The Hittite - Ben Bova [109]
Magro scratched at his beard. “There’ve been plenty of women in the camp. Especially in the last two nights.”
“I don’t want the men dragging along camp followers.”
“The men are satisfied for now. We can move faster without camp followers, that’s for certain.”
I could see from the look in his eye that he was thinking I was already dragging our little group down with two little boys and a blind old man. And now a woman.
Magro shrugged and let his smile grow wider. “We’ll find women here and there as we march, I suppose.”
I understood what he meant. “Yes. Our passage to Egypt won’t be entirely peaceful.”
His eyes locked on mine. “I hope we can leave the camp peacefully.”
I made myself smile back at him.
So we started out of the Achaian camp on the sandy beach. Ships were gliding out onto the sea, colorful sails bellying out as they caught the wind, carrying the victorious Achaians to their home cities. Troy still stood, gutted and burned black, its walls battered but still standing, for the most part. The sun rose in the east as it always does while our little pro cession of two carts and a dozen horses filed slowly through the gate that I had defended against Hector and down onto the strangely quiet plain of Ilios.
A pair of young warriors slouched by the gate, their spears on the ground, gnawing on haunches of roasted lamb. They waved lazily at us as we passed. Helen stayed inside the first wagon, tucked down among the bags of provisions with my two sons and Poletes.
We forded the shallow river and turned south, where the land rose slightly toward distant bare brown hills. I took over the wagon and let Magro take the horses. The rest of the men rode easily, glad to be mounted instead of afoot, as usual.
As we climbed the rutted trail I turned back for one last look at the ruin of Troy. The ground rumbled. Our horses snorted and neighed, prancing nervously. Even the donkeys pulling the carts twitched their long ears and hurried their pace unbidden.
“Poseidon speaks,” said Poletes from the depths of the wagon, his voice weak but clear. “The earth will shake soon from his wrath. He will finish the task of bringing down the walls of Troy.”
The old storyteller was predicting an earthquake. A big one. All the more reason to get as far away as possible.
Then Hartu, riding at the rear of our little group, pointed and shouted, “Lukka! Riders!”
I looked in the direction he was pointing and saw a cloud of dust. Riders indeed, I thought. Probably sent by Menalaos to search for his missing wife.
I snapped the reins, urging the donkeys onward. Thus we left Troy.
9
As I had feared, our journey southward was neither easy nor peaceful.
The whole world seemed to be in conflict. We trekked slowly down the hilly coastline, through regions that the Hatti called Assuwa and Seha. Once these people had been vassals of the emperor; now they were on their own, without the armed might of the Hatti to protect them, without the emperor’s law to bring order to their lives.
It seemed that every city, every village, every farm house was in arms. Bands of marauders prowled the countryside, some of them former Hatti army units just as we had been, most of them merely gangs of brigands. We fought almost every day. Men died over a brace of chickens, or even an egg. We lost a few men in these skirmishes and gained a few from bands that begged to join us. I never accepted anyone who was not a former Hatti soldier, a man who understood discipline and knew how to take orders. Our little band grew sometimes to a dozen men, never fewer than six.
I kept anxiously searching our rear, every day, for signs of Menalaos’ pursuit. Helen tried to convince me that her former husband would be glad to be rid of her, but I thought otherwise. There were times when the hairs on the back of my head stood up. Yet, when I turned to search, I could find no one following us.
I did not sleep with Helen. I hardly touched her. She traveled as one of our group, watching after my sons when she wasn’t tending to Poletes. She never complained of the