But he did not move, except to lean his head against the pillar. I saw that its once-bright red paint was now blackened and someone had scratched his name into the stone with the point of a sword: Thersites.

"I'll see you back at the camp," I said.

He nodded sadly. "Yes, when mighty Agamemnon divides the spoils and decides how many of the women and how much of the treasure he will take for himself."

"Go to the camp," I said, more firmly. "Now. That's not advice, Poletes, it is my command."

He drew in a long breath and sighed it out, then raised himself slowly to his feet.

"Take this sign." I handed him the armlet Odysseus had given me. "It will identify you to any drunken lout that wants to take off your head."

He accepted it wordlessly. It was much too big for his frail arms, so he hung it around his skinny neck. I had to laugh at the sight.

"Laughter in the middle of the sack of a great city," Poletes said. "You are becoming a true Achaian warrior, my master."

With that he started down the steps, haltingly, like a man who really did not care which way he went.

I went through the columned portico and into the hall of statues, where Achaian warriors were directing slaves to take down the G.o.ds' images and carry them off toward the boats. Into the open courtyard that had been so lovely I went. Pots were overturned and smashed, flowers trampled, bodies strewn everywhere staining the gra.s.s with their blood. The little statue of Athene was already gone. The big one of Apollo had toppled and broken into several pieces. I smiled grimly at that.

One wing of the palace was afire. I could see flames crackling in the windows. I closed my eyes momentarily, picturing in my mind the chamber where Helen had spoken to me. It was there where the fire blazed.

From a balcony overhead I heard shouts, then curses. The clash of metal on metal. A fight was still going on up there.

"The royal women have locked themselves into the temple of Aphrodite," I heard a man behind me yell. "Come on!" He sounded like someone rushing to a party, or hurrying to get back to his seat before the curtain rose on the final act of the drama.

I s.n.a.t.c.hed my sword from its scabbard and rushed up the nearest stairs. A handful of Trojans were making a last-ditch defense of the corridor that led to the royal temples, fighting desperately against a shouting, bellowing mob of Achaian warriors. Behind the doors locked at the Trojans' backs waited aged Priam and his wife, Hecuba, together with their daughters and grandchildren, I realized.

Helen must be there too, I thought. I saw Menalaos, Diomedes, and Agamemnon himself thrusting their spears at the few desperate Trojan defenders, laughing at them, taunting them.

"You sell your lives for nothing," shouted Diomedes. "Put down your spears and we will allow you to live."

"As slaves!" roared Agamemnon.

The Trojans fought bravely, but they were outnumbered and doomed, their backs pressed against the doors they tried so valiantly to defend, as more and more Achaians rushed up to join the sport.

I sprinted down the next corridor and pushed my way through rooms where soldiers were tearing through chests of gorgeous robes, grabbing jewels from gold-inlaid boxes, and pulling silken tapestries from the walls. This wing of the palace would also be in flames soon, I knew. Too soon.

I found a balcony, swung over its bal.u.s.trade, and, leaning as far forward as I dared, clamped one hand on the edge of a window in the otherwise blank rear wall of the temple wing. I swung out over thirty feet of air and pulled myself up onto my elbows, then hoisted a leg onto the windowsill. Pushing aside the beaded curtain, I peered into a small, dim inner sanctuary. The walls were bare, the tiles of the floor old and worn to dullness. Small votive statues stood lined on both sides of the room, some of them still decked with rings of withered flowers. The palace smelled of incense and old candles. Standing by the door, her back to me, her hands clasped in fear, stood Helen.

I could hear the sounds of the fighting from outside the temple. I dropped lightly to my feet and walked quietly toward her.

"Helen," I said.

She whirled to face me, her fists pressed against her mouth, her body tense with terror. I saw her eyes recognize me, and she relaxed a little.

"The emissary," she whispered.

"Orion," I reminded her.

She stood there for an uncertain moment, wearing her finest robes, decked with gold and jewels, more beautiful than any woman had a right to be. Then she ran to me, three tiny steps, and pressed her golden head against my grimy, bloodstained chest. Her hair was scented like fragrant flowers.

"Don't let them kill me, Orion! Please, please! They'll be crazy with bloodl.u.s.t. Even Menalaos. He'd take my head off and then blame it on Ares. Please protect me!"

"That's why I came to you," I said. As I spoke the words, I knew they were true. It was the one civilized thing I could do in this entire mad, murderous day. Having slain the man who had abducted her, I would now see to it that her rightful husband took her back.

"Priam is dead," she said, her voice m.u.f.fled and sobbing. "His heart broke when he saw the Achaians coming over the western wall."

"The queen?" I asked.

"She and the other royal women are in the main temple, just on the other side of that door. The guards outside have sworn to go down to the last man before allowing Agamemnon and his brutes to enter here."

I held her and listened to the clamor of the fight. It did not last long. A final scream of agony, a final roar of triumph, then a thudding as they pounded against the locked doors. A splintering of wood, then silence.

"It would be better if we went in there, rather than letting them break in and find you," I suggested.

She pulled herself away from me and visibly fought for self-control. Lifting her little chin like the queen she had hoped to be, Helen said, "Yes. I am ready to face them."

I went to the connecting door, unlatched it, and opened it a crack. Agamemnon, his brother Menalaos, and dozens of other Achaian n.o.bles were crowding into the temple. Gold-covered statues taller than life lined its walls, and the floor was of gleaming marble. At the head of the temple, behind the marble altar, loomed a towering marble statue of Aphrodite, gilded and painted, decked with flowers and offerings of jewels. Hundreds of candles burned at its base, casting dancing highlights off the gold and gems. But the Achaians ignored all the temple's treasures. Instead they stared at the richly draped altar, and the old woman on it.

I had never seen Hecuba before. The aged, wrinkled woman lay on the altar, arms crossed over her breast, eyes closed. Her robes were threaded with gold; her wrists and fingers bore turquoise and amber, rubies and carnelian. Heavy ropes of gold necklaces and a jewel-encrusted crown had been lovingly placed upon her. Seven women, ranging in age from gray-haired to teenaged, stood trembling around the altar, facing the sweating, bloodstained Achaians, who gaped at the splendor of the dead Queen of Troy.

One of the older women was saying quietly to Agamemnon, "She took poison once the king died. She knew that Troy could not outlive this day, that my prophecy had finally come true."

"Ca.s.sandra," whispered Helen to me. "The queen's eldest daughter."

Agamemnon turned slowly from the corpse to the gray-haired princess. His narrow little eyes glared anger and frustration.

Ca.s.sandra said, "You will not bring the Queen of Troy back to Mycenae in your black boat, mighty Agamemnon. She will never be a slave of yours."

A leering smile twisted Agamemnon's lips. "Then I'll have to settle for you, princess. You will be my slave in her place."

"Yes," Ca.s.sandra said, "and we will die together at the hands of your faithless wife."

"Trojan b.i.t.c.h!" He cuffed her with a heavy backhand swat that knocked her to the marble floor.

Before any more violence erupted, I swung wide the door of the sanctuary. The Achaians turned, hands gripping the swords at their sides. Helen stepped through with regal grace and an absolutely blank expression on her incredibly beautiful face. It was as if the most splendid statue imaginable had taken on the power of life.

She went wordlessly to Ca.s.sandra and helped the princess to her feet. Blood trickled from her cut lip.

I stood by the side of the altar, my left hand resting on the pommel of my sword. Agamemnon and the others recognized me. Their faces were grimy, hands stained with blood. I could smell their sweat even from this distance.

Menalaos, who seemed to be stunned with shock for a moment, suddenly stepped forward and gripped his wife by her shoulders.

"Helen!" His mouth seemed to twitch, as if he were trying to say words that would not leave his soul.

She did not smile, but her eyes searched his. The other Achaians watched them dumbly.

Every emotion a human being can show flashed across Menalaos's face. Helen simply stood there, in his grip, waiting for him to speak, to act, to make his decision on whether she lived or died.

Agamemnon broke the silence. "Well, brother, I promised you we'd get her back! She's yours once again, to deal with as you see fit."

Menalaos swallowed hard and finally found his voice. "You are my wife, Helen," he said, more for the ears of Agamemnon and the others than hers, I thought. "What has happened since Aleksandros abducted you was not of your doing. A woman captive is not responsible for what happens to her during her captivity."

I kept myself from smiling. Menalaos wanted her back so badly he was willing to forget everything that had happened. For now.

Agamemnon clapped his brother on the back gleefully. "I'm only sorry that Aleksandros didn't have the courage to face me, man to man. I would have gladly spitted him on my spear."

"Where is Aleksandros?" Menalaos asked suddenly.

"Dead," I answered. "His body is in the square at the Scaean gate."

The women started to cry, sobbing quietly as they stood by their mother's bier. All but Ca.s.sandra, whose eyes blazed with unconcealed fury.

"Odysseus is going through the city to find all the princes and n.o.blemen," said Agamemnon. "Those that still live will make n.o.ble sacrifices to the G.o.ds." He laughed at his own pun.

So I left Troy for the final time, marching with the Achaian victors through the burning city as Agamemnon led seven Trojan princesses back to his camp and slavery, and Menalaos walked side by side with Helen, his wife once more. A guard of honor marched alongside us, spears held stiffly up to the blackened sky. Wailing and sobs rose all around us; the air was filled with the stench of blood and smoke.

I trailed behind and noted that Helen never voluntarily touched Menalaos, not even to take his hand. I remembered what she had told me when we had first met: that being a wife among the Achaians, even a queen, was little better than being a slave.

She never touched Menalaos, and he hardly looked at her, after that first emotion-charged meeting in the temple of Aphrodite at dead Hecuba's bier.

But she looked over her shoulder more than once, looked back at me, as if to make certain I was not far from her.

Chapter 21.

THE Achaian camp was one gigantic orgy of feasting and roistering all that day and far into the night. There was no semblance of order and no attempt to do anything but drink, wench, eat, and celebrate the victory. Men staggered drunkenly around, draped in precious silks pillaged from the burning city. Women cowered and trembled-those that were not beaten or savaged into insensibility.

Fights broke out. Men quarreled over a goblet or a ring or, more often, a woman. Blood flowed, and several Achaians who thought they were safe now that the war had ended learned that death could find them even in the midst of triumph.

"Tomorrow will be the solemn sacrifices of thanksgiving to the G.o.ds," Poletes told me as we sat beside our evening cook fire. "Many men and beasts will be slaughtered, and the smoke of their pyres offered to heaven. Then Agamemnon will divide the major spoils."

I looked past his sad, weatherbeaten face to the smoldering fire of the city, still glowing a sullen red against the darkening evening sky.

"You will be a rich man tomorrow, master Orion," said the old storyteller. "Agamemnon cannot help but give Odysseus a great slice of the spoils, and Odysseus will be generous with you-far more generous than Agamemnon himself."

I shook my head wearily. "It makes no difference, Poletes. Not to me."

He smiled as if to say, Ah, but wait until Odysseus heaps gold and bronze upon you, and iron tripods and pots. Then you will feel differently.

I got to my feet and went out among the riotous Achaians, looking for Lukka and my other Hatti soldiers. I did not have to look far. They had made their own little encampment around their own fire. The area was heaped with their loot: fine blankets and boots, beautiful bows of bone and ivory, and a couple of dozen women who huddled together, clinging to each other, staring at their captors with wide fearful eyes.

Lukka scrambled to his feet when he saw me approaching out of the raucous darkness.

"Is that what you've taken from the city?" I asked.

"Yes, sir. The custom is for the leader to pick his half and the men to divide the rest. Do you want to pick your half now?"

I shook my head. "No. Divide it all among yourselves."

Lukka frowned with puzzlement. "All of it?"

"Yes. And you've done well to stick together like this. Tomorrow Agamemnon divides the major spoils. The Achaians may want a share of your booty."

"We've already put aside the king's share," he said. "But your own..."

"You take it, Lukka. I don't need it."

"Not even a woman or two?"

I smiled at him. "Where I come from, women are not taken as slaves. They come freely or not at all."

For the first time since I had met him, the doughty Hatti warrior looked surprised. I laughed and bid him a pleasant night.

As I crawled into my tent I thought that the howling and screaming of the camp would keep me awake. But almost as soon as I stretched out on the pallet, my eyes closed and I fell asleep.

To find myself standing in that golden emptiness once more, in the realm of the Creators. I peered into the all-pervasive glow and made out, dimly, strange shapes and ma.s.ses far, far off, like the towers and buildings of a distant city seen in the dazzle of an overpoweringly bright sun.

I had not willed myself to make contact with the Creators, I knew. It must be that the Golden One had summoned me once again.

"No, Orion, he has not summoned you. I have."

A human form materialized about twenty yards from me. The dark-haired one with the precisely trimmed beard, the one I thought of as Zeus. Instead of G.o.dly robes, though, he wore a simple one-piece suit with trousers and sleeves and a high collar that b.u.t.toned at his throat. It was sky-blue, and it shimmered strangely as he walked toward me.

"Be glad that our Apollo has not called you," he said, his expression halfway between amused curiosity and serious concern. "He is furious with you. He blames you for the fall of Troy."

"Good," I said.

Zeus shook his head in a neat, economical move. "Not good, Orion. In the rage he's in now, he would destroy you utterly. I called you here to protect you against him."

"Why?"

He c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at me. "Orion, you are supposed to thank the G.o.ds for the blessing they bestow on you."

I bowed my head slightly. "I do thank you, whatever your true name is..."

"You may call me Zeus." He seemed delighted at the idea. "For the time being."

"I thank you, Zeus."

His smile widened. "The most grudging thanks a G.o.d has ever received, I'll bet."

I shrugged my shoulders.