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.