Bova, Ben Orion 02 Vengeance of Orion ()

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chill, and he bore a small knapsack of dried meat and bread and a leather sack of wine.
On my left wrist was a copper band that bore a copy of the Hatti High King's agreement with
Agamemnon. It looked like an ordinary wristband, but the cuneiform symbols were etched into it. Roll it
across a slab of wet clay and the document would reproduce itself.
We spent the darkest hours of the night skirting along the riverbank, moving inland past the plain of Ilios
and the city of Troy. In the darkness the thick bushes tangled against our feet, slowing us. We tried to
move silently, but often we had to hack the leafy branches out of our way. By the time the moon came up
over the distant mountains, we were climbing the steady slope of the first of the foothills. I could see the
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edge of the woods ahead, lofty oak and ash trees, beech and larch, silvery and silent in the moonlight.
Farther uphill, dark pines and spruce rose straight and tall. The bushes were thinner here and we could
make better time.
Poletes was puffing hard, but he did his best to keep up with me. As we plunged into the darker
shadows of the trees an owl hooted, as if to challenge us.
"Athene welcomes us," Poletes panted.
"What?"
He grabbed at my shoulder. I stopped and turned around. He bent over, hands on knobby knees,
wheezing and gasping for breath.
"We don't need... forest demons," he panted. "You have... your own demon... inside you."
I felt a pang of conscience. "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't realize I was going too fast for you."
"Can we... rest here?"
"Yes."
He slung the knapsack off his shoulder and collapsed to the mossy ground. I took in a deep breath of
clean mountain air, crisp with the tang of pine.
"What was that you said about Athene?" I asked, kneeling beside him.
Poletes waved a hand vaguely. "The owl... it is Athene's symbol. Its hooting means that she welcomes us
to the safety of these woods. We are under her protection."
I felt my jaw clenching. "No, old man. She can't protect anyone, not even herself. Athene is dead."
Even in the darkness I could see his eyes go round. "What are you saying? That's blasphemy!"
I shrugged and squatted on the ground beside him.
"Orion," Poletes said earnestly, propping himself on one elbow, "the gods cannot die. They are
immortal!"
"Athene is dead," I repeated, feeling the hollow ache of it in my guts.
"But you serve her!"
"I serve her memory. And I live to avenge her murder."
He shook his head in disbelief. "It is impossible, Orion. Gods and goddesses cannot die. Not as long as
one mortal remembers them. As long asyou revere Athene, and serve her, she is not dead."
"Perhaps so," I said, to placate him and calm his fear. "Perhaps you are right."
We stretched out for a few hours' sleep, wrapped in our cloaks. I was afraid to close my eyes so I lay
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there listening to the subtle night sounds of the forest, the soft rustling of the trees in the cool dark breeze,
the chirrup of insects, the occasional hoot of an owl.
She is dead, I told myself. She died in my arms. And I will kill the Golden One someday.
The moon peeked down at me through the swaying branches of the trees. Artemis, sister of Apollo, I
thought. Will you defend your brother against me? Or was that you arguing against him? Will the other
gods fight against me or will I find allies among you in my vengeance against the Golden One?
I must have fallen asleep, for I dreamed that I saw her again: Athene, standing tall and radiant in gleaming
silver, her long dark hair burnished like polished ebony, her beautiful gray eyes regarding me gravely.
"You are not alone, Orion," she said to me. "There are allies all around you. You have only to find them.
And lead them to your goal."
I reached out to her, only to find myself sitting upright on the mossy forest floor, the fresh yellow light of
sunrise slanting between the trees. Birds were singing a welcome to the new day.
Poletes stirred before I tried to wake him. We ate a cold breakfast washed down with warm wine, then
resumed our march.
We cut northward now, toward the main road that led from Troy inland. Over two rows of wooded hills
we climbed, and as we reached the crest of the third, we saw spread out below us a broad valley dotted
with cultivated fields. A river meandered gently through the valley, and along its banks tiny villages
huddled.
An ugly column of black smoke rose from one of the villages.
I pointed. "There's the Hatti army."
We hurried down the wooded slope and out across the fields of chest-high grain, wading through the
golden crop like shipwrecked sailors staggering to the safety of an unknown shore.
"Why would a Trojan ally be burning a Trojan village?" Poletes asked.
I had no answer. My attention was fixed on that column of smoke, and the pitiful cluster of burning huts
that produced it. I could see wagons and horses now, and men in armor that glittered under the morning
sun.
We breasted the ripening grain until we came to the edge of the field. Poletes tugged at my cloak.
"Perhaps we'd better lie low until we find out what's going on here."
"No time for that," I said. "Hector must be attacking the beach by now. If these are Hatti troops, we've
got to find out what they're up to."
I plunged ahead and within a dozen strides broke out of the cultivated field. I could clearly see the
troops now. They were taller and fairer than the Achaians. And, man for man, better armed and
equipped. Each soldier wore a tunic of chain mail and a helmet of polished black iron. Their swords were
long, and their blades were iron, not bronze. Their shields were small and square and worn across their
backs, since there was no fighting going on.
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A half-dozen soldiers were herding a peasant family out of their hut: a man, his wife, and two young
daughters. They looked terrified, like rabbits caught in a trap. They fell to their knees and raised their
hands in supplication. One of the soldiers tossed a torch onto the thatched roof of the hut, while the
others gathered around the pleading, crying family with drawn swords and ugly smiles.
"Stop that!" I called, striding toward them. I could hear the rustling behind me of Poletes diving into the
stalks of grain to hide himself.
The soldiers turned toward me.
"Who the hell are you?" their leader shouted.
"A herald from High King Agamemnon," I said, stepping up to him. He was slightly shorter than I, well
built, scarred from many battles. His face was as hard and fierce as a hunting falcon's, his eyes glittering
with suspicion, his nose bent hawklike. His sword was in his hand. I kept mine in my scabbard.
"And who in the name of the Nine Lords of the Earth is High King Aga... whatever?" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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