by Ben Bova
As we walked back to the boat on which Odysseus kept his own quarters, I explained to him that there was no Hatti army marching to the relief of Troy, telling him what Arza and Lukka had told me about the death of the old High King and the civil war that was tearing the Hatti empire to pieces.
Stroking his beard thoughtfully, Odysseus murmured, “I thought that the High King was losing his power when he agreed to allow Agamemnon to settle his quarrel against Priam. Always in the past the Hatti have protected Troy and marched against anyone who threatened the region.”
I saw to it that my Hatti soldiers were fed and given tenting and bedding for the coming night. They sat in a circle around their own fire, not mixing with the Achaians. For their part, the Ithacans and others of the camp looked on the Hatti with no little awe. They especially ogled their uniform outfits of chain mail and tooled leather. No two Achaians dressed the same or carried the same equipment. To see forty-some men outfitted alike was a novelty to them.
To my surprise, the Achaians did not seem impressed or even interested in the iron swords that the Hatti carried. I myself bore the blade that Arza had carried; I had seen firsthand how much tougher the iron blade was than a bronze one.
As the sun was setting, turning the sea to a deep wine red, Lukka approached me. I was sitting apart from the men, taking my supper with Poletes by my side. Lukka stopped on the other side of our little cook fire, nervously fingering the straps of his harness, his face contorted into a deep scowl. I thought he had come to complain about the Myrmidones’s lamentations; I couldn’t blame him for that, even though there was nothing I could do about it.
There was no other chair for him to sit on, so I got to my feet and beckoned for him to come to me.
“My lord Orion,” he began, “may I speak to you frankly?”
“Of course. Speak your mind, Lukka. I want no thoughts hidden away where they can cause misunderstandings between us.”
He puffed out a pent-up sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir.”
“What is it, then?”
“Well, sir… what kind of a siege is this?” He was almost indignant. “The army sits here in camp, eating and drinking, while the people in the city open their gates and go to gather food and firewood. I don’t see any engines for battering down the gates or surmounting the city walls. This isn’t a proper siege at all!”
I smiled at him. Patrokles’s funeral lamentations had nothing to do with what was bothering him. He was a professional soldier, and the antics of amateurs irked him.
“Lukka,” I said, “these Achaians are not very sophisticated in the arts of warfare. Tomorrow you will see two men fight each other from chariots, and that may well settle the whole issue of this war.”
He shook his head. “Not likely. The Trojans won’t let these barbarians inside their walls willingly. I don’t care how many champions fall.”
“You may be right,” I agreed.
“Look now.” He pointed at the city up on the bluff, bathed in reddish gold by the setting sun. “See that course of wall, the stretch where it is lower than the rest?”
It was the western side of the city, where the garrulous courtier had admitted that the defenses were weaker.
“My men can build siege towers and wheel them up to that part of the wall, so the Achaian warriors could step from their topmost platforms right onto the battlements.”
“Wouldn’t the Trojans try to destroy the towers as they approached their wall?”
“With what?” he sneered. “Spears? Arrows? Even if they shoot flaming arrows at them, we’ll have them covered with wetted horsehides.”
“But they’ll be able to concentrate all their men at that one point and beat you off.”
He scratched at his thick black beard. “Maybe so. Usually we try to attack two or three spots along a wall at the same time. Or create some other diversions that keep their forces busy elsewhere.”
“It’s a good idea,” I said. “I’ll speak to Odysseus about it. I’m surprised none of the Achaians have thought of it themselves.”
Lukka made a sour face. “These aren’t real soldiers, my lord. The kings and princelings fancy themselves great warriors, and maybe they are. But my own unit could beat five times their number of these people.”
We spoke for a little while longer, and then he left me to see that his men were properly bedded in their new tents.
Poletes, who had sat quietly through our conversation, got to his feet. “That man is too greedy for victory,” he said, in a whisper that was almost angry. “He wants to win everything, and leave nothing for the gods to decide.”
“Men fight wars to win them, don’t they?” I asked him.
“Men fight wars for glory, and spoils, and for tales to tell their grandchildren. A man should go into battle to prove his bravery, to face a champion and test his destiny. He wants to use tricks and machines to win his battles.” Poletes spat on the sand to show how he felt about it.
“Yet you yourself have scorned these warriors and called them bloodthirsty fools,” I reminded him.
“That they are! But at least they fight fairly, as men should fight.”
I laughed. “Where I come from, old man, there is a saying, ‘All is fair in love and war.’ ”
For once, Poletes had no answer. He grumbled to himself as I left him by the fire and sought out Odysseus.
In the musty tented quarters of the King of Ithaca I explained the possibilities of building siege towers.
“They can be put on wheels and pulled up to the walls?” This was a new idea to Odysseus.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And these Hatti troops know how to build such machines?”
“Yes, they do.”
In the flickering light of the lone copper lamp on his work table I could see Odysseus’s eyes gleaming with the possibilities of it. Absently, he patted the thickly furred neck of the dog at his feet as he thought over the possibilities.
“Come,” he said at last, “now is the moment to tell Agamemnon about this!”
The High King seemed half-asleep when we were ushered into his hut. Agamemnon sat drowsily in a camp chair, a jewel-encrusted wine goblet in his right hand. Apparently his shoulder had healed enough for him to bend his elbow. No one else was in the hut but a pair of women slaves, dark-eyed and silent in thin shifts that showed their bare arms and legs.
Odysseus sat facing the High King. I squatted on the floor at his side. We were offered wine. It was thick with spiced honey and barley meal.
“A tower that moves?” Agamemnon muttered after Odysseus had explained it to him twice. “Impossible! How could a stone tower…”
“It would be made of wood, son of Atreus. And covered with hides for protection.”
Agamemnon looked down at me blearily and let his chin sink to his broad chest. The lamps cast long shadows across the room that made his heavy-browed face look sinister, even threatening.
“I had to return the captive Briseis to that young pup,” he grumbled. “And hand him over a fortune of booty. Even with his lover slain by Hector the little snake refused to reenter the war unless his ‘rightful’ spoils were returned to him.” The scorn he put on the word “rightful” could have etched steel.
“Son of Atreus,” soothed Odysseus, “if this plan of mine works, we will sack Troy and gain so much treasure that even overweening Achilles will be happy.”
Agamemnon said nothing. He waved his goblet slightly, and one of the slaves came to fill all three. Odysseus’s was made of gold, like the High King’s. Mine was wooden.
“Three more weeks,” Agamemnon muttered. He slurped at his wine, spilling some of it over his already stained tunic. “Three more weeks is what I need.”
“Sire?”
Agamemnon let his goblet slip from his fingers and plonk onto the carpeted ground. He leaned forward, a sly grin on his fleshy face.
“In three more weeks my ships will bring the grain harvest from the Sea of Black Waters through the Hellespo
nt to Mycenae. And neither Priam nor Hector will be able to stop them.”
Odysseus made a silent little “oh.” I saw that Agamemnon was no fool. If he could not conquer Troy, he would at least get his ships through the straits and back again, loaded with grain, before breaking off the siege. And if the Achaians had to sail away from Troy without winning their war, at least Agamemnon would have the year’s grain supply in his own city of Mycenae, ready to use it or sell it to his neighbors as he saw fit.
Odysseus had the reputation of being cunning, but I realized that the King of Ithaca was merely careful, a man who considered all the possibilities before he made his move. Agamemnon was the crafty one: sly, selfish, and grasping.
Recovering quickly from his surprise, Odysseus said, “But now we have the chance of destroying Troy altogether. Not only will we have the loot of the city, and its women, but you will have clear sailing through the Hellespont for all the years of your kingship!”
Agamemnon slumped back on his chair. “A good thought, son of Laertes. A good thought. I will consider it and call a council to decide upon it. After tomorrow’s match.”
With a nod, Odysseus said, “Yes, after we see whether Achilles remains among us or dies on Hector’s spear.”
Agamemnon smiled broadly.
Chapter 15
I slept fitfully that night. I had a tent of my own now, as befits a commander of soldiers. And I had expected the heavy honeyed wine to act as a drug on my mind. But it did not. I tossed on my pallet of straw and every time I managed to doze off my inner vision filled with the faces of the Creators. They were arguing, bickering among themselves, placing wagers about who would win the coming battle.
Then I saw Athene, my beloved, standing silent and alone, far removed from the laughing uncaring gods who toyed with men’s lives. She regarded me gravely, without a smile, without a sound. As still as a statue made of frozen flesh. She gazed into my eyes for endless moments, as if she were trying to impart some knowledge to me telepathically.
“You are dead,” I said to her.
Instead of her voice, I heard Poletes’s scratchy, rasping words, “As long as you revere Athene, and serve her, she is not dead.”
Fine sentiment, I thought. But that does not allow me to hold her in my arms, to feel her warmth and her love.
Instead, I told myself, I will take the Golden One in these hands and crush the life out of him. Just as I once…
I remembered something. Someone. A dark, brooding man, a hulking gray-skinned shape that I had hunted down through the centuries and the millennia. Ahriman! I remembered him, his harsh, tortured, whispering voice.
I heard him now. “You fool,” he whispered. “You seek for strength and find only weakness.”
I thought I woke up. I thought I propped myself on an elbow and passed a weary hand over my cobwebbed eyes. But I heard, as distinctly as if he had been standing next to me, the clear cold voice of the Golden One: “Stop fighting against me, Orion. If a goddess can die, think how easily I can send one of my own creations to the final destruction.”
I sat bolt upright and saw a gleam of gold seeping through the flaps of my tent. Scrambling outside, naked except for the sword I grabbed, I saw that it was only the morning sun starting the new day.
The morning dawned clear and bright and windy.
Although the single combat between Achilles and Hector was what everyone looked forward to, still the whole army prepared to march out onto the plain. Partly they went out because a single combat can degenerate into a general melee easily enough. Mostly they went out to get a close look at the fight.
I instructed Lukka to keep his men out of the fighting. “This will not be your kind of battle,” I said. “There’s no point in risking the men.”
“We could be starting to fell the trees we need for the siege towers,” he said. “I saw enough good ones across the river for it.”
“Wait until this combat is over,” I said. “Stand by the gate to the rampart here and be prepared to defend it from the Trojans if necessary.”
He clasped his fist to his breast in acknowledgment.
Virtually the entire Achaian force drew itself up, rank upon rank, on the windswept plain before the camp. By the walls of the city the Trojans were drawing themselves up likewise, chariots in front, foot soldiers behind them, swirls of dust blowing into the cloudless sky. I could see pennants fluttering along the battlements on the city walls, and even imagined glimpsing Helen’s golden bright hair on the tallest tower of Troy.
Odysseus had ordered me to stand at the left side of his chariot. “Protect my driver if we enter the fray,” he said. And he saw to it that I was outfitted with one of the figure-eight body shields that extended from chin to ankle. It weighed heavily on my left arm, but the weight was almost a comfort. Five plies of hides stretched across a thin wooden frame and bossed with bronze studs, the shield would stop almost anything except a spear driven with the momentum of a galloping chariot behind it.
Poletes was up on the rampart with the slaves and thetes, straining his old eyes for a view of the fight. He would interrogate me for hours this night, I knew, dragging every detail of what I had seen out of my memory. Then I thought, if either of us is still alive after today’s fighting.
As I stood on the windy plain, squinting against the bright sun, a roar went up from the Trojans. I saw Hector’s chariot, pulled by four magnificent white horses, kicking up a cloud of dust as it sped from the Scaean gate and drove toward the head of the arrayed ranks of soldiery. Hector stood tall and proud, his great shield at his side, four huge spears in their holder, pointing heavenward.
For many minutes nothing more happened. Muttering started among the Achaian foot soldiers. I glanced up at Odysseus, who merely smiled tolerantly. Achilles was behaving like a self-appointed star, as usual, making everyone anxious for his appearance. I thought that it would have been good psychology on any opponent except Hector. That man will use the time to study every rock and bump on the field, I said to myself. He is no child to be frightened by waiting.
Finally an exultant roar sprang up among the Achaians. Turning, I saw four snorting, spirited, matched midnight-black horses, heads tossing, groomed so perfectly that they seemed to glow, pounding across the earthen ramp that cut across our trench. Achilles’s chariot was inlaid with ebony and ivory, and his armor — only his second-best since Hector had stripped Patrokles’s dead body — gleamed with burnished gold.
With his plumed helmet on, there was little of Achilles’s face to be seen. But as his chariot swept past me I saw that his mouth was a grim tight line and his eyes burned like furnaces.
He did not stop for the usual prebattle formalities. He did not even slow down. His charioteer cracked his whip over the black horses’ ears and they plunged forward at top speed as Achilles took a spear in his right hand and screamed loud enough to echo off the walls of Troy: “PATROKLES! PA… TRO… KLES!”
His chariot aimed straight for Hector’s. The Trojan driver, startled, whipped his horses into motion and Hector hefted one of his spears.
The chariots pounded toward each other, and both warriors cast their spears simultaneously. Achilles’s struck Hector’s shield and staggered him. He almost tumbled out of the chariot, but he regained his balance and reached for another spear. Hector’s shaft passed between Achilles and his charioteer, splintering the wooden floor of the chariot.
A chill went through me. Achilles had not raised his shield when Hector’s spear drove toward him. He had not even flinched as the missile passed close enough to shave his young beard. Either he did not care what happened to him or he was mad enough to believe himself invulnerable.
The chariots swung past each other and again the two champions hurled spears. Hector’s bounced off the bronze shoulder of Achilles’s armor. Again the man made no move to protect himself. His own spear caught Hector’s charioteer in the face. With an awful shriek he fell over backward, both hands pawing at the shaft that had turned his face
into a bloody shambles.
The Achaians shouted and surged a few steps forward. Hector, knowing he could not control his horses and fight at the same time, jumped lightly from his chariot, two spears gripped in his left hand. The horses raced on, their reins slack, heading back for the walls of the city.
Achilles had the advantage now. His chariot drove around Hector, circling the stranded warrior again and again, seeking an advantage, a momentary dropping of his guard. But Hector held his shield firmly before him, crouching slightly, and pivoted smoothly to present nothing more to Achilles than a bronze plumed helmet, the body-length shield, and the greaves that protected his ankles.
Achilles cast another spear at him, but it went slightly wide. Hector remained in place, or seemed to. I noticed that each time he wheeled to keep his front to Achilles’s chariot, he edged a step or two closer to his own ranks.
Achilles must have noticed this, finally, and jumped out of his chariot. A great gusting sigh of expectation went through both armies. The two champions were going to face each other on foot, at spear’s length.
Hector advanced confidently toward the smaller Achaian. He spoke to Achilles, who spat out a reply. They were too far away for me to make out their words.
Then Achilles did something that wrenched a great moaning gasp from the Achaians. He threw his shield down clattering on the bare ground and faced Hector with nothing but his body armor and his spear.
The fool! I thought. He must actually believe that he’s invulnerable. Achilles gripped his spear in both hands and faced Hector without a shield.
Dropping the shorter of his two spears, Hector drove straight at Achilles. He had the advantage of size and strength, and of experience, and he knew it. Achilles, smaller, faster, seemed to be absolutely crazy. He did not try to parry Hector’s spear thrust or run out of its reach. Instead he dodged this way and that, avoiding Hector’s spear by scant inches, keeping his own spear point aimed straight at Hector’s eyes.