The Hittite - Ben Bova [16]
“They do this every day?”
He nodded. “Unless it rains.”
A question popped into my mind. “Why are they fighting? What’s the reason for this war?”
Poletes turned his wizened face to me. “Ah, Hittite, that is a good question. They say they are fighting over Helen, the wife of Menalaos, and it’s true that Prince Paris abducted her from Sparta while her husband’s back was turned. Whether she came with him willingly or not, only the gods know.”
“Who is Prince Paris?”
“King Priam’s youn gest son. Sometimes he is called Alexandros.” Poletes broke into a chuckle. “A few days ago Menalaos, the lawful husband of Helen, challenged him to single combat, but Paris ran away. He hid behind his foot soldiers! Can you believe that?”
I didn’t know what to say, so I remained silent.
“Menalaos is King of Sparta and Agamemnon’s brother,” Poletes went on, his voice dropping lower, as if he did not want the others to overhear. “The High King would love to smash Troy flat. That would give him clear sailing through the Dardanelles into the Sea of Black Waters.”
“Is that important?”
“Gold, my boy,” Poletes whispered. “Not merely the yellow metal that kings adorn themselves with, but the golden grain that grows by the far shores of that sea. A land awash in grain. But no one can pass through the straits and get at it unless they pay a tribute to Troy.”
I was beginning to understand the reason behind this war.
“Paris was on a mission of peace to Mycenae, to arrange a new trade agreement between his father, Priam, and High King Agamemnon. He stopped off at Sparta and ended up abducting the beautiful Helen instead. That was all the excuse Agamemnon needed. If he can conquer Troy he can have free access to the riches of the lands beyond the Dardanelles.”
“Why don’t the Trojans simply return Helen to her rightful husband? That would put an end to this war, wouldn’t it?”
Poletes smiled knowingly. “It would indeed. But you have not seen the golden-haired Helen.”
“Have you?”
He shook his head sadly. “No. But everyone who has agrees that she is the most beautiful woman in the world. Aphrodite’s child, they claim.”
“No woman could be so important that men would fight a war over her.” But I remembered that the night before I was almost willing to attack Agamemnon’s lodge to seize my wife and sons. Almost.
“Perhaps so, Hittite,” said Poletes. “Helen is merely an excuse for Agamemnon’s greed. But the Trojans won’t give her up and here we are.”
A series of bugle blasts erupted on the plain before us.
“Now it begins,” Poletes said, suddenly grim, hard-eyed. “Now the fools rush to the slaughter once again.”
11
Standing beside Poletes atop the rampart I watched as the charioteers cracked their whips and the horses bolted forward, carrying Achaians and Trojans eagerly toward each other.
I focused my attention on the chariot nearest us and saw the warrior in it setting his sandaled feet in a pair of raised sockets, to give him a firm base for using his spears. He held his body-length shield before him on his left arm and with his free hand plucked one of the lighter, shorter spears from the handful rattling in their holder.
“Diomedes,” said Poletes, before I asked. “Prince of Argos. A fine young man.”
Shrieks and screams filled the air as each warrior shouted out his battle cry. The horses pounded madly across the field, eyes bulging, nostrils wide.
The chariot approaching Diomedes swerved suddenly and the warrior in it hurled his spear. It sailed harmlessly past the prince of Argos. Diomedes threw his spear and hit the rump of the farthest of his opponent’s four horses. The horse whickered and reared, throwing the other three so far off stride that the chariot slewed wildly, tumbling the warrior onto the dusty ground. The charioteer ducked behind the chariot’s siding.
Other combats were turning the worn-bare battlefield into a vast cloud of dust, with chariots wheeling, spears hurtling through the air, shrill battle cries and shouted curses ringing