The Hittite - Ben Bova [30]
“Prince Hector the Tamer of Horses he wants to see,” said the potbelly. He laughed harshly. “So would I!”
The younger one grinned and showed a gap where a front tooth was missing.
“An emissary, eh?” Potbelly eyed me suspiciously. “With a cloak on his back long enough to hide a sword. More likely a spy. Or an assassin.”
I held up my herald’s wand. “I have been sent by the High King. I am not here to fight. Take my cloak if it frightens you. There’s nothing hidden beneath it.”
“Be a lot safer to ram this spear through your guts and feed you to the dogs,” growled Potbelly.
The youngster put out a restraining hand. “Hermes protects messengers, you know. I wouldn’t want to draw the anger of the Trickster.”
Potbelly scowled and muttered, but finally lifted my cloak and satisfied himself that I was not hiding a weapon. He took my dagger, though, and tucked it into his own belt. Then the two of them led me to their chief.
They were Dardanians, allies of the Trojans who had come from several leagues up the coast to fight against the invading Achaians. Over the next hour, while the moon climbed higher in the starry sky and then began its descent toward the sea, I was escorted from the chief of the Dardanian contingent to a Trojan officer, from there to the tent of Hector’s chief lieutenants, and finally past a stinking makeshift horse corral and rows of silently waiting chariots tipped over with their long yoke poles poking into the air, to the small plain tent and the guttering fire of Prince Hector.
At each stop I explained my mission again. Dardanians and Trojans alike spoke a dialect similar to the Achaians. Not one of them had the wit to notice that my words were differently accented, the speech of a stranger to their shores. I realized that Troy’s defenders included contingents from many areas up and down the coast. The Achaians had been raiding their towns for years, and now they had all banded together under Trojan leadership to resist the barbarian invaders.
It must have been close to midnight when at last I was brought before Hector. His tent was barely large enough for himself and a servant. A pair of armed nobleman stood outside by the fire in bronze breastplates and fine helmets. Insects buzzed and darted in the firelight. No slaves or women were in sight. Hector himself stood at the entrance flap to his tent. I recognized those steady, grave brown eyes.
He was tall for these people, nearly my own height. Hector wore no armor, no badge of rank, merely a soft clean tunic belted at the waist, with an ornamental dagger hanging from the leather belt. He had no need to impress anyone with his grandeur. He possessed that calm inner strength that needs no outward decorations.
In the flickering light of the campfire he studied me for a moment. His face was handsome, intelligent, though there were lines of weariness around his eyes, furrows across his broad brow. Despite the fullness of his rich brown beard I saw that his cheeks were becoming hollow. The strain of war was taking its toll on him.
“You are the man at the gate,” he said. His words were measured, neither surprise nor anger in them.
“I am, my lord.”
He looked me over carefully. “Your name?”
“Lukka.”
“From where?”
“From far to the east, the land of the Hatti.”
His eyes widened. “You are a Hittite?”
“Yes, my lord.”
He puzzled over that for a few moments, brow knitted. Then he asked, “What brings you to the plain of Ilios? Why are you fighting for the Achaians?”
I said nothing. Odysseos had commanded me to give Hector his message and nothing more.
“Well?” Hector demanded. “Troy has always been loyal to the Hittite empire. We appealed to the emperor for help. Is this his answer? Has the emperor sent his army to fight against us?”
“I cannot say, my lord. I am commanded by King Odysseos to give you High King Agamemnon’s offer to end the war.”
“I’ve heard Agamemnon’s offers before,” Hector growled.
“But my lord—”
“Why are you fighting against us?” Hector demanded, his voice iron hard.