time, I realized, as we made our way through the confused jumble of the camp. Men were gathering around cook fires; pale smoke wafted away on the wind. Dirty-faced slave women in rags stirred big pots of bronze while men sat close by, cleaning weapons, binding fresh wounds, jabbing daggers into the pots to yank out steaming half- cooked chunks of meat. The noise of men shouting back and forth and beasts yowling was enough to make my head hurt; the stench of dung and animals and smoke hung in the air like a palpable cloud.
There were plenty of women in the camp: slaves tending their masters’ cook fires, carrying heavy double- handled jugs of wine on their shoulders, polishing armor with the resigned, hopeless patience that slavery teaches.
As instructed, Poletes marched us to the camp of Agamemnon, High King among the Achaians. The old man pointed out the two dozen boats that Agamemnon had brought to Troy, all pulled far up on the sandy beach, side by side, each decorated with a golden lion painted on its prow. Agamemnon’s quarters was the largest wooden lodge I had yet seen, its main door guarded by no less than six armed warriors in shining bronze armor and helmets.
Poletes spoke to one of the guards, who walked off into the lengthening shadows of the noisy, busy camp.
“How long has this war been going on?” I asked Poletes.
Clutching his thin arms over his bare chest to try to ward off the growing cold, Poletes told me, “For years, now. Of course, much of that time has been spent raiding the villages and farms nearby. It took awhile for these mighty warriors to work up the courage to attack Troy itself.”
“The slave market …” I started to say.
But Poletes ignored me as he continued, “The city’s walls were built by Poseidon and Apollo, they say. No one can breach them. Yet Agamemnon and the other kings are determined to continue their siege until—”
“You there!” a haughty voice stopped Poletes as if his tongue had been ripped out.
I turned and saw a sour-faced man approaching us, with the guard Poletes had spoken to trailing a few paces behind him. The man wore no armor, but his straight back and sharp tone told me he was accustomed to giving orders. Even in a rough wool chiton he looked like a soldier.
Ignoring Poletes, he marched straight up to me, looked me up and down, then cast a baleful glance at my men.
“I am Thersandros, captain of the High King’s guards. Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded of me.
My men snapped to attention, spears erect. I, too, straightened the spear in my hand and answered, “I am Lukka, commander of this squad of Hatti troops. I want to offer my services to your king.”
The corner of his mouth ticked once. I could see there was gray in his thick beard and shaggy hair.
“Offer your services to the king, eh? More likely you’re looking for a free meal.”
“We are trained Hatti soldiers,” I said evenly. “We can be of great help to your king.”
He planted his fists on his hips. “A dozen more mouths to feed, that’s all I see here.”
I drew myself up to my full height, several fingers taller than he. “Are you going to announce our presence to your High King or not?”
He tried to outstare me, but soon blinked and looked away. “To the High King? You must be mad. I’ll tell his chief steward, he’s the one who’s always sending boats back to Argos for more warriors.”
“Fair enough,” I said, deciding to accept his decision.
“You,
Poletes turned to me, his big frog’s eyes silently begging, like a sorrowful puppy.
“He’s with me,” I heard myself say, even as I thought it was foolish to be so softhearted. A Hatti soldier should be made of sterner stuff.
“Him?” Thersandros guffawed. “He’s nothing but a worthless
“He’s my servant,” I said evenly.
“You can’t—”
“He’s my servant,” I repeated, with more iron in it.
Thersandros shrugged and muttered, “Suit yourself, then. Find yourselves a fire for the night. Over there will do.” He pointed to a handful of men sprawled around one of the cook fires. “Tell them Thersandros said they should share what they can with you.”
I tried to hold back the anger that rose in me. Sending a pack of strangers to soldiers already huddling by their evening fire and ordering them to “share what they can” is an excellent way to start a fight.
Yet even as I stood before Thersandros, struggling to keep my temper, my eye chanced on the line of women who were carrying food and drink into Agamemnon’s cabin.
They were slaves, I knew. Most of them were young and slim, some were even pretty.
The third one in the line was my wife.
8
I started to call out to her, but she disappeared into the cabin before I could gather my wits and utter a sound. I started toward the lodge, but Thersandros grabbed my arm.
“You can’t go in there!” he snapped, frowning at me. “That’s the High King’s quarters.”
“That woman is my wife,” I said.
His frown changed into a look of sheer disbelief. “Those are slaves, Hittite. The High King’s slaves, at that.”
I pulled free of his grip. “She’s my wife,” I insisted.
Thersandros pointed to the guards in polished bronze armor standing on either side of the hut’s doorway. “They’ll spit you on your spears if you try to go in there.”
“Then you go in and bring her out to me.”
“Me?” He broke into a bitter, barking laugh. “The High King doesn’t give up his slaves, Hittite. Not to me and certainly not to the likes of you.”
He dragged me away from the cabin, back toward my men. “I’ll ask about her for you,” he said, grudgingly. “Don’t expect a miracle.”
My blood was hot. I gripped the pummel of my sword, thinking that I could slice this Thersandros’ liver out of him before he knew what hit him. Then, with my squad of men, I could break past those guards and take my wife out of Agamemnon’s lodge, out of slavery.
And then what? I asked myself. Twelve men against the whole Achaian camp? Madness. And where were my sons? What would happen to them if I started a brawl here in the camp? How could I save them, protect them, if I were killed battling like a hotheaded fool?
So I forced myself to remain silent, to walk slowly away from Thersandros and back toward my waiting men, seething with rage, trembling with the effort to control myself.
Aniti is alive, I told myself. A slave, but still alive. Where are my sons? I wondered. A bitter voice in my mind answered. Already dead, most likely. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to silence that voice.
Poletes broke my train of thoughts. Pointing to the Achaians gathering around their fire, he said, “Let’s get something to eat before everything’s gone. My stomach is as shriveled as a dried prune.”
As boldly as a free man he walked up to the knobby-kneed Achaian standing by the cook pot and said loudly, “Thersandros says that you must share what you have with these men.”
The Achaian didn’t hesitate an instant. He cuffed Poletes with a backhand swat that sent the old storyteller sprawling.
I stepped up to him, Zarton’s spear still in my hand. “This man is my servant. What you do to him you do to me.”
With my free hand I hauled Poletes to his feet. His lip was cracked and bleeding.
The Achaian eyed me up and down, took note of my spear and the sword at my hip, the shield strapped to my back, my travel-stained leather jerkin and iron helmet. He wore only a ragged wool chiton, belted at the waist. His hair and beard were dark and thickly curled, matted with sweat and grime. His bare arms and legs were lean
