The Hittite - Ben Bova [94]
I looked past his sad, weatherbeaten face to the smoldering fire of the city, still glowing a sullen red against the darkening shadows of the evening sky.
“You will be a rich man before this night is over, Master Lukka,” said the old storyteller. “Agamemnon cannot help but give Odysseos a great share of the spoils and Odysseos will be generous with you— far more generous than the High King himself would be.”
I shook my head wearily. “All I want are my sons and my wife.”
He smiled bitterly. “Ah, but wait until Odysseos heaps gold and bronze upon you, tripods and cooking pots of precious iron. Then you will feel differently.”
There was no point arguing with him, so I said merely, “We’ll see.”
I decided to go to Agamemnon’s part of the camp and get Odysseos to ask that my family be returned to me. But before I could go more than a few steps Magro and the other four remaining men of my squad came staggering drunkenly across the sand toward me, followed by more than a dozen slaves tottering under loads of loot: fine blankets and boots, beautiful bows of bone and ivory, colorful robes. And behind them came a half-dozen women who huddled together, clinging to one another, staring at their captors with wide fearful eyes.
Magro halted his little pro cession when he saw me standing there, my fists on my hips.
“Is this what you’ve taken from the city?” I asked him.
He wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t stand at attention, although he weaved a little. “Yes sir. Do you want to pick your half now or later?”
It was customary for the leader of a squad to take his choice of half the spoils, then allow the men to divide the remainder among themselves.
I shook my head. “No. Divide it among yourselves.”
Magro gaped with astonishment. “All of it?”
“Yes. You’ve done well to stick together like this. To night Agamem non divides the major spoils. The Achaians may want a share of your booty.”
“We’ve already put aside the king’s share,” he said. “But your own . . .”
“You take it. I don’t want it.”
“Not even a woman or two?”
I scowled at him. “I’m going to find my wife, Magro. And my two sons.”
He nodded, but the expression on his face made it clear that he thought I was being foolish. And I realized that there was only one woman in the camp that I wanted: beautiful, forbidden Helen.
Shaking my head at my own madness, I left them there by the water’s edge and started again toward the part of the beach where Agamemnon’s boats rested on the sand.
Before I got halfway there I saw scores of slaves and thetes toting armfuls of driftwood, timber, broken pieces of furniture from the looted city toward three tall pyres that they were piling up in the center of the camp, each one taller than the height of a man.
From the other side of the pyres Nestor led a band of priests decked in fine robes taken from Troy in a pro cession through the camp, followed by Agamemnon, Odysseos and all the other chiefs— all in their most splendid armor and carrying long glittering spears that seemed to me more ornamental than battle weapons.
“They are preparing to make their sacrificial offerings to the gods,” said Poletes. I hadn’t realized he had tagged along behind me until he spoke. His face looked solemn, gloomy.
“Then Agamemnon should be in a mood to reward me,” I said.
Poletes shrugged. “Who knows what mood the high and mighty king will be in?”
I watched as Nestor led the parade through the camp, singing hymns of praise to Zeus and the other immortals. The sacrificial victims were being assembled by the pyres: a whole herd of smelly goats and bulls and sheep, hundreds of them. Horses, too. They kicked up enough dust to blot out the sullen embers of burning Troy up on the bluff. Their bleatings and bellowings made a strange counterpoint to the chanting and singing of the Achaians.
Standing off to one side of them were