Part 3 (2/2)

The scribe could not find any kind of helmet that would fit me, so we finally settled on a hooded mantle of bronze chain mail. Sandals and bronze-studded leather greaves completed my array, although my toes hung out over the edges of the sandals noticeably.

The scribe resisted fiercely, but I insisted on taking two blankets apiece. He screeched and argued and threatened that he would call the king himself to tell what a spendthrift I was. It was not until I lifted him off his feet with a one-fisted grab at his tunic that he shut up and let me take the blankets. But his scowl would have curdled milk.

By the time we left the shed the rain had stopped and the westering sun was rapidly drying off the beach. Poletes led the way back to the fire and the men with whom we had shared our midday meal. We ate again, drank wine, and laid out our newly acquired blankets in preparation for sleeping.

Then Poletes fell to his bony knees and grasped my right hand in both of his, tightly, with a strength I would not have guessed was in him.

”Orion, my master, you have saved my life two times this day.”

I wanted to pull my hand loose.

”You have saved the whole camp from Hector's spear and his vengeful Trojans, but in addition you have lifted me out of a life of misery and shame. I will serve you always, Orion. I will always be grateful to you for showing such mercy to a poor old storyteller.”

He kissed my hand.

I reached down and lifted him by his frail shoulders to his feet.

”Poor old windbag,” I said lightly, ”you're the first man I've ever seen grateful to become a slave.”

”Your slave, Orion,” he corrected. ”I am happy to be that.” slave, Orion,” he corrected. ”I am happy to be that.”

I shook my head, uncertain of what to do or say. Finally I groused, ”Well, get some sleep.”

”Yes. Certainly. May Phantasos send you happy dreams.”

I did not want to close my eyes. I did not want to dream of the Creator who called himself Apollo-if my encounter with him could be called a dream.

I lay on my back staring at the star-studded blackness, wondering which star our s.h.i.+p had been traveling to, and whether the light of its explosion would ever be seen in Earth's night skies. I saw her face again, lovely beyond belief, dark hair gleaming in the starlight, gray eyes sparkling with desire.

He had killed her, I knew. The Golden One. Apollo. Killed her and blamed it on me. Killed her and exiled me to this primitive time. Killed her, but saved me for his own amus.e.m.e.nt.

”Orion?” a voice whispered.

I sat up and automatically put out a hand for the sword resting on the ground beside me.

”The king wants you.” It was Antilokos kneeling beside me.

I scrambled to my feet, gripping the sword. It was black night, with just enough light from the dying fire for me to recognize the man's face.

”Better bring your helmet, if you have one,” Antilokos said.

I reached down and took my chain-mail mantle. Poletes's eyes opened.

”The king wants to speak to me,” I told the old man. ”Go back to sleep.”

He smiled and snuggled happily into his blankets.

I followed Antilokos past the sleeping bodies of our comrades to the prow of Odysseus's boat.

As I had suspected, the king was much shorter than I. The plume of his helmet barely reached my chin. He nodded a greeting to me and said simply, ”Follow me, Orion.”

The three of us walked silently through the sleeping camp and up to the crest of the rampart, not far from the gate where I had gained their respect earlier that day. Soldiers stood on guard up there, gripping long spears and eyeing the darkness nervously. Beyond the inky shadow of the trench the plain was dotted with Trojan campfires.

Odysseus gave a sigh that seemed to wrench his mighty chest. ”Prince Hector holds the plain, as you can see. Tomorrow his forces will storm the rampart and try to break into our camp and burn our s.h.i.+ps.”

”Can we hold them?” I asked.

”The G.o.ds will decide, once the sun comes up.”

I said nothing. I suspected that Odysseus was trying to come up with a plan that might influence the G.o.ds his way.

A strong tenor voice called from the darkness below us. ”Odysseus, son of Laertes, are you counting the Trojan campfires?”

Odysseus smiled grimly. ”No, Big Ajax. They are too many for any man to count.”

He motioned to me and we went back down into the camp. Ajax was indeed something of a giant among these men: He towered over them and even topped me by an inch or two. He was big across the shoulders, as well, and his arms were as thick as young tree trunks. He stood bareheaded under the stars, dressed only in a tunic and leather vest. His face was broad, with high cheekbones and a little pug of a nose. His beard was thin, new-looking, not like the thick curly growth of Odysseus and the other chieftains. With a bit of a shock, I realized that Big Ajax was very young, probably no more than nineteen or twenty.

A much older man stood beside him, hair and beard white, wrapped in a dark cloak.

”I brought Phoenix along,” said Big Ajax. ”Maybe he can appeal to Achilles better than we can.”

Odysseus nodded his approval.

”I was his tutor when Achilles was a lad,” said Phoenix in a slightly quavering voice. ”He was proud and touchy even then.”

Ajax shrugged his ma.s.sive shoulders. Odysseus said, ”Well, let us try to convince Achilles to rejoin the army.”

We started off for the far end of the camp, where Achilles's boats were beached. Half a dozen armed men trailed behind the three n.o.bles, and I fell in with them.

The wind was blowing in off the water, cold and sharp as a knife. I almost envied Poletes the blankets he had wrapped around himself, and began to wonder why I had not taken cloaks for the two of us from the tight-fisted old scribe.

Once we entered Achilles's portion of the camp, we pa.s.sed several sentries on duty, fully armed and armored, with helmets strapped on tightly and spears in their hands. They wore cloaks, which the wind plucked at and whipped around their suits of bronze armor. They recognized the giant Ajax and the squat but powerful King of Ithaca, of course, and let the rest of us pa.s.s unchallenged.

Finally we were stopped by a pair of guards whose armor glittered even in the faint starlight, within a few yards of a large cabin, built of planks.

”We are a deputation from the High King,” said Odysseus, his voice deep and grave with formality, ”sent to see Achilles, prince of the Myrmidones.”

The guard saluted by clasping his fist to his heart and said, ”Prince Achilles has been expecting you and bids you welcome.”

He stepped aside and gestured us to the door of the cabin.

Chapter 6.

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