The Hittite

by Ben Bova

  “May the gods protect you, Lukka,” Helen said to me as I pulled the door open.

  “And you, my lady,” I replied. I stepped through the doorway, feeling the glittering eyes of Helen’s servant on my back like a pair of daggers. The guard who had brought me to this chamber was still waiting outside to escort me back to the king’s audience hall.

  As the door swung shut behind me, I heard Helen telling her servant, “Apet, you will leave with Lukka and give my message to Menalaos. Speak to no one else. He will recognize you and know that you speak my words.”

  “But my nursling …” The older woman began, in a voice dry and harsh with age. The door closed, and I heard no more.

  And then it struck me. Helen had called me by my own name. All the others called me “Hittite” and nothing more. But she knew my name and used it.

  I marveled at that.

  21

  The gray-bearded courtier who had escorted me earlier was waiting for me in the audience hall, still in his ceremonial long green robe, when the guard and I got back there. Otherwise the columned chamber was empty, silent except for our footsteps padding softly on the stone floor.

  “The king and royal princes are deliberating on your message, Hittite,” the courtier told me, nearly whispering. “You are to wait.”

  He left and I waited, wondering how and when Helen’s servant would meet up with me. The guard went to the far door and stood there, immobile, except for his eyes watching me. I studied Priam’s throne. I had never seen the throne of the emperor back at Hattusas, but it could hardly be grander than this magnificent chair of midnight-black ebony and its filigreed inlays of gold, I thought. Troy is rich, that is clear. No wonder Agamemnon and the other Achaians want it.

  “Hittite.”

  I turned to see Hector approaching me. And berated myself for not being alert enough to hear his footsteps.

  “Prince Hector,” I said.

  “Come with me. We have an answer for Agamemnon.”

  I followed him into another part of the palace. As before, Hector wore only a simple tunic, almost bare of adornment. No weapons, except for the ornamental dagger. No jewelry. No proclamation of his rank. He carried his nobility in his person, and anyone who saw him instinctively knew that here was a man of merit and honor.

  Yet, as I matched him stride for stride through the palace’s maze of halls and chambers, I saw again that the war had taken its toll of him. His bearded face was deeply etched by lines around the mouth and eyes. His brow was creased and a permanent notch of worry had worn itself into the space between his eyebrows.

  We walked in tight silence to the far side of the palace and up a steep narrow stairway that was deep in gloomy darkness lit only by occasional slits of windows. Higher and higher we climbed the steep, circling stone steps, breathing hard, around and around the stairwell’s narrow confines until at last we squeezed through a low square doorway onto the platform at the top of Troy’s tallest tower.

  “Paris will join us shortly,” said Hector, walking over to the giant’s teeth of the battlements. It was almost noon, and hot in the glaring sun despite the stiff breeze from the sea that gusted at us and set Hector’s brown hair flowing.

  From this vantage I could see the Achaian camp, scores of long black boats drawn up on the beach behind the sandy rampart and trench. The Trojan forces were camped on the plain, tents and chariots dotting the worn-bare soil, cook fires sending up thin tendrils of smoke that were quickly blown away by the wind.

  Beyond the gentle waves rolling up onto the beach I saw an island near the horizon, a brown hump of a worn mountain, and beyond it another hovering ghostlike in the blue hazy distance.

  “Well, Brother, have you told him?”

  I turned and saw Paris striding briskly toward us. Unlike Hector, his tunic looked as soft as silk and he wore a handsome royal-blue cloak over it. A jeweled sword was at his hip and more jewels flashed on his fingers and at his throat. His hair and beard were carefully trimmed and gleamed with sweet-smelling oil. His face was unlined, though he seemed not that many years younger than his brother.

  “I was waiting for you,” said Hector.

  “Good! Then let me give him the news.”

  “Wait,” Hector said, raising one hand to hold back his brother. “I have a question to ask this man.”

  I thought I knew what he was going to ask me.

  Sure enough, Hector fixed me with a stern gaze and said, “You say you are a Hittite.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “A soldier of the emperor?”

  I nodded mutely.

  “Is your emperor sending troops to aid us? We asked for help many moons ago. Are you the first contingent to arrive here?”

  “And if you are,” Paris interrupted sharply, “what are you doing in the Achaian camp? Fighting against us? Claiming to be of Odysseos’ House of Ithaca?”

  I kept my eyes focused on Hector. “My lord, the emperor of the Hatti is not sending troops to help you. He cannot even help himself. He is dead, murdered. The empire is racked by civil war. I brought my squad of men here seeking my wife and sons.”

  Hector studied my face for long moments, as if trying to determine if I was telling the truth or not. I looked back into his steady brown eyes.

  At last he murmured, “We’ll get no help from the Hittites, then.”

  “So much for being the western bulwark of their empire,” Paris sneered. “When we need them, they have no strength to help us.”

  Shaking his head, Hector said to his brother, “It changes nothing. At least the Hittites aren’t coming to fight against us.”

  Paris looked surprised at that idea.

  “Very well,” Hector said, with a tired sigh, “give him our father’s reply.”

  Smiling nastily, Paris said to me, “You may tell fat Agamemnon that King Priam rejects his pathetic offer. Moreover, by this time tomorrow our chariots will be riding through his camp, burning his boats and slaying his white-livered Achaians until nothing is left but ashes and bones. Our dogs will feast well tomorrow night.”

  I kept my face frozen, impassive.

  Hector made the tiniest shake of his head, then laid a restraining hand on his brother’s blue-cloaked shoulder. “Our father is not feeling well enough to see you again, Hittite. And although my brother’s hot words may seem insulting, the answer that we have for Agamemnon is that we reject his offer of peace.”

  “And any offer that includes returning my wife to the barbarian!” Paris snapped.

  “Then we will have war again tomorrow,” I said.

  “Indeed we will,” said Paris.

  I asked, “Do you really think you are strong enough to break through the Achaian defenses and burn their fleet?”

  “The gods will decide,” Hector said calmly.

  “In our favor,” added Paris.

  22

  Hector gave me a four-man guard of honor to escort me out of the same gate that I had entered the night before. And Apet was standing at the gate waiting for me in her hooded black robe. Still as silent a Death, she fell in with my escort as we passed through the walls of Troy. The guards took no notice of her; it was as if she were invisible them.

  They called it the Scaean Gate, and I learned that it was the largest of four gates to the city. In the daylight I could see the massive walls of Troy close-up. Almost I could believe that gods had helped to build them. Immense blocks of stone were wedged together to a height some five times more than the tallest man. High square towers surmounted the walls at each gate and at the corners. The walls sloped outward, so that they were thickest at ground level.

  Since the city was built on the bluff overlooking the plain of Ilios, an attacking army would have to fight its way uphill before ever reaching the walls.

  I returned to the Achaian camp to find old Poletes waiting at the makeshift gate for me.

  “Who is this?” he asked, staring at Apet.

  “A messenger from Helen,” I replied.
/>   Poletes’ eyes brightened. “What news does she bring?”

  “Nothing good,” I said. “There will be battle tomorrow.”

  Poletes’ skinny shoulders slumped beneath his threadbare tunic. “The fools. The bloody fools.”

  “Where are my men?” I asked.

  With a gesture, he replied, “At the Ithacans’ camp, by the boats.”

  I nodded, then headed for Odysseos, with Poletes skipping beside me, his knobby legs working overtime to keep pace with me, and Apet plodding along after us. All through the camp men were busily sharpening swords, repairing battered shields, wrapping wounds with fresh strips of cloth soaked in olive oil. Soldiers and noblemen alike stared at us, reading in my grim face the news I carried from Troy. The women looked, too, then turned away, knowing that tomorrow would bring more blood and carnage and terror. Most of the slaves were natives of this land and hoped to be freed from their bondage by the Trojan soldiery. But they knew, I think, that in the frenzy and bloodlust of battle their chances of being raped and put to the sword were much more likely than their chances of being rescued and returned to their rightful house holds.

  I had to find my wife and sons before tomorrow’s battle, I knew. I had to get Odysseos to fulfill his promise to me.

  Once we reached my men, hard by Odysseos’ boats, I instructed Poletes, “Take care of this woman. She bears a message for Menalaos from Helen.”

  He nodded agreement and I left them with my men while I went to Odysseos’ boat to deliver my news.

  There was only one guard on the deck, and he didn’t even have a spear. He was sitting on the boat’s gunwale, honing his sword with a whetstone.

  “The king?” he replied when I asked for Odysseos. Pointing to the sea, he told me, “He’s out there with the dolphins, Hittite. Every morning he swims in the sea.”

  I followed his outstretched arm and saw Odysseos moving purposefully through the waves, his arms swinging up rhythmically, his bearded face turning upward for a gulp of air and then sliding down into the water once more. I had never seen a man swimming before; it looked strange, unnatural.

  But when Odysseos clambered back onto the deck, naked and dripping, he was smiling and invigorated. Servants appeared with towels and clothing in their arms.

  “Hittite,” he said as he rubbed himself briskly with one of the rough towels. “You delivered my message to Prince Hector?”

  “I did, sire. He had me repeat it to Priam and his court.”

  Odysseos dismissed his servants to hear my report. Sitting on a threelegged stool, he rested his back against the boat’s only mast. The musty canvas that had served as a tent when it had been raining was folded back now that the hot sun was shining, but his bearded face was as dark and foreboding as any storm cloud when I told him that Priam and his sons rejected the Achaian peace terms.

  “They offered no counter terms?” he asked.

  “None, my lord. Paris said he would never surrender Helen under any circumstances.”

  “Nothing else?”

  I hesitated, then said, “Helen has sent one of her maidservants with me to give a message to Menalaos. She says that she will return with him to Sparta only if he conquers Troy and she has no other choice.”

  Almost smiling, Odysseos said, “If he conquers Troy. Agamemnon would be very surprised to hear that.”

  I added, “Hector and Paris seemed quite certain that tomorrow they will break into this camp and burn the boats.”

  Odysseos tugged at his beard, muttering, “They know they have the upper hand.”

  I looked out across the rows of beached boats. Each of them had its mast in place and its sail furled, ready to be opened at a word of command. The crews were making ready to sail, I realized. The day before, most of the masts had been down.

  Finally, Odysseos rose to his feet and called for his servants to dress him. “You will come with me, Hittite,” he said urgently. “Agamemnon must hear of this.”

  “My lord, you said that you would return my wife and sons from the High King to me. I want to take them to a place of safety before tomorrow’s battle starts.”

  Odysseos almost laughed at me. “A place of safety? Where?”

  I had no answer.

  “No, Hittite,” he said as two women brought him a clean tunic and sandals. “I’m going to need you and your men behind me tomorrow. We’ll talk of your family after the battle.” Then he added, “If we still live.”

  Odysseos bade me wait until Agamemnon called a meeting of his council to discuss the news I brought. I asked him to allow me to bring Apet to Menalaos’ hut but he said only, “After the council meeting.”

  So I waited with my men—and Helen’s maidservant—by our campfire while the slave women prepared the midday meal. My mind was in turmoil. My wife and sons were in Agamemnon’s part of the camp. I had to see them, had to find out for myself if they were alive.

  I found myself walking through the camp, ignoring the men sitting around their cook fires spearing meat from their steaming kettles. Perhaps somehow I could get my family away from the High King’s men and bring them here to Odysseos’ camp, under my protection. If they still lived, after all these months. If they still lived.

  How can I get them away from Agamemnon’s men? I wondered. I had no answer. Of course, discipline in the camp was practically nonexistent. These Achaians seemed to have no idea of military authority, no concept of correct order. Perhaps I could bluff my way through what ever guards I encountered.

  Soon enough I came to the boats with Agamemnon’s golden lions painted on their prows. Several plank huts had been built here and the area teemed with men in armor and slaves in rags.

  No one stopped me or even seemed to notice a stranger in their midst. I still wore the leather harness and iron-studded jerkin of the Hatti. I had left my spear and shield back at Odysseos’ camp, but my iron sword was strapped to my side and my helmet tied tight on my head. As elsewhere in the camp, most of the men were circled around the cook fires, jabbing at their midday meat. I saw dozens of women serving them, but not my Aniti.

  A pair of men stood lounging in front of one of the black-hulled boats, leaning on their long spears and gesticulating with their free hands as they talked animatedly together. The Achaian version of guards, I thought.

  They abruptly stopped their conversation as I approached them and stared questioningly at me.

  Before they could ask, I said, “I am Lukka, the Hittite.”

  Both of them were almost a full hand shorter than I, their skins dark, their beards shaggy, their heads bare.

  “You’re the one who stopped Hector yesterday,” said one of them. He had a scar across his forehead.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m looking for a woman—”

  “Who isn’t?” the other one joked.

  “My wife,” I said.

  Their heavy brows went up.

  “She’s a Hittite. Pale skin. Almost as tall as I am. Her hair is lighter than yours. Her name is Aniti.”

  Recognition dawned in their eyes. “Oh. You mean the whore.”

  23

  I must have blinked with shock. Without conscious decision, my hand shot out and I grabbed the Achaian by the front of his tunic.

  “What did you say?”

  His eyes widened. I saw his companion grip his spear with both hands.

  “The Hittite woman,” sputtered the man I was holding in my fist. “She … she’s a …”

  “Don’t start trouble, Hittite,” said the other one, hefting his spear.

  “She’s my wife,” I snapped.

  The one I held pointed with a shaking finger. “She’s probably back there, beside the boat.”

  “Aniti, the Hittite,” the other one said.

  I let go of the man and strode past them, toward the nearest boat. Raging fury burned inside me. A whore? My wife, a whore? Bad enough to be a slave, a captive who has no choice but to obey her master. But a whore? To willingly give herself to men for gain? I was infuriate
d enough to kill. I saw nothing either to my right or left, only the boat with a group of raggedly clad women huddled under its curving prow.

  And in their midst, two little boys playing in the sand. My sons!

  I rushed up to them. The women scattered, the boys looked up with sudden fear in their faces. They looked all right otherwise, unharmed, unmarked, faces dirty and perhaps thinner than other children I’d seen, but certainly not starving, not injured.

  They bolted and ran away from me, wailing. Into the arms of their mother.

  Aniti dropped to her knees and scooped them up in her arms. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “What’s—”

  Then she looked up and saw me.

  “Lukka,” she gasped.

  “Aniti.”

  She got to her feet slowly. The boys hid behind the skirt of her filthy chemise. She looked somewhat heavier than I remembered her, her face smeared with grime, her eyes staring disbelievingly.

  “I …” she seemed stunned with surprise. And fear. And shame, I thought. “You’re here.”

  “I came from Hattusas to find you and my sons.”

  “All that way …”

  “You …” I felt just as tongue-tied as she. “They made you a slave.”

  She nodded bleakly. “And worse.”

  “A whore?”

  “To protect the babies. When the slavers attacked our caravan, I did what I had to do to protect them.”

  “A whore?” I repeated, miserable in every bone of my body. The anger was gone; I felt ashamed, humiliated.

  Aniti’s face hardened. “How do you think I kept them alive? All the way from Hattusas to here. How do you think I kept the slavers and these dogs of barbarians from spitting your sons on their spears?”

  I couldn’t find words. There was nothing to say.

  “You didn’t protect me!” she snapped, her voice rising. “Your fine army and all the emperor’s men didn’t protect me! Or your sons! I had to do it the only way I could, the only way you men would allow!”