"Bova, Ben - Orion 07 - Vengeance of Orion" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bova Ben)

with perspiration; his beard, mangy and unkempt. Like me, he wore nothing but a
loincloth; his skinny legs and knobby knees barely seemed strong enough to tote
the burdens he carried.
There were plenty of other men, just as ragged and filthy as we, to take the
bales and livestock from us. They seemed delighted to do so. As I went back and
forth from the boat I saw that this stretch of beach was protected by an
earthenwork rampart studded here and there with sharpened stakes.
We finished our task at last, unloading a hundred or so massive double-handled
jugs of wine, as the sun touched the headland we had rounded earlier in the day.
Aching, exhausted, we sprawled around a cook fire and accepted steaming wooden
bowls of boiled lentils and greens.
A cold wind blew in from the north as the sun slipped below the horizon, sending
sparks from our little fire glittering toward the darkening sky.
"I never thought I'd be here on the plain of Ilios," said the old man who had
worked next to me. He put the bowl to his lips and gobbled the stew hungrily.
"Where are you from?" I asked him.
"Argos. My name is Poletes. And you?"
"Orion."
"Ah! Named after the Hunter."
I nodded, a faint echo of memory tingling the hairs at the back of my neck. The
Hunter. Yes, I was a hunter. Once. Long ago. OrЧwas it a long time from now?
Future and past were all mixed together in my mind. I remembered...
"And where are you from, Orion?" asked Poletes, shattering the fragile images
half-forming in my mind.
"Oh," I gestured vaguely, "west of Argos. Far west."
"Farther than Ithaca?"
"Beyond the sea," I answered, not knowing why, but feeling instinctively that it
was as honest a reply as I could give.
"And how came you here?"
I shrugged. "I'm a wanderer. And you?"
Edging closer to me, Poletes wrinkled his brow and scratched at his thinning
pate. "No wanderer I. I'm a storyteller, and happy was I to spend my days in the
agora, spinning tales and watching the faces of the people as I talked.
Especially the children, with their big eyes. But this war put an end to my
storytelling."
"How so?"
He wiped at his mouth with the back of his grimy hand. "My lord Agamemnon may
need more warriors, but his faithless wife wants thetes."
"Slaves?"
"Hah! Worse off than a slave. Far worse," Poletes grumbled. He gestured to the
exhausted men sprawled around the dying fire. "Look at us! Homeless and
hopeless. At least a slave has a master to depend on. A slave belongs to
someone; he is a member of a household. A thes belongs to no one and nothing; he
is landless, homeless, cut off from everything except sorrow and hunger."
"But you were a member of a household in Argos, weren't you?"
He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut, as if to block out a painful
memory.
"A household, yes," he said, his voice low. "Until Queen Clytemnestra's men
booted me out of the city for repeating what every stray dog and alley cat in
Argos was sayingЧthat the queen has taken a lover while her royal husband is