Ben Bova: Vengeance of Orion

The frail old man at Odysseus’s right spoke up in a surprisingly deep, strong voice. “We are told that you arrived as a thes aboard the boat that came in last night. Yet you fought this morning like a warrior born and bred. By the gods! You reminded me of myself when I was your age. I was absolutely fearless then! As far away as Mycenae and even Thebes I was known! Let me tell you…”

Odysseus raised his right hand. “Please, Nestor, I pray you forego your reminiscences for the moment.”

The old man looked displeased, but sank back in silence.

“What reward would you ask?” Odysseus said to me. “If it is in my power I will gladly grant it.”

I thought for half a moment only, then replied, “I ask to be made a warrior in the service of the King of Ithaca.” Then, sensing a slight shuffling of bare feet behind me, I added, “And to have my friend here as my servant.”

For several seconds Odysseus said nothing, although Nestor bobbed his white-bearded head vigorously and the younger warrior on the king’s left smiled at me.

“You are both thetes , without a household?” Odysseus asked.

“Yes.”

He stroked his beard. Then a slow smile spread across his face. “Then welcome to the household of the King of Ithaca. Your wish is granted.”

I was not certain of what I should do, until I saw Nestor frown slightly and prompt me by motioning with both hands, palms down. I knelt before Odysseus.

“Thank you, great king,” I said, hoping it was the right degree of humility. “I shall serve you to the best of my abilities.”

Odysseus took the armlet from his biceps and clasped it on my arm. “Rise, Orion. Your courage and strength will be a welcome addition to our forces.” To the officer at the tent’s entrance he commanded, “Antilokos, see that he gets some decent clothing — and weapons.”

Then he nodded a dismissal at me. I turned. Poletes was beaming at me. Antilokos, his wolfskin cape still dripping, looked at me as if measuring me, not for clothing, but as a fighter.

As we left the tent and went back into the pouring rain, I could hear King Nestor’s vibrant voice. “Very crafty of you, Odysseus! By bringing him into your household you gain the favor of Athene, whom he serves. I couldn’t have made a wiser move myself, although in my years I’ve made some very delicate decisions, let me tell you. Why, I remember the time when Dardanian pirates were raiding the coast of my kingdom and nobody seemed to be able to stop them, since King Minos’s fleet had been destroyed in the great tidal wave. Well then, the pirates captured a merchant ship bearing a load of copper from Kypros. Worth a fortune it was, because you know that you can’t make bronze without copper. No one knew what to do! The copper was…”

His voice, strong as it was, was finally drowned out by the heavy rain and moaning wind.

Antilokos led us past several Ithacan boats to a lean-to made of logs lashed together and then daubed with the same black pitch that caulked the boats. It was the largest structure I had seen in the camp, big enough to hold a couple of dozen men, I estimated. There was only one doorway, a low one with a sheet of canvas tacked over it to keep out the rain and wind.

Inside, the shed was a combination of warehouse and armory that made Poletes whistle with astonishment. Chariots were stored there, tilted up with their yoke poles pointing into the air. Stacks of helmets and armor were neatly piled along one wall, while racks of spears, swords, and bows lined the other, with chests full of clothes and blankets along the back wall between them.

“So much!” Poletes gasped.

Antilokos, who was not a man given to humor, made a grim smile. “Spoils from the slain.”

Poletes nodded and whispered, “So many.”

A wizened old man stepped across the sand floor from his hideaway behind a table piled with clay tablets.

“What now? Haven’t I enough to do without you dragging in strangers?” he whined. He was a lean and sour-faced old grump, his hands gnarled and twisted into claws, his back stooped.

“A new one for you, scribe. My lord Odysseus wants him outfitted properly.” And with that, Antilokos turned and ducked through the shed’s low doorway.

The scribe shuffled over close enough almost to touch me and peered up at me with squinted eyes. “Big as a Cretan bull! How does he expect me to find proper clothing for someone your size?”

He grumbled and muttered as he led Poletes and me past tables laden with bronze cuirasses, arm protectors, greaves, and plumed helmets. I stopped and reached for a helmet.

“Not that!” the scribe screeched. “Those are not for the likes of you!”

He sank one of those clawlike hands into my forearm and tugged me to a pile of clothes on the ground, close by the entrance to the shed.

“Here,” he said. “See what you can find among those.”

It took a while, but I eventually dressed myself in a stained linen tunic, a leather skirt that reached my knees, and a sleeveless leather jerkin that did not feel so tight across the shoulders that it would hamper my movements. While the scribe scowled and grumbled, I made certain that Poletes found a tunic and a wool shirt. For weapons I took a plain short sword and strapped a dagger to my right thigh, beneath the skirt. Neither one of them had precious metals or jewels in their hilts, although the sword’s crosspiece bore an intricate design engraved in its bronze.

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.”

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 ship 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.