The Hittite - Ben Bova [101]
“Come along,” said Menalaos.
I stepped in front of them. “This man is my servant. I will deal with him.”
Before Menalaos could reply, Nestor bustled up. “The High King has demanded to see this teller of tales. No one can interfere!” It was the shortest speech I had ever heard the old man make.
With a grim shrug, Menalaos headed off toward Agamemnon, his guards dragging Poletes after him, followed by Nestor, me and many of the men who had been rollicking at the storyteller’s gibes.
Agamemnon still sat on his slightly tilted throne, fat, flushed with wine, flanked by the treasures of Troy. His chubby fingers gripped the arms of his chair as he watched Poletes being hauled before him. Jeweled rings glittered in the firelight on each finger and both his thumbs.
The old storyteller sagged to his knees, trembling before the High King, who glared down at his skinny, shabby presence.
“You have been telling lies about me,” Agamemnon snarled.
Somehow Poletes found enough courage to lift his chin and face the High King. “Not so, your royal highness. I am a professional storyteller. I do not tell lies, I speak only of what I see with my own eyes and hear with my own ears.”
“You speak filthy lies!” Agamemnon bellowed. “About me! About my wife!”
“If your wife were an honest woman, sire, I would not be here at all. I’d be in the marketplace at Argos, telling stories to the people, as I should be.”
“I’ll listen to no calumnies about my wife,” Agamemnon warned.
But Poletes, still on his knees, insisted, “The High King is supposed to be the highest judge in the land, the fairest and the most impartial. Everyone knows what is going on in Mycenae— ask anyone. Your own captive Cassandra, a princess of Troy, has prophesied—”
“Silence!” roared the High King.
“How can you silence the truth, son of Atreos? How can you turn back the destiny that fate has chosen for you?”
Now Agamemnon trembled, with anger. He hauled himself up from his chair and stepped down to the ground before Poletes.
“Hold him!” he commanded, drawing out a jeweled dagger from his belt.
Two of Menalaos’ men gripped Poletes’ frail arms.
“I can silence you, magpie, by separating you from your lying tongue.”
“Wait!” I shouted, pushing my way toward them.
Agamemnon looked up as I approached, his piggish little eyes suddenly surprised, almost fearful.
“This man is my servant,” I said. “I will punish him.”
“Very well then,” said Agamemnon, pointing his dagger toward the iron sword at my side. “You take out his tongue.”
I shook my head. “That’s too cruel a punishment for a few joking words.”
“You refuse me?”
“The man’s a storyteller,” I pleaded. “If you take out his tongue you condemn him to starvation or slavery.”
Slowly, Agamemnon’s flushed, heavy features arranged themselves into a smile. It was not a joyful one.
“A storyteller, is he?” He turned to Poletes, who knelt like a sagging sack of rags in the grip of the two burly soldiers. “You only speak of what you see and what you hear, you claim. Very well. You will see and hear nothing! Ever again.”
My guts churned as I realized what Agamemnon intended to do. I reached for my sword, only to find ten spears surrounding me, aimed at my body.
A hand clasped my shoulder. It was Odysseos, his face grave. “Be still, Hittite. The storyteller must be punished. No sense getting yourself killed over a servant.”
Poletes was staring at me, his eyes begging me to do something. I tried to move toward him, but Menalaos’ men jabbed their spear points against my leather jerkin.
“Helen has told me how you protected her during the sack of the temple,” Odysseos said, low in my ear. “She owes you a debt of gratitude. Don’t force me to repay it with your blood.”
“Then do something, say something,” I begged. “Please. Try to soothe the High King’s anger.”
Odysseos merely shook his head. “It will be all over before I could speak a word. Look.”
Nestor himself carried a glowing brand from one of the dying pyres, a wicked, perverse smile on his wrinkled