Golden Mukenai (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  Meneláwo shook his head. "I cannot stay. If you do not want my company, I will sail alone and wait for you at Knoshó."

  "No, I will go with you." Idómeneyu put his strong arm over his fellow king's shoulders. "We can set out for Kep'túr immediately, since that is what you want. If the wind is with us, we will be in my kingdom before the moon rises tonight."

  As Meneláwo trudged toward the shores of his island with Idómeneyu, the young qasiléyu Diwoméde followed. "Wánaks Idómeneyu," he blurted, trailing after the kings. "I have a message from my wánaks Agamémnon, for you."

  "Yes, what is it?" Idómeneyu asked, without slackening his pace.

  "M-my, my wánaks insisted I deliver it only in Kep'túr," Diwoméde stammered apologetically. "I-I-If you agree, I will sail with you and give you the tablet as, as, as soon as we reach land."

  Idómeneyu agreed, though he made a wry face. "I think I know what Agamémnon has to say to me," he quietly confided to Meneláwo. "It must be the matter of my qasiléyu's death and the blood-payment he owes me for it."

  aaa

  The cries of "Yákk'o! Yákk'o!" came again after dark, as torches rose in rejoicing hands. The men of 'Elléniya paraded through the streets, the Assúwan at their head. From pits outside the city walls, the men brought the rotting remains of pigs, buried at the time of the harvest festival. Bearing ceramic urns filled with the strong-smelling matter, they danced toward the palace on the heights. Before them walked Diwiyána's chosen, Paqúr, his face covered with the skin of a newly slain pig, his head crowned with a wreath of laurel leaves. The high, skin boots of a shepherd covered his feet, a kilt of undyed wool wrapped around his waist.

  "Kórwa is coming," sang the unmarried women, dancing with their torches through the same streets. Their mothers and grandmothers followed them, bearing grain in baskets on their shoulders. The wheat and barley was newly brought from man-sized jars, buried to their rims in the earth, or from similar ceramic vessels in the storerooms of the citadel. At the head of the rejoicing women, Ariyádna danced in the light of the torches, laurel leaves wound about her head. She brandished a laurel branch in each hand as well, the sacred emblems decked with fresh figs, dried apples, and thin bands of copper, gold, and the still more precious tin. This procession, too, came to the broad stone altar of the goddess, high up on the hill, in the center of the palace's largest courtyard.

  The people of 'Elléniya thronged about the courtyard of the palace, singing of the bounty of the coming harvest, of the joy of the reunited goddess and her divine child. About the fringes of the crowd trotted a fat-bellied man, crowing and flapping his arms without any sense of rhythm. Covering his face was a wooden mask carved with a wide, grotesque grin.

  "Look at the wánasha dance," he called out in a high, silly voice, "If she would only raise her leg a little higher I could see the fertile field!" The men laughed at the crude joke, the nearby women cheerfully striking at the padded stomach of the joker to drive him away.

  "What is happening?" Paqúr asked Odushéyu, behind him.

  "If they can make the priestess laugh, it is good sign," Odushéyu explained. "But, if you laugh, Paqúr, that is a bad sign."

  "There is no danger of that," the Assúwan stranger said to himself.

  Three times Ariyádna danced around the altar with its stylized bull's horns rising from each end. The women sang and the men shouted, "Yákk'o!" as she went. On the fourth turn, the representative of the goddess took her Yákk'o's hand. "Kórwa has risen!" the queen cried.

  The country people cheered, rapidly moving their tongues from side to side to make the ululating cry that draws the attention of the gods. The palace servants brought a ram and gave the tall stranger a bronze knife. He nodded, understanding the part he was to play. With a quick motion, he slit the bleating animal's throat. Its legs buckled and the serving men held it up, an old woman catching its flowing blood in a large bowl.

  Looking at the sky, the men of Lakedaimón and 'Elléniya shouted, "Rain!" The women called to the earth, "Conceive!" until the walls of the courtyard rang. With deft hands, the local priest slit open the sacrificial beast, apportioning the meat to the assembled crowd. The choicest flesh, the thighs, he wrapped in fat and reserved for the flames that would carry the essence of the meat to the gods.

  Arm in arm, the holy couple, priestess and Yákk'o, led the procession back down the hillside. Scattering to their homes, the people began preparing flat cakes of barley, mixing water and wine, slaughtering pigs and ducks, and roasting the meat in caldrons of yellow metal. They set great handled bowls over their hearth fires upon tripods, three-legged stands. With laughter and more singing the people made their feast, the wánasha and her Yákk'o stopping at every door to take a morsel of food or to swallow a little wine. Smiling beneath her laurel crown, Ariyádna made the rounds of every hearth, whether within the citadel or in the sprawling, lower town outside the massive stone walls, and she grew ever more tipsy as the couple approached the fields beyond. The artisans and their wives nodded approvingly, watching their high priestess dance from their doorways with clumsy steps, peals of laughter passing her painted lips. The Very-Holy was clearly in another realm that night, dancing with the maináds and winning the heart of the Divine Child. A good omen, the people of the city told each other.

  The Yákk'o, however, drank little, gazing silently through the eye-slits in his mask. Every so often, he glanced up at the sky, to note the position of the moon as it first rose and later sank back below the horizon. The light melodies of the double flutes and the metallic ringing of the tambourines did not lighten his feet. The jokes of the masked clown who followed the couple did not bring so much as a chuckle from beneath the pigskin face-covering. It would be a good year for the grain crop, the people told each other approvingly.

  By dawn, the many fires had burned low on the hearths of high-born and low- and sated bellies made the island folk sleepy. A deep quiet spread over the dark land, as soft and warm as the sheepskin coverlets on their beds. At last, with impatience-quickened steps Yákk'o led the priestess to the deserted field where the horses had raced for the honor of the sacred marriage. Ariyádna laughed lightly when she felt the soft dirt beneath her feet. She tugged at her Yákk'o's hand. "It is time," she announced, her voice thick with wine.

  But the man in the shepherd's clothing and the pigskin mask only clasped her hand more tightly and pulled her onward. "Not here, not yet," he urged her, quiet but insistent.

  Ariyádna was puzzled but followed unsteadily where the stranger led. "Are you nervous?" she asked. "Do not be. I serve the goddess, but I am a woman like any other."

  The goddess's champion stubbed his toe against a rock in the field and cursed beneath his breath, making Ariyádna giggle. Paqúr pulled the stiff skin from his face and flung it to the ground angrily. To appease him, Ariyádna covered her smiling mouth and suppressed her laughter as best she could, under the spell of the wine. "Do not worry," she soothed lightly. "In this darkness, I cannot see you, even without your mask. I will never know your identity."

  "I am not worried about that," Paqúr muttered. "Hurry!" He dragged the half-drunk woman quickly toward the shore.

  Despite her clouded eyes, Ariyádna saw that something was wrong. She dug her heels into the soft ground and tried to pull free of the man's hold. "Wait, wait, my Yákk'o. We have gone too far. Here is the end of the field. Where do you think you are going?"

  Paqúr gripped Ariyádna's wrist tightly with both hands. "My ships are ready to sail and you come with me tonight, by Dáwan and Poseidáon!"

  The wánasha gasped, mouthing the names of the foreign deities. "Sail?" she whispered, stunned. Suddenly the night air was chill and a shudder ran through her slender body, a tremor so violent she lost her footing and fell to her knees.

  Before she could think to scream, the stranger took her by the throat, dragging her back to her feet. "If you make a sound," he hissed, bringing her face close to his, "I swear by my hearth I will slit your belly a
nd leave you here as an offering to your barbarian Diwiyána. Now, come!"

  As Paqúr dragged Ariyádna toward the shore, a thousand desperate thoughts crossed the woman's mind. Heart pounding, gasping for breath, she decided she would cry out, even though she would die for it. Or she would fight, kicking, biting, clawing her way free of this Assúwan's grasp. "Meneláwo," she gulped, shuddering, "Owái, Meneláwo, do not let me be taken captive…"

  Paqúr turned abruptly and struck her across the face with the back of his hand. "Be still, woman," he snapped, jerking her forward again so violently that she tripped, dragging her when she fell.

  On the shore, Ariyádna saw three slender longboats resting on the beach, and Paqúr's larger, black ship anchored further out in the water. The crews of the vessels were armed, bearing torches, and waiting on the rocky beach. In linen kilts and leather chest-coverings, leather cap-helmets protecting their heads, they raised their spears in silent greeting when their leader approached with his captive.

  "Ainyáh, I will lead the raid," Paqúr ordered, speaking to a man clothed like the others but wearing a helmet of bronze. "It is just as I thought. The Ak'áyans are all at odds with each other. War might break out between any two kingdoms at any moment. I watched them carefully today and no king showed deference to Agamémnon, despite the greater power of his kingdom. Just as I predicted, the Ak'áyans are not a single nation, much less an empire. They will not unite against the enemy of this miserable, little country."

  In his gleaming helmet, a man with a prominent nose shook his head, doubtful. "You cannot rely on appearances, prince Paqúr. My people would seem quarrelsome, too, in Kanaqán. The king of each great city makes war on his neighbor and all they talk about is how more bronze can be obtained. But let an attack come from outside and all Kanaqániyans come together. It could be the same here. We have the queen, now. That was our objective. Let us go."

  Paqúr spat. "I do not take advice from aging mercenaries," he said, his voice filled with contempt. "I have raided every island of the Inner Sea and beyond. 'Elléniya will give me no more trouble than any other land." He shoved Ariyádna toward the bronze-capped warrior. "Take charge of my woman, Ainyáh."

  "Come this way," commanded the mercenary, his voice as hard as the fingers digging into her wrist . He pulled Ariyádna toward the first longboat, its oars turned backward so that the paddles lay in the rowers' seats. Fastened with oak thole-pins and leather straps, the stout oars now served for handles. Gripping them, Ainyáh's men pushed the boat further into the quiet waters of the harbor.

  Ariyádna looked about in desperation, her eyes rolling, her mouth open to scream, but lacking the strength. Paqúr and his men were trotting quickly across the field toward the fortress on the hill. The wánasha could do nothing to help her people, or to warn them. The beach about her was abandoned, populated only by silent rows of upside-down fishing boats. Every vessel in sight had been damaged, gaping holes chopped in their sides and bottoms, rendering the larger, heavier merchant ships in the harbor virtually inaccessible. Paqúr's men had been busy during the festival.

  Her feet touched the cool waters and she found her voice. "Help me, my brothers!" Ariyádna cried in the direction of the town. Her voice was shrill with panic. "Kástor! Poludéyuke! Owái, Meneláwo!" In a frantic struggle at the edge of the water, she broke free of Ainyáh's grip.

  But her freedom lasted only a moment. The warrior struck her with his fist, dropping her to the beach in the darkness. He bent and took her limp body on his shoulder, dumping her unceremoniously into the boat in the shallows.

  "Tie her up," Ainyáh told one of his bare-skinned crewmen. "Get us to the main ship, then put her beneath the floorboards so she does not see what is happening or where she is going. We must make our way out to sea quickly. The others will be right behind us."

  Screams had already begun to rise from 'Elléniya's lower town as Paqúr's men entered the quiet homes. On the shore, the Assúwan longboat rose on low, incoming waves and the men scrambled aboard. Turning their oars round to drop the paddles in the water, the crew rowed away from the land. Once on the anchored ship, Ainyáh took the post of helmsman on the platform at the stern. Grasping the long steering oar in both hands, he shouted, "Raise the anchors! To your oars!"

  The rowers found their seats on the benches. With their backs to the direction of travel, they swung their oars through the water as Ainyáh called rhythmically from the stern, "Pull! Pull!"

  Beneath the benches, in the hull of the longboat, Ariyádna returned to consciousness. Finding herself resting on damp thistles, her hands bound in her lap, she began to wail and scratch her cheeks until blood came. "Meneláwo!" she called again and again, knowing her husband could not hear.

  Before the shore was out of sight, the rest of Paqúr's men were running back to the beach. Some carried bronze vessels in their arms or led sheep, goats, or small horses. Others were encumbered with screaming, struggling women. They piled and drove their spoils into the boats waiting at the shore and made for the deep water and the larger ship now moving to the mouth of the harbor.

  Behind them came a few men of 'Elléniya and Lakedaimón, most still naked as when they had risen from their beds. Fishermen armed only with their tridents found their beached vessels destroyed. Infuriated Lakedaimóniyan warriors and bakers raced from one end of the beach to the other, confused, shouting to each other, heads still heavy with wine and sleep.

  "What is happening? Who has attacked us?" cried the tallest of the local princes, stumbling about on the shore.

  The answer was unclear, shouted from every side at once. "They have our women, including your sister, the wánasha! They murdered our brothers at the gates of the city! Lead us against them, Kástor."

  Kástor raised his spear, crying, "We must have revenge!" In answer, the gathered men gave the ululating war cry, "Alalá!"

  "After them!" the prince shouted. "If there are no boats, then we will swim to our ships." So they did, but those who knew how to swim made a group considerably smaller than the crowd that had gathered on the shore. Only a score of fishermen and a handful of warriors had the skill to reach the broad-beamed ship bearing the carved, wooden water-bird on its high prow-post, Lakedaimón's standard. But the gathering shepherds and farmers of the countryside, and the city's potters and bakers had to remain on shore. Among the assembled Lakedaimóniyans milling helplessly on the beach, St'énelo hurried back toward the fortress. "Come with me," he urged the others. "We will find king Néstor and ask him to lead us. He will know what to do. Mesheníya is a seafaring nation."

  "But he quarreled with our king at the race," a baker reminded the chariot master as they ran. Waving a bloody hand, he suggested instead, "Find wánaks Odushéyu. He is the best mariner in Ak'áiwiya. He told me so, himself."

  St'énelo stopped in his tracks. "Odushéyu!" he cried in disgust. "He is a pirate!"

  The baker clapped St'énelo on the shoulder to start him on his way again. "All the better! He will know how to deal with these Assúwan raiders."

  The ships of Assúwan and Ak'áyan alike rode easily over the waves. The departing strangers from Wilúsiya praised Poseidáon when they found that the wind blew toward the southeast. But the aggrieved Lakedaimóniyans were no less pleased to discover that their sail filled quickly, once they were out of the harbor. The sea god carried them in the wake of their attackers and the oarsmen stayed at their rowing benches to speed them on their way. "Diwiyána is with us," Kástor cried as he watched the square of linen billowing before the mast. "We will have their blood before noon."

  His unclad helmsman gave a shout. "I see them! There, just where the sun is rising. Faster, men, they have the queen." He pointed toward where Paqúr's last longboat was silhouetted upon the horizon. With sweat pouring down their bare bodies, the Lakedaimóniyans pursued their enemies.

  Two of the three smaller longboats were too far away to be seen by that time, for they had had a head start and continued to make the most of their lead,
speeding ahead to prepare the way for their companions. Even Prince Paqúr's main vessel was smaller and lighter than the merchant ship of the Lakedaimóniyans and the Assúwan warship carried more men. But it was also more heavily laden than its pursuer, having paused to take on the booty from the smaller longboats. The last of the three was still alongside, its crew still struggling to transfer their plunder to the larger ship's hold. The limbs of some of Paqúr's rowers were now weary from the earlier fighting as well as their hard work at the oars. A few were incapacitated from wounds also, as not all the island folk had succumbed without resistance. Neither did all the captives proceed meekly from small vessel to large.

  "Do you see them now?" Ainyáh called from his post at the big ship's helm. "They are gaining on us."

  Answering from the smaller longboat alongside, Paqúr shouted back, "You just stay on course. We will deal with this."

  At the sight of their quarry, the Lakedaimóniyans' hearts burned for revenge. The merchant ship from 'Elléniya gained steadily. Soon, the remaining women in Paqúr's longboat were calling on their approaching kinsmen, their saviors. Despite their bound hands, several captives managed to clamber over the side of the vessel, where they struggled to remain afloat until they could be rescued. Others, unable to swim, did their best to interfere with their captors' activities, kicking the oars from their hands, even butting the rowers with their heads. Their efforts had the intended effect. Nearly a third of the crewmen were forced to occupy themselves with controlling the captives, keeping them beneath the rowing benches where they would not escape over the sides of the small ship.