by Ben Bova
“My friend,” I said. “My companion and helper.”
He nodded, accepting the storyteller. Behind Poletes, barely inside the tent and out of the pelting rain, stood the officer who had summoned us to this audience with the King of Ithaca.
“You did us a great service this morning,” said Odysseus. “Such service should be rewarded.”
The frail old man at Odysseus’s right spoke up in a surprisingly deep, strong voice. “We are told that you arrived as a thes aboard the boat that came in last night. Yet you fought this morning like a warrior born and bred. By the gods! You reminded me of myself when I was your age. I was absolutely fearless then! As far away as Mycenae and even Thebes I was known! Let me tell you…”
Odysseus raised his right hand. “Please, Nestor, I pray you forego your reminiscences for the moment.”
The old man looked displeased, but sank back in silence.
“What reward would you ask?” Odysseus said to me. “If it is in my power I will gladly grant it.”
I thought for half a moment only, then replied, “I ask to be made a warrior in the service of the King of Ithaca.” Then, sensing a slight shuffling of bare feet behind me, I added, “And to have my friend here as my servant.”
For several seconds Odysseus said nothing, although Nestor bobbed his white-bearded head vigorously and the younger warrior on the king’s left smiled at me.
“You are both thetes, without a household?” Odysseus asked.
“Yes.”
He stroked his beard. Then a slow smile spread across his face. “Then welcome to the household of the King of Ithaca. Your wish is granted.”
I was not certain of what I should do, until I saw Nestor frown slightly and prompt me by motioning with both hands, palms down. I knelt before Odysseus.
“Thank you, great king,” I said, hoping it was the right degree of humility. “I shall serve you to the best of my abilities.”
Odysseus took the armlet from his biceps and clasped it on my arm. “Rise, Orion. Your courage and strength will be a welcome addition to our forces.” To the officer at the tent’s entrance he commanded, “Antilokos, see that he gets some decent clothing — and weapons.”
Then he nodded a dismissal at me. I turned. Poletes was beaming at me. Antilokos, his wolfskin cape still dripping, looked at me as if measuring me, not for clothing, but as a fighter.
As we left the tent and went back into the pouring rain, I could hear King Nestor’s vibrant voice. “Very crafty of you, Odysseus! By bringing him into your household you gain the favor of Athene, whom he serves. I couldn’t have made a wiser move myself, although in my years I’ve made some very delicate decisions, let me tell you. Why, I remember the time when Dardanian pirates were raiding the coast of my kingdom and nobody seemed to be able to stop them, since King Minos’s fleet had been destroyed in the great tidal wave. Well then, the pirates captured a merchant ship bearing a load of copper from Kypros. Worth a fortune it was, because you know that you can’t make bronze without copper. No one knew what to do! The copper was…”
His voice, strong as it was, was finally drowned out by the heavy rain and moaning wind.
Antilokos led us past several Ithacan boats to a lean-to made of logs lashed together and then daubed with the same black pitch that caulked the boats. It was the largest structure I had seen in the camp, big enough to hold a couple of dozen men, I estimated. There was only one doorway, a low one with a sheet of canvas tacked over it to keep out the rain and wind.
Inside, the shed was a combination of warehouse and armory that made Poletes whistle with astonishment. Chariots were stored there, tilted up with their yoke poles pointing into the air. Stacks of helmets and armor were neatly piled along one wall, while racks of spears, swords, and bows lined the other, with chests full of clothes and blankets along the back wall between them.
“So much!” Poletes gasped.
Antilokos, who was not a man given to humor, made a grim smile. “Spoils from the slain.”
Poletes nodded and whispered, “So many.”
A wizened old man stepped across the sand floor from his hideaway behind a table piled with clay tablets.
“What now? Haven’t I enough to do without you dragging in strangers?” he whined. He was a lean and sour-faced old grump, his hands gnarled and twisted into claws, his back stooped.
“A new one for you, scribe. My lord Odysseus wants him outfitted properly.” And with that, Antilokos turned and ducked through the shed’s low doorway.
The scribe shuffled over close enough almost to touch me and peered up at me with squinted eyes. “Big as a Cretan bull! How does he expect me to find proper clothing for someone your size?”
He grumbled and muttered as he led Poletes and me past tables laden with bronze cuirasses, arm protectors, greaves, and plumed helmets. I stopped and reached for a helmet.
“Not that!” the scribe screeched. “Those are not for the likes of you!”
He sank one of those clawlike hands into my forearm and tugged me to a pile of clothes on the ground, close by the entrance to the shed.
“Here,” he said. “See what you can find among those.”
It took a while, but I eventually dressed myself in a stained linen tunic, a leather skirt that reached my knees, and a sleeveless leather jerkin that did not feel so tight across the shoulders that it would hamper my movements. While the scribe scowled and grumbled, I made certain that Poletes found a tunic and a wool shirt. For weapons I took a plain short sword and strapped a dagger to my right thigh, beneath the skirt. Neither one of them had precious metals or jewels in their hilts, although the sword’s crosspiece bore an intricate design engraved in its bronze.
The scribe could not find any kind of helmet that would fit me, so we finally settled on a hooded mantle of bronze chain mail. Sandals and bronze-studded leather greaves completed my array, although my toes hung out over the edges of the sandals noticeably.
The scribe resisted fiercely, but I insisted on taking two blankets apiece. He screeched and argued and threatened that he would call the king himself to tell what a spendthrift I was. It was not until I lifted him off his feet with a one-fisted grab at his tunic that he shut up and let me take the blankets. But his scowl would have curdled milk.
By the time we left the shed the rain had stopped and the westering sun was rapidly drying off the beach. Poletes led the way back to the fire and the men with whom we had shared our midday meal. We ate again, drank wine, and laid out our newly acquired blankets in preparation for sleeping.
Then Poletes fell to his bony knees and grasped my right hand in both of his, tightly, with a strength I would not have guessed was in him.
“Orion, my master, you have saved my life two times this day.”
I wanted to pull my hand loose.
“You have saved the whole camp from Hector’s spear and his vengeful Trojans, but in addition you have lifted me out of a life of misery and shame. I will serve you always, Orion. I will always be grateful to you for showing such mercy to a poor old storyteller.”
He kissed my hand.
I reached down and lifted him by his frail shoulders to his feet.
“Poor old windbag,” I said lightly, “you’re the first man I’ve ever seen grateful to become a slave.”
“Your slave, Orion,” he corrected. “I am happy to be that.”
I shook my head, uncertain of what to do or say. Finally I groused, “Well, get some sleep.”
“Yes. Certainly. May Phantasos send you happy dreams.”
I did not want to close my eyes. I did not want to dream of the Creator who called himself Apollo — if my encounter with him could be called a dream.
I lay on my back staring at the star-studded blackness, wondering which star our ship had been traveling to, and whether the light of its explosion would ever be seen in Earth’s night skies. I saw her face again, lovely beyond belief, dark hair gleaming in the starlight, gray eyes sparkling with desire.
&n
bsp; He had killed her, I knew. The Golden One. Apollo. Killed her and blamed it on me. Killed her and exiled me to this primitive time. Killed her, but saved me for his own amusement.
“Orion?” a voice whispered.
I sat up and automatically put out a hand for the sword resting on the ground beside me.
“The king wants you.” It was Antilokos kneeling beside me.
I scrambled to my feet, gripping the sword. It was black night, with just enough light from the dying fire for me to recognize the man’s face.
“Better bring your helmet, if you have one,” Antilokos said.
I reached down and took my chain-mail mantle. Poletes’s eyes opened.
“The king wants to speak to me,” I told the old man. “Go back to sleep.”
He smiled and snuggled happily into his blankets.
I followed Antilokos past the sleeping bodies of our comrades to the prow of Odysseus’s boat.
As I had suspected, the king was much shorter than I. The plume of his helmet barely reached my chin. He nodded a greeting to me and said simply, “Follow me, Orion.”
The three of us walked silently through the sleeping camp and up to the crest of the rampart, not far from the gate where I had gained their respect earlier that day. Soldiers stood on guard up there, gripping long spears and eyeing the darkness nervously. Beyond the inky shadow of the trench the plain was dotted with Trojan campfires.
Odysseus gave a sigh that seemed to wrench his mighty chest. “Prince Hector holds the plain, as you can see. Tomorrow his forces will storm the rampart and try to break into our camp and burn our ships.”
“Can we hold them?” I asked.
“The gods will decide, once the sun comes up.”
I said nothing. I suspected that Odysseus was trying to come up with a plan that might influence the gods his way.
A strong tenor voice called from the darkness below us. “Odysseus, son of Laertes, are you counting the Trojan campfires?”
Odysseus smiled grimly. “No, Big Ajax. They are too many for any man to count.”
He motioned to me and we went back down into the camp. Ajax was indeed something of a giant among these men: He towered over them and even topped me by an inch or two. He was big across the shoulders, as well, and his arms were as thick as young tree trunks. He stood bareheaded under the stars, dressed only in a tunic and leather vest. His face was broad, with high cheekbones and a little pug of a nose. His beard was thin, new-looking, not like the thick curly growth of Odysseus and the other chieftains. With a bit of a shock, I realized that Big Ajax was very young, probably no more than nineteen or twenty.
A much older man stood beside him, hair and beard white, wrapped in a dark cloak.
“I brought Phoenix along,” said Big Ajax. “Maybe he can appeal to Achilles better than we can.”
Odysseus nodded his approval.
“I was his tutor when Achilles was a lad,” said Phoenix in a slightly quavering voice. “He was proud and touchy even then.”
Ajax shrugged his massive shoulders. Odysseus said, “Well, let us try to convince Achilles to rejoin the army.”
We started off for the far end of the camp, where Achilles’s boats were beached. Half a dozen armed men trailed behind the three nobles, and I fell in with them.
The wind was blowing in off the water, cold and sharp as a knife. I almost envied Poletes the blankets he had wrapped around himself, and began to wonder why I had not taken cloaks for the two of us from the tight-fisted old scribe.
Once we entered Achilles’s portion of the camp, we passed several sentries on duty, fully armed and armored, with helmets strapped on tightly and spears in their hands. They wore cloaks, which the wind plucked at and whipped around their suits of bronze armor. They recognized the giant Ajax and the squat but powerful King of Ithaca, of course, and let the rest of us pass unchallenged.
Finally we were stopped by a pair of guards whose armor glittered even in the faint starlight, within a few yards of a large cabin, built of planks.
“We are a deputation from the High King,” said Odysseus, his voice deep and grave with formality, “sent to see Achilles, prince of the Myrmidones.”
The guard saluted by clasping his fist to his heart and said, “Prince Achilles has been expecting you and bids you welcome.”
He stepped aside and gestured us to the door of the cabin.
Chapter 6
MIGHTY warrior though he was, Achilles apparently enjoyed his creature comforts. The cabin’s interior was draped with rich tapestries, and the floor was covered with more carpets. Couches and pillows were scattered across the spacious room. In one corner a hearth fire smoldered red, keeping out the cold and damp. I could hear the wind moaning through the hole in the roof, but inside it was reasonably snug and warm.
Three women sat by the fire staring at us with great dark eyes. They were slim and young, dressed modestly in sleeveless gray chemises. Iron and copper pots stood on tripods at the hearth, faint wisps of steam issuing from them. I smelled spiced meat and garlic.
Achilles himself sat on a wide couch against the far wall of the cabin, his back to a magnificent arras that depicted a gory battle scene. The couch was up on a dais, raised above the floor of the cabin like a king’s throne.
My first sight of the great warrior was a surprise. He was not a mighty-thewed giant, as Ajax. His body was not broad and powerful, as Odysseus’s. He seemed small, almost boyish, his bare arms and legs slim and virtually hairless. His chin was shaved clean and the ringlets of his long black hair were tied up in a silver chain. He wore a splendid white silk tunic, bordered with a purple key design, cinched at the waist with a belt of interlocking gold crescents.
He wore no weapons, but behind him a half-dozen long spears rested against the arras, within easy reach.
His face was the greatest shock. Ugly, almost to the point of being grotesque. Narrow beady eyes, lips curled in a perpetual snarl, a sharp hook of a nose, skin pocked and cratered. In his right hand he gripped a jeweled wine cup; it seemed to me that he had already drained it more than once.
At his feet sat a young man who was absolutely beautiful, gazing not at us but up at Achilles. It was Patrokles, I knew without being told. His tightly curled hair was reddish brown, rather than the usual darker tones of the Greeks. I wondered if it was his natural color. Like Achilles, Patrokles was beardless. But he seemed young enough not to need to shave. A golden pitcher of wine stood on the carpet beside him.
I looked at Achilles again and understood the demons that drove him to be the greatest warrior of his age. A small ugly boy born to a king. A boy destined to rule, but always the object of taunts and derisive laughter behind his back. A young man possessed with fire to silence the laughter, to stifle the taunting. His slim arms and legs were iron-hard, knotted with muscle. His eyes were absolutely humorless. There was no doubt in my mind that he could outfight Odysseus or even powerful Ajax on sheer willpower alone.
“Greetings, Odysseus the Ever-Daring,” he said, in a calm, clear tenor voice that was close to mocking. “And to you, mighty Ajax, King of Salamis and champion of the Achaian host.” Then his voice softened. “And to you, Phoenix, my well-loved tutor.”
I glanced at the old man. He bowed toward Achilles, but his eyes were on the beautiful Patrokles.
“We bring you greetings, Prince Achilles,” said Odysseus, “from Agamemnon the High King.”
“The bargain-breaker, you mean,” Achilles snapped. “Agamemnon the gift-snatcher.”
“He is our High King,” Odysseus said, his tone barely suggesting that they were all stuck with Agamemnon and the best they could do was try to work with him.
“So he is,” admitted Achilles. “And well beloved by Father Zeus, I’m sure.”
It was going to be a difficult parley, I could see.
“Perhaps our guests are hungry,” Patrokles suggested in a soft voice.
Achilles tousled his curly mop of hair. “Always the thoughtful one.”
He bade us sit and told the serving women to feed us and bring wine cups. Odysseus, Ajax, and Phoenix took couches arranged near Achilles’s dais. Patrokles filled their cups from his pitcher of gold. We underlings sat on the floor, by the entrance. The women passed trays of broiled lamb with onions among us and filled our wooden cups with spiced wine mixed with honey.
After a round of toasts and polite banter, Achilles said, “I thought I heard the mighty Agamemnon bawling like a woman, earlier today. He breaks into tears quite easily, doesn’t he?”
Odysseus frowned slightly. “Our High King was wounded today. A cowardly Trojan archer hit him in the right shoulder.”
“Too bad,” said Achilles. “I see that you did not escape the day’s fighting without a wound, yourself. Did it bring you to tears?”
Ajax burst out, “Achilles, if Agamemnon cries, it’s not from pain or fright. It’s from shame! Shame that the Trojans have penned us up in our camp. Shame that our best fighter sits here on a soft couch while his comrades are being slaughtered by Hector and his troops.”
“Shame is what he should feel!” Achilles shouted back. “He’s robbed me! He’s treated me like a slave or even worse. He calls himself the High King but he behaves like a thieving whoremaster!”
And so it went, for hours. Achilles was furious with Agamemnon for taking back a prize he had been awarded, some captive girl. He claimed that he did all the fighting while Agamemnon was a coward, but after the battle was won the High King parceled out the spoils to suit himself and even then reneged on what Achilles felt was due him.
“I have sacked more towns and brought the Achaians more captives and loot than any man here, and none of you can say I haven’t,” he insisted hotly. “Yet that fat lard-ass can steal my proper rewards away from me and you — all of you! — just let him do it. Did any of you stick up for me in the council? Do you think I owe you anything? Why should I fight for you when you won’t even raise your voices on my behalf?”
Patrokles tried to soothe him, without much success. “Achilles, these men aren’t your enemies. They’ve come here on a mission of reconciliation. It isn’t proper for a host to bellow at his guests so.”
