The Hittite - Ben Bova [71]
Single combat between Hector and Achilles. Hector was much the bigger of the two, an experienced fighter, cool and intelligent even in the fury of battle. Achilles was no doubt faster, though smaller, and fueled by the kind of rage that drives men to impossible feats. Only one of them would walk away from the combat, I knew. And I remembered Helen telling me that Hector’s death had been foretold.
Then I realized that the humming in my head was really the distant wailing and keening from the Myrmidones camp. I knew it was a matter of form for the women to mourn. But there were men’s deep voices among the cries of the women, and a drum beating a slow, sorrowful dirge.
I got slowly to my feet, still feeling shaky. Down the beach, where the Myrmidones’ camp was, a huge bonfire suddenly flared up, sending a cloud of sooty black smoke skyward.
“Achilles mourns his friend,” Poletes said. I could see that the excess of grief unnerved him slightly.
I realized that we were still in front of Agamemnon’s line of boats. My wife and sons must be nearby.
To Magro I said, “Take the men back to Odysseos’ area. I’ll join you before the sun sets.”
My head still spun slightly, and the Myrmidones’ mournful drumbeat was painful to my ears. I walked somewhat unsteadily toward the group of women gathered around wounded warriors, tending them with salves and cloth windings.
Suddenly my stomach heaved. I staggered to the shoreline and, one hand on the sticky tar of the boat, doubled over and retched into the sea. One of the women came to me, her eyes questioning.
“I’m all right,” I told her, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
She handed me a cloth soaked in cool water. I dabbed it on my lips, then cleaned my hands with it.
“Your leg is injured,” she said.
I looked down and saw that a slice on my calf was oozing blood. “It’s nothing,” I said.
“You’re one of the Hittites?” she asked.
“Yes. Where is Aniti?” Before she could say anything I added, “My wife.”
Her eyes went wide for an instant, then she pointed to the next boat, up the beach. “I saw her over there with her children.”
I thanked her and, splashing through the ankle-deep water, headed for the next boat.
Aniti was sitting on the sand while my two boys were at the water’s edge, splashing in the ripples running up the beach. She saw me approaching and jumped to her feet.
“You’re all right?” I asked.
She nodded wordlessly.
“I can see the boys are unharmed.”
“I kept them aboard the boat, so that they couldn’t see the killing.”
I nodded back at her.
“You’re hurt.”
“A scratch. I took a knock on the head, also. From Prince Hector himself.”
“You sound proud of it.”
I made myself smile. “It’s not many men who can say they took a blow from Hector and lived to tell of it.”
She looked away from me, toward the boys, then said in a low voice, “I’m glad you weren’t killed.”
“Aniti . . . I . . .” My tongue refused to work properly.
“You want to take the boys from me, I know.”
“I want to take them out of slavery. You, too,” I heard myself say. “I’m trying to get Agamemnon to release you. The three of you.”
She smiled bitterly. “The boys he will give you without quarrel. But not me. He values me too highly.”
My fists clenched. But I held my temper and said merely, “We’ll see.”
Then I turned away from her and headed back to where my men were readying themselves for their evening meal.
4
Despite the mourning rites among the Myrmidones, the rest of the camp was agog about the impending match between Achilles and Hector. There was almost a holiday mood among the men. As I made my way back to Odysseos’ area, they were placing bets, giving odds. They laughed and made jokes about it, as if the bout has nothing to do with blood and death. I realized that they were trying to drive away the dread and fear they all felt. And trying to keep the flicker of hope within them from blossoming into a flame that would be snuffed out if Hector killed Achilles.
I had my own worries. I