The Hittite - Ben Bova [112]
Helen tended me. She made a tent from horse blankets that kept most of the rain off us. I lay under it, helpless as a baby.
I had crazy dreams: about Aniti, but sometimes she was Helen, and then my two boys were grown men fighting on the battlements of Troy against me. Gods and goddesses appeared in my dreams, and always the goddesses had Helen’s face.
Despite all the rigors of our trek she was still beautiful. Even in my fever-weakened condition I could see that she didn’t need paints or gowns or jewelry. Even with her face smudged with mud and her hair tied up and tucked under the cowl of a long dirty cloak, nothing could hide those wide blue eyes, those sensuous lips, that flawless skin.
Slowly the fever left me, until one day I felt strong enough to take over the reins of the wagon once again. Helen smiled brightly at me.
“It’s a lovely day,” she said. And indeed it was. The clouds were breaking up and warm sunshine made the land glow.
Lukkawi and Uhri scrambled up to sit on either side of me and I let them take turns holding the reins for a few moments. It made them happy.
Poletes was gaining strength, too, and even some of his old quizzical spirit. He rode in our creaking cart and pestered whoever was driving to describe to him everything he saw, every leaf and rock and cloud, in detail.
In truth, the rainy season was behind us at last. The days grew warm, with plentiful sunshine. The nights were balmy and filled with breezes that set the trees to sighing. I felt strong enough to ride a horse again and retook my place at the head of our little column.
Magro nosed his horse up beside me. “You’re leaving Helen in the wagon?” A crooked smile snaked across his bearded face.
“She’s with Poletes and my boys,” I said, knowing where his sense of humor was leading and wishing to avoid it.
But Magro said, “Maybe I’ll go back and drive the wagon for a while. Show her my skills at handling stubborn asses.”
“Drakon is handling the wagon.”
“He’s just a lad,” said Magro. “Why, if Helen should smile at him he wouldn’t know what to do about it.”
“And you would, eh?”
With a grin and a shrug Magro replied, “I’ve had some experience with women.”
“With a sword in one hand,” I said.
“No, no—willing women! Back at the camp by Troy I had to fight them off.”
I laughed. “I can’t picture you fighting off willing women.”
“I didn’t say I won every battle.”
More seriously, I told Magro, “Listen, old friend. She’s a noblewoman. She was the Queen of Sparta. And a princess of Troy. She’s got no interest in a battle-scarred soldier.”
Magro nodded, a bit ruefully. “Maybe so. But she took good care of you when the fever had you down.”
“That’s because I’m the leader of this troop that’s protecting her. She’s got no passion for any of us. Her interest is strictly self-protection.”
Magro said nothing, but the expression on his face showed clearly that he didn’t believe me.
It was two days later that we first spied Ephesus.
We had spent the morning trudging tiredly uphill through a sudden springtime thunderstorm, wet and cold and aching. I was driving the wagon again and Helen sat beside me, wrapped in a royal blue hooded cloak. I had sent two of the men ahead as scouts, and detailed two more to trail behind us, a rear guard to warn of bandits skulking in our rear— or Achaians trying to catch up with us. I still could not believe that Menalaos had given up Helen so easily.
As we came to the top of the hill the rain slackened away as suddenly as it had started. The sun came out; its warmth felt good on my shoulders. One of our scouts was waiting on the edge of the muddy road.
“The city.” He pointed.
Ephesus lay below us in a pool of golden sunlight that had broken through the scudding gray clouds. The city glittered like a beacon of warmth and comfort, white marble gleaming in the sunshine.
We all seemed to gain strength from the sight, and made our