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.
In the distance I could hear women’s screams and crying. Apparently the soldiers were not taking female captives with them; they raped them and left them to their lamentations.
The commander was a short, swarthy, thickset man, more like the Achaians than Lukka and his men. His hair and thick beard were so deeply black that they seemed to cast bluish highlights. A brutal white scar slashed down the left side of his face from cheek to jawline, parting his beard. Like the other Hatti soldiers, he wore chain mail. His leather harness, though, was handsomely tooled, and the sword at his side was set with ivory inlays along its hilt.
Lukka stood at a respectful distance with me at his side and Poletes behind me, while his five men limped off to tend to their bruises and wounds. The commander glanced our way questioningly, but continued dividing the loot his soldiers brought before him: About half of everything went into a growing pile at the foot of his chariot; the soldiers carried away the other half for themselves. I folded my arms over my chest and waited, the stench of burning huts in my nostrils, the wailing of the women in my ears.
Finally the last clay jugs and bleating goats were parceled out, and the commander gestured to a pair of barefoot men dressed in rough jerkins to pick up his share of the loot and load it onto the nearby wagons. Slaves, I thought. Or possibly thetes.
The commander stepped tiredly down from his chariot and summoned Lukka with a crook of his finger.
Watching me as we approached him, he said, “This man isn’t a shit-eating farmer.”
Lukka clasped his fist to his chest and replied, “He claims to be a herald from some High King, sir.”
The commander looked me over. “My name is Arza. What’s yours?”
“Orion,” I said.
“You look more like a fighter than a herald.”
I tapped the wristband on my left arm. “I carry a message from the High King of the Hatti to the High King of the Achaians, a message of peace and friendship.”
Arza glanced at Lukka, then focused his deep brown eyes back on me. “The High King of the Hatti, eh? Well, your message isn’t worth the clay it was written on. There is no High King of the Hatti. Not anymore. Old Hattusilis is dead. The great fortress of Hattusas was in flames the last time I saw it.”
Poletes gasped. “The Hatti have fallen?”
“The great nobles of Hattusas fight among themselves,” said Arza. “Hattusilis’s son may be dead, we’ve heard rumors to that effect.”
“Then what are you doing here?” I asked.
He snorted. “Surviving, herald. As best we can. Living off the land and fighting off other bands of soldiers and marauders who try to take what we have.”
I looked around the village. Dirty black smoke stained the clear sky. Dead bodies lying on the bare ground drew clouds of flies.
“You’re nothing but a band of marauders yourselves,” I said.
Arza’s eyes narrowed. “Harsh words from a herald.” He sneered at the last word.
But my mind was racing ahead. “Would you care to join the service of the Achaian High King?” I asked.
He laughed. “I’ll serve no barbarian king or anyone else. Arza’s band serves itself! We go where we want to go and take what we want to take.”
“Mighty warriors,” I replied scornfully. “You burn villages and rape helpless women who have no soldiers to protect them. Very brave of you.”
From the comer of my eye I saw Lukka pale and take half a step away from me. I sensed Poletes backing off too.
Arza wrapped his hand around the ivory-inlaid hilt of his sword. “You look like a soldier,” he snarled. “Do you want to protect what’s left of this village? Against me?”
Lukka said, “Sir, I should warn you — this man is a fighter such as I’ve never seen before. He serves Athene and…”
“The bitch goddess?” Arza laughed. “The one they claim to be a virgin? My god is Taru, the god of storm and lightning, and he’ll conquer your dainty little virgin goddess every time! She won’t be a virgin for long if she fights against Taru!”
He was trying to goad me into a fight. I shook my head and turned to walk away.
“Lukka,” he commanded loudly. “Slit his cowardly throat.”
Before the agonized Lukka could reply, I wheeled back to face Arza and said, “Do it yourself, mighty attacker of women.”
He broke into a wide grin as he pulled his sword from its well-worn scabbard. “With pleasure, herald,” he said.
I took out my sword, and Arza laughed again. “Bronze! You poor fool, I’ll slice that toy in half with my iron.”
As he advanced toward me, holding his sword in front of him, my senses went into overdrive again. Everything slowed to a dreamlike pace. I could see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the trickle of a bead of perspiration forming on his brow and starting down his cheek. Lukka was standing like a statue, unable to decide whether he should try to stop his commander or join his attack against me. Poletes was wide-eyed, his mouth slightly open, his hands clutching the air at his sides.
Arza advanced a few steps, then retreated back to his chariot and, without taking his eyes from me, reached back and took up his shield with his left hand. I stayed where I was and let him fix the shield on his arm. He grinned at me again and, seeing I was not moving to attack him, he grabbed his iron helmet and pulled it on. It was polished to a brilliant gleam, and its flaps protected the sides of his face. I could see that his scar ran exactly along the edge of the iron flap.
He was a professional soldier and he would take any advantage I allowed him. For my part, I had no real desire to kill him. But if the only way to gain his respect was to best him in a fight, I was more than ready to do that.
He advanced on me confidently, crouching slightly, peering at me through the narrow gap between the rim of his helmet and the top of his shield. It bore a lightning flash symbol crudely painted on its stretched hide. I waited for him, watching. The shield covered most of his body when he crouched, making it difficult to see which way he intended to move. Still, I waited.
He feinted with the shield, jabbing it toward my face and simultaneously starting a sword cut at my midsection.
I parried his swing with my bronze blade, then slashed backhand and cracked the metal frame of his shield. But the blow snapped my sword in half.
With an exultant cry Arza flung his broken shield away and leaped at me. I could have spitted him easily on the jagged stump of my blade, but instead I stepped into him, grabbed his sword wrist in my left hand, and rapped him sharply on the head with the pommel of my broken sword.