sunny courtyard. It was decked with blossoms and flowering shrubs. Potted trees were arranged artfully around a square central pool where fish swam lazily. These people are not warriors, I realized. Not like the Hatti or the Achaians. Artists and tradesmen, I thought, content to control the straits that led into the Sea of Black Waters and the rich lands beyond.
“We also have the Palladium, our statue of Athene,” the courtier said, pointing across the pool to a smaller wooden piece, scarcely five feet tall. “It is very ancient and very sacred.”
It certainly looked very ancient. Its face and draperies had been worn smooth from years of weathering. It seemed to be the image of a woman, but she was wearing a warrior’s helmet and carried spear and shield. A female warrior? I had heard of such but always dismissed the tales as mere legend.
We quickly crossed the courtyard and entered the other wing of the palace. As we stepped into the shade of its wide entrance hall, the temperature dropped instantly.
More guards in polished armor stood in this hallway, although their presence seemed more a matter of pomp and formality rather than security. The courtier led me to a small chamber comfortably furnished withchairs of stretched hide and a gleaming polished table inlaid with beautiful ivory and silver. There was one window, which looked out on another, smaller courtyard, and a massive wooden door reinforced with bronze strapping. Closed.
“The king will see you shortly,” my guide told me, looking nervously toward the closed door.
I took a chair and tried to relax. I did not want to appear tense or apprehensive in front of the Trojan king. The courtier, whom I assumed had spent much of his life in this palace, paced the floor anxiously. He seemed to grow more apprehensive with each passing moment.
At last he blurted, “Do you truly bring an offer of peace, or is this merely another Achaian bluff ?”
So that was it. Beneath his confidence in the walls built by gods and the food and firewood gathered by their army and the eternal spring that Apollo himself protects, he was avid to have the war ended and his city safe and at peace once more.
Before I could reply the heavy wooden door creaked open. Two men-at-arms pushed it, and an old man in a green cloak similar to my courtier’s motioned me to come in. He leaned heavily on a long wooden staff topped with a gold sunburst symbol. His beard was the color of ashes, his head almost totally bald. As I ducked through the doorway and approached him he squinted at me nearsightedly.
“Your proper name, herald?”
“Lukka.”
“Of ?”
I blinked, wondering what he meant. Then I replied, “Of the House of Ithaca.”
He frowned at that, but turned and said, “Follow me.”
19
I walked behind the old man into a spacious chamber crowded with people. Five steps into it, he stopped and banged his staff on the floor three times. I saw that the stone floor was deeply worn at that spot.
He called out, in a voice that may have once been rich and deep but now sounded like a cat yowling, “Oh Great King— Son of Laomedon, Scion of Scamander, Servant of Apollo, Beloved of the gods, Guardian of the Dardanelles, Protector of the Troad, Western Bulwark of the Hatti, Defender of Ilios— an emissary from the Achaians, one Lukka by name, of the House of Ithaca.”
The chamber was wide and high-ceilinged. Its middle was open to the sky above a circular hearth that smoldered a dull red and sent up a faint spiral of gray smoke. Dozens of men stood among the painted columns on the far side of the hearth: the nobility of Troy, I supposed, or at least the noblemen who were too old to be with the army. And their ladies! There were women among them, in robes that were rich with vibrant colors and flashing jewels. That surprised me. Women were never allowed in the emperor’s audience chamber in Hattusas, I knew.
I stepped forward and beheld Priam, the King of Troy, sitting on a
“We also have the Palladium, our statue of Athene,” the courtier said, pointing across the pool to a smaller wooden piece, scarcely five feet tall. “It is very ancient and very sacred.”
It certainly looked very ancient. Its face and draperies had been worn smooth from years of weathering. It seemed to be the image of a woman, but she was wearing a warrior’s helmet and carried spear and shield. A female warrior? I had heard of such but always dismissed the tales as mere legend.
We quickly crossed the courtyard and entered the other wing of the palace. As we stepped into the shade of its wide entrance hall, the temperature dropped instantly.
More guards in polished armor stood in this hallway, although their presence seemed more a matter of pomp and formality rather than security. The courtier led me to a small chamber comfortably furnished withchairs of stretched hide and a gleaming polished table inlaid with beautiful ivory and silver. There was one window, which looked out on another, smaller courtyard, and a massive wooden door reinforced with bronze strapping. Closed.
“The king will see you shortly,” my guide told me, looking nervously toward the closed door.
I took a chair and tried to relax. I did not want to appear tense or apprehensive in front of the Trojan king. The courtier, whom I assumed had spent much of his life in this palace, paced the floor anxiously. He seemed to grow more apprehensive with each passing moment.
At last he blurted, “Do you truly bring an offer of peace, or is this merely another Achaian bluff ?”
So that was it. Beneath his confidence in the walls built by gods and the food and firewood gathered by their army and the eternal spring that Apollo himself protects, he was avid to have the war ended and his city safe and at peace once more.
Before I could reply the heavy wooden door creaked open. Two men-at-arms pushed it, and an old man in a green cloak similar to my courtier’s motioned me to come in. He leaned heavily on a long wooden staff topped with a gold sunburst symbol. His beard was the color of ashes, his head almost totally bald. As I ducked through the doorway and approached him he squinted at me nearsightedly.
“Your proper name, herald?”
“Lukka.”
“Of ?”
I blinked, wondering what he meant. Then I replied, “Of the House of Ithaca.”
He frowned at that, but turned and said, “Follow me.”
19
I walked behind the old man into a spacious chamber crowded with people. Five steps into it, he stopped and banged his staff on the floor three times. I saw that the stone floor was deeply worn at that spot.
He called out, in a voice that may have once been rich and deep but now sounded like a cat yowling, “Oh Great King— Son of Laomedon, Scion of Scamander, Servant of Apollo, Beloved of the gods, Guardian of the Dardanelles, Protector of the Troad, Western Bulwark of the Hatti, Defender of Ilios— an emissary from the Achaians, one Lukka by name, of the House of Ithaca.”
The chamber was wide and high-ceilinged. Its middle was open to the sky above a circular hearth that smoldered a dull red and sent up a faint spiral of gray smoke. Dozens of men stood among the painted columns on the far side of the hearth: the nobility of Troy, I supposed, or at least the noblemen who were too old to be with the army. And their ladies! There were women among them, in robes that were rich with vibrant colors and flashing jewels. That surprised me. Women were never allowed in the emperor’s audience chamber in Hattusas, I knew.
I stepped forward and beheld Priam, the King of Troy, sitting on a
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