“I do, my lord.”
He reached for the flagon and poured himself a cup of wine. “You’ll have to ask the High King for them.”
“Yes, I know.”
Breaking into a rare smile, Odysseos said, “This would be a good time for it. Agamemnon should be happy that Achilles has returned to the fight.”
I understood the logic of it.
“But the High King does not give gifts so easily,” he added, bringing the cup to his lips. His eyes stayed fixed on mine.
“The woman is my wife, my lord. She belongs to me.”
“Still … it might be better to wait until tomorrow, after Achilles slays Hector. He’ll be in a more giving mood then.”
“But what if Hector slays Achilles?”
Odysseos shrugged. “That would make things … difficult.”
I asked, “Do you think the Trojans will surrender if Hector falls?”
His brows knit; he hadn’t thought of what would happen after the battle between the two.
“Surrender? No, I suppose not. The Trojans won’t let us inside their walls willingly, no matter how many of their champions fall.”
I heard myself say, “I can get you inside their walls.”
“You?”
I pointed toward the city up on the bluff, bathed now in reddish gold by the setting sun. “See the course of the wall, where it is lower than the rest?” It was the western side of the city, where the garrulous courtier had told me that the defenses were weaker.
“Still twice the height of a grown man,” Odysseos muttered.
“My men can build siege towers and wheel them up to that part of the wall so that your warriors can climb up inside them and step from their topmost platforms right onto the battlements of the wall.”
“Towers?” Odysseos asked. “Taller than the wall? How can that be?”
“We have done it before, my lord. We build the towers of wood, and place them on rollers so that we can bring them up against the wall.”
For a long moment Odysseos said nothing. Then, “But the Trojans would destroy the towers as you approached the wall.”
“With what?” I challenged. “Spears? Arrows? Even if they shoot flaming arrows, we’ll have the towers covered with wetted horse hides.”
“But they’ll concentrate their men at that one point and beat you off.”
I realized that Odysseos was no fool. He grasped the concept of the siege towers even though he had never seen one in his life. And he immediately understood the weak point of my plan.
“Usually we build three or four towers and attack several spots along the fortifications at the same time. Or we create some other diversion that keeps the enemy’s forces busy elsewhere.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Many times, my lord. Our army cracked the walls of Babylon that way.”
“Babylon!”
“A much bigger city than Troy, my lord. With higher walls.”
Odysseos scratched at his thick black beard. “The High King must hear of this.”
Yes, I said to myself. This is the gift I offer to Agamemnon in exchange for my wife and sons.
5
Odysseos bade me wait with my men while he changed into clothing more fitting for a visit to the High King. And he sent a messenger to Agamemnon to tell him of his desire for an audience.
I went down to our little camp, where Magro and the others were gathering around the evening cook fire. Poletes scrambled to his feet, eager to know what had transpired with Odysseos.
“We’re going to Agamemnon,” I said, perhaps a bit pompously, “to tell the High King how to win this war.” And get my sons and wife back, I added silently.
Once I outlined the idea of the siege towers, Poletes shook his head. “You’re too greedy for victory, my master. You want to win everything and leave nothing for the gods to decide.”
He seemed almost angry.
I asked, “But men fight wars to win, don’t they?”
“Men fight wars for glory, for spoils, and for tales to tell their grandchildren. A man should go into battle to prove his bravery, to face a champion and test his destiny. You want to use tricks and machines to win your battle.” Poletes actually spat into the sand to show his displeasure.
I reminded him, “Yet you yourself have scorned these warriors and called them bloodthirsty fools.”
“That they are! But at least they fight fairly, champion to champion, as men should fight.”
I laughed. “Windy old storyteller, all’s fair in love and war.”
For once Poletes had no answer. He grumbled to himself and turned back to the fire and the kettle with supper simmering in it.
Odysseos came down from his boat, dressed in a clean robe and a deep blue cloak. Two young men in leather vests and helmets walked a respectful three paces behind him.
“Come, Hittite, we go to Agamemnon.”
As we walked through the camp, Odysseos asked me, “You can put wheels on these towers and pull them up to the walls?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“While under fire?”
“Yes, my lord.”
And these men you have with you know how to build such towers?”
“We have done it before, sire. We’ll need a team of workers: axmen, carpenters, workmen.”
He nodded. “No problem there.”
As we walked toward the cabin of Agamemnon, I wondered that none of these Achaians had thought of building siege towers earlier. Then I realized that these barbarians weren’t real soldiers. These kings and princelings might fancy themselves to be mighty warriors, but my own squad of troops could beat five times their number of these fame-seeking simpletons. It was as Poletes said: these Achaians fight for glory—and loot.
The High King seemed half asleep when we were ushered into his cabin. Odysseos’ two guards stayed outside in the gathering night. Agamemnon sat drowsily in a camp chair, a jewel-encrusted wine goblet in his right hand. Apparently the wound in his shoulder did not prevent him from lifting his arm to drink. No one else was in the cabin except a pair of women slaves, dark-eyed and silent in thin shifts that showed their bare arms and legs.
Odysseos took a stool facing the High King. I squatted on the carpeted ground at his side. He was offered wine. I was not.
“A tower that moves?” Agamemnon muttered after Odysseos had explained it to him twice. “Impossible! How could a stone tower be made to move?”
“It would be made of wood, son of Atreos. And covered with hides for protection.”
Agamemnon looked down at me blearily and let his chin sink to his broad chest. He seemed almost asleep. Still, the lamps casting long shadows across the room made his heavy-browed face seem sinister, even threatening.
“I had to return the captive Briseis to that young pup,” he grumbled. “And hand over a fortune of booty. Even with his loverboy slain by Hector the little snake refused to reenter the war unless his ‘rightful’ spoils were returned to him.” The scorn that he put on the word
“Son of Atreos,” Odysseos soothed, “if this plan of mine works we will sack Troy and gain so much treasure that even overweening Achilles will be satisfied.”
Agamemnon said nothing. He waved his goblet slightly and one of the slave women came immediately to fill
