The Hittite - Ben Bova [72]
My head was spinning again, but this time with the emotions that seethed within me. Aniti was my wife, despite all that had happened to her, despite all she herself had done, she was still my wife and my possession. I told myself that if I took the boys, I would need their mother to tend them.
But the truth was that I could not leave Aniti in the hands of Agamemnon or any other man. I could not leave her in slavery and simply walk away from her. I realized that she was not only my wife, my property.She was my responsibility. I wished it were not so, but it was. I could not leave her to remain in slavery.
The wailing lamentations from the Myrmidones’ camp continued unabated. It sent shivers up my spine. But slowly it came to me that the others felt that this battle between the two champions could settle the war, one way or the other. They thought that no matter which champion fell, the war would end tomorrow and the rest of us could go home.
I wondered if that was true. If Achilles dies tomorrow, I thought, most of these Achaians will pack up their boats and sail away. But if Hector is killed, the Trojans could still button themselves inside their high walls and defy Agamemnon’s host. The Achaians had no hope of overtopping those walls; they knew nothing of siege engines and scaling ladders.
But I did.
Once I reached our section of the camp and saw that my men, what was left of them, were settled by their tents, I went to Odysseos’ boat and climbed the rope ladder to its deck.
A young guard was sitting on the gunwale, staring wistfully out to sea, when I clambered up on the opposite side. The sun was nearing the flat horizon of the sea, turning the sky to flaming reds and oranges. Puffy clouds were turning violet, rimmed with gold. The guard jumped to his feet once I slapped my boots on the deck’s planks.
“I wish to see the king,” I said, before he could question me.
“You are the Hittite,” he replied respectfully.
“I am.”
“Wait here.”
He hurried off behind the cabin. I stood and waited, my head still throbbing. It took several moments, but at last the youngster reappeared and beckoned to me.
“My lord Odysseos will speak to you, Hittite.” He gestured toward the far end of the cabin.
Odysseos was sitting on a plank bench, alone, dressed in nothing more than a rough wool chiton. A flagon of wine stood on the table before him, beaded with condensation. It looked deliciously cool. I saw only one cup.
“Hittite,” said Odysseos. “You’re still alive.”
“Two of my men were killed, my lord.”
“But we survived. The camp is still here and the Trojans are locked behind their walls once again. Only a few of the boats were burned.”
I stood before him and saw that he had fresh cuts on his forearm, his shoulder, even a slight nick above his brow.
“My wife and sons survived also,” I said.
Odysseos eyed me. “You want them back.”
“I do, my lord.”
He reached for the flagon and poured himself a cup of wine. “You’ll have to ask the High King for them.”
“Yes, I know.”
Breaking into a rare smile, Odysseos said, “This would be a good time for it. Agamemnon should be happy that Achilles has returned to the fight.”
I understood the logic of it.
“But the High King does not give gifts so easily,” he added, bringing the cup to his lips. His eyes stayed fixed on mine.
“The woman is my wife, my lord. She belongs to me.”
“Still . . . it might be better to wait until tomorrow, after Achilles slays Hector. He’ll be in a more giving mood then.”
“But what if Hector slays Achilles?”
Odysseos shrugged. “That would make things . . . difficult.”
I asked, “Do you think the Trojans will surrender if Hector falls?”
His brows knit; he hadn’t thought of what would happen after the battle between the two.
“Surrender? No, I suppose not. The Trojans won’t let us inside