The Hittite - Ben Bova [96]
He looked shocked. “Take one of the victims intended for the gods? Sacrilege! Be off with you!”
“The High King was to return her to me,” I insisted. “She’s here among the victims by mistake.”
“The gods don’t make mistakes,” he answered smugly. “You must accept their judgment.”
My hands clenched at my sides. I held my temper, but just barely. No sense starting a brawl when my sword was in the hands of the guard and he had a pair of spearmen backing him.
“I’ll be back with the king’s messenger,” I said to the priest. “If anything happens to my wife I’ll hold you responsible.”
The flames of the pyre cast flickering red highlights across his bloated face. “I serve the gods,” he said, his voice quavering slightly. “What happens is their doing, not mine.”
“And I’ll serve you on a spit if my wife isn’t here and unharmed when I return.”
With that I grabbed my sword out of Patros’ hand and headed off for Agamemnon’s cabin.
Aniti wailed, “Lukka, wait! Take me with you!”
I lowered my head and broke into a trot. There was no time to waste.
The second pyre burst into flame, and the ritual slaughter began. First came the animals, from a few doves to raging, bellowing bulls that thrashed madly even though their hooves were firmly lashed together, arching their backs and tossing their heads until the priest’s ritual stone ax cut through their throats with showers of hot blood. Horses, sheep, goats, all were being led to the sacrificial altars.
As the sun went down the pyres blazed across the darkening beach, sending up smoke to the heavens that the Achaians thought was pleasing to their gods. Before long the priests were covered with blood and the camp stank of entrails and excrement.
2
I reached Agamemnon’s boats. It seemed that the whole camp was gathering there. The spoils of Troy had been piled into a gigantic heap, gleaming and glittering in the fires of the pyres. Hundreds of captives were now being marched toward the altars that had been built by the pyres, guarded by solemn-faced warriors.
Agamemnon was sitting on a beautifully carved chair that had been pillaged from the city, up atop a makeshift platform that served as a rough sort of throne. He had already started to divide the spoils, so much for each chieftain, starting with white-bearded old Nestor.
The Achaian nobles were crowding around, greed and envy shining in their eyes. I searched for Odysseos and saw him standing off to one side of Agamemnon’s impromptu throne.
As I made my way toward the King of Ithaca, Agamemnon parceled out bronze armor and weapons, gold ornaments, beautiful urns and vases, porphyry and onyx, glittering jewels; kitchen implements of copper, iron tripods and cooking pots; robes, silks, blankets, tapestries— and women, young boys and girls. I thought of my sons. Were they safe? Would the High King hand them over to one of his heroes?
Half of everything Agamemnon kept for himself: the High King’s prerogative. But as I pushed past some of the chieftains and nobles I heard them complain about his tightfisted ways.
“He’s got the generosity of a dung beetle,” grumbled one grizzled old warrior.
“He knows we did the hardest fighting, up on the wall,” said an Ithacan. “And what do we get for it? Less than his wine steward.”
“Those women should have been ours, I tell you. The fat king is too greedy.”
“What can you do? He takes what he wants and we get his leavings.”
I thought that even Odysseos looked less than pleased as I neared him. The pyres lit his darkly bearded face with flickering lurid red.
I went around behind the assembled kings. A ragged line of guards in armor stood there, leaning on their spears. The Ithacans recognized me and let me through. I came up behind Odysseos and called softly, “My lord Odysseos.”
He twitched with surprise and turned to face me. “Hittite, what are you doing here?”
“My wife has been placed among the sacrificial