by Ben Bova
Then Poletes’ scrawny face slid into my view, with his mangy beard and bulging eyes. I realized that I was lying flat on my back.
I heard myself ask, “What happened?” My throat felt raw, burning.
Poletes grinned at me and held out my helmet in both his bony hands. I saw a dent in it that had not been there before.
“Your iron helmet saved your life,” he said, looking amused at it all. “Not even mighty Hector’s spear could penetrate it.”
I tried to sit up, but the world went spinning and I sagged back onto the sand. I waited until the spinning stopped, then tried again.
“You took a hard knock,” Poletes said, helping me to a sitting position.
My head thundered. I looked around. The battle seemed to be over, or at least it had moved away from Agamemnon’s boats. The beach was littered with the bodies of the slain. I saw several of my men sitting not far off. Magro was awkwardly winding a strip of gray cloth around his sword arm; it seeped blood.
Sitting there, still feeling woozy, I called him to me.
He sank to his knees beside me, looking grim. I realized that it had been a long time since our squad’s clown had cracked a joke. Or even a smile.
“I saw Karsh go down,” I said.
“He’s dead. The Hurrian, too.”
“Your arm?”
“Took an arrow. It’s not deep.”
“Any others killed?”
He shook his head. “Nicks and cuts, that’s all. The gods were with us.”
But not with little Karsh, I thought. Not with the quiet, uncomplaining Hurrian.
“The battle?”
“It’s over. The Trojans are back behind their own walls again.” Yet Magro did not look happy.
“What happened?”
Poletes interrupted Magro. “A fantastic day! A day that even the gods will long remember.”
Before I could shut him up, the old storyteller exclaimed, “The Myrmidones came boiling out of their camp like a stampede of stallions and slew hundreds, thousands of the Trojans!”
I knew he was exaggerating, but I heard myself say, “They were terrified of Achilles.”
“And well they should be,” Poletes went on, “but it was not Achilles who led the charge.”
“Not Achilles?”
“Even with Hector and his brothers ravaging through the camp, the mighty Achilles stayed in his hut and refused to fight.”
“But who—”
“Patrokles!”
“That tender-faced boy?”
Nodding eagerly, Poletes said, “Patrokles put on his master’s golden armor and led the Myrmidones in the counterattack. Hector and his brothers must have thought it was Achilles, the magnificent slayer of men. The Trojans were shocked and ran out of the camp, back to the very walls of Troy.”
“They thought they faced Achilles,” I muttered.
“Of course they did. A god filled Patrokles with battle fury. Everyone in the camp thought he was too soft for fighting, yet he drove the Trojans back to their own gates and slew dozens with his own hand.”
I cocked an eyebrow at “dozens.” War stories grow larger with each telling, and this one was already becoming overblown, scarcely an hour after it happened.
Magro spoke up, “But then the gods turned against Patrokles. Hector spitted him on his spear, in front of the Trojan gates.”
“And stripped Achilles’ golden armor from his dead body,” Poletes added. “The Myrmidones retreated back to camp while the Trojans slipped behind their high walls and barred their gates.”
My head was buzzing as if some muffled drum was thumping away in my ears. The gods play their games, I thought. They give Patrokles a moment of glory but then take their price for it.
“Now Achilles sits in his hut and covers his head with ashes. He swears a mighty vengeance against Hector and all of Troy.”
“So now he’ll fight,” I said.
“Tomorrow morning,” Magro said. “Achilles will meet Hector in single combat. The heralds have arranged it.”
Single combat between Hector and Achilles. Hector was much the bigger of the two, an experienced fighter, cool and intelligent even in the fury of battle. Achilles was no doubt faster, though smaller, and fueled by the kind of rage that drives men to impossible feats. Only one of them would walk away from the combat, I knew. And I remembered Helen telling me that Hector’s death had been foretold.
Then I realized that the humming in my head was really the distant wailing and keening from the Myrmidones camp. I knew it was a matter of form for the women to mourn. But there were men’s deep voices among the cries of the women, and a drum beating a slow, sorrowful dirge.
I got slowly to my feet, still feeling shaky. Down the beach, where the Myrmidones’ camp was, a huge bonfire suddenly flared up, sending a cloud of sooty black smoke skyward.
“Achilles mourns his friend,” Poletes said. I could see that the excess of grief unnerved him slightly.
I realized that we were still in front of Agamemnon’s line of boats. My wife and sons must be nearby.
To Magro I said, “Take the men back to Odysseos’ area. I’ll join you before the sun sets.”
My head still spun slightly, and the Myrmidones’ mournful drumbeat was painful to my ears. I walked somewhat unsteadily toward the group of women gathered around wounded warriors, tending them with salves and cloth windings.
Suddenly my stomach heaved. I staggered to the shoreline and, one hand on the sticky tar of the boat, doubled over and retched into the sea. One of the women came to me, her eyes questioning.
“I’m all right,” I told her, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
She handed me a cloth soaked in cool water. I dabbed it on my lips, then cleaned my hands with it.
“Your leg is injured,” she said.
I looked down and saw that a slice on my calf was oozing blood. “It’s nothing,” I said.
“You’re one of the Hittites?” she asked.
“Yes. Where is Aniti?” Before she could say anything I added, “My wife.”
Her eyes went wide for an instant, then she pointed to the next boat, up the beach. “I saw her over there with her children.”
I thanked her and, splashing through the ankle-deep water, headed for the next boat.
Aniti was sitting on the sand while my two boys were at the water’s edge, splashing in the ripples running up the beach. She saw me approaching and jumped to her feet.
“You’re all right?” I asked.
She nodded wordlessly.
“I can see the boys are unharmed.”
“I kept them aboard the boat, so that they couldn’t see the killing.”
I nodded back at her.
“You’re hurt.”
“A scratch. I took a knock on the head, also. From Prince Hector himself.”
“You sound proud of it.”
I made myself smile. “It’s not many men who can say they took a blow from Hector and lived to tell of it.”
She looked away from me, toward the boys, then said in a low voice, “I’m glad you weren’t killed.”
“Aniti … I …” My tongue refused to work properly.
“You want to take the boys from me, I know.”
“I want to take them out of slavery. You, too,” I heard myself say. “I’m trying to get Agamemnon to release you. The three of you.”
She smiled bitterly. “The boys he will give you without quarrel. But not me. He values me too highly.”
My fists clenched. But I held my temper and said merely, “We’ll see.”
Then I turned away from her and headed back to where my men were readying themselves for their evening meal.
4
Despite the mourning rites among the Myrmidones, the rest of the camp was agog about the impending match between Achilles and Hector. There was almost a holiday mood among the men. As I made my way back to Odysseos’ area, they were placing bets, giving odds. They laughed and made jokes about it, as if the bout has
nothing to do with blood and death. I realized that they were trying to drive away the dread and fear they all felt. And trying to keep the flicker of hope within them from blossoming into a flame that would be snuffed out if Hector killed Achilles.
I had my own worries. I knew I could take my sons from Agamemnon: the High King owed me that much, at least, and Odysseos would plead my case for me. But Aniti. Somehow, no matter how I told myself to be done with her, I couldn’t let her go. How could I get Agamemnon to give her up? Why should I even try?
My head was spinning again, but this time with the emotions that seethed within me. Aniti was my wife, despite all that had happened to her, despite all she herself had done, she was still my wife and my possession. I told myself that if I took the boys, I would need their mother to tend them.
But the truth was that I could not leave Aniti in the hands of Agamemnon or any other man. I could not leave her in slavery and simply walk away from her. I realized that she was not only my wife, my property.She was my responsibility. I wished it were not so, but it was. I could not leave her to remain in slavery.
The wailing lamentations from the Myrmidones’ camp continued unabated. It sent shivers up my spine. But slowly it came to me that the others felt that this battle between the two champions could settle the war, one way or the other. They thought that no matter which champion fell, the war would end tomorrow and the rest of us could go home.
I wondered if that was true. If Achilles dies tomorrow, I thought, most of these Achaians will pack up their boats and sail away. But if Hector is killed, the Trojans could still button themselves inside their high walls and defy Agamemnon’s host. The Achaians had no hope of overtopping those walls; they knew nothing of siege engines and scaling ladders.
But I did.
Once I reached our section of the camp and saw that my men, what was left of them, were settled by their tents, I went to Odysseos’ boat and climbed the rope ladder to its deck.
A young guard was sitting on the gunwale, staring wistfully out to sea, when I clambered up on the opposite side. The sun was nearing the flat horizon of the sea, turning the sky to flaming reds and oranges. Puffy clouds were turning violet, rimmed with gold. The guard jumped to his feet once I slapped my boots on the deck’s planks.
“I wish to see the king,” I said, before he could question me.
“You are the Hittite,” he replied respectfully.
“I am.”
“Wait here.”
He hurried off behind the cabin. I stood and waited, my head still throbbing. It took several moments, but at last the youngster reappeared and beckoned to me.
“My lord Odysseos will speak to you, Hittite.” He gestured toward the far end of the cabin.
Odysseos was sitting on a plank bench, alone, dressed in nothing more than a rough wool chiton. A flagon of wine stood on the table before him, beaded with condensation. It looked deliciously cool. I saw only one cup.
“Hittite,” said Odysseos. “You’re still alive.”
“Two of my men were killed, my lord.”
“But we survived. The camp is still here and the Trojans are locked behind their walls once again. Only a few of the boats were burned.”
I stood before him and saw that he had fresh cuts on his forearm, his shoulder, even a slight nick above his brow.
“My wife and sons survived also,” I said.
Odysseos eyed me. “You want them back.”
“I do, my lord.”
He reached for the flagon and poured himself a cup of wine. “You’ll have to ask the High King for them.”
“Yes, I know.”
Breaking into a rare smile, Odysseos said, “This would be a good time for it. Agamemnon should be happy that Achilles has returned to the fight.”
I understood the logic of it.
“But the High King does not give gifts so easily,” he added, bringing the cup to his lips. His eyes stayed fixed on mine.
“The woman is my wife, my lord. She belongs to me.”
“Still … it might be better to wait until tomorrow, after Achilles slays Hector. He’ll be in a more giving mood then.”
“But what if Hector slays Achilles?”
Odysseos shrugged. “That would make things … difficult.”
I asked, “Do you think the Trojans will surrender if Hector falls?”
His brows knit; he hadn’t thought of what would happen after the battle between the two.
“Surrender? No, I suppose not. The Trojans won’t let us inside their walls willingly, no matter how many of their champions fall.”
I heard myself say, “I can get you inside their walls.”
“You?”
I pointed toward the city up on the bluff, bathed now in reddish gold by the setting sun. “See the course of the wall, where it is lower than the rest?” It was the western side of the city, where the garrulous courtier had told me that the defenses were weaker.
“Still twice the height of a grown man,” Odysseos muttered.
“My men can build siege towers and wheel them up to that part of the wall so that your warriors can climb up inside them and step from their topmost platforms right onto the battlements of the wall.”
“Towers?” Odysseos asked. “Taller than the wall? How can that be?”
“We have done it before, my lord. We build the towers of wood, and place them on rollers so that we can bring them up against the wall.”
For a long moment Odysseos said nothing. Then, “But the Trojans would destroy the towers as you approached the wall.”
“With what?” I challenged. “Spears? Arrows? Even if they shoot flaming arrows, we’ll have the towers covered with wetted horse hides.”
“But they’ll concentrate their men at that one point and beat you off.”
I realized that Odysseos was no fool. He grasped the concept of the siege towers even though he had never seen one in his life. And he immediately understood the weak point of my plan.
“Usually we build three or four towers and attack several spots along the fortifications at the same time. Or we create some other diversion that keeps the enemy’s forces busy elsewhere.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Many times, my lord. Our army cracked the walls of Babylon that way.”
“Babylon!”
“A much bigger city than Troy, my lord. With higher walls.”
Odysseos scratched at his thick black beard. “The High King must hear of this.”
Yes, I said to myself. This is the gift I offer to Agamemnon in exchange for my wife and sons.
5
Odysseos bade me wait with my men while he changed into clothing more fitting for a visit to the High King. And he sent a messenger to Agamemnon to tell him of his desire for an audience.
I went down to our little camp, where Magro and the others were gathering around the evening cook fire. Poletes scrambled to his feet, eager to know what had transpired with Odysseos.
“We’re going to Agamemnon,” I said, perhaps a bit pompously, “to tell the High King how to win this war.” And get my sons and wife back, I added silently.
Once I outlined the idea of the siege towers, Poletes shook his head. “You’re too greedy for victory, my master. You want to win everything and leave nothing for the gods to decide.”
He seemed almost angry.
I asked, “But men fight wars to win, don’t they?”
“Men fight wars for glory, for spoils, and for tales to tell their grandchildren. A man should go into battle to prove his bravery, to face a champion and test his destiny. You want to use tricks and machines to win your battle.” Poletes actually spat into the sand to show his displeasure.
I reminded him, “Yet you yourself have scorned these warriors and called them bloodthirsty fools.”
“That they are! But at least they fight fairly, champion to champion, as men should fight.”
I laughed. “Windy old storyteller, all’s fair in love and war.”
>
For once Poletes had no answer. He grumbled to himself and turned back to the fire and the kettle with supper simmering in it.
Odysseos came down from his boat, dressed in a clean robe and a deep blue cloak. Two young men in leather vests and helmets walked a respectful three paces behind him.
“Come, Hittite, we go to Agamemnon.”
As we walked through the camp, Odysseos asked me, “You can put wheels on these towers and pull them up to the walls?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“While under fire?”
“Yes, my lord.”
And these men you have with you know how to build such towers?”
“We have done it before, sire. We’ll need a team of workers: axmen, carpenters, workmen.”
He nodded. “No problem there.”
As we walked toward the cabin of Agamemnon, I wondered that none of these Achaians had thought of building siege towers earlier. Then I realized that these barbarians weren’t real soldiers. These kings and princelings might fancy themselves to be mighty warriors, but my own squad of troops could beat five times their number of these fame-seeking simpletons. It was as Poletes said: these Achaians fight for glory—and loot.
The High King seemed half asleep when we were ushered into his cabin. Odysseos’ two guards stayed outside in the gathering night. Agamemnon sat drowsily in a camp chair, a jewel-encrusted wine goblet in his right hand. Apparently the wound in his shoulder did not prevent him from lifting his arm to drink. No one else was in the cabin except a pair of women slaves, dark-eyed and silent in thin shifts that showed their bare arms and legs.
Odysseos took a stool facing the High King. I squatted on the carpeted ground at his side. He was offered wine. I was not.
“A tower that moves?” Agamemnon muttered after Odysseos had explained it to him twice. “Impossible! How could a stone tower be made to move?”
“It would be made of wood, son of Atreos. And covered with hides for protection.”
Agamemnon looked down at me blearily and let his chin sink to his broad chest. He seemed almost asleep. Still, the lamps casting long shadows across the room made his heavy-browed face seem sinister, even threatening.
“I had to return the captive Briseis to that young pup,” he grumbled. “And hand over a fortune of booty. Even with his loverboy slain by Hector the little snake refused to reenter the war unless his ‘rightful’ spoils were returned to him.” The scorn that he put on the word rightful could have etched granite.
