“What now? Haven’t I enough to do without you dragging in a troop of strangers?” he whined. He was a lean and resentful old grump, his hands gnarled and twisted into claws, his back stooped.
“New ones for you, scribe,” said Antiklos. “My lord Odysseos wants them outfitted properly.” And with that, Antiklos turned and ducked through the shed’s doorway. But not before giving me a wink and a grin.
The scribe shuffled over close enough almost to touch me, then squinted at Poletes and my men. “My lord Odysseos, heh? And how does he expect me to find proper gear for the dozen of you?”
“Thirteen,” Poletes said.
The scribe made a gesture in the air with his deformed hands. “An unlucky number! Zeus protect me!”
He grumbled and muttered as he led me past tables laden with bronze cuirasses, arm protectors, greaves and plumed helmets. I stopped and picked up one of the fancy bronze helmets.
“Not that!” the scribe screeched. “Those are not for the likes of you.”
I tossed the helmet back onto the table with a dull clunk. “We have our own arms and armor,” I said. “What we require is clothes and blankets. And tenting.”
Scowling as he replaced the helmet in its proper spot on the table, the scribe then sank one of his 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 these.”
It took awhile. Poletes grumbled about fleas while my men rummaged among the pile, shaking out garments and blankets and joking among themselves about it.
“In finery like this,” Harta said, grinning, “I’ll make the women swoon when I walk up to them.”
“They’ll swoon from your stink,” Magro answered him. “Try taking a bath first. You won’t smell so bad then.”
At length we had dressed ourselves in linen tunics and leather skirts. They were stained and hardly new, but much better than the travel-worn togs we had arrived in. While the scribe glared and grumbled at us, I made certain that Poletes got a tunic and a wool shirt.
The scribe resisted with howls and curses but I made certain that each of my men took a good blanket, Poletes included. We also took canvas, poles and pegs for making tents. He squealed and argued and threatened that he would tell the king himself what a spendthrift I was. He wouldn’t stop until I picked him off his feet by the front of his tunic and shook him a few times. Then he shut up and let us take what we needed. But his scowl would have curdled milk.
By the time we left the shed the rain had stopped altogether and the westering sun was rapidly drying the puddles along the beach. We found a clear space and settled down. The men began putting up tents. I sent Karsh and Tiwa to find wood for a fire; Poletes scampered off to dicker for food and a couple of slaves to do the cooking. He came back with a flagon of wine in his skinny arms—and two chunky, unwashed women who stared at us with frightened eyes.
Sitting down next to our little fire, Poletes opened the flagon and handed it to me. “There are benefits to being of the house of Odysseos,” he said happily.
Yes, I thought. But how do I get to see my wife and sons, off in Agamemnon’s part of the camp?
By the time we had eaten our sparse meal and drunk the wine, the sun had set. A pale sliver of a moon rose over the hills to the east, but the everlasting wind off the water turned even chillier. I watched as my men crawled into their newly built tents and prepared for sleep. Yawning, I realized that I was ready for sleep myself.
But I still thought of my wife and sons. I could go to Agamemnon’s camp, I told myself. I could search for them there.
Then Poletes stepped to me, fell to his knees and grasped my right hand in both of his, tightly, with a strength I would not have guessed was in him.
“Hittite, my master, you have saved my life twice this day.”
I wanted to pull my hand loose. I could see my men watching us in the deepening shadows.
“You 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, Hittite. I will always be grateful to you for showing mercy to a poor old storyteller.”
He kissed my hand.
I felt my cheeks redden. Reaching down, I lifted him by his frail shoulders to his feet.
“Poor old windbag,” I said gruffly. “You’re the first man I’ve ever seen who’s grateful for becoming a slave.”
“
I shook my head, uncertain of what to do or say. Finally I muttered, “Well, get some sleep.”
“Yes. Certainly. May Phantasos send you happy dreams.”
I sat down on my blanket and drew up my knees, thinking that my wife was in this camp, hardly an arrow’s shot away from me. And my sons. My boys. I decided that sleep could wait. I was going to find them. I got to my feet.
“Hittite?” a voice called softly.
I automatically grasped the hilt of my sword.
“Hittite, the king wants you.” In the wan moonlight I saw that it was Antiklos standing before me, silhouetted against the starry sky.
“Bring your iron helmet and spear,” Antiklos said. “Leave your shield.”
“Why does the king summon me?” I asked.
Antiklos made a grunt. “He wants you to help him impress sulking Achilles.”
16
Ordering Poletes to stay, I followed Antiklos past the tents of my men to the prow of Odysseos’ boat. The King of Ithaca was standing on the beach. As I had suspected, he was almost a head shorter than I. The plume of his helmet reached no higher than my brows.
He nodded a greeting to me and said simply, “Follow me, Hittite.”
The three of us walked in silence through the sleeping camp and up to the crest of the rampart, not far from the gate where I had won their respect that morning. Men stood guard up there, gripping their long spears and peering into the darkness nervously. Beyond the inky shadows of the trench the plain was dotted with Trojan campfires. Above them the crescent moon rode past scudding silvery clouds.
Odysseos gave a sigh that seemed to wrench his powerful 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 boats.”
“Can we hold them?” I asked.
“The gods will decide, once the sun comes up.”
I said nothing. I suspected that Odysseos was trying to hit upon a plan that might influence the gods his way.
A strong tenor voice called up from the darkness below us. “Odysseos, son of Laertes, are you counting the Trojan campfires?”
Odysseos smiled grimly. “No, Big Ajax. There 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 Achaians: he towered over Odysseos and even topped me by several fingers. He was big across the shoulders as well, his arms as thick as young tree trunks. I felt a sudden pang of remorse: he reminded me of Zarton, my stubborn young ox.
Ajax stood bareheaded beneath 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 Odysseos and the other chieftains. With something of a shock I realized that Big Ajax could hardly be out of his teens, no older than Zarton was when I killed him.
A much older man stood beside him, hair and beard white, wrapped in a dark cloak that reached to the ground.
“I brought Phoenix along,” said Ajax. “Maybe he can appeal to Achilles better than we can.”
