day the men are using to strengthen our defenses.”

  “And to prepare the boats to sail,” muttered Big Ajax, sitting farther down the circle. Agamemnon glared at him.

  Odysseos continued, “I knew that Hector and prideful Paris would not accept peace terms while their forces are camped at our gates.”

  Before anyone could object, he went on, “And what if they did? Menalaos would have his wife returned to him and we could leave these shores with honor.”

  Agamemnon snatched the scepter back. “Leave without razing Troy? What honor is there in that? I have sacrificed my own daughter to tear down Troy! I will not leave until that city is reduced to ashes!”

  Odysseos reached for the scepter again, but Menalaos, sitting between him and Agamemnon, took it first. “If Helen is returned to me, we could sail for home and then come back next year, with an even bigger army.”

  He was younger than his brother, but they shared the same pugnacious look to their faces.

  Agamemnon shook his head hard enough to make his beefy cheeks quiver. “And how will we raise a bigger army, with Helen returned? Who will come to Troy with me once the bitch is back in Sparta?”

  White-bearded Nestor, sitting at Agamemnon’s left, raised his voice. “High King, you do not hold the scepter. You have no right—”

  “I’ll speak whenever I want to!” Agamemnon shrilled.

  They argued back and forth, then finally commanded me to tell them exactly what the Trojan princes had said to me. I accepted the scepter, then got to my feet and repeated the words of Paris and Hector.

  “Paris said that?” Menalaos spat on the sandy floor. “He is the prince of liars.”

  “Pardon me, King of Sparta,” said old Nestor, “but you do not have the scepter and therefore are speaking out of turn.”

  Menalaos smiled scornfully at the whitebeard. “Neither do you, King of Pylos.”

  Nestor got to his feet and reached for the scepter. I handed it to him willingly. He remained standing as he said, “If this Hittite is reporting truly, Hector expects to storm our ramparts in t
he morning. Hector is an honest man, not given to deception”—he eyed Odysseos as he said that—”and a great warrior. Tomorrow we will face a battle that could well determine the fate of this war. I have seen such battles before, you know. In my youth …”

  On and on Nestor rambled, secure in his possession of the scepter. Odysseos looked bored, Menalaos and the others of the council fidgeted in their chairs. Agamemnon’s face slowly reddened.

  At last the High King grabbed the scepter from Nestor’s hand. Startled, the old man gaped at Agamemnon, then slowly sank back onto his chair.

  “We face disaster!” Agamemnon cried, his narrow little eyes actually brimming with tears. “Hector could overrun our camp and slaughter us all!”

  Odysseos leaned across and took the scepter from the High King’s hand. Holding it aloft, he proclaimed loudly, “We must not give way to despair! We must show Hector and his Trojans what metal we are made of. We will defend our camp and our boats. We will drive Hector away from our ramparts. Think of the songs the bards will sing of us when we are victorious tomorrow!”

  A murmur went around the council circle. Heads nodded.

  Odysseos turned to Patrokles, sitting almost exactly opposite to Agamemnon’s place. “Noble Patrokles, tell mighty Achilles that tomorrow he will have the chance to gain great glory for himself.”

  Patrokles nodded solemnly. “Glory is what he lives for. But if he refuses, perhaps I could convince him to let me lead the Myrmidones—”

  “You?” Agamemnon laughed aloud. “You’re too soft for anything but serving tidbits. Stay by your master’s side and let the men tend to the fighting.”

  Patrokles’ face burned red. I thought Agamemnon had just thrown away what ever slight chance we might have had to get the Myrmidones to fight alongside us, with or without Achilles.

  25

  By the time the council meeting ended it was growing dark outside. I left Agamemnon’s lodge with Odysseos, as befitted my station. A considerable bonfire was crackling out there, casting a fitful red glare across the sand. The King of Ithaca waited outside the door of the lodge until Menalaos came out.

  “Son of Atreos,” he said, reaching out to clasp Menalaos by the shoulder, “the Hittite tells me that Helen has sent one of her maidservants with a message for you.”

  Menalaos’ heavy brows lifted with surprise. “She sends me a message?”

  “Apparently so,” replied Odysseos, nodding.

  “Bring her to my cabin then.”

  Odysseos turned to me. “Do so.”

  I left the two kings as they ambled toward Menalaos’ cabin and hurried to the campfire where my men were sitting with their evening meal, their swords and spears resting on the ground beside them, atop their shields. Apet sat with the slave women, her black robe pulled around her, its hood down across her shoulders, as she spoke animatedly to them. She’s not so silent with other women to listen to her, I said to myself.

  Magro spotted me first and scrambled to his feet. The others quickly rose, also.

  “Where’s my sword?” I asked them. I felt naked here in camp without it.

  “We’re going to fight in the morning?” asked little Karsh as he picked my sword from the pile of weapons on the ground.

  “Yes,” I said, taking the sword from his hand. “We’ll stand with Odysseos at the gate and show them what trained Hatti soldiers can do.”

  “On foot, against chariots?”

  “We’ll hold the gate,” I said flatly.

  Magro laughed. “While the Trojan footmen scramble up the palisade and outflank us.”

  I shrugged. “There will be plenty of Achaian footmen to defend the length of the palisade.”

  Magro spat onto the sandy ground, showing what he thought of the Achaian footmen.

  “Eat well and get some sleep,” I told them. “Tomorrow you’ll earn your keep.”

  Before they could reply I walked over to the huddle of women. “Apet,” I called. “Menalaos wants to hear what you have to say.”

  She pulled up her hood and rose to her feet like an offering of black smoke. Her features were shadowed by the hood, but if she felt any fear of facing her former master she showed nothing of it. Without an instant of hesitation she fell in step alongside me.

  Odysseos was still in Menalaos’ cabin when we got there. The two of them were sitting at a trestle table, spearing broiled chunks of lamb from a large oval platter with their daggers, flagons of wine at their elbows. The King of Sparta ordered all his servants out of the cabin once his guard allowed Apet and me inside. I got the feeling he wanted Odysseos to leave, too, but he said nothing to the King of Ithaca.

  Apet pulled down the hood of her robe as she walked beside me to the table. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I had not eaten since the morning, in Troy.

  “You are Helen’s servant, the Egyptian,” Menalaos said truculently. “I remember you from Sparta.”

  Apet bowed stiffly and said “Aye, my lord” in a low whispering tone.

  “You went with Helen when Paris spirited her away.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “Why shouldn’t I have you nailed to a tree and burned alive?” he spat.

  “Mighty king,” she said, with just a trace of mockery in her voice, “I have been Queen Helen’s faithful slave since she was a babe in arms. Her father brought me from distant Egypt to be her nurse and attendant. It was his command that I never leave her side.”

  Menalaos snorted with disdain. “Your loyalty should have been to me. I am her husband.”

  Apet bowed her head slightly, but said nothing.

  Menalaos fidgeted in his chair and glanced uncomfortably at Odysseos, who focused his eyes on Apet.

  At last Menalaos burst out, “Well, Egyptian, what message do you bring from my wife?”

  Apet’s coal-black eyes never left his. “My mistress commands me to tell you that she will willingly return to Sparta with you only after you have conquered Troy. She will not accompany you as the consolation prize for losing the war.”

  Menalaos jumped to his feet. “Consolation prize?” he roared.

  “So says my mistress, your wife.”

  He snatched his dagger from the table. “I’ll cut out your insolent tongue!”

  Odysseos stood up and reached for his arm. I stepped in front of Apet.

  “My lord king,” I said, “I have been charged by your wife to protect this slave and return her safely to Troy.” I rested my hand lightly on the hilt of my sword.

  Odysseos made a smile and said, “Come, come, Menalaos. It does you no honor to kill a slave. A woman, at that.”

  Menalaos contained his fury, just barely. Through gritted teeth he said to Apet, “Return to your mistress and tell her that I will pluck her from the funeral pyre that was once Troy. Then she will learn the fate that befalls a faithless woman.”

  Apet nodded once, pulled up the hood of her robe, and turned to leave the cabin. I walked beside her, my hand still on my sword hilt.

  When we reached Odysseos’ camp it was fully dark. The moon’s waxing crescent threw cool silver light across the beach, the boats and the tents that dotted the sand. Several of my men were sitting in front of the tents they had put up for themselves. Magro scrambled to his feet as I approached with Apet beside me.

  “The others are wrapped in their blankets, snoring,” Magro told me.

  “Poletes?” I asked.

  “He’s snoring with the rest of them.”

  I nodded as I glanced at the dying embers of our campfire. “Get some sleep yourself. Tomorrow will be a hard day.”

  “And you?” he asked.

  I forced a smile. “I’m hoping you oafs left some supper for me to eat.”

  “I will bring you food, Hittite,” said Apet, surprising me. Without another word she moved off to where the women were lying in their meager blankets on the sandy ground.

  I watched her bend over and rouse them, then turned back to Magro. “Get to sleep.”

  “Yes, sir
,” he said. “Enjoy your supper.”

  I sat on the sand and gazed up at the bright shining stars. By this time tomorrow I might be dead, I thought, but the stars will still be there, fixed in their places by the gods themselves.

  Apet returned with two of the slave women trudging along behind her, one bearing an iron pot, the other an armload of firewood. Within a few minutes they had the fire blazing beneath the pot. I smelled a stew of meat and onions and spices that were strange to me.

  I began to think about my wife and sons again, in Agamemnon’s camp. Could I steal them away this night? Take them and my men with me out of this camp, away from this death trap? Would Aniti come with me? I realized that I couldn’t leave her here, in the degradation she had sunk to. Despite everything, I had to bring her, too. Could I get them past the sentries at the gate?

  And go where? I wondered. Where?

  Then I realized that Apet was bending over me, a steaming wooden bowl in her hands. I put it to my lips: the stew was burning hot but delicious.

  “Take a bowl for yourself,” I told her. “Sit here beside me.”

  She went to the cook fire and returned in moments. She sighed as she lowered herself to the sand; it was almost a groan. I realized she must be very old.

  “I thank you, Hittite,” she said, her voice grating like a rusty hinge.

  “I don’t like to eat alone,” I replied.

  “I thank you for protecting me against that barbarian lout when he was angry enough to murder me.”

  I looked into her face for the first time. The moonlight showed clearly that her skin was parched and wrinkled with age.

  “I promised your mistress that I would protect you.”

  “And you kept your promise.”

  We ate in silence for a few moments. Then I heard myself ask her, “You have known Helen for many years?”

  “Since she was a nurseling, Hittite, long before all these evils befell her.”

  “She brought them on herself, didn’t she?”

  Apet did not reply for several heartbeats. At last she said slowly, “If you only knew, strong warrior. If you only knew how the gods have wronged her.”