said Odysseus, "you are to speak to Prince Hector and no one else."
"I understand," I said.
I scrambled down the slope of the rampart, into the inky shadows of the trench, and finally made my way through the slowly drifting tendrils of mist toward the Trojan camp, guided by the fires that flickered and glowed through the fog. The mist was cold on my skin, like the touch of death.
Peering through the moon-silvered haze, I saw one campfire that seemed larger, brighter, than all the others. That must be where Hector's tent is, I told myself. I headed toward it, tense with the expectation of being challenged by a sentry at any moment. I hoped I would be challenged, and not merely speared out of the darkness before any questions were asked. My senses were hyper-alert; I think I could have heard a dagger being drawn from its sheath, or seen a man stalking behind me out of the back of my head. But I heard and saw nothing. It was as if the fog had enveloped the whole camp, muffled every sound, mummified every man there except me.
The fire seemed to be growing, as if someone were feeding it, turning it from a dying campfire into a great welcoming beacon. But it no longer flickered like a fire. It was a steady bright glare, growing more brilliant by the moment. Soon it was so bright that I had to throw my arm across my brow to shield my eyes from its burning intensity. I felt no heat from it, but its brilliance exerted a force of its own. I felt myself pressed by that blinding glare, forced to my knees by its overpowering golden radiance.
Then I heard a man's laughter, and knew at once who it was.
"On your feet, Orion!" said the Golden One. "Or do you enjoy crawling like a worm?"
Slowly I rose to my feet. The Golden One stood bathed in a warm glow that seemed to separate us from the mist-shrouded plain. It remained night beyond us. No one in the camp stirred. No sentries saw us or heard us.
"Orion," he said, his smile mocking, "somehow you continually find ways to displease me. You saved the Achaian camp."
"That displeases you?" I asked.
He scratched at his chin, a strangely human gesture in so godlike a person. "As Apollo, the sun god, the one who brings light and beauty to these people, I seek victory for the Trojans over these barbarians from Achaia."
"And the other . . ." I groped for a word, settled on, "gods? Not all of them favor Troy, do they?"
His smile withered.
"There are others," I said. "Godlike beings like yourself?"
"There are," he admitted.
"Greater than you? Is there a Zeus, a Poseidon?"
"There are several . . . beings such as I, Orion," he said, waving a hand vaguely. "The names that these primitive people call them are irrelevant."
"But are they more powerful than you? Is there a Zeus? A king among you?"
He laughed. "You're trying to find a way of fighting against me!"
"I'm trying to understand who and what you are," I said. Which was truth, as far as it went.
The Golden One eyed me carefully, almost warily. "Very well," he said at last, "if you want to see some of the others . . ."
And gradually, like a night fog slowly burning away under the morning sun, I saw images beginning to form all around me. Slowly they emerged, materialized, took on solidity and color. Living, breathing men and women surrounded me, peered down at me, inspected me as a scientist might examine some species of insect or bacterium.
"This is rash," said one of them in a deep godly voice.
"He is my creature," the Golden One retorted. "I can control him."
Yes, I thought. You can control me. But one day your control will slip.
I could see dozens of faces peering at me: beautiful women with flawless skin and eyes that glowed like jewels; men who radiated youth and yet spoke with the gravity and knowledge of millennia, eons, eternity itself.
I felt like a little boy in the midst of vastly wiser adults, like a child confronted by giants.
"I brought him here from the plain of Ilios," said the Golden One, almost as if daring
"I understand," I said.
I scrambled down the slope of the rampart, into the inky shadows of the trench, and finally made my way through the slowly drifting tendrils of mist toward the Trojan camp, guided by the fires that flickered and glowed through the fog. The mist was cold on my skin, like the touch of death.
Peering through the moon-silvered haze, I saw one campfire that seemed larger, brighter, than all the others. That must be where Hector's tent is, I told myself. I headed toward it, tense with the expectation of being challenged by a sentry at any moment. I hoped I would be challenged, and not merely speared out of the darkness before any questions were asked. My senses were hyper-alert; I think I could have heard a dagger being drawn from its sheath, or seen a man stalking behind me out of the back of my head. But I heard and saw nothing. It was as if the fog had enveloped the whole camp, muffled every sound, mummified every man there except me.
The fire seemed to be growing, as if someone were feeding it, turning it from a dying campfire into a great welcoming beacon. But it no longer flickered like a fire. It was a steady bright glare, growing more brilliant by the moment. Soon it was so bright that I had to throw my arm across my brow to shield my eyes from its burning intensity. I felt no heat from it, but its brilliance exerted a force of its own. I felt myself pressed by that blinding glare, forced to my knees by its overpowering golden radiance.
Then I heard a man's laughter, and knew at once who it was.
"On your feet, Orion!" said the Golden One. "Or do you enjoy crawling like a worm?"
Slowly I rose to my feet. The Golden One stood bathed in a warm glow that seemed to separate us from the mist-shrouded plain. It remained night beyond us. No one in the camp stirred. No sentries saw us or heard us.
"Orion," he said, his smile mocking, "somehow you continually find ways to displease me. You saved the Achaian camp."
"That displeases you?" I asked.
He scratched at his chin, a strangely human gesture in so godlike a person. "As Apollo, the sun god, the one who brings light and beauty to these people, I seek victory for the Trojans over these barbarians from Achaia."
"And the other . . ." I groped for a word, settled on, "gods? Not all of them favor Troy, do they?"
His smile withered.
"There are others," I said. "Godlike beings like yourself?"
"There are," he admitted.
"Greater than you? Is there a Zeus, a Poseidon?"
"There are several . . . beings such as I, Orion," he said, waving a hand vaguely. "The names that these primitive people call them are irrelevant."
"But are they more powerful than you? Is there a Zeus? A king among you?"
He laughed. "You're trying to find a way of fighting against me!"
"I'm trying to understand who and what you are," I said. Which was truth, as far as it went.
The Golden One eyed me carefully, almost warily. "Very well," he said at last, "if you want to see some of the others . . ."
And gradually, like a night fog slowly burning away under the morning sun, I saw images beginning to form all around me. Slowly they emerged, materialized, took on solidity and color. Living, breathing men and women surrounded me, peered down at me, inspected me as a scientist might examine some species of insect or bacterium.
"This is rash," said one of them in a deep godly voice.
"He is my creature," the Golden One retorted. "I can control him."
Yes, I thought. You can control me. But one day your control will slip.
I could see dozens of faces peering at me: beautiful women with flawless skin and eyes that glowed like jewels; men who radiated youth and yet spoke with the gravity and knowledge of millennia, eons, eternity itself.
I felt like a little boy in the midst of vastly wiser adults, like a child confronted by giants.
"I brought him here from the plain of Ilios," said the Golden One, almost as if daring
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