Chapter 13

I brought Poletes with me. We waited until nightfall, then went to the southern end of the camp where the larger river, the Scamander, anchored both our right flank and the flank of the Trojan forces camped on the plain.

Odysseus saw to it that we obtained a flimsy reed boat, and I paddled across the river's strong current while Poletes bailed. It was a race to see if the leaky reed vessel would sink before we could reach the far shore. We made it, but just barely.

The night was dark; the moon had not yet risen. Wisps of fog were drifting in from the sea.

"A night for ghosts and demons," Poletes whispered.

But my eye was on the far bank of the river, where the Trojan campfires gleamed.

"Never mind ghosts and demons," I whispered back to him. "Be on the lookout for Trojan scouts and foragers."

I had a new sword at my side, and a dark blue cloak across my shoulders. Poletes carried only a small hunting knife; he was no good with weapons, he said. He too had a cloak for warmth against the night chill, and he bore a small knapsack of dried meat and bread and a leather sack of wine.

On my left wrist was a copper band that bore a copy of the Hatti High King's agreement with Agamemnon. It looked like an ordinary wristband, but the cuneiform symbols were etched into it. Roll it across a slab of wet clay and the document would reproduce itself.

We spent the darkest hours of the night skirting along the riverbank, moving inland past the plain of Ilios and the city of Troy. In the darkness the thick bushes tangled against our feet, slowing us. We tried to move silently, but often we had to hack the leafy branches out of our way. By the time the moon came up over the distant mountains, we were climbing the steady slope of the first of the foothills. I could see the edge of the woods ahead, lofty oak and ash trees, beech and larch, silvery and silent in the moonlight. Farther uphill, dark pines and spruce rose straight and tall. The bushes were thinner here and we could make better time.

Poletes was puffing hard, but he did his best to keep up with me. As we plunged into the darker shadows of the trees an owl hooted, as if to challenge us.

"Athene welcomes us," Poletes panted.

"What?"

He grabbed at my shoulder. I stopped and turned around. He bent over, hands on knobby knees, wheezing and gasping for breath.

"We don't need... forest demons," he panted. "You have... your own demon... inside you."

I felt a pang of conscience. "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't realize I was going too fast for you."

"Can we... rest here?"

"Yes."

He slung the knapsack off his shoulder and collapsed to the mossy ground. I took in a deep breath of clean mountain air, crisp with the tang of pine.

"What was that you said about Athene?" I asked, kneeling beside him.

Poletes waved a hand vaguely. "The owl... it is Athene's symbol. Its hooting means that she welcomes us to the safety of these woods. We are under her protection."

I felt my jaw clenching. "No, old man. She can't protect anyone, not even herself. Athene is dead."

Even in the darkness I could see his eyes go round. "What are you saying? That's blasphemy!"

I shrugged and squatted on the ground beside him.

"Orion," Poletes said earnestly, propping himself on one elbow, "the gods cannot die. They are immortal!"

"Athene is dead," I repeated, feeling the hollow ache of it in my guts.

"But you serve her!"

"I serve her memory. And I live to avenge her murder."

He shook his head in disbelief. "It is impossible, Orion. Gods and goddesses cannot die. Not as long as one mortal remembers them. As long as you revere Athene, and serve her, she is not dead."

"Perhaps so," I said, to placate him and calm his fear. "Perhaps you are right."

We stretched out for a few hours' sleep, wrapped in our cloaks. I was afraid to close my eyes so I lay there listening to the subtle night sounds of the forest, the soft rustling of the trees in the cool dark breeze, the chirrup of insects, the occasional hoot of an owl.

She is dead, I told myself. She died in my arms. And I will kill the Golden One someday.

The moon peeked down at me through the swaying branches of the trees. Artemis, sister of Apollo, I thought. Will you defend your brother against me? Or was that you arguing against him? Will the other gods fight against me or will I find allies among you in my vengeance against the Golden One?

I must have fallen asleep, for I dreamed that I saw her again: Athene, standing tall and radiant in gleaming silver, her long dark hair burnished like polished ebony, her beautiful gray eyes regarding me gravely.

"You are not alone, Orion," she said to me. "There are allies all around you. You have only to find them. And lead them to your goal."

I reached out to her, only to find myself sitting upright on the mossy forest floor, the fresh yellow light of sunrise slanting between the trees. Birds were singing a welcome to the new day.

Poletes stirred before I tried to wake him. We ate a cold breakfast washed down with warm wine, then resumed our march.

We cut northward now, toward the main road that led from Troy inland. Over two rows of wooded hills we climbed, and as we reached the crest of the third, we saw spread out below us a broad valley dotted with cultivated fields. A river meandered gently through the valley, and along its banks tiny villages huddled.

An ugly column of black smoke rose from one of the villages.

I pointed. "There's the Hatti army."

We hurried down the wooded slope and out across the fields of chest-high grain, wading through the golden crop like shipwrecked sailors staggering to the safety of an unknown shore.

"Why would a Trojan ally be burning a Trojan village?" Poletes asked.

I had no answer. My attention was fixed on that column of smoke, and the pitiful cluster of burning huts that produced it. I could see wagons and horses now, and men in armor that glittered under the morning sun.

We breasted the ripening grain until we came to the edge of the field. Poletes tugged at my cloak.

"Perhaps we'd better lie low until we find out what's going on here."

"No time for that," I said. "Hector must be attacking the beach by now. If these are Hatti troops, we've got to find out what they're up to."

I plunged ahead and within a dozen strides broke out of the cultivated field. I could clearly see the troops now. They were taller and fairer than the Achaians. And, man for man, better armed and equipped. Each soldier wore a tunic of chain mail and a helmet of polished black iron. Their swords were long, and their blades were iron, not bronze. Their shields were small and square and worn across their backs, since there was no fighting going on.

A half-dozen soldiers were herding a peasant family out of their hut: a man, his wife, and two young daughters. They looked terrified, like rabbits caught in a trap. They fell to their knees and raised their hands in supplication. One of the soldiers tossed a torch onto the thatched roof of the hut, while the others gathered around the pleading, crying family with drawn swords and ugly smiles.

"Stop that!" I called, striding toward them. I could hear the rustling behind me of Poletes diving into the stalks of grain to hide himself.

The soldiers turned toward me.

"Who the hell are you?" their leader shouted.

"A herald from High King Agamemnon," I said, stepping up to him. He was slightly shorter than I, well built, scarred from many battles. His face was as hard and fierce as a hunting falcon's, his eyes glittering with suspicion, his nose bent hawklike. His sword was in his hand. I kept mine in my scabbard.

"And who in the name of the Nine Lords of the Earth is High King Aga... whatever?"

I extended my left hand. "I bear a message from your own High King, a message of peace and friendship he sent to Agamemnon."

The Hatti soldier grinned sourly. "Peace and friendship, eh?" He spat at my feet. "That's how much peace and friendship are worth." To the five men behind him he said, "Slit the farmer's throat and take the women. I'll deal with this one myself."

My body went into hyperdrive instantly, every sense so acute that I could see the pulse throbbing in his neck, just below his ear, and hear the slight swish of his iron blade swinging through the air. Beyond him I saw one of the other soldiers grab the kneeling farmer by the hair and yank his head back to bare his throat. The wife and daughters drew in their breaths to scream.

I easily ducked under the swinging sword blade and launched myself at the soldier who was about to slaughter the farmer. My flying leap knocked both of them to the ground. I rolled to my feet and kicked the soldier in the head. He went over on his back, unconscious.

Everything happened so quickly that my reactions seemed automatic, not under my conscious control. I disarmed the two nearest soldiers before their partners could move. When they did stir, it seemed to be in slow motion. I could see what they intended to do by the movement of their eyes, the bunching of muscles in their biceps or thighs. It was a simple matter to ram a fist into a solar plexus and bring my other hand up into the jaw of the next man, fracturing bone.

I stood before the huddled, kneeling family, five Hatti soldiers on the ground behind me and their leader facing me, sword still in his right hand. His mouth hung agape, his eyes bulged. There was no fear in his face, just an astonishment that made his breath catch in his throat.

For an instant we stood facing each other, poised for combat. Then, with a roaring curse, he pulled back his sword arm for what I thought would be a charging attack at me.

Instead, he threw the sword. I saw its point flying straight for my chest. No time for anything but a slight sidestep. As the blade slid past my leather vest I grabbed at its hilt. The momentum of the sword and my own motion turned me completely around. When I faced the Hatti warrior again I had his sword in my hand.

He stood rooted to the ground. I am sure he would have run away if he could have commanded his feet, but the shock of what he had just seen froze him.

"Get your men together and take me to your commanding officer," I said, gesturing with his sword.

"You..." he gaped at the sword, not lifting his eyes to look me in the face, "you're not... human. You must be a god."

"He serves Athene!" piped Poletes, coming up from his hiding place in the grain field, a gap-toothed smile on his wrinkled old face. "No man can stand against Orion, servant of the warrior goddess."

I handed him back his sword. "What is your name, soldier?"

"Lukka," he answered. It took him three tries to get his sword back into its scabbard, his hands were shaking so.

"I have no quarrel with you, Lukka, or with any Hatti soldier. Take me to your commander; I bear a message for him."

Lukka was totally awed. He gathered up his men: One had a broken jaw; another seemed dazed and glassy-eyed with a concussion.

The farmer and his family crawled on their hands and knees to me and began to kiss my sandaled feet. I pulled the man up roughly by his shoulders and told the women to stand up.

"May all the gods protect you and bring you your every desire," said the farmer. His wife and daughters kept their heads down, their eyes on the ground. But I could see tears streaming from each of them.

I felt bile in my throat. May all the gods protect me! In his ignorance he thought that the gods actually cared about human beings, actually could be moved by prayers or sacrifices. If this simple man knew what the gods really were he would puke with disgust. Yet, when I looked into his brimming eyes, I could not bring myself to disillusion him. What good would it do, except to fill his days with agony?

"And may the gods protect you, farmer. You bring life from the bosom of Mother Earth. That is a far higher calling than warring and slaying."

Having offered their thanks, they dashed inside their hut to put out the fire that the soldiers had started. I followed Lukka and his limping, wounded men through the burning village in search of the Hatti commander. Poletes skipped along beside me, reciting a blow-by-blow account of what had just happened, rehearsing it for later storytelling.

It seemed clear to me that this was far too small a contingent to be the Hatti army. Yet there were no other troops in the valley, as far as Poletes and I were able to see from the hilltop earlier in the day. Could this small unit be the force that Hector and Aleksandros expected to help them?

And if these soldiers were allies of the Trojans, why were they burning a Trojan village?

In the village square—nothing more than a clearing of bare earth among the dried-brick huts—a procession of soldiers wound its way past a line of wagons and chariots. The Hatti commander was standing in one of the chariots, parceling out loot for his officers and men. The soldiers were carrying the villagers' pitiful possessions up to the chariot in a long, ragged line: a two-handled jug of wine, a blanket, a squawking flapping pair of chickens, a clay lamp, a pair of boots. It was not a rich village.

In the distance I could hear women's screams and crying. Apparently the soldiers were not taking female captives with them; they raped them and left them to their lamentations.

The commander was a short, swarthy, thickset man, more like the Achaians than Lukka and his men. His hair and thick beard were so deeply black that they seemed to cast bluish highlights. A brutal white scar slashed down the left side of his face from cheek to jawline, parting his beard. Like the other Hatti soldiers, he wore chain mail. His leather harness, though, was handsomely tooled, and the sword at his side was set with ivory inlays along its hilt.

Lukka stood at a respectful distance with me at his side and Poletes behind me, while his five men limped off to tend to their bruises and wounds. The commander glanced our way questioningly, but continued dividing the loot his soldiers brought before him: About half of everything went into a growing pile at the foot of his chariot; the soldiers carried away the other half for themselves. I folded my arms over my chest and waited, the stench of burning huts in my nostrils, the wailing of the women in my ears.

Finally the last clay jugs and bleating goats were parceled out, and the commander gestured to a pair of barefoot men dressed in rough jerkins to pick up his share of the loot and load it onto the nearby wagons. Slaves, I thought. Or possibly thetes.

The commander stepped tiredly down from his chariot and summoned Lukka with a crook of his finger.

Watching me as we approached him, he said, "This man isn't a shit-eating farmer."

Lukka clasped his fist to his chest and replied, "He claims to be a herald from some High King, sir."

The commander looked me over. "My name is Arza. What's yours?"

"Orion," I said.

"You look more like a fighter than a herald."

I tapped the wristband on my left arm. "I carry a message from the High King of the Hatti to the High King of the Achaians, a message of peace and friendship."

Arza glanced at Lukka, then focused his deep brown eyes back on me. "The High King of the Hatti, eh? Well, your message isn't worth the clay it was written on. There is no High King of the Hatti. Not anymore. Old Hattusilis is dead. The great fortress of Hattusas was in flames the last time I saw it."

Poletes gasped. "The Hatti have fallen?"

"The great nobles of Hattusas fight among themselves," said Arza. "Hattusilis's son may be dead, we've heard rumors to that effect."

"Then what are you doing here?" I asked.

He snorted. "Surviving, herald. As best we can. Living off the land and fighting off other bands of soldiers and marauders who try to take what we have."

I looked around the village. Dirty black smoke stained the clear sky. Dead bodies lying on the bare ground drew clouds of flies.

"You're nothing but a band of marauders yourselves," I said.

Arza's eyes narrowed. "Harsh words from a herald." He sneered at the last word.

But my mind was racing ahead. "Would you care to join the service of the Achaian High King?" I asked.

He laughed. "I'll serve no barbarian king or anyone else. Arza's band serves itself! We go where we want to go and take what we want to take."

"Mighty warriors," I replied scornfully. "You burn villages and rape helpless women who have no soldiers to protect them. Very brave of you."

From the comer of my eye I saw Lukka pale and take half a step away from me. I sensed Poletes backing off too.

Arza wrapped his hand around the ivory-inlaid hilt of his sword. "You look like a soldier," he snarled. "Do you want to protect what's left of this village? Against me?"

Lukka said, "Sir, I should warn you—this man is a fighter such as I've never seen before. He serves Athene and..."

"The bitch goddess?" Arza laughed. "The one they claim to be a virgin? My god is Taru, the god of storm and lightning, and he'll conquer your dainty little virgin goddess every time! She won't be a virgin for long if she fights against Taru!"

He was trying to goad me into a fight. I shook my head and turned to walk away.

"Lukka," he commanded loudly. "Slit his cowardly throat."

Before the agonized Lukka could reply, I wheeled back to face Arza and said, "Do it yourself, mighty attacker of women."

He broke into a wide grin as he pulled his sword from its well-worn scabbard. "With pleasure, herald," he said.

I took out my sword, and Arza laughed again. "Bronze! You poor fool, I'll slice that toy in half with my iron."

As he advanced toward me, holding his sword in front of him, my senses went into overdrive again. Everything slowed to a dreamlike pace. I could see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the trickle of a bead of perspiration forming on his brow and starting down his cheek. Lukka was standing like a statue, unable to decide whether he should try to stop his commander or join his attack against me. Poletes was wide-eyed, his mouth slightly open, his hands clutching the air at his sides.

Arza advanced a few steps, then retreated back to his chariot and, without taking his eyes from me, reached back and took up his shield with his left hand. I stayed where I was and let him fix the shield on his arm. He grinned at me again and, seeing I was not moving to attack him, he grabbed his iron helmet and pulled it on. It was polished to a brilliant gleam, and its flaps protected the sides of his face. I could see that his scar ran exactly along the edge of the iron flap.

He was a professional soldier and he would take any advantage I allowed him. For my part, I had no real desire to kill him. But if the only way to gain his respect was to best him in a fight, I was more than ready to do that.

He advanced on me confidently, crouching slightly, peering at me through the narrow gap between the rim of his helmet and the top of his shield. It bore a lightning flash symbol crudely painted on its stretched hide. I waited for him, watching. The shield covered most of his body when he crouched, making it difficult to see which way he intended to move. Still, I waited.

He feinted with the shield, jabbing it toward my face and simultaneously starting a sword cut at my midsection.

I parried his swing with my bronze blade, then slashed backhand and cracked the metal frame of his shield. But the blow snapped my sword in half.

With an exultant cry Arza flung his broken shield away and leaped at me. I could have spitted him easily on the jagged stump of my blade, but instead I stepped into him, grabbed his sword wrist in my left hand, and rapped him sharply on the head with the pommel of my broken sword.

He went to his knees, rolled over, and shook his head. I saw a nice dent in his polished helmet.

Arza got to his feet and lunged at me again. I dropped my sword, took his arm in both my hands, and twisted the weapon out of his hand.

With a snarl of rage he yanked his dagger from his belt and came at me again.

I backed away, open-handed. "I have no desire to kill you," I told him.

He bent down and scooped his sword from the dusty ground. By now more than a dozen of his troops had gathered around us, gaping.

"I'll kill you, herald, despite your tricks," he growled.

He came at me again, sword and dagger, slashing and cursing at me, spittle flying from his mouth. I danced away lightly, wondering how long this game could last.

"Stand and fight!" he screamed.

"Without a weapon?" I smiled as I said it.

He charged again and, instead of running, I ducked under and tripped him. He fell heavily.

But got to his feet, snarling, "I'll kill you!"

"You can't," I said.

"I will! You men—hold him fast!"

The soldiers hesitated just a moment, long enough for me to decide that if I did not kill this maddened animal, he would have me killed.

Before they could lay hands on me, I picked up the shattered stump of my bronze sword and advanced toward Arza. He grinned wickedly at me and lunged with his sword, ready to counter with the dagger once I tried to parry the sword thrust. Instead of parrying, I sidestepped his lunge and drove the jagged end of my blade into his chest just below the armpit.

Arza looked very surprised. His mouth dropped open, then filled with blood. For a moment I carried all his weight on my extended sword arm. I let go of the weapon and he dropped to the dusty ground, his hands still clutching his useless sword and dagger.

I looked toward Lukka. He gazed down at his fallen commander, then up to me. A word from him and the entire squad of soldiers would be on me.

Before he could speak, I shouted to the soldiers, "This man led you to little victories over farmers' villages. How would you like to join in the loot of a great city, filled with gold? Who will follow me to help conquer Troy?"

They raised their hands and cheered. All of them.