I nodded, then headed for Odysseos, with Poletes skipping beside me, his knobby legs working overtime to keep pace with me, and Apet plodding along after us. All through the camp men were busily sharpening swords, repairing battered shields, wrapping wounds with fresh strips of cloth soaked in olive oil. Soldiers and noblemen alike stared at us, reading in my grim face the news I carried from Troy. The women looked, too, then turned away, knowing that tomorrow would bring more blood and carnage and terror. Most of the slaves were natives of this land and hoped to be freed from their bondage by the Trojan soldiery. But they knew, I think, that in the frenzy and bloodlust of battle their chances of being raped and put to the sword were much more likely than their chances of being rescued and returned to their rightful house holds.
I had to find my wife and sons before tomorrow’s battle, I knew. I had to get Odysseos to fulfill his promise to me.
Once we reached my men, hard by Odysseos’ boats, I instructed Poletes, “Take care of this woman. She bears a message for Menalaos from Helen.”
He nodded agreement and I left them with my men while I went to Odysseos’ boat to deliver my news.
There was only one guard on the deck, and he didn’t even have a spear. He was sitting on the boat’s gunwale, honing his sword with a whetstone.
“The king?” he replied when I asked for Odysseos. Pointing to the sea, he told me, “He’s out there with the dolphins, Hittite. Every morning he swims in the sea.”
I followed his outstretched arm and saw Odysseos moving purposefully through the waves, his arms swinging up rhythmically, his bearded face turning upward for a gulp of air and then sliding down into the water once more. I had never seen a man swimming before; it looked strange, unnatural.
But when Odysseos clambered back onto the deck, naked and dripping, he was smiling and invigorated. Servants appeared with towels and clothing in their arms.
“Hittite,” he said as he rubbed himself briskly with one of the rough towels. “You delivered my message to Prince Hector?”
“I did, sire. He had me repeat it to Priam and his court.”
Odysseos dismissed his servants to hear my report. Sitting on a threelegged stool, he rested his back against the boat’s only mast. The musty canvas that had served as a tent when it had been raining was folded back now that the hot sun was shining, but his bearded face was as dark and foreboding as any storm cloud when I told him that Priam and his sons rejected the Achaian peace terms.
“They offered no counter terms?” he asked.
“None, my lord. Paris said he would never surrender Helen under any circumstances.”
“Nothing else?”
I hesitated, then said, “Helen has sent one of her maidservants with me to give a message to Menalaos. She says that she will return with him to Sparta only if he conquers Troy and she has no other choice.”
Almost smiling, Odysseos said, “If
I added, “Hector and Paris seemed quite certain that tomorrow they will break into this camp and burn the boats.”
Odysseos tugged at his beard, muttering, “They know they have the upper hand.”
I looked out across the rows of beached boats. Each of them had its mast in place and its sail furled, ready to be opened at a word of command. The crews were making ready to sail, I realized. The day before, most of the masts had been down.
Finally, Odysseos rose to his feet and called for his servants to dress him. “You will come with me, Hittite,” he said urgently. “Agamemnon must hear of this.”
“My lord, you said that you would return my wife and sons from the High King to me. I want to take them to a place of safety before tomorrow’s battle starts.”
Odysseos almost laughed at me. “A place of safety? Where?”
I had no answer.
“No, Hittite,” he said as two women brought him a clean tunic and sandals. “I’m going to need you and your men behind me tomorrow. We’ll talk of your family after the battle.” Then he added, “If we still live.”
Odysseos bade me wait until Agamemnon called a meeting of his council to discuss the news I brought. I asked him to allow me to bring Apet to Menalaos’ hut but he said only, “After the council meeting.”
So I waited with my men—and Helen’s maidservant—by our campfire while the slave women prepared the midday meal. My mind was in turmoil. My wife and sons were in Agamemnon’s part of the camp. I had to see them, had to find out for myself if they were alive.
I found myself walking through the camp, ignoring the men sitting around their cook fires spearing meat from their steaming kettles. Perhaps somehow I could get my family away from the High King’s men and bring them here to Odysseos’ camp, under my protection. If they still lived, after all these months. If they still lived.
How can I get them away from Agamemnon’s men? I wondered. I had no answer. Of course, discipline in the camp was practically nonexistent. These Achaians seemed to have no idea of military authority, no concept of correct order. Perhaps I could bluff my way through what ever guards I encountered.
Soon enough I came to the boats with Agamemnon’s golden lions painted on their prows. Several plank huts had been built here and the area teemed with men in armor and slaves in rags.
No one stopped me or even seemed to notice a stranger in their midst. I still wore the leather harness and iron-studded jerkin of the Hatti. I had left my spear and shield back at Odysseos’ camp, but my iron sword was strapped to my side and my helmet tied tight on my head. As elsewhere in the camp, most of the men were circled around the cook fires, jabbing at their midday meat. I saw dozens of women serving them, but not my Aniti.
A pair of men stood lounging in front of one of the black-hulled boats, leaning on their long spears and gesticulating with their free hands as they talked animatedly together. The Achaian version of guards, I thought.
They abruptly stopped their conversation as I approached them and stared questioningly at me.
Before they could ask, I said, “I am Lukka, the Hittite.”
Both of them were almost a full hand shorter than I, their skins dark, their beards shaggy, their heads bare.
“You’re the one who stopped Hector yesterday,” said one of them. He had a scar across his forehead.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m looking for a woman—”
“Who isn’t?” the other one joked.
“My wife,” I said.
Their heavy brows went up.
“She’s a Hittite. Pale skin. Almost as tall as I am. Her hair is lighter than yours. Her name is Aniti.”
Recognition dawned in their eyes. “Oh. You mean the whore.”
23
I must have blinked with shock. Without conscious decision, my hand shot out and I grabbed the Achaian by the front of his tunic.
“What did you say?”
His eyes widened. I saw his companion grip his spear with both hands.
“The Hittite woman,” sputtered the man I was holding in my fist. “She … she’s a …”
“Don’t start trouble, Hittite,” said the other one, hefting his spear.
“She’s my wife,” I snapped.
The one I held pointed with a shaking finger. “She’s probably back there, beside the boat.”
“Aniti, the Hittite,” the other one said.
I let go of the man and strode past them, toward the nearest boat. Raging fury burned inside me. A whore? My wife, a whore? Bad enough to be a slave, a captive who has no choice but to obey her master. But a whore? To willingly give herself to men for gain? I was infuriated enough to kill. I saw nothing either to my right or left, only the boat with a group of raggedly clad women huddled under its curving prow.
