Vengeance of Orion o-2

by Ben Bova

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

  “But Hector agreed with the story,” Nestor said, hastily taking the scepter from my hands. As I sat, he rose and said, “If this tale of a Hatti army had been told our herald merely by Aleksandros, I would agree with King Menalaos…” On and on Nestor rambled, secure in the possession of the scepter. The gist of his statement was that Hector was an honorable man: If he said that the Hatti army was approaching Troy, that meant it was true. Hector was a man who could be believed, unlike his brother.

  “That means disaster for us!” Agamemnon cried, his narrow little eyes actually brimming with tears. “The Hatti army could annihilate us and the Trojans at the same time!”

  Everyone seemed to agree.

  “They have fought battles against the Egyptians!”

  “They conquered Akkad.”

  “And sacked Babylon!”

  “Hattusilis marched on Miletus and the city opened its gates to him, rather than have his army batter down its walls.”

  The fear that spread around the council circle was palpable, like a cold wind that snuffs out a candle and leaves you in darkness.

  None of them seemed to know what to do. They dithered like a herd of antelope that sees a pride of lions approaching and cannot make up its mind which way to run.

  Finally Odysseus asked for the scepter. Rising, he said calmly, “Perhaps Hector and his wicked brother are wrong in their belief that the Hatti are marching to their aid. Perhaps the Hatti troops are nearby for reasons of their own, reasons that have nothing to do with our war against Troy.”

  Mumbles and mutters of dissent. “Too good to be true,” said one voice out of the grumbling background.

  “I suggest we send a herald to meet the Hatti commander and ask what his intentions are. Let our herald carry with him some sign of the agreement between Hattusilis and our own High King, to remind the Hatti commander that his king has promised not to interfere in our war.”

  “What good would that do?” Agamemnon wrung his hands, wincing and clutching his shoulder.

  “If they mean to war on us, we might as well pack up now and sail back home.”

  Everyone agreed with that.

  But Odysseus held the scepter aloft until they fell silent. “If the Hatti are coming to Troy’s aid, would Hector be preparing to attack our camp tomorrow?” he asked.

  Puzzled glances went around the circle. Much scratching of beards.

  Odysseus continued, “He is making preparations to attack us, that we know. Why would he risk the lives of his own people — and his own neck — if there’s a Hatti army on its way to fight at his side?”

  “For glory,” said Patrokles. “Hector is like my lord Achilles: his life means less to him than honor and glory.”

  With a shake of head, Odysseus replied, “Perhaps that is true. But I am not convinced of it. I say we should at least send a herald to show the Hatti general his king’s sworn agreement with us, and to determine if the Hatti really will come to Troy’s relief.”

  It took another hour or so of wrangling, but eventually they agreed to Odysseus’s plan. They really had no other option, except to sail away.

  The herald they picked, of course, was me.

  When at last the council meeting ended, I asked Odysseus for permission to approach Menalaos with a private message from his wife. The King of Ithaca looked at me solemnly, his mind playing out the possible consequences of such a message. Then, with a nod, he called out Menalaos’s name and caught up with the Spartan king as he turned at the door of Agamemnon’s hut.

  “Orion has a message for you, from Helen,” he said simply, his voice low so that the other departing council members could not easily hear him.

  “What is it?” he asked eagerly, clutching my arm as we stepped through the doorway and out onto the beach.

  Odysseus stayed tactfully inside the hut. Menalaos and I walked a few paces along the sand before I spoke. He was a handsome man, with a full black beard and thick curly hair. Menalaos was many years younger than his brother, and where Agamemnon’s features were heavy and almost coarse, the same general structure gave Menalaos’s face a sort of strength and nobility. He was much slimmer than the High King, not given to feasting and drinking.

  “Your wife sends you greetings,” I began, “and says that she will return willingly with you to Sparta…”

  His face lit up anew.

  I finished, “…but only if you succeed in conquering Troy. She said she will not leave Troy as a consolation prize for the loser of this war.”

  Menalaos took a deep breath and threw his head back. “Then by the gods,” he murmured, “by Ares and Poseidon and mighty Zeus himself, I will climb Troy’s high walls and carry her back with me, no matter how much blood it takes!”

  I understood how he felt, having seen Helen and spoken with her. And I felt inside myself a vicious sense of satisfaction. I had done everything I could to encourage the Achaians to press on with their war. There would be no peace with Troy. Not if I could help it.

  Then I remembered that there was an army on the march to come to Troy’s aid, and I was supposed to find them and stop them, somehow.

  Chapter 13

  I brought Poletes with me. We waited until nightfall, then went to the southern end of the camp where the larger river, the Scamander, anchored both our right flank and the flank of the Trojan forces camped on the plain.

  Odysseus saw to it that we obtained a flimsy reed boat, and I paddled across the river’s strong current while Poletes bailed. It was a race to see if the leaky reed vessel would sink before we could reach the far shore. We made it, but just barely.

  The night was dark; the moon had not yet risen. Wisps of fog were drifting in from the sea.

  “A night for ghosts and demons,” Poletes whispered.

  But my eye was on the far bank of the river, where the Trojan campfires gleamed.

  “Never mind ghosts and demons,” I whispered back to him. “Be on the lookout for Trojan scouts and foragers.”

  I had a new sword at my side, and a dark blue cloak across my shoulders. Poletes carried only a small hunting knife; he was no good with weapons, he said. He too had a cloak for warmth against the night chill, and he bore a small knapsack of dried meat and bread and a leather sack of wine.

  On my left wrist was a copper band that bore a copy of the Hatti High King’s agreement with Agamemnon. It looked like an ordinary wristband, but the cuneiform symbols were etched into it. Roll it across a slab of wet clay and the document would reproduce itself.

  We spent the darkest hours of the night skirting along the riverbank, moving inland past the plain of Ilios and the city of Troy. In the darkness the thick bushes tangled against our feet, slowing us. We tried to move silently, but often we had to hack the leafy branches out of our way. By the time the moon came up over the distant mountains, we were climbing the steady slope of the first of the foothills. I could see the edge of the woods ahead, lofty oak and ash trees, beech and larch, silvery and silent in the moonlight. Farther uphill, dark pines and spruce rose straight and tall. The bushes were thinner here and we could make better time.

  Poletes was puffing hard, but he did his best to keep up with me. As we plunged into the darker shadows of the trees an owl hooted, as if to challenge us.

  “Athene welcomes us,” Poletes panted.

  “What?”

  He grabbed at my shoulder. I stopped and turned around. He bent over, hands on knobby knees, wheezing and gasping for breath.

  “We don’t need… forest demons,” he panted. “You have… your own demon… inside you.”

  I felt a pang of conscience. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize I was going too fast for you.”

  “Can we… rest here?”

  “Yes.”

  He slung the knapsack off his shoulder and collapsed to the mossy ground. I took in a deep breath of clean mountain air, crisp with the tang of
pine.

  “What was that you said about Athene?” I asked, kneeling beside him.

  Poletes waved a hand vaguely. “The owl… it is Athene’s symbol. Its hooting means that she welcomes us to the safety of these woods. We are under her protection.”

  I felt my jaw clenching. “No, old man. She can’t protect anyone, not even herself. Athene is dead.”

  Even in the darkness I could see his eyes go round. “What are you saying? That’s blasphemy!”

  I shrugged and squatted on the ground beside him.

  “Orion,” Poletes said earnestly, propping himself on one elbow, “the gods cannot die. They are immortal!”

  “Athene is dead,” I repeated, feeling the hollow ache of it in my guts.

  “But you serve her!”

  “I serve her memory. And I live to avenge her murder.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “It is impossible, Orion. Gods and goddesses cannot die. Not as long as one mortal remembers them. As long as you revere Athene, and serve her, she is not dead.”

  “Perhaps so,” I said, to placate him and calm his fear. “Perhaps you are right.”

  We stretched out for a few hours’ sleep, wrapped in our cloaks. I was afraid to close my eyes so I lay there listening to the subtle night sounds of the forest, the soft rustling of the trees in the cool dark breeze, the chirrup of insects, the occasional hoot of an owl.

  She is dead, I told myself. She died in my arms. And I will kill the Golden One someday.

  The moon peeked down at me through the swaying branches of the trees. Artemis, sister of Apollo, I thought. Will you defend your brother against me? Or was that you arguing against him? Will the other gods fight against me or will I find allies among you in my vengeance against the Golden One?

  I must have fallen asleep, for I dreamed that I saw her again: Athene, standing tall and radiant in gleaming silver, her long dark hair burnished like polished ebony, her beautiful gray eyes regarding me gravely.

  “You are not alone, Orion,” she said to me. “There are allies all around you. You have only to find them. And lead them to your goal.”

  I reached out to her, only to find myself sitting upright on the mossy forest floor, the fresh yellow light of sunrise slanting between the trees. Birds were singing a welcome to the new day.

  Poletes stirred before I tried to wake him. We ate a cold breakfast washed down with warm wine, then resumed our march.

  We cut northward now, toward the main road that led from Troy inland. Over two rows of wooded hills we climbed, and as we reached the crest of the third, we saw spread out below us a broad valley dotted with cultivated fields. A river meandered gently through the valley, and along its banks tiny villages huddled.

  An ugly column of black smoke rose from one of the villages.

  I pointed. “There’s the Hatti army.”

  We hurried down the wooded slope and out across the fields of chest-high grain, wading through the golden crop like shipwrecked sailors staggering to the safety of an unknown shore.

  “Why would a Trojan ally be burning a Trojan village?” Poletes asked.

  I had no answer. My attention was fixed on that column of smoke, and the pitiful cluster of burning huts that produced it. I could see wagons and horses now, and men in armor that glittered under the morning sun.

  We breasted the ripening grain until we came to the edge of the field. Poletes tugged at my cloak.

  “Perhaps we’d better lie low until we find out what’s going on here.”

  “No time for that,” I said. “Hector must be attacking the beach by now. If these are Hatti troops, we’ve got to find out what they’re up to.”

  I plunged ahead and within a dozen strides broke out of the cultivated field. I could clearly see the troops now. They were taller and fairer than the Achaians. And, man for man, better armed and equipped. Each soldier wore a tunic of chain mail and a helmet of polished black iron. Their swords were long, and their blades were iron, not bronze. Their shields were small and square and worn across their backs, since there was no fighting going on.

  A half-dozen soldiers were herding a peasant family out of their hut: a man, his wife, and two young daughters. They looked terrified, like rabbits caught in a trap. They fell to their knees and raised their hands in supplication. One of the soldiers tossed a torch onto the thatched roof of the hut, while the others gathered around the pleading, crying family with drawn swords and ugly smiles.

  “Stop that!” I called, striding toward them. I could hear the rustling behind me of Poletes diving into the stalks of grain to hide himself.

  The soldiers turned toward me.

  “Who the hell are you?” their leader shouted.

  “A herald from High King Agamemnon,” I said, stepping up to him. He was slightly shorter than I, well built, scarred from many battles. His face was as hard and fierce as a hunting falcon’s, his eyes glittering with suspicion, his nose bent hawklike. His sword was in his hand. I kept mine in my scabbard.

  “And who in the name of the Nine Lords of the Earth is High King Aga… whatever?”

  I extended my left hand. “I bear a message from your own High King, a message of peace and friendship he sent to Agamemnon.”

  The Hatti soldier grinned sourly. “Peace and friendship, eh?” He spat at my feet. “That’s how much peace and friendship are worth.” To the five men behind him he said, “Slit the farmer’s throat and take the women. I’ll deal with this one myself.”

  My body went into hyperdrive instantly, every sense so acute that I could see the pulse throbbing in his neck, just below his ear, and hear the slight swish of his iron blade swinging through the air. Beyond him I saw one of the other soldiers grab the kneeling farmer by the hair and yank his head back to bare his throat. The wife and daughters drew in their breaths to scream.

  I easily ducked under the swinging sword blade and launched myself at the soldier who was about to slaughter the farmer. My flying leap knocked both of them to the ground. I rolled to my feet and kicked the soldier in the head. He went over on his back, unconscious.

  Everything happened so quickly that my reactions seemed automatic, not under my conscious control. I disarmed the two nearest soldiers before their partners could move. When they did stir, it seemed to be in slow motion. I could see what they intended to do by the movement of their eyes, the bunching of muscles in their biceps or thighs. It was a simple matter to ram a fist into a solar plexus and bring my other hand up into the jaw of the next man, fracturing bone.

  I stood before the huddled, kneeling family, five Hatti soldiers on the ground behind me and their leader facing me, sword still in his right hand. His mouth hung agape, his eyes bulged. There was no fear in his face, just an astonishment that made his breath catch in his throat.

  For an instant we stood facing each other, poised for combat. Then, with a roaring curse, he pulled back his sword arm for what I thought would be a charging attack at me.

  Instead, he threw the sword. I saw its point flying straight for my chest. No time for anything but a slight sidestep. As the blade slid past my leather vest I grabbed at its hilt. The momentum of the sword and my own motion turned me completely around. When I faced the Hatti warrior again I had his sword in my hand.

  He stood rooted to the ground. I am sure he would have run away if he could have commanded his feet, but the shock of what he had just seen froze him.

  “Get your men together and take me to your commanding officer,” I said, gesturing with his sword.

  “You…” he gaped at the sword, not lifting his eyes to look me in the face, “you’re not… human. You must be a god.”

  “He serves Athene!” piped Poletes, coming up from his hiding place in the grain field, a gap-toothed smile on his wrinkled old face. “No man can stand against Orion, servant of the warrior goddess.”

  I handed him back his sword. “What is your name, soldier?”

  “Lukka,” he answered. It took him three tries to get his sword bac
k into its scabbard, his hands were shaking so.

  “I have no quarrel with you, Lukka, or with any Hatti soldier. Take me to your commander; I bear a message for him.”

  Lukka was totally awed. He gathered up his men: One had a broken jaw; another seemed dazed and glassy-eyed with a concussion.

  The farmer and his family crawled on their hands and knees to me and began to kiss my sandaled feet. I pulled the man up roughly by his shoulders and told the women to stand up.

  “May all the gods protect you and bring you your every desire,” said the farmer. His wife and daughters kept their heads down, their eyes on the ground. But I could see tears streaming from each of them.

  I felt bile in my throat. May all the gods protect me! In his ignorance he thought that the gods actually cared about human beings, actually could be moved by prayers or sacrifices. If this simple man knew what the gods really were he would puke with disgust. Yet, when I looked into his brimming eyes, I could not bring myself to disillusion him. What good would it do, except to fill his days with agony?

  “And may the gods protect you, farmer. You bring life from the bosom of Mother Earth. That is a far higher calling than warring and slaying.”

  Having offered their thanks, they dashed inside their hut to put out the fire that the soldiers had started. I followed Lukka and his limping, wounded men through the burning village in search of the Hatti commander. Poletes skipped along beside me, reciting a blow-by-blow account of what had just happened, rehearsing it for later storytelling.

  It seemed clear to me that this was far too small a contingent to be the Hatti army. Yet there were no other troops in the valley, as far as Poletes and I were able to see from the hilltop earlier in the day. Could this small unit be the force that Hector and Aleksandros expected to help them?

  And if these soldiers were allies of the Trojans, why were they burning a Trojan village?

  In the village square — nothing more than a clearing of bare earth among the dried-brick huts — a procession of soldiers wound its way past a line of wagons and chariots. The Hatti commander was standing in one of the chariots, parceling out loot for his officers and men. The soldiers were carrying the villagers’ pitiful possessions up to the chariot in a long, ragged line: a two-handled jug of wine, a blanket, a squawking flapping pair of chickens, a clay lamp, a pair of boots. It was not a rich village.