by Ben Bova
The innkeeper was overjoyed at having some thirty of us as his guests. He kept rubbing his hands together and grinning as we unloaded our animals and carts.
"Your goods will be perfectly safe here, sir," he assured me, "even if they were made of solid gold. My own sons protect this inn and no thief will touch what is yours."
I wondered how certain of that he would have been if he had known that inside the boxes we carried to our rooms there were treasures of gold. We stacked all of the boxes in one room, the inn's largest. I chose to sleep in that room myself, with blind Poletes.
The city also had whorehouses. Lukka's men disappeared like a puff of smoke as soon as our horses were stabled and our goods safely stashed in our rooms.
"They'll be back in the morning," he told me.
"You are free to go, too," I said.
"You'll need someone to guard our goods," he said.
"I'll stand guard. You go see the city."
Lukka's stern face remained its impassive mask, but I knew he was debating within himself. Finally he said, "I'll come back at sunset."
I laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Come back at dawn, my dutiful friend. Enjoy the city and its delights. You've earned a night's entertainment."
"You're certain . . ."
Gesturing toward the boxes stacked next to my bed, I said, "I can guard our goods."
"Alone?"
"I have the innkeeper's ferocious sons." We had seen the sons. Two of them were big and burly, the other two slight and wiry, as if they had been born of a different mother. They hardly seemed dangerous to us, not after the fighting we had seen, but they appeared adequate to ward off sneak thieves.
"And I am here also," said Poletes. "Even without ears, I can hear better than a bat. In the dark of night, I will be a better guard than you and your two eyes."
Very reluctantly, Lukka took his leave of us.
Helen was in the next room. She had commandeered the innkeeper's two young daughters to serve her. I heard them chattering and giggling as they hauled steaming buckets of water up the creaking stairs and poured them into the wooden tub that the wife of the house had provided for Helen.
None of them knew who we were, of course. I knew there would quickly be talk about the beautiful golden-haired woman and the band of Hatti soldiers who were with her. But as long as no one associated us with the war at Troy or with the Achaians, we were safe enough.
"Tell me of the city," Poletes asked. "What is it like?"
I went to the balcony and began to describe what I saw: temples, inns, busy streets, a bustling port, sails out in the harbor, splendid houses up on the hills.
"There must be a marketplace in the heart of the city," Poletes said, cackling with glee. "Tomorrow one of the men can take me there and I will tell the story of the fall of Troy, of Achilles's pride and Agamemnon's cruelty, of the burning of a great city and the slaughter of its heroes. The people will love it!"
"No," I said softly. "We can't let these people know who we are. It's too dangerous."
He turned his blind eyes toward me. The scars left by the burns seemed to glower at me, accusingly.
"But I'm a storyteller! I have the greatest story anyone's ever heard, here in my head." He tapped his temple, just above the ragged slit where his ear had been. "I can make my fortune telling this story!"
"Not here," I said. "And not now."
"But I can stop being a burden to you! I could earn my own way. I could become famous!"
"Not while she's with us," I insisted.
He snorted angrily. "She has caused more agony than any mortal woman ever born."
"Perhaps so. But until I see her safely accepted in Egypt, where she can be protected, you'll tell no tales about Troy."
Poletes grumbled and mumbled and groped his way back to his bed. I stayed at his side and steered him clear of the stacked boxes of loot.
As the old storyteller plopped down on the feather mattress, I heard a scratching at the door.
"Did you hear . . ."
Poletes said, "It's someone asking to come in. That's the way civilized people do it. They don't pound on the door as if they intended to break it down, the way you do."
I picked up my sword from the table between our two beds. Holding it in its scabbard, I went to the door and opened it a crack.
It was one of the innkeeper's daughters: a husky, dimpled girl with laughing dark eyes.
"The lady asks if you will come to see her in her chamber," she said, after a clumsy curtsy.
I looked up and down the hallway. It was empty. "Tell her I'll be there in a few moments."
Shutting the door, I went to Poletes's bed and sat on its edge.
"I know," he said. "You're going to her. She'll snare you in her web of allurements."
"You have a poet's way of expression," I said.
"Don't try to flatter me."
Ignoring his petulance, I asked, "Can you guard our goods until I return?"
He grunted and turned this way and that on the soft bedding and finally admitted, "I suppose so."
"You'll yell loudly if anyone tries to enter this room?"
"I'll wake the whole inn."
"Can you bar the door behind me and find your way back to the bed again?"
"What if I stumble and break my neck? You'll be with your lady love."
I laughed. "I may only be there a few minutes. I have no intention of . . ."
"Oh, no, not at all!" He hooted. "Just make sure you don't bellow like a mating bull. I'm going to try to get some sleep."
Feeling a little like a schoolboy sneaking out of his dormitory, I went to the door and bid Poletes a pleasant nap.
"I sleep very lightly, you know," he said.
Whether he meant that to reassure me that no sneak thief would be able to rob us, or to warn me to be quiet in Helen's room, next door, I could not tell. Perhaps he meant both.
The hallway was still empty, and I could see no dark corners or niches where an enemy could lurk in ambush. Nothing but the worn tiled floor, the plastered walls, and six wooden doors of rooms that my men had taken. Not that any of them would occupy them this night. On the other side of the hall was a railing of split logs, overlooking the central courtyard of the inn and its packed-dirt floor.
I clenched my fist to knock at Helen's door, then remembered Poletes's words. Feeling slightly foolish, I scratched at the smooth wooden planks instead.
"Who is there?" came Helen's muffled voice.
"Orion."
"You may enter."
I pushed the door open. She stood in the center of the shabby room, resplendent as the sun. Helen had put on the same robes and jewels she had worn that first time I had seen her alone, in her chamber in Troy. There, she had looked incredibly beautiful. Here, in this rough inn with its crudely plastered walls and uncurtained windows, she seemed like a goddess come to Earth.
I closed the door behind me and leaned my back against it, almost weak with the beauty of her.
"You have taken none of the treasures of Troy for yourself, my lord Orion," she said.
"I haven't wanted any of them. Until now."
She opened her arms and I went to her and swept her up and carried her to the soft, yielding downy bed. In the back of my mind I wept for a woman who was totally different from the golden, splendid Helen: a woman of lustrous dark hair and wondrous gray eyes, a tall and graceful goddess of truth and beauty. But she was dead, and Helen was warm fire in my arms.
The sun sank on the edge of the glittering sea and long violet shadows stole across the city of Ephesus as the cloak of night softly drew itself over all. The stars peeked through tattered clouds and Artemis's sliver of a moon came up while Helen and I made love and drowsed, half-woke and made love once more, then slept and woke and made love still again.
In the gray half light that precedes true dawn we slept in each other's arms, totally spent, unconscious with the sweet exhaustion of passion.
And I found myself in t
hat other world of golden light so brilliant that it hurt my eyes.
"You think you can escape from me?"
I turned round and round, searching, straining for sight of the Golden One. Nothing. Only his voice.
"You have thwarted my plans for the last time, Orion. You cannot escape my vengeance."
"Show yourself!" I shouted. "Stand before me so I can throttle the life out of you!"
But I was sitting up in bed, my clawed hands clenching empty air, while Helen stared at me with wide frightened eyes.
That morning I took Helen and Poletes into the heart of the city, while Lukka—who had returned at dawn, true to his word—stood guard over our goods and dourly watched his men stagger back to the inn, one by one.
Ephesus was truly a city of culture and comfort, rich with marble temples and streets thronged with merchants and wares from Crete, Egypt, Babylon, and even far-off India.
Poletes was most interested in the marketplace. He was strong enough to walk now, and he had tied a scarf of white silk across his useless eyes. He carried a walking stick, and was learning to tap out the ground ahead of him so that he could walk by himself.
"Storytellers!" he yelped, as we passed small knots of people gathered around old men who squatted on the ground, weaving spells of words for a few coins.
"Not here," I whispered to him.
"Let me stay and listen," he begged. "I promise not to speak a word."
Reluctantly I allowed it. I knew I could trust Poletes's word. It with his heart that I worried about. He was a storyteller, it was in his blood. How long could he remain silent when he had the grandest story of all time to tell the crowd?
I decided to give him an hour to himself, while Helen and I browsed through the shops and stalls of the marketplace. She seemed deliriously happy to be fingering fine cloth and examining decorated pottery, bargaining with the shopkeepers and then walking on, buying nothing. I shrugged and accompanied her, brooding in the back of my mind over the Golden One's threat of the predawn hour.
He would destroy me if he could, I told myself. The fact that he hasn't shows either that the other Creators are restraining him, or that he needs me for some further tasks.
Or, I dared to think, that I am becoming powerful enough to protect myself.
The ground rumbled. A great gasping cry went up from the crowd in the marketplace. A few pots tottered off their shelves and smashed on the ground. The world seemed to sway giddily, sickeningly. Then the rumbling ceased and all returned to normal. For a moment the people were absolutely silent. Then a bird chirped and everyone began talking at once, with the kind of light fast banter that comes with a surge of relief from terror.
An earth tremor. Natural enough in these parts, I supposed. Unless it was a warning, a deliberate sign from those far-advanced creatures whom the peoples of this time regarded as gods.
The hour was nearly over. I could see Poletes, across the great square of the marketplace, standing at the edge of the crowd gathered around one of the storytellers, his gnarled legs almost as skinny as the stick he leaned on.
"Orion."
I looked down at Helen. She was smiling at me like an understanding mother smiles at a naughty son. "You haven't heard a word I've said."
"I'm sorry. My mind was elsewhere."
She repeated, "I said that we could live here in Ephesus very nicely. This is a civilized city, Orion. With the wealth we have brought, we could buy a comfortable villa and live splendidly."
"And Egypt?"
She sighed. "It's so far away. And traveling has been much more difficult than I thought it would be."
"Perhaps we could get a boat and sail to Egypt," I suggested. "It would be much swifter and easier than overland."
Her eyes brightened. "Of course! There are hundreds of boats in the harbor."
But when we went to the dock, all thoughts of boats fled from our minds. We saw six galleys stroking into the harbor, all of them bearing a picture of a lion's head on their sails. "Menalaos!" Helen gasped.
"Or Agamemnon," I said. "Either way, we can't stay here. They're searching for you."
Chapter 26
We fled Ephesus that night, leaving a very disappointed innkeeper who had looked forward to us staying much longer.
As we rode up into the hills and took the southward trail, I wondered if we could not have appealed to the city's council for protection. But the fear of the armed might of the Achaians who had just destroyed Troy would have paralyzed the Ephesians, I realized. Their city had no protective walls and no real army, merely a city guard for keeping order in the bawdier districts; it depended on the good will of all for its safety. They would not allow Helen to stay in their city when Menalaos and his brother Agamemnon demanded her surrender.
So we pushed on, through the rains and cold of winter, bearing our booty from Troy. A strange group we were: the fugitive Queen of Sparta, a blind storyteller, a band of professional soldiers from an empire that no longer existed, and an outcast from a different time.
We came to the city of Miletus. Here there were walls, strong ones, and a bustling commercial city.
"I was here once," Lukka told me, "when the great High King Hattusilis was angry with the city and brought his army to its gates. They were so frightened that they opened their gates and offered no resistance. They threw themselves upon the High King's mercy. He was magnificent! He slew only the city's leaders, the men who had displeased him, and would not allow us to touch even an egg."
We bought fresh provisions and mounts. Miletus would be the last major city on our route for some time. We planned to move inland, through the Mountains of the Bull and across the plain of Cilicia, then along the edge of the Mittani lands and down the Syrian coastline.
But the sounds and smells of another Aegean city were too much for Poletes. He came to me as we started to break our camp, just outside the city walls, and announced that he would not go on with us. He preferred to remain in Miletus.
"It is a city where I can tell my tales and earn my own bread," he said to me. "I will not burden you further, my lord Orion. Let me spend my final days singing of Troy and the mighty deeds that were done there."
"You can't stay by yourself," I insisted. "You have no house, no shelter of any kind. How will you find food?"
He reached up for my shoulder as unerringly as if he could see. "Let me sit in a corner of the marketplace and tell the tale of Troy," he said. "I will have food and wine and a soft bed before the sun goes down."
"Is that what you truly want?" I asked him.
"I have burdened you long enough, my lord. Now I can take care of myself."
He stood there before me in the pale light of a gray morning, a clean white scarf over his eyes, a fresh tunic hanging over his skinny frame. I learned then that even blinded eyes can cry. And so could I.
We embraced like brothers, and he turned without another word and walked slowly toward the city gate, tapping his stick before him.
I sent the others off on the inland road, telling them I would catch up later. I waited half the day, then entered the city and made my way to the marketplace. Poletes sat there cross-legged in the middle of a large and rapidly growing throng, his arms gesturing, his wheezing voice speaking slowly, majestically: "Then mighty Achilles prayed to his mother, Thetis the Silver-Footed, 'Mother, my lifetime is destined to be so brief that ever-living Zeus, sky-thunderer, owes me a worthier prize of glory . . ."
I watched for only a few minutes. That was enough. Men and women, boys and little girls, were rushing up to join the crowd, their eyes fastened on Poletes like the eyes of a bird hypnotized by a snake. Rich merchants, soldiers in chain mail, women of fashion in their colorful robes, city magistrates carrying their wands of office—they all pressed close to hear Poletes's words. Even the other storytellers, left alone once Poletes had started singing of Troy, got up from their accustomed stones and ambled grudgingly across the marketplace to listen to the newcomer.
Poletes was right,
I reluctantly admitted. He had found his place. He would be fed and sheltered here, even honored. And as long as we were far away, he could sing of Troy and Helen all he wanted to.
I went back to the city gate, where I had left my horse with the guards there. I handed their corporal a few coppers, and nosed my chestnut mount up the inland trail. I would never see Poletes again, and that made me feel the sadness of loss.
But time and distance softened my sadness, blurred it into a bittersweet memory of the cranky old storyteller.
Lukka led us across a steep and snowy mountain pass and down into the warm and fruitful Cilician plain, where wine grapes, wheat, and barley grew and olive trees dotted the countryside.
The Cilician cities were tightly shut against all strangers. The collapse of the Hatti empire was felt here; instead of depending on imperial law and the protection of the Hatti army, each city had to look to its own safety. We bartered for what we needed with farmers and suspicious villagers, then headed eastward across the plain and finally turned south, keeping the sea always at our right.
I noticed that Helen looked over her shoulder often, searching as I did for signs of pursuit. We scanned the sea, as well, whenever we could see it. None of the sails we spotted bore a lion's head.
On the road we slept apart. It was better discipline for the men, I thought. I did not take her to bed unless we were in a town or city where the men could find women for themselves. I realized that my passion for Helen was controllable, and therefore not the kind of love that I had for my dead goddess.
Gradually, she began to tell me of her earlier life. She had been abducted when barely twelve, whisked away from the farm of an uncle on the saddle of a local chieftain who had taken a fancy to her newly budding beauty. Her father had bribed the grizzled old bandit and he surrendered her unharmed, but the incident convinced her father that he would have to marry off his daughter quickly, while she was still a virgin.
