The Hittite - Ben Bova [45]
Perhaps he thought to overawe them with his panoply, I thought, knowing their penchant for argument.
I counted thirty-two men sitting in a rough circle around the glowing hearth fire in Agamemnon’s hut, the leaders of the Achaian contingents. Every tribe allied to Agamemnon and his brother Menalaos was there, although the Myrmidones were represented by Patrokles rather than Achilles. I sat behind Odysseos, who was placed two seats down on the High King’s right, near enough to give me the opportunity to study Agamemnon closely.
There was precious little nobility in the features of the High King’s fleshy face. Like his body, his face was broad and heavy, with a wide stub of a nose, a thick brow, and deep-set eyes that seemed to look out at the world with suspicion and resentment. His hair and beard were just beginning to turn gray, but they were well combed and glistening with fresh oil perfumed so heavily that it made my nostrils itch, even from where I sat.
He held a bronze scepter in his left hand; his right rested limply on his lap. The one rule of sanity and order in the council meeting, apparently, was that only the man holding the scepter was allowed to speak.
“Well?” he demanded of Odysseos. “How dare you offer peace terms in my name?”
Odysseos reached for the scepter. Agamemnon let him take it, grudgingly, I thought.
“Son of Atreos, it was nothing more than a ruse for gaining a day’s rest from the Trojan attack. A day the men are using to strengthen our defenses.”
“And to prepare the boats to sail,” muttered Big Ajax, sitting farther down the circle. Agamemnon glared at him.
Odysseos continued, “I knew that Hector and prideful Paris would not accept peace terms while their forces are camped at our gates.”
Before anyone could object, he went on, “And what if they did? Menalaos would have his wife returned to him and we could leave these shores with honor.”
Agamemnon snatched the scepter back. “Leave without razing Troy? What honor is there in that? I have sacrificed my own daughter to tear down Troy! I will not leave until that city is reduced to ashes!”
Odysseos reached for the scepter again, but Menalaos, sitting between him and Agamemnon, took it first. “If Helen is returned to me, we could sail for home and then come back next year, with an even bigger army.”
He was younger than his brother, but they shared the same pugnacious look to their faces.
Agamemnon shook his head hard enough to make his beefy cheeks quiver. “And how will we raise a bigger army, with Helen returned? Who will come to Troy with me once the bitch is back in Sparta?”
White-bearded Nestor, sitting at Agamemnon’s left, raised his voice. “High King, you do not hold the scepter. You have no right—”
“I’ll speak whenever I want to!” Agamemnon shrilled.
They argued back and forth, then finally commanded me to tell them exactly what the Trojan princes had said to me. I accepted the scepter, then got to my feet and repeated the words of Paris and Hector.
“Paris said that?” Menalaos spat on the sandy floor. “He is the prince of liars.”
“Pardon me, King of Sparta,” said old Nestor, “but you do not have the scepter and therefore are speaking out of turn.”
Menalaos smiled scornfully at the whitebeard. “Neither do you, King of Pylos.”
Nestor got to his feet and reached for the scepter. I handed it to him willingly. He remained standing as he said, “If this Hittite is reporting truly, Hector expects to storm our ramparts in the morning. Hector is an honest man, not given to deception”— he eyed Odysseos as he said that—”and a great warrior. Tomorrow we will face a battle that could well determine the fate of this war. I have seen such battles before, you know. In my youth . . .”
On and on Nestor rambled, secure in his possession of the scepter.