The Hittite - Ben Bova [97]
He frowned at me. “I can’t get Agamemnon’s attention now. Later, after the spoils have been meted out.”
“But that will be too late! They’ve already started slaughtering the human sacrifices.”
Odysseos glanced at Agamemnon, glorying in his conquest atop his makeshift throne. Then he pulled off the copper band from his wrist. It was studded with glittering jewels. Handing it to me, he said, “Find a priest, show him this and tell him that the King of Ithaca commands him to release your wife.”
It was as much as he would do, I realized. I thanked him and sprinted away to search for a priest. In the back of my mind I wondered if my sons were truly safe, but I knew that Aniti was in imminent danger.
It was maddening. The boys must be nearby, I thought. But I had no time to search for them. I pushed through the men crowded around Agamemnon and the pile of spoils, looking for a priest. They were all gathered at the altars that had been set up next to the three pyres, where guards were dragging old men and boys to their deaths.
I raced to the nearest altar, so close to the blazing pyre that the heat of the flames felt like an oven. A lad of ten or eleven was struggling madly as a pair of guards hauled him twisting and screaming to the waist-high stone they were using as an altar. Even with his hands tied behind his back and his ankles hobbled the boy put up enough of a fight for one of the guards to club him with the hilt of his sword. Then they hefted him up, moaning and half-conscious, and draped him across the altar. Three priests stood there, their robes and beards so soaked in blood that they looked black and evil in the flaming light of the pyre.
The boy’s eyes opened wide as the oldest priest raised his stone knife. He started to screech but the priest sliced the boy’s throat open in a shower of blood that silenced him forever.
There were several other priests, younger men, standing by the altar watching. Their robes were also stiff and black with victims’ blood. They looked tired from the work they had been doing. I clutched at the first one I could reach.
“What?” He seemed startled.
Showing him Odysseos’ bejeweled wristband, I said, “The King of Ithaca commands the release of one of the women. She was put in among the victims by mistake.”
He stared down at the jeweled copper band, then looked up into my face. “You’re no Ithacan.”
“I serve Odysseos,” I said, gesturing to the armband I wore.
The priest was young enough so that his beard was still dark. But his eyes were shrewd, suspicious.
“How do I know that you didn’t steal these trinkets?”
I slid my sword from its sheath. “I am a Hittite. My sword is iron. I serve the King of Ithaca.”
“I’m only a junior priest, fit only to slaughter animals. I can’t—”
“You’ll do what I ask or I’ll make a sacrifice of you.”
Strangely, he smiled at me. “So this sacrificial victim you want to save is a woman, eh?”
“My wife.”
That made his dark brows go up. “Your wife?”
“Come with me,” I said, clutching his shoulder once again. “I’ll explain on the way.”
Dragging the priest by his arm, I hurried across the sand to the crowd of victims that were now being herded slowly by their guards toward the sacrificial altars. I quickly told the priest my story, not caring if he believed me or not. The victims shuffled reluctantly toward their doom, some of the women wailing and moaning, but most of them silent and hollow-eyed, beyond hope. The guards prodded them along with their spears.
I couldn’t find Patros. The whole mass of victims was moving like a reluctant herd of cattle toward the blazing pyres and the blood-soaked altars. I could smell the iron tang of blood in the air, and the stink of fear: sweat and piss.
“You can’t pass through!” said one of the guards as we approached them. He waved his spear angrily.
“The Hittite woman,” I shouted at him. “She’s to be released.”
“What Hittite woman?” the guard shouted back, frowning. Three of his companions came edging toward us.
“My wife, dammit!” I snapped. “I’ve got to find her before she’s killed!”
The guard glanced