“They must have thought it was Achilles,” I muttered.
“Perhaps they did. A god filled Patrokles with battle frenzy. Everyone in the camp thought he was too soft for fighting, yet he drove the Trojans back to their own gates and slew dozens with his own hand.”
I cocked an eyebrow at “dozens.” War stories grow with each telling, and this one was already becoming exaggerated, scarcely twenty-four hours after it had happened.
“But then the gods turned against Patrokles,” the old storyteller said mournfully. “Hector spitted him on his spear and stripped Achilles’s golden armor from his dead body.”
I felt my own face harden. The gods play their games, I thought. They let Patrokles have a moment of glory and then take their price for it.
“Now Achilles wails in his hut and covers his head with ashes. He swears a mighty vengeance against Hector and all of Troy.”
“So he will fight,” I said, wondering if one of those who opposed the Golden One had not arranged all this, manipulated Patrokles into his death as a way of making Achilles return to the battle.
“Tomorrow morning,” Poletes told me, “Achilles will meet Hector in single combat. It has been arranged by the heralds. There will be no fighting until then.”
Single combat between Hector and Achilles. Hector was much the bigger of the two, an experienced fighter, cool and intelligent even in battle. Achilles was no doubt faster, though smaller, and fueled on the kind of rage that drove men to impossible feats. Only one of them would walk away from the fight, I knew.
Even before our galley was beached I could hear the wailing and keening from the Myrmidones camp. I knew it was a matter of form, that Prince Achilles had ordered the women to mourn. But there were men’s deep voices among the cries of the women. And a drum beating a slow, unhappy dirge. A huge bonfire blazed at that end of the camp, sending a sooty black smoke skyward.
“Achilles mourns his friend,” Poletes said. But I could see that the excess of grief unnerved him slightly.
Yet despite the mourning rites among the Myrmidones, the rest of the camp was agog with the impending match between Achilles and Hector. There was almost a holiday mood among the men. They were placing bets, giving odds. They laughed and made jokes about it, as if it had nothing to do with blood and death. I realized that they were trying to drive away the dread and fear that they all felt. The lamentations from the Myrmidones’s camp continued unabated. It sent shivers up my spine. But slowly it came to me that the others all felt that this battle between the two champions would settle the war, one way or the other. They thought that no matter which champion fell, the war would be over and the rest of them could finally go home.
Odysseus inspected the Hatti contingent as soon as they disembarked from his galley. Lukka drew them up in a double line, while I stood at their head, the throb of the funeral drum and the keening of the mourners hanging over us all like the chilling hand of death.
The King of Ithaca tried to ignore the noise. He smiled at me. “Well, Orion, you have brought your own army with you.”
“My lord Odysseus,” I replied, “like me, these men are eager to serve you. They are experienced soldiers, and can be of great help to you.”
He nodded, eyeing the contingent carefully. “I will accept their service, Orion. But not before I speak with Agamemnon. It wouldn’t do to make the High King jealous — or fearful.”
“As you wish,” I said. He knew the politics and personalities of his fellow Achaians much better than I. Odysseus was not called “the crafty” for nothing.
As we walked back to the boat on which Odysseus kept his own quarters, I explained to him that there was no Hatti army marching to the relief of Troy, telling him what Arza and Lukka had told me about the death of the old High King and the civil war that was tearing the Hatti empire to pieces.
Stroking his beard thoughtfully, Odysseus murmured, “I thought that the High King was losing his power when he agreed to allow Agamemnon to settle his quarrel against Priam. Always in the past the Hatti have protected Troy and marched against anyone who threatened the region.”
I saw to it that my Hatti soldiers were fed and given tenting and bedding for the coming night. They sat in a circle around their own fire, not mixing with the Achaians. For their part, the Ithacans and others of the camp looked on the Hatti with no little awe. They especially ogled their uniform outfits of chain mail and tooled leather. No two Achaians dressed the same or carried the same equipment. To see forty-some men outfitted alike was a novelty to them.
To my surprise, the Achaians did not seem impressed or even interested in the iron swords that the Hatti carried. I myself bore the blade that Arza had carried; I had seen firsthand how much tougher the iron blade was than a bronze one.
As the sun was setting, turning the sea to a deep wine red, Lukka approached me. I was sitting apart from the men, taking my supper with Poletes by my side. Lukka stopped on the other side of our little cook fire, nervously fingering the straps of his harness, his face contorted into a deep scowl. I thought he had come to complain about the Myrmidones’s lamentations; I couldn’t blame him for that, even though there was nothing I could do about it.
There was no other chair for him to sit on, so I got to my feet and beckoned for him to come to me.
“My lord Orion,” he began, “may I speak to you frankly?”
“Of course. Speak your mind, Lukka. I want no thoughts hidden away where they can cause misunderstandings between us.”
He puffed out a pent-up sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir.”
“What is it, then?”
“Well, sir… what kind of a siege is this?” He was almost indignant. “The army sits here in camp, eating and drinking, while the people in the city open their gates and go to gather food and firewood. I don’t see any engines for battering down the gates or surmounting the city walls. This isn’t a proper siege at all!”
I smiled at him. Patrokles’s funeral lamentations had nothing to do with what was bothering him. He was a professional soldier, and the antics of amateurs irked him.
“Lukka,” I said, “these Achaians are not very sophisticated in the arts of warfare. Tomorrow you will see two men fight each other from chariots, and that may well settle the whole issue of this war.”
He shook his head. “Not likely. The Trojans won’t let these barbarians inside their walls willingly. I don’t care how many champions fall.”
“You may be right,” I agreed.
“Look now.” He pointed at the city up on the bluff, bathed in reddish gold by the setting sun. “See that course of wall, the stretch where it is lower than the rest?”
It was the western side of the city, where the garrulous courtier had admitted that the defenses were weaker.
“My men can build siege towers and wheel them up to that part of the wall, so the Achaian warriors could step from their topmost platforms right onto the battlements.”
“Wouldn’t the Trojans try to destroy the towers as they approached their wall?”
“With what?” he sneered. “Spears? Arrows? Even if they shoot flaming arrows at them, we’ll have them covered with wetted horsehides.”
“But they’ll be able to concentrate all their men at that one point and beat you off.”
He scratched at his thick black beard. “Maybe so. Usually we try to attack two or three spots along a wall at the same time. Or create some other diversions that keep their forces busy elsewhere.”
“It’s a good idea,” I said. “I’ll speak to Odysseus about it. I’m surprised none of the Achaians have thought of it themselves.”
Lukka made a sour face. “These aren’t real soldiers, my lord. The kings and princelings fancy themselves great warriors, and maybe they are. But my own unit could beat five times their number of these people.”