Achilles prefers his friend Patrokles to any woman.”
They all nodded and muttered agreement. The strain between Achilles and Agamemnon was not over a sexual partner; it was a matter of honor and stubborn pride. On both sides, as far as I could see.
As we ate and talked the skies darkened and thunder rumbled from inland.
“Father Zeus speaks from Mount Ida,” said Poletes.
One of the foot soldiers, his leather jacket stained with spatters of grease and blood, grinned up at the cloudy sky. “Maybe Zeus will give us the afternoon off.”
“Can’t fight in the rain,” one of the others agreed.
Sure enough, within minutes it began pelting down. We scattered for what ever shelter we could find. Poletes and I hunkered down in the lee of Odysseos’ boat. Through the driving rain I saw my men scurrying for the shelter of the tents scattered around Odysseos’ boats.
“Now the great lords will arrange a truce, so that the women and slaves can go out and recover the bodies of our dead. To night their bodies will be burned and a barrow raised over their charred bones.” He sighed. “That’s how the rampart began, as a barrow to cover the remains of the slain heroes.”
I sat and watched the rain pouring down, turning the beach into a quagmire, dotting the frothing sea with splashes. The gusting wind drove gray sheets of rain across the bay, and it got so dark and misty that I could not see the headland. It was chill and miserable and there was nothing to do except sit like dumb animals and wait for the sun to return.
I crouched as close as I could to the boat’s hull, smelling the sharp tang of the pitch they had smeared over the planks to keep the vessel watertight. My wife is among the slaves in Agamemnon’s camp, I knew. Are my sons with her? Are they still living?
Suddenly I realized that a man was standing in front of me. I looked up and saw a sturdy, thick-torsoed man with a grizzled dark beard and a surly look on his face. He wore a wolf ‘s pelt draped over his head and shoulders, dripping with the pounding rain. Knee-length tunic, a short sword buckled at his hip. Shins and calves muddied. Ham-sized fists planted on his hips.
“You’re the Hittite?” he shouted over the driving rain.
I got to my feet and saw that I stood several fingers taller than he. Still, he did not look like a man to be taken lightly.
“I am Lukka,” I replied. “My men are—”
“Come with me,” he snapped, and started to turn away.
“To where?”
Over his shoulder he answered, “My lord Odysseos wants to see what kind of man could stop Prince Hector in his tracks. Now move!”
Poletes scrambled up and pranced happily in the mud beside me around the prow of the boat, through the soaking rain, to a rope ladder that led up to the deck.
“I knew Odysseos was the only one here wise enough to make use of you,” he cackled. “I knew it!”
14
It was slippery going, clambering up the rope ladder in the wind-whipped rain. I feared that Poletes would fall. But, following Odysseos’ man, we made it to the boat’s deck and ducked under the striped canvas. The Ithacan opened a wooden chest and tossed a pair of large rags at us.
“Dry yourselves,” he said curtly. We did, gladly, as he shucked the dripping wolf ‘s pelt he’d been wearing and slung it to the deck with a wet slapping sound.
I threw my towel next to his sodden pelt. Poletes did the same. For long moments we stood there while the Ithacan looked us up and down.
“Presentable enough,” he muttered, more to himself than to us. Then he said, “Follow me.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance as we walked behind him around a wooden cabin. And there sat Odysseos, King of Ithaca.
He was sitting behind a bare trestle table, flanked on either side by two standing noblemen in fine woolen cloaks. He did not appear to be a very tall man; what I could see of legs seemed stumpy, though heavily muscled. His chest was broad and deep. Later I learned that he
They all nodded and muttered agreement. The strain between Achilles and Agamemnon was not over a sexual partner; it was a matter of honor and stubborn pride. On both sides, as far as I could see.
As we ate and talked the skies darkened and thunder rumbled from inland.
“Father Zeus speaks from Mount Ida,” said Poletes.
One of the foot soldiers, his leather jacket stained with spatters of grease and blood, grinned up at the cloudy sky. “Maybe Zeus will give us the afternoon off.”
“Can’t fight in the rain,” one of the others agreed.
Sure enough, within minutes it began pelting down. We scattered for what ever shelter we could find. Poletes and I hunkered down in the lee of Odysseos’ boat. Through the driving rain I saw my men scurrying for the shelter of the tents scattered around Odysseos’ boats.
“Now the great lords will arrange a truce, so that the women and slaves can go out and recover the bodies of our dead. To night their bodies will be burned and a barrow raised over their charred bones.” He sighed. “That’s how the rampart began, as a barrow to cover the remains of the slain heroes.”
I sat and watched the rain pouring down, turning the beach into a quagmire, dotting the frothing sea with splashes. The gusting wind drove gray sheets of rain across the bay, and it got so dark and misty that I could not see the headland. It was chill and miserable and there was nothing to do except sit like dumb animals and wait for the sun to return.
I crouched as close as I could to the boat’s hull, smelling the sharp tang of the pitch they had smeared over the planks to keep the vessel watertight. My wife is among the slaves in Agamemnon’s camp, I knew. Are my sons with her? Are they still living?
Suddenly I realized that a man was standing in front of me. I looked up and saw a sturdy, thick-torsoed man with a grizzled dark beard and a surly look on his face. He wore a wolf ‘s pelt draped over his head and shoulders, dripping with the pounding rain. Knee-length tunic, a short sword buckled at his hip. Shins and calves muddied. Ham-sized fists planted on his hips.
“You’re the Hittite?” he shouted over the driving rain.
I got to my feet and saw that I stood several fingers taller than he. Still, he did not look like a man to be taken lightly.
“I am Lukka,” I replied. “My men are—”
“Come with me,” he snapped, and started to turn away.
“To where?”
Over his shoulder he answered, “My lord Odysseos wants to see what kind of man could stop Prince Hector in his tracks. Now move!”
Poletes scrambled up and pranced happily in the mud beside me around the prow of the boat, through the soaking rain, to a rope ladder that led up to the deck.
“I knew Odysseos was the only one here wise enough to make use of you,” he cackled. “I knew it!”
14
It was slippery going, clambering up the rope ladder in the wind-whipped rain. I feared that Poletes would fall. But, following Odysseos’ man, we made it to the boat’s deck and ducked under the striped canvas. The Ithacan opened a wooden chest and tossed a pair of large rags at us.
“Dry yourselves,” he said curtly. We did, gladly, as he shucked the dripping wolf ‘s pelt he’d been wearing and slung it to the deck with a wet slapping sound.
I threw my towel next to his sodden pelt. Poletes did the same. For long moments we stood there while the Ithacan looked us up and down.
“Presentable enough,” he muttered, more to himself than to us. Then he said, “Follow me.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance as we walked behind him around a wooden cabin. And there sat Odysseos, King of Ithaca.
He was sitting behind a bare trestle table, flanked on either side by two standing noblemen in fine woolen cloaks. He did not appear to be a very tall man; what I could see of legs seemed stumpy, though heavily muscled. His chest was broad and deep. Later I learned that he
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