The Hittite - Ben Bova [100]
She helped me lift the two boys into my arms. Lighter than my shield, they stirred sleepily but neither of them opened his eyes. Carrying the two of them, I strode past the boats of Agamemnon, determined to leave this camp, this beach, this accursed band of barbarian cutthroats.
And go where? I didn’t know, not then. Nor did I care. All I wanted at that moment was to take my sons away from Troy and the victorious Achaians.
Away from Helen, a voice within me whispered. And I loathed myself for the thought.
As I came to the Ithacan boats, where my men were happily dividing their spoils, Magro saw me approaching. He scrambled to his feet and ran to me.
“You’ve got them!”
“I’ve got them.”
“And your wife?”
I looked toward the flames still crackling at the pyres. My voice caught in my throat, but at last I was able to croak out, “I was too late.”
He shook his head. “Well, there are other women.”
I said nothing. Magro helped me to gently lay the boys on a blanket and cover them.
As we straightened up he said, “You’d better look after your servant.”
“Poletes?”
“He swilled down a flagon of wine and now he’s off telling stories that could get him in trouble.”
“Stories?”
“He’s mocking Agamemnon and his generosity.”
I felt my brows knit. “Isn’t everyone?”
“Yes, but he’s also talking about Queen Clytemnestra, back in Mycenae. If the High King hears about what he’s saying . . .” Magro ran a finger across his throat.
4
“Where is the old windbag?” I asked.
Magro waved in the direction away from the pyres. “He tottered off in that direction. I warned him to keep his mouth shut, but he’s full of wine.”
I pulled in a deep breath. “I’ll find him. Watch over my sons.”
Magro glanced down at the sleeping boys. “They’ll make good soldiers,” he said, grinning.
“What?”
“If they can sleep through this night, they’ll be able to sleep anywhere. That’s an important gift for a soldier.”
“You just make certain no one disturbs them,” I said.
Magro tapped his fist to his chest. I turned and started along the beach once more, searching for Poletes. I passed a stream of Achaians toting away their loot, many of them disgruntled with the share of booty Agamemnon had parceled out to them. The fire from the pyres was slowly dying, but off in the distance I could see the city still glowing red with flames behind its high walls.
I found Poletes sitting on the sand by a small campfire, practically under the nose of one of Menalaos’ boats, surrounded by a growing mob of squatting, standing, grinning, laughing Achaians. None of them were of the nobility, as far as I could see. But off in the shadows I noticed white-bearded Nestor standing with his skinny arms folded across his chest, frowning in Poletes’ direction.
“. . . and do you remember when Hector drove them all back inside our own gates here, and he came scurrying in with an arrow barely puncturing his skin, crying like a woman, ‘We’re doomed! We’re doomed!’ “
The crowd around the fire roared with laughter. I had to admit that the old storyteller could mimic Agamemnon’s high voice perfectly. He was in good fettle, the gloom and melancholy of only an hour or so earlier seemed entirely gone now. Perhaps it was the audience surrounding him that had changed his mood. More likely it was the wine; I saw an empty flagon resting on its side an arm’s length from his squatting figure.
“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—”
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