The Hittite

1

“It was three days ago,” said Apet to me, “when Helen realized that she loved Hector, not his brother. That was the day that she fled to the temple of Aphrodite to seek the goddess’ help.”

“When she told King Priam she would return to Menalaos to stop the war,” I said.

The fire was down to nothing but cold ashes by the time Apet finished her tale. The sky to the east was beginning to turn milky white with the coming dawn.

Apet stared at me with her coal-black eyes. “I wonder, Hittite, if you are the answer to her prayer.”

“Me?” I scoffed at the idea.

“Perhaps Aphrodite has sent you to Helen,” Apet murmured. “The gods move in strange paths, far beyond our poor powers of understanding.”

I shook my head, refusing to accept the possibility. The old crone had told me too much, especially about Prince Hector. It’s a mistake to know your enemies too well, I thought. Better that they be faceless, soulless figures to be cut down without thinking about their loves, their fears, their hopes.

“Now you know how Helen came to Troy,” Apet said, her voice dry and hoarse. “Now you know how her heart aches.”

I nodded and got slowly to my feet. My legs were stiff from sitting for so long. I reached down and helped her to get up.

“What do you intend to do, Hittite?” the old woman asked me.

“What I must, Egyptian,” I replied. “My wife and children are in this camp, among Agamemnon’s slaves. I must save them.”

Her dark eyes lit with understanding. “Then you will fight against Hector.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you will be the instrument the fates have chosen to deal him his death.”

I didn’t answer, but I thought it more likely that I would be one of those to die in the morning’s battle.

“Come,” I said at last, “I’ll escort you to the gate. From there the Trojans can take you back to the city.”

I took up my spear and shield. Apet pulled up the hood of her robe and followed me, silent as a shadow again, to the ramshackle gate in the parapet. A team of men were working in the dawn’s pale light to reinforce the gate with additional planks. I thought it would be better to tear down the ramp leading up to the gate, so that the Trojan chariots couldn’t rush up on it. But these Achaians seemed to have no head for engineering, or any other military finesse.

We squeezed through the planks of the gate while the workmen hammered away and their foreman frowned at us. Out beyond, the plain was dotted by hundreds of tiny points of light: the last smoldering remains of the Trojans’ campfires.

I walked Apet down the rampway and out onto the bare earth of the battleground perhaps a hundred paces before a Trojan sentry cried, “Halt! You there! Stop!”

He was alone, armed with a spear as I was. He held his shield before him as he slowly, reluctantly, approached us.

“This woman is a servant of Princess Helen,” I said, keeping my voice firm and even. “She is to be returned to the city.”

Without waiting for him to reply I turned and headed back toward the gate. Apet will be safe enough, I told myself. The lad will take her to his officer who will see to it that she gets back to her mistress.

I saw men up atop the rampart, silhouetted against the brightening sky: archers sticking handfuls of arrows into the sand, skinny wide-eyed youths piling up javelins and stones for slinging. Footmen were gathering behind the gate now, stacking up spears in preparation for battle. Servants were strapping armor onto their lords, who looked grim and tense as I walked alone past them. By the time I got back to my own men, the sky was turning pink. The dawn bugle sounded. I would get no sleep at all before the battle started.

Odysseos clambered down from his boat in bronze breastplate, arm guards and greaves. Behind him came four young men bearing his helmet, his heavy oxhide shield and spears of various lengths and weights.

“Bring your men and come with me, Hittite,” he commanded, smiling grimly. “Mighty Agamemnon has given us the honor of defending the gate.”

I gestured to my men to follow me. As we paced briskly toward the gate I asked Odysseos, “My lord, may I make a suggestion?”

He nodded as he took the helmet from one of his men and pulled it over his curly dark locks.

“It’s not enough to defend the gate, sire. You must be prepared for Hector to break through it.”

He gave me a sidelong glance as he fastened his helmet strap beneath his chin. With the nosepiece down and the cheek flaps pulled tight, there was little I could see of his face except for eyes and curly beard. “Don’t you think we can hold the gate?”

“That’s in the hands of the gods, my lord. But we should be prepared for the worst.”

“You don’t have a very high opinion of us, do you, Hittite?” With his helmet strapped on tightly, I could not see the expression on Odysseos’ face, but I thought I heard the ghost of a smile in his voice.

We were at the gate now. It looked flimsier than ever in my eyes, despite the extra planks the work crew had hammered onto it. There weren’t even any sizable logs or tree trunks bolstering it; all the trees inside the camp had been cut down long ago and used for fuel. Armed and armored men milled around behind it. I thought that they expected to lean against it and hold it in place with their weight when the Trojans tried to push it open.

Pointing to the ramshackle pile of boards, I explained, “My lord, if Hector breaks through this gate his chariots will run wild through the camp.”

Odysseos nodded grimly. “So what would you do?”

“I would take as many men as could be spared and erect a wall of shields on either side of the gate. If the Trojans break through they will be trapped between the two walls.”

“And our men could spear them from behind their wall of shields!”

“Archers could fire at them point-blank,” I added.

“Yes,” he said. “I see.” Turning, he called to one his servants. “Find Antiklos. Hurry!”

It was a good plan, I was convinced. And it would have worked well … if we’d had the time to put it into action.

But suddenly the early-morning air was split by the blast of dozens of horns. I looked up and saw the men atop the rampart pointing, wild-eyed.

“Here they come!”

2

Through the gaps between the gate’s boards I saw a formation of chariots pouring out of Troy’s Scaean Gate and boiling across the plain, raising an enormous cloud of dust as they raced toward us.

Odysseos pushed me aside and peered through the gate. With a shake of his helmeted head he muttered, “They won’t get through the gate with chariots. The horses will bolt halfway up the ramp.”

The horses have more sense than the men, I thought.

“They’ll have to dismount and charge the gate on foot,” Odysseos said.

But I wondered why Hector was leading such a wild charge toward the gate. What did he have in mind? The crown prince of Troy was no vainglorious fool. He knew that his chariot horses would not gallop blindly into a barrier, especially a barrier that now bristled with spears.

I had never seen such a cloud of dust before. Even considering that there were scores of chariots racing across the worn-bare plain, the dust they raised was enormous, choking, impenetrable. I pitied any foot soldiers trying to follow those chariots.

The formation of chariots plunged ahead, racing closer to us, closer. They were spread out in a broad line, I saw, not the kind of wedge formation that we Hatti used to break an enemy’s line. It seemed to me that each chariot was dragging something: a collection of brush, dead limbs from trees and bushes. That’s what was raising the thick cloud of dust, I realized.

And then, in an instant, Hector’s wily plan became clear.

Just as the chariots approached to within an arrow’s shot of the ramp they swerved to right and left. Out of that cloud of blinding dust raced a team of six powerful horses, blindfolded, three of them on each side of a massive tree trunk. Young men rode atop each horse, flattening themselves on their backs and necks, flogging them with slim whips to urge them on. The tree trunk that the team carried bobbed and jounced as the horses pounded blindly toward us. The youngsters guiding the horses wore kerchiefs over their noses and mouths; their faces and bodies were caked with gray dust.

A battering ram, I realized. A battering ram driven by six wildly charging horses.

The men up atop the rampart started firing arrows and hurling javelins. A few struck the horses but they kept plunging wildly ahead, spittle flying from their gasping mouths. One of the youths guiding the horses took an arrow between the shoulder blades and slid off his mount to be trampled by the others behind him.

And then the battering ram smashed into the gate, shattering it to splinters. The horses plowed on blindly across the beach and splashed into the foaming sea while Hector’s chariots streamed up the ramp and into the heart of the camp.

Footmen and nobles alike scattered, screaming for their lives, as Hector and other Trojans speared left and right from their wheeling chariots.

“Stand fast!” I shouted to my men. We formed a line behind our shields and leveled our spears at the chariots racing past us. The Trojans kept their distance from us, driving deeper into the camp, toward the boats lining the beach.

I had lost sight of Odysseos. Footmen were running down from the crest of the rampart, staggering and tumbling in their haste. A few knelt here and there to fire arrows at the chariots.

A dozen men cannot stop an army, even if they are disciplined Hatti soldiers. But I ordered my little squad forward as the chariots poured through the shattered gate in a blur of madly charging horses and armored spearmen.

“Kill the horses!” I shouted to them.

Some of the footmen behind us must have heard my command. Arrows began to fly at the horses. Several were hit, stumbling to the ground, spilling the warriors in the chariots. My men and I made short work of them before they could struggle to their feet.

But Trojan footmen were climbing over the rampart now and firing down at us. Little Karsh took a javelin through his throat and fell face-first, spewing blood. We would soon be overwhelmed, I saw, if we remained where we stood.

“Forward!” I roared, and the eleven of us charged into the Trojan footmen swarming down the rampart. They scattered before us like leaves blown on the wind.

Screams and curses filled the air. Blood was everywhere. An arrow nicked my bare calf, a pinprick that I ignored. Another one of my men went down, but we closed ranks behind our shields and continued pressing forward.

Ahead of us the Trojan chariots were wheeling and careening in a melee of killing and bloodlust. All semblance of order and control was gone now. The beach was too narrow for organized maneuvers, each chariot was operating on its own. The armored noblemen didn’t step down from their chariots this day; they fought from inside them, spearing Achaians while their charioteers drove the maddened horses deeper into the camp.

There was little dust in the air, there on the sandy beach. In the distance I could see the boats of Agamemnon, with their proud golden lions emblazoned on their prows. The Achaians seemed to be making a stand there, of sorts. Other boats were already burning. Giant Ajax stood huge and grimacing on the prow of his own boat, hurling benches and paddles down on the Trojan chariots.

I led my men toward Agamemnon’s boats. I could see a mass of women huddled against the side of a boat, practically in the lapping waves of the sea. My sons must be there, I thought. With Aniti. Terrified. Awaiting death.

We cut our way through the Trojan footmen, heading toward that boat. A ragged line of Achaians was forming there, behind their mantall shields. I heard Odysseos’ high-pitched battle cry from somewhere in the struggle. Trojan chariots were milling about, the warriors jabbing at the Achaians with their long spears.

Like a machine we marched toward the boat and the chariots attacking it. We were a wall of shields, with bristling spears taking the blood of any man foolish enough to come near us. A chariot wheeled about, the warrior in it looking surprised at the sight of us advancing upon him. His charioteer urged the matched pair of roans at us, but they balked at our spear points. He swerved them to our right and I led my men into a charge. We killed the closer horse and slammed into the chariot with our shields. I myself dispatched the warrior with a spear thrust to his unprotected side. The charioteer leaped out of the chariot and ran away into the milling, roaring, fighting mass.

With our backs to the boat’s curving black hull, we joined the defensive line and killed any fool who came within the length of our spears. But their sheer numbers forced us back, slowly, inexorably, until my feet were splashing in the water.

The women were behind us, screaming and wailing. The Trojan chariots dared not approach us as long as we held our line of shields with our blood-soaked spears leveled. Even the footmen kept their distance, pelting us with javelins and arrows. Two more of my men went down. It was only a matter of time before we were all killed.

And then a roar shook the camp.

“Achilles!”

“The Myrmidones!”

The Trojans looked to their right, their faces white with sudden fear. I urged my men forward and the footmen before us melted away. As we rounded the prow of the boat I saw down the beach that a formation of chariots was charging against the Trojans. Standing in the foremost chariot was a man in splendid golden armor who could only have been Achilles.

The Trojans ran. They broke before the spearpoints of Achilles and his Myrmidones and ran like mice. Footmen scrambled back over the palisade. Chariots raced for the gate. One of the Trojan warriors tried to rally the chariots and make a stand but it was useless: Hector himself could not stop the sudden panic that raced through them.

“It’s Achilles!” said a joyful voice. I turned and saw Odysseos standing beside me, his helmet and armor grimed with dust and blood, his shield split and battered, a broken spear in his free hand.

“Achilles has saved us,” Odysseos said gratefully.

But the battle was not yet over. The retreating Trojans were still hurling arrows and javelins at us as they scrambled up the rampart. A chariot raced past us and I recognized Hector standing in it, spattered with the blood of his victims. He half-turned and looked straight at me.

The world seemed to slow down. Even the roar and groans of battle dwindled as if my head had been ducked under water. Time itself seemed to stretch out like soft taffy. I could see Hector standing in his chariot, his eyes focus on me; see him raise his heavy, bloody spear; see him hurl it at me. I tried to raise my shield but it was as if it weighed a hundred times its normal weight. Hector’s heavy spear soared languidly through the air, directly at me.

I ducked, but everything went black.

3

When I opened my eyes again I saw nothing but the clear blue sky. Am I dead? I wondered.

Then Poletes’ scrawny face slid into my view, with his mangy beard and bulging eyes. I realized that I was lying flat on my back.

I heard myself ask, “What happened?” My throat felt raw, burning.

Poletes grinned at me and held out my helmet in both his bony hands. I saw a dent in it that had not been there before.

“Your iron helmet saved your life,” he said, looking amused at it all. “Not even mighty Hector’s spear could penetrate it.”

I tried to sit up, but the world went spinning and I sagged back onto the sand. I waited until the spinning stopped, then tried again.

“You took a hard knock,” Poletes said, helping me to a sitting position.

My head thundered. I looked around. The battle seemed to be over, or at least it had moved away from Agamemnon’s boats. The beach was littered with the bodies of the slain. I saw several of my men sitting not far off. Magro was awkwardly winding a strip of gray cloth around his sword arm; it seeped blood.

Sitting there, still feeling woozy, I called him to me.

He sank to his knees beside me, looking grim. I realized that it had been a long time since our squad’s clown had cracked a joke. Or even a smile.

“I saw Karsh go down,” I said.

“He’s dead. The Hurrian, too.”

“Your arm?”

“Took an arrow. It’s not deep.”

“Any others killed?”

He shook his head. “Nicks and cuts, that’s all. The gods were with us.”

But not with little Karsh, I thought. Not with the quiet, uncomplaining Hurrian.

“The battle?”

“It’s over. The Trojans are back behind their own walls again.” Yet Magro did not look happy.

“What happened?”

Poletes interrupted Magro. “A fantastic day! A day that even the gods will long remember.”

Before I could shut him up, the old storyteller exclaimed, “The Myrmidones came boiling out of their camp like a stampede of stallions and slew hundreds, thousands of the Trojans!”

I knew he was exaggerating, but I heard myself say, “They were terrified of Achilles.”

“And well they should be,” Poletes went on, “but it was not Achilles who led the charge.”

“Not Achilles?”

“Even with Hector and his brothers ravaging through the camp, the mighty Achilles stayed in his hut and refused to fight.”

“But who—”

“Patrokles!”

“That tender-faced boy?”

Nodding eagerly, Poletes said, “Patrokles put on his master’s golden armor and led the Myrmidones in the counterattack. Hector and his brothers must have thought it was Achilles, the magnificent slayer of men. The Trojans were shocked and ran out of the camp, back to the very walls of Troy.”

“They thought they faced Achilles,” I muttered.

“Of course they did. A god filled Patrokles with battle fury. 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 larger with each telling, and this one was already becoming overblown, scarcely an hour after it happened.

Magro spoke up, “But then the gods turned against Patrokles. Hector spitted him on his spear, in front of the Trojan gates.”

“And stripped Achilles’ golden armor from his dead body,” Poletes added. “The Myrmidones retreated back to camp while the Trojans slipped behind their high walls and barred their gates.”

My head was buzzing as if some muffled drum was thumping away in my ears. The gods play their games, I thought. They give Patrokles a moment of glory but then take their price for it.

“Now Achilles sits in his hut and covers his head with ashes. He swears a mighty vengeance against Hector and all of Troy.”

“So now he’ll fight,” I said.

“Tomorrow morning,” Magro said. “Achilles will meet Hector in single combat. The heralds have arranged it.”

Single combat between Hector and Achilles. Hector was much the bigger of the two, an experienced fighter, cool and intelligent even in the fury of battle. Achilles was no doubt faster, though smaller, and fueled by the kind of rage that drives men to impossible feats. Only one of them would walk away from the combat, I knew. And I remembered Helen telling me that Hector’s death had been foretold.

Then I realized that the humming in my head was really the distant wailing and keening from the Myrmidones camp. I knew it was a matter of form for the women to mourn. But there were men’s deep voices among the cries of the women, and a drum beating a slow, sorrowful dirge.

I got slowly to my feet, still feeling shaky. Down the beach, where the Myrmidones’ camp was, a huge bonfire suddenly flared up, sending a cloud of sooty black smoke skyward.

“Achilles mourns his friend,” Poletes said. I could see that the excess of grief unnerved him slightly.

I realized that we were still in front of Agamemnon’s line of boats. My wife and sons must be nearby.

To Magro I said, “Take the men back to Odysseos’ area. I’ll join you before the sun sets.”

My head still spun slightly, and the Myrmidones’ mournful drumbeat was painful to my ears. I walked somewhat unsteadily toward the group of women gathered around wounded warriors, tending them with salves and cloth windings.

Suddenly my stomach heaved. I staggered to the shoreline and, one hand on the sticky tar of the boat, doubled over and retched into the sea. One of the women came to me, her eyes questioning.

“I’m all right,” I told her, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

She handed me a cloth soaked in cool water. I dabbed it on my lips, then cleaned my hands with it.

“Your leg is injured,” she said.

I looked down and saw that a slice on my calf was oozing blood. “It’s nothing,” I said.

“You’re one of the Hittites?” she asked.

“Yes. Where is Aniti?” Before she could say anything I added, “My wife.”

Her eyes went wide for an instant, then she pointed to the next boat, up the beach. “I saw her over there with her children.”

I thanked her and, splashing through the ankle-deep water, headed for the next boat.

Aniti was sitting on the sand while my two boys were at the water’s edge, splashing in the ripples running up the beach. She saw me approaching and jumped to her feet.

“You’re all right?” I asked.

She nodded wordlessly.

“I can see the boys are unharmed.”

“I kept them aboard the boat, so that they couldn’t see the killing.”

I nodded back at her.

“You’re hurt.”

“A scratch. I took a knock on the head, also. From Prince Hector himself.”

“You sound proud of it.”

I made myself smile. “It’s not many men who can say they took a blow from Hector and lived to tell of it.”

She looked away from me, toward the boys, then said in a low voice, “I’m glad you weren’t killed.”

“Aniti … I …” My tongue refused to work properly.

“You want to take the boys from me, I know.”

“I want to take them out of slavery. You, too,” I heard myself say. “I’m trying to get Agamemnon to release you. The three of you.”

She smiled bitterly. “The boys he will give you without quarrel. But not me. He values me too highly.”

My fists clenched. But I held my temper and said merely, “We’ll see.”

Then I turned away from her and headed back to where my men were readying themselves for their evening meal.

4

Despite the mourning rites among the Myrmidones, the rest of the camp was agog about the impending match between Achilles and Hector. There was almost a holiday mood among the men. As I made my way back to Odysseos’ area, they were placing bets, giving odds. They laughed and made jokes about it, as if the bout has nothing to do with blood and death. I realized that they were trying to drive away the dread and fear they all felt. And trying to keep the flicker of hope within them from blossoming into a flame that would be snuffed out if Hector killed Achilles.

I had my own worries. I knew I could take my sons from Agamemnon: the High King owed me that much, at least, and Odysseos would plead my case for me. But Aniti. Somehow, no matter how I told myself to be done with her, I couldn’t let her go. How could I get Agamemnon to give her up? Why should I even try?

My head was spinning again, but this time with the emotions that seethed within me. Aniti was my wife, despite all that had happened to her, despite all she herself had done, she was still my wife and my possession. I told myself that if I took the boys, I would need their mother to tend them.

But the truth was that I could not leave Aniti in the hands of Agamemnon or any other man. I could not leave her in slavery and simply walk away from her. I realized that she was not only my wife, my property.She was my responsibility. I wished it were not so, but it was. I could not leave her to remain in slavery.

The wailing lamentations from the Myrmidones’ camp continued unabated. It sent shivers up my spine. But slowly it came to me that the others felt that this battle between the two champions could settle the war, one way or the other. They thought that no matter which champion fell, the war would end tomorrow and the rest of us could go home.

I wondered if that was true. If Achilles dies tomorrow, I thought, most of these Achaians will pack up their boats and sail away. But if Hector is killed, the Trojans could still button themselves inside their high walls and defy Agamemnon’s host. The Achaians had no hope of overtopping those walls; they knew nothing of siege engines and scaling ladders.

But I did.

Once I reached our section of the camp and saw that my men, what was left of them, were settled by their tents, I went to Odysseos’ boat and climbed the rope ladder to its deck.

A young guard was sitting on the gunwale, staring wistfully out to sea, when I clambered up on the opposite side. The sun was nearing the flat horizon of the sea, turning the sky to flaming reds and oranges. Puffy clouds were turning violet, rimmed with gold. The guard jumped to his feet once I slapped my boots on the deck’s planks.

“I wish to see the king,” I said, before he could question me.

“You are the Hittite,” he replied respectfully.

“I am.”

“Wait here.”

He hurried off behind the cabin. I stood and waited, my head still throbbing. It took several moments, but at last the youngster reappeared and beckoned to me.

“My lord Odysseos will speak to you, Hittite.” He gestured toward the far end of the cabin.

Odysseos was sitting on a plank bench, alone, dressed in nothing more than a rough wool chiton. A flagon of wine stood on the table before him, beaded with condensation. It looked deliciously cool. I saw only one cup.

“Hittite,” said Odysseos. “You’re still alive.”

“Two of my men were killed, my lord.”

“But we survived. The camp is still here and the Trojans are locked behind their walls once again. Only a few of the boats were burned.”

I stood before him and saw that he had fresh cuts on his forearm, his shoulder, even a slight nick above his brow.

“My wife and sons survived also,” I said.

Odysseos eyed me. “You want them back.”

“I do, my lord.”

He reached for the flagon and poured himself a cup of wine. “You’ll have to ask the High King for them.”

“Yes, I know.”

Breaking into a rare smile, Odysseos said, “This would be a good time for it. Agamemnon should be happy that Achilles has returned to the fight.”

I understood the logic of it.

“But the High King does not give gifts so easily,” he added, bringing the cup to his lips. His eyes stayed fixed on mine.

“The woman is my wife, my lord. She belongs to me.”

“Still … it might be better to wait until tomorrow, after Achilles slays Hector. He’ll be in a more giving mood then.”

“But what if Hector slays Achilles?”

Odysseos shrugged. “That would make things … difficult.”

I asked, “Do you think the Trojans will surrender if Hector falls?”

His brows knit; he hadn’t thought of what would happen after the battle between the two.

“Surrender? No, I suppose not. The Trojans won’t let us inside their walls willingly, no matter how many of their champions fall.”

I heard myself say, “I can get you inside their walls.”

“You?”

I pointed toward the city up on the bluff, bathed now in reddish gold by the setting sun. “See the course of the wall, where it is lower than the rest?” It was the western side of the city, where the garrulous courtier had told me that the defenses were weaker.

“Still twice the height of a grown man,” Odysseos muttered.

“My men can build siege towers and wheel them up to that part of the wall so that your warriors can climb up inside them and step from their topmost platforms right onto the battlements of the wall.”

“Towers?” Odysseos asked. “Taller than the wall? How can that be?”

“We have done it before, my lord. We build the towers of wood, and place them on rollers so that we can bring them up against the wall.”

For a long moment Odysseos said nothing. Then, “But the Trojans would destroy the towers as you approached the wall.”

“With what?” I challenged. “Spears? Arrows? Even if they shoot flaming arrows, we’ll have the towers covered with wetted horse hides.”

“But they’ll concentrate their men at that one point and beat you off.”

I realized that Odysseos was no fool. He grasped the concept of the siege towers even though he had never seen one in his life. And he immediately understood the weak point of my plan.

“Usually we build three or four towers and attack several spots along the fortifications at the same time. Or we create some other diversion that keeps the enemy’s forces busy elsewhere.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Many times, my lord. Our army cracked the walls of Babylon that way.”

“Babylon!”

“A much bigger city than Troy, my lord. With higher walls.”

Odysseos scratched at his thick black beard. “The High King must hear of this.”

Yes, I said to myself. This is the gift I offer to Agamemnon in exchange for my wife and sons.

5

Odysseos bade me wait with my men while he changed into clothing more fitting for a visit to the High King. And he sent a messenger to Agamemnon to tell him of his desire for an audience.

I went down to our little camp, where Magro and the others were gathering around the evening cook fire. Poletes scrambled to his feet, eager to know what had transpired with Odysseos.

“We’re going to Agamemnon,” I said, perhaps a bit pompously, “to tell the High King how to win this war.” And get my sons and wife back, I added silently.

Once I outlined the idea of the siege towers, Poletes shook his head. “You’re too greedy for victory, my master. You want to win everything and leave nothing for the gods to decide.”

He seemed almost angry.

I asked, “But men fight wars to win, don’t they?”

“Men fight wars for glory, for spoils, and for tales to tell their grandchildren. A man should go into battle to prove his bravery, to face a champion and test his destiny. You want to use tricks and machines to win your battle.” Poletes actually spat into the sand to show his displeasure.

I reminded him, “Yet you yourself have scorned these warriors and called them bloodthirsty fools.”

“That they are! But at least they fight fairly, champion to champion, as men should fight.”

I laughed. “Windy old storyteller, all’s fair in love and war.”

For once Poletes had no answer. He grumbled to himself and turned back to the fire and the kettle with supper simmering in it.

Odysseos came down from his boat, dressed in a clean robe and a deep blue cloak. Two young men in leather vests and helmets walked a respectful three paces behind him.

“Come, Hittite, we go to Agamemnon.”

As we walked through the camp, Odysseos asked me, “You can put wheels on these towers and pull them up to the walls?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“While under fire?”

“Yes, my lord.”

And these men you have with you know how to build such towers?”

“We have done it before, sire. We’ll need a team of workers: axmen, carpenters, workmen.”

He nodded. “No problem there.”

As we walked toward the cabin of Agamemnon, I wondered that none of these Achaians had thought of building siege towers earlier. Then I realized that these barbarians weren’t real soldiers. These kings and princelings might fancy themselves to be mighty warriors, but my own squad of troops could beat five times their number of these fame-seeking simpletons. It was as Poletes said: these Achaians fight for glory—and loot.

The High King seemed half asleep when we were ushered into his cabin. Odysseos’ two guards stayed outside in the gathering night. Agamemnon sat drowsily in a camp chair, a jewel-encrusted wine goblet in his right hand. Apparently the wound in his shoulder did not prevent him from lifting his arm to drink. No one else was in the cabin except a pair of women slaves, dark-eyed and silent in thin shifts that showed their bare arms and legs.

Odysseos took a stool facing the High King. I squatted on the carpeted ground at his side. He was offered wine. I was not.

“A tower that moves?” Agamemnon muttered after Odysseos had explained it to him twice. “Impossible! How could a stone tower be made to move?”

“It would be made of wood, son of Atreos. And covered with hides for protection.”

Agamemnon looked down at me blearily and let his chin sink to his broad chest. He seemed almost asleep. Still, the lamps casting long shadows across the room made his heavy-browed face seem sinister, even threatening.

“I had to return the captive Briseis to that young pup,” he grumbled. “And hand over a fortune of booty. Even with his loverboy slain by Hector the little snake refused to reenter the war unless his ‘rightful’ spoils were returned to him.” The scorn that he put on the word rightful could have etched granite.

“Son of Atreos,” Odysseos soothed, “if this plan of mine works we will sack Troy and gain so much treasure that even overweening Achilles will be satisfied.”

Agamemnon said nothing. He waved his goblet slightly and one of the slave women came immediately to fill it. Then she filled Odysseos’ golden cup.

“Achilles,” Agamemnon growled. I could hear the hatred in his voice. “If he slays Hector tomorrow the bards will sing his praises forever.”

“But the walls of Troy will still stand between us and the victory you deserve, High King,” said Odysseos.

Agamemnon smiled slyly. “On the other hand, Hector might kill Achilles. Then I’ll be rid of him.”

Lower, Odysseos repeated, “But the walls of Troy will still stand.”

“Three more weeks,” Agamemnon muttered. He slurped at his wine, spilling much of it over his already stained tunic. “Three more weeks is all I need.”

“Sire?”

Agamemnon let the goblet slip from his beringed fingers and plonk onto the carpeted ground. He leaned forward, a sly grin on his fleshy face.

“In three more weeks my ships will bring the grain harvest from the Sea of Black Waters through the Dardanelles to Mycenae. And neither Priam nor Hector will be able to stop them.”

Odysseos made a silent little “oh.” I saw at that moment that Agamemnon was no fool. If he could not conquer Troy, he would at least get his ships through the straits and back again, loaded with golden grain, before breaking off the siege. And if the Achaians had to sail away from Troy without winning their war, at least Agamemnon would have the year’s grain supply in his own city of Mycenae, ready to use it or sell it to his neighbors as he saw fit.

Odysseos had the reputation of being cunning, but I realized that the King of Ithaca was merely careful, a man who considered all the possibilities before choosing a course of action. Agamemnon was the crafty one: greedy, selfish and grasping.

Recovering quickly from his surprise, Odysseos said, “But now we have the chance of destroying Troy altogether. Not only will we have the loot of the city and its women, but you will have clear sailing through the Dardanelles for all the years of your kingship!”

Agamemnon slumped back on his chair. “A good thought, son of Laertes. A good thought. I’ll consider it and call a council to decide upon it. After tomorrow’s match.”

With a reluctant nod, Odysseos said, “After we see whether Achilles remains among us or dies on Hector’s spear.”

Agamemnon smiled broadly.

6

“He’s a fool,” I muttered as we walked away from Agamemnon’s cabin.

Odysseos laid a hand on my shoulder. “No, Hittite. He is the High King and you could have your tongue cut out for speaking that way.”

The sun had set. The stars were coming into sight. That everlasting chill wind was again blowing in from the sea, through the camp and across the plain of Ilios, toward the dark brooding walls of Troy. The camp seemed quiet, subdued; the betting and excited anticipation over the coming bout between Achilles and Hector seemed to be over now. Men were crawling into their tents or making up their bedrolls for the night’s sleep. Some were pairing off with slave women, I saw. I wondered what Aniti was doing. Was she with Agamemnon? The thought made my stomach turn.

“The High King is many things,” Odysseos said to me, his voice low, grave, “but he is no fool. If Achilles wins tomorrow, the Trojans will be so demoralized they might agree to return Helen and end the war. If Hector wins, then Agamemnon is rid of a thorn in his flesh.”

Understanding dawned in me. “Either way, he wins.”

It was too dark to see the expression on Odysseos’ face, but I heard the iron hardness in his voice. “Either way.”

“But my sons,” I said. “My wife.”

“Too soon to ask for them, Hittite. You saw how angry he was over returning the slave to Achilles. You can imagine how he’d react to your request.”

“But he has no right to them!”

Very softly, Odysseos replied, “He is the High King. That is all the right he needs.”

I had no answer for that.

“Tomorrow, Hittite. Be patient for a few more hours.”

My teeth clenched hard enough to snap an iron blade.

Odysseos seemed to be lost in thought as we walked in silence the rest of the way back to the Ithacans’ section of the camp. All was quiet. Most of the men were already asleep.

At last he said, “I have another task for you, Hittite.”

“Sire?”

“You will be a herald again and return to Troy. With a message for Helen. From me.”

Wearing a white armband and carrying the willow reed of an emissary, I once again headed for Troy’s Scaean Gate, across the blood-soaked plain of Ilios, lit by the fattening crescent of the moon and the glittering stars that spangled the night sky. There were no troops camped on the plain this night; I walked alone and unchallenged until I stood before the city’s high walls.

The guards at the gate were fully-grown warriors in bronze armor, their shields and spears resting within an arm’s reach. As before, I carried only a slim dagger tucked into my belt. As before, they took it from me before sending me under escort to Prince Hector.

He received me in the armory, a long hall filled with shields and weapons and empty chariots. The place rang with voices and the hum of work. Slaves and warriors alike were polishing, sharpening, mending wheels, stacking sheaves of arrows. Hector was inspecting a suit of bronze armor, checking its leather straps, pointing out to a slave scratches that he wanted buffed away by morning.

Paris was nowhere in sight. I was glad of that; the young prince would get angry if he knew the message I bore.

Hector looked up as I stopped before him, flanked by my two armed escorts.

“You again,” he said.

I made a small bow. “My lord Odysseos has sent me—”

“With another offer of peace?”

“No, my lord. I bear a message for Helen.”

“From Odysseos?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Tell it to me, I’ll see that she gets it.”

I drew myself up a bit taller. “My instructions are to give the message to Helen and no one else.”

Hector fell silent for a moment, appraising me with those steady brown eyes of his. If he felt anxious about the morning’s duel against Achilles, he gave no sign of it.

“We could force the message from you, Hittite,” he said calmly.

“Perhaps,” I replied.

For several moments more he said nothing, obviously thinking over the situation. At last he said to my escorts, “Take this emissary to Princess Helen, then escort him back to the Scaean Gate and send him on his way.”

They clenched their fists on their breasts and started to turn.

“My lord Hector,” I heard myself say. “May the gods be with you tomorrow.” I had no idea why I blurted out those words, except that I thought Hector was a far better man than vainglorious Achilles.

Hector almost smiled. “The gods will do as they wish, Hittite. As usual.”

Those were the last words I heard from Hector, prince of Troy.

If Hector was calm, Helen was in a frenzy. She burst into the little sitting room that my escorts brought me to, her eyes red and puffy. Apet lingered at the doorway, again in her black Death’s robe.

“What does Odysseos want to tell me?” Helen fairly shouted. “Can he prevent tomorrow’s fight?”

Her golden hair was disheveled, she wore a plain shift belted at the waist. It was obvious she had been crying. Yet still she was so beautiful that it took a conscious effort of will not to reach out to her and try to comfort her.

“Nothing can prevent tomorrow’s fight, my lady,” I said. “Or, rather, no one will take a step to prevent it.”

She sank onto the sofa against the little chamber’s far wall. “No. It’s ordained by the Fates. Hector will die tomorrow. It’s foretold. Troy is doomed. I’m doomed.” She bowed her head and began to sob softly.

Still wondering where Paris was, I knelt on one knee before her. “My lady, Odysseos wants me to tell you how to survive.”

Helen looked at me, her soft cheeks runneled by tears. “How can I survive if he dies?” she demanded. “Why should I survive? I’m the cause of his death!”

Apet hurried to her side. “Not so, my dear one. Hector is doomed, truly, but it’s not your fault. It’s his destiny and there’s nothing anyone can do to avoid it.”

Helen shook her golden-tressed head and broke into more sobs.

Kneeling at her feet, I told her, “My lord Odysseos instructed me to tell you that if the worst happens, if the Achaians break into Troy, you are to flee to the temple of Aphrodite and take sanctuary there. He will seek you there, in the temple of Aphrodite.”

Helen’s sobbing eased. “Odysseos will seek me?”

“So he told me. He will protect you while the city is being sacked.”

Her face went cold. “And then return me to Menalaos.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I’d rather die.”

“No!” I urged. “You must live.”

“Not as Menaloas’ wife. He’d probably kill me, after he’s had his fill of beating me, raping me, humiliating me in front of his kinsmen.”

Apet said, “Fly to Egypt, my pet! You’ll be safe in the Land of the Two Kingdoms.”

Egypt? I was stunned. The old woman must be insane. Egypt was a thousand leagues distant. Farther.

Helen echoed my thoughts. “How can we get to Egypt? How can we get away from Troy when the city falls? What good is anything if he’s killed?”

She had lost all hope. And suddenly I felt pity for beautiful Helen. She had nothing to look forward to if Troy fell; nothing but pain and humiliation and ultimately death. Hector had been her real hope, her one chance for survival. If he died …

But it was more than that, I realized. She loved Hector. More than her girlish infatuation with Paris. She truly loved Hector. She was terrified that he would be killed by Achilles. That frightened her more than her own fate at the hands of Menalaos.

I found myself wondering what love truly is. How can one person be willing to die so that another could live? With a shock of surprise, I found myself envying Hector.

But such thoughts were not for me. I was a soldier; she was a queen, and a princess of Troy. Slowly I got to my feet. “My lady, that is Odysseos’ message. If the Achaians enter the city, fly to the temple of Aphrodite. Not even the barbarians would despoil the temple of so powerful a goddess. He will find you there and protect you.”

Helen nodded bleakly. “And then turn me over to Menalaos.”

I spread my hands. “I have nothing to say about that, my lady.” Yet I wished that I did.

Helen breathed a long, shuddering sigh. Then she stood up and said to me, “Thank you, Lukka, for bringing me Odysseos’ message. Now you must return to your master and give him my thanks for offering me his protection.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Apet said, in a half-whisper.

“Is it?” Helen asked. Then she dismissed me.

The same two young men escorted me to the Scaean Gate. I left Troy, my mind in a turmoil over Helen. She was too beautiful to die, to be killed by Menalaos. Even though he was her rightful husband and had the power of life and death over her … I shook my head and tried to clear away such thoughts. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to picture my Aniti in my mind. Would she cry for me if I were killed? Would I cry for her?

It wasn’t until I was halfway back to the Achaian camp strung out along the beach, trudging alone beneath the moon as it glided among clouds of silver, that the full import of Odysseos’ message to Helen suddenly struck me.

He expected the Achaians to break through Troy’s walls. He knew that if Achilles killed Hector the Trojans would shut themselves inside those walls and defy the invaders. He knew that the only way to get past those walls was to build the siege towers that I had described to him.

Haughty Agamemnon might not believe that the towers could work, but Odysseos did. He believed in them! He believed in me!

I wished that Helen did, too.

7

I slept fitfully that night, my dreams filled with visions of Helen and Aniti, Hector and Achilles, all in a confusing, troubling whirlwind. I awoke with the sun. The morning dawned bright and windy.

Although the single combat between Hector and Achilles was what everyone looked forward to, still the whole army prepared to march out onto the plain. Partly they went because a single combat between champions can degenerate into a general melee easily enough. Mostly they went to get a closer look at the fight.

Odysseos came to me as my men were tugging on their leather jerkins and strapping their helmets under their chins.

“I want you and your Hittites to stand close behind my chariot,” said the King of Ithaca to me. “If a battle arises you must follow my chariot.”

“I understand, my lord,” I said. Then I added, “But we could be starting to fell trees for the siege towers. There’s plenty of timber on the other side of the river.”

“Not today,” Odysseos said. “If all goes well, we may not need your towers.”

I had no choice but to accept his decision.

Virtually the entire Achaian force marched out through the gate and drew itself up, rank upon rank, on the windswept plain before the camp’s sandy rampart. By the beetling walls of the city the Trojans were drawing themselves up likewise, chariots in front, foot soldiers behind them. Swirls of dust blew into the cloudless sky and quickly dissipated. I could see pennants fluttering along the battlement of the city’s walls. I even imagined I saw Helen’s golden bright hair at the top of the tallest tower, by the Scaean Gate.

Odysseos ordered us to stand at the left side of his chariot. “Protect my driver if we enter the fray,” he said. So I stood with my men, each of us clasping our heavy shields that extended from chin to ankle. Five plies of hides stretched across a thin wooden frame and bossed with iron studs, our shields would stop almost anything except a spear driven with the power of a galloping chariot behind it.

Poletes was up on the rampart with the slaves and thetes, straining his old eyes for a view of the fight. He would interrogate me for hours this night, I knew, dragging every detail of what I had seen out of my memory. If either of us still lives after this day’s fighting, I told myself.

As I stood on the windy plain, squinting into the morning sun, a roar went up among the Trojans. I saw Hector’s chariot, pulled by four magnificent white stallions, kicking up a cloud of dust as it sped from the Scaean Gate and drove toward the front of the arrayed ranks of Trojan soldiery. Hector stood tall and proud, his great shield at his side, wearing the gleaming bronze armor I had seen him with the previous night in the armory. A clutch of spears stood in their holder on the chariot, their points aimed heavenward.

For many minutes nothing more happened. Muttering started among the Achaian footmen. I glanced up at Odysseos standing in his chariot. The King of Ithaca merely smiled tolerantly. Achilles was behaving like a self-appointed idol, making everyone anxious for his appearance. I thought that it would have been a good trick against any opponent except Hector. That man will use the time to study every rock and bump on the field, I said to myself. He is no child to be frightened by waiting.

At last an exultant roar sprang up among the Achaians. Turning, I saw four snorting, spirited, midnight-black horses, heads tossing, groomed so perfectly that they seemed to glow, pounding down the earthen ramp that cut across our trench. Achilles’ chariot was inlaid with ebony and ivory, and his armor—only his second-best since Hector had stripped Patrokles’ dead body—gleamed with burnished gold.

With his plumed helmet on, there was little of Achilles’ face to be seen. But as his chariot swept past us I saw that his mouth was set in a grim line and his eyes burned like furnaces.

He did not stop for the usual prebattle formalities. He did not even slow down. His charioteer cracked his whip over the black horses’ ears and they plunged forward at top speed as Achilles took a spear in his right hand and screamed loud enough to echo off the walls of Troy: “PATROKLES! PA … TRO … KLES!”

His chariot aimed straight for Hector’s. The Trojan driver, startled, whipped his horses into motion and Hector hefted one of his spears.

The chariots pounded toward each other. Both warriors cast their spears simultaneously. Achilles’ struck Hector’s shield and staggered him. He almost tumbled out of the chariot, but he regained his balance and reached for another spear. Hector’s shaft struck between Achilles and his charioteer, splintering the wooden floor of the chariot.

A chill went through me. Achilles had not raised his shield when Hector’s spear drove toward him. He had not even flinched as the missile passed close enough to shave his chin. Either he did not care what happened to him or he was mad enough to believe himself invulnerable.

The chariots swung past each other and again the two champions hurled spears. Hector’s bounced off the bronze shoulder of Achilles’ armor. Again he made no move to protect himself or to avoid the blow. His own spear caught Hector’s charioteer in the face. With an awful shriek he toppled over backward, both hands pawing at the shaft that had turned his face into a bloody shambles.

The Achaians shouted and surged a few steps forward. Hector, knowing he could not control his horses and fight at the same time, jumped lightly from his chariot, two spears gripped in his left hand. The horses raced on, their reins slack, heading back for the walls of the city.

Achilles had the advantage now. His chariot drove around Hector, circling the stranded prince of Troy again and again, seeking an advantage, a momentary dropping of his guard. But Hector held his massive hourglass-shaped shield firmly in front of him and pivoted smoothly to present nothing more to Achilles than a bronze plumed helmet, the body-length shield and the greaves that protected his lower legs.

Achilles cast another spear, but it went slightly wide. Hector remained in place, or seemed to. I noticed, though, that each time he wheeled to keep his front to Achilles’ chariot, he edged a step or two closer to his own ranks.

Achilles must have noticed this, too, and jumped out of his chariot. A great gusting sigh of expectation went through both armies. The two champions now faced each other on foot, at spear’s length.

Hector advanced confidently toward the smaller Achaian. He spoke to Achilles, who spat out a reply, but they were too far away for me to make out their words.

Then Achilles did something that wrenched a great moaning gasp from the Achaians. He threw his shield down thumping on the bare ground, then unstrapped his helmet and tossed it atop the shield. With the wind tousling his shoulder-length locks, he faced Hector with nothing but his body armor and his last remaining spear.

The fool! I thought. He must actually believe he’s invincible. Achilles gripped his spear in both hands and faced Hector without a shield.

Dropping the lighter of his two spears, Hector drove straight at Achilles. He had the advantage of size and strength, and of experience, and he knew it. Achilles, smaller, faster, seemed to be absolutely crazy. He did not even try to parry Hector’s spear thrusts or run out of their reach. Instead he dodged this way and that, avoiding Hector’s spear by scant finger widths, keeping his own spear point aimed straight at Hector’s eyes.

It is a truth that in any kind of hand-to-hand combat you cannot attack and defend yourself at the same time. The successful fighter can switch from attack to defense and back again in the flick of an eye. Hector knew this; his obvious aim was to keep the shieldless Achilles on the defensive. But Achilles refused to defend himself, except for dodging Hector’s thrusts. I began to see a method in Achilles’ madness: his greatest advantages were speed and daring. The heavy shield would have slowed him down.

He gave ground and Hector moved steadily forward, but even there I saw that Achilles was edging around, maneuvering to place himself between Hector and the Trojan ranks, moving Hector closer and closer to our side of the field.

I saw the look on Achilles’ face as they sweated and grunted beneath the hot sun. He was smiling. Like a little boy who enjoys pulling the wings off flies, like a man who was happily looking forward to driving his spear through the chest of his enemy, like a madman intent on murder.

Hector realized that he was being maneuvered. He changed his tactics and tried to engage Achilles’ spear, knowing that once he made contact with it his superior strength could force his enemy’s point down, and then he could drive his own bronze spearhead into Achilles’ unguarded body.

Achilles danced away from Hector’s spear, his long hair flowing, then dashed slightly forward. He feinted and Hector followed the motion of his spear for a fraction of an instant. It was enough. Launching himself completely off his feet like a distance jumper, Achilles drove his spear with all the strength in both his arms into Hector’s body. The point struck Hector’s bronze breastplate; I could hear the screech as it slid up along the armor, unable to penetrate, and then caught under Hector’s chin.

The impact knocked Hector backward but not off his feet. For an instant the two champions stood locked together, Achilles ramming the spear upward with both his hands white-knuckled against its haft, his eyes blazing hatred and bloodlust, his lips pulled back in a feral snarl. Hector’s arms, one holding his long spear, the other with his great shield strapped to it, slowly folded forward, as if to embrace his killer. The spear point went deeper into his throat, up through his jaw, and buried itself in the base of his brain.

Hector went limp, hanging on Achilles’ spear point. Achilles wrenched it free and the Trojan prince’s dead body slumped to the dusty ground.

“For Patrokles!” Achilles screamed, holding his bloodied spear aloft.

8

A triumphant roar went up from the Achaians, while the Trojans seemed frozen in gaping horror.

Achilles threw down his bloody spear and pulled his sword from its scabbard. He hacked at Hector’s head once, twice, three times. He wanted the severed head as a trophy.

The Trojans screamed and charged at him. Without a word of command the Achaians charged, too. In the span of a heartbeat the single combat turned into a wild, brawling battle.

My men and I ran after Odysseos’ chariot. I couldn’t help but think that the very men who had hoped so dearly that this fight between the two champions would end the war were now racing into battle themselves, unthinking, uncaring, driven by bloodlust and blind hatred.

Then there was no more time for thought. My sword was in my hand and enemies were charging at me, blood and murder in their eyes. My iron sword served me well. Bronze blades and spearpoints chipped or broke against it. Its sharp edge slashed through bronze armor. We caught up with Odysseos’ chariot. He and several other mounted noblemen had formed a screen around the body of Hector as Achilles and his Myrmidones stripped the corpse down to the skin. I saw the brave prince’s severed head bobbing on a spear and turned away in disgust. Then someone tied his ankles to a chariot’s tail and tried to fight through the growing melee and force his way with the body back toward the Achaian camp.

Instead of being unnerved by these barbarities the Trojans seemed infuriated. They fought with a rage born of desecration and battled fiercely to recover Hector’s body before it could be dragged back behind our rampart.

While the struggle grew wilder I realized that none of the Trojans were protecting their line of retreat or even thinking about guarding the gate from which they had left their city.

I rushed to Odysseos’ chariot and shouted over the cursing and clanging of the battle, “The gate! They’ve left the gate unprotected!”

Odysseos’ eyes gleamed. He looked out toward the city walls, then back at me. He nodded once.

“To the gate!” he called in a voice that roared across the plain. “To the gate before they can close it.”

Screaming his blood-curdling battle cry, Odysseos fought his way clear of the struggle around Hector’s corpse, followed by two more chariots. I ran after them, slashing my way clear until there was nothing between us and the walls of Troy but empty bare ground.

“To the gate!” I heard another voice bellow, and a chariot clattered past, its horses leaning into their harnesses, nostrils blowing wide, eyes white and bulging.

Within moments Hector’s corpse was forgotten. The battle had turned into a race for the Scaean Gate. Odysseos led the Achaians who were trying to get there before the Trojans could close it. The Trojan army streamed toward it so they could get inside the protection of the city’s walls before the gate was closed and they were cut off.

Achilles was back in his chariot, cutting a bloody path through the Trojans, hacking with his sword until the foot soldiers and chariot-riding noblemen alike gave him a wide berth. Then he snatched the whip from his driver’s hands and lashed his horses into a frenzied gallop toward the city gate.

I saw Odysseos fling a spear into the chest of a Trojan guarding the gate. More Trojans appeared in the open gateway, graybeards and young boys armed with light throwing javelins and bronze swords. From up on the battlements that flanked the gate others were firing arrows and hurling stones. Odysseos was forced to back away.

But not Achilles. His long hair streaming in the wind, he drove straight for the gate, oblivious to the bombardment from above. The rear guard scattered before him, ducking behind the massive wooden doors. From behind, someone started to push them closed. Seeing that the gap between the two doors was too small for his chariot to pass through, Achilles jumped to the ground, his bloodstained great spear in his hands, and charged at the gate while his charioteer tried to regain control of the frightened horses. Achilles met a hedgehog of spear points but dived at them headlong, jabbing and slashing two-handed with his own spear.

Odysseos and another chariot-mounted warrior rushed up to help him, their great shields strapped to their backs to protect them from neck to heel from the stones and arrows being aimed at them from above. I saw the main mass of the Trojans not far behind us, a wild tangled melee battling with the rest of the Achaians, fighting to reach the protection of the city’s walls.

I pushed my way between Achilles and Odysseos’ chariot, hacking with my sword at the spears sticking out from the gap between the doors. I grabbed a spear with my right hand and pulled it out of the hands of the frightened boy who had been holding it. Flinging it to the ground, I reached for another. I grasped the spear and pulled on it, dragging the graybeard holding it until he was within reach of my sword. He saw the blow coming and released the spear, raising his arms over his head and screaming, as if that would protect him. I hesitated for just a heartbeat, but that was long enough for the old man to drop to his knees and scrabble away from me.

A teenager thrust his spear at me. I dodged it and swung at the youth, but there was little purpose in my swing except to scare him off. He backed away slightly, then came at me again. I did not give him a second chance.

The struggle at the gate seemed to go on endlessly, although common sense tells me it took only a few moments. The rest of the Trojans came up, still battling furiously with the main body of the Achaians. Chariots and foot soldiers hacked and slashed and cursed and screamed their final cries in that narrow passage between the walls that flanked the Scaean Gate. Dust and blood and arrows and stones filled the deadly air. The Trojans were fighting for their lives, desperately trying to get inside the gate, just as the Achaians had been trying to escape Hector’s spear only a few days earlier.

Despite our efforts the Trojans still held the gate ajar and kept us from entering it. Sometimes a few determined men can keep an army at bay, and the Trojan rear guard at the gate had the determination born of sheer desperation. They knew that if we forced that gate their city was finished: their lives, their families, their homes would be wiped out. So they held us at bay, new men and boys taking the place of those we killed, while the main body of their army slipped through the open doors, fighting as they retreated to safety.

Then I saw the blow that ended the battle. Still fighting at the narrow entrance to the gate, I had to turn to face the Trojan warriors who were battling their way to the doors in their effort to get inside the city’s walls. I saw Achilles, his eyes burning with battle fury, his mouth open with wild laughter, hacking any Trojan who dared to come within his spear’s reach. Up on the battlements one of the Trojans leaned out with a bow in his hands and fired an arrow toward Achilles’ unprotected back.

As if in a dream, a nightmare, I shouted a warning that was drowned out in the cursing, howling uproar of the battle. I pushed past a halfdozen furiously battling men to reach Achilles as the arrow streaked toward its target. I managed to get a hand on his shoulder and push him out of the way.

Almost.

The arrow struck him on the back of his leg, slightly above the heel. Achilles went down with a high-pitched scream of pain.

9

For an instant the world seemed to stop.

Achilles, the seemingly invulnerable champion, was down in the dust, writhing in pain, an arrow jutting out from the back of his left ankle.

I stood over him and took off the head of the first Trojan who came at him with a single swipe of my sword. Odysseos and another Achaian lord jumped down from their chariots to join me. Suddenly the battle had changed its entire purpose and direction. We were no longer trying to force the Scaean Gate; we were fighting to keep Achilles alive and get him back to our camp.

Slowly we withdrew, and in truth, after a few moments the Trojans seemed glad enough to let us go. They streamed back inside their gate and swung its massive doors shut. I picked up Achilles in my arms while Odysseos and the others formed a guard around us and we headed back to the camp.

For all his ferocity and strength, he was as light as a child. His Myrmidones surrounded us, staring at their wounded prince with shocked, disbelieving eyes. Achilles’ unhandsome face was bathed with sweat, but he kept his lips clamped together in a painful white line as I carried him past the huge windblown oak just beyond the Scaean Gate.

“I was offered a choice,” he muttered, his teeth clenched with pain, “between long life and glory. I chose glory.”

“It’s not a serious wound,” I said.

“The gods will decide how serious it is,” he replied, in a voice so faint I could hardly hear him.

Halfway across the body-littered plain six men ran up to meet us, puffing hard, carrying a stretcher of thongs laced across a wooden frame. I laid Achilles on it as gently as I could. He grimaced, but did not cry out or complain.

Odysseos put a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You saved his life.”

“You saw?”

“I did. That arrow was meant for his heart.”

“How bad a wound do you think it is?”

“I’ve seen worse,” said Odysseos. “Still, he’ll be out of action for many days.”

We trudged across the blood-soaked plain side by side. The wind was coming off the water again, blowing dust in our faces, forcing us to squint as we walked toward the camp. Every muscle in my body ached. Blood was crusted on my sword arm, my legs, spattered across my leather jerkin. I could see swarms of flies already crawling over the dead bodies that littered the field.

“You fought well,” Odysseos said. “For a few moments there I thought we would force the gate and enter the city at last.”

I shook my head wearily. “We can’t force a gate that is defended. It’s too easy for the Trojans to hold a narrow opening.”

Odysseos nodded agreement. “Do you think your men could really build a tower that will allow us to scale their wall?”

“We’ve done it before. At Ugarit and elsewhere.”

“Ugarit,” Odysseos repeated. He seemed impressed. “I will speak to Agamemnon and the council. Until Achilles rejoins us we have little hope of storming their gate.”

“And little hope even with Achilles.”

He looked at me sternly. Odysseos didn’t like hearing that, but he said nothing.

“My sons,” I reminded him. “My wife.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “I will speak to Agamemnon about them.”

“I want them.”

“I understand.” Then Odysseos smiled wryly. “I have a wife, too. And a son. Back at Ithaca.”

Perhaps he did understand.

Poletes was literally hopping up and down on his knobby legs as we entered the camp, following Achilles on his stretcher.

“What a day!” he exclaimed. “What a day! The bards will sing of this day for all time!”

As usual, he milked me for every last detail of the fighting. He had been watching from the top of the rampart, of course, but the mad melee at the gate was too far away from his old eyes and too confused for him to make out.

“And what did Odysseos say at that point?” he would ask. “I saw Diomedes and Menalaos riding side by side toward the gate. Which of them got there first?”

I could do nothing more than shake my head. “I was too busy keeping Trojan spear points off me to take notice of such things, storyteller.”

“Who fired the arrow that wounded Achilles? Could it have been Prince Paris? He has a reputation as an archer, you know.”

The women set out a meal of thick barley soup, roast lamb and onions, flat bread still hot from the clay oven and a flagon of unadulterated wine. Poletes kept asking questions with every bite.

I saw that my men were eating as I tried to satisfy the old storyteller’s curiosity. The sun dipped below the western sea’s edge and the island mountaintops turned gold, then violet, then faded into darkness. The first star gleamed in the cloudless purple sky, so beautiful that I understood why it was named after Asertu.

There was no end to Poletes’ impatient questions, so I finally sent him to the Myrmidones’ camp to learn for himself of Achilles’ condition. Then I stretched out on my blanket, glad to be rid of the old man’s pestering.

Magro came over and squatted on the sand beside me. “A hard day.”

I sat up and asked him, “How’s your arm?”

“It’s nothing. A little stiff, that’s all.”

“Good.”

He hesitated a heartbeat, then asked, “What do you think of today’s battle?”

“Hardly a battle,” I replied. “They’re more like a bunch of overgrown boys tussling in a playground.”

“The blood is real.”

“Yes. I know. But they’ll never take a fortified city by storming defended gates.”

“They don’t know anything about warfare, do they?”

“Not much.”

Magro lifted his eyes. “There’re enough good trees on the other side of the river to build six good siege towers, maybe more.”

“We need the High King’s permission first,” I said.

Magro spat, “The High King. He’s a fathead.”

“But he’s the High King.”

Hunching closer to me, Magro whispered, “Why don’t we just get up and leave? Why should we get ourselves killed for them?”

Before I could answer, he went on, “We could march into Agamemnon’s camp to night and take your wife and sons. They’ll only have a couple of sleepy teenagers on guard. We could slit their throats before they utter a sound and get away from here with your family.”

I suddenly realized that the same thought had been hovering in the back of my mind. But then I wondered, “And go where?”

“Anywhere but here!” Magro said fervently. “This place is a death trap. Nothing good will come from this fighting.”

I thought he was right. But then I thought of Helen. She would be at the mercy of her former husband if the Achaians conquered Troy. Or she could become Queen of Troy if they could drive the Achaians away.

“We’re pledged to Odysseos,” I heard myself tell Magro. “We have joined the House of Ithaca. We’ve eaten his bread and we’ll fight his battles.”

In the flickering light of the campfire I could make out a twisted smile on Magro’s face. “Even though it’s stupid?”

“Loyalty isn’t stupid.”

He gusted out a sigh. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

As Magro started to get to his feet, Poletes came rushing to us and dropped to his knees before me, his face solemn in the light of our dying fire, his great owl’s eyes grave.

“What’s the news of Achilles?” I asked him.

“The great slayer of men is finished as a warrior,” said Poletes, his voice low, somber. “The arrow cut the tendon in the back of his heel. He will never walk again without a crutch.”

I felt my mouth tighten grimly.

Poletes glanced at the jug of wine by the fire, then looked back at me questioningly. I nodded. He filled cups for Magro and me, then poured himself a heavy draft and gulped at it.

“Achilles is crippled, then,” I said.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Poletes sighed. “Well, he can live a long life back in Phthia. Once his father dies he will be king and probably rule over all of Thessaly. That’s not so bad, I think.”

I nodded, but I wondered how Achilles would take to the life of a cripple. He had chosen glory, he’d told me, over a long life.

As if in answer to my thoughts a loud wail sprang up from the Myrmidones’ end of the camp. Magro and I jumped to our feet. Poletes got up more slowly.

“My lord Achilles!” a voice cried out. “My lord Achilles is dead!”

I glanced at Poletes.

“Poison on the arrowhead?” he guessed.

I threw down the wine cup and started off for the Myrmidones’ tents. All the camp seemed to be rushing in the same direction. I saw Odysseos’ broad back, and Big Ajax outstriding everyone with his long legs.

Spear-wielding Myrmidon guards held back the crowd at the edge of their camp area, allowing only the nobles to pass through. I pushed up alongside Odysseos and went past the guards with him. Menalaos, Diomedes, Nestor and almost every one of the Achaian leaders were gathering in front of Achilles’ cabin.

All but Agamemnon, I saw.

We went inside, past weeping soldiers and women tearing their hair and scratching their faces as they screamed their lamentations.

Achilles’ couch, up on the raised platform at the far end of the cabin, was spattered with bright red blood. The young warrior lay on it, left ankle swathed in oil-soaked ban dages, a dagger still gripped in his right hand, a jagged red slash just under his left ear running halfway across his windpipe still dripping blood. His eyes stared sightlessly at the mudchinked planks of the ceiling. His mouth was open in a rictus that might have been a final smile or a grimace of pain.

Facing the long life of a cripple, mighty Achilles had killed himself. His final act of glory.

Odysseos turned to me. “Tomorrow you start your men building the siege towers.”

10

Odysseos and the other nobles headed for Agamemnon’s cabin for a council of war. I went back to my tent and tried to sleep. Tomorrow we would begin to build the siege towers. We will put an end to this war. We will cross Troy’s high walls and destroy the city. I knew the fire and blood that awaited the Trojans. Battle is hard and bloody. Sacking a city is dirty and murderous. The men will run wild. Looting and raping are their rewards for winning, for surviving long enough to win. I remembered Hattusas in flames and agony. And other cities that we proud Hatti soldiers had taken and looted.

I thought of my wife and sons. They’ll be safe enough here in camp. The troops will all be in the city, burning, raping, slaughtering in a frenzy of release.

And Helen will be in the temple of Aphrodite, waiting for the fate that will overtake her.

I didn’t sleep well that night.

The camp’s roosters raised their raucous cry of morning. I went to the latrine trench, then washed and shared a bowl of lentil soup with my men. Poletes was jabbering away. He had learned that the Trojans had sent a delegation to ask for the return of Hector’s dismembered body. Try as they might to keep the news of Achilles’ death a secret, the Achaians were unable to keep the Trojan emissaries from finding out the news. The whole camp was buzzing with it, although none but Odysseos and a few other nobles knew that Achilles had committed suicide.

Agamemnon’s council met with the Trojan delegation, and after some gruff negotiating agreed to return Hector’s body. The Trojans suggested a three-day truce so that both sides could properly honor their slain and Agamemnon’s council swiftly agreed.

We used the three days of truce to build the first siege tower. My men and I camped among the trees on the far side of the Scamander River, screened from Trojan eyes by the riverbank’s line of greenery. Odysseos, who above all the Achaians appreciated the value of scouting and intelligence-gathering, spread a number of his best men along the riverbank to prevent any stray Trojan woodcutters from getting near us. The wind usually blew past the city and farther inland, but occasionally it changed briefly and I feared that the Trojans could hear our hewing and hammering and sawing. I hoped they would take it as a shipbuilding chore and nothing more.

We commandeered dozens of slaves and thetes to do the dogwork of chopping down the trees and hauling loads of timber. My men commanded work crews with stern efficiency, but even so, by the end of the third day we had only one tower ready for use.

Odysseos, Agamemnon and the other leaders came across the river that evening to inspect our work. We had built the tower horizontally, of course, laying it along the ground, partly because it was easier to do it that way but mainly to keep it hidden behind the still-standing trees. Once it got dark enough, I had several dozens slaves and thetes haul on ropes to pull it up to its true vertical position.

Agamemnon scowled at it. “It’s not as tall as the city walls,” he complained.

Odysseos shot me a questioning glance.

“This first one is tall enough, my lord king,” I said, “to top the western wall. That is the weakest point in the Trojan defenses. Even the Trojans admit that that section of their walls was not built by Apollo and Poseidon.”

Nestor bobbed his white beard. “A wise choice, young man. Never defy the gods, it will only bring grief to you. Even if you seem to succeed at first the gods will soon bring you low because of your hubris. Look at poor Achilles, so full of pride. Yet a lowly arrow has been his downfall.”

As soon as Nestor took a breath I rushed to continue, “I have been inside the city, my lords. I know its layout. The west wall is on the highest side of the bluff. Once we get past that wall we will be on high ground inside the city, close to the palace and the temples.”

Odysseos agreed. To Agamemnon he said, “I, too, have served as an emissary, if you recall, and I have studied the city’s streets and buildings carefully. The Hittite speaks truly. If we broke through the Scaean Gate we would still have to fight through the city’s streets, uphill every step of the way. Breaking in over the west wall is better.”

“Can we get this thing up the bluff to the wall there?” Agamemnon asked.

I replied, “The slope is not as steep at the west wall as it is to the north and east, my lord. The southern side is easiest, but that’s where the Scaean and Dardanian Gates are located. It’s the most heavily defended, with the highest walls and tall watchtowers alongside each gate.”

“I know that!” Agamemnon snapped. He poked around the wooden framework, obviously suspicious of what to him was a new idea.

Before he could ask, I explained, “It would be best to roll it across the plain at night, after the moon goes down. On a night when the fog comes in from the sea. We can float it across the river on the raft we’ve built and roll it across the plain on its back so that the mist will conceal us from any Trojan watchmen on the walls. Then we raise it—”

Agamemnon cut me off with a peevish wave of his hand. “Odysseos, are you willing to lead this … this maneuver?”

“I am, son of Atreos. I plan to be the first man to step onto the battlements of Troy.”

“Very well then,” said the High King. “I don’t think this will work. But if you’re prepared to try it, then try it. I’ll have the rest of the army ready to attack at first light.”

“To night?” I blurted.

“To night,” Agamemnon said, glaring at me.

“But my lord, one tower isn’t enough. We should have four, perhaps six, so we can attack the walls at different points.”

“You have one,” said Agamemnon. “If it works, all to the good. If it fails, so be it. The gods will decide.”

With that, he turned and strode away.

We got no sleep that night. I doubt that any of us could have slept even if we had tried. Nestor organized a blessing for the tower. A pair of aged priests sacrificed a dozen rams and goats, slitting their throats with ancient stone knives as they lay bound and bleating on the ground, then painting their blood on the wooden framework.

Poletes fretted that they offered no bulls or human captives to sacrifice.

“Agamemnon doesn’t think enough of your tower to waste such wealth upon it,” he told me in the dark shadows. “When he started out for Troy and the winds blew the wrong way for sailing for weeks at a time, he sacrificed a hundred horses and dozens of virgins. Including his own daughter.”

“His daughter?” That stunned me.

Nodding grimly, Poletes said, “He wants Troy. The High King will stop at nothing to get what he wants.”

I had seen massive sacrifices at Hattusas and elsewhere. Human captives were often put on the altar. But his own daughter! It made me realize how ruthless the High King really was.

Fortune was with us that night. A cold fog seeped in from the sea. We rafted the tower across the river, crouched in the chilling mist with the tower’s framework looming above us like the skeleton of some giant beast. The moon disappeared behind the black humps of the islands and the night become as dark as it would ever be.

I had hoped for cloud cover, but the stars were watching us as we slowly, painfully, pulled the tower on big wooden wheels across the plain of Ilios and up the slope that fronted Troy’s western wall. Slaves and thetes strained at the ropes while others slathered animal grease on the wheels and axles to keep them from squeaking.

Poletes crept along beside me, silent for once. I strained my eyes for a sight of Trojan sentries up on the battlements, but the fog kept me from seeing much. Straight overhead I could make out the patterns of the stars: the Bears and the Hunter, facing the V -shaped horns of the Bull. The Pleiades gleamed like a cluster of seven blue gems in the Bull’s neck.

The night was eerily quiet. Perhaps the Trojans, trusting in the truce the Achaians had agreed to, thought that no hostilities would resume until the morning. True, the fighting would start with the sun’s rise. But were they fools enough to post no lookouts through the night?

The ground was rising now, and what had seemed like a gentle slope felt like a steep cliff. We all gripped the ropes in our hands and put our backs into it, trying not to grunt or cry out with the pain. I looked across from where I was hauling and saw Magro, his face contorted with the effort, his booted heels digging into the mist-slippery grass, straining like a common laborer, just as all the rest of us were.

At last we reached the base of the wall and huddled there, panting. I sent Poletes scampering to the corner where the wall turned, to watch the eastern sky and tell me when it started to turn gray with the first hint of dawn. We all sat sprawled on the damp ground, letting our aching muscles relax until the moment for action came. The tower lay lengthwise along the ground, waiting to be pulled up to its vertical position. I sat with my back against the wall of Troy and counted the time by listening to my heartbeat.

I heard a rooster crow from inside the city, and then another. Where is Poletes? I wondered. Has he fallen asleep or been found by a Trojan sentry?

Just as I was getting to my feet the old storyteller scuttled back through the mist to me.

“The eastern sky is still dark, except for the first touch of faint light between the mountains. Soon the sky will turn milky white, then as rosy as a flower.”

“Odysseos and his troops will be starting out from the camp,” I whispered. “Time to get the tower up.”

The fog was thinning slightly as we pushed on the poles that raised the tower to its vertical position. It was even heavier than it looked, because of the horse hides and weapons we had lashed to its platforms. Teams of men braced the tower with more poles as it rose. There was no way we could muffle the noise of the creaking and our own gasping, grunting exertions. It seemed to take forever to get the thing standing straight, although only a few strenuous moments had passed.

Still, just as the tower tipped over and thumped ponderously against the wall in its final position, I heard voices calling confusedly from up atop the battlements.

I turned to Poletes. “Run back to Odysseos and tell him we’re ready. He’s to come as fast as he can!”

The plan was for Odysseos and a picked squad of fifty of his Ithacans to make their way across the plain on foot, because chariots would have been too noisy. I began to wonder if that had been the smartest approach.

Someone was shouting from inside the walls now and I saw a head appear over the battlements, silhouetted for a brief instant against the graying sky.

I pulled out my sword and swung up onto the ladder that led to the top of the tower. Magro was barely a step behind me, and the rest of my squad started swarming up the tower’s sides, unrolling the horse hides we had placed to protect the tower’s sides against spears and arrows.

“What is it?” I heard a boy’s frightened high-pitched voice from atop the wall.

“It’s a giant horse!” a fear-stricken voice answered. “With warriors inside it!”

11

I reached the topmost platform of the tower, sword in hand. Our calculations had been almost perfect. The platform reared a shin’s length or so higher than the wall’s battlements. Without hesitation I jumped down onto the stone parapet and from there onto the wooden platform behind it.

A pair of stunned Trojan youths stood barely a sword’s length before me, their mouths agape, eyes bulging, long spears in their trembling hands. I rushed at them and cut the closer one nearly in half with a swing of my sword. The other dropped his spear and, screaming, jumped off the platform into the dark street below.

The sky was brightening. The city seemed asleep, but across the angle of the wall I could see another sentry on the platform, his long spear outlined against the gray-pink of dawn. Instead of charging at us he turned and ran toward the square stone tower that flanked the Scaean Gate.

“He’ll alarm the guard,” I said to Magro. “They’ll all be at us in a few moments.”

Magro nodded, his battle-hardened face showing neither fear nor anticipation.

It was now a race between Odysseos’ Ithacans and the Trojan guards. We had won a foothold inside the walls; now our job was to hold it. As my men swiftly broke out the spears and shields that we had roped to the tower’s timbers, I glanced over the parapet. Fog and darkness still shrouded the plain. I couldn’t see Odysseos and his men in the shadows—if they were there.

A dozen Trojan guards spilled out of the watchtower, and I saw even more Trojans rushing toward us from the far side of the tower, running along the south wall, spears leveled. The battle was on.

My men had faced spears before, and they knew how to use their own. We formed a defensive wall by locking our shields together and put out a bristling hedgehog front with our long spears. I took a spear and butted my shield next to Magro’s, at the end of our line. I could feel my heart pounding; my palms were slippery with sweat.

The Trojans attacked us with reckless fury, practically leaping on our spear points. They fought to save their city. We fought for our lives. There was no way for us to retreat without being butchered. We either held our foothold on the wall or we died.

Our shield wall buckled under their ferocious attack. We were forced a step back, then another. A heavy bronze spear point crashed over the top of my shield, missing my ear by a finger’s width. I thrust my spear into the belly of that man: his face went from shocked surprise to the final agony of death in the flash of a heartbeat.

More Trojans were scrambling up the ladders to the platform, strapping armor over their nightclothes as they ran. These were the nobility, the cream of their fighting strength. I could tell from the gaudy plumes of the helmets they were putting on and the burnished bronze of their breastplates glinting in the light of the new day.

Farther off, archers were kneeling as they fired flaming arrows at our tower. Others fired at us. An arrow chunked into my shield. Another hit Harkan, two men down from me, in his leg. He staggered backward and let his shield drop. Instantly a Trojan drove his spear through Harkan’s unprotected chest.

Their archers began lofting their shots to get over our wall of shields. Flaming arrows fell among us. Men screamed and fell to the wooden flooring, their clothes and flesh on fire.

The barrage of arrows would quickly break our shield wall and what was left of my men would go down under the weight of Trojan numbers. I felt a burning fury rise inside me, a rage against those archers who knelt a safe distance away and tried to kill us at their leisure. Call it battle fury, call it bloodlust, I felt a flame of hatred and rage that I had never experienced before.

“Hold here,” I shouted to Magro. Before he could do more than grunt I drove forward, surprising the Trojans in front of me. Grasping my spear in two hands, level with the floor, I pushed four of them off their feet and slipped between the others, dodging their clumsy thrusts as they half-turned to slash at me. I killed one of them; Magro and the rest of my men pushed forward and killed several more. The Trojans quickly turned back to face my advancing men.

I dashed toward the archers. Most of them turned and ran, although two of them stood their ground and managed to get off a pair of arrows at me. They thudded into my shield as I ran at the archers. I caught the first one on my spear, a lad too young to have more than the wisp of a beard. His companion dropped his bow and tried to pull out the dagger at his waist but I knocked him spinning with a swipe of my shield. He toppled off the platform screaming to the street below.

The other archers had retreated down the platform that ran along the battlements. The men of my squad were fighting the Trojan guards who had rushed them. For the span of a heartbeat I was alone. But only for that long. The Trojan nobles were charging along the platform toward me, a dozen of them, with more climbing the ladder behind them.

I hefted my long spear in one hand and threw it at the nearest man. Its heavy weight drove it completely through his shield and into his chest. He staggered backward into the arms of his two nearest companions.

I threw my shield at them to slow them down further, then picked up the bow from the archer I had slain. It was a beautiful, gracefully curved thing of horn and smooth-polished wood. But I had no time to admire its workmanship. I fired every arrow in the dead youth’s quiver as rapidly as I could, forcing the nobles to cower behind their body-length shields, holding them at bay for a precious few moments more.

Once the last arrow was gone and I threw down the useless bow, the leader of the nobles facing me lowered his shield enough for me to recognize his face: handsome young Paris, a sardonic smile on his almostpretty face.

“So the herald is a warrior after all,” he called to me, advancing toward me with leveled spear.

Sliding my sword from its sheath, I replied, “Yes. Is the stealer of women a warrior as well?”

“A better one than you,” Paris taunted.

Stalling for time, I said, “Prove it. Face me man to man, your spear against my sword.”

He glanced past me, at my men battling at the top of our siege tower. “Much as I would enjoy that, today is not the day for such pleasures.”

“Today is the last day of your life, Paris,” I said.

As if on cue, a piercing, blood-curdling war cry screeched from behind me. Odysseos!

Paris looked startled for a moment, then he yelled to his followers, “Clear the wall of them!”

The Trojans charged. They had to get past me before they could reach Magro and my men. A dozen spears against my one sword. I shifted to my left, wishing I hadn’t been foolish enough to throw away my shield. I barely avoided the first spear point aimed at my belly and hacked at another spear, cutting its haft almost in two with my iron blade. I backed away another step and then stepped back once more—onto empty air.

As I tottered on the edge of the platform another spear came thrusting at me. I banged its bronze head with the metal cuff around my right wrist, deflecting it enough to save my skin. But the motion sent me tumbling off the platform. I turned a full somersault in midair and somehow managed to land on my feet. The impact buckled my knees and I rolled on the bare dirt of the street. A spear thudded into the ground scant fingers’ widths from me. I saw a pair of archers aiming their arrows at me and ducked behind the corner of a house before they could fire.

Looking up, I could see, against the brightening morning sky, Paris and his men rushing along the wall toward the spot where the siege tower stood. My undersized squad of Hatti soldiers were battling the Trojans while Odysseos and his men clambered over the wall’s battlements and joined the struggle. But dozens more Trojans, roused so rudely from their sleep, were scurrying up ladders and rushing along the platform to overwhelm them. We needed a diversion, something to draw off the Trojan reinforcements.

I sprinted down the narrow alley between houses until I found a door. I kicked it open. A woman screamed in sudden terror as I stamped in, sword in hand. She cowered in a corner of her kitchen, her arms around two small children who huddled against her, wide-eyed with fright. As I strode toward them they all shrieked and ran along the wall, screeching and skittering like mice, then bolted through the open door. I let them go.

A small cook fire smoldered in the hearth. I yanked down the flimsy curtains that separated the kitchen from the next room and tossed them into the fire. It flared into open flame. Then I smashed a wooden chair and fed it into the blaze. Striding into the next room, I grabbed straw bedding and threadbare blankets and added them to the fire.

Two houses, three, and then a whole row of them I set ablaze. People were screaming and shouting. Men and women alike raced toward the fire sloshing buckets of water drawn from the fountain at the end of the street.

Satisfied that the fire would grow and occupy more and more of the Trojans, I started up the nearest ladder to return to the battle on the platform. Achaians were pouring over the parapet now and the Trojans were giving way. I leaped at them from the rear, yelling out to Magro. He heard me and led what was left of my men to my side, cutting a bloody swath through the defending Trojans.

“The watchtower by the Scaean Gate,” I shouted, pointing with my reddened sword. “We’ve got to take it and open the gate.”

We fought along the length of the wall, meeting the ill-prepared Trojans as they came up in knots of five or ten or a dozen and driving away those we didn’t kill. The fire I had started was spreading to other houses now, a pall of black smoke hid the palace from our sight.

The watchtower was only lightly guarded: most of the Trojans were fighting against Odysseos and his Ithacans on the western wall. We broke into the guard room, using spear butts to batter down the door, and slaughtered the few men there. Then we raced to the ground and started to lift the heavy beams that barricaded the Scaean Gate. A wailing scream arose, and I saw that Paris and a handful of other nobles were racing down the stone steps of the tower toward us.

We had them on the horns of uncertainty now. If they allowed Odysseos to hold the western wall, the rest of the Achaians would enter the city that way. But if they concentrated on clearing the wall, we would open the gate and allow the Achaian chariots to drive into the city. They had to stop us at both places, and stop us quickly.

Archers began shooting at us, but despite them my men tugged and pushed to open the massive gate. Men fell, but the three enormous beams were slowly lifting, swinging up and away from the doors.

I ducked an arrow and saw Paris running toward me across the open square behind the gate.

“You again!” he shouted at me.

Those were his last words. He charged me with his spear. I dodged sideways, forced it down with my right forearm, and drove my iron sword through his bronze breastplate up to its hilt. As I yanked it out, bright red blood spattered over the golden inlays of his armor and I felt a mad surge of pleasure, battle joy that I had taken the life of the man who had caused this war.

Paris sank to the ground. I saw the light go out of his eyes. At that moment an arrow struck me on my left shoulder. I felt a sudden flare of pain. More annoyed than injured, I yanked it out and flung it to the ground.

Even as I did so, more Trojans came at me. But they stopped in their tracks as a great creaking groan of bronze hinges told me that the Scaean Gate was swinging open at last. A roar went up and I turned to see chariots plunging through the open gate, bearing down directly on me.

The Trojans scattered and I dived out of the way. Agamemnon was in the first chariot, spear raised triumphantly over the plume of his helmet. His horses pounded over Paris’ dead body and the chariot bumped, then clattered on, chasing the fleeing Trojan warriors.

I stepped backward, dust from the charging chariots stinging my eyes, coating my skin, my clothes, my bloody sword. The battle lust in me began to ebb as I watched Paris’ mangled body tossed and crushed by chariot after chariot. Magro came up beside me, a gash on his cheek and more on both his arms. None of them looked serious, though.

“The battle’s over,” he said. “Now the slaughter begins.”

12

Suddenly I was bone weary. I leaned my back against the rough stone wall of Troy.

“You’re hurt,” Magro said.

“It’s not serious.” My shoulder was covered with blood, but the wound had already clotted.

The rest of my men gathered around me, each of them bleeding from wounds. There were only six of us now. They looked uneasy. Not frightened, but edgy, nervous.

“Now’s the time when soldiers collect their pay,” Magro said tightly.

Loot, he meant. Stealing everything you can carry. Raping the women and then putting the city to the torch.

“Go,” I said, realizing that I myself had set the first fire. “I’ll be all right. I’ll see you back at camp when the sun goes down.”

Magro touched his fist lightly to his chest, then turned to the four remaining men. “Follow me,” he commanded. “And remember: don’t take any chances. There are still plenty of armed men left alive. And some of the women will try to use knives on you.”

“Any bitch who tries to cut me will regret it,” growled Manetho, the oldest man of my squad.

“Any bitch who sees your ugly face will probably use her knife on herself!” Magro jeered.

They all laughed and marched off together. Five men. Out of my original twenty.

For a while I stood near the wall and watched the Achaian chariots and foot soldiers pour through the open, undefended gate. The smoke was getting thicker. I squinted up at the sky and saw that the sun had barely topped the wall. It was still early in the morning.

So it is done, I said to myself. The city has fallen. What ever gods the Trojans prayed to have done them no good. I felt no exultation, no joy at all. Killing a thousand men and boys, burning down a city that had taken so many generations to build, raping women and carrying them off into slavery—this is not triumph.

Slowly I pulled myself erect. The square before the gate was empty now, except for the mangled bodies of Paris and the other slain men. Up the rising main street, behind the first row of columned temples, I could see flames soaring into the sky, smoke billowing toward heaven. A sacrifice to the gods, I thought bitterly.

I looked down at what was left of Paris. We all die, prince of Troy. Your brothers have died. Your father is probably dying at this very moment.

But my sons still live. And my wife. I’ll take them to night. Whether Agamemnon agrees or not I will reclaim my sons and my wife and leave this cursed city.

Then I thought of Helen. Beautiful Helen who was the cause for this slaughter, the woman who used me as a messenger, who used all the men around her to do her bidding. But what else could she have done? How else would she have survived? She was fighting for her life, using the only weapons the gods had allowed her.

Where is she? Is she waiting in the temple of Aphrodite, as Odysseos told her to do?

I decided to find out.

13

I strode up the main street of burning Troy, sword in hand, through a morning turned dark by the acrid smoke of fires I had started. Women’s screams and sobs filled the air, men bellowed and laughed raucously. The roof of a house collapsed in a shower of sparks. I thought of my father’s house, where he lay buried beneath its ashes.

Up the climbing central street I walked, my face blackened with dust and smoke, my shoulder caked with my own blood. The gutter along the center of the cobbled street ran red.

A pair of children ran shrieking past me, and a trio of drunken Achaians lurched laughingly after them. I recognized one of them: Giant Ajax, lumbering along with a wine jug in one huge hand.

“Come back!” he yelled drunkenly. “We won’t hurt you!”

I climbed on, toward the palace and the temples, past the market stalls that now blazed hot enough to singe the hairs on my arms, past a heap of bodies where some of the Trojans had tried to make a stand. Finally I reached the steps in front of the palace. They too were littered with fallen bodies.

Sitting on the top step, his head in his hands, was Poletes. Weeping.

“How did you get here?” I was stunned with surprise.

He looked up at me with tear-filled eyes. “I rode on the back of a chariot. I had to see for myself …” His voice choked with anguish.

Sheathing my sword, I asked, “Are you hurt?”

“Yes,” he said, bobbing his bald head. “In my soul.”

I almost felt relieved.

“Look at the desolation. Murder and fire. Is this what men live for? To act like beasts?”

I grasped him by his bony shoulder and lifted him to his feet. “Sometimes men act like beasts. They can build beautiful cities and burn them to the ground. What of it? Don’t try to make sense of it, just accept us as we are.”

Poletes looked at me through eyes reddened by tears and smoke. “So we should accept the whims of the gods and dance to their tune when they pull our strings? Is that what you tell me?”

“What else can we do?” I replied. “We do what we must, old moralizer. We obey the gods because we have no choice.”

Poletes shook his head.

“Go back to the camp, old man. This is no place for you. Some drunken Achaian might mistake you for a Trojan.”

But he didn’t move, except to lean his frail body against the pillar behind him. Its once-bright red paint was blackened by smoke and someone had scratched his name into the stone with a sword point: Thersites.

“I’ll see you back at camp, to night,” I said.

He nodded sadly. “Yes, when mighty Agamemnon divides the spoils and decides how many of the women and how much of the treasure he will take for himself.”

“Go to the camp,” I said, more firmly. “Now. That’s not advice, Poletes, it’s my command.”

He drew in a long breath and sighed it out.

“Take this sign.” I handed him the armlet Odysseos had given me. “It will identify you to any drunken lout who wants to take off your head.”

He accepted it wordlessly. It was much too big for his frail arms, so he hung it around his skinny neck. I had to laughed at the sight.

“Laughter in the midst of the sack of a great city,” Poletes said. “You are becoming a true Achaian warrior, my master.”

With that he started down the steps, haltingly, like a man who really didn’t care which way he went.

I walked through the columned portico and into the hall of statues, where Achaian warriors were directing slaves to take down the gods’ images and carry them off to the boats. Into the open courtyard that had been so lovely I went. Pots were overturned and smashed, flowers trampled, bodies strewn everywhere staining the grass with their blood. The little statue of Athene was already gone. The big one of Apollo had been toppled and smashed into several pieces.

One wing of the palace was afire. I could see flames crackling through its roof. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to picture in my mind the chamber where Helen had spoken to me. It was where the fire blazed, I thought.

From a balcony overhead I heard shouts, then curses. The clash of blade on blade. A fight was going on up there.

“The royal women have locked themselves in the temple of Aphrodite,” a man behind me yelled. “Come on!” He sounded like someone rushing to a feast, or hurrying to get to his seat before the opening of the final act of a drama.

I snatched my sword from its scabbard and rushed up the nearest stairs. A handful of Trojans was making a last-ditch defense of a corridor that led to the royal temples, fighting desperately against a shouting, bellowing mob of Achaian warriors. They were holding the narrow corridor, but being pressed back, step by bloody step.

I realized that behind the locked doors at the Trojans’ backs must be the temple of Aphrodite. Aged Priam must be waiting for the final blow in there, together with his wife, Hecuba, and their daughters and grandchildren.

And Helen.

I saw Menalaos, Diomedes and Agamemnon himself thrusting spears at the few remaining Trojan defenders, laughing at them, taunting them.

“You sell your lives for nothing,” shouted Diomedes. “Put down your spears and we will allow you to live.”

“As slaves!” roared Agamemnon.

The Trojans fought bravely but they were outnumbered and doomed, their backs pressed against the doors they were trying so valiantly to defend. More and more Achaians rushed up to join the sport.

I sprinted down the next corridor and pushed my way through rooms where soldiers were tearing through chests of gorgeous robes, grabbing jewels from their gold-inlayed boxes, pulling beautiful tapestries from the walls. This wing of the palace would also be in flames soon, I knew. Too soon.

I found a balcony, climbed over its balustrade and, leaning as far forward as I dared, clamped one hand on the edge of a window in the rear wall of the temple wing. I swung out over thin air and pulled myself up onto my elbows, then hoisted a leg onto the windowsill. Pushing aside the beaded curtains, I peered into a small, dim inner sanctuary. The walls were niched with small shrines, each lit by a flickering candle. The tiles of the floor were so old they had been worn to dullness. The small votive statues in the niches were decked with rings of withered flowers. The room smelled of incense and old candles.

Standing by the door, her back to me, was Helen.

14

Apet, standing in a shadowy corner, saw me and hissed, “The Hittite.”

Helen whirled to face me, her fists pressed against her mouth, her body tense with terror.

“Lukka,” she whispered.

She stood there for an uncertain moment, dressed in her finest robe, decked with gold and jewels, more beautiful than any woman has a right to be. She ran to me and pressed her golden head against my grimy, bloodstained chest. Her hair was scented like fragrant flowers.

“Don’t let them kill me, Lukka! Please, please! They’ll be crazy with bloodlust. Even Menalaos. He’ll take my head off and then blame it on Ares or Athene! Please, please protect me!”

“That’s why I came to you,” I said. As I spoke the words I realized that they were true. It was the one decent thing I could do in the midst of this mad, murderous day. I had broken past Troy’s lofty walls. I had killed the man who had abducted Helen. Now I would see that she herself would not be slain, not even by her rightful husband.

“Priam is dead,” she said, her voice muffled and sobbing. “His heart broke when he saw the invaders coming over the wall.”

“The queen?” I asked.

“She and the other royal women are in the main temple, just on the other side of that door. The guards outside have sworn to go down to the last man before allowing Agamemnon and his brutes to enter here.”

I held her and listened for the clamor of the fight out in the corridor. It didn’t last long. A final scream of agony, a final roar of triumph, then a thudding as the Achaians pounded against the locked doors. A splintering of wood, then silence.

“It would be better if you went in there,” I suggested, “rather than forcing them to break in and find you.”

Helen pushed herself away from me and glanced at Apet, still hovering in the shadows. Visibly struggling for self-control, Helen lifted her chin like the queen she had hoped to be. At last she said, “Yes. I am ready to face them.”

I went to the connecting door, unlatched it, and opened it a crack. Agamemnon, his brother Menalaos, and dozens of other Achaian nobles were crowding into the temple, goggling at the gold-covered statues taller than life that lined its walls. The floor was gleaming marble. At the head of the temple, behind the alabaster altar, loomed a towering statue of Aphrodite, gilded and painted, decked with flowers and offerings of jewels. Hundreds of candles burned at its base, casting dancing highlights off the gold and gems. The victorious Achaians focused their attention on the richly draped altar and the old woman lying upon it.

I had never seen Hecuba before. The aged, wrinkled woman lay on the altar, arms crossed over her breast, eyes closed. Her robes were threaded with gold; her wrists and fingers bore turquoise and amber, rubies and carnelian. Heavy ropes of gold necklaces and a jewel-encrusted crown had been lovingly placed upon her. Seven women, dressed in the ash-gray robes of mourning, stood trembling around the altar, facing the sweaty, bloodstained Achaians, who gaped at the splendor of the dead Queen of Troy.

One of the older woman was speaking to Agamemnon. “My mother took poison once the king died. She knew that Troy would not outlive this evil day, that my prophecy had finally come true.”

“Cassandra,” whispered Helen to me. “The queen’s eldest daughter.”

Agamemnon turned slowly from the corpse on the altar to the grayhaired princess. His narrow little eyes glared anger and frustration.

Cassandra said, “You will not bring the Queen of Troy back to Myce me in your black boat, mighty Agamemnon. She will never be a slave of yours.”

A leering smile twisted Agamemnon’s lips. “Then I’ll have to settle for you, Princess. You will be my slave in her place.”

“Yes,” Cassandra said. “And we will die together at the hands of your faithless wife.”

“Trojan bitch!” He cuffed her with a heavy backhand swat that knocked her to the marble floor.

Before any more violence erupted, I swung wide the door of the sanctuary. The Achaians turned, hands gripping the swords at their sides. Helen stepped through with regal grace and an absolutely blank expression on her beautiful face. It was as if the most splendid statue imaginable had taken on the glow of life.

She went wordlessly to Cassandra and helped the princess to her feet. Blood trickled from her cut lip.

I stood by the side of the altar, my hand resting on the pommel of my sword. Agamemnon and the others recognized me. Their faces were grimy, their hands stained with blood. I could smell their sweat.

Menalaos seemed to be stunned with shock. Then he suddenly stepped forward and gripped his wife by her shoulders.

“Helen!” His mouth twitched, as if he was trying to say words that would not leave his soul.

She did not smile, but her eyes searched his. The other Achaians watched them dumbly.

Every emotion a human being can show flashed across Menalaos’ face. Helen simply stood there, in his grip, waiting for him to speak, to act, to make his decision on whether she lived or died.

Agamemnon broke the silence. “Well, Brother, I promised you we’d get her back! She’s yours once again, to deal with as you see fit.”

Menalaos swallowed hard and finally found his voice. “You are my wife, Helen,” he said, more for the ears of Agamemnon and the others than for hers, I thought. “What’s happened since Paris abducted you was not of your doing. A woman captive is not responsible for what happens to her during her captivity.”

I thought grimly that Menalaos wanted her back so badly that he was willing to forget everything that had happened. For now.

Agamemnon clapped his brother on the back gleefully. “I’m only sorry that Paris didn’t have the courage to face me, man to man. I would have gladly spitted him on my spear.”

“Where is Paris?” Menalaos growled.

“Dead,” I answered. “His body is in the square by the Scaean Gate.”

The women started to cry, all except Helen. They sobbed quietly as they stood by their mother’s bier. But Cassandra’s eyes blazed with unconcealed fury.

“Odysseos is going through the city to find all the princes and noblemen,” said Agamemnon. “Those who still live will make a noble sacrifice for the gods.” He laughed at his own pun.

I left Troy for the final time, marching with the Achaian victors through the burning city as Agamemnon led the seven Trojan princesses back to his camp and slavery. Menalaos walked side by side with Helen, which somehow stirred a simmering anger in me. His wife once more. Thanks to me. I brought them this victory and she goes back to him.

I shook my head, trying to clear such thoughts away. To night I claim my sons and my wife. Tomorrow we leave Troy forever.

And go where?

A guard of honor escorted our little pro cession, spears held stiffly up to the blackened sky. Wailing and sobs rose all around us; the air was filled with the stench of blood and smoke.

I trailed behind and noted that Helen never touched Menalaos, not even to take his hand. I remembered what Apet had told me, that being a wife among the Achaians, even a queen, was little better than being a slave.

She never touched Menalaos, and he hardly glanced at her after that first emotion-charged meeting in the temple of Aphrodite at dead Hecuba’s bier.

But she looked back at me over her shoulder more than once, looked at me, as if to make certain that I was not far from her.