“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?