“The boys? What of me? They’re going to kill me!”
“I’ll get them to release you. Where are my sons?”
“Back at Agamemnon’s boats. I left them with one of his serving women.”
“Good.” I turned and started toward the guards ringing the victims.
Aniti grabbed at my arm with both hands, sinking her nails into my flesh. “Wait! Take me with you!”
“The guards won’t let you pass.”
She was suddenly frantic. “Take me with you! Don’t leave me! They’ll kill me!”
Other women began to crowd around us, each of them pleading, beseeching. I swatted the nearest with a backhand that knocked her to the sand and the others cringed backward.
To Aniti I said, “I’ll be back with one of the High King’s men. I’ll get them to free you.”
“No!” she screamed. “Don’t leave me here!”
Pulling free of her, I repeated, “I’ll be back in time to free you.”
At that instant one of the pyres lit up with a roar. Flames shot skyward. I could feel the blast of heat on my face.
Aniti sank to the ground, sobbing. “Don’t leave me, Lukka. Please, please, take me with you.”
I knew it was fruitless, but I bent down and lifted her to her feet. “Come on, then,” I said, as gently as I could.
Several of the other women followed behind us. Sure enough, Patros, still holding my iron sword, stopped us.
“You can go, Hittite. She cannot.”
Two of his spearmen moved toward us. One of them jabbed the butt of his spear at the crowd of women that was gathering behind us and they gave way.
“This one is my wife,” I said to Patros.
He shook his head. “Orders. The sacrificial offerings are to stay here until the priests come for them.”
Aniti seemed frozen with shock. She stood at my side, eyes wide, mouth half open, clutching my arm.
I said to Patros, “You can keep my iron sword. Just let me take my wife with me.”
He was a decent enough man. He knew he couldn’t back down from his orders, not even for a sword of iron. But he sent one of his spearmen to find a priest. I waited impatiently. I could see that Aniti was trembling, her eyes darting everywhere, panting with fear.
The spearman brought a priest, a young, apple-shaped fellow with smooth cheeks and oiled locks hanging down to his shoulders. His robe of sea-green was richly embroidered with gold thread: spoils from Troy, I reckoned.
Before Patros could say a word, I fixed the chubby young priest with my sternest glare. “This woman is my wife. I am a Hittite and so is she. She was included in the sacrifice by mistake. I’m taking her with me.”
He looked shocked. “Take one of the victims intended for the gods? Sacrilege! Be off with you!”
“The High King was to return her to me,” I insisted. “She’s here among the victims by mistake.”
“The gods don’t make mistakes,” he answered smugly. “You must accept their judgment.”
My hands clenched at my sides. I held my temper, but just barely. No sense starting a brawl when my sword was in the hands of the guard and he had a pair of spearmen backing him.
“I’ll be back with the king’s messenger,” I said to the priest. “If anything happens to my wife I’ll hold you responsible.”
The flames of the pyre cast flickering red highlights across his bloated face. “I serve the gods,” he said, his voice quavering slightly. “What happens is their doing, not mine.”
“And I’ll serve you on a spit if my wife isn’t here and unharmed when I return.”
With that I grabbed my sword out of Patros’ hand and headed off for Agamemnon’s cabin.
Aniti wailed, “Lukka, wait! Take me with you!”
I lowered my head and broke into a trot. There was no time to waste.
The second pyre burst into flame, and the ritual slaughter began. First came the animals, from a few doves to raging, bellowing bulls that thrashed madly even though their hooves were firmly lashed together, arching their backs and tossing their heads until the priest’s ritual stone ax cut through their throats with showers of hot blood. Horses, sheep, goats, all were being led to the sacrificial altars.
As the sun went down the pyres blazed across the darkening beach, sending up smoke to the heavens that the Achaians thought was pleasing to their gods. Before long the priests were covered with blood and the camp stank of entrails and excrement.
2
I reached Agamemnon’s boats. It seemed that the whole camp was gathering there. The spoils of Troy had been piled into a gigantic heap, gleaming and glittering in the fires of the pyres. Hundreds of captives were now being marched toward the altars that had been built by the pyres, guarded by solemn-faced warriors.
Agamemnon was sitting on a beautifully carved chair that had been pillaged from the city, up atop a makeshift platform that served as a rough sort of throne. He had already started to divide the spoils, so much for each chieftain, starting with white-bearded old Nestor.
The Achaian nobles were crowding around, greed and envy shining in their eyes. I searched for Odysseos and saw him standing off to one side of Agamemnon’s impromptu throne.
As I made my way toward the King of Ithaca, Agamemnon parceled out bronze armor and weapons, gold ornaments, beautiful urns and vases, porphyry and onyx, glittering jewels; kitchen implements of copper, iron tripods and cooking pots; robes, silks, blankets, tapestries—and women, young boys and girls. I thought of my sons. Were they safe? Would the High King hand them over to one of his heroes?
Half of everything Agamemnon kept for himself: the High King’s prerogative. But as I pushed past some of the chieftains and nobles I heard them complain about his tightfisted ways.
“He’s got the generosity of a dung beetle,” grumbled one grizzled old warrior.
“He knows we did the hardest fighting, up on the wall,” said an Ithacan. “And what do we get for it? Less than his wine steward.”
“Those women should have been ours, I tell you. The fat king is too greedy.”
“What can you do? He takes what he wants and we get his leavings.”
I thought that even Odysseos looked less than pleased as I neared him. The pyres lit his darkly bearded face with flickering lurid red.
I went around behind the assembled kings. A ragged line of guards in armor stood there, leaning on their spears. The Ithacans recognized me and let me through. I came up behind Odysseos and called softly, “My lord Odysseos.”
He twitched with surprise and turned to face me. “Hittite, what are you doing here?”
“My wife has been placed among the sacrificial victims.”
He frowned at me. “I can’t get Agamemnon’s attention now. Later, after the spoils have been meted out.”
“But that will be too late! They’ve already started slaughtering the human sacrifices.”
Odysseos glanced at Agamemnon, glorying in his conquest atop his makeshift throne. Then he pulled off the copper band from his wrist. It was studded with glittering jewels. Handing it to me, he said, “Find a priest, show him this and tell him that the King of Ithaca commands him to release your wife.”
It was as much as he would do, I realized. I thanked him and sprinted away to search for a priest. In the back of my mind I wondered if my sons were truly safe, but I knew that Aniti was in imminent danger.
It was maddening. The boys must be nearby, I thought. But I had no time to search for them. I pushed through the men crowded around Agamemnon and the pile of spoils, looking for a priest. They were all gathered at the altars that had been set up next to the three pyres, where guards were dragging old men and boys to their deaths.
I raced to the nearest altar, so close to the blazing pyre that the heat of the flames felt like an oven. A lad of ten or eleven was struggling madly as a pair of guards hauled him twisting and screaming to the waist-high stone
