HERALD OF THE HIGH KING

Ben Bova’s novel “The Hittite” is based in the Trojan War. That one about the Trojan Horse. Fought because Prince Paris of Troy seduced Helen away from her Greek husband. It centres on a group of Hittite warriors fleeing the destruction of their Empire ( in modern-day Turkey) collapsing in civil war.They sell their skills to the Greek High King Agamemnon trapped in the seemingly endless siege of Troy.

The Greeks send Lukka, the leader of the Hittites, to make an offer of truce to Troy. There Lukka meets the mighty Prince Hector, heir and champion of Troy. And seated next to Prince Paris is Helen, reputedly the most beautiful woman in the world.

An enjoyable read. Some interesting slants on the old story when it is no longer told by Homer the Greek. But for readers of rendsz’ world .. it seemed there was an opportunity missed.

Contents

1. DOUBTS 5

2. PREMONITIONS 7

3. DISREGARD 9

4. FATE 10

5. REMINDERS 12

6. RISK 15

7. TANNED 17

8. CLEANSING 19

9. SPY 21

10. EPILOGUE 23

Featuring Tom Coleman as Lukka the Hittite

1.Doubts

Instinctively Lukka felt something was wrong.“This can’t be the way to the Prince’s chambers …..?”The courtier leading him did not hesitate in his determined stride. Glancing over his shoulder he nodded.“Of course, not the direct way. But a matter of this sensitivity .. you understand? Such a delicate issue can’t be aired in front of prying eyes ….”

After Lukka had made the Greeks’ offer to King Priam, he had been required to

withdraw. He had already spent hours kicking his heels waiting for the Trojans’ response. Lukka was a soldier, not a diplomat. He was impatient by nature, wanting to get on with things. When the courtier had come saying that Prince Paris had a reply for him, Lukka had jumped at the chance and followed. He’d had enough of hanging around.

The courtier had not flinched in his steady stride through these underground corridors. The pair of palace guards behind had similarly kept up the pace .. delivering the herald of High King Agamemnon to their prince. To receive the Trojan response to the Greek king’s offer to end this war.

They had to be two floors underground now, walking down corridors lit by torches, passing the occasional closed door. Without turning round, the courtier explained.“King Agamemnon’s offer .. to send Lady Helen back to Menelaus .. Troy’s response can hardly become public knowledge .. yet ……”The courtier glanced again at Lukka, Agamemnon’s herald. Meaningfully.“You understand ……?”

No, Lukka did not understand. He was lost in these ways of the Trojan courts. Or any court. Back home, before he had left his own kingdom collapsing into civil war, a warrior of his standing would never have got near to seeing his king. And here he was .. he and his men had sold their swords to the Greeks to put food into their bellies. And irrationally Lukka was being dispatched by the Greek High King Agamemnon to parley with Priam of Troy. No, Lukka did not understand. This was out of his comfort zone. He did not feel comfortable with the ways of these courts. He just wanted an answer .. the war went on tomorrow or not? Then he wanted out of here. To get back to his men. To sharpen his sword in readiness for the fight.

“The Prince will be with you.” The guided tour of these underground passages had ended at a closed door, nearly at the end of a corridor. Inside the room was one large chair. With richly carved arms. Almost a throne. And nothing else. “Please take a seat.”The door shut. Again Lukka felt out of his depth. The ways of these courts .. not for him. For want of knowing what else to do, he took a seat.

2.Premonitions

“I need the urinal.”Lukka had opened the door. As he did so the pair of palace guards leapt to face him. Arms out-stretched, their long spears resting on the stone floor, barring his way. At rest but forming a visible barrier to him leaving the room. It felt like they were facing him down. Preventing him from leaving. As he had suspected.“A pisspot in the corner. In the cupboard,” they answered.

Lukka already knew that. He did not need to go. But he’d been left waiting in that

bare room for hours, it seemed. Bored, he’d explored the small cell thoroughly. He’d tried the other doors. The huge double-door embossed with iron bands was locked. The cupboard in the corner had held a pot and nothing else. Lukka had got bored. Opening the outer door he’d expected to find palace guards outside. But the wariness with which they had greeted him opening the door .. their spears as good as barring his exit .. that had only confirmed his gut-feelings. A sense that something here was not right.

Lukka had nodded. He’d shut the door behind him. This time, before he’d even got back to his perch on the throne, he heard a bolt slide across the door. He was locked in. A prisoner. No longer the High King’s herald, it seemed. No more pretence. Probably the Trojans were planning to use him as a hostage against Agamemnon. Nothing too surprising in that.

If only they knew, though …… he had not told them he was just some mercenary. Just a Hittite captain sent as herald from the Greek High King. If the Trojans thought they could use him for leverage, Lukka was in no doubt they were wrong. Agamemnon could have sent any number of Greek nobility with this offer of peace. He hadn’t. Agamemnon couldn’t afford to lose some Greek king. A Hittite officer, Lukka -- that was dispensable.

Now Lukka had seen her with his own eyes he had to wonder. The most beautiful woman in the world? So-called. And indeed Helen was more beautiful than any words Lukka could ever find to describe her. Her eyes, looking at her new husband Prince Paris, seemed to light up Priam’s throne room. They looked deeply in love .. and the pair made a handsome couple. Paris too was uncommonly manly. Fit, athletic in build. And Lukka knew from the battles, he was a brave fighter too. From his first sight of Helen, Paris was smitten .. that had started off this long devastating war.

This woman over whom the world had gone mad .. seduced away from her husband by a handsome young Trojan prince. Agamemnon was incensed, Helen’s husband was his brother. In response, Greece had risen up in arms to bring her back. The Trojans, though, suspected Helen was just a political excuse. Agamemnon wanted Troy destroyed. Their city guarded the entrance to the Black Sea .. controlling access to trade and the wealth and grain there.

Lukka was a soldier, no prince, no interest in such things, a newcomer to politics. He had sold his sword to the Greeks. For money, for plunder, for wealth. He could equally have taken the Trojans’ coin if it had turned out that way. What did all this politicking have to do with him?But in her presence, close-by her near-divine-like being Lukka could see what the world was fighting over. Helen was radiant. And she knew it. No other woman in that court was wearing a shift of the sheerest white. Helen dressed for effect. That simple garment needed no adornment. It hid nothing. Her natural charms were tantalising visible underneath.

Lukka had not been proper with a woman in months. Even those damned Greek whores raised the price when a foreigner popped up. Stood as King Agamemnon’s herald in the Trojan throne room, it had been hard to keep his eyes to himself. His gaze had great trouble in being guided away from the sight of Helen’s breasts clearly visible through that sheer white robe. The coin-sized nipples as brown as Helen’s eyes, winking beguiling.Her face was a Wonder of the World. No wonder Menelaus wanted her back. And no surprise that Paris was planning on hanging on to her.

3.Disregard

“I am herald to the High King.”Lukka started to protest.“Come under a flag of truce. This offends against the protocol.”Lukka didn’t have an inkling about such things. But what Paris was up to did not fit.

One thing Lukka had learned about kings and princes, though. They did things in their own way. And in their own time. Paris had taken ages to appear. Looking

resplendent in his fine robes. Hair curled and oiled. A shimmer of satisfaction glowed off his skin .. like he had just come from making love to the most beautiful woman in the world. No apology or explanation for keeping Lukka waiting. Or locked in an underground cell.

As best he could to sound like Agamemnon’s ambassador, Lukka protested.“I arrived with an offer from the High King. He expects King Priam’s reply.”Paris had entered the cell with the pair of palace guards. In the same moment Lukka was diverted by bolts on the double-doors being shoved aside from the other side. The doors opening to reveal a large gloomy chamber. It took no time to recognise the room for what it was. The chains hanging down from the ceiling .. ending in manacles for a man’s wrists. Whips and instruments hanging off nails hammered into the walls.

Paris stood handsome, courtly. Athletically well-built. He nodded in agreement.“And we are here to give Agamemnon that answer.”Already three more guards from the torture chamber were coming for Lukka. Big men, stripped to the waist already. The two guards with Paris had their spears crossed in their fronts ready to shove Lukka into the bigger room.“Please.”Paris gestured with his hand. Politely inviting Lukka to join his men in the torture chamber. Lukka was a soldier, he was a fighter. His instincts were to fight his way out of a corner. But where to go? He could put up a fight but he’d be overwhelmed. Five of them. He’d give them hell. He’d cracked a few bones. But they’d beat him into submission. Stun him, weaken him. And still he’d finish up in those chains. It went against the grain. Every sinew in his body was busting for a fight. He was angry. Furious at getting tricked. But he fancied he’d better save his strength.

4.Fate

“Now let’s see.” Paris had had the carved throne brought into the bigger chamber. His handsome form was comfortably settled in the chair to watch.“What exactly was that offer?”The palace guards had backed a reluctant Lukka up to the dangling chains. His wrists were quickly secured in manacles. Just to be sure, one of the guards had been holding a knife to his throat. Paris didn’t want him giving them any trouble.

Paris had claimed he was going to draft the Trojan reply to Agamemnon’s offer to end the war. And Lukka already sensed that message was going to be written large on his skin. In large red letters .. in Lukka’s own blood ..

carved into his muscled flesh.As if confirming his fears, once Lukka’s fighting strength was no longer a threat, his fists secured, the guard’s knife was inserted in the base of Lukka’s tunic. A tearing sound followed the slit of the blade as it cut open the top.

Lukka felt Paris’ eyes suddenly rush over his exposed front. Capturing the sight of the mighty muscle in Lukka’s belly. Taking in the hardness on the plates of solid strength across the breadth of Lukka’s solid chest.“Tell me ……”Paris leaned forward, hand on one of his own muscled thighs. His eyes appreciative of the sight of Lukka’s torso exposed by the cut of the knife.“You Hittites … are you all so big?”The guard had gone behind. The sharp blade had made quick work of the material in Lukka’s back. It was shredding the last remnants of cloth off Lukka’s muscular shoulders as Paris spoke. Engaged in a bizarre dialogue of curiosity .. regardless that Lukka was being stripped for a beating.

Lukka had never met a Greek until these last few weeks. But, yes, they were short by comparison. Their physique stockier even when well built.“You all so muscular?”As a reply to Paris’ admiring glance, Lukka glared back .. feeling the last shreds of his tunic dropped at his feet.

Paris smiled.“What we could have done with a few of Hittites joining us.”Lukka felt his eyes admiring on the steely power that shaped his midriff. Paris had sized up the breadth of Lukka’s shoulders. Taken in the rugged might that he had exposed. The muscular line of the arms held captive by these chains.

Paris was nodding thoughtfully. Admiring.“Brave. Strong. Powerful warriors. Men looking like you.”Lukka heard him sigh wistfully. Truth was, he could just as easily have sold his sword to the Trojans. He and his men had no soul for this war, it meant nothing to them. They just wanted to eat. If his fate had so decreed, Lukka could easily have been serving the Trojans in their war. And then he would not have finished up like this. The ways of the gods were hard to understand.

5.Terms

“Where was I?”Paris was still seated on the throne .. settled in to write an answer to Agamemnon’s peace offer. Written on this muscular torso, Agamemnon’s Hittite herald. Lukka had had his top sliced away. Left standing in just a leather kilt, the one Agamemnon had kitted him out with .. to fit Lukka’s elevated role as emissary.Feeling his dignity challenged, Lukka drew himself up tall .. feeling the chains to the clunky manacles sway. He stuck out his chest. The image of the plucky Hittite soldier clear in his mind.

“Yes …..”Paris was still gazing over Lukka’s muscled torso. Looking over the tall warrior.“ … what exactly was Agamemnon’s offer?”Lukka had seen a guard go over to the wall. Selecting an ugly whip. Thick, sinewy, leather, .. a bludgeon. And then he had disappeared behind. Lukka was no fool. He readied himself.

“Ah yes …..”Paris was seated easily on his throne, eyes scouring over Lukka’s bare torso.“Agamemnon has dropped the demand for Helen’s dowry to be returned.”He nodded sagely.“Rejected. Irrelevant.”

Lukka grabbed at the chains on his manacles. The whoosh of leather filled the air. The force of the blow from behind knocked him forward. The smack of hard leather across his shoulders flashed across his face. He fought against the shock. He bit down on the pain. Burning across his back.Unconcerned Paris continued.“Out of the question. Returning a wife’s dowry? That was never going to be.”

Paris perused the scene, sat calmly in his finery, the embroidered tunic running up revealing long athletic legs.“And next?”Lukka was beginning to pant. His heart had picked up the pace. A burning was settling into the skin in his back.“Yes. Tribute? Agamemnon foregoes a tribute from Troy.”He smiled.

“Are we losing this war? He thinks he can offer terms? It is Agamemnon losing. Have they breached our walls? It is the loser who pays tribute.”He nodded again.“A winner has nothing to pay.”Lukka clicked. Paris’ nods were the signal. “No tribute to be paid?”Behind a whoosh of air. A warning. The oncoming rush of biting hard leather. “Tell Agamemnon that is laughable. Rejected.”

Pain took a giant bite out of the breadth of Lukka’s muscled back. Force jarred him forward. Pain arched his back. A pained yell pounded at the dam he had built in his throat. Biting it back down. The brave Hittite. Refusing to let out the cry.

Annoyed, Paris nodded again. Another threatening whoosh. Paris would have his due .. the Greeks’ cry of pain. A sting of evil leather overlapped the stripes in Lukka’s shoulder. He leapt to his toes. Shocked by the cutting evil slashed into his shoulders again. Before it had hit, he’d thought he had felt a trickle down his back. Blood or a rush of sweat. Blood? Whipped? That thought only galvanised his anger. He bit down on his clenched jaw. Going to fight, in any way he could. And he saw this Paris wanted more than anything to hear his cries. Predictably he saw the flash of frustration on the prince’s face. Lukka awaited his next nod. Paris wanted the Greeks to suffer for daring to make this offer.The Trojan complied, he nodded again. Lukka gritted his teeth. Clamping his jaws together. Pig-headedly refusing the Trojan what he wanted to hear. A burning slash nearly took his breath away. But still a tough soldier’s doggedness denied Paris his cry.

“Next. Helen is to be returned to Menelaus. The condition to end this war.”Paris’ eyes were burning with evil fire. His gaze slashed across Lukka’s bare front. Seeing the muscled flesh glisten. Examining the rush of sweating flesh. Lukka knew to expect another nod. The fury in Paris’ eyes promised it. His own mind’s eye imagined his back. Ugly wounds, evil burning welts.“Never.”Pain tore across the middle of his back. Lukka cursed. A curse locked in his head. He could not afford to open his tight-clenched mouth.

“Never!”A stinging bite ripped out of his side. The whip’s force across Lukka’s back wrapped itself around the side. Pain rushed in tears to his eyes. Shock twisted his torso under the shock.“NEVER”Paris nodded with each reply. Again the whip cut an evil path through the dungeon air. Smacking Lukka on one side. The guard had got into his stride. His hits smack-on target, they came with fresh resolve, repeatedly. The leather bit sharp into the sensitive skin of Lukka’s side. Then it was yanked back. The bite into his flesh was tugged backwards. Tearing skin from flesh. Biting through flesh at the bone.“NEVER!”

Lukka yelled out. A stinging bite taken out of his tender side .. searing pain as the whip was tugged back and slashed open his flesh. Unwelcome that yell. Unwanted. But scorching pain broke

through the barriers of his resolve. Like a burning torch inserted into his side. Dowsed with fiery oil. Pain threw his head back. Pain unlocked his throat. Lukka could not hold it in.

6.Return? Why?

“Helen will never return.”Lukka was running with sweat. He was panting. Barrage-upon-barrage of stinging pain had been wrenched out of his flesh. Paris had given up nodding. The lash had found a life of its own.

Lukka was puffed. Hot with pain, running with the effort of managing the burning in his back. And Paris was prattling on as

if nothing was wrong.“That oaf Menelaus .. she’ll never go back to him …”Lukka tensed at the strike across his midriff, it took his breath away. He gasped. He panted. He felt his heartbeat race.“Those Spartans .. one step up from the goats …..”Paris sat in his finery. Comfortable on his carved throne, calmly watching. While Lukka had just taken a fresh stinging bite into the soft flesh of his waist. But Paris babbled on. “She’ll never go back. Why should she?”

Wary Lukka had earlier watched a new palace guard select a fresh weapon from the instruments hanging off nails in the walls, a long willowy cane. A man’s length, bound tight in braided leather. A stinger.“You attended King Priam’s council. Was Helen there? Were women in attendance? Treated like they mattered?”The guard was no longer waiting for a nod. He was not looking for a signal for his prince. He had raised his stakes. He raised the cane over his shoulder. Lukka gritted his teeth into his pain. A stinging slash struck across the hardness of his upper chest.

Paris chatted on .. nothing untoward was going on.“And, Hittite, where were you when you received your commission from the great Agamemnon? In council?”Paris smiled. Lukka had gasped out. His mouth thrown open-wide. At another biting pain that smacked him across the top of his chest. It was getting hard for the Hittite to keep the pain under. Paris nodded with satisfaction, that was how this should be. Tinting with fiery colours the tone with which Agamemnon would receive a report from his herald. He saw the High King’s envoy staggered back a pace. Under the force of the strike on his chest. The power of all that hard-packed warrior muscle could not resist. It was bent to Trojan will. Paris nodded contentedly .. seeing this Hittite’s

features twisted by the sting of the blow.“You ever see a woman there? In Agamemnon’s great council?”

Lukka hadn’t. Whenever Agamemnon had conferred with his allied kings .. the Greeks had no need for their women around. Their wives, princesses, daughters - the Greek women in the nobility knew their place. Unlike the Trojans. When Lukka had presented the High King’s terms, the Trojan women had been there. Women had voiced their reactions. But did he care? Back home in his own country, women too knew where they belonged. So Helen was treated better in the Trojan court? Did he damn-well give a toss? Lukka was more concerned for the shameful tears of pain that filled his eyes. Tears that threatened to unman him.Paris snorted.“Here Helen counts. Only Princess of Troy. But here she has her respect.”

A hard strike with the springy cane smacked across Lukka’s lower ribs. Involuntarily he rose to his toes. His arms yanked on the chains. Pain shuddered like lightning down the length of his powerful legs.“With Menelaus .. Queen of Sparta, yes. But that oaf treasured his hunting hounds more. She was just one level higher than the goats.”

Lukka could not stop himself. He gasped out loud. Another breath-taking slash caught him across the belly. His mouth exploded open. A rush of heat, sweat stung in his eyes. The wind from his belly escaped in a gasp. He didn’t hear Paris’ jibe.“Go back? She’d kill herself first.”Lukka’s legs were thrown forward in his chains. Taking another hard strike across his belly .. this time it doubled him up. His wind blew out of his chest. A pained shout. Tears of pain rushed to his eyes.

7.Tanned

Lukka drew a heavy breath. Smarting as the lashes to his torso burned. Stung. Biting deep. Scorched. Paris had relished this dialogue of pain. Keeping up his babbling as he had treated the High King’s envoy to this welter of stinging pains across his front.

“You are angering the gods.”Blinking through pain-streaked eyes Lukka rounded on the prince seated smug through this beating. Lukka’s glare darkened like a warning sky before a storm.“A truce. I came under a flag of truce. Sent in peace.”

Lukka was gasping to get the words out .. panting through his pains. Breathing heavily.“This offends against the gods.”

It was a whirlpool of pain and frustration swirling in Lukka’s mind. He did not for one moment believe his warning words would send a chill down Paris’ back. But he was angry. He was sweating .. like he sweated fiercely in the heat of a battle. Like hell he was hurting, hurting like he could not remember .. even from wounds in a close-fought fight. He was furious. Mad that the gods had handed him this fate. And angry at great Agamemnon who saw him as nothing more than a pawn. Something he could easily sacrifice.

His last remaining clothing had been yanked off his hips. Hands trapped in the chains above his head, Lukka stood naked. Furiously eyeing Paris .. his words reminded Paris of Lukka’s hallowed status. Protected by protocols, an envoy. And nervously Lukka was keeping a watchful eye on the fresh palace guard .. deliberately menacing with his new weapon of choice. A long thick leather strap on a braided handle. Demonstratively cracking it in the air. Filling this dungeon with threatening cracks of menace. Reminding of the slap of biting leather across burning flesh.

Warily Lukka half-watched the guard move behind. Freshly stripped of his kilt, he had to assume his backside was the target for that strap. But nerves put aside, Lukka steered the force of his anger at the impossibly handsome prince lounging comfortably in his armed throne. Calmly watching Lukka getting beaten out of his hide.“The gods will send retribution,” Lukka warned. “For this sacrilege.”

Paris snorted.“Hittite gods? Or Greek?”That calm handsome face snorted.“What about our revered Trojan gods?”Lukka tensed. Behind the air hissed. Instinctive his fists clenched. A smarting bite of leather stung at his bare backside. Lukka clenched his jaws together.“But when we bring them victory …..” asked Paris?Lukka was not paying too much attention. Here came another whoosh of pain cutting through the air. Leather snapped a huge bite out of the hard muscle of his arse. He gasped. His leg was driven forward by the sheer power of the strike. Pain ran in jagged shudders down his leg.“ .. when Troy drives the damned Greeks back into the sea …..?”Paris’ logic was beyond Lukka’s concern. Hit again. A stinging smack of leather on already reddened muscle .. struck with force .. hit with mind-blistering pain. Lukka’s mouth wrenched open. In a silent yell of pain.

“ …. when Troy brings them victory …..?”His hard-packed naked torso took another shock-hit. The strike bouncing off his sweat-drenched backside. Pain rushed in his blood to his ears. Hearing the Trojan gods cheering in guttural victory. A cry of triumph over this Hittite who shuddered to the tune of their might. As if to show how seriously the Trojans had taken Lukka’s warnings, a stinging blow struck right across both globes of Lukka’s muscled backside. Chains rattled above his head as the shock twisted him over. Arching him up.

“ .. when Troy’s god have been given their triumph ….” Paris asked? Calmly. Logically.Lukka’s head was jarred back by the searing heat of godly strength. Loud in his head he heard them jeer. A godly din that threatened to explode in his head. Urging on the guard with the strap. Demanding salvo-upon—blistering salvo of fire to light up his bare arse. To send a righteous message from the Trojan gods back to the Greeks. Written in crimson pain on Hittite flesh.“What will the gods say then …” Paris mocked? “When victory is theirs?”Lukka gave his answer. Hit smarting on top of burning flesh, another searing slash of pain. His eyes popped open. Sweat pumped from his armpits. Animal-like he cursed. He cursed these Trojans and their damned gods to a living hell.

8.Cleansing

“No fears, Hittite, …..”Paris observed the muscular envoy .. strung-up, struggling for air. Agamemnon’s herald might have been built for this task. Powerful back on him, a belly packed with solid muscle, chest high-thrown with muscular power. Indeed a perfect parchment on which to scrawl Paris’ reply to the High King’s offer.“No worries that you will die here …..”

Lukka returned his flippant tone with a growl. But Paris continued unconcerned.“I mean to make sure you are in a fit state to make the response to Agamemnon good-and-clear.”

Paris smirked.“It is unfortunate, then …..”Lukka was angry. His blood was boiling. He felt hot, sweaty, dishevelled. But this was more his element. The fighter stinking of sweat stale from battle. Not the cleaned-up herald Agamemnon had sent.His flesh was running with burning pains. Hit across his chest, aching in his whiplashed belly. That strap had worked over the small area of his arse till the tears of pain would not stop. Angrily he eyed the smug-looking prince of Troy. Paris had broken the protocols, he had scorned the truce.

Sweat ran down his back stinging in the wounds this Trojan prince had opened up. Stripping Agamemnon’s envoy of all dignity. Writing this scornful reply in streaks of crimson welts onto Lukka’s muscled flesh.

“ .. unfortunate …. with the Greeks camped on the beach …..”Paris was uncommonly handsome, athletically built. But if Lukka hadn’t been trapped in these chains .. even after getting the shit beaten out of him .. Lukka would have snapped his neck in any fight. Driven by pure fury.“ …. we have no access to the sea.”

Lukka frowned. He wondered where that remark was coming from. He didn’t have long to wait.“No sea water to clean you down. Can’t have those wounds getting infected. Can we?”Paris snorted.“ …. Not before Agamemnon’s hired hand ….”

Paris’ hand gestured at the tortured body strung up and suffering .. to make sure Lukka knew what he was held to be. How insignificant his tortured body. His suffering of no importance.“ …. can’t have you dying on us .. not before you have conveyed to the High King the full intensity of our reply.”Meaning .. the stinging burns scored into Lukka’s muscled back. Meaning .. the message written in welts of pain carved in the power of his fighter’s belly.“Have to use vinegar instead, then ……”Paris smirked.“Unfortunately ….”

9.Damned spy

Paris stood on the balcony and watched the guards escort him away. A large cloak thrown over the Hittite’s naked body. A half-dozen palace guards walked him hobbling through the night. Back towards the main gate.

That dowsing with vinegar .. eating into the open wounds lashed open on his back .. that seemed to have clinched it .. finished him off. Robbed of all defiance. Yelping and squirming as vinegar-soaked sacking was roughly scraped over his whip-scorched flesh. He cursed and damned them to hell. Fingers cruelly rubbing burning acid into gaping wounds. For all that Hittite muscle .. for all his

proud warrior-posturing .. the fool yelled. Burning skin roughed up with vinegar and sacking. Cleaning out his wounds. Necessarily fending off infection.

Released from his chains, the Hittite had wobbled on his feet. This statue of manly warrior perfection .. on fire with fury and hate. He looked immortal .. for a moment. A quivering god-like statue of incandescent rage. He looked like he might leap into blistering attack. Fuelled by fury. Muscle pumped up with living rage. Then his strength deserted him, the torture broke him. His features twisted. A leg gave way. Crumpling to the floor. He hissed and cursed out as he was roughly rolled over on to his front. For added certainty, for greater protection .. and to write his reply in large screaming letters .. Paris ordered salt rubbed into his wounds. He fought. The guards struggled to hold him down. A mad animal. A creature gone wild in its near-fatal agonies. Squirming like crazy. Bucking. Legs thrashing. Body twisted, contorted. Howlish cries .. piercing pain .. accompanied by desperate efforts to wriggle free.

But finally hard punches to the back of his head had lessened his fight. Stunned but still calling out in sharp cries as more salt ate its way savagely into his open flesh. Down on the earth, salt rubbed into every seeping wound. Squirming and convulsing. Agony was cleaning him up well. Fighting off infection for as long as it took to stand wobbling in front of the High King.

Paris watched from his balcony until the party disappeared into the darkness. The Hittite could barely walk. His body a mass of burning pains. Weakened by beatings and tortures that had overwhelmed that manly strength. Paris had written agony into every open wound .. dozens of gaping cuts .. cleansed by the savage bite of salt. Bearing the clear message. Paris’ rejection to Agamemnon burned into his muscled Hittite flesh.

The cleansing had finally robbed him of all strength. Strong and bloody-minded though the Hittite was, a pair of guards had to take his arms around their shoulders .. keeping him upright, helping him stagger away. Led without a sound through the sleeping night out of Troy .. departing with his agonies through the darkness. His legs were weakened by the message Paris had penned to the High King .. etched in his taut-muscular flesh. Needing to be helped away .. palace guards showing him the road .. banishing his tortured Hittite hide from the city. The guards would guide Agamemnon’s herald over the beach, dumping him within sight of the Greek camp. If necessary, he’d have to crawl the rest back on his knees. Conveying the Trojan reply. Paris’ message to Agamemnon etched into his burning whip-lashed flesh.

Finally the darkness had eaten the suffering envoy up. Paris could return assured to Helen’s bed. On the way Hector found him.“Brother, come. Our father has his reply.”Paris feigned to understand. He nodded.“The envoy …..?” Hector queried. “Have you seen him? He seems to have disappeared.”Paris looked concerned. Hector continued.“Our father wants to tell Agamemnon he is willing to talk.”

Paris managed not to frown. He had feared as much. That old King Priam had lost the stomach for this war. His father would be tempted to send Helen back. Send Paris’ wife back to her boorish Spartan king. For that very reason Paris had decided to act on his own.“Disappeared? The herald?”Paris feigned a look of distress.“Yes, I heard that too. Disappeared. Gone.”

Paris shook his head.“I had my doubts about him all the time,” Paris offered. “More spy than envoy.”He was shaking his head.“Typical of that snake Agamemnon,” Paris explained. “Send a soldier as herald. And as envoy of peace that Hittite has been free to wander the city.”Angry he fronted his older brother.“Don’t you see? Agamemnon send him to discover the layout of Troy.”Paris snorted his disdain.

“And now he’s gone. I suspected him all along.”Paris was shaking his head. At the foul underhandedness of these Greeks.“Probably he’s back with the Greeks now. Drawing a map for Agamemnon. Ready for when they breach the walls …….”

Hector growled.“A spy? That Hittite? Damn him.”And Hector swore to himself .. in the next battle .. Hector would seek out that spy. The mighty Hector would give that damned herald his reward. By all that was honest, he’d sever his foul head from his damned Hittite body.

10. Epilogue

Homer tells us Hector never got his chance .. his vow to cut off the Hittite’s head. Troy’s heir and champion met his end fighting Achilles. And then Achilles famously got that arrow in his leg.

The Trojan horse was the turning point. Ben Bova reckons it was a siege tower, something the Hittites had encountered battling empires further east. Lukka recommended the idea. Bova projects it was his Hittites manning the Horse that first entered Troy .. enabling its destruction.

Lukka did not get his chance for revenge on Paris either. But in Bova’s novel he witnessed the battling prince run down as Agamemnon’s chariots raced through the main gates.

As for Helen? Bova differs from Homer. He supposes a besotted Lukka whisks her away .. before her boorish husband Menelaus can claim her back. Lukka supposedly was escorting to safety in Egypt the most beautiful woman in the world. The woman whose face ” launched a thousand ships”.And somewhere underway, the pair disappear from the radar. And lived to fuck happily ever after.

(Based on Ben Bova’s novel The Hittite)

11. end