The Hittite

by Ben Bova

  “Son of Atreos,” Odysseos soothed, “if this plan of mine works we will sack Troy and gain so much treasure that even overweening Achilles will be satisfied.”

  Agamemnon said nothing. He waved his goblet slightly and one of the slave women came immediately to fill it. Then she filled Odysseos’ golden cup.

  “Achilles,” Agamemnon growled. I could hear the hatred in his voice. “If he slays Hector tomorrow the bards will sing his praises forever.”

  “But the walls of Troy will still stand between us and the victory you deserve, High King,” said Odysseos.

  Agamemnon smiled slyly. “On the other hand, Hector might kill Achilles. Then I’ll be rid of him.”

  Lower, Odysseos repeated, “But the walls of Troy will still stand.”

  “Three more weeks,” Agamemnon muttered. He slurped at his wine, spilling much of it over his already stained tunic. “Three more weeks is all I need.”

  “Sire?”

  Agamemnon let the goblet slip from his beringed fingers and plonk onto the carpeted ground. He leaned forward, a sly grin on his fleshy face.

  “In three more weeks my ships will bring the grain harvest from the Sea of Black Waters through the Dardanelles to Mycenae. And neither Priam nor Hector will be able to stop them.”

  Odysseos made a silent little “oh.” I saw at that moment that Agamemnon was no fool. If he could not conquer Troy, he would at least get his ships through the straits and back again, loaded with golden grain, before breaking off the siege. And if the Achaians had to sail away from Troy without winning their war, at least Agamemnon would have the year’s grain supply in his own city of Mycenae, ready to use it or sell it to his neighbors as he saw fit.

  Odysseos had the reputation of being cunning, but I realized that the King of Ithaca was merely careful, a man who considered all the possibilities before choosing a course of action. Agamemnon was the crafty one: greedy, selfish and grasping.

  Recovering quickly from his surprise, Odysseos said, “But now we have the chance of destroying Troy altogether. Not only will we have the loot of the city and its women, but you will have clear sailing through the Dardanelles for all the years of your kingship!”

  Agamemnon slumped back on his chair. “A good thought, son of Laertes. A good thought. I’ll consider it and call a council to decide upon it. After tomorrow’s match.”

  With a reluctant nod, Odysseos said, “After we see whether Achilles remains among us or dies on Hector’s spear.”

  Agamemnon smiled broadly.

  6

  “He’s a fool,” I muttered as we walked away from Agamemnon’s cabin.

  Odysseos laid a hand on my shoulder. “No, Hittite. He is the High King and you could have your tongue cut out for speaking that way.”

  The sun had set. The stars were coming into sight. That everlasting chill wind was again blowing in from the sea, through the camp and across the plain of Ilios, toward the dark brooding walls of Troy. The camp seemed quiet, subdued; the betting and excited anticipation over the coming bout between Achilles and Hector seemed to be over now. Men were crawling into their tents or making up their bedrolls for the night’s sleep. Some were pairing off with slave women, I saw. I wondered what Aniti was doing. Was she with Agamemnon? The thought made my stomach turn.

  “The High King is many things,” Odysseos said to me, his voice low, grave, “but he is no fool. If Achilles wins tomorrow, the Trojans will be so demoralized they might agree to return Helen and end the war. If Hector wins, then Agamemnon is rid of a thorn in his flesh.”

  Understanding dawned in me. “Either way, he wins.”

  It was too dark to see the expression on Odysseos’ face, but I heard the iron hardness in his voice. “Either way.”

  “But my sons,” I said. “My wife.”

  “Too soon to ask for them, Hittite. You saw how angry he was over returning the slave to Achilles. You can imagine how he’d react to your request.”

  “But he has no right to them!”

  Very softly, Odysseos replied, “He is the High King. That is all the right he needs.”

  I had no answer for that.

  “Tomorrow, Hittite. Be patient for a few more hours.”

  My teeth clenched hard enough to snap an iron blade.

  Odysseos seemed to be lost in thought as we walked in silence the rest of the way back to the Ithacans’ section of the camp. All was quiet. Most of the men were already asleep.

  At last he said, “I have another task for you, Hittite.”

  “Sire?”

  “You will be a herald again and return to Troy. With a message for Helen. From me.”

  Wearing a white armband and carrying the willow reed of an emissary, I once again headed for Troy’s Scaean Gate, across the blood-soaked plain of Ilios, lit by the fattening crescent of the moon and the glittering stars that spangled the night sky. There were no troops camped on the plain this night; I walked alone and unchallenged until I stood before the city’s high walls.

  The guards at the gate were fully-grown warriors in bronze armor, their shields and spears resting within an arm’s reach. As before, I carried only a slim dagger tucked into my belt. As before, they took it from me before sending me under escort to Prince Hector.

  He received me in the armory, a long hall filled with shields and weapons and empty chariots. The place rang with voices and the hum of work. Slaves and warriors alike were polishing, sharpening, mending wheels, stacking sheaves of arrows. Hector was inspecting a suit of bronze armor, checking its leather straps, pointing out to a slave scratches that he wanted buffed away by morning.

  Paris was nowhere in sight. I was glad of that; the young prince would get angry if he knew the message I bore.

  Hector looked up as I stopped before him, flanked by my two armed escorts.

  “You again,” he said.

  I made a small bow. “My lord Odysseos has sent me—”

  “With another offer of peace?”

  “No, my lord. I bear a message for Helen.”

  “From Odysseos?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Tell it to me, I’ll see that she gets it.”

  I drew myself up a bit taller. “My instructions are to give the message to Helen and no one else.”

  Hector fell silent for a moment, appraising me with those steady brown eyes of his. If he felt anxious about the morning’s duel against Achilles, he gave no sign of it.

  “We could force the message from you, Hittite,” he said calmly.

  “Perhaps,” I replied.

  For several moments more he said nothing, obviously thinking over the situation. At last he said to my escorts, “Take this emissary to Princess Helen, then escort him back to the Scaean Gate and send him on his way.”

  They clenched their fists on their breasts and started to turn.

  “My lord Hector,” I heard myself say. “May the gods be with you tomorrow.” I had no idea why I blurted out those words, except that I thought Hector was a far better man than vainglorious Achilles.

  Hector almost smiled. “The gods will do as they wish, Hittite. As usual.”

  Those were the last words I heard from Hector, prince of Troy.

  If Hector was calm, Helen was in a frenzy. She burst into the little sitting room that my escorts brought me to, her eyes red and puffy. Apet lingered at the doorway, again in her black Death’s robe.

  “What does Odysseos want to tell me?” Helen fairly shouted. “Can he prevent tomorrow’s fight?”

  Her golden hair was disheveled, she wore a plain shift belted at the waist. It was obvious she had been crying. Yet still she was so beautiful that it took a conscious effort of will not to reach out to her and try to comfort her.

  “Nothing can prevent tomorrow’s fight, my lady,” I said. “Or, rather, no one will take a step to prevent it.”

  She sank onto the sofa against the little chamber’s far wall. “No. It’s ordained by the Fates. Hector will die tomorrow. It’s foretold. T
roy is doomed. I’m doomed.” She bowed her head and began to sob softly.

  Still wondering where Paris was, I knelt on one knee before her. “My lady, Odysseos wants me to tell you how to survive.”

  Helen looked at me, her soft cheeks runneled by tears. “How can I survive if he dies?” she demanded. “Why should I survive? I’m the cause of his death!”

  Apet hurried to her side. “Not so, my dear one. Hector is doomed, truly, but it’s not your fault. It’s his destiny and there’s nothing anyone can do to avoid it.”

  Helen shook her golden-tressed head and broke into more sobs.

  Kneeling at her feet, I told her, “My lord Odysseos instructed me to tell you that if the worst happens, if the Achaians break into Troy, you are to flee to the temple of Aphrodite and take sanctuary there. He will seek you there, in the temple of Aphrodite.”

  Helen’s sobbing eased. “Odysseos will seek me?”

  “So he told me. He will protect you while the city is being sacked.”

  Her face went cold. “And then return me to Menalaos.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “I’d rather die.”

  “No!” I urged. “You must live.”

  “Not as Menaloas’ wife. He’d probably kill me, after he’s had his fill of beating me, raping me, humiliating me in front of his kinsmen.”

  Apet said, “Fly to Egypt, my pet! You’ll be safe in the Land of the Two Kingdoms.”

  Egypt? I was stunned. The old woman must be insane. Egypt was a thousand leagues distant. Farther.

  Helen echoed my thoughts. “How can we get to Egypt? How can we get away from Troy when the city falls? What good is anything if he’s killed?”

  She had lost all hope. And suddenly I felt pity for beautiful Helen. She had nothing to look forward to if Troy fell; nothing but pain and humiliation and ultimately death. Hector had been her real hope, her one chance for survival. If he died …

  But it was more than that, I realized. She loved Hector. More than her girlish infatuation with Paris. She truly loved Hector. She was terrified that he would be killed by Achilles. That frightened her more than her own fate at the hands of Menalaos.

  I found myself wondering what love truly is. How can one person be willing to die so that another could live? With a shock of surprise, I found myself envying Hector.

  But such thoughts were not for me. I was a soldier; she was a queen, and a princess of Troy. Slowly I got to my feet. “My lady, that is Odysseos’ message. If the Achaians enter the city, fly to the temple of Aphrodite. Not even the barbarians would despoil the temple of so powerful a goddess. He will find you there and protect you.”

  Helen nodded bleakly. “And then turn me over to Menalaos.”

  I spread my hands. “I have nothing to say about that, my lady.” Yet I wished that I did.

  Helen breathed a long, shuddering sigh. Then she stood up and said to me, “Thank you, Lukka, for bringing me Odysseos’ message. Now you must return to your master and give him my thanks for offering me his protection.”

  “It’s better than nothing,” Apet said, in a half-whisper.

  “Is it?” Helen asked. Then she dismissed me.

  The same two young men escorted me to the Scaean Gate. I left Troy, my mind in a turmoil over Helen. She was too beautiful to die, to be killed by Menalaos. Even though he was her rightful husband and had the power of life and death over her … I shook my head and tried to clear away such thoughts. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to picture my Aniti in my mind. Would she cry for me if I were killed? Would I cry for her?

  It wasn’t until I was halfway back to the Achaian camp strung out along the beach, trudging alone beneath the moon as it glided among clouds of silver, that the full import of Odysseos’ message to Helen suddenly struck me.

  He expected the Achaians to break through Troy’s walls. He knew that if Achilles killed Hector the Trojans would shut themselves inside those walls and defy the invaders. He knew that the only way to get past those walls was to build the siege towers that I had described to him.

  Haughty Agamemnon might not believe that the towers could work, but Odysseos did. He believed in them! He believed in me!

  I wished that Helen did, too.

  7

  I slept fitfully that night, my dreams filled with visions of Helen and Aniti, Hector and Achilles, all in a confusing, troubling whirlwind. I awoke with the sun. The morning dawned bright and windy.

  Although the single combat between Hector and Achilles was what everyone looked forward to, still the whole army prepared to march out onto the plain. Partly they went because a single combat between champions can degenerate into a general melee easily enough. Mostly they went to get a closer look at the fight.

  Odysseos came to me as my men were tugging on their leather jerkins and strapping their helmets under their chins.

  “I want you and your Hittites to stand close behind my chariot,” said the King of Ithaca to me. “If a battle arises you must follow my chariot.”

  “I understand, my lord,” I said. Then I added, “But we could be starting to fell trees for the siege towers. There’s plenty of timber on the other side of the river.”

  “Not today,” Odysseos said. “If all goes well, we may not need your towers.”

  I had no choice but to accept his decision.

  Virtually the entire Achaian force marched out through the gate and drew itself up, rank upon rank, on the windswept plain before the camp’s sandy rampart. By the beetling walls of the city the Trojans were drawing themselves up likewise, chariots in front, foot soldiers behind them. Swirls of dust blew into the cloudless sky and quickly dissipated. I could see pennants fluttering along the battlement of the city’s walls. I even imagined I saw Helen’s golden bright hair at the top of the tallest tower, by the Scaean Gate.

  Odysseos ordered us to stand at the left side of his chariot. “Protect my driver if we enter the fray,” he said. So I stood with my men, each of us clasping our heavy shields that extended from chin to ankle. Five plies of hides stretched across a thin wooden frame and bossed with iron studs, our shields would stop almost anything except a spear driven with the power of a galloping chariot behind it.

  Poletes was up on the rampart with the slaves and thetes, straining his old eyes for a view of the fight. He would interrogate me for hours this night, I knew, dragging every detail of what I had seen out of my memory. If either of us still lives after this day’s fighting, I told myself.

  As I stood on the windy plain, squinting into the morning sun, a roar went up among the Trojans. I saw Hector’s chariot, pulled by four magnificent white stallions, kicking up a cloud of dust as it sped from the Scaean Gate and drove toward the front of the arrayed ranks of Trojan soldiery. Hector stood tall and proud, his great shield at his side, wearing the gleaming bronze armor I had seen him with the previous night in the armory. A clutch of spears stood in their holder on the chariot, their points aimed heavenward.

  For many minutes nothing more happened. Muttering started among the Achaian footmen. I glanced up at Odysseos standing in his chariot. The King of Ithaca merely smiled tolerantly. Achilles was behaving like a self-appointed idol, making everyone anxious for his appearance. I thought that it would have been a good trick against any opponent except Hector. That man will use the time to study every rock and bump on the field, I said to myself. He is no child to be frightened by waiting.

  At last an exultant roar sprang up among the Achaians. Turning, I saw four snorting, spirited, midnight-black horses, heads tossing, groomed so perfectly that they seemed to glow, pounding down the earthen ramp that cut across our trench. Achilles’ chariot was inlaid with ebony and ivory, and his armor—only his second-best since Hector had stripped Patrokles’ dead body—gleamed with burnished gold.

  With his plumed helmet on, there was little of Achilles’ face to be seen. But as his chariot swept past us I saw that his mouth was set in a grim line and his eyes burned like furnaces.

  He
did not stop for the usual prebattle formalities. He did not even slow down. His charioteer cracked his whip over the black horses’ ears and they plunged forward at top speed as Achilles took a spear in his right hand and screamed loud enough to echo off the walls of Troy: “PATROKLES! PA … TRO … KLES!”

  His chariot aimed straight for Hector’s. The Trojan driver, startled, whipped his horses into motion and Hector hefted one of his spears.

  The chariots pounded toward each other. Both warriors cast their spears simultaneously. Achilles’ struck Hector’s shield and staggered him. He almost tumbled out of the chariot, but he regained his balance and reached for another spear. Hector’s shaft struck between Achilles and his charioteer, splintering the wooden floor of the chariot.

  A chill went through me. Achilles had not raised his shield when Hector’s spear drove toward him. He had not even flinched as the missile passed close enough to shave his chin. Either he did not care what happened to him or he was mad enough to believe himself invulnerable.

  The chariots swung past each other and again the two champions hurled spears. Hector’s bounced off the bronze shoulder of Achilles’ armor. Again he made no move to protect himself or to avoid the blow. His own spear caught Hector’s charioteer in the face. With an awful shriek he toppled over backward, both hands pawing at the shaft that had turned his face into a bloody shambles.

  The Achaians shouted and surged a few steps forward. Hector, knowing he could not control his horses and fight at the same time, jumped lightly from his chariot, two spears gripped in his left hand. The horses raced on, their reins slack, heading back for the walls of the city.

  Achilles had the advantage now. His chariot drove around Hector, circling the stranded prince of Troy again and again, seeking an advantage, a momentary dropping of his guard. But Hector held his massive hourglass-shaped shield firmly in front of him and pivoted smoothly to present nothing more to Achilles than a bronze plumed helmet, the body-length shield and the greaves that protected his lower legs.