We spoke for a little while longer, and then he left me to see that his men were properly bedded in their new tents.
Poletes, who had sat quietly through our conversation, got to his feet. “That man is too greedy for victory,” he said, in a whisper that was almost angry. “He wants to win everything, and leave nothing for the gods to decide.”
“Men fight wars to win them, don’t they?” I asked him.
“Men fight wars for glory, and spoils, and for tales to tell their grandchildren. A man should go into battle to prove his bravery, to face a champion and test his destiny. He wants to use tricks and machines to win his battles.” Poletes spat on the sand to show how he felt about it.
“Yet you yourself have scorned these warriors and called them bloodthirsty fools,” I reminded him.
“That they are! But at least they fight fairly, as men should fight.”
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.”