The Golden One glared down at me. "That was a mistake that will not be repeated."

 

"No, not with Ahriman and his tribes safely in their own continuum now."

 

"That is done and we survived the crisis," said the one I called Zeus. "The question at hand is what to do about the particular nexus at Troy."

 

"Troy must win," insisted the Golden One.

 

"No, the Greeks should..."

 

"The Trojans will win," the Golden One stated flatly. "They will win because I will make them win."

 

"So that you can create this Ilian empire that appears to be so dear to your heart," said Zeus.

 

"Exactly."

 

"Why is that so important?" asked the woman.

 

"It will unify all of Europe and much of Asia," he replied. "There will be no separation of East and West, no dichotomy of the human spirit. No Alexander of Macedon with his semibarbaric lusts, no Roman Empire, no Constantinople to act as a barrier between Asia and Europe. No Christianity and no Islam to fight their twenty-century-long war against each other."

 

They listened and began to nod. All but the skeptical woman and the one I called Zeus.

 

It is a game to them, I realized. They are manipulating human history the way a chess player moves pieces across his board. And if a civilization is utterly destroyed, it means as little to them as if a pawn or a rook is captured and removed from the board.

 

"Does it really make that much difference?" asked one of the dark-haired men.

 

"Of course it does!" the Golden One replied. "I seek to unite the human race, to bring all the many facets of my creatures into harmony and unity..."

 

"So that they can help us to face the ultimate crisis," said Zeus, almost in a mutter.

 

The Golden One nodded. "That is my goal. We need all the help we can get."

 

"I am not certain that your way is the best method," Zeus said.

 

"I'm certain it's not," said the woman.

 

"I'm going ahead with it whether you approve or not," the Golden One retorted. "These are my creatures and I will bring them to the point where they can be of true assistance to us."

 

The others in the circle murmured and nodded or shook their heads. There was no unanimity among them. As I watched, they began to fade away, to blur and dissolve until only the Golden One and I stood facing each other against the all-pervasive glow of a place that had no location, no time, in any world that I knew.

 

"Well, Orion, you have met the others. Some of them, at least."

 

"You spoke of us as your creatures," I said. "Do the others have creatures of their own, as well?"

 

"Some do. Others seem more interested in meddling with my creatures than in creating their own."

 

"Then... the men and women of Earth-you created them?"

 

"You were one of the first of them, Orion," he answered. "And, in a sense, you then created us."

 

"What? I don't understand."

 

"How could you?"

 

"You created the human race so that we can help you," I said, repeating what I had heard.

 

"Ultimately, yes."

 

"But while the others think you will bring us humans to their aid, you actually plan to have us help you against them," I realized.

 

He stared at me.

 

"And that will make you the mightiest of all the gods, won't it?"

 

He hesitated for a moment before replying. "I am the mightiest of all the Creators, Orion. The others may not recognize that fact, but it is so."

 

Now I felt my lips twisting into a sardonic smile.

 

He knew my thought. "You think I do this out of egomania? Out of lust for worship by creatures I myself created?" He shook his head sadly. "How little you understand. Do you have any great desire for your sandals to adore you, Orion? Is it necessary for your happiness to have your sword or the knife hidden under your kilt to proclaim you as the greatest master they have ever known?"

 

"I don't understand..."

 

"How could you? How could you dream of the consequences that I am dealing with? Orion, I created the human race out of necessity, truly-but not the necessity to be adored! The universes are wide, Orion, and filled with dangers. I seek to protect the continuum, to keep it from being torn apart by forces that you could not even imagine. While the others dither and bicker, I act. I create. I command!"

 

"And to accomplish your goal it is necessary for Troy to win this war?"

 

"Yes!"

 

"And it was necessary to destroy the starship we were riding? Necessary to kill the woman I loved? The woman who loved me?"

 

For a moment he looked almost startled. "You recall that?"

 

"I remember the starship. The explosion. She died in my arms. We both died."

 

"I revived you. I returned you to life."

 

"And her?"

 

"She was a goddess, Orion. I can only revive creatures whom I myself have created."

 

"If she was a goddess, how could she die?"

 

"Gods and goddesses can die, Orion. Tales of our immortality are rather exaggerated. As are the pious recitations of our goodness and mercy."

 

I felt my heart thudding in my chest, the blood roaring in my ears. My head swam. I could barely breathe. I hated this man, this golden self-styled god, this murderer. Hated him with every fiber of my being. He claims to have created me, I told myself. Yet I will destroy him.

 

"I did not want to kill her, Orion," he said, and it almost sounded sincere. "It was beyond my control. She chose to make herself human. For your sake, Orion. She knew the risks and she accepted them for your sake."

 

"And died." A murderous rage was burning inside me. Yet when I tried to take a step toward him, I found I could not move. I was frozen, immobilized, unable even to clench my fists at my sides.

 

"Orion," said the object of my hatred, "you cannot blame me for what she did to herself."

 

How wrong he was!

 

"You must serve me whether you like it or not," he insisted. "There is no way for you to avoid your destiny, Orion." Then he added, muttering, almost to himself, "No way for either of us to avoid our destinies."

 

"I can refuse to serve you," I said stubbornly.

 

He lifted one golden eyebrow and considered me, the haughty, mocking tone back in his voice. "While you live, my angry creature, you will play your part in my plans. You cannot refuse because you can never know which acts of yours serve me and which do not. You stagger along blindly in your time-bound linearity, going from day to day, while I perceive space-time on the scale of the continuum."

 

"Grand talk," I spat. "You sound almost as grandiloquent as old Nestor."

 

His eyes narrowed. "But I speak the truth, Orion. You see time as past and present and future. I create time and manipulate it to keep the continuum from being torn asunder. And while you live, you will help me in this mighty task."

 

"While I live," I repeated. "Is that a threat?"

 

He smiled again. "I make no threats, Orion. I have no need to. I created you. I can destroy you. You have no memory of how many times you have died, do you? Yet I have revived you each time, so that you could serve me again. That is your destiny, Orion. To serve me. To be my Hunter."

 

"I want to be free," I shouted. "Not your puppet!"

 

"Pah! I waste my time trying to explain myself to you. No one is free, Orion. No creature can ever be free. Not as long as you live."

 

He clasped his arms together across his chest and disappeared as abruptly as a candle snuffed out by a sharp gust of wind. Suddenly I was alone in the fog-wrapped darkness of the plain before Troy.

 

As long as I live, I thought silently, I will struggle to reach your throat. It was a mistake to tell me that you are not immortal. I am the Hunter, and now I know the prey I seek. I will kill you, golden Apollo, Creator, whatever your true name and shape may be. While I live I will seek your death and nothing less. Just as you killed her, I will kill you.

 

 

Chapter 8

 

"YOU there! Hold!"

 

I was standing in the Trojan camp again, a sudden sharp wind gusting in from the sea and shredding the mist that had covered the plain. Campfires dotted the darkness, and off in the distance the beetling towers of Troy bulked black and menacing against the moon-bright sky.

 

I tottered on unsteady feet, like a man who has drunk too much wine, like a man who has suddenly been pushed through a door that he had not seen. The Golden One and the other Creators were gone as completely as if they had been nothing more than a dream. But I knew they were real. They were out there in another plane of existence, toying with us, arguing over which side should win this wretched war. My hands clenched into fists as the memory of their faces and their words fueled the rage burning within me.

 

 

A pair of sentries approached me warily, heavy spears in their hands. I gulped down a deep breath of chill night air to calm myself.

 

"I am an emissary from the High King Agamemnon," I said, slowly and carefully. "I have been sent to speak to Prince Hector."

 

The sentries were an unlikely pair, one short and squat with a dirty, tangled black beard and a pot belly bulging his chain mail corselet, the other taller and painfully thin, either clean-shaven or too young to start a beard.

 

"Prince Hector the Tamer of Horses he wants to see," said the pot-belly. He laughed harshly. "So would I!"

 

The younger one grinned and showed a gap where a front tooth was missing.

 

"An emissary, eh?" Pot-belly eyed me suspiciously. "With a sword at his side and a mantle of chain mail across his shoulders. More likely a spy. Or an assassin."

 

I held up my herald's wand. "I have been sent by the High King. I am not here to fight. Take my sword and mantle, if they frighten you." I could have disabled them both before they knew what had happened, but that was not my mission.

 

"Be a lot safer to ram this spear through your guts and have done with it," said Pot-belly.

 

The youngster put out a restraining hand. "Hermes protects messengers, you know. I wouldn't want to draw down the anger of the Trickster."

 

Pot-belly scowled and muttered, but finally satisfied himself by taking my sword and chain mail. He did not search me, and therefore did not take the dagger strapped to my right thigh. He was more interested in loot than security.

 

Once Pot-belly had slipped my baldric across his shoulder and fastened my mantle under his quivering chins, the two of them led me to their chief.

 

They were Dardanians, allies of the Trojans who had come from several miles up the coast to fight against the invading Achaians. Over the next hour or so I was escorted from the chief of the Dardanian contingent to a Trojan officer, from there to the tent of Hector's chief lieutenants, and finally past the makeshift horse corral and the silently waiting chariots, tipped over with their long yoke poles poking into the air, to the small plain tent and guttering fire of Prince Hector.

 

At each stop I explained my mission again. Dardanians and Trojans alike spoke a dialect of the Greek spoken by the Achaians, different but not so distant as to be unintelligible. I realized that the city's defenders included contingents from many areas up and down the coast. The Achaians had been raiding their towns for years, and now they had all banded together under Trojan leadership to resist the barbarian invaders.

 

That was the Golden One's aim: to have the Trojans beat back the Achaians and gain supremacy over the Aegean. Eventually they would establish an empire that would span Europe, the Middle East, and India.

 

If that was his goal, then mine must be to prevent it from being achieved. If Odysseus was offering a compromise that would allow the Achaians to sail away without burning Troy to the ground, then I must sabotage the offer. I felt a momentary pang of conscience. Odysseus trusted me. Or, I asked myself, had he sent me on this diplomatic mission because he could better afford to lose me than one of his own people?

 

With those thoughts swirling in my head, I was brought before Hector.

 

His tent was barely large enough for himself and a servant. A pair of armored noblemen stood by the fire outside the tent's entrance, their bronze breastplates gleaming against the night. Insects buzzed and darted in the firelight. No slaves or women in sight. Hector himself stood at the entrance flap to the tent. He was a big man for these people, nearly my own height.

 

Hector wore no armor, no badge of his rank. Merely a soft clean tunic belted at the waist, with an ornamental dagger hanging from the leather belt. He had no need to impress anyone with his grandeur. He possessed that calm inner strength that needs no outward decorations.

 

In the flickering light of his campfire he studied me silently for a moment. Those same grave brown eyes. His face was handsome, intelligent, though there were lines of weariness around his eyes, furrows across his broad brow. Despite the fullness of his rich brown beard I saw that his cheeks were becoming hollow. The strain of this war was taking its toll on him.

 

"You are the man at the gate," he said finally. His words were measured, neither surprise nor anger in them.

 

I nodded.

 

He looked me over carefully. "Your name?"

 

"Orion."

 

"From where?"

 

"Far to the west of here. Beyond the seas where the sun sets."

 

"Beyond Okeanus?" he asked.

 

"Yes."

 

He puzzled over that, brow knitted, for a few moments. Then he asked, "What brings you to the plain of Ilios? Why are you fighting for the Achaians?"

 

"A duty I owe to a god," I said.

 

"Which god?"

 

"Athene."

 

"Athene sent you here to fight for the Achaians?" He seemed concerned at that, almost worried.

 

With a shake of my head, I answered, "I arrived at the Achaian camp the night before yesterday. I had never seen Troy before. Suddenly, in the midst of the fighting, I acted on impulse. I don't know what made me do what I did. It all happened in the flash of a moment."

 

Hector smiled tightly. "Battle frenzy. A god took control of your spirit, my friend, and inspired you to deeds no mortal could achieve unaided. It has happened to me many times."

 

I smiled back at him. "Yes, perhaps that is what happened to me."

 

"Have no doubt of it. Ares or Athene seized your spirit and filled you with battle frenzy. You could have challenged Achilles himself in such a state."

 

Slaves came out of the darkness to set up chairs of stretched hides and offer fruit and wine. Following Hector's lead, I sat and took a little of each. The quality of the Trojan wine was far superior to that of the Achaians.

 

"You carry the wand of a herald and say that you are here as an emissary of Agamemnon," Hector said, leaning back tiredly in his creaking chair.

 

"I bring an offer of peace."

 

"We have heard such offers before. Is there anything new in what Agamemnon proposes?"

 

I noticed that his two aides stepped closer, eager to hear what I had to say. I thought briefly of Odysseus, who trusted me. But I said: "The High King repeats his earlier offer of peace. If you will restore Helen and the fortune she brought from Sparta with her, and pay an indemnity for the costs the Achaians have incurred, Agamemnon will lead his ships away from Ilios and Troy."

 

Hector glanced up at his two standing lieutenants, who muttered grimly.

 

Then to me he said, "We did not accept these terms when the Achaians had us penned up inside our city walls, without allies. Now that we outnumber them and have them penned in their own camp, why should we even consider such insulting terms?"

 

I had to make it sound at least halfway convincing, I thought. "In the view of the Achaians, Prince Hector, your success today was helped greatly by the fact that Achilles did not enter the battle. He will not remain on the sidelines forever."

 

"One man," Hector countered.

 

"The best warrior in the Achaian host," I pointed out. "And his Myrmidones are a formidable fighting unit, I am told."

 

"True enough," admitted Hector. "Still, this offer of peace is no different than all the others, even though we now hold the upper hand."

 

"Then what am I to tell the High King?"

 

Hector got to his feet. "That is not my decision to make. I command the army, but my father is still king in Troy. He and his council must consider your offer."

 

I rose too. "King Priam?"

 

"Polydamas," he called, "conduct this herald to the king. Aeneas, spread the word to the chiefs that we will not attack until King Priam has considered the latest peace offering from Agamemnon."

 

A surge of elation swept through me. The Trojans will not attack the Achaian camp as long as I am dickering with their king! I can give Odysseus and the others a day's respite from battle, at least.

 

And then I realized that this is exactly what Odysseus had planned. The King of Ithaca had sent an expendable hero-one whom Hector would recognize, yet not someone important to the Achaian strength-into the Trojan camp in a crafty move to gain a day's recuperation from this morning's disaster.

 

I had thought that I was betraying Odysseus, but he had outsmarted both Hector and me.

 

Trying to look properly grave and not let my emotions show, I followed the Trojan nobleman called Polydamas through the camp on the plain and to the walls of Troy.

 

 

Chapter 9

 

I entered the fabled city of Troy in the dead of night. The moon was up, but still it was so dark that I could see practically nothing. The city walls loomed above like ominous shadows. I saw feeble lanterns lighting a gate as we passed a massive old oak tree, tossing and sighing in the night breeze, leaning heavily, bent by the incessant wind of Ilios.

 

To approach the gate we had to follow a road that led alongside the beetling walls. Just before the gate a second curtain wall extended on the other side of the road, so that anyone coming up to the gate was vulnerable to fire from both sides, as well as ahead.

 

The gate itself seemed only lightly defended. Virtually the entire Trojan force was camped down by the beach, I realized. A trio of teenagers were lounging in the open gateway, their inevitable long spears resting against the stone wall. A few more stood on the battlements above.

 

Inside, a broad packed-earth street led between buildings that seemed no more than two stories tall. The moon's pale cold light only made the shadows of their shuttered fronts seem deeper and darker. It must have been well past midnight. Hardly anyone was stirring along this main street or in the black alleyways leading off it, not even a cat.

 

Polydamas was not a wordy fellow. In virtually total silence he led me to a low-roofed building and into a tiny room lit by the fluttering yellow-blue flame of a small copper oil lamp sitting on a three-legged wooden stool. There was a single narrow bed and a chest of cedarwood, nothing else. A rough woolen blanket covered the bed.

 

"You will be summoned to the king's presence in the morning," said Polydamas, his longest speech of the night. With not another word he left me, closing the wooden door softly behind him.

 

And bolting it.

 

With nothing better to do, I undressed, pulled back the scratchy blanket, and stretched out on the bed. It was springy; a thin mattress of feathers atop a webbing of ropes.

 

As I started to drowse off I suddenly realized that the Golden One might invade my dreams once again. For a while I tried to stave off sleep, but my body got the better of my will, and inevitably my eyes closed. My last waking thought was to wonder how I might make contact with some of the other Creators, with the Zeus who regarded the Golden One's plans so questioningly, with the woman who openly opposed him.

 

But if I did dream, I had no memory of it when I was awakened by the door bolt snapping back. I sat up, immediately alert, and reached for the dagger that I had unstrapped, but left on the bed between my body and the wall.

 

A serving woman backed into the room, carrying a basin and a jug of water. When she turned and saw me sitting there naked, she smiled, made a little curtsy, and deposited the pottery atop the cedarwood chest. Then she backed out of the room and shut the door. Outside, I could hear the giggling of several women.

 

A Trojan man entered my room after a single sharp rap on the door. He seemed more a courtier than a warrior. He was fairly tall but round-shouldered, soft-looking, with a bulging middle. His beard was quite gray, his pate balding, his tunic richly embroidered and covered with a long sleeveless robe of deep green.

 

"I am to conduct you to King Priam's audience chamber, once you have had your morning meal."

 

Diplomacy moved at a polite pace; I was glad of it. The Trojan courtier led me to the urinals in the back of the house, then back to my room for a quick washup. Breakfast consisted of fruit, cheese, and flat bread, washed down with goat's milk. We ate in the large kitchen that fronted the house. Half the room was taken up by a big circular hearth, under an opening in the roof. It was cold and empty except for a scattering of gray ashes that looked as if they had been there a long time.

 

Through the kitchen's open window I could see men and women going about their morning chores. Serving women attended us, eyeing me curiously. The courtier ignored them, except to give orders for more figs and honey.

 

Finally we walked out along what seemed to be Troy's only major street, sloping gently uphill toward a majestic building of graceful fluted columns and a steeply pitched roof. Priam's palace, I guessed. Or the city's main temple. Perhaps both. The sun was not high yet, but still it felt much warmer here in the street than out on the windy plain.

 

"Is that where we're going?" I pointed.

 

The courtier bobbed his head. "Yes, of course. The king's palace. A more splendid palace doesn't exist anywhere in the world-except perhaps in Egypt, of course."

 

I was surprised at how small the city actually was. And crowded. Houses and shops clustered together tightly. The street was unpaved, and sloped like a V so that water would run down its middle when it rained. Cart wheels had worn deep grooves in it. The men and women bustling about their morning's work seemed curious yet courteous. I received bows and smiles as we strolled up toward the palace.

 

"The royal princes, such as Hector and Aleksandros and their brothers, live in the palace with the king." My courtier was turning into a tour guide. He gestured back down the street. "Nearer the Scaean gate are the homes of the lesser princes and nobility. Fine homes they are, nevertheless, far finer than you will find in Mycenae or even Miletus."

 

We were walking through the market area now. Awning-shaded stalls lined the two-story high brick homes here, although I saw precious little merchandise on sale: bread, dried vegetables, a skinny lamb that bleated mournfully.

 

Yet the merchants, men and women both, seemed smiling and happy.

 

"You bring a day of peace," the courtier told me. "Farmers can bring their produce to market this morning. Wood-cutters can go out to the forest and bring back fuel before night falls. The people are grateful for that."

 

"The siege has hurt you," I murmured.

 

"To some extent, of course. But we are not going hungry. There is enough grain stored in the royal treasury to last for years! The city's water comes from a spring that Apollo himself protects. And when we really need firewood or cattle or anything else, our troops escort the necessary people on a foray inland." He lifted his gray-bearded chin a notch or two. "We will not starve."

 

I said nothing.

 

He took my silence for an argument. "Look at those walls! The Achaians will never be able to scale them."

 

I followed his admiring gaze down a crooked alley and saw the towered walls that rose above the houses. They did indeed look high and solid and strong.

 

"Apollo and Poseidon helped old King Laomedon build those walls, and they have withstood every assault made on them. Of course, Herakles once sacked the city, but he had divine help and even he didn't dare try to breach those walls. He attacked over on the western side, where the oldest wall stands. But that was long ago."

 

I perked up my ears. The western wall was weaker? But, as if sensing that he had said too much, my guide lapsed into a red-faced silence. We walked the rest of the way to the palace without further words.

 

Men-at-arms held their spears stiffly upright as we passed the crimson-painted columns at the front of the palace and entered its cool interior. I saw no marble, which somehow surprised me. The columns and the thick palace walls were made of a grayish, granitelike stone, polished to gleaming smoothness. Inside, the floors were covered with brightly colored polished tiles. The walls were plastered and painted in bright yellows and reds, with blue or green borders running along the ceilings.

 

The interior was cold. Despite the sun's heat, those thick stone walls insulated the palace so well that I almost imagined I could see my breath frosting in the shaded air.

 

The hall beyond the entrance was beautifully decorated with painted landscapes on its plastered walls. Scenes of lovely ladies and handsome men in green fields rich with towering trees. No battles, no hunting scenes, no proclamations of imperial power or bloodthirstiness.

 

Statues lined this corridor, most of them life-size, some smaller, several so large that their heads or outstretched arms scraped the polished beams of the high ceiling.

 

"The city's gods," my courtier explained. "Most of these statues stood outside the city's four main gates, before the war. Of course we brought them in here for safekeeping from the despoiling Achaians."

 

"Of course," I agreed.

 

The statues seemed to be marble. To my surprise, they were brightly painted. Hair and beards were deep black, with bluish highlights. Gowns and tunics were mostly gold, and real jewels adorned them. The flesh was delicately colored, and the eyes were painted so vividly that they almost seemed to be watching me.

 

I could not tell one from another. The gods all seemed broad-shouldered and bearded, the goddesses ethereally beautiful. Then I recognized Poseidon, a magnificently muscular figure with a deep curly beard who bore a trident in his right hand.

 

We stepped out of the chilly entrance hall and into the warming sunlight of a courtyard. A huge statue, much too large to fit indoors, stood just before us. I craned my neck to see its face against the crystal-blue morning sky.

 

And felt my knees give way.

 

It was the Golden One. Perfect in every detail, as if he had sat for a portrait. Every detail except one: The Trojan artist had painted his hair black, as all the other gods. But the face, the slight curl of the lip, the eyes-they stared down at me, slightly amused, slightly bored. I trembled. I fully expected the statue to move, to speak.

 

"Apollo," said the courtier. "The protector of our city." If he noticed how the statue affected me, he was too polite to mention it. Or perhaps it was reverence for the god.

 

I pulled my gaze away from the Golden One's painted eyes. My insides fluttered with anger and the frustration that comes with hopelessness. How could I even think of working against his wishes, of defying him, of killing him? Yet I will do it, I told myself. With an effort of will that seemed to wrench at the soul within me, I promised myself afresh that I would bring the Golden One to dust.

 

We started across the sunny courtyard. It was decked with blossoms and flowering shrubs. Potted trees were arranged artfully around a square central pool. I saw fish swimming there lazily.

 

"We also have our statue of Athene," the courtier said, pointing across the pool to a small wooden piece, scarcely three feet tall. "It is very ancient and very sacred."

 

The statue was facing away from us as we crossed the courtyard and entered the other wing of the palace. Instantly, as we stepped into the shade of the wide entrance hall, the temperature dropped precipitously.

 

More soldiers stood guard in this hallway, although I got the feeling that their presence was a matter of pomp and formality, not security. The courtier led me to a small chamber comfortably furnished with chairs of stretched hide and gleaming polished tables inlaid with beautiful ivory and silver. There was one window, which looked out on another, smaller, courtyard, and a massive wooden door decorated with bronze strapping. Closed.

 

"The king will see you shortly," he said, looking nervously toward the closed door.

 

I took a chair and willed my body to relax. I did not want to appear tense or apprehensive in front of the Trojan king. The courtier, whom I had assumed spent much of his life in this palace, seemed to be wound up tight. He paced the small chamber worriedly. I pictured him with a cigarette, puffing like an expectant father.

 

Finally he blurted, "Do you truly bring an offer of peace, or is this merely another Achaian bluff?"

 

So that was it. Beneath his confidence in the walls built by gods and the food and firewood gathered by their army and the eternal spring that Apollo himself protects-he was anxious to have the war ended and his city safe and at peace once more.

 

Before I could reply, though, that heavy door creaked open. Two men-at-arms pushed at it, and an old man in a green cloak similar to my courtier's motioned me to come to him. He leaned heavily on a long wooden staff topped with a gold sunburst symbol. His beard was the color of ashes, his head almost totally bald. As I ducked through the doorway and approached him, he squinted at me nearsightedly.

 

"Your proper name, herald?"

 

"Orion."

 

"Of?"

 

I blinked, wondering what he meant. Then I replied, "Of the House of Ithaca."

 

He frowned at that, but turned and took a few steps into the audience chamber, then banged his staff on the floor three times. I saw that the stone floor was deeply worn at that spot.

 

He called out, in a voice that may have once been rich and deep but now sounded like a cat yowling, "Oh Great King-Son of Laomedon, Scion of Scamander, Servant of Apollo, Beloved of the Gods, Guardian of the Hellespont, Protector of the Troad, Western Bulwark of the Hatti, Defender of Ilios-an emissary from the Achaians, one Orion by name, of the House of Ithaca."

 

The chamber was spacious, wide and high-ceilinged. Its middle was open to the sky, above a circular hearth that smoldered a dull red and sent up a faint spiral of gray smoke. Dozens of men and women stood among the painted columns on the far side of the hearth: the nobility of Troy, I supposed, or at least the noblemen who were too old to be with the army. And their ladies. Their robes were rich with vibrant colors and flashing jewels.

 

I stepped forward and beheld Priam, the King of Troy, sitting on a splendid throne of carved ebony inlaid with gold set upon a three-step-high dais. To my surprise, he was flanked on his right by Hector, who must have come up from the camp by the beach. On his left sat a younger man, and standing behind him-

 

She was truly beautiful enough to launch a thousand ships. Helen was blonde, golden curls falling past her shoulders. A small, almost delicate figure except for magnificent breasts covered only by the sheerest blouse. A girdle of gold cinched her waist, adding emphasis to the bosom. Even from across the wide audience chamber I could see that her face was incredible, sensuous yet wide-eyed with an appearance of innocence that no man could resist.

 

She leaned against the intricately carved back of Aleksandros's chair, the young prince on Priam's left had to be Aleksandros, I realized. Darker of hair and beard than Hector, almost prettily handsome. Helen rested one hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her and she smiled dazzlingly at him. Then they both turned their gaze toward me as I approached. Helen's smile disappeared the instant Aleksandros looked away from her. She regarded me with cool, calculating eyes.

 

Priam was older than Nestor, and obviously failing. His white beard was thin and ragged, his long hair also, as if some wasting disease had hold of him. He seemed sunk into his robes of royal purple as he sat slumped on his gold-inlaid throne, too tired even this early in the morning to sit upright or lift his arms out of his lap.

 

The wall behind his throne was painted in a seascape of blues and aquamarines. Graceful boats glided among sporting dolphins. Fishermen spread their nets into waters teeming with every kind of fish.

 

"My lord king," said Hector, dressed in a simple tunic, "this emissary from Agamemnon brings another offer of peace."

 

"Let us hear it," breathed Priam, as faintly as a sigh.

 

They all looked to me.

 

I glanced at the assembled nobility and saw an eagerness, a yearning, a clear hope that I carried an offer that would end the war. Especially among the women I could sense the desire for peace, although I realized that the old men were hardly firebrands.

 

I bowed deeply to the king, then nodded in turn to Hector and Aleksandros. I caught Helen's eye as I did so, and she seemed to smile slightly at me.

 

"O Great King," I began, "I bring you greeting from High King Agamemnon, leader of the Achaian host."

 

Priam nodded and waggled the fingers of one hand, as if urging me to get through the preliminaries and down to business.

 

I did. I told them not of Odysseus's offer to leave with Helen and nothing else, but of my elaboration: Helen, her fortune, and an indemnity for Agamemnon to distribute to his army.

 

I could feel the air in the chamber change. The eager expectation died. A somber reaction of gloom settled on them all.

 

"But this is nothing more than Agamemnon has offered in the past," wheezed Priam.

 

"And which we have steadfastly refused," Hector added.

 

Aleksandros laughed. "If we refused such insulting terms when the Achaians were pounding at our gates, why should we even consider them now, when we have the barbarians penned up at the beach? In a day or two we'll be burning their ships and slaughtering them like the cattle they are."

 

"I am a newcomer to this war," I said. "I know nothing of your grievances and rights. I have been instructed to offer the terms for peace, which I have done. It is for you to consider them and make an answer."

 

"I will never surrender my wife," Aleksandros snapped. "Never!"

 

Helen smiled at him and he reached up to take her hand in his.

 

"A newcomer, you say?" Priam asked, his curiosity pricked enough to light his eyes. "Yet you claim to be of the House of Ithaca. When you first ducked your head past the lintel of our doorway I thought you might be the one they call Great Ajax."

 

I replied, "Odysseus has taken me into his household, my lord king. I arrived on these shores only a few days ago..."

 

"And single-handedly stopped me from storming the Achaian camp," Hector said, somewhat ruefully. "Too bad that Odysseus has adopted you. I wouldn't mind having such a fearless man at my side."

 

Surprised by his offer, and wondering what it might imply, I answered merely, "I fear that would be impossible, my lord."

 

"Yes," Hector agreed. "Too bad, though."

 

Priam stirred on his throne, coughed painfully, then said, "We thank you for the message you bring, Orion of the House of Ithaca. Now we must consider before making answer."

 

He gestured a feeble dismissal. I bowed again and went back to the anteroom. The guards closed the heavy door behind me.

 

I was alone in the small chamber; the courtier who had guided me earlier had disappeared. I went to the window and looked out at the lovely garden, so peaceful, so bright with flowers and humming bees intent on their morning's work. No hint of war there: merely the endless cycle of birth, growth, death, and rebirth.

 

I thought about the words the Golden One had spoken to me. How many times had I died and been reborn? To what purpose? He wanted Troy to win this war, or at least survive the Achaian siege. Therefore my desire was the same as Agamemnon's: to crush Troy, to burn it to the ground, to slaughter its people and destroy it forever.

 

Destroy that garden? Burn this palace? Slaughter Hector and aged Priam and all the rest?

 

I clenched my fists and squeezed my eyes tight. Yes! I told myself. Just as the Golden One would slaughter Odysseus and old Poletes. Just as he burned my love to death.

 

"Orion of Ithaca."

 

I wheeled from the window. A single soldier stood at the doorway, bareheaded, wearing a well-oiled leather harness rather than armor, a short sword at his hip.

 

"Follow me, please."

 

I followed him down a long hallway and up a flight of stairs, then through several rooms that were empty of people, although richly furnished and decorated with gorgeous tapestries. They will burn nicely, I found myself thinking. Up another flight we went, and finally he ushered me into a comfortable sitting room, with undraped windows and an open doorway that looked out on a terrace and the distant sea. Lovely murals decorated the walls, scenes of peaceful men and women in a pastel world of flowers and gentle beasts.

 

The soldier closed the door and left me alone. But not for long. Through the door on the opposite side of the room, a scant few moments later, stepped the beautiful Helen.

 

 

Chapter 10

 

SHE was breathtaking, there is no denying it. She wore a flounced skirt of shimmering rainbow colors with golden tassels that tinkled as she walked toward me. Her corselet was now as blue as the Aegean sky, her white blouse so gauzy that I could see the dark circles of the areolae around her nipples. She wore a triple gold necklace and more gold at both wrists and earlobes. Jeweled rings glittered on her fingers.

 

She was tiny, almost delicate, despite her hour-glass figure. Her skin was like cream, unblemished and much lighter than the women I had seen in the Achaian camp. Her eyes were as deeply blue as the Aegean, her lips lush and full, her hair the color of golden honey, with ringlets falling well past her lovely shoulders. One stubborn curl hung down over her forehead. She wore a scent of flowers: light, clean, yet beguiling.

 

Helen smiled at me and gestured toward a chair. She took a cushioned couch, her back to the open windows. I sat and waited for her to speak. In truth, just looking at her against the background of the blue sky and bluer sea was a feast that seemed too good for mere words.

 

"You say you are a stranger to this land." Her voice was low, melodious. I could understand how Aleksandros, or any other man, would dare anything to have her. And keep her.

 

I nodded and found that I had to swallow once before I could speak. "My lady, I arrived on a boat only a few days ago. Before then, all I knew of Troy was... stories told by wayfarers."

 

"You are a sailor, then?"

 

"Not really," I said. "I am a... traveler, a wanderer."

 

She looked at me with a hint of suspicion in those clear blue eyes. "Not a warrior?"

 

"I have been a warrior, from time to time, but that is not my profession."

 

"Yet it may be your destiny."

 

I had no answer for that.

 

Helen said, "You serve the goddess Athene." It was not a question. She had excellent intelligence sources, apparently.

 

Nodding, I replied, "That is true."

 

She bit her lower lip. "Athene despises me. She is the enemy of Troy."

 

"Yet her statue is honored..."

 

"You cannot fail to honor so powerful a goddess, Orion. No matter how Athene hates me, the people of this city must continue to placate her as best they can. Certain disaster will overtake them if they do not."

 

"Apollo protects the city," I said.

 

She nodded. "Yet I fear Athene." Helen looked beyond me, looking into the past, perhaps. Or trying to see the future.

 

"My lady, is there some service you wish me to do for you?"

 

Her gaze focused on me once again. A faint smile dimpled her cheeks. "You wonder why I summoned you?"

 

"Yes."

 

The smile turned impish. "Don't you think that I might want a closer look at such a handsome stranger? A man so tall, with such broad shoulders? Who stood alone against Hector and his chariot team and turned them away?"

 

I bowed my head slightly. "May I ask you a question, my lady?"

 

"You may-although I don't promise to answer."

 

"All the world wonders: Did Aleksandros actually abduct you, or did you leave Sparta with him willingly?"

 

Her smile remained. It even grew wider, until she threw her head back and laughed a hearty, genuinely amused laugh.

 

"Orion," she said at last, "you certainly don't understand the ways of women."

 

I may have blushed. "That's true enough," I admitted.

 

"Let me tell you this much," Helen said. "No matter how or why I accompanied Aleksandros to this great city, I will not willingly return to Sparta." Before I could reply she quickly added, "Not that I harbor ill feelings for Menalaos, my first husband. He was kind to me."

 

"But Aleksandros is kinder?"

 

She spread her arms. "Look about you, Orion! You have eyes, use them. What woman would willingly live as the wife of an Achaian lord when she could be a princess of Troy?"

 

"But Menalaos is a king..."

 

"And an Achaian queen is still regarded less than her husband's dogs and horses. A woman in Sparta is a slave, be she wife or concubine, there is no real difference. Do you think there would be women present in the great hall at Sparta when an emissary arrives with a message for the king? Or at Agamemnon's Mycenae or Nestor's Pylos or even in Odysseus's Ithaca? No, Orion. Here in Troy women are regarded as human beings. Here there is civilization."

 

"Then your preference for Aleksandros is really a preference for Troy," I said.

 

She put a finger to her lips, as if thinking over the words she wished to use. Then, "When I was wed to Menalaos I had no say in the choice. The young lords of Achaia all wanted me-and my dowry. My father made the decision. If, the gods forbid, the Achaians should win this war and force me to return to Sparta with Menalaos, I will again be chattel."

 

"Would you agree to return to Menalaos if it meant that Troy would be saved from destruction?"

 

"Don't ask such a question! Do you think Agamemnon fights for his brother's honor? The Achaians are intent on destroying this city. I am merely their excuse for attacking."

 

"So I have heard from others, in the Achaian camp."

 

"Priam is near death," Helen said. "Hector will die in battle; that is foretold. But Troy itself need not fall, even if Hector does."

 

And, I thought, if Hector dies Aleksandros will become king. Making Helen the queen of Troy.

 

She fixed me with her eyes and said, "Orion, you may say this to Menalaos: If he wants me to return to him, he will have to win me by feats of battle. I will not go willingly to a man as the consolation prize for losing this war."

 

I took in a deep breath. She was far wiser than I had assumed. She unquestionably wants Troy to win this war, wants to remain in this city so that one day she can be its queen. Yet she wants to tell her former husband that she will come back to him-if he wins! She's telling him, through me, that she will return to Sparta and be the docile Achaian wife-if and when Troy is burned to the ground.

 

Clever woman! No matter who wins, she will protect her own lovely skin.

 

We chatted for a few moments more, but it was clear that Helen had imparted the message she wanted me to bear back to the Achaians. Finally she rose, signaling that our meeting was ended. I got to my feet and went to the door by which I had entered the chamber. Sure enough, the guard was outside waiting to escort me back to the king's audience hall.

 

No one was there except the courtier who had been with me earlier in the morning. The columned hall was empty, echoing.

 

"The king and royal princes are still deliberating on your message," he whispered. "You are to wait."

 

I waited. We strolled through several of the palace's halls and chambers and finally out into the big courtyard we had come through that morning. The hot sun felt good on my bare arms.

 

Out of curiosity I walked across the garden to the small statue of Athene. It was barely the length of my arm, and obviously very old, weathered by many years of rain and wind. Unlike the other, grander statues, it was unpainted. Or, rather, the original paint had long since worn away and had never been replaced.

 

Athene. The warrior goddess was dressed in a long robe, yet carried a shield and spear. A plumed helmet rested on the back of her head, pushed up and away from her face.

 

I looked at that face and the breath gushed out of me. It was her face, the face of the woman I had loved. The face of the goddess that the Golden One had killed.

 

 

Chapter 11

 

SO it was true. The gods are not immortal. Just as the Golden One had told me. And I knew that he had not lied about the rest: The gods are neither merciful nor beneficent. They play their games and make up their own rules while we, their creatures, try to make sense of what they do to us.

 

The rage burned in me. They are not immortal. The gods can be killed. I can kill the Golden One. And I will, I promised myself anew. How, I did not know. When, I had no idea. But by the flames that burned inside me I swore that I would destroy him, no matter how long it took and no matter what the cost.

 

I swung my gaze around the graceful flowered courtyard of Priam's palace. Yes, this is where I would start. He wants to save Troy, to make it the center of an empire that spans Europe and Asia. Then I will destroy it, crush it, slaughter its people, and burn its buildings to the ground.

 

"Orion."

 

I blinked, as though waking from a dream. Hector stood before me. I had not seen him approaching.

 

"Prince Hector," I said.

 

"Come with me. We have an answer for Agamemnon.

 

I followed him into another part of the palace. As before, Hector wore only a simple tunic, almost bare of adornment. No weapons. No jewelry. No proclamation of his rank. He carried his nobility in his person, and anyone who saw him knew instinctively that here was a man of merit and honor.

 

Yet, as I matched him stride for stride through the halls of the palace, I saw again that the war had taken its toll of him. His bearded face was deeply etched by lines around the mouth and eyes. His brow was creased and a permanent notch of worry had worn itself into the space between his eyebrows.

 

We walked to the far side of the palace and up steep narrow steps in murky darkness lit only by occasional slits of windows. Higher and higher we climbed the steep, circling stone steps, breathing hard, around and around the stairwell's narrow confines until at last we squeezed through a low square doorway onto the platform at the top of Troy's tallest tower.

 

"Aleksandros will join us shortly," said Hector, walking over to the giant's teeth of the battlements. It was almost noon, and hot in the glaring sun despite the stiff breeze from the sea that huffed at us and set Hector's brown hair flowing.

 

From this high vantage I could see the Achaian camp, dozens of long black boats drawn up on the beach behind the sandy rampart and trench I had helped to dig barely forty-eight hours earlier. The Trojan army was camped on the plain, tents and chariots dotted across the worn-bare soil, cook fires sending thin tendrils of smoke into the crystalline sky. A fair-sized river flowed across the plain to the south and emptied into the bay. A smaller stream passed to the north. The Achaian camp's flanks were anchored on the two riverbanks.

 

Beyond the gentle waves rolling up onto the beach I saw an island near the horizon, a brown hump of a worn mountain, and beyond that another hovering ghostlike in the blue hazy distance.

 

"Well, brother, have you told him?"

 

I turned and saw Aleksandros striding briskly toward us. Unlike Hector, his tunic looked as soft as silk and he wore a handsome royal-blue cloak over it. A jeweled sword was at his hip, and more jewels flashed on his fingers and at his throat. His hair and beard were carefully trimmed and gleamed with sweet-smelling oil. His face was unlined, though he was not that many years younger than his brother.

 

"I was waiting for you," said Hector.

 

"Good! Then let me give him the news." Smiling nastily, Aleksandros said to me, "You may tell fat Agamemnon that King Priam rejects his insulting offer. Moreover, by this time tomorrow our chariots will be riding through your camp, burning your boats and slaying your white-livered Achaians until nothing is left but ashes and bones. Our dogs will feast well tomorrow night."

 

I kept my face immobile.

 

Hector made the tiniest shake of his head, then laid a restraining hand on his brother's blue-cloaked shoulder. "Our father is not feeling well enough to see you again. And although my brother's hot words may seem insulting, the answer that we have for Agamemnon is that we reject his offer of peace."

 

"And any offer that includes returning my wife to the barbarian!" Aleksandros snapped.

 

"Then we will have war again tomorrow," I said.

 

"Indeed we will," said Aleksandros.

 

"Do you really think you are strong enough to break through the Achaian defenses and burn their fleet?"

 

"The gods will decide," Hector replied.

 

"In our favor," added Aleksandros.

 

I was beginning to dislike this boastful young man. "It is one thing to fight from chariots on this plain," I gestured toward the battlefield bounded by the beach, the two rivers, and the bluff on which the city stood. "It is another to break into the Achaian camp and fight their entire host on foot. That will not be a battle of hero against hero. Every man in the Achaian camp will be fighting for his life."

 

"Don't you think we're fighting for our lives?" Aleksandros retorted. "And the lives of our wives and children?"

 

"I don't think you can wipe out the Achaians," I insisted. "Not with the forces I see camped on the plain."

 

Aleksandros laughed. "You are looking in the wrong direction, barbarian. Look there, instead!"

 

He pointed inland, toward the distant wooded hills and the mountains that bulked beyond them, "There lies the empire of the Hatti," Aleksandros said. "It spreads from this shore far to the east and south. The Hatti High King has fought wars with the Egyptians, Orion. And won them! He is our ally."

 

I drew the obvious conclusion. "You expect help from him."

 

"It is already on the way. We put up with the Achaian raids on the farms and towns nearby, but when pompous Agamemnon landed his army here, we sent a delegation to the High King of the Hatti, in his capital at Hattusas."

 

Hector said calmly, "I saw that city when I was a lad, Orion. It could swallow Troy ten times over. It is immense, and the power of the Hatti makes it so."

 

I said nothing.

 

"So far we have fought the Achaians only with the help of our neighbors, the Dardanians and other peoples of the Troad," Aleksandros resumed. "But when the Hatti send their troops to aid us, Agamemnon's army will be utterly crushed."

 

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

 

Before Aleksandros could answer, Hector said, "Because we have decided to make Agamemnon a counter offer, Orion. We did not seek this war. We prefer peace, and the gentler arts of commerce and trade, to the blood and fire of battle."

 

"But we don't fear battle!" Aleksandros insisted.

 

Silencing his brother with a stern glance, Hector continued, "King Priam offers a simple plan for peace. If Agamemnon will remove his army and return to Achaia, my father the king offers to negotiate a new treaty of friendship and trade that will allow Mycenae free passage of the Hellespont."

 

"Mycenae?" I asked. "What about the other Achaian cities: Ithaca, Nestor's Pylos, Tiryns..."

 

"Mycenae," repeated Hector. "As High King, Agamemnon can make his own agreements with the other Achaian cities. As long as the trade is carried in Mycenaean boats, Troy will make no objection."

 

A masterful stroke of diplomacy! Dangle the carrot of free passage through the straits to Agamemnon, and to him alone, so that he will have a commanding position among the other Achaian powers. At the very least, it should set up an argument among the various Achaian petty kings that will destroy their ability to make a united war against Troy. Masterful.

 

"I will take this message to Agamemnon," I lied.

 

"Do that," snapped Aleksandros. "And tell the greedy High King that if he does not accept our offer by dawn tomorrow, his body will be feeding kites and dogs by sunset."

 

I stared at him. He tried to meet my gaze, but after a moment he looked away.

 

"We will expect an answer by sunrise tomorrow," Hector said. "If our offer is not accepted, we will force the Achaian camp. Even if we are not successful in that, it is only a matter of a few days before the Hatti army reaches us."

 

"We've had messages from smoke signals," Aleksandros boasted. "Their army has been seen within a three-day march of our walls."

 

I looked back to Hector. He nodded and I believed him.

 

"There has been enough killing," Hector said. "It is time to make peace. Agamemnon can return to Mycenae with honor. We make him a generous offer."

 

"But Helen stays with me!" Aleksandros added.

 

I had to smile at that. I could hardly blame him for wanting to keep her.

 

Hector gave me a four-man guard of honor that escorted me out the same Scaean gate I had entered the night before. Now I could see the massive walls of Troy close-up. Almost I could believe that gods had helped to build them. Immense blocks of stone were wedged and fitted together to a height of more than nine meters, with high square towers surmounting them at the major gates and corners. The walls sloped outward, so that they were thickest at ground level.

 

Since the city was built on the bluff overlooking the plain of Ilios, the attacking army would have to fight its way uphill before ever reaching the walls.

 

I returned to the Achaian camp to find old Poletes waiting at the makeshift gate for me.

 

"What news do you bring?" he asked me eagerly. I realized that his voice, though thin and grating, had none of the rasping and wheezing quality that had afflicted Priam.

 

"Nothing good," I said. "There will be battle tomorrow."

 

Poletes's skinny shoulders slumped beneath his worn tunic. "The fools. The bloody fools."

 

I knew better, but I did not reveal it. There would be battle tomorrow because I would not let the two sides know that each side was prepared to make peace.

 

I went straight to Odysseus, with Poletes skipping beside me, his knobby legs working overtime to keep pace with me. Soldiers and noblemen alike stared at me, reading in my grim face the news I brought from Troy. The women looked too, then turned away, knowing that tomorrow would bring blood and carnage and terror. Many of them were natives of this land, and hoped to be freed of bondage by the Trojan soldiery. But they knew, I think, that in the frenzy and bloodlust of battle, their chances of being raped and put to the sword were much more likely than their chances of being rescued and returned to their rightful households.

 

Odysseus's quarters were on the deck of his boat. He received me alone, dismissing his aides and servants to hear my report. He was naked and wet from his morning swim, rubbing himself briskly with a rough towel. Sitting on a three-legged stool, he rested his back against the boat's only mast. The musty canvas that had served as a tent when it had been raining was folded back now that the hot sun was shining, but his bearded face was as dark and foreboding as any storm cloud as I told him that Priam and his sons rejected the Achaian peace terms.

 

"They offered no counter terms?" he asked, once I had finished my report.

 

Without hesitating, I lied, "None. Aleksandros said he would never surrender Helen under any circumstances."

 

"Nothing else?"

 

"He and Prince Hector told me that a Hatti army is marching to their assistance."

 

Odysseus's eyes widened. "What? How far are they from here?"

 

"A few days' march, from what Aleksandros said."

 

He tugged at his beard, real consternation in his face. "That cannot be," he muttered. "It cannot be!"

 

I waited in silence, and looked out across the rows of beached boats. Each of them had its mast in place, as if the crews were making ready to sail. The masts had not been up the day before.

 

Finally Odysseus jumped to his feet. "Come with me," he said urgently. "Agamemnon must hear of this."

 

 

Chapter 12

 

"THE Hatti are marching here? To aid Priam?" Agamemnon piped in his high squeaking voice. "Impossible! It can't be true!"

 

The High King looked startled, even frightened. He sat at the head of the council, his right shoulder swathed in strips of cloth smeared with blood and some oily poultice.

 

He was broad of shoulder and body, built like a squat turret, round and thick from neck to hips. He wore a coat of gilded mail over his tunic, and a harness of gleaming leather over that, with silver buckles and ornaments. A jeweled sword hung at his side. Even his legs were encased in elaborately decorated bronze greaves, buckled in silver. His sandals had gold tassels on their thongs.

 

All in all, Agamemnon looked as if he were dressed for battle rather than a council of his chief lieutenants, the kings and princes of the various Achaian tribes.

 

But, knowing the Achaians and their penchant for argument, perhaps he hoped to awe them with his panoply. Or perhaps he thought he was going into a battle.

 

Thirty-two men sat in a circle around the small hearth fire in Agamemnon's hut, the leaders of the Achaian contingents. Every group allied to Agamemnon and his brother Menalaos was there, although the Myrmidones were represented by Patrokles, rather than Achilles. I sat behind Odysseus, who was placed two seats down on the High King's right, so I had the opportunity to study Agamemnon closely.

 

There was precious little nobility in the features of the High King. Like his body, his face was broad and heavy, with a wide stub of a nose, a thick brow, and deep-set eyes that seemed to look out at the world with suspicion and resentment. His hair and beard were just beginning to turn gray, but they were well combed and glistening with fresh oil perfumed so heavily that it made my nostrils itch, even from where I sat.

 

He held a bronze scepter in his left hand; his right rested limply on his lap. The one rule of sanity and order in the council meeting, apparently, was that only the man holding the scepter was allowed to speak.

 

"I have the sworn word of Hattusilis himself, High King of the Hatti, that he will not interfere in our war against Troy," Agamemnon said petulantly. "In writing!" he added.

 

"I have seen the agreement," vouched Menalaos, his brother.

 

Several of the kings and princes nodded their heads in acceptance, but big, blunt Ajax, sitting halfway down the circle, spoke up.

 

"Many of us have never seen the document sent by the Hatti High King."

 

Agamemnon sighed, almost girlishly, and turned to the servant hovering behind his chair. He immediately went to a far corner of the hut, where a table and several chests had been clustered together to form something like an office.

 

The High King's hut was larger than Achilles's, but not as luxurious. The log walls were bare, for the most part, although the king's bed was hung with rich tapestries. For all his bluster, Agamemnon kept no dais. He sat at the same level with the rest of us. The loot of dozens of towns was scattered around the hut: armor, jeweled swords, long spears with gleaming bronze points, iron and bronze tripods, chests that must have contained much gold and jewelry. The High King had cleared the hut of women and other slaves. None were here except the council and a few scribes and servants.

 

The servant produced a baked clay tablet covered with cuneiform inscriptions. Agamemnon passed it around the full circle of councilmen. Each man inspected it carefully, although it seemed to me that hardly any of them could read it. As if to prove my suspicion, Agamemnon had the servant read it aloud once it had returned to his hands.

 

The document was a masterpiece of diplomatic phrasing. It greeted Agamemnon as a fellow High King, and I could see his chest swell pridefully as the words were spoken. The High King of the Hatti, ruler of all the lands from the shore of the Aegean to the ancient walls of Jericho (by his own humble admission), recognized the justice of the Achaian grievance against Troy and promised not to interfere in its settlement. Of course, the wording was much more roundabout than that, but the meaning seemed clear enough. Even a Trojan would have to agree that Hattusilis had promised Agamemnon that he would not help Troy.

 

"Yet the Trojans claim that a Hatti army is within a few days' march, coming to their aid," said Odysseus.

 

"Pardon me, King of Ithaca," said old Nestor, sitting between Odysseus and Agamemnon, "but you do not have the scepter and therefore you are speaking out of turn."

 

Odysseus smiled at the whitebeard. "Neither do you, King of Pylos," he said mildly.

 

"What are they saying?" shouted one of the princes on the other side of the circle. "I can't hear them!"

 

Agamemnon handed the scepter to Odysseus, who stood up and repeated his statement in a clear voice.

 

Ajax blurted, "How do we know this is true?"

 

They argued back and forth, then finally commanded me to tell them exactly what had been told to me. I got to my feet and repeated the words of Aleksandros and Hector.

 

"Aleksandros said it?" Menalaos spat on the sandy floor. "He is the prince of liars."

 

"But Hector agreed with the story," Nestor said, hastily taking the scepter from my hands. As I sat, he rose and said, "If this tale of a Hatti army had been told our herald merely by Aleksandros, I would agree with King Menalaos..." On and on Nestor rambled, secure in the possession of the scepter. The gist of his statement was that Hector was an honorable man: If he said that the Hatti army was approaching Troy, that meant it was true. Hector was a man who could be believed, unlike his brother.

 

"That means disaster for us!" Agamemnon cried, his narrow little eyes actually brimming with tears. "The Hatti army could annihilate us and the Trojans at the same time!"

 

Everyone seemed to agree.

 

"They have fought battles against the Egyptians!"

 

"They conquered Akkad."

 

"And sacked Babylon!"

 

"Hattusilis marched on Miletus and the city opened its gates to him, rather than have his army batter down its walls."

 

The fear that spread around the council circle was palpable, like a cold wind that snuffs out a candle and leaves you in darkness.

 

None of them seemed to know what to do. They dithered like a herd of antelope that sees a pride of lions approaching and cannot make up its mind which way to run.

 

Finally Odysseus asked for the scepter. Rising, he said calmly, "Perhaps Hector and his wicked brother are wrong in their belief that the Hatti are marching to their aid. Perhaps the Hatti troops are nearby for reasons of their own, reasons that have nothing to do with our war against Troy."

 

Mumbles and mutters of dissent. "Too good to be true," said one voice out of the grumbling background.

 

"I suggest we send a herald to meet the Hatti commander and ask what his intentions are. Let our herald carry with him some sign of the agreement between Hattusilis and our own High King, to remind the Hatti commander that his king has promised not to interfere in our war."

 

"What good would that do?" Agamemnon wrung his hands, wincing and clutching his shoulder.

 

"If they mean to war on us, we might as well pack up now and sail back home."

 

Everyone agreed with that.

 

But Odysseus held the scepter aloft until they fell silent. "If the Hatti are coming to Troy's aid, would Hector be preparing to attack our camp tomorrow?" he asked.

 

Puzzled glances went around the circle. Much scratching of beards.

 

Odysseus continued, "He is making preparations to attack us, that we know. Why would he risk the lives of his own people-and his own neck-if there's a Hatti army on its way to fight at his side?"

 

"For glory," said Patrokles. "Hector is like my lord Achilles: his life means less to him than honor and glory."

 

With a shake of head, Odysseus replied, "Perhaps that is true. But I am not convinced of it. I say we should at least send a herald to show the Hatti general his king's sworn agreement with us, and to determine if the Hatti really will come to Troy's relief."

 

It took another hour or so of wrangling, but eventually they agreed to Odysseus's plan. They really had no other option, except to sail away.

 

The herald they picked, of course, was me.

 

When at last the council meeting ended, I asked Odysseus for permission to approach Menalaos with a private message from his wife. The King of Ithaca looked at me solemnly, his mind playing out the possible consequences of such a message. Then, with a nod, he called out Menalaos's name and caught up with the Spartan king as he turned at the door of Agamemnon's hut.

 

"Orion has a message for you, from Helen," he said simply, his voice low so that the other departing council members could not easily hear him.

 

"What is it?" he asked eagerly, clutching my arm as we stepped through the doorway and out onto the beach.

 

Odysseus stayed tactfully inside the hut. Menalaos and I walked a few paces along the sand before I spoke. He was a handsome man, with a full black beard and thick curly hair. Menalaos was many years younger than his brother, and where Agamemnon's features were heavy and almost coarse, the same general structure gave Menalaos's face a sort of strength and nobility. He was much slimmer than the High King, not given to feasting and drinking.

 

"Your wife sends you greetings," I began, "and says that she will return willingly with you to Sparta..."

 

His face lit up anew.

 

I finished, "...but only if you succeed in conquering Troy. She said she will not leave Troy as a consolation prize for the loser of this war."

 

Menalaos took a deep breath and threw his head back. "Then by the gods," he murmured, "by Ares and Poseidon and mighty Zeus himself, I will climb Troy's high walls and carry her back with me, no matter how much blood it takes!"

 

I understood how he felt, having seen Helen and spoken with her. And I felt inside myself a vicious sense of satisfaction. I had done everything I could to encourage the Achaians to press on with their war. There would be no peace with Troy. Not if I could help it.

 

Then I remembered that there was an army on the march to come to Troy's aid, and I was supposed to find them and stop them, somehow.

 

 

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.