the city at last.”
I shook my head wearily. “We can’t force a gate that is defended. It’s too easy for the Trojans to hold a narrow opening.”
Odysseos nodded agreement. “Do you think your men could really build a tower that will allow us to scale their wall?”
“We’ve done it before. At Ugarit and elsewhere.”
“Ugarit,” Odysseos repeated. He seemed impressed. “I will speak to Agamemnon and the council. Until Achilles rejoins us we have little hope of storming their gate.”
“And little hope even with Achilles.”
He looked at me sternly. Odysseos didn’t like hearing that, but he said nothing.
“My sons,” I reminded him. “My wife.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “I will speak to Agamemnon about them.”
“I want them.”
“I understand.” Then Odysseos smiled wryly. “I have a wife, too. And a son. Back at Ithaca.”
Perhaps he did understand.
Poletes was literally hopping up and down on his knobby legs as we entered the camp, following Achilles on his stretcher.
“What a day!” he exclaimed. “What a day! The bards will sing of this day for all time!”
As usual, he milked me for every last detail of the fighting. He had been watching from the top of the rampart, of course, but the mad melee at the gate was too far away from his old eyes and too confused for him to make out.
“And what did Odysseos say at that point?” he would ask. “I saw Diomedes and Menalaos riding side by side toward the gate. Which of them got there first?”
I could do nothing more than shake my head. “I was too busy keeping Trojan spear points off me to take notice of such things, storyteller.”
“Who fired the arrow that wounded Achilles? Could it have been Prince Paris? He has a reputation as an archer, you know.”
The women set out a meal of thick barley soup, roast lamb and onions, flat bread still hot from the clay oven and a flagon of unadulterated wine. Poletes kept asking questions with every bite.
I saw that my men were eating as I tried to satisfy the old storyteller’s curiosity. The sun dipped below the western sea’s edge and the island mountaintops turned gold, then violet, then faded into darkness. The first star gleamed in the cloudless purple sky, so beautiful that I understood why it was named after Asertu.
There was no end to Poletes’ impatient questions, so I finally sent him to the Myrmidones’ camp to learn for himself of Achilles’ condition. Then I stretched out on my blanket, glad to be rid of the old man’s pestering.
Magro came over and squatted on the sand beside me. “A hard day.”
I sat up and asked him, “How’s your arm?”
“It’s nothing. A little stiff, that’s all.”
“Good.”
He hesitated a heartbeat, then asked, “What do you think of today’s battle?”
“Hardly a battle,” I replied. “They’re more like a bunch of overgrown boys tussling in a playground.”
“The blood is real.”
“Yes. I know. But they’ll never take a fortified city by storming defended gates.”
“They don’t know anything about warfare, do they?”
“Not much.”
Magro lifted his eyes. “There’re enough good trees on the other side of the river to build six good siege towers, maybe more.”
“We need the High King’s permission first,” I said.
Magro spat, “The High King. He’s a fathead.”
“But he’s the High King.”
Hunching closer to me, Magro whispered, “Why don’t we just get up and leave? Why should we get ourselves killed for them?”
Before I could answer, he went on, “We could march into Agamemnon’s camp to night and take your wife and sons. They’ll only have a couple of sleepy teenagers on guard. We could slit their throats before they utter a sound and get away from here with your family.”
I suddenly realized that the same thought had been hovering in the back of my mind. But then I wondered, “And go where?”
“Anywhere but here!” Magro said fervently. “This place is a death trap. Nothing good will come from this fighting.”
I thought he was right. But then I thought of Helen. She would be at the mercy of her former husband if the Achaians conquered Troy. Or she could become Queen of Troy if they could drive the Achaians away.
“We’re pledged to Odysseos,” I heard myself tell Magro. “We have joined the House of Ithaca. We’ve eaten his bread and we’ll fight his battles.”
In the flickering light of the campfire I could make out a twisted smile on Magro’s face. “Even though it’s stupid?”
“Loyalty isn’t stupid.”
He gusted out a sigh. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
As Magro started to get to his feet, Poletes came rushing to us and dropped to his knees before me, his face solemn in the light of our dying fire, his great owl’s eyes grave.
“What’s the news of Achilles?” I asked him.
“The great slayer of men is finished as a warrior,” said Poletes, his voice low, somber. “The arrow cut the tendon in the back of his heel. He will never walk again without a crutch.”
I felt my mouth tighten grimly.
Poletes glanced at the jug of wine by the fire, then looked back at me questioningly. I nodded. He filled cups for Magro and me, then poured himself a heavy draft and gulped at it.
“Achilles is crippled, then,” I said.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Poletes sighed. “Well, he can live a long life back in Phthia. Once his father dies he will be king and probably rule over all of Thessaly. That’s not so bad, I think.”
I nodded, but I wondered how Achilles would take to the life of a cripple. He had chosen glory, he’d told me, over a long life.
As if in answer to my thoughts a loud wail sprang up from the Myrmidones’ end of the camp. Magro and I jumped to our feet. Poletes got up more slowly.
“My lord Achilles!” a voice cried out. “My lord Achilles is dead!”
I glanced at Poletes.
“Poison on the arrowhead?” he guessed.
I threw down the wine cup and started off for the Myrmidones’ tents. All the camp seemed to be rushing in the same direction. I saw Odysseos’ broad back, and Big Ajax outstriding everyone with his long legs.
Spear-wielding Myrmidon guards held back the crowd at the edge of their camp area, allowing only the nobles to pass through. I pushed up alongside Odysseos and went past the guards with him. Menalaos, Diomedes, Nestor and almost every one of the Achaian leaders were gathering in front of Achilles’ cabin.
All but Agamemnon, I saw.
We went inside, past weeping soldiers and women tearing their hair and scratching their faces as they screamed their lamentations.
Achilles’ couch, up on the raised platform at the far end of the cabin, was spattered with bright red blood. The young warrior lay on it, left ankle swathed in oil-soaked ban dages, a dagger still gripped in his right hand, a jagged red slash just under his left ear running halfway across his windpipe still dripping blood. His eyes stared sightlessly at the mudchinked planks of the ceiling. His mouth was open in a rictus that might have been a final smile or a grimace of pain.
Facing the long life of a cripple, mighty Achilles had killed himself. His final act of glory.
Odysseos turned to me. “Tomorrow you start your men building the siege towers.”
