The Hittite - Ben Bova [95]
Then I saw a different group, women and boys: slaves from the camp. They were going to be sacrificed, too, I realized. Agamemnon had no intention of bringing them back across the sea with him. Gold, yes. Fine robes and weapons and jewelry that would add to his treasury. But not the slaves he had kept at camp, except for the royal Trojan women.
I ran toward them, seeking Aniti and my sons. A cordon of Achaian guards surrounded them, armed with spears.
“My wife!” I shouted at the nearest one. “I’ve got to find my wife.”
Like any soldier, he bucked me to his commanding officer, a stumpy, thickset Achaian named Patros. He listened to me with some impatience and told me to get one of the High King’s servitors to bring an order releasing my wife and sons.
“Let me find them,” I pleaded. “Let me see them so they know I’ll save them.”
Patros looked me over. He was a grim-faced old veteran with a dark bushy beard and a no-nonsense attitude.
“I’ll hold your sword while you search,” he said.
Gladly I gave him my iron sword and plunged into the crowd of women and boys, shouldering through them, looking for Aniti.
At last I found her, sitting on the ground amid a sad, bedraggled group of other women, mostly older than she.
She looked surprised to see me. Scrambling to her feet, she said, “Lukka! You’re here!”
“Where are the boys?” I demanded.
“The boys? What of me? They’re going to kill me!”
“I’ll get them to release you. Where are my sons?”
“Back at Agamemnon’s boats. I left them with one of his serving women.”
“Good.” I turned and started toward the guards ringing the victims.
Aniti grabbed at my arm with both hands, sinking her nails into my flesh. “Wait! Take me with you!”
“The guards won’t let you pass.”
She was suddenly frantic. “Take me with you! Don’t leave me! They’ll kill me!”
Other women began to crowd around us, each of them pleading, beseeching. I swatted the nearest with a backhand that knocked her to the sand and the others cringed backward.
To Aniti I said, “I’ll be back with one of the High King’s men. I’ll get them to free you.”
“No!” she screamed. “Don’t leave me here!”
Pulling free of her, I repeated, “I’ll be back in time to free you.”
At that instant one of the pyres lit up with a roar. Flames shot skyward. I could feel the blast of heat on my face.
Aniti sank to the ground, sobbing. “Don’t leave me, Lukka. Please, please, take me with you.”
I knew it was fruitless, but I bent down and lifted her to her feet. “Come on, then,” I said, as gently as I could.
Several of the other women followed behind us. Sure enough, Patros, still holding my iron sword, stopped us.
“You can go, Hittite. She cannot.”
Two of his spearmen moved toward us. One of them jabbed the butt of his spear at the crowd of women that was gathering behind us and they gave way.
“This one is my wife,” I said to Patros.
He shook his head. “Orders. The sacrificial offerings are to stay here until the priests come for them.”
Aniti seemed frozen with shock. She stood at my side, eyes wide, mouth half open, clutching my arm.
I said to Patros, “You can keep my iron sword. Just let me take my wife with me.”
He was a decent enough man. He knew he couldn’t back down from his orders, not even for a sword of iron. But he sent one of his spearmen to find a priest. I waited impatiently. I could see that Aniti was trembling, her eyes darting everywhere, panting with fear.
The spearman brought a priest, a young, apple-shaped fellow with smooth cheeks and oiled locks hanging down to his shoulders. His robe of sea-green was richly embroidered with gold thread: spoils from Troy, I reckoned.
Before Patros could say a word,