The Hittite - Ben Bova [104]
I thanked him and spent the next hour or so picking through the stuff. I selected blankets, armor, clothing, weapons, helmets: things we would need once we left this accursed place. And jewels that could be traded for food and shelter once we were away from Ilios.
“There are captives down there, between the boats. Take one-fifth of them, also.”
I shook my head. “I’d rather have horses and donkeys. Women will merely cause fights among my men.”
Odysseos eyed me carefully. “You speak like a man who has no intention of sailing to Ithaca with me.”
“My lord,” I said, “you have been more than generous to me. But no man in this camp raised a hand to rescue my wife. No man helped to save my servant from Agamemnon’s cruelty.”
“You expect much, Hittite.”
“Perhaps so, my lord. But it’s better that our paths separate here. Let me take my sons and my men, and my blinded servant, and go my own way.”
“To where?”
It was my turn to shrug. “There are always princes in need of good soldiers. I’ll find a place.”
The King of Ithaca stroked his beard for several silent moments. Finally he agreed, “Very well, Hittite. Go your own way. May the gods smile upon you.”
“And upon you, noblest of all the Achaians.”
I never saw Odysseos again.
6
Despite my eagerness to leave Troy, Poletes was in no condition to travel. He lay in my tent all day, drifting in and out of sleep, moaning softly whether asleep or awake.
The camp was bustling, noisy, slaves and thetes loading the boats with loot, carrying the trappings from the cabins of the nobles to the boats. Women were lugging cook pots and utensils to the rope baskets that were being used to haul them up to the decks. Stinking, bleating goats and sheep were being driven from their pens onto the boats. The fine horses that pulled the chariots were led carefully up wooden planked gangways while grunting, sweating slaves pushed the chariots themselves up the gangplanks after them. Everywhere there was shouting, calling, groaning, squealing beneath the hot morning sun. At least the wind off the water cooled the struggling workers somewhat.
I put my men to gathering horses and donkeys, and a pair of carts to go with them. I gave them some of the weapons I had taken from Odysseos’ boat to use for trading. Most of them were ornamental, with engraved bronze blades and hilts glittering with jewels: not much use in battle, but they fetched good value in trading for well-shod horses or strong little donkeys.
As I stood in front of my tent surveying the Achaians breaking up their camp and preparing to sail back to their homes, I realized that I didn’t know where my sons were. I looked around the boats, asked some of the women busily toting loads. No one had seen them since sunup.
The five-year-old’s name was Lukkawi, I recalled, named after me since he was the firstborn. I had to search my memory for his younger brother’s name. Uhri, I finally remembered.
Where were they? With growing disquiet I went from boat to boat, searching for them, calling their names over the din and commotion of the camp.
I found them splashing by themselves in the gentle wavelets lapping up onto the beach, under the stern of one of Odysseos’ black boats. They looked up and froze into wary-eyed immobility as I approached them.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said to them, as gently as I knew how. “I’m your father. Don’t you remember me?”
“Father?” asked Lukkawi in a small, fearful voice.
“Where’s my mama?” Uhri asked.
I took in a breath and squatted on my heels before them so I could be closer to eye-level with them. I realized that their eyes were gray-blue, like mine.
“Your mother’s gone away,” I said softly. “But I’m with you now and I’ll take care of you.”
“Yes, sir,” Lukkawi said. He was accustomed to receiving orders, and obeying them, even though he was barely more than five.
Their faces were smudged with grime. The smocks they wore were filthy, tattered. I dropped down onto the sand and took