by Diana Gainer
"Yes, Father, I hear you," Antílok'o stammered, his breath coming fast in anticipation. "Now leave me alone. You are making me nervous."
On the mound St'énelo set down a conical, plaster statue with a bird-like nose, painted with black and red zigzags. Beside it, a bare-skinned servant set a deep, bronze caldron and a two-handled, gold cup. Last in line, a second serving man led a black colt to the foot of the mound.
But Néstor was not finished. Gripping his son's elbow, he continued, "Give the horses plenty of rein when you straighten out, after the turn. But do not waste your mares' strength by letting them wander all over the field."
"I know, I know," the young man retorted irritably. "Watch the front-runner to gauge how fast to go. Do not go any faster than necessary. Save the horses' strength until it is needed most, at the end.
The royal father listened carefully and nodded, while wánaks Meneláwo sent St'énelo to stand by the turning-post far across the field. When the prince finished, Néstor added, "Keep calm and watch your competitors from start to finish. You have a good chance to win, even with this team of fat oxen." Clapping his son on the shoulder, the Mesheníyan king backed away from the cart to watch the race from the foot of the mound.
"Each driver must go around the post," Meneláwo told the drivers, now all standing alone in their carts. "My master of horse will make sure of that. St'énelo will judge fairly." As the king raised his arms, the Lakedaimóniyans around him called encouragement to those they favored.
"You are the champion, Idómeneyu!"
"Take the prize, stranger!"
Meneláwo dropped his arms and the charioteers wielded their whips, urging their horses forward. Galloping all out, they tore across the recently plowed field, tossing up clouds of dust and dirt clods with their hooves. As the wheels rolled over the uneven ground, the carts became briefly airborne, jolting back to earth in a moment, shaking the drivers and threatening to crack the slender axles. Odushéyu quickly took the lead, Paqúr's team close on his heels. The rest of the chariots soon fell behind. The watching men cheered and encouraged their favorites, the roar of their voices rising as the carts neared the distant post. All eyes were upon the racing horses and their drivers, all thoughts turned upon Diwiyána's choice for her Yákk'o.
Watching the chariots growing smaller as they raced away, Meneláwo put his hands to his head in grief. "Owái, Pótniya," he groaned quietly, striking his head with the palms of his broad hands, knowing he would not be seen. "If you must shame me, at least do not let Odushéyu be your champion. Let the Yákk'o be anyone but that pirate."
But at that moment the goddess seemed determined to deny Meneláwo's wish. Odushéyu bent forward over the rim of his cart, lashing furiously at his team. Flailing away with his whip, Paqúr was bent on overtaking him, but in his fevered lashing the whip flew from his hand. A howl tore from his lips as he saw the It'ákan's chariot pulling away. The tall stranger cursed all the gods and goddesses of Ak'áiwiya, shaking a fist in impotent rage and frustration.
Ahead of the Assúwan, Odushéyu's chariot passed over a rise a little too quickly. The cart flew up in the air when the earth sloped away and came down hard. The wooden axle broke in two at the impact. A wheel parted with the cart, stopping it abruptly. The charioteer was thrown sideways over the basket rim and onto the ground. His elbows and knees were skinned, his nose and chin bloodied, and he choked on dust and rage.
"Praise Dáwan Anna!" Paqúr cried triumphantly. His practiced team had continued to race onward and though the others were now alongside, none had yet overtaken him. With sudden inspiration, the stranger tore his leather belt loose and used it to beat his horses, letting his kilt fall to his sandals. He soon overtook the fallen front-runner. "Eat my dust, mariner!" shouted the Assúwan as he passed.
Odushéyu's bad fortune heartened all the contenders. Behind Paqúr, Diwoméde's mismatched pair ran all out as the young man contended with Idómeneyu for second place, Antílok'o close behind. Eagerly, Diwoméde flailed at his horses, shouting encouragement to them, as he approached the turning post. Ahead, St'énelo leaned slightly as the lead chariot's wheel skimmed the mark, but he leaped out of the way, arms wide, crying out in alarm at the young qasiléyu's approach. Diwoméde's left wheel-rim scraped the post, his turn was so sharp, and the light wooden spokes gave way. The axle snapped, and the cart collapsed. The young man tumbled to the ground as the horses reared and kicked each other, whinnying shrilly. Cursing, Idómeneyu wrestled with his reins, struggling to skirt the wreckage. One horse obeyed the Kep'túriyan king's close-held rein. But the other tossed its head and fought. Antílok'o closed the space between them with an exultant shout. Between the floundering teams, St'énelo threw his hands up to protect his head from hooves, whips, and flying dirt clods.
With his left hand, Antílok'o clamped one of the reins hard to his hip, turning the left-hand horse's head. With his right hand, he held the other mare's traces wide, giving her room to gallop around the wreckage and the post. His horses controlled, his turn wide, he overtook Idómeneyu and his team galloped back toward the starting mound. Antílok'o vigorously applied his whip and shouted to his horses, "I will butcher you both if we come in last!"
As the young Mesheníyan began the final segment of the race, Idómeneyu regained his team's heads. The Kep'túriyan king leaned out over the rim of his chariot basket, arms straight forward to give his horses full rein. Antílok'o did not dare glance back over his shoulder. He did not need to see, for the island pair was so close he could feel their breath on his bare back. In desperation, the young prince swerved his team toward Idómeneyu to cut him off. Fearing a collision, the older man pulled back on his reins, cursing, "Préswa take you, Antílok'o!" He lashed his horses as soon as the prince's cart was past, in a last desperate attempt to overtake the Mesheníyan.
The unhappy wánaks saw the returning chariots first, as they broke through the swirling clouds of dust. "They are coming!" Meneláwo shouted. "Which one is in front?"
His companions strained their eyes to see. "Someone is down," one of the princes said. "I think it is the stranger."
"No, no," cried another man. "The stranger is the winner."
The first man shouted, "There is still half the field to go and I say Idómeneyu is in the lead!"
His short neighbor whirled around in anger and balled a fist. "No one picks a fight better than you. You have a mind like an ox hoof! I will bet you a tripod the stranger wins."
Meneláwo stepped between the two and drove them apart with hard blows. "No fighting," he roared. "Not at a festival!"
From the foot of the mound, Néstor raised his voice to command, "Sit down and watch the teams. You will know soon enough who wins."
They knew even before they could find seats. Paqúr drove past the finish, his black hair and the horses' manes flying behind them. A rain of dirt poured down on the spectators from the hooves and wheels. Where the race had begun, Paqúr pulled back hard on the reins, bringing his team to a halt. Sweat lathered the animals' heaving sides as the naked stranger hopped down, grinning broadly, to be clapped on the back by the admiring princes.
"I claim the prize," the Assúwan exulted, eyes flashing. He swooped down on the plaster image of the goddess at Meneláwo's feet and raised it over his head in triumph. Even before the rest of the carts drove up, the high-born men of Lakedaimón and 'Elléniya were raising their hands to their foreheads and to the sky in salute, shouting, "Yákk'o! Yákk'o!"
CHAPTER TWO
PAQUR
Antílok'o's team came rushing forward to take second place, outrunning Idómeneyu by only the breadth of a chariot wheel. The older wánaks swore furiously, breaking the whip handle over his knee when his horses came to a stop. "Préswa take you to 'Aidé, Antílok'o! I should have taken the second place, not you. If the race had lasted just a moment longer, I would have pulled ahead. By all the gods, boy, what were you trying to do out there?"
"I won the second prize," Antílok'o countered loudly, t
hough he backed away from the bigger and older man. "Kep'túriyans have never been known for their skill with horses."
At the insult, Idómeneyu's hand went to the short scabbard hanging from his belt. His fingers gripped the ivory hilt of his knife with white-knuckled fury. "You did not beat me with skill, you son of a dog!"
Facing the Kep'túriyan king, the youthful Antílok'o drew his own dagger with an unsteady hand. His royal father came quickly to his side to back him up. "You did well, Antílok'o," the graying Néstor said loudly, eyes on Idómeneyu's reddened face. "Mesheníyans do not fear an islander's curses."
Alarmed at the threat of violence, the princes and commoners of Lakedaimón and 'Elléniya abandoned their champion, and crowded around the angry men, separating them. "No fighting at a holy time," they reminded their guests, both their hands raised, with the palms forward in the peace gesture.
With a contemptuous smirk, Paqúr looked on from where he now stood alone, the plaster symbol of his victory still clasped in his hands. "An excellent omen!" he told himself. "The gods are smiling on my plans."
At that moment, Odushéyu limped to the finish on foot, leading his horses by their long traces. Behind him, St'énelo dragged the It'ákan's shattered cart, trying to suppress a grin.
Meneláwo broke into warm laughter at the sight of the disappointed islander. "Here is a fine man, bringing his team in last," he cried, so delighted at the pirate's loss that he forgot the young qasiléyu, still chasing his mares in the field. "The stranger has the first prize. He is the Yákk'o, by Diwiyána's decree. But I will award Odushéyu the second prize for his bad luck."
The Lakedaimóniyans shouted their approval, "The colt is Odushéyu's. Owlé to you, wánaks of It'áka!" They surrounded the burly man, helping to brush the dirt from his body, consoling him for the loss of his cart.
The Mesheníyans were not pleased. "This is your fault, Idómeneyu," Néstor complained, his gray beard quivering. "If you had not spoiled the festivities with curses, my son would have had the prize."
Idómeneyu crossed his arms on his chest and spat. He said nothing, content that Antílok'o's winnings should be given to another.
But when Meneláwo beckoned for the little horse, Antílok'o rushed forward in anger. "That is my prize, Meneláwo. I won it, wánaks. You cannot give it away just because you feel sorry for Odushéyu's broken cart. That is not right. Diwiyána chose all our places in this race. That It'ákan pirate got no more than he deserved. The goddess would never favor a horse thief!"
Odushéyu flew into a rage at the youth's protest. "You have the heart of a fawn, boy, and I can slit your throat just as easily!" He drew his knife and leapt toward the young Mesheníyan.
Lakedaimón's princes now had no choice but to intervene, alongside the local bakers, potters, smiths, and merchants, to prevent hostilities from breaking out. Meneláwo released the colt to assist. The young animal reared, neighing, and galloped away from the mound and into the field. Paqúr alone remained untouched, his eyes bright with suppressed laughter.
"Put away your weapons, all of you, or I will call my warriors!" Meneláwo bellowed. The angry men slowly sheathed their bronze blades, for they were, after all, in Meneláwo's country and outnumbered by Lakedaimóniyans. When it seemed that peace would be restored, after all, St'énelo left the others on the mound to run down the fleeing colt. The last charioteer, only now coaxing his team in from the wreckage by the turning post, watched in silent confusion.
Antílok'o trembled from head to toe, his face scarlet. "This is a sacred festival. I know that and I do not intend to anger the gods by starting a war here. But the horse is mine and I will not give it up, Meneláwo. If you or any other man tries to take it he will have to face my dagger!"
This time, his graying father rebuked him with a blow. "Start one quarrel at a time, boy!" Néstor cried. In his son's ear, he muttered. "In Meneláwo's present state of mind, no man can wisely anger him." He turned to the Lakedaimóniyan king with an insincere smile, shoving the fuming prince behind, out of the way. "But wánaks, I ask you not to take Antílok'o's prize. He won it fairly and you have no reason to keep it from him. If you are fond of Odushéyu, by all means give him something of value. But do not rob my son. Make your friend some other, better gift."
Feeling magnanimous now that the despised It'ákan would not lie with Lakedaimón's queen, Meneláwo nodded. "Antílok'o is right. The colt is his prize. I will not take it from him. Odushéyu will have a wine bowl. St'énelo, bring the Sharudín bronze from the palace." The lesser-ranked Lakedaimóniyan trotted off to do as his leader bid him and Odushéyu declared himself content to take the gift and forget his quarrel with the young prince.
Diwoméde, still brushing dirt from his sparse whiskers and rubbing his bruised ribs, jealously followed the departing master of horse with his eyes. But no royal favors were shown to the youthful Argive, as Paqúr silently noted. The stranger's smile widened at the implications of that oversight.
Idómeneyu paced below the mound for awhile, considering his position as underlings took away the horses and carts. "Antílok'o," the Kep'túriyan king suddenly bellowed, "you defended your claim to the prize against Odushéyu but now you must face me! You drove like a man possessed by the maináds! Only a madman would deliberately cut in front of another's chariot. Meneláwo, you are the ruling wánaks here, so you must judge this case. If Antílok'o won by cheating, give the colt to me, instead."
All eyes turned to the Lakedaimóniyan king. Meneláwo frowned, filling old Néstor with anxiety for his son. "Antílok'o, take an oath," the old man suggested quickly. "Swear by your hearth that you did not intend to wreck Idómeneyu's cart." The young prince turned an angry countenance to his father. But the old man's voice was grim and brooked no argument. "This is not worth a war, Antílok'o." The son's head fell and he held his tongue as his father stepped forward. "My son is younger than you, Idómeneyu, and his rank is lower," Néstor noted, with one eye on Meneláwo. "Be patient with him, wánaks. I am his father and I forgot myself for a moment, there. But all that my son has is mine, first. I give you the colt, freely, Idómeneyu, and any other prize you want from my riches, rather than anger the gods and lose a friendship I value." With drooping shoulders, Antílok'o took the young horse's bridle and led it forward, putting the leather strap in Idómeneyu's hands.
The wánaks of Kep'túr looked down at the bridle and back up at the disappointed countenance of the prince. "Ai gar, Antílok'o, maybe I was too harsh, too quick to anger. Your youth got the better of your judgment, that is all. I have a son of my own. I know how short a young man's temper is. Let there be peace between us."
Antílok'o swallowed hard. "Yes, wánaks." He turned back toward his father, with a deeply disappointed sigh.
But Idómeneyu caught the slender shoulder with a scarred hand. "Here, you drove well, boy. Even though the colt is rightly mine, I give it to you as a gift, so all men here will know that Kep'túriyans are not cruel."
Néstor frowned and quietly complained to the nearest prince. "Does he mean to imply that Mesheníyans are cruel men? He is insulting us, his fellow Ak'áyans, and his best trading partners!" But Antílok'o happily took back the animal and no man took notice of Néstor's displeasure.
Meneláwo sighed and rubbed an aching head. "Idómeneyu, accept the caldron, the third-place prize, as a substitute," he urged, adding in a whisper, "I had hoped you would be first." With a nod, the Kep'túriyan took the large vessel. "I owe you more than that," Meneláwo added, "for keeping the peace with my neighbors when justice was on your side."
"I made the boy happy," Idómeneyu admitted. "But the old man and I may yet go to war. Just look at him."
Meneláwo considered that a moment, his hand to his lip in thought. The last prize, the cup with handles, remained by his feet. Cautiously, Diwoméde reached for the unclaimed prize. But the Lakedaimóniyan wánaks took it up, not seeing the losing driver. Meneláwo carried the golden prize to the aging Néstor. "Here, wánaks, a keepsake for you
from Lakedaimón's holy festival. You cannot compete in the games because of your age. But you deserve a prize for your clear-headed advice, if nothing else."
Néstor took the cup, a broad smile replacing his frown. "Well said, Meneláwo. I am pleased that you think so highly of me. May the gods reward you for this."
The race over and the prizes allotted, the high-born men of Lakedaimón and 'Elléniya led the champion toward the palace, shouting, "Yákk'o! Yákk'o!" Close behind, Odushéyu and the Mesheníyans, too, raised the cry. As they went, the bakers and potters flocked around the man who would couple with their queen and guarantee the fertility of the lands of Lakedaimón and 'Elléniya.
Meneláwo did not join the celebratory party or follow the revelers back to the hilltop fortress. As the crowd led Paqúr away, the Lakedaimóniyan king turned to his friend. "Idómeneyu," he muttered in a low, unhappy voice, "I cannot stay here any longer. Let me go to Kep'túr with you right away."
"Of course you are welcome in Kep'túr," Idómeneyu agreed, surprised. "But are you sure you want to leave now, before the festival is over? I understand your heart, my friend. No man can enjoy seeing his wife lie with another. But it is just a ceremony. This Yákk'o means nothing to Ariyádna."