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loose.
    "You have saved the whole camp from Hector's spear and his vengeful Trojans, but in addition you have lifted me out of a life of misery and shame. I will serve you always, Orion. I will always be grateful to you for showing such mercy to a poor old storyteller." He kissed my hand.
    I reached down and lifted him by his frail shoulders to his feet. "Poor old windbag," I said lightly, "you're the first man I've ever seen grateful to become a slave."
    " Your slave, Orion," he corrected. "I am happy to be that." I shook my head, uncertain of what to do or say. Finally I groused, "Well, get some sleep."
    "Yes. Certainly. May Phantasos send you happy dreams."
    I did not want to close my eyes. I did not want to dream of the Creator who called himself Apollo—if my encounter with him could be called a dream.
    I lay on my back staring at the star-studded blackness, wondering which star our ship had been traveling to, and whether the light of its explosion would ever be seen in Earth's night skies. I saw her face again, lovely beyond belief, dark hair gleaming in the starlight, gray eyes sparkling with desire. He had killed her, I knew. The Golden One. Apollo. Killed her and blamed it on me. Killed her and exiled me to this primitive time. Killed her, but saved me for his own amusement.
    "Orion?" a voice whispered.
    I sat up and automatically put out a hand for the sword resting on the ground beside me.
    "The king wants you." It was Antilokos kneeling beside me.
    I scrambled to my feet, gripping the sword. It was black night, with just enough light from the dying fire for me to recognize the man's face.
    "Better bring your helmet, if you have one," Antilokos said.
    I reached down and took my chain-mail mantle. Poletes's eyes opened.
    "The king wants to speak to me," I told the old man. "Go back to sleep."
    He smiled and snuggled happily into his blankets.
    I followed Antilokos past the sleeping bodies of our comrades to the prow of Odysseus's boat.
    As I had suspected, the king was much shorter than I. The plume of his helmet barely reached my chin. He nodded a greeting to me and said simply, "Follow me, Orion."
    The three of us walked silently through the sleeping camp and up to the crest of the rampart, not far from the gate where I had gained their respect earlier that day. Soldiers stood on guard up there, gripping long spears and eyeing the darkness nervously. Beyond the inky shadow of the trench the plain was dotted with Trojan campfires.
    Odysseus gave a sigh that seemed to wrench his mighty chest. "Prince Hector holds the plain, as you can see. Tomorrow his forces will storm the rampart and try to break into our camp and burn our ships."
    "Can we hold them?" I asked.
    "The gods will decide, once the sun comes up."
    I said nothing. I suspected that Odysseus was trying to come up with a plan that might influence the gods his way.
    A strong tenor voice called from the darkness below us. "Odysseus, son of Laertes, are you counting the Trojan campfires?"
    Odysseus smiled grimly. "No, Big Ajax. They are too many for any man to count."
    He motioned to me and we went back down into the camp. Ajax was indeed something of a giant among these men: He towered over them and even topped me by an inch or two. He was big across the shoulders, as well, and his arms were as thick as young tree trunks. He stood bareheaded under the stars, dressed only in a tunic and leather vest. His face was broad, with high cheekbones and a little pug of a nose. His beard was thin, new-looking, not like the thick curly growth of Odysseus and the other chieftains. With a bit of a shock, I realized that Big Ajax was very young, probably no more than nineteen or twenty.
    A much older man stood beside him, hair and beard white, wrapped in a dark cloak.
    "I brought Phoenix along," said Big Ajax. "Maybe he can appeal to Achilles better than we can."
    Odysseus nodded his approval.
    "I was his tutor when Achilles was a lad," said Phoenix in a slightly quavering