The Hittite - Ben Bova [13]
With my free hand I hauled Poletes to his feet. His lip was cracked and bleeding.
The Achaian eyed me up and down, took note of my spear and the sword at my hip, the shield strapped to my back, my travel-stained leather jerkin and iron helmet. He wore only a ragged wool chiton, belted at the waist. His hair and beard were dark and thickly curled, matted with sweat and grime. His bare arms and legs were lean but wiry, roped with muscle.
“And who in the name of Hades are you?” His voice was low, gruff.
The men who had been eating out of wooden bowls were looking up at us. Several of them got slowly to their feet. I knew my own men were drawing themselves up behind me.
“I am Lukka, of the Hatti. Hittites, in your tongue. I’ve offered the services of my men to your High King.”
The man blinked several times. He’s trying to find a way to deal with us without humiliating himself, I reasoned. He doesn’t want a fight, and neither do I.
“I can pay for what ever food you provide,” I said.
“Pay?”
I held out the spear. “Take it. Its point is made of iron, far stronger than your bronze spearpoints.”
He hesitated. “Bronze holds a sharper edge.”
“And shatters where an iron point holds strong.” With a nod, he took the spear from my hand. He hefted it, then allowed a slow smile to creep across his bearded face.
“Hittites, eh? You’ve come a long way, then.”
“ We have,” I said, making myself smile back at him. “And we’re hungry.”
He nodded and turned to the stolid, thickset wench stirring the pot. With a kick to her rump he barked, “Find more meat for the stew! We have hungry mouths to feed.”
It turned out that he was not a difficult man, after all. His name was Oetylos, and like the rest of the High King’s men he was from Argos.
“Agamemnon is a mighty king,” he said over his wooden bowl as we sat together. “Who else could have brought all these kings and princes together to bring Helen back to her rightful husband?”
I ate the hot, spicy stew slowly and let him talk. I needed to know more about this Agamemnon. I needed to know how I could get this mighty king to release my wife from slavery. And my sons, if they still lived.
9
I woke with the sun. A chill wind swept in from the sea as the first rays of light peeped over the high wall of the city, up on the bluff. My men, who had been sleeping on the ground wrapped in their cloaks as I had, stirred and began to sit up, coughing and complaining, as usual. Looking around for Poletes, I saw him huddled with several of the dogs, scratching fleas as he still slept.
Silent, sad-faced women brought us wooden cups and filled them with a thin barley gruel. My wife was not among them. We sat in a circle and sipped at our breakfast while the Achaian camp slowly came astir. Poletes joined us, grateful to be given a steaming bowl.
Then Thersandros came striding among us, fists on his hips. “Hittite!” he called to me.
I got to my feet. There was little sense of discipline that I could see. Instead of saluting him I merely walked over and stood three paces before his wary eyes.
“Do Hittite warriors know how to dig?” he asked me, almost in a growl.
“All soldiers learn to use a shovel,” I replied. “My men have built—”
He cut me off with a curt gesture. Pointing to the top of the earthen rampart that protected the camp, he said, “Then take your men up there and do what you can to strengthen the wall.”
I wanted to tell him that he would be wasting our abilities; we were soldiers, not laborers. Instead I said, “How soon can I see your High King? I want to offer—”
“Offer your backs to the shovels,” Thersandros said. “My lord Agamemnon has other things on his mind this morning.”
With that he turned and walked away from me.
A soldier learns to obey orders or he doesn’t remain a soldier for long. I decided there was nothing I could do but bide my time.
My men were on their feet by now. Walking back to them, I told them that our task this fine, breezy morning was an engineering detail.
Magro saw through my words immediately. “They want us to dig for them?”
I nodded