The Hittite - Ben Bova [25]
“In finery like this,” Harta said, grinning, “I’ll make the women swoon when I walk up to them.”
“They’ll swoon from your stink,” Magro answered him. “Try taking a bath first. You won’t smell so bad then.”
At length we had dressed ourselves in linen tunics and leather skirts. They were stained and hardly new, but much better than the travel-worn togs we had arrived in. While the scribe glared and grumbled at us, I made certain that Poletes got a tunic and a wool shirt.
The scribe resisted with howls and curses but I made certain that each of my men took a good blanket, Poletes included. We also took canvas, poles and pegs for making tents. He squealed and argued and threatened that he would tell the king himself what a spendthrift I was. He wouldn’t stop until I picked him off his feet by the front of his tunic and shook him a few times. Then he shut up and let us take what we needed. But his scowl would have curdled milk.
By the time we left the shed the rain had stopped altogether and the westering sun was rapidly drying the puddles along the beach. We found a clear space and settled down. The men began putting up tents. I sent Karsh and Tiwa to find wood for a fire; Poletes scampered off to dicker for food and a couple of slaves to do the cooking. He came back with a flagon of wine in his skinny arms— and two chunky, unwashed women who stared at us with frightened eyes.
Sitting down next to our little fire, Poletes opened the flagon and handed it to me. “There are benefits to being of the house of Odysseos,” he said happily.
Yes, I thought. But how do I get to see my wife and sons, off in Agamemnon’s part of the camp?
By the time we had eaten our sparse meal and drunk the wine, the sun had set. A pale sliver of a moon rose over the hills to the east, but the everlasting wind off the water turned even chillier. I watched as my men crawled into their newly built tents and prepared for sleep. Yawning, I realized that I was ready for sleep myself.
But I still thought of my wife and sons. I could go to Agamemnon’s camp, I told myself. I could search for them there.
Then Poletes stepped to me, fell to his knees and grasped my right hand in both of his, tightly, with a strength I would not have guessed was in him.
“Hittite, my master, you have saved my life twice this day.”
I wanted to pull my hand loose. I could see my men watching us in the deepening shadows.
“You saved the whole camp from Hector’s spear and his vengeful Trojans, but in addition you have lifted me out of a life of misery and shame. I will serve you always, Hittite. I will always be grateful to you for showing mercy to a poor old storyteller.”
He kissed my hand.
I felt my cheeks redden. Reaching down, I lifted him by his frail shoulders to his feet.
“Poor old windbag,” I said gruffly. “You’re the first man I’ve ever seen who’s grateful for becoming a slave.”
“Your slave, Hittite,” he corrected. “I am happy to be that, indeed.”
I shook my head, uncertain of what to do or say. Finally I muttered, “Well, get some sleep.”
“Yes. Certainly. May Phantasos send you happy dreams.”
I sat down on my blanket and drew up my knees, thinking that my wife was in this camp, hardly an arrow’s shot away from me. And my sons. My boys. I decided that sleep could wait. I was going to find them. I got to my feet.
“Hittite?” a voice called softly.
I automatically grasped the hilt of my sword.
“Hittite, the king wants you.” In the wan moonlight I saw that it was Antiklos standing before me, silhouetted against the starry sky.
“Bring your iron helmet and spear,” Antiklos said. “Leave your shield.”
“Why does the king summon me?” I asked.
Antiklos made a grunt. “He wants you to help him impress sulking Achilles.”
16
Ordering Poletes to stay, I followed Antiklos past the tents of my men to the prow of Odysseos’ boat. The King of Ithaca was standing on the beach. As I had suspected, he was almost a head shorter than I. The plume of his helmet reached no higher than my brows.
He nodded a greeting to me and said simply, “Follow