IV
HELEN’S FATE
1
The Achaian camp was one gigantic orgy of feasting and roistering all that long afternoon and into the evening. There was no semblance of order and no attempt to do anything but drink, wench, eat and celebrate the victory. Men staggered about drunkenly, draped in precious robes pillaged from the burning city. Women cowered and trembled—those that were not beaten or savaged into insensibility.
Fights broke out. Men quarreled over a goblet or a ring or, more often, a woman. Blood flowed and many Achaians who thought they were safe now that the war had ended learned that death could find them even in the midst of triumph.
Above it all rose the plume of black smoke that marked Troy’s funeral pyre. The whole city was blazing now, up on its bluff. Even from the beach we could see the flames soaring through the roofs of the citadel and temples.
It was nearly sunset by the time I arrived back where Odysseos’ boats were lying on the sand. My men were nowhere in sight, although Poletes was sitting there glumly by the cook fire, still with my armlet hung ridiculously around his scrawny neck.
“Have you seen Odysseos?” I asked as I took it from him and fitted it back on my bicep.
“He and the other kings have gone to Agamemnon’s cabin. To night the High King will offer solemn sacrifices of thanksgiving to the gods,” he said. “Many men and beasts will be slaughtered and the smoke of their pyres offered to heaven. Then Agamemnon will divide the major spoils.”
I looked past his sad, weatherbeaten face to the smoldering fire of the city, still glowing a sullen red against the darkening shadows of the evening sky.
“You will be a rich man before this night is over, Master Lukka,” said the old storyteller. “Agamemnon cannot help but give Odysseos a great share of the spoils and Odysseos will be generous with you—far more generous than the High King himself would be.”
I shook my head wearily. “All I want are my sons and my wife.”
He smiled bitterly. “Ah, but wait until Odysseos heaps gold and bronze upon you, tripods and cooking pots of precious iron. Then you will feel differently.”
There was no point arguing with him, so I said merely, “We’ll see.”
I decided to go to Agamemnon’s part of the camp and get Odysseos to ask that my family be returned to me. But before I could go more than a few steps Magro and the other four remaining men of my squad came staggering drunkenly across the sand toward me, followed by more than a dozen slaves tottering under loads of loot: fine blankets and boots, beautiful bows of bone and ivory, colorful robes. And behind them came a half-dozen women who huddled together, clinging to one another, staring at their captors with wide fearful eyes.
Magro halted his little pro cession when he saw me standing there, my fists on my hips.
“Is this what you’ve taken from the city?” I asked him.
He wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t stand at attention, although he weaved a little. “Yes sir. Do you want to pick your half now or later?”
It was customary for the leader of a squad to take his choice of half the spoils, then allow the men to divide the remainder among themselves.
I shook my head. “No. Divide it among yourselves.”
Magro gaped with astonishment. “All of it?”
“Yes. You’ve done well to stick together like this. To night Agamem non divides the major spoils. The Achaians may want a share of your booty.”
“We’ve already put aside the king’s share,” he said. “But your own …”
“You take it. I don’t want it.”
“Not even a woman or two?”
I scowled at him. “I’m going to find my wife, Magro. And my two sons.”
He nodded, but the expression on his face made it clear that he thought I was being foolish. And I realized that there was only one woman in the camp that I wanted: beautiful, forbidden Helen.
Shaking my head at my own madness, I left them there by the water’s edge and started again toward the part of the beach where Agamemnon’s boats rested on the sand.
Before I got halfway there I saw scores of slaves and
From the other side of the pyres Nestor led a band of priests decked in fine robes taken from Troy in a pro cession through the camp, followed by Agamemnon, Odysseos and all the other chiefs—all in their most splendid armor and carrying long glittering spears that seemed to me more ornamental than battle weapons.
“They are preparing to make their sacrificial offerings to the gods,” said Poletes. I hadn’t realized he had tagged along behind me until he spoke. His face looked solemn, gloomy.
“Then Agamemnon should be in a mood to reward me,” I said.
Poletes shrugged. “Who knows what mood the high and mighty king will be in?”
I watched as Nestor led the parade through the camp, singing hymns of praise to Zeus and the other immortals. The sacrificial victims were being assembled by the pyres: a whole herd of smelly goats and bulls and sheep, hundreds of them. Horses, too. They kicked up enough dust to blot out the sullen embers of burning Troy up on the bluff. Their bleatings and bellowings made a strange counterpoint to the chanting and singing of the Achaians.
Standing off to one side of them were the human sacrifices, every man over the age of twelve who had been captured alive, their hands tightly bound behind their backs, their ankles hobbled. I recognized the old courtier who had escorted me to Priam’s palace. The victims stood silently, grimly, knowing full well what awaited them but neither begging for mercy nor bewailing their fate. I suppose they each knew that nothing was going to alter their destiny.
Then I saw a different group, women and boys: slaves from the camp. They were going to be sacrificed, too, I realized. Agamemnon had no intention of bringing them back across the sea with him. Gold, yes. Fine robes and weapons and jewelry that would add to his treasury. But not the slaves he had kept at camp, except for the royal Trojan women.
I ran toward them, seeking Aniti and my sons. A cordon of Achaian guards surrounded them, armed with spears.
“My wife!” I shouted at the nearest one. “I’ve got to find my wife.”
Like any soldier, he bucked me to his commanding officer, a stumpy, thickset Achaian named Patros. He listened to me with some impatience and told me to get one of the High King’s servitors to bring an order releasing my wife and sons.
“Let me find them,” I pleaded. “Let me see them so they know I’ll save them.”
Patros looked me over. He was a grim-faced old veteran with a dark bushy beard and a no-nonsense attitude.
“I’ll hold your sword while you search,” he said.
Gladly I gave him my iron sword and plunged into the crowd of women and boys, shouldering through them, looking for Aniti.
At last I found her, sitting on the ground amid a sad, bedraggled group of other women, mostly older than she.
She looked surprised to see me. Scrambling to her feet, she said, “Lukka! You’re here!”
“Where are the boys?” I demanded.
