The Hittite

“I wonder what Clytemnestra will do when her brave and noble husband comes home?” Poletes went on. “I wonder if her bed is high enough off the ground to hide all her lovers?”

Men rolled on the ground with laughter. Tears flowed. I started to push my way through the crowd to get him.

Too late. A dozen armed men tramped in. Poletes’ audience scrambled out of their way like leaves blown by the wind. I recognized Menalaos at their head.

“Storyteller!” he roared. “The High King wants to hear what you have to say. Let’s see if your scurrilous tales can make him laugh.”

Poletes’ eyes went wide with sudden fear. “But I only—”

Two of the armed soldiers grabbed him under his armpits and hauled him to his feet.

“Come along,” said Menalaos.

I stepped in front of them. “This man is my servant. I will deal with him.”

Before Menalaos could reply, Nestor bustled up. “The High King has demanded to see this teller of tales. No one can interfere!” It was the shortest speech I had ever heard the old man make.

With a grim shrug, Menalaos headed off toward Agamemnon, his guards dragging Poletes after him, followed by Nestor, me and many of the men who had been rollicking at the storyteller’s gibes.

Agamemnon still sat on his slightly tilted throne, fat, flushed with wine, flanked by the treasures of Troy. His chubby fingers gripped the arms of his chair as he watched Poletes being hauled before him. Jeweled rings glittered in the firelight on each finger and both his thumbs.

The old storyteller sagged to his knees, trembling before the High King, who glared down at his skinny, shabby presence.

“You have been telling lies about me,” Agamemnon snarled.

Somehow Poletes found enough courage to lift his chin and face the High King. “Not so, your royal highness. I am a professional storyteller. I do not tell lies, I speak only of what I see with my own eyes and hear with my own ears.”

“You speak filthy lies!” Agamemnon bellowed. “About me! About my wife!”

“If your wife were an honest woman, sire, I would not be here at all. I’d be in the marketplace at Argos, telling stories to the people, as I should be.”

“I’ll listen to no calumnies about my wife,” Agamemnon warned.

But Poletes, still on his knees, insisted, “The High King is supposed to be the highest judge in the land, the fairest and the most impartial. Everyone knows what is going on in Mycenae—ask anyone. Your own captive Cassandra, a princess of Troy, has prophesied—”

“Silence!” roared the High King.

“How can you silence the truth, son of Atreos? How can you turn back the destiny that fate has chosen for you?”

Now Agamemnon trembled, with anger. He hauled himself up from his chair and stepped down to the ground before Poletes.

“Hold him!” he commanded, drawing out a jeweled dagger from his belt.

Two of Menalaos’ men gripped Poletes’ frail arms.

“I can silence you, magpie, by separating you from your lying tongue.”

“Wait!” I shouted, pushing my way toward them.

Agamemnon looked up as I approached, his piggish little eyes suddenly surprised, almost fearful.

“This man is my servant,” I said. “I will punish him.”

“Very well then,” said Agamemnon, pointing his dagger toward the iron sword at my side. “You take out his tongue.”

I shook my head. “That’s too cruel a punishment for a few joking words.”

“You refuse me?”

“The man’s a storyteller,” I pleaded. “If you take out his tongue you condemn him to starvation or slavery.”

Slowly, Agamemnon’s flushed, heavy features arranged themselves into a smile. It was not a joyful one.

“A storyteller, is he?” He turned to Poletes, who knelt like a sagging sack of rags in the grip of the two burly soldiers. “You only speak of what you see and what you hear, you claim. Very well. You will see and hear nothing! Ever again.”

My guts churned as I realized what Agamemnon intended to do. I reached for my sword, only to find ten spears surrounding me, aimed at my body.

A hand clasped my shoulder. It was Odysseos, his face grave. “Be still, Hittite. The storyteller must be punished. No sense getting yourself killed over a servant.”

Poletes was staring at me, his eyes begging me to do something. I tried to move toward him, but Menalaos’ men jabbed their spear points against my leather jerkin.

“Helen has told me how you protected her during the sack of the temple,” Odysseos said, low in my ear. “She owes you a debt of gratitude. Don’t force me to repay it with your blood.”

“Then do something, say something,” I begged. “Please. Try to soothe the High King’s anger.”

Odysseos merely shook his head. “It will be all over before I could speak a word. Look.”

Nestor himself carried a glowing brand from one of the dying pyres, a wicked, perverse smile on his wrinkled face. Agamemnon took it from him as the soldiers yanked Poletes’ arms back and one of them jammed a knee against his spine. Agamemnon grabbed the old storyteller by his lank hair and pulled his head back. Again I felt the spear points jabbing against me.

“Wander through the world in darkness, cowardly teller of lies,” said the High King.

Poletes shrieked in agony as Agamemnon burned out first his left eye and then his right. The old man fainted. The smile of a sadistic madman still twisting his thick lips, Agamemnon tossed the brand away, took out his dagger again, and sliced the ears off the unconscious old man’s head.

The soldiers dropped Poletes’ limp body to the sand as the High King tossed the severed ears to the dogs scrambling behind his makeshift throne.

“Well done, Brother,” said Menalaos, with a nasty laugh.

Agamemnon looked up and called out in his loudest voice, “So comes justice to anyone who maligns the truth!” Then he turned, smirking, to me. “You can take your servant back now.”

The soldiers around me stepped back, but still held their spears leveled, ready to kill me if I moved on their king.

I looked down at Poletes’ bleeding form, then up to the High King.

“I heard Cassandra’s prophecy,” I told him. “She is never believed, but she is never wrong.”

Agamemnon’s half-demented sneer vanished. He glared at me. For a long wavering moment I thought he would command the soldiers to kill me on the spot.

But then I heard Magro’s voice calling from a little way behind me. “Lukka, are you all right? Do you need help?”

The soldiers turned their gaze toward his voice. I saw that Magro had brought my entire contingent with him. There were only five of them, but they were Hatti soldiers, fully armed with spears and shields and iron swords.

“He needs no help,” Agamemnon answered, “except to carry away the slave I have punished.”

With that he turned away and started tottering back toward his cabin, up the beach, his dogs following him. The soldiers seemed to breath one great sigh of relief and let their spears drop away from me.

I went to Poletes and picked up his bleeding, wimpering body. As we started back toward our own part of the camp, I asked Magro, “My sons?”

“Safe with Odysseos’ women. I thought you might want us to back you.”

I nodded, too angry and relieved and filled with disgust to speak. But after a half-dozen steps, I told Magro, “We leave camp tomorrow.” “Tomorrow?”

“I want to leave this damned place and all its blood far behind us.” “But where are we going?” Magro asked. I had no answer.