The Hittite - Ben Bova [82]
“You saw?”
“I did. That arrow was meant for his heart.”
“How bad a wound do you think it is?”
“I’ve seen worse,” said Odysseos. “Still, he’ll be out of action for many days.”
We trudged across the blood-soaked plain side by side. The wind was coming off the water again, blowing dust in our faces, forcing us to squint as we walked toward the camp. Every muscle in my body ached. Blood was crusted on my sword arm, my legs, spattered across my leather jerkin. I could see swarms of flies already crawling over the dead bodies that littered the field.
“You fought well,” Odysseos said. “For a few moments there I thought we would force the gate and enter the city at last.”
I shook my head wearily. “ We can’t force a gate that is defended. It’s too easy for the Trojans to hold a narrow opening.”
Odysseos nodded agreement. “Do you think your men could really build a tower that will allow us to scale their wall?”
“We’ve done it before. At Ugarit and elsewhere.”
“Ugarit,” Odysseos repeated. He seemed impressed. “I will speak to Agamemnon and the council. Until Achilles rejoins us we have little hope of storming their gate.”
“And little hope even with Achilles.”
He looked at me sternly. Odysseos didn’t like hearing that, but he said nothing.
“My sons,” I reminded him. “My wife.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “I will speak to Agamemnon about them.”
“I want them.”
“I understand.” Then Odysseos smiled wryly. “I have a wife, too. And a son. Back at Ithaca.”
Perhaps he did understand.
Poletes was literally hopping up and down on his knobby legs as we entered the camp, following Achilles on his stretcher.
“What a day!” he exclaimed. “What a day! The bards will sing of this day for all time!”
As usual, he milked me for every last detail of the fighting. He had been watching from the top of the rampart, of course, but the mad melee at the gate was too far away from his old eyes and too confused for him to make out.
“And what did Odysseos say at that point?” he would ask. “I saw Diomedes and Menalaos riding side by side toward the gate. Which of them got there first?”
I could do nothing more than shake my head. “I was too busy keeping Trojan spear points off me to take notice of such things, storyteller.”
“Who fired the arrow that wounded Achilles? Could it have been Prince Paris? He has a reputation as an archer, you know.”
The women set out a meal of thick barley soup, roast lamb and onions, flat bread still hot from the clay oven and a flagon of unadulterated wine. Poletes kept asking questions with every bite.
I saw that my men were eating as I tried to satisfy the old storyteller’s curiosity. The sun dipped below the western sea’s edge and the island mountaintops turned gold, then violet, then faded into darkness. The first star gleamed in the cloudless purple sky, so beautiful that I understood why it was named after Asertu.
There was no end to Poletes’ impatient questions, so I finally sent him to the Myrmidones’ camp to learn for himself of Achilles’ condition. Then I stretched out on my blanket, glad to be rid of the old man’s pestering.
Magro came over and squatted on the sand beside me. “A hard day.”
I sat up and asked him, “How’s your arm?”
“It’s nothing. A little stiff, that’s all.”
“Good.”
He hesitated a heartbeat, then asked, “What do you think of today’s battle?”
“Hardly a battle,” I replied. “They’re more like a bunch of overgrown boys tussling in a playground.”
“The blood is real.”
“Yes. I know. But they’ll never take a fortified city by storming defended gates.”
“They don’t know anything about warfare, do they?”
“Not much.”
Magro lifted his eyes. “There’re enough good trees on the other side of the river to build six good siege towers, maybe more.”
“ We need the High King’s permission first,” I said.
Magro spat, “The High King. He’s a fathead.”
“But he’s the High King.”
Hunching closer to me, Magro whispered, “Why don’t we just get up and leave? Why should we get ourselves killed for them?”
Before I could answer, he went on, “We could march into Agamemnon’s camp to night and