The Hittite - Ben Bova [41]
Shaking his head, Hector said to his brother, “It changes nothing. At least the Hittites aren’t coming to fight against us.”
Paris looked surprised at that idea.
“Very well,” Hector said, with a tired sigh, “give him our father’s reply.”
Smiling nastily, Paris said to me, “You may tell fat Agamemnon that King Priam rejects his pathetic offer. Moreover, by this time tomorrow our chariots will be riding through his camp, burning his boats and slaying his white-livered Achaians until nothing is left but ashes and bones. Our dogs will feast well tomorrow night.”
I kept my face frozen, impassive.
Hector made the tiniest shake of his head, then laid a restraining hand on his brother’s blue-cloaked shoulder. “Our father is not feeling well enough to see you again, Hittite. And although my brother’s hot words may seem insulting, the answer that we have for Agamemnon is that we reject his offer of peace.”
“And any offer that includes returning my wife to the barbarian!” Paris snapped.
“Then we will have war again tomorrow,” I said.
“Indeed we will,” said Paris.
I asked, “Do you really think you are strong enough to break through the Achaian defenses and burn their fleet?”
“The gods will decide,” Hector said calmly.
“In our favor,” added Paris.
22
Hector gave me a four-man guard of honor to escort me out of the same gate that I had entered the night before. And Apet was standing at the gate waiting for me in her hooded black robe. Still as silent a Death, she fell in with my escort as we passed through the walls of Troy. The guards took no notice of her; it was as if she were invisible them.
They called it the Scaean Gate, and I learned that it was the largest of four gates to the city. In the daylight I could see the massive walls of Troy close-up. Almost I could believe that gods had helped to build them. Immense blocks of stone were wedged together to a height some five times more than the tallest man. High square towers surmounted the walls at each gate and at the corners. The walls sloped outward, so that they were thickest at ground level.
Since the city was built on the bluff overlooking the plain of Ilios, an attacking army would have to fight its way uphill before ever reaching the walls.
I returned to the Achaian camp to find old Poletes waiting at the makeshift gate for me.
“Who is this?” he asked, staring at Apet.
“A messenger from Helen,” I replied.
Poletes’ eyes brightened. “What news does she bring?”
“Nothing good,” I said. “There will be battle tomorrow.”
Poletes’ skinny shoulders slumped beneath his threadbare tunic. “The fools. The bloody fools.”
“Where are my men?” I asked.
With a gesture, he replied, “At the Ithacans’ camp, by the boats.”
I nodded, then headed for Odysseos, with Poletes skipping beside me, his knobby legs working overtime to keep pace with me, and Apet plodding along after us. All through the camp men were busily sharpening swords, repairing battered shields, wrapping wounds with fresh strips of cloth soaked in olive oil. Soldiers and noblemen alike stared at us, reading in my grim face the news I carried from Troy. The women looked, too, then turned away, knowing that tomorrow would bring more blood and carnage and terror. Most of the slaves were natives of this land and hoped to be freed from their bondage by the Trojan soldiery. But they knew, I think, that in the frenzy and bloodlust of battle their chances of being raped and put to the sword were much more likely than their chances of being rescued and returned to their rightful house holds.
I had to find my wife and sons before tomorrow’s battle, I knew. I had to get Odysseos to fulfill his promise to me.
Once we reached my men, hard by Odysseos’ boats, I instructed Poletes, “Take care of this woman. She bears a message for Menalaos from Helen.”
He nodded agreement and I left them with my men while I went to Odysseos’ boat to deliver my news.
There was only one guard on the deck, and he didn’t even have a spear. He was sitting on the boat’s gunwale, honing his sword with a whetstone.
“The king?