The Hittite - Ben Bova [120]
We bought fresh provisions and mounts in the city’s marketplace. From my own hazy knowledge of the area, and from the answers I received from local merchants, Miletus was the last big city on our route for some time. We planned to move inland, through the Mountains of the Bull and across the plain of Cilicia, then along the edge of the Mittani lands and down the coastline of Philistia and Canaan.
But the sounds and smells of another Aegean city were too much for Poletes. He came to me as we started to break our camp, just outside the city walls, and announced firmly that he would go no farther with us. He preferred to remain in Miletus.
“This is a city where I can tell my tales and earn my own bread,” he said to me. “I won’t burden you further, Master Lukka. Please, let me spend my final days singing of Troy and the mighty deeds that were done there.”
“You can’t stay by yourself, old windbag,” I insisted. “You have no house, no shelter of any kind. How will you find food?”
Poletes reached up for my shoulder as unerringly as if he could see. “Let me sit in a corner of the marketplace and tell the tale of Troy,” he said. “I will have food and wine and a soft bed before the sun goes down.”
“Is that what you truly want?”
“I have burdened you long enough, my master. Now let me take care of myself. Release me. You can travel faster without me.”
He stood there before me in the pale light of a gray morning, a clean white scarf over his eyes, a fresh tunic hanging over his scrawny frame. I learned that even blinded eyes can cry. So, almost, did I.
“No telling of Troy until we are safely away from the city,” I warned, trying to make my voice growl.
We embraced like brothers, and he turned without another word and walked slowly toward the city gate, tapping his stick before him.
I sent the others off on the inland road, telling them I would catch up later. I waited half the day, then entered the city. Leaving my horse with the guards at the gate, I made my way on foot to the marketplace. Poletes sat there cross-legged in the middle of a large and rapidly growing throng, his arms gesturing, his wheezing voice speaking slowly, majestically:
“Then mighty Achilles prayed to his mother, Thetis the Silver-Footed, ‘Mother, my lifetime is destined to be so brief that ever-living Zeus, sky-thunderer, owes me a worthier prize of glory . . .”
I watched for only a few moments. That was enough. Men and women, boys and girls, were rushing up to join the crowd, their eyes fastened on Poletes like the eyes of a bird hypnotized by a snake. Rich merchants, soldiers in chain mail, women of fashion in their colorful robes, city magistrates carrying their wands of office— they all pressed close to hear Poletes’ words. Even the other storytellers, left alone once Poletes began singing of Troy, got up from their accustomed stones and ambled grudgingly across the marketplace to listen to the newcomer.
Poletes had been right, I had to admit. He had found his place. He would be fed and sheltered here, even honored. And as long as we were far away, he could sing of Troy and Helen all he wanted to.
I went back to the city gate; my horse was still there, tethered at a hitching rail with several others. I gave the corporal of the guards a few coppers, then climbed onto my chestnut mount and nosed her up the inland trail. I would never see Poletes again, and that made me feel the sadness of loss.
Time and distance will soften your sorrow, I told myself. You have two little boys to look after. And the fugitive Queen of Sparta.
It was evening by the time I caught up with our two carts and my men. Lukkawi and Uhri ran up to meet me, and I swung them up onto my horse, laughing at the sight of them. Helen sat in one of the carts, watching with eyes that never