by Ben Bova
I made myself shrug. “A few days, perhaps less, perhaps longer.”
He bobbed his head up and down. “My inn is at your disposal, sir. Would you like to have one of my daughters tend to your children this day?”
“I think not. I want to see the city, and I know they’ll be curious about it also.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
I could see the thoughts running through his greedy mind. If I could pull a precious emerald ring out of my purse, what other treasures might I have in those boxes that we had carried up to my room? I realized that I couldn’t leave my room unguarded.
I detailed Hartu and Drako to stay at the inn and protect our goods. “Wear your swords,” I commanded them. “Let these busybodies see that you’re armed.”
They nodded blearily, their eyes bloodshot. I had to make an effort not to laugh at them. “You can stay in my room with the baggage and take turns napping. But wear your swords when you come out here.”
Then Helen came down, muffled in her royal-blue cloak. As if nothing had happened between us the previous day, she asked me, “Are we going to see the city?”
“We are,” I replied.
14
We made an odd pro cession as we walked through the streets of Ephesus: Helen, Poletes, my two children and I—plus Sukku, one of the Hatti soldiers we had picked up along our route from Troy.
Still muffled in her hooded cloak, Helen walked at my side. On my other side Poletes, strong enough now to walk, had tied a scarf of white silk across his useless eyes. He carried a walking stick, and was learning to tap out the ground ahead of him so that he could walk by himself. Still, he never strayed more than an arm’s length from me.
Lukkawi and Uhri ran ahead along the narrow, crooked streets, poking their heads into every doorway, chasing after every alley cat they saw, laughing and happy to be able to give free rein to their childish high spirits. Sukku plodded along behind them and never let them out of his sight.
Soon the streets widened into broad avenues paved with marble, which opened onto grand plazas flanked by gracious houses and shops bearing wares from Crete, Egypt, Babylon, even fabled India.
I saw only a few beggars on those avenues, although there were mimes and acrobats and other performers in each of the plazas, entertaining the people who, from their dress, seemed to come from the four corners of the world.
Ephesus was truly a city of culture and comfort, rich with marble temples and centers for healers to ply their craft and even a library that stored scrolls of knowledge. We walked slowly through the plazas and the growing throngs of people crowding into them. Then we came to the city’s central marketplace, and passed a knot of people gathered around an old man who was squatting on the marble paving blocks, weaving a spell of words, while his listeners tossed an occasional coin his way.
“A storyteller!” Poletes yelped.
“Not here,” I whispered to him.
“Let me stay and listen, Master Lukka,” he begged. “Please! I swear that I won’t speak a word.”
Reluctantly I allowed it. I thought I could trust Poletes’ word; it was his heart that I worried about. He was a storyteller, it was in his blood. How long could he remain silent when he had the grandest story of all time to tell to the crowd?
I decided to give him an hour to himself while Helen and I browsed through the shops and stalls of the marketplace. Even with Sukku watching after them, I kept an eye on little Uhri and Lukkawi; they kept disappearing into the crowds and then popping into sight again. Helen seemed delightedly happy to be fingering fine cloth and examining decorated pottery, bargaining with the shopkeepers and then walking on, buying nothing. I shrugged and followed her at a distance, my eyes always searching out my two boys.
The ground rumbled. A great gasping cry went up from the crowd in the marketplace. A few pots tottered off their shelves and smashed to the ground. The world seemed to sway giddily, sickeningly. In a few heartbeats the rumbling ceased and all returned to normal. For a moment the people were absolutely silent. Then a bird chirped and everyone began talking at once, with the kind of light fast banter that comes with a surge of relief from sudden terror.
My sons came running up to me, with Sukku trotting behind them, but by the time they were close enough to grasp my legs the tremor had ended. I assured them everything was all right.
Helen stared at me, her face white with apprehension.
“An earth tremor,” I said, trying to make my voice light, unafraid. “Natural enough in these parts.”
“Poseidon makes the earth shake,” she said in a near-whisper. But the color returned to her cheeks.
The marketplace quickly returned to normal. The crowd resumed its chatter. People bargained with merchants. My boys ran off to watch a puppet show. I could see Poletes across the great square of the market, standing at the edge of the crowd gathered around the squatting storyteller. His gnarled legs were almost as skinny as the stick he leaned upon.
“Lukka.”
I turned toward Helen. She was half-frowning at me the way a mother shows displeasure with a naughty son. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said,” she scolded.
“I’m sorry. My mind was elsewhere.”
“Watching over your boys.”
Nodding, I added, “And Poletes.”
Very patiently, Helen repeated, “I said that we could live here in Ephesus very nicely. This is a civilized city, Lukka. With the wealth we’ve brought we could buy a comfortable villa and live splendidly.”
“What about Egypt?”
She sighed. “It’s so far away. And traveling has been much more difficult than I thought it would be.”
“Perhaps we could get a boat and sail to Egypt,” I suggested. “That would be much swifter than travel overland.”
Her eyes brightened. “Of course! There are hundreds of boats in the harbor.”
I pulled Poletes away from the storyteller and we made our way to the harbor. Heavily laden boats lined the piers while bare-chested gangs of slaves unloaded their cargoes. The breeze off the sea carried the tang of salt air, although Poletes complained of the smell of fish. The boys ran up and down the piers, goggling at the boats, with their high masts and furled sails.
I saw that these merchant ships were different from the black-hulled boats the Achaians had used to cross the Aegean and reach Troy. They were broader in the beam and deeper of draft, built to carry cargo, not warriors; designed for commerce, not for war.
I began to ask about boats that carried passengers and talked with two different captains. Neither of them wanted to travel to Egypt.
“Too far,” said one of the grizzled seamasters. “And those Egyptian dogs make you pay a prince’s ransom just for the privilege of tying up at one of their stone docks.”
Disappointed, I was walking with Helen along one of the piers, searching for a willing captain, when suddenly Helen clutched at my arm.
“Look!” she cried, her eyes staring fearfully out to the water.
Gliding into the harbor were six war galleys, their paddles stroking the water in perfect rhythm. Each of them bore a red eagle’s silhouette on their sails.
“Menalaos!” Helen gasped.
“Or his men,” I said. “Either way, we can’t stay here. They’re searching for you.”
15
We fled Ephesus that night, sneaking away like thieves, leaving a very disappointed innkeeper who had looked forward to having us stay much longer.
As we rode into the hills and took the southward trail, I wondered if we could have appealed to the city’s council for protection. But fear of the armed might of the Achaians who had just destroyed Troy would have paralyzed the Ephesians, I realized. Their city had no protective walls and no real army, merely a city guard for keeping order in the bawdier districts. Ephesus depended on the goodwill of all for its safety. They would not allow Helen to stay in their city when Menalaos threatened to bring down the wrath of the Achaian host upon them.
; So we pushed on, through the growing heat of summer, bearing our booty from Troy. A strange group we were: the fugitive Queen of Sparta, a blind storyteller, a half-dozen professional soldiers from an empire that no longer existed, and two buzzing, chattering, endlessly energetic little boys.
We came to the city of Miletus. Here there were walls, strong ones, and a lively commercial city. I remembered my father telling me that he’d been to Miletus once, when the great emperor Hattusilis was angry with the city and brought his army to its gates. The Miletians were so frightened that they opened their gates and offered no resistance. They threw themselves upon the emperor’s mercy. And he was magnificent! He slew only the city’s leaders, the men who had displeased him, and forbade his soldiers to touch so much as an egg.
We bought fresh provisions and mounts in the city’s marketplace. From my own hazy knowledge of the area, and from the answers I received from local merchants, Miletus was the last big city on our route for some time. We planned to move inland, through the Mountains of the Bull and across the plain of Cilicia, then along the edge of the Mittani lands and down the coastline of Philistia and Canaan.
But the sounds and smells of another Aegean city were too much for Poletes. He came to me as we started to break our camp, just outside the city walls, and announced firmly that he would go no farther with us. He preferred to remain in Miletus.
“This is a city where I can tell my tales and earn my own bread,” he said to me. “I won’t burden you further, Master Lukka. Please, let me spend my final days singing of Troy and the mighty deeds that were done there.”
“You can’t stay by yourself, old windbag,” I insisted. “You have no house, no shelter of any kind. How will you find food?”
Poletes reached up for my shoulder as unerringly as if he could see. “Let me sit in a corner of the marketplace and tell the tale of Troy,” he said. “I will have food and wine and a soft bed before the sun goes down.”
“Is that what you truly want?”
“I have burdened you long enough, my master. Now let me take care of myself. Release me. You can travel faster without me.”
He stood there before me in the pale light of a gray morning, a clean white scarf over his eyes, a fresh tunic hanging over his scrawny frame. I learned that even blinded eyes can cry. So, almost, did I.
“No telling of Troy until we are safely away from the city,” I warned, trying to make my voice growl.
We embraced like brothers, and he turned without another word and walked slowly toward the city gate, tapping his stick before him.
I sent the others off on the inland road, telling them I would catch up later. I waited half the day, then entered the city. Leaving my horse with the guards at the gate, I made my way on foot to the marketplace. Poletes sat there cross-legged in the middle of a large and rapidly growing throng, his arms gesturing, his wheezing voice speaking slowly, majestically:
“Then mighty Achilles prayed to his mother, Thetis the Silver-Footed, ‘Mother, my lifetime is destined to be so brief that ever-living Zeus, sky-thunderer, owes me a worthier prize of glory …’ ”
I watched for only a few moments. That was enough. Men and women, boys and girls, were rushing up to join the crowd, their eyes fastened on Poletes like the eyes of a bird hypnotized by a snake. Rich merchants, soldiers in chain mail, women of fashion in their colorful robes, city magistrates carrying their wands of office—they all pressed close to hear Poletes’ words. Even the other storytellers, left alone once Poletes began singing of Troy, got up from their accustomed stones and ambled grudgingly across the marketplace to listen to the newcomer.
Poletes had been right, I had to admit. He had found his place. He would be fed and sheltered here, even honored. And as long as we were far away, he could sing of Troy and Helen all he wanted to.
I went back to the city gate; my horse was still there, tethered at a hitching rail with several others. I gave the corporal of the guards a few coppers, then climbed onto my chestnut mount and nosed her up the inland trail. I would never see Poletes again, and that made me feel the sadness of loss.
Time and distance will soften your sorrow, I told myself. You have two little boys to look after. And the fugitive Queen of Sparta.
It was evening by the time I caught up with our two carts and my men. Lukkawi and Uhri ran up to meet me, and I swung them up onto my horse, laughing at the sight of them. Helen sat in one of the carts, watching with eyes that never wavered from me.
We made camp by the roadside as the purple of evening deepened into night’s darkness. We had a long, long road ahead of us. Deserts and rivers and mountains stood between us and distant Egypt.
The campfire slowly guttered into embers. My boys went to sleep in one of the wagons; Helen had the other to herself. The men rolled themselves in their blankets while I sat by the dying fire, on watch.
The night was chill. A solitary wolf howled in the darkness while the sad, lopsided face of the moon rode high above among scudding clouds. Stars twinkled up in the black bowl of night, like the eyes of the gods watching me.
“Lukka.”
I was startled to hear her voice, and cursed myself for a fool for letting her steal up on me. Some guard!
Helen was wrapped in that dark robe again, although she had let the hood down. Her hair glowed like gold in the pale moonlight.
“I’m glad you returned,” she said, sitting beside me.
“You knew I would.”
“Still …” She let the thought hang in the air. At last she said, “I was afraid that maybe … something could have happened …”
“Nothing could keep me from my sons,” I said.
“Yes. Of course.”
There was something in her voice, a questioning, a seeking. She lapsed into silence, her chin down, her eyes avoiding mine.
I heard myself admit, “And nothing could keep me from you.”
“No,” she whispered, her face still downcast. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. I bring nothing but death and ruin. I’m cursed, Lukka, cursed by the gods.”
“The gods of Egypt will love you better.”
“But Egypt’s so far away. I thought we could stay in Ephesus, but he’s searching for me! He’s after me!”
“He won’t find you. He doesn’t know we were in Miletus.” But then I thought of Poletes spinning his tale in the marketplace. Menalaos will know we were there soon enough.
“I’m afraid, Lukka. I’m frightened!”
Without thinking, without worrying about the consequences, I took her by the shoulders and pulled her to me. She buried her face in my chest, sobbing like a child. She wasn’t the Queen of Sparta now, nor a princess of Troy. She was a frightened woman fleeing for her life, dependent on my protection. She was the most beautiful woman in the world and she was in my arms, trembling with fear, needing me as much as I wanted her.
I got to my feet and lifted her into my arms and carried her to the wagon. There, amid the blankets and bags and boxes we made love. Not in a palace, not amid royal trappings on a beautifully decked wedding bed. On a cart that smelled of donkeys and sweat and the dust of long, hard travel.
The stars peeked through the tattered clouds and Artemis’ silver moon sank down behind the western hills while Helen and I made love, all other thoughts, all other cares, driven from my mind completely.
But in the gray half-light that preceded true dawn, as Helen slept in my arms, I knew that I would cross deserts and rivers and mountains for this woman. That I would carry her to the ends of the earth to keep her safe, to protect her against the vengeful Menalaos.
Thus our journey from Miletus began.
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