Ben Bova: Vengeance of Orion

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 amusement.

“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 ships.”

“Can we hold them?” I asked.

“The gods 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 gods 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 massive 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 nobles, 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 passed 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 pass 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.

MIGHTY warrior though he was, Achilles apparently enjoyed his creature comforts. The cabin’s interior was draped with rich tapestries, and the floor was covered with more carpets. Couches and pillows were scattered across the spacious room. In one corner a hearth fire smoldered red, keeping out the cold and damp. I could hear the wind moaning through the hole in the roof, but inside it was reasonably snug and warm.

Three women sat by the fire staring at us with great dark eyes. They were slim and young, dressed modestly in sleeveless gray chemises. Iron and copper pots stood on tripods at the hearth, faint wisps of steam issuing from them. I smelled spiced meat and garlic.

Achilles himself sat on a wide couch against the far wall of the cabin, his back to a magnificent arras that depicted a gory battle scene. The couch was up on a dais, raised above the floor of the cabin like a king’s throne.

My first sight of the great warrior was a surprise. He was not a mighty-thewed giant, as Ajax. His body was not broad and powerful, as Odysseus’s. He seemed small, almost boyish, his bare arms and legs slim and virtually hairless. His chin was shaved clean and the ringlets of his long black hair were tied up in a silver chain. He wore a splendid white silk tunic, bordered with a purple key design, cinched at the waist with a belt of interlocking gold crescents.

He wore no weapons, but behind him a half-dozen long spears rested against the arras, within easy reach.

His face was the greatest shock. Ugly, almost to the point of being grotesque. Narrow beady eyes, lips curled in a perpetual snarl, a sharp hook of a nose, skin pocked and cratered. In his right hand he gripped a jeweled wine cup; it seemed to me that he had already drained it more than once.

At his feet sat a young man who was absolutely beautiful, gazing not at us but up at Achilles. It was Patrokles, I knew without being told. His tightly curled hair was reddish brown, rather than the usual darker tones of the Greeks. I wondered if it was his natural color. Like Achilles, Patrokles was beardless. But he seemed young enough not to need to shave. A golden pitcher of wine stood on the carpet beside him.

I looked at Achilles again and understood the demons that drove him to be the greatest warrior of his age. A small ugly boy born to a king. A boy destined to rule, but always the object of taunts and derisive laughter behind his back. A young man possessed with fire to silence the laughter, to stifle the taunting. His slim arms and legs were iron-hard, knotted with muscle. His eyes were absolutely humorless. There was no doubt in my mind that he could outfight Odysseus or even powerful Ajax on sheer willpower alone.

“Greetings, Odysseus the Ever-Daring,” he said, in a calm, clear tenor voice that was close to mocking. “And to you, mighty Ajax, King of Salamis and champion of the Achaian host.” Then his voice softened. “And to you, Phoenix, my well-loved tutor.”

I glanced at the old man. He bowed toward Achilles, but his eyes were on the beautiful Patrokles.

“We bring you greetings, Prince Achilles,” said Odysseus, “from Agamemnon the High King.”

“The bargain-breaker, you mean,” Achilles snapped. “Agamemnon the gift-snatcher.”

“He is our High King,” Odysseus said, his tone barely suggesting that they were all stuck with Agamemnon and the best they could do was try to work with him.