The Hittite - Ben Bova [24]
As we left the tent and went back into the weakening rain I could hear Nestor’s piercing voice, “Very crafty of you, son of Laertes! By bringing him into your house hold you gain the favor of Athene, whom he undoubtedly serves. I couldn’t have made a wiser move myself, although in my years I’ve made some very delicate decisions, let me tell you. Why, I remember when Dardanian pirates were raiding the coast of my kingdom and nobody seemed to be able to stop them, since King Minos’ fleet had been destroyed in the great tidal wave. Well, the pirates captured a merchant boat bearing a load of copper from Kypros. Worth a fortune, it was, because you know that you can’t make bronze without copper. No one knew what to do! The copper was . . .”
His voice, loud as it was, finally faded as we made our way through the faltering drizzle back down the rope ladder to the beach.
15
The rain petered out although the wind still gusted cold and sharp as I rounded up my squad. Antiklos said nothing until the dozen of us, plus Poletes, were standing before him with spears and shields.
“Are those helmets iron?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “The Hatti know how to work iron.”
Antiklos gave a grudging grunt. “You’d better sleep lightly. There are thieves in camp.”
I made a smile for him. “If I see any man wearing any piece of our equipment I’ll give him an iron sword— in his belly.”
He smiled back. “Follow me, then.”
He led us past several Ithacan boats pulled up onto the beach. Then we came to a sizable hut made of logs and daubed with the same smelly black pitch that caulked the boats. It was the largest structure that I had seen in the Achaians’ camp, taller than two men’s height, big enough to house several dozen men or more, I estimated. There was only one doorway, a low one with a sheet of canvas tacked over it to keep out the rain and wind.
Inside, the shed was a combination ware house and armory that made Poletes whistle with astonishment. Chariots were stored against the far wall, tilted up with their yokes nearly touching the beams of the ceiling. Stacks of helmets and armor were neatly piled along the wall on our right, while racks of spears, swords and bows lined the wall opposite. The ground was covered with rows of chests stuffed with clothes and blankets.
“So much!” Poletes gasped.
Antiklos made a grim smile. “Spoils from the slain.”
Poletes nodded and whispered, “So many.”
A wizened old man stepped across the sand floor from his hideaway behind a table piled high with clay tablets.
“What now? Haven’t I enough to do without you dragging in a troop of strangers?” he whined. He was a lean and resentful old grump, his hands gnarled and twisted into claws, his back stooped.
“New ones for you, scribe,” said Antiklos. “My lord Odysseos wants them outfitted properly.” And with that, Antiklos turned and ducked through the shed’s doorway. But not before giving me a wink and a grin.
The scribe shuffled over close enough almost to touch me, then squinted at Poletes and my men. “My lord Odysseos, heh? And how does he expect me to find proper gear for the dozen of you?”
“Thirteen,” Poletes said.
The scribe made a gesture in the air with his deformed hands. “An unlucky number! Zeus protect me!”
He grumbled and muttered as he led me past tables laden with bronze cuirasses, arm protectors, greaves and plumed helmets. I stopped and picked up one of the fancy bronze helmets.
“Not that!” the scribe screeched. “Those are not for the likes of you.”
I tossed the helmet back onto the table with a dull clunk. “ We have our own arms and armor,” I said. “What we require is clothes and blankets. And tenting.”
Scowling as he replaced the helmet in its proper spot on the table, the scribe then sank one of his clawlike hands into my forearm and tugged me to a pile of clothes on the ground, close by the entrance to the shed.
“Here,” he said. “See what you can find among these.”
It took awhile. Poletes grumbled about fleas while my men rummaged among the pile, shaking out garments and blankets and joking