it.”
Single combat between Hector and Achilles. Hector was much the bigger of the two, an experienced fighter, cool and intelligent even in the fury of battle. Achilles was no doubt faster, though smaller, and fueled by the kind of rage that drives men to impossible feats. Only one of them would walk away from the combat, I knew. And I remembered Helen telling me that Hector’s death had been foretold.
Then I realized that the humming in my head was really the distant wailing and keening from the Myrmidones camp. I knew it was a matter of form for the women to mourn. But there were men’s deep voices among the cries of the women, and a drum beating a slow, sorrowful dirge.
I got slowly to my feet, still feeling shaky. Down the beach, where the Myrmidones’ camp was, a huge bonfire suddenly flared up, sending a cloud of sooty black smoke skyward.
“Achilles mourns his friend,” Poletes said. I could see that the excess of grief unnerved him slightly.
I realized that we were still in front of Agamemnon’s line of boats. My wife and sons must be nearby.
To Magro I said, “Take the men back to Odysseos’ area. I’ll join you before the sun sets.”
My head still spun slightly, and the Myrmidones’ mournful drumbeat was painful to my ears. I walked somewhat unsteadily toward the group of women gathered around wounded warriors, tending them with salves and cloth windings.
Suddenly my stomach heaved. I staggered to the shoreline and, one hand on the sticky tar of the boat, doubled over and retched into the sea. One of the women came to me, her eyes questioning.
“I’m all right,” I told her, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
She handed me a cloth soaked in cool water. I dabbed it on my lips, then cleaned my hands with it.
“Your leg is injured,” she said.
I looked down and saw that a slice on my calf was oozing blood. “It’s nothing,” I said.
“You’re one of the Hittites?” she asked.
“Yes. Where is Aniti?” Before she could say anything I added, “My wife.”
Her eyes went wide for an instant, then she pointed to the next boat, up the beach. “I saw her over there with her children.”
I thanked her and, splashing through the ankle-deep water, headed for the next boat.
Aniti was sitting on the sand while my two boys were at the water’s edge, splashing in the ripples running up the beach. She saw me approaching and jumped to her feet.
“You’re all right?” I asked.
She nodded wordlessly.
“I can see the boys are unharmed.”
“I kept them aboard the boat, so that they couldn’t see the killing.”
I nodded back at her.
“You’re hurt.”
“A scratch. I took a knock on the head, also. From Prince Hector himself.”
“You sound proud of it.”
I made myself smile. “It’s not many men who can say they took a blow from Hector and lived to tell of it.”
She looked away from me, toward the boys, then said in a low voice, “I’m glad you weren’t killed.”
“Aniti … I …” My tongue refused to work properly.
“You want to take the boys from me, I know.”
“I want to take them out of slavery. You, too,” I heard myself say. “I’m trying to get Agamemnon to release you. The three of you.”
She smiled bitterly. “The boys he will give you without quarrel. But not me. He values me too highly.”
My fists clenched. But I held my temper and said merely, “We’ll see.”
Then I turned away from her and headed back to where my men were readying themselves for their evening meal.
4
Despite the mourning rites among the Myrmidones, the rest of the camp was agog about the impending match between Achilles and Hector. There was almost a holiday mood among the men. As I made my way back to Odysseos’ area, they were placing bets, giving odds. They laughed and made jokes about it, as if the bout has nothing to do with blood and death. I realized that they were trying to drive away the dread and fear they all felt. And trying to keep the flicker of hope within them from blossoming into a flame that would be snuffed out if Hector killed Achilles.
I had my own worries. I knew I could take my sons from Agamemnon: the High King owed me that much, at least, and Odysseos would plead my case for me. But Aniti. Somehow, no matter how I told myself to be done with her, I couldn’t let her go. How could I get Agamemnon to give her up? Why should I even try?
My head was spinning again, but this time with the emotions that seethed within me. Aniti was my wife, despite all that had happened to her, despite all she herself had done, she was still my wife and my possession. I told myself that if I took the boys, I would need their mother to tend them.
But the truth was that I could not leave Aniti in the hands of Agamemnon or any other man. I could not leave her in slavery and simply walk away from her. I realized that she was not only my wife, my property.She was my responsibility. I wished it were not so, but it was. I could not leave her to remain in slavery.
The wailing lamentations from the Myrmidones’ camp continued unabated. It sent shivers up my spine. But slowly it came to me that the others felt that this battle between the two champions could settle the war, one way or the other. They thought that no matter which champion fell, the war would end tomorrow and the rest of us could go home.
I wondered if that was true. If Achilles dies tomorrow, I thought, most of these Achaians will pack up their boats and sail away. But if Hector is killed, the Trojans could still button themselves inside their high walls and defy Agamemnon’s host. The Achaians had no hope of overtopping those walls; they knew nothing of siege engines and scaling ladders.
But I did.
Once I reached our section of the camp and saw that my men, what was left of them, were settled by their tents, I went to Odysseos’ boat and climbed the rope ladder to its deck.
A young guard was sitting on the gunwale, staring wistfully out to sea, when I clambered up on the opposite side. The sun was nearing the flat horizon of the sea, turning the sky to flaming reds and oranges. Puffy clouds were turning violet, rimmed with gold. The guard jumped to his feet once I slapped my boots on the deck’s planks.
“I wish to see the king,” I said, before he could question me.
“You are the Hittite,” he replied respectfully.
“I am.”
“Wait here.”
He hurried off behind the cabin. I stood and waited, my head still throbbing. It took several moments, but at last the youngster reappeared and beckoned to me.
“My lord Odysseos will speak to you, Hittite.” He gestured toward the far end of the cabin.
Odysseos was sitting on a plank bench, alone, dressed in nothing more than a rough wool chiton. A flagon of wine stood on the table before him, beaded with condensation. It looked deliciously cool. I saw only one cup.
“Hittite,” said Odysseos. “You’re still alive.”
“Two of my men were killed, my lord.”
“But we survived. The camp is still here and the Trojans are locked behind their walls once again. Only a few of the boats were burned.”
I stood before him and saw that he had fresh cuts on his forearm, his shoulder, even a slight nick above his brow.
“My wife and sons survived also,” I said.
Odysseos eyed me. “You want them back.”
