it. Then she filled Odysseos’ golden cup.
“Achilles,” Agamemnon growled. I could hear the hatred in his voice. “If he slays Hector tomorrow the bards will sing his praises forever.”
“But the walls of Troy will still stand between us and the victory you deserve, High King,” said Odysseos.
Agamemnon smiled slyly. “On the other hand, Hector might kill Achilles. Then I’ll be rid of him.”
Lower, Odysseos repeated, “But the walls of Troy will still stand.”
“Three more weeks,” Agamemnon muttered. He slurped at his wine, spilling much of it over his already stained tunic. “Three more weeks is all I need.”
“Sire?”
Agamemnon let the goblet slip from his beringed fingers and plonk onto the carpeted ground. He leaned forward, a sly grin on his fleshy face.
“In three more weeks my ships will bring the grain harvest from the Sea of Black Waters through the Dardanelles to Mycenae. And neither Priam nor Hector will be able to stop them.”
Odysseos made a silent little “oh.” I saw at that moment that Agamemnon was no fool. If he could not conquer Troy, he would at least get his ships through the straits and back again, loaded with golden grain, before breaking off the siege. And if the Achaians had to sail away from Troy without winning their war, at least Agamemnon would have the year’s grain supply in his own city of Mycenae, ready to use it or sell it to his neighbors as he saw fit.
Odysseos had the reputation of being cunning, but I realized that the King of Ithaca was merely careful, a man who considered all the possibilities before choosing a course of action. Agamemnon was the crafty one: greedy, selfish and grasping.
Recovering quickly from his surprise, Odysseos said, “But now we have the chance of destroying Troy altogether. Not only will we have the loot of the city and its women, but you will have clear sailing through the Dardanelles for all the years of your kingship!”
Agamemnon slumped back on his chair. “A good thought, son of Laertes. A good thought. I’ll consider it and call a council to decide upon it. After tomorrow’s match.”
With a reluctant nod, Odysseos said, “After we see whether Achilles remains among us or dies on Hector’s spear.”
Agamemnon smiled broadly.
6
“He’s a fool,” I muttered as we walked away from Agamemnon’s cabin.
Odysseos laid a hand on my shoulder. “No, Hittite. He is the High King and you could have your tongue cut out for speaking that way.”
The sun had set. The stars were coming into sight. That everlasting chill wind was again blowing in from the sea, through the camp and across the plain of Ilios, toward the dark brooding walls of Troy. The camp seemed quiet, subdued; the betting and excited anticipation over the coming bout between Achilles and Hector seemed to be over now. Men were crawling into their tents or making up their bedrolls for the night’s sleep. Some were pairing off with slave women, I saw. I wondered what Aniti was doing. Was she with Agamemnon? The thought made my stomach turn.
“The High King is many things,” Odysseos said to me, his voice low, grave, “but he is no fool. If Achilles wins tomorrow, the Trojans will be so demoralized they might agree to return Helen and end the war. If Hector wins, then Agamemnon is rid of a thorn in his flesh.”
Understanding dawned in me. “Either way, he wins.”
It was too dark to see the expression on Odysseos’ face, but I heard the iron hardness in his voice. “Either way.”
“But my sons,” I said. “My wife.”
“Too soon to ask for them, Hittite. You saw how angry he was over returning the slave to Achilles. You can imagine how he’d react to your request.”
“But he has no right to them!”
Very softly, Odysseos replied, “He is the High King. That is all the right he needs.”
I had no answer for that.
“Tomorrow, Hittite. Be patient for a few more hours.”
My teeth clenched hard enough to snap an iron blade.
Odysseos seemed to be lost in thought as we walked in silence the rest of the way back to the Ithacans’ section of the camp. All was quiet. Most of the men were already asleep.
At last he said, “I have another task for you, Hittite.”
“Sire?”
“You will be a herald again and return to Troy. With a message for Helen. From me.”
Wearing a white armband and carrying the willow reed of an emissary, I once again headed for Troy’s Scaean Gate, across the blood-soaked plain of Ilios, lit by the fattening crescent of the moon and the glittering stars that spangled the night sky. There were no troops camped on the plain this night; I walked alone and unchallenged until I stood before the city’s high walls.
The guards at the gate were fully-grown warriors in bronze armor, their shields and spears resting within an arm’s reach. As before, I carried only a slim dagger tucked into my belt. As before, they took it from me before sending me under escort to Prince Hector.
He received me in the armory, a long hall filled with shields and weapons and empty chariots. The place rang with voices and the hum of work. Slaves and warriors alike were polishing, sharpening, mending wheels, stacking sheaves of arrows. Hector was inspecting a suit of bronze armor, checking its leather straps, pointing out to a slave scratches that he wanted buffed away by morning.
Paris was nowhere in sight. I was glad of that; the young prince would get angry if he knew the message I bore.
Hector looked up as I stopped before him, flanked by my two armed escorts.
“You again,” he said.
I made a small bow. “My lord Odysseos has sent me—”
“With another offer of peace?”
“No, my lord. I bear a message for Helen.”
“From Odysseos?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Tell it to me, I’ll see that she gets it.”
I drew myself up a bit taller. “My instructions are to give the message to Helen and no one else.”
Hector fell silent for a moment, appraising me with those steady brown eyes of his. If he felt anxious about the morning’s duel against Achilles, he gave no sign of it.
“We could force the message from you, Hittite,” he said calmly.
“Perhaps,” I replied.
For several moments more he said nothing, obviously thinking over the situation. At last he said to my escorts, “Take this emissary to Princess Helen, then escort him back to the Scaean Gate and send him on his way.”
They clenched their fists on their breasts and started to turn.
“My lord Hector,” I heard myself say. “May the gods be with you tomorrow.” I had no idea why I blurted out those words, except that I thought Hector was a far better man than vainglorious Achilles.
Hector almost smiled. “The gods will do as they wish, Hittite. As usual.”
Those were the last words I heard from Hector, prince of Troy.
If Hector was calm, Helen was in a frenzy. She burst into the little sitting room that my escorts brought me to, her eyes red and puffy. Apet lingered at the doorway, again in her black Death’s robe.
