The Hittite - Ben Bova [46]
At last the High King grabbed the scepter from Nestor’s hand. Startled, the old man gaped at Agamemnon, then slowly sank back onto his chair.
“ We face disaster!” Agamemnon cried, his narrow little eyes actually brimming with tears. “Hector could overrun our camp and slaughter us all!”
Odysseos leaned across and took the scepter from the High King’s hand. Holding it aloft, he proclaimed loudly, “ We must not give way to despair! We must show Hector and his Trojans what metal we are made of. We will defend our camp and our boats. We will drive Hector away from our ramparts. Think of the songs the bards will sing of us when we are victorious tomorrow!”
A murmur went around the council circle. Heads nodded.
Odysseos turned to Patrokles, sitting almost exactly opposite to Agamemnon’s place. “Noble Patrokles, tell mighty Achilles that tomorrow he will have the chance to gain great glory for himself.”
Patrokles nodded solemnly. “Glory is what he lives for. But if he refuses, perhaps I could convince him to let me lead the Myrmidones—”
“You?” Agamemnon laughed aloud. “You’re too soft for anything but serving tidbits. Stay by your master’s side and let the men tend to the fighting.”
Patrokles’ face burned red. I thought Agamemnon had just thrown away what ever slight chance we might have had to get the Myrmidones to fight alongside us, with or without Achilles.
25
By the time the council meeting ended it was growing dark outside. I left Agamemnon’s lodge with Odysseos, as befitted my station. A considerable bonfire was crackling out there, casting a fitful red glare across the sand. The King of Ithaca waited outside the door of the lodge until Menalaos came out.
“Son of Atreos,” he said, reaching out to clasp Menalaos by the shoulder, “the Hittite tells me that Helen has sent one of her maidservants with a message for you.”
Menalaos’ heavy brows lifted with surprise. “She sends me a message?”
“Apparently so,” replied Odysseos, nodding.
“Bring her to my cabin then.”
Odysseos turned to me. “Do so.”
I left the two kings as they ambled toward Menalaos’ cabin and hurried to the campfire where my men were sitting with their evening meal, their swords and spears resting on the ground beside them, atop their shields. Apet sat with the slave women, her black robe pulled around her, its hood down across her shoulders, as she spoke animatedly to them. She’s not so silent with other women to listen to her, I said to myself.
Magro spotted me first and scrambled to his feet. The others quickly rose, also.
“Where’s my sword?” I asked them. I felt naked here in camp without it.
“We’re going to fight in the morning?” asked little Karsh as he picked my sword from the pile of weapons on the ground.
“Yes,” I said, taking the sword from his hand. “We’ll stand with Odysseos at the gate and show them what trained Hatti soldiers can do.”
“On foot, against chariots?”
“We’ll hold the gate,” I said flatly.
Magro laughed. “While the Trojan footmen scramble up the palisade and outflank us.”
I shrugged. “There will be plenty of Achaian footmen to defend the length of the palisade.”
Magro spat onto the sandy ground, showing what he thought of the Achaian footmen.
“Eat well and get some sleep,” I told them. “Tomorrow you’ll earn your keep.”
Before they could reply I walked over to the huddle of women. “Apet,” I called. “Menalaos wants to hear what you have to say.”
She pulled up her hood and rose to her feet like an offering of black smoke. Her features were shadowed by the hood, but if she felt any fear of facing her former master she showed nothing of it. Without an instant of hesitation she fell in step alongside me.
Odysseos was still in Menalaos’ cabin when we got there. The two of them were sitting at a trestle table, spearing broiled chunks of lamb from a large oval platter with their daggers, flagons of wine at their elbows. The King of Sparta ordered all his servants out of the cabin once his guard