The Hittite - Ben Bova [74]
The High King seemed half asleep when we were ushered into his cabin. Odysseos’ two guards stayed outside in the gathering night. Agamemnon sat drowsily in a camp chair, a jewel-encrusted wine goblet in his right hand. Apparently the wound in his shoulder did not prevent him from lifting his arm to drink. No one else was in the cabin except a pair of women slaves, dark-eyed and silent in thin shifts that showed their bare arms and legs.
Odysseos took a stool facing the High King. I squatted on the carpeted ground at his side. He was offered wine. I was not.
“A tower that moves?” Agamemnon muttered after Odysseos had explained it to him twice. “Impossible! How could a stone tower be made to move?”
“It would be made of wood, son of Atreos. And covered with hides for protection.”
Agamemnon looked down at me blearily and let his chin sink to his broad chest. He seemed almost asleep. Still, the lamps casting long shadows across the room made his heavy-browed face seem sinister, even threatening.
“I had to return the captive Briseis to that young pup,” he grumbled. “And hand over a fortune of booty. Even with his loverboy slain by Hector the little snake refused to reenter the war unless his ‘rightful’ spoils were returned to him.” The scorn that he put on the word rightful could have etched granite.
“Son of Atreos,” Odysseos soothed, “if this plan of mine works we will sack Troy and gain so much treasure that even overweening Achilles will be satisfied.”
Agamemnon said nothing. He waved his goblet slightly and one of the slave women came immediately to fill it. Then she filled Odysseos’ golden cup.
“Achilles,” Agamemnon growled. I could hear the hatred in his voice. “If he slays Hector tomorrow the bards will sing his praises forever.”
“But the walls of Troy will still stand between us and the victory you deserve, High King,” said Odysseos.
Agamemnon smiled slyly. “On the other hand, Hector might kill Achilles. Then I’ll be rid of him.”
Lower, Odysseos repeated, “But the walls of Troy will still stand.”
“Three more weeks,” Agamemnon muttered. He slurped at his wine, spilling much of it over his already stained tunic. “Three more weeks is all I need.”
“Sire?”
Agamemnon let the goblet slip from his beringed fingers and plonk onto the carpeted ground. He leaned forward, a sly grin on his fleshy face.
“In three more weeks my ships will bring the grain harvest from the Sea of Black Waters through the Dardanelles to Mycenae. And neither Priam nor Hector will be able to stop them.”
Odysseos made a silent little “oh.” I saw at that moment that Agamemnon was no fool. If he could not conquer Troy, he would at least get his ships through the straits and back again, loaded with golden grain, before breaking off the siege. And if the Achaians had to sail away from Troy without winning their war, at least Agamemnon would have the year’s grain supply in his own city of Mycenae, ready to use it or sell it to his neighbors as he saw fit.
Odysseos had the reputation of being cunning, but I realized that the King of Ithaca was merely careful, a man who considered all the possibilities before choosing a course of action. Agamemnon was the crafty one: greedy, selfish and grasping.
Recovering quickly from his surprise, Odysseos said, “But now we have the chance of destroying Troy altogether. Not only will we have the loot of the city and its women, but you will have clear sailing through the Dardanelles for all the years of your kingship!”
Agamemnon slumped back on his chair. “A good thought, son of Laertes. A good thought. I’ll consider it and call a council to decide upon it. After tomorrow’s match.”
With a reluctant nod, Odysseos said, “After we see whether Achilles remains among us or dies on Hector’s spear.”
Agamemnon smiled broadly.