Free The Hittite by Ben Bova

sizable hut made of logs and daubed with the same smelly black pitch that caulked the boats. It was the largest structure that I had seen in the Achaians’ camp, taller than two men’s height, big enough to house several dozen men or more, I estimated. There was only one doorway, a low one with a sheet of canvas tacked over it to keep out the rain and wind.
    Inside, the shed was a combination ware house and armory that made Poletes whistle with astonishment. Chariots were stored against the far wall, tilted up with their yokes nearly touching the beams of the ceiling. Stacks of helmets and armor were neatly piled along the wall on ourright, while racks of spears, swords and bows lined the wall opposite. The ground was covered with rows of chests stuffed with clothes and blankets.
    “So much!” Poletes gasped.
    Antiklos made a grim smile. “Spoils from the slain.”
    Poletes nodded and whispered, “So many.”
    A wizened old man stepped across the sand floor from his hideaway behind a table piled high with clay tablets.
    “What now? Haven’t I enough to do without you dragging in a troop of strangers?” he whined. He was a lean and resentful old grump, his hands gnarled and twisted into claws, his back stooped.
    “New ones for you, scribe,” said Antiklos. “My lord Odysseos wants them outfitted properly.” And with that, Antiklos turned and ducked through the shed’s doorway. But not before giving me a wink and a grin.
    The scribe shuffled over close enough almost to touch me, then squinted at Poletes and my men. “My lord Odysseos, heh? And how does he expect me to find proper gear for the dozen of you?”
    “Thirteen,” Poletes said.
    The scribe made a gesture in the air with his deformed hands. “An unlucky number! Zeus protect me!”
    He grumbled and muttered as he led me past tables laden with bronze cuirasses, arm protectors, greaves and plumed helmets. I stopped and picked up one of the fancy bronze helmets.
    “Not that!” the scribe screeched. “Those are not for the likes of you.”
    I tossed the helmet back onto the table with a dull clunk. “ We have our own arms and armor,” I said. “What we require is clothes and blankets. And tenting.”
    Scowling as he replaced the helmet in its proper spot on the table, the scribe then sank one of his clawlike hands into my forearm and tugged me to a pile of clothes on the ground, close by the entrance to the shed.
    “Here,” he said. “See what you can find among these.”
    It took awhile. Poletes grumbled about fleas while my men rummagedamong the pile, shaking out garments and blankets and joking among themselves about it.
    “In finery like this,” Harta said, grinning, “I’ll make the women swoon when I walk up to them.”
    “They’ll swoon from your stink,” Magro answered him. “Try taking a bath first. You won’t smell so bad then.”
    At length we had dressed ourselves in linen tunics and leather skirts. They were stained and hardly new, but much better than the travel-worn togs we had arrived in. While the scribe glared and grumbled at us, I made certain that Poletes got a tunic and a wool shirt.
    The scribe resisted with howls and curses but I made certain that each of my men took a good blanket, Poletes included. We also took canvas, poles and pegs for making tents. He squealed and argued and threatened that he would tell the king himself what a spendthrift I was. He wouldn’t stop until I picked him off his feet by the front of his tunic and shook him a few times. Then he shut up and let us take what we needed. But his scowl would have curdled milk.
    By the time we left the shed the rain had stopped altogether and the westering sun was rapidly drying the puddles along the beach. We found a clear space and settled down. The men began putting up tents. I sent Karsh and Tiwa to find wood for a fire; Poletes scampered off to dicker for food and a couple of slaves to do the cooking. He came back with a flagon of wine in his skinny