Chapter 2
We landed, literally, driving the boat up onto the beach until its bottom grated against the sand and we could go no farther. Then the whipmaster bellowed at us as we piled over the gunwales, took up ropes, and—straining, cursing, wrenching the tendons in our arms and shoulders—we hauled the pitch-blackened hull up onto the beach until only its stern and rudder paddle touched the water.
Hardly any tide to speak of, I knew. When they finally sail past the Pillars of Herakles and out into the Atlantic, that's when they'll encounter real tides.
Then I wondered how I knew that.
I did not have time to wonder for long. The whipmaster allowed us a scant few moments to get our breath back, then he started us unloading the boat. He roared and threatened, shaking his many-thonged whip at us, his cinnamon-red beard ragged and tangled, the scar on his left cheek standing out white against his florid frog's-eyed face. I carried bales and bleating sheep and squirming, foul-smelling pigs while the gentlemen in their cloaks and linen tunics and their fine sandals walked down a gangplank, each followed by two or more slaves who carried their goods, mostly arms and armor, from what I could see.
"Fresh blood for the war," grunted the man next to me, with a nod toward the young noblemen. He looked as grimy as I felt, a stringy old fellow with skin as tanned and creased as weather-beaten leather. His hair was sparse, gray, matted with perspiration; his beard, mangy and unkempt. Like me, he wore nothing but a loincloth; his skinny legs and knobby knees barely seemed strong enough to tote the burdens he carried.
There were plenty of other men, just as ragged and filthy as we, to take the bales and livestock from us. They seemed delighted to do so. As I went back and forth from the boat I saw that this stretch of beach was protected by an earthenwork rampart studded here and there with sharpened stakes.
We finished our task at last, unloading a hundred or so massive double-handled jugs of wine, as the sun touched the headland we had rounded earlier in the day. Aching, exhausted, we sprawled around a cook fire and accepted steaming wooden bowls of boiled lentils and greens.
A cold wind blew in from the north as the sun slipped below the horizon, sending sparks from our little fire glittering toward the darkening sky.
"I never thought I'd be here on the plain of Ilios," said the old man who had worked next to me. He put the bowl to his lips and gobbled the stew hungrily.
"Where are you from?" I asked him.
"Argos. My name is Poletes. And you?"
"Orion."
"Ah! Named after the Hunter."
I nodded, a faint echo of memory tingling the hairs at the back of my neck. The Hunter. Yes, I was a hunter. Once. Long ago. Or—was it a long time from now? Future and past were all mixed together in my mind. I remembered . . .
"And where are you from, Orion?" asked Poletes, shattering the fragile images half-forming in my mind.
"Oh," I gestured vaguely, "west of Argos. Far west."
"Farther than Ithaca?"
"Beyond the sea," I answered, not knowing why, but feeling instinctively that it was as honest a reply as I could give.
"And how came you here?"
I shrugged. "I'm a wanderer. And you?"
Edging closer to me, Poletes wrinkled his brow and scratched at his thinning pate. "No wanderer I. I'm a storyteller, and happy was I to spend my days in the agora, spinning tales and watching the faces of the people as I talked. Especially the children, with their big eyes. But this war put an end to my storytelling."
"How so?"
He wiped at his mouth with the back of his grimy hand. "My lord Agamemnon may need more warriors, but his faithless wife wants thetes."
"Slaves?"
"Hah! Worse off than a slave. Far worse," Poletes grumbled. He gestured to the exhausted men sprawled around the dying fire. "Look at us! Homeless and hopeless. At least a slave has a master to depend on. A slave belongs to someone; he is a member of a household. A thes belongs to no one and nothing; he is landless, homeless, cut off from everything except sorrow and hunger."
"But you were a member of a household in Argos, weren't you?"
He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut, as if to block out a painful memory.
"A household, yes," he said, his voice low. "Until Queen Clytemnestra's men booted me out of the city for repeating what every stray dog and alley cat in Argos was saying—that the queen has taken a lover while her royal husband is here fighting at Troy's walls."
I took a sip of the rapidly cooling stew, trying to think of something to say.
"At least they didn't kill you," was all I could come up with.
"Better if they had!" Poletes replied bitterly. "I would be dead and in Hades and that would be the end of it. Instead, I'm here, toiling like a jackass, working for wages."
"That's something, anyway," I said.
His eyes snapped at me. "You are eating your wages, Orion."
"This . . . this is our payment?"
"For the day's work. Exactly. Show me a thes with coin in his purse and I'll show you a sneak thief."
I took a deep breath.
"Lower than slaves, that's what we are, Orion," said Poletes, in a whisper that was heavy with overdue sleep. "Vermin under their feet. Dogs. That's how they treat us. They'll work us to death and let our bones rot where we fall."
With a heavy sigh Poletes put his empty bowl down and stretched out on the sandy ground. It was getting so dark that I could barely see his face. The pitiful little fire had gone down to nothing but embers. The wind blowing in from the water was cold and sharp. I automatically adjusted my blood flow to keep as warm as possible. There were no blankets or even canvas tarpaulins among the sprawled bodies of the exhausted thetes. They slept in their loincloths and nothing else.
I lay down beside the old man, then found myself wondering how old he could truly be. Forty, perhaps. I doubted that anyone lived much past fifty in this primitive time. A pair of mangy dogs snarled at each other over some bones by the fire, then settled down side by side, better protected against the night than we were.
Just before I closed my eyes to sleep, I caught sight of the beetling towers of Troy bulking dark against the deepening violet sky.
Agamemnon. Troy. How did I get here? How long could I survive as something lower than a slave?
***
Falling asleep was like entering another world. My dream was as real as life. I thought perhaps it was life, a different life on a different plane of existence.
I stood in a place that had neither time nor dimension. No land, no sea, no sky. Not even a horizon. A great golden glow surrounded me, stretching away to infinity on every side, warm and so bright that it dazzled my eyes. I could see nothing except its radiance.
Without knowing why, I began to walk. Slowly at first, but soon my pace quickened, as if I knew where I was heading and why. Time was meaningless here, but I walked endlessly, my bare feet striking something firm beneath me, though when I looked down all I could see was the gleaming golden light.
And then, far, far off, I saw a brilliance that outshone everything else. A speck, a spot, a source of radiance that blazed pure gold and drew me forward like a magnet draws a sliver of iron, like the fiery sun draws a falling comet.
I ran, I flew toward that burning golden glow. Breathlessly I raced to it, my eyes painfully dazzled, my heart thundering wildly, the breath rasping in my throat.
I stopped. As if an invisible wall had risen before me. As if my body had suddenly become paralyzed.
I stopped and slumped to my knees.
A human form sat before me, elevated above my level, resting on nothing more substantial than golden light. He was the source of all the radiance. He shone so beautifully that it hurt my eyes to look upon him. Yet I could not look away.
He was splendid. Thick mane of golden hair, gold-flecked eyes. Skin that glowed with life-giving radiance. Utterly handsome face, masculine yet beautiful, calm and self-assured, the hint of a smile curling his lips. Broad shoulders and wide hairless chest. Bare to the waist, where draperies of gleaming gold enfolded him.
"My poor Orion." His smile turned almost mocking. "You are certainly in a sorry state."
I did not know what to reply. I could not reply. My voice froze in my throat.
"Do you remember your Creator?" he asked, tauntingly.
I nodded dumbly.
"Of course you do. That memory is built so deeply into you that nothing but final destruction can erase it."
I knelt before my Creator, my mind whirling with faint half memories, struggling to find my voice, to speak, to ask him . . .
"Do you remember my name?" he asked.
Almost, I did.
"No matter. For the present you may call me Apollo. Your companions on the plain of Ilios refer to me by that name."
Apollo. The Greek god of light and beauty. Of course. The god of music and medicine—or is it biotechnology, I wondered. But I seemed to recall that he had another name, another time. And there were other gods, as well. And a goddess, the one whom I loved.
"I am being harsh with you, Orion, because you disobeyed me in the matter of Ahriman. You deliberately twisted the course of the continuum, out of sentiment."
"Out of love," I replied. My voice was weak, gasping. But I spoke.
"You are a creature, Orion," he sneered. "What can you know of love?"
"The woman," I pleaded. "The goddess . . ."
"She is dead."
His voice was as coldly implacable as fate. I felt ice freezing my veins.
"You killed her," I said dully.
His sneering smile faded into grim solemnity. "In a sense, Orion, it was you who killed her. By daring to love a goddess, by tempting her to assume a human form, you sealed her doom."
"You blame me . . ."
"Blame? A god does not blame, Orion. A god punishes. Or rewards. You are being punished—for the while. Accept your fate and your punishment will cease."
"And then?"
His smile returned. "I have other tasks for you, my creature, after the Trojans have beaten off these Greek barbarians. Don't be afraid, I don't plan on letting you die again, not for a while. There is much work for you to do in this era."
I began to ask him what he meant, but a sandaled foot prodded my ribs and I opened my eyes to see that I was on the beach among the Greeks who were besieging Troy, a thes, the lowest of the low.
"On your feet! There's work to be done!" shouted the whipmaster.
I looked up at him but saw instead the blinding radiance of the morning sun. I winced and bowed my head.