Five chariots were closing and the air was full of titanium arrows—arrows!—when Mahnmut crossed over the edge of the huge caldera lake. He grabbed the Device and jumped just as the first of Apollo’s arrows struck his chariot. The machine exploded just meters above him and Mahnmut fell toward the water amidst melting gold and flaming energy cubes. The air rained microcircuits in the seconds before Mahnmut hit the surface. His deep-ranging sonar told him that the caldera under the lake’s surface was more than 2,000 meters deep.
It might be good enough, thought the little moravec. Then he hit the water, activated his flippers, kept a tight hug on the Device with one arm, and dived deep.
45
The Plains of Ilium, Ilium
I feel bad about not going back for the little robot right away, but things are busy here.
The guards lead me to an Achilles dressing for combat, surrounded by the chieftains he has inherited from Agamemnon—Odysseus, Diomedes, old Nestor, the Big and Little Ajaxes—the usual crew except for the Atrides, Agamemnon and Menelaus. Can it be true, as Ares was shouting above, that Achilles has slaughtered King Agamemnon, thus depriving his wife, Clytaemnestra, of her bloody revenge and a hundred future playwrights their subject matter? Has Cassandra overnight been spared her fate?
“Who in Hades are you?” snarls the man-killer, swift-footed Achilles, when the sergeant leads me into his inner camp. Again I realize that they’re looking at only Thomas Hockenberry, slump-shouldered, bewhiskered and begrimed, minus his cape and sword and levitation harness, a sloppy-looking foot soldier in dull bronze chest armor.
“I’m the man your mother, the goddess Thetis, said would guide you first to Hector and then to victory over the gods who murdered Patroclus,” I say.
The various heroes and captains take a step back at hearing this. Achilles has obviously told them that Patroclus is dead, but perhaps he hasn’t told all of them his plan of declaring war on Olympos.
Achilles hastily pulls me aside, further from the listening circle of weary warriors. “How do I know that you are the one of whom my mother, the goddess Thetis, spoke?” demands this young god-man. Achilles looks older today than yesterday, as if new lines have been chiseled into his young face overnight.
“I will show you by taking you where we must go,” I say.
“Olympos?” His eyes are not quite sane.
“Eventually,” I say softly. “But as your mother told you, first you must make peace and common cause with Hector.”
Achilles grimaces and spits into the sand. “I am not capable of making peace this day. It’s war I want. War and divine blood.”
“To fight the gods,” I say, “you must first end this useless war with Troy’s heroes.”
Achilles turns and gestures toward the distant battle lines. I see Achaean pennants across the defensive ditch, moving into what were Trojan lines the night before. “But we’re beating them,” cries Achilles. “Why should I make peace with Hector when I can have his guts on my speartip in mere hours?”
I shrug. “Have it your way, son of Peleus. I was sent here to help you avenge Patroclus and reclaim his body for funeral rites. If these things are not your will, I’ll take my leave.” I turn my back on him and start to walk away.
Achilles is on me so fast, throwing me to the sand and drawing his knife so quickly, that I couldn’t have tasered him if my life depended on it. Perhaps it does, for now he sets the razor-sharp blade against my throat. “You dare insult me?”
I speak very carefully so the blade does not draw blood. “I insult no one, Achilles. I was sent here to help you avenge Patroclus. If you wish to do so, do what I say.”
Achilles stares at me a moment, then rises, resheaths his knife, and offers his hand to pull me up. Odysseus and the other captains are watching silently from thirty feet away, obviously curious as hell.
“What is your name?” demands Achilles.
“Hockenberry,” I say, dusting sand off my butt and rubbing my neck where the blade touched it. “Son of Duane,” I add, remembering the usual ritual.
“A strange name,” mutters the man-killer. “But these are strange times. Welcome, Hockenberry, son of Duane.” He extends his hand and grasps my forearm so tight that he squeezes off circulation. I try to return the grip.
Achilles turns back to his captains and his aides. “I am dressing for war, son of Duane. When I am done, I shall accompany you to the depths of Hades if need be.”
“Just Ilium to start with,” I say.
“Come, meet my comrades and my generals now that Agamemnon is defeated.” He leads me over toward Odysseus and the others.
I have to ask. “Is Agamemnon dead? Menelaus?”
Achilles looks grim when he shakes his head. “No, I’ve not killed the Atrides, although I bested both in single combat this morning, one after the other. They are bruised and bloody, but not so badly hurt. They are with the healer Asclepius, and although they have sworn allegiance in return for their lives, I will never trust them.”
Then Achilles is introducing me to Odysseus and all the other heroes I’ve watched for more than nine years. Each of the men grips my forearm in greeting and by the time I’ve gone down the line of just the top captains, my wrist and fingers are numb.
“Godlike Achilles,” says Odysseus, “this morning you have become our king and we swear our allegiance and have given our oath to follow you to Olympos if need be to win back our comrade Patroclus’ body after Athena’s treachery—as unbelievable as that sounds—but I have to tell you that your men and your captains are hungry. The Achaeans must eat. They have been fighting Trojans all morning after little or no sleep and have driven Hector’s forces back from our black ships, our wall, and our trenches, but the men are tired and hungry. Let Talthybius there prepare a wild boar for the captains while your men and you draw back to eat and . . .”
Achilles wheels on the son of Laertes. “Eat? Are you mad, Odysseus? I have no taste for food this day. What I really crave is slaughter and blood and the cries and groans of dying men and butchered gods.”
Odysseus bows his head slightly. “Achilles, son of Peleus, greatest by far of all the Achaeans, you are stronger than I am, and greater by not just a little with the spear, but I might surpass you in wisdom, seasoned as I am by more years of experience and more trials of judgment. Let your heart be swayed by what I say, new King. Do not let your loyal Achaeans and Argives and Danaans attack Ilium on empty bellies this long day, much less go to war against Olympos while they’re hungry.”
Achilles pauses before answering.
Odysseus takes Achilles’ silence as an opportunity to press home his argument. “You want your heroes, Achilles, willing to die for you to a man, eager to avenge Patroclus, to meet their deaths not by battle with the immortal gods but by starving?”
Achilles sets his strong hand on Odysseus’ shoulder, and I realize, not for the first time, how much taller the man-killer is than the stocky tactician. “Odysseus, wise counselor,” says Achilles, “have Agamemnon’s herald Talthybius draw his dragger across the largest boar’s throat and set the animal to the spit over the hottest fire your men can make. Then slaughter as many more as there are appetites in the Achaean ranks. I will order my loyal Myrmidons to take charge of the feast. But make no initial offering to the gods this day. No firstling thrown into the fire for sacrifice. This day, we will give the gods only the business ends of our spears and swords. Let them take the hindmost for a change.”