Vengeance of Orion (10 page)

I laughed. "Where I come from, old man, there is a saying, 'All is fair in love and war.' "

For once, Poletes had no answer. He grumbled to himself as I left him by the fire and sought out Odysseus.

In the musty tented quarters of the King of Ithaca I explained the possibilities of building siege towers.

"They can be put on wheels and pulled up to the walls?" This was a new idea to Odysseus.

"Yes, my lord."

"And these Hatti troops know how to build such machines?"

"Yes, they do."

In the flickering light of the lone copper lamp on his work table I could see Odysseus's eyes gleaming with the possibilities of it. Absently, he patted the thickly furred neck of the dog at his feet as he thought over the possibilities.

"Come," he said at last, "now is the moment to tell Agamemnon about this!"

The High King seemed half-asleep when we were ushered into his hut. Agamemnon sat drowsily in a camp chair, a jewel-encrusted wine goblet in his right hand. Apparently his shoulder had healed enough for him to bend his elbow. No one else was in the hut but a pair of women slaves, dark-eyed and silent in thin shifts that showed their bare arms and legs.

Odysseus sat facing the High King. I squatted on the floor at his side. We were offered wine. It was thick with spiced honey and barley meal.

"A tower that moves?" Agamemnon muttered after Odysseus had explained it to him twice. "Impossible! How could a stone tower . . ."

"It would be made of wood, son of Atreus. And covered with hides for protection."

Agamemnon looked down at me blearily and let his chin sink to his broad chest. The lamps cast long shadows across the room that made his heavy-browed face look sinister, even threatening.

"I had to return the captive Briseis to that young pup," he grumbled. "And hand him over a fortune of booty. Even with his lover slain by Hector the little snake refused to reenter the war unless his 'rightful' spoils were returned to him." The scorn he put on the word "rightful" could have etched steel.

"Son of Atreus," soothed Odysseus, "if this plan of mine works, we will sack Troy and gain so much treasure that even overweening Achilles will be happy."

Agamemnon said nothing. He waved his goblet slightly, and one of the slaves came to fill all three. Odysseus's was made of gold, like the High King's. Mine was wooden.

"Three more weeks," Agamemnon muttered. He slurped at his wine, spilling some of it over his already stained tunic. "Three more weeks is what I need."

"Sire?"

Agamemnon let his goblet slip from his fingers and plonk onto the carpeted ground. He leaned forward, a sly grin on his fleshy face.

"In three more weeks my ships will bring the grain harvest from the Sea of Black Waters through the Hellespont to Mycenae. And neither Priam nor Hector will be able to stop them."

Odysseus made a silent little "oh." I saw that Agamemnon was no fool. If he could not conquer Troy, he would at least get his ships through the straits and back again, loaded with grain, before breaking off the siege. And if the Achaians had to sail away from Troy without winning their war, at least Agamemnon would have the year's grain supply in his own city of Mycenae, ready to use it or sell it to his neighbors as he saw fit.

Odysseus had the reputation of being cunning, but I realized that the King of Ithaca was merely careful, a man who considered all the possibilities before he made his move. Agamemnon was the crafty one: sly, selfish, and grasping.

Recovering quickly from his surprise, Odysseus said, "But now we have the chance of destroying Troy altogether. Not only will we have the loot of the city, and its women, but you will have clear sailing through the Hellespont for all the years of your kingship!"

Agamemnon slumped back on his chair. "A good thought, son of Laertes. A good thought. I will consider it and call a council to decide upon it. After tomorrow's match."

With a nod, Odysseus said, "Yes, after we see whether Achilles remains among us or dies on Hector's spear."

Agamemnon smiled broadly.

Chapter 15

I slept fitfully that night.

I had a tent of my own now, as befits a commander of soldiers. And I had expected the heavy honeyed wine to act as a drug on my mind. But it did not. I tossed on my pallet of straw and every time I managed to doze off my inner vision filled with the faces of the Creators. They were arguing, bickering among themselves, placing wagers about who would win the coming battle.

Then I saw Athene, my beloved, standing silent and alone, far removed from the laughing uncaring gods who toyed with men's lives. She regarded me gravely, without a smile, without a sound. As still as a statue made of frozen flesh. She gazed into my eyes for endless moments, as if she were trying to impart some knowledge to me telepathically.

"You are dead," I said to her.

Instead of her voice, I heard Poletes's scratchy, rasping words, "As long as
you
revere Athene, and serve her, she is not dead."

Fine sentiment, I thought. But that does not allow me to hold her in my arms, to feel her warmth and her love.

Instead, I told myself, I will take the Golden One in these hands and crush the life out of him. Just as I once . . .

I remembered something. Someone. A dark, brooding man, a hulking gray-skinned shape that I had hunted down through the centuries and the millennia. Ahriman! I remembered him, his harsh, tortured, whispering voice.

I heard him now. "You fool," he whispered. "You seek for strength and find only weakness."

I thought I woke up. I thought I propped myself on an elbow and passed a weary hand over my cobwebbed eyes. But I heard, as distinctly as if he had been standing next to me, the clear cold voice of the Golden One: "Stop fighting against me, Orion. If a goddess can die, think how easily I can send one of my own creations to the final destruction."

I sat bolt upright and saw a gleam of gold seeping through the flaps of my tent. Scrambling outside, naked except for the sword I grabbed, I saw that it was only the morning sun starting the new day.

The morning dawned clear and bright and windy.

Although the single combat between Achilles and Hector was what everyone looked forward to, still the whole army prepared to march out onto the plain. Partly they went out because a single combat can degenerate into a general melee easily enough. Mostly they went out to get a close look at the fight.

I instructed Lukka to keep his men out of the fighting. "This will not be your kind of battle," I said. "There's no point in risking the men."

"We could be starting to fell the trees we need for the siege towers," he said. "I saw enough good ones across the river for it."

"Wait until this combat is over," I said. "Stand by the gate to the rampart here and be prepared to defend it from the Trojans if necessary."

He clasped his fist to his breast in acknowledgment.

Virtually the entire Achaian force drew itself up, rank upon rank, on the windswept plain before the camp. By the walls of the city the Trojans were drawing themselves up likewise, chariots in front, foot soldiers behind them, swirls of dust blowing into the cloudless sky. I could see pennants fluttering along the battlements on the city walls, and even imagined glimpsing Helen's golden bright hair on the tallest tower of Troy.

Odysseus had ordered me to stand at the left side of his chariot. "Protect my driver if we enter the fray," he said. And he saw to it that I was outfitted with one of the figure-eight body shields that extended from chin to ankle. It weighed heavily on my left arm, but the weight was almost a comfort. Five plies of hides stretched across a thin wooden frame and bossed with bronze studs, the shield would stop almost anything except a spear driven with the momentum of a galloping chariot behind it.

Poletes was up on the rampart with the slaves and
thetes
, straining his old eyes for a view of the fight. He would interrogate me for hours this night, I knew, dragging every detail of what I had seen out of my memory. Then I thought, if either of us is still alive after today's fighting.

As I stood on the windy plain, squinting against the bright sun, a roar went up from the Trojans. I saw Hector's chariot, pulled by four magnificent white horses, kicking up a cloud of dust as it sped from the Scaean gate and drove toward the head of the arrayed ranks of soldiery. Hector stood tall and proud, his great shield at his side, four huge spears in their holder, pointing heavenward.

For many minutes nothing more happened. Muttering started among the Achaian foot soldiers. I glanced up at Odysseus, who merely smiled tolerantly. Achilles was behaving like a self-appointed star, as usual, making everyone anxious for his appearance. I thought that it would have been good psychology on any opponent except Hector. That man will use the time to study every rock and bump on the field, I said to myself. He is no child to be frightened by waiting.

Finally an exultant roar sprang up among the Achaians. Turning, I saw four snorting, spirited, matched midnight-black horses, heads tossing, groomed so perfectly that they seemed to glow, pounding across the earthen ramp that cut across our trench. Achilles's chariot was inlaid with ebony and ivory, and his armor—only his second-best since Hector had stripped Patrokles's dead body—gleamed with burnished gold.

With his plumed helmet on, there was little of Achilles's face to be seen. But as his chariot swept past me I saw that his mouth was a grim tight line and his eyes burned like furnaces.

He did not stop for the usual prebattle formalities. He did not even slow down. His charioteer cracked his whip over the black horses' ears and they plunged forward at top speed as Achilles took a spear in his right hand and screamed loud enough to echo off the walls of Troy: "PATROKLES! PA . . . TRO . . . KLES!"

His chariot aimed straight for Hector's. The Trojan driver, startled, whipped his horses into motion and Hector hefted one of his spears.

The chariots pounded toward each other, and both warriors cast their spears simultaneously. Achilles's struck Hector's shield and staggered him. He almost tumbled out of the chariot, but he regained his balance and reached for another spear. Hector's shaft passed between Achilles and his charioteer, splintering the wooden floor of the chariot.

A chill went through me. Achilles had not raised his shield when Hector's spear drove toward him. He had not even flinched as the missile passed close enough to shave his young beard. Either he did not care what happened to him or he was mad enough to believe himself invulnerable.

The chariots swung past each other and again the two champions hurled spears. Hector's bounced off the bronze shoulder of Achilles's armor. Again the man made no move to protect himself. His own spear caught Hector's charioteer in the face. With an awful shriek he fell over backward, both hands pawing at the shaft that had turned his face into a bloody shambles.

The Achaians shouted and surged a few steps forward. Hector, knowing he could not control his horses and fight at the same time, jumped lightly from his chariot, two spears gripped in his left hand. The horses raced on, their reins slack, heading back for the walls of the city.

Achilles had the advantage now. His chariot drove around Hector, circling the stranded warrior again and again, seeking an advantage, a momentary dropping of his guard. But Hector held his shield firmly before him, crouching slightly, and pivoted smoothly to present nothing more to Achilles than a bronze plumed helmet, the body-length shield, and the greaves that protected his ankles.

Achilles cast another spear at him, but it went slightly wide. Hector remained in place, or seemed to. I noticed that each time he wheeled to keep his front to Achilles's chariot, he edged a step or two closer to his own ranks.

Achilles must have noticed this, finally, and jumped out of his chariot. A great gusting sigh of expectation went through both armies. The two champions were going to face each other on foot, at spear's length.

Hector advanced confidently toward the smaller Achaian. He spoke to Achilles, who spat out a reply. They were too far away for me to make out their words.

Then Achilles did something that wrenched a great moaning gasp from the Achaians. He threw his shield down clattering on the bare ground and faced Hector with nothing but his body armor and his spear.

The fool! I thought. He must actually believe that he's invulnerable. Achilles gripped his spear in both hands and faced Hector without a shield.

Dropping the shorter of his two spears, Hector drove straight at Achilles. He had the advantage of size and strength, and of experience, and he knew it. Achilles, smaller, faster, seemed to be absolutely crazy. He did not try to parry Hector's spear thrust or run out of its reach. Instead he dodged this way and that, avoiding Hector's spear by scant inches, keeping his own spear point aimed straight at Hector's eyes.

It is a truth of all kinds of hand-to-hand combat that you cannot attack and defend yourself at the same time. The successful fighter can switch from attack to defense and back again at the flick of an eye. Hector knew this, and his obvious aim was to keep the shieldless Achilles on the defensive. But Achilles refused to defend himself, except for dodging Hector's thrusts. I began to see method in his madness; Achilles's great advantages were speed and daring. The heavy shield would have slowed him.

He gave ground, and Hector moved steadily forward, but even there I soon saw that Achilles was edging around, moving to stand between Hector and the Trojan ranks, maneuvering Hector closer and closer to our own side.

I saw the look on Achilles's face as they sweated and grunted beneath the high sun. He was smiling. Like a little boy who enjoys pulling the wings off flies, like a man who was happily looking forward to driving his spear through the chest of his enemy, like a madman intent on murder. I had seen that smile before. On the lips of the Golden One.

Hector realized that he was being maneuvered. He changed his tactics and tried to engage Achilles's spear, knowing that his superior strength could force his enemy's point down, and then he could drive his own bronze spearhead into Achilles's unguarded body.

Achilles feinted and Hector followed the motion for a fraction of an instant. It was enough. Launching himself completely off his feet like a distance jumper, Achilles drove his spear with all the strength in both his arms into Hector's body. The point struck Hector's bronze breastplate; I could hear the screech as it slid up along the armor, unable to penetrate, and then caught under Hector's chin.

The impact knocked Hector backward but not off his feet. For an instant the two champions stood locked together, Achilles ramming the spear upward with both his hands white-knuckled against its haft, his eyes blazing hatred and bloodlust, his lips pulled back in a feral snarl. Hector's arms, one holding his long spear, the other with the great shield strapped to it, slowly folded forward, as if embracing his killer. The spear point went deeper into his throat, up through his jaw, and buried itself in the base of his brain.

Hector went limp, hanging on Achilles's spear point. Achilles wrenched it free and the Trojan prince's dead body slumped to the dusty ground.

"For Patrokles!" Achilles shouted, holding his bloodied spear aloft.

A triumphant roar went up from our ranks, while the Trojans seemed frozen in gasping horror.

Achilles threw down his bloody spear and pulled his sword from its scabbard. He hacked at Hector's neck once, twice, three times. He wanted the severed head as a trophy.

The Trojans screamed and charged at him. Without a word of command we charged too. In the span of a heartbeat the single combat turned into a general brawling battle.

I raced behind Odysseus's chariot, thinking that the very men who had hoped this fight between the champions would end the war were now racing into battle themselves, unthinking, uncaring, like murderous lemmings responding to some mysterious urge deep inside them.

"You enjoy fighting," I remembered the Golden One telling me once, long ago. "I built that instinct for killing into my creatures."

And then there was no time for thought. My sword was in my hand and enemies were charging at me, blood and murder in their eyes. Like Achilles, I slid my left arm free of the cumbersome shield. I did not need it; my senses went into overdrive and the world around me became a slow-motion dream.

My iron sword served me well. Bronze blades chipped or broke against it. Its sharp edge slashed through bronze armor. I caught up with Odysseus's chariot. He and several other mounted warriors had formed a screen over the body of Hector as Achilles and his Myrmidones stripped the corpse down to the skin. I saw the brave prince's severed head bobbing on a spear, and turned away in disgust. Then someone tied his ankles to a chariot's tail and tried to fight through the growing melee and make his way with the body back toward the Achaian camp.

Instead of being dispirited by these barbarities, the Trojans seemed infuriated. They fought with a rage born of desecration and battled fiercely to recover Hector's body before it could be dragged back behind our rampart.

While this struggle grew in fury, I realized that none of the Trojans were protecting their line of retreat, or even thinking about guarding the gate from which they had left the city.

I rushed to Odysseus's chariot and shouted over the cursing and clanging of the battle, "The gate! They've left the gate unprotected!"

Odysseus's eyes gleamed. He looked up toward the city walls, then back at me. He nodded once.

"To the gate!" he called in a voice that roared across the plain. "To the gate before they can close it!"

Screaming his eerie battle cry, Odysseus fought his way clear of the struggle around Hector's corpse, followed by two more chariots. I ran ahead, slashing my way clear until there was nothing between me and the walls of Troy but empty bare ground.

"To the gate!" I heard behind me, and a chariot clattered past, its horses leaning hard into their harnesses, nostrils blowing wide, eyes white and bulging.

Within seconds Hector's corpse was forgotten. The battle had turned into a race for the Scaean gate. Odysseus led the Achaians who were trying to get there before the Trojans could close it. The Trojan army streamed toward it so that they could get inside the protection of the city walls before the gate was closed and they were cut off.