Chapter 14
THERE were forty-two men in the Hatti band, and I led them back across the Scamander and down toward the beach where the Achaians were camped—if they had not been wiped out in the meantime by Hector and his Trojans.
Lukka accepted me as their leader. He kept his hawklike face impassive, but I thought I saw a hint of awe at my fighting prowess glimmering in his dark eyes. The others went along with him. There was no great affection for the fallen Arza among them. He had been their commander when the civil strife had broken out among the various Hatti factions. Like professional soldiers everywhere, they had followed their commanding officer even though they thoroughly disliked him. As long as he kept them together, and ensured their survival by raiding helpless villages, they were willing to put up with his petty tyrannies and nasty disposition.
“We’ve been living like dogs,” Lukka told me as we climbed across the wooded ridges that ran between the high road and the river. “Every man’s hand is raised against every other’s. There’s no order in the land of the Hatti anymore, not since the old king died and his son was driven off by the nobles. Now they fight for the kingdom and the army is split into a thousand little bands like ours, without discipline, without respect, without any pay at all except what we can steal from farmers and villagers.”
“When we get to the Achaian camp,” I promised him, “King Odysseus will be happy to welcome you into his service.”
“Under your command,” Lukka said.
I glanced at him. He was completely serious. He took it for granted that the man who slew Arza would take command of the troop.
“Yes,” I said. “Under my command.”
He grinned wolflshly. “There’s much gold in Troy, that I know. We guarded a tribute caravan from the Troad to Hattusas once. A lot of gold.”
So we marched toward the plain of Ilios. I was now the leader of a unit of professional soldiers who dreamed of looting the gold of Troy. The army that Hector expected to come to Troy’s rescue no longer existed; it had split into a thousand marauding bands, each intent on its own survival.
Lukka became my lieutenant automatically. He knew the men and I did not. He regarded me as little less than a god. It made me feel uneasy, but it was useful for the moment. He was a strong, honest professional soldier, a man of few words. Yet his hawk’s eyes missed nothing, and the men respected him totally.
We slept in the same woods where Poletes and I had spent the previous night. I stretched out, sword and dagger on either side of me, and willed my mind to make contact with the gods. No, they are not gods, I reminded myself. Creators, yes. But not gods.
I closed my eyes and strained with every nerve and sinew in me to see them again, speak with them. Utterly in vain. All I got for my effort was a set of tension-stiffened muscles that made my back and neck ache horribly and kept me awake through most of the night.
The next morning we found a ford in the river, crossed it, and marched toward the sea.
It was well past noon before we saw the beetling walls of Troy, up on its bluff. Trojan tents no longer dotted the plain. Instead, the debris of battle littered the worn ground between the Achaian rampart and the walls of Troy. Broken chariots and tattered remains of tents were scattered everywhere. Black-clad women and half-naked slaves moved slowly, mournfully, among scores of bodies lying twisted and stripped of armor under the high sun. Vultures circled patiently above. Dark humps of dead horses lay here and there. The battle must have been ferocious, I told myself.
But the Achaian ships were still lined up along the beach, I saw, their black hulls intact, unburnt. Somehow, Agamemnon, Odysseus, and the others had survived Hector’s onslaught.
Poletes stared at the carnage across the river with wide, tearful eyes. Lukka and the other Hatti soldiers seemed to be giving the area a professional evaluation.