"Nevertheless, the truth is that you have wrecked Apollo's plans-for the moment."

"I doubt that I could have done anything at all without the help of some of you other Creators," I said. "Several of you opposed his plan for Troy."

He sighed. "Yes, we were not united about it. Not united at all."

"Is the one I call Hera actually your wife?" I asked.

He looked surprised. "Wife? Of course not. No more than she's my sister. We don't have such things here."

"No wives?"

"Nor sisters," he said. "But that's not important. The real question is, how do we continue our work in the face of Apollo's intransigence? He's quite enraged. We can't have an open split among us, it would be catastrophic."

"Just what is your work?" I asked.

"I doubt that you could understand it," Zeus said, staring hard at me. "The capacity was never built into you."

"Try me. Perhaps I can learn..."

But he shook his head, more vigorously this time. "Orion, you can't visualize the universes. When you freed Ahriman and allowed him to tear down that continuum, you never thought that a new continuum would establish itself out of all that liberated energy, did you?"

His words struck a dim chord of memory in me. "I freed Ahriman," I said slowly. "After tracking him down in the time before the Ice Age."

"Before, after, it makes little difference," Zeus said impatiently. "Ahriman's people now live peacefully in their own continuum, safely out of the stream that we are trying to protect. But you..."

"The Golden One-Apollo-did he truly create me?"

Zeus nodded. "And the entire human race. There were five hundred of you, originally."

Faint images were shimmering in my mind like ghosts, blurred and indistinct, but almost within touch. "We were sent to destroy Ahriman's race, to prepare the Earth for our own kind."

He waved a hand impatiently. "That's of little consequence now. That's all been resolved." He did not like to think about our task of genocide. He had agreed to it, obviously, but did not want to be reminded of it.

"And a few of us survived to establish the human race on Earth."

"That is true," said Zeus.

"And we evolved, over the millennia, to eventually produce..." I remembered now, "to eventually produce you you, a race of advanced humans, so advanced that you seem like G.o.ds."

"And we we created created you you," Zeus said. "The one you call Apollo headed that project. Then we sent you back in time to make the Earth habitable for us."

"By killing off its original inhabitants: Ahriman's race."

"They're safe enough," he said, showing that trace of irritability again. "Thanks to you."

"And Ahriman now has the same powers you do."

"Virtually."

I saw it all now. Or most of it. "But what's Troy got to do with this?" I asked.

Zeus smiled thinly, as if savoring his superior knowledge. "Once you begin altering the continuum, Orion, you create all sorts of side effects that must either be deliberately controlled or allowed to run their natural course until they damp down of themselves. Apollo seeks to control events, to make deliberate adjustments to the continuum wherever and whenever they can be altered to our advantage. Others among us feel that this is self-defeating, that every change we make engenders more side effects and makes it more difficult to protect the continuum."

I almost understood. "He sent me to Troy, then, to help the Trojans win."

"Yes. Most of us wanted the war to run its natural course, without our interference. Apollo defied us and sent you to that spot in the continuum. I believe his plan was to have you slay the Achaian leaders in their camp."

Almost, I laughed. But then a wisp of memory made me blurt, "He said something about dangers from beyond the Earth, and even you spoke of universes-plural."

Zeus made an effort to control the surprise and fear that my words struck in him. He controlled his face and made it almost expressionless, but not quickly enough to totally mask his emotions.

"There are others, elsewhere in the universe?" I asked. "Other universes?"

"That was something we had not expected," he admitted. "Our continuum impinges on others. When we make changes in this s.p.a.ce-time, it affects other universes. And their manipulations affect us."

"And what does this mean?"

He made a deep sighing breath. "It means that we must struggle not only to maintain this continuum, but to protect it against outsiders who would manipulate it for their own purposes."

"And I? Where do I fit in?"

"You?" He regarded me with frank puzzlement, as if a sword or a computer or a starship had asked what its purpose might be. "You are a tool of ours, Orion, to be used where and when we see fit. But you are a stubborn tool; you disregarded Apollo's commands, and now he seeks to destroy you."

"He killed the woman I loved. She was one of you: the one I call Athene."

"Don't blame him for that, Orion."

"I do blame him."

Zeus shook his head. "It's sad that you should blame the G.o.ds and regard us us as the source of your troubles. It was your own actions that have brought you worse sufferings than any you were intended to bear." as the source of your troubles. It was your own actions that have brought you worse sufferings than any you were intended to bear."

"Yet you protect me from Apollo's anger."

"You may still be useful to us, Orion. It is wasteful to destroy a tool that can still be used."

I felt the anger rising in me. His cool smugness, his air of superiority, was beginning to infuriate me. Or was I seething because I knew he was superior, far more powerful than I could ever hope to be?

"Give the golden Apollo a message for me," I said. "Tell him that I am learning. My memories are coming back to me. One day, whatever he knows, I will know. Whatever he can do, I will be able to do. And on that day I will destroy him."

Zeus smiled at me, pityingly, the way a father smiles at a naughty child. "He will destroy you long before that day arrives, Orion. You are living on borrowed time."

I wanted to reply, but he faded into nothingness. The distant city, the golden aura all around me, they all disappeared like the thread of smoke from a candle. I was in my tent again, and the sun was rising on the day when the spoils of Troy would be divided, and the G.o.ds would receive their sacrifices of beasts and men.

Chapter 22.

THE day dawned gray and dreary. The Achaians, aching and sick from their revelries of the night, were quiet and solemn as the sun climbed slowly behind banks of scudding clouds. The wind from the sea hinted rain, and the chill of approaching autumn.

Neither I nor my Hatti band took part in the sacrifices. Poletes was puzzled at that.

"But you serve the G.o.ddess," he said.

"She is dead. Regardless of what they offer, she won't be able to receive it."

Muttering "sacrilege," Poletes wandered off toward the tall pyres of driftwood and timber that the slaves and thetes thetes were piling up in the center of the camp. I remained near our own fire, close by Odysseus's boats, and watched. were piling up in the center of the camp. I remained near our own fire, close by Odysseus's boats, and watched.

Nestor led the priests in a procession around the camp, followed by Agamemnon and the other chiefs-all in their most splendid armor and carrying long glittering spears that seemed to me more ornamental than battle weapons.

While they paraded through the camp, singing hymns of praise to Zeus and all the other immortals, the sacrificial victims were being a.s.sembled by the pyres. There was a regular herd of goats and bulls and sheep, hundreds of them, kicking up enough dust to obscure the blackened remains of Troy up on the bluff. Their bleatings and bellowings made a strange counterpoint to the chanting and singing of the Achaians.

Standing off to one side of them were the human sacrifices, every man over the age of twelve who had been captured alive, their hands tightly bound behind their backs, their ankles hobbled. Even from the distance where I stood, I could recognize the old courtier who had escorted me in the palace. They stood silently, grimly, knowing full well what awaited them but neither begging for mercy nor bewailing their fate. I suppose they each knew that nothing was going to alter their destiny.

The whole long day was spent in ritual slaughter. First the animals, from a few doves to raging, bellowing bulls that thrashed madly even though their hooves were firmly lashed together, arching their backs and tossing their heads until the priest's stone ax cut through their throats with a shower of hot blood. Even horses were sacrificed, dozens of them.

Then came the men. One by one they were led to the blood-soaked altar, made to kneel and bow their heads. The lucky ones died in a single stroke. Many were not so fortunate.

By the time it was ended and the pyres were lit, the priests were covered with blood and the camp stank of entrails and excrement. As the sun went down the pyres blazed across the darkening landscape, sending up smoke that was thought to be pleasing to the G.o.ds.

Then the whole camp swarmed toward Agamemnon's boats, in the center of the beach, where the spoils of Troy had been heaped high. Hundreds of women and children stood near the pile of loot, guarded by a grinning handful of warriors.

Agamemnon climbed up onto a beautifully carved chair pillaged from the city. It had been set up on a makeshift platform, to turn it into a rough sort of throne. Then he began to divide the spoils, so much to each chieftain, starting with white-bearded old Nestor.

The Achaians crowded around, greed and envy shining in their eyes. I stayed by Odysseus's boat and watched from afar. I noticed that Lukka and his men stayed with me.

"Your own goods are safe?" I asked him.

He grunted affirmatively. "They wanted to take our women for the High King to divide out, but we convinced them to leave us alone."

I almost smiled, picturing Lukka and his disciplined soldiers forming a phalanx against a gaggle of hung-over Achaian warriors.

Far into the night the ceremony went. Agamemnon parceled out bronze armor and weapons, gold ornaments, beautiful urns and vases, porphyry and onyx, glittering jewels, kitchen implements of copper, iron tripods and cooking pots, robes, silks, blankets, tapestries-and women, young boys and girls.

Half of everything he kept for himself: the High King's prerogative. But as some of the chieftains and men pa.s.sed me, carrying their loot back to their boats, I heard them complain of the High King's meanness.

"He's got the generosity of a dung beetle."

"He knew we had done the hardest fighting, up on the wall. And what do we get for it? Less than his brother."

"Those women should have been ours, I tell you. The fat king is too greedy."

"What can you do? He takes what he wants and we get his leavings."

I thought that even Odysseus looked less than pleased when he approached me. The pyres smoldered in the distance, but our campfires lit his darkly bearded face with flickers of red.

"Orion," he called to me. I went to him.

"Your servant Poletes is digging a grave for himself," Odysseus said. "He is mocking the High King's generosity."

I looked into Odysseus's dark eyes. "Isn't everyone?" I asked mildly.

His answering smile told me how he felt. "But not everyone is speaking so loosely within earshot of Nestor and Menalaos and others who will report his words to Agamemnon. You'd better see to it. The old storyteller is swimming in dangerous waters."

"Thank you, my lord. I will see to it."

I hurried over toward Agamemnon's part of the camp, pa.s.sing a stream of disgruntled Achaians toting their loot.

Poletes was sitting on the sand by a small campfire, practically under the nose of one of the High King's boats, surrounded by a mob of squatting, standing, grinning, laughing Achaian men. None of them were of the n.o.bility. Off in the shadows, though, I noticed Nestor standing with his skinny arms folded across his chest, frowning in Poletes's direction.

"...and do you remember when Hector drove them all back inside our own gates, here, and he came in with an arrow barely puncturing his skin, crying like a woman, 'We're doomed! We're doomed!' "

The crowd around the fire roared with laughter. I had to admit that the old storyteller could mimic Agamemnon's high voice almost perfectly.

"I wonder what Clytemnestra will do when her brave and n.o.ble husband comes home?" Poletes grinned. "I wonder if her bed is high enough off the ground to hide her lover?"

Men rolled on the ground with laughter. Tears flowed. I started to push my way through the crowd to get to him.

But I was too late. A dozen armed men tramped in, and Poletes's audience scrambled out of their way. I recognized Menalaos at their head.

"Storyteller!" he snapped. "The High King wants to hear what you have to say. Let's see if your scurrilous tales can make him laugh."

Poletes's eyes went wide with sudden fear. "But I only..."

Two of the armed guards grabbed him under his armpits and hauled him to his feet.

"Come along," said Menalaos.

I stepped in front of him. "This man is my servant. I will take care of him."

Before Menalaos could reply, Nestor bustled up. "The High King has demanded to see this teller of tales. No one can interfere!" It was the shortest speech I had ever heard the old man make.

With a small shrug, Menalaos headed off toward Agamemnon's quarters, his guards dragging Poletes after him, followed by Nestor, me, and all of the men who had been rollicking at the storyteller's gibes.

Agamemnon still sat on his makeshift throne, fat, flushed with wine, flanked by the treasures of Troy. His chubby fingers gripped the chair arms as he eyed Poletes being hauled before him. Rings glittered on each finger and both his thumbs.

The old storyteller knelt trembling before the High King, who glared down at his skinny, shabby presence.

"You have been telling lies about me," Agamemnon snarled.

Poletes drew himself together and lifted his chin to face the High King. "Not so, your royal highness. I am a professional professional storyteller. I do not tell lies, I speak only of what I see with my own eyes and hear with my own ears." storyteller. I do not tell lies, I speak only of what I see with my own eyes and hear with my own ears."

"You speak filthy lies!" Agamemnon screamed, his voice rising shrilly. "About my wife!"

"If your wife were an honest woman, sire, I would not be here at all. I'd be in the marketplace at Argos, telling stories to the people, as I should be."