The Hittite - Ben Bova [83]
I suddenly realized that the same thought had been hovering in the back of my mind. But then I wondered, “And go where?”
“Anywhere but here!” Magro said fervently. “This place is a death trap. Nothing good will come from this fighting.”
I thought he was right. But then I thought of Helen. She would be at the mercy of her former husband if the Achaians conquered Troy. Or she could become Queen of Troy if they could drive the Achaians away.
“We’re pledged to Odysseos,” I heard myself tell Magro. “We have joined the House of Ithaca. We’ve eaten his bread and we’ll fight his battles.”
In the flickering light of the campfire I could make out a twisted smile on Magro’s face. “Even though it’s stupid?”
“Loyalty isn’t stupid.”
He gusted out a sigh. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
As Magro started to get to his feet, Poletes came rushing to us and dropped to his knees before me, his face solemn in the light of our dying fire, his great owl’s eyes grave.
“What’s the news of Achilles?” I asked him.
“The great slayer of men is finished as a warrior,” said Poletes, his voice low, somber. “The arrow cut the tendon in the back of his heel. He will never walk again without a crutch.”
I felt my mouth tighten grimly.
Poletes glanced at the jug of wine by the fire, then looked back at me questioningly. I nodded. He filled cups for Magro and me, then poured himself a heavy draft and gulped at it.
“Achilles is crippled, then,” I said.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Poletes sighed. “Well, he can live a long life back in Phthia. Once his father dies he will be king and probably rule over all of Thessaly. That’s not so bad, I think.”
I nodded, but I wondered how Achilles would take to the life of a cripple. He had chosen glory, he’d told me, over a long life.
As if in answer to my thoughts a loud wail sprang up from the Myrmidones’ end of the camp. Magro and I jumped to our feet. Poletes got up more slowly.
“My lord Achilles!” a voice cried out. “My lord Achilles is dead!”
I glanced at Poletes.
“Poison on the arrowhead?” he guessed.
I threw down the wine cup and started off for the Myrmidones’ tents. All the camp seemed to be rushing in the same direction. I saw Odysseos’ broad back, and Big Ajax outstriding everyone with his long legs.
Spear-wielding Myrmidon guards held back the crowd at the edge of their camp area, allowing only the nobles to pass through. I pushed up alongside Odysseos and went past the guards with him. Menalaos, Diomedes, Nestor and almost every one of the Achaian leaders were gathering in front of Achilles’ cabin.
All but Agamemnon, I saw.
We went inside, past weeping soldiers and women tearing their hair and scratching their faces as they screamed their lamentations.
Achilles’ couch, up on the raised platform at the far end of the cabin, was spattered with bright red blood. The young warrior lay on it, left ankle swathed in oil-soaked ban dages, a dagger still gripped in his right hand, a jagged red slash just under his left ear running halfway across his windpipe still dripping blood. His eyes stared sightlessly at the mudchinked planks of the ceiling. His mouth was open in a rictus that might have been a final smile or a grimace of pain.
Facing the long life of a cripple, mighty Achilles had killed himself. His final act of glory.
Odysseos turned to me. “Tomorrow you start your men building the siege towers.”
10
Odysseos and the other nobles headed for Agamemnon’s cabin for a council of war. I went back to my tent and tried to sleep. Tomorrow we would begin to build the siege towers. We will put an end to this war. We will cross Troy’s high walls and destroy the city. I knew the fire and blood that awaited the Trojans. Battle is hard and bloody. Sacking a city is dirty and murderous. The men will run wild. Looting and raping are their rewards for winning, for surviving long enough to win. I remembered