Golden Mukenai (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  "The Náshiyans!" Diwoméde said in surprise. "We are not fighting them. We are only fighting Wilúsiyans."

  Meneláwo sighed, glancing at the younger man. "Are we? There are many rulers in this world, wánaktes, independent monarchs. Then there are emperors, to whom lesser vassal kings owe allegiance. This world holds only two great kings that I know of, the Náshiyan Qáttushli, who dominates all Assúwa and beyond, and Ramusís of Mízriya, south of the Great Green Sea. The king of Wilúsiya is Qáttushli's vassal."

  Diwoméde squirmed uneasily as the two men watched the last of the Tróyans march from their city's great southern gate past six stone obelisks. "I do not know much about empires or metal-working. But, wánaks, even if there are Náshiyans here and even if their chariots carry a bowman, that is nothing for us to fear. Everyone knows that bowmen are cowards. Do they not fight from the rear, hiding behind other men's shields?"

  Meneláwo shook his head. "That is just spearmen's boasting. The archer hides behind another's shield only because it takes two hands to use a bow. Besides, the arrow does not care what sort of man shoots it. A coward's arrow is as deadly as a brave man's."

  The two watched the irregular formations in the plain beyond without speaking. Meneláwo finally stretched his limbs and clapped the younger man on the back. "Just keep your shield up and stay close to Odushéyu. You will be all right."

  Diwoméde looked at the older man, watching the battle-flame rise in the dark-rimmed eyes. "I am not afraid of dying," the qasiléyu said uncertainly. "I just do not want to let my men down. They served my father well. They deserve a good leader."

  Meneláwo nodded, but without real comprehension. His mind was filled with thoughts of war. Shouting the battle cry, "Alalá!" in his great voice, trilling with his tongue, he turned toward the encampment. Around him men gathered with their armor and weapons, shouting the name of the wánaks of deities. "Díwo," they cried, "fight with us. Father Díwo, strike the Tróyans with your thunderbolt."

  Alone on the hilltop, Diwoméde looked up toward the clouds and spoke to the gods. "Sons of Díwo, you guard the door to every household in Ak'áiwiya. Guard me now from harm. Owái, I should have stayed in Mukénai, tending my father's sheep and goats, just as Odushéyu says." But he had wanted honor and status, he remembered. He had been swept up in the glory of fighting for the return of an Ak'áyan wánasha. Somehow the brilliance of areté seemed pale and far away. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand. "Diwiyána, do not let me be a coward today. Do not let me shame my family."

  The band of Ak'áyans swept up over Diwoméde's hill and on toward the river, calling on the thunder god. The young man joined them, taking his place beside Odushéyu, in his old helmet. The It'ákan's crewmen shouted Díwo's name at every step, more and more loudly as they went. They raised their spears above their heads as they marched, working up their battle fury. Diwoméde was hard pressed to keep up and he itched and chafed under his oversized corselet.

  Odushéyu saw him wrestling with his chest-protector and poked him with the butt-end of his spear. "Idé, boy, wearing Pappa's armor?" He laughed harshly as he said it.

  "Yes," Diwoméde answered defensively. "My father wore it in battles all over Ak'áiwiya." The young man looked down on the dull, scarred surface of the bronze plates, nervously noting scratches from campaigns of old. Looking up at Odushéyu, he found no anger in his heart at the mariner. Instead, he took some comfort in the fact that here at least was a veteran, one who knew the battlefield well. As he marched toward Tróya, the It'ákan's eyes gleamed with the same harsh light that Diwoméde had seen in Meneláwo's. The kings were not afraid. They knew what they were doing. That was reassuring. Still, Diwoméde could not feel the battle-fury beginning, that fiery madness that old warriors spoke of.

  A chanting began, faint and far away. To Diwoméde it was as if he were a child again, hearing his mother and father speaking softly in the next room after all was quiet at night. As in his childhood, he could not make out any words but he knew they were there. What could they be saying? The Tróyan chanting slowly grew in intensity, a short phrase repeated over and over. Diwoméde had only just realized that they were calling on the god of the sea, Poseidáon, when the marching and chanting stopped. A deathly quiet settled like a fleecy coverlet upon the fields.

  "What is happening?" Diwoméde asked nervously.

  "They are waiting for us to line up," Odushéyu answered, irritated with the question. "What else?"

  "I do not see any chariots," the young qasiléyu announced, his voice cracking in his anxiety.

  "They are in the back," Odushéyu muttered impatiently. "Can you not hear the horses?" Raising his long, heavy spear in his right hand, the pirate shouted, "Díwo!" Again the men moved, ululating, "Alalá!" They formed a ragged line, facing Tróyan soldiers arrayed in the same way. There they stopped, silence pouring down again, each side eyeing the other.

  Filling that silence, chariots rattled from behind the line of Wilúsiyan foot-soldiers, horses neighing and hooves pounding as they sped to the front. A wave of relief flooded through the young qasiléyu at the sight, for there were only two men in each cart.

  The chariots came to a halt before their line of spearmen. Horses pawed the ground skittishly and drivers struggled to hold them in line. Sounds swirled all about Diwoméde, men coughing in the dust, calling on the gods and cursing their enemies. Suddenly, there was a distant twang he could not identify, followed by a rushing sound. It seemed that somewhere metal touched upon metal. Men cried out in anguish. Something whizzed close to the young man's head and he looked around, bewildered.

  "What is happening? What should I do?" he asked, though no one heard or answered. Screams rose here and there, as Diwoméde stared wide-eyed at the deadly rain falling upon fleshy targets. "Arrows!" he cried in sudden realization. Warriors fell to his left and right, cursing at the pain. A miniature forest of ash wood and feathers sprang up around the young man.

  Meneláwo's great voice rose over the din, "Keep your shields up!"

  Diwoméde obeyed, wondering why he had not done this before. From beneath the flimsy shelter of ox-hide, the Ak'áyans repeated their warlike cries, "Alalá! Díwo!"

  "So this is battle," Diwoméde said with pretended confidence.

  The burly pirate next to him laughed harshly. "This is just a test of will," Odushéyu snarled. "Show them you are not afraid." He beat his spear against his shield's rim, calling out the war cry.

  Diwoméde shook so that the plates on his chest armor rattled, as he halfheartedly began doing the same. The flight of arrows abruptly ended and the young qasiléyu's fear began to dissipate. The thundering rhythm of spears drumming against shields made his heart beat stronger. He felt again the burning fury that had filled his heart at the sight of 'Elléniya's citadel burning. Once more, he knew the sting of Tróya's insult to Ak'áyan womanhood. The righteousness of the Ak'áyans' cause filled him with confidence. "Tróyan dogs," he shouted, "you have no honor!" He thought he heard a high-pitched scree above the tumult. "I hear Díwo's eagle!" Diwoméde cried, no longer shaking. "It is an omen."

  Beside him, Odushéyu bellowed, "The storm god is with us!" All around, men cried, "Alalá! Díwo!" With the clash of yellow blades and metal gear, the two lines of spearmen joined in battle.

  aaa

  Klutaimnéstra sat on the throne in the mégaron of Mukénai's palace, instructing her serving women on their duties. "Forget the household chores today," the queen commanded. "I want your attentions focused on me. First I will bathe. You bath pourers, begin at once. Bring water from the springs and heat it. Use every caldron and every tripod, covering every hearth if you must. But I must be done with my bath before the wánaks returns this evening from the hunt.

  "Empty the tub as soon as I have finished. Not one of you will bathe this day, do you hear? In fact, dump all the water over the citadel walls. I do not care what the king may have promised you for your favors. But he lies with me tonight. When you have emptied t
he bath, then begin again immediately, bringing fresh water for the wánaks Agamémnon. He will bathe as soon as he arrives home. Go now and do not dawdle or I will have you beaten."

  "Yes, wánasha," the servants responded obediently, knowing that she meant what she said. Fifteen women touched a hand to their hearts and foreheads in respectful obeisance, and left the chamber. Only three remained to hear the rest of Klutaimnéstra's orders.

  "Mélisha," the queen said to the oldest of the three, "Bring the jars of Mízriyan perfumed oil from my private storeroom. Rub all my flesh with scented oil when I am bathed. Lísura, you must bring the Kanaqániyan jars. Wash my hair with henna until it is as red as a horse's hide," she told the second serving woman, and to the third, she directed, "Qérita, grind red ochre and mix it with olive oil to paint my lips. The wánaks favors the color red. It is the luckiest shade. So you must adorn me well with it. Open my chest of jewels. Bring all the strings of beads, the blue lapis to wind in my hair when it is dry, and the red carnelian for necklaces. I will wear my red bodice today and the new purple skirts from Kanaqán. Brush my garments with olive oil before I dress, to deepen the colors. But you are not to adorn yourselves. Nor are you to comb your hair or wear clean clothes. You will not compete for my husband's favors, not this night."

  Dutifully, the serving women turned to their duties. Barefoot and dressed only in simple, ankle-length skirts of a single hue, they carried on their heads the heavy water jars or jugs of exotic oils and dyes. In furtive whispers, the women asked each other why the wánasha had given such unusual orders. "She must want something from the king," the middle-aged Mélisha suggested, "something worth a great deal of bronze."

  "Perhaps she is plotting against her husband," breathed the younger Qérita. "The wánasha may intend to kill him when he is in the tub, naked and unarmed." Each quickly made the sign of the Evil Eye, before scurrying to her appointed task.

  The wánaks of Argo hunted with his long-legged hounds that day, riding his chariot through the streets of his golden capital of Mukénai and out to the wooded hills. There he left the cart and horses with his driver and stalked a wild boar until the sun was high in the sky. He thought little more of the quarrel with his wife, or of his brother's troubles, and even less of his new qasiléyu's fortunes across the sea. His heart was at rest when he returned to his fortress. He admired once again the massive stone lions over his capital city's main entrance, their mouths open in a silent, eternal roar. With a perfunctory salute, he acknowledged the circle of his illustrious ancestors' graves just inside the gate. At the courtyard fronting his palace, he dismissed his charioteer. Handing the reins to an unclothed servant, the king said, "Feed my horses well tonight, T'érsite. Put honey in their grain. They worked hard today."

  T'érsite moved to take the leather strands, muttering unhappily, "I worked hard, too." Feeling magnanimous, Agamémnon allowed the complaint to pass unnoticed but for a single quick blow of his horsewhip.

  In his palace, the youngest serving woman, Qérita, bathed the wánaks with unusual care, drying his body with clean linen cloths afterward. The king was mildly surprised at her diligence and even more astonished that she never met his gaze. The youthful servant did not even glance at him out of the corner of her eyes. Lísura took over when Agamémnon came from the tiled bath-room. She rubbed scented oil over his limbs, exclaiming sympathetically over the tiny scratches he had received in the day's hunt. But, like her companion, she avoided his gaze. When he rested a beefy hand on her rounded hips, she quietly drew away from his touch. With eyes as downcast as the others', the older Mélisha led the king to the mégaron for the evening meal, carefully arranging the sheepskins on his throne of carved ivory. His meat was well seasoned with sea salt and with coriander, brought from the east. Lísura was in constant motion through the meal, bringing more mutton as soon as Agamémnon finished what was on his tin plate and placing freshly cooked loaves of bread on his table. The wine was full strength and sweeter than usual, honeyed and thickened with barley meal. Mélisha kept the king's two-handled cup filled at all times.

  The Argive wánaks was puzzled by their solicitude, but pleased. At the meal's end, young Qérita brought him water, scented with rose petals, in a painted bowl. As he washed his hands, he gazed up at the youthful serving-woman. "Ai," he sighed contentedly. "There is only one more thing I need to make this day complete."

  Nervously the servant looked toward her mistress, shrouded in a dark blue cloak on the other side of the central hearth. Klutaimnéstra rose and let her embroidered robe slip to the painted floor. "My husband," the wánasha murmured softly. "I wish to make up our quarrel. I want only peace with you tonight." She walked gracefully toward the contented wánaks, her broad hips swaying slowly from side to side in carefully accentuated moves. She brushed back long, reddened hair, entwined with beads of precious stones. Her pendulous breasts lifted at the gesture, above her tight bodice.

  Agamémnon sat up straight, an astonished smile on his face. "Is this a dream?" He laughed, eyes eagerly taking in the slow side-to-side movements of the woman's hips. With a solemn smile, she opened her arms to him. He rose and took her in a strong embrace, pressing his flushed face to the hair falling in thick curls to her waist. "You still do it to me, wife," he groaned happily. One hand caressed her ample breast, the other pulled at the flounced skirt.

  "Not here," the wánasha whispered in his ear, "the servants will see us. Come to bed, my love, and lie upon soft sheepskins."

  But Agamémnon was full of wine and longing. He pressed himself hard against his wife's thighs and called out to the serving-women to leave the room. His burning, black eyes never left his wife's face. "I want you now, Klutaimnéstra," he said, his voice husky. "The bedroom is too far away."

  She complied with his wishes without further argument, pulling the leather strap from his waist. His kilt fell to the floor, soon followed by her long skirts. In the flickering light of the dying hearth-fire they made love with a quiet passion that each had thought long dead. Agamémnon's hairy chest pressed as a welcome weight on Klutaimnéstra's full breasts. Her legs spread hungrily to take him in. Arms and legs wrapped round each other, they groaned with delight. Serving-maids watched surreptitiously from the shadows of the anteroom before the mégaron. With hands to mouths, eyes wide, they peered through the light curtain that draped the doorway. The reigning couple made love, rested, and made love again, this time taking the sheepskins from the chairs to cushion the hard paving stones. Klutaimnéstra now rode atop her lover. His strong hands gripped her thighs and he roared in delight as she rocked her ample hips against his.

  "Owái," Agamémnon moaned in mock distress when they were done, "what you do to me!"

  Klutaimnéstra chuckled deep in her throat, nibbling at her husband's neck and shoulder. "What do I do to you, my husband? What?"

  He sighed and pulled her close for a warm embrace. "I should not have struck you in front of my brother, Klutaimnéstra. I forgot both your dignity and mine in that moment. Ai, but you know I have never been able to control my temper. You should take more care not to anger me. Ask what you want of me when we have made love, wife. Then I will grant you anything in the world."

  Klutaimnéstra asked, with dark eyes gleaming, "Will you swear to that?"

  "I vow to you my devotion, by 'Estiwáya, guardian of my hearth," Agamémnon said with mock solemnity, touching his hand to heart and head. Dropping his arm he kissed his wife full and hard on the lips. "Make love to me once more, woman, and I will even swear by the Stuks." His hands once more found the moist warmth between her legs, his face pressed between her soft breasts.

  "'Estiwáya is good enough," Klutaimnéstra said, pushing him away. "Enough of lovemaking, my husband. I have a request for you. There is something that I want with all my heart."

  The wánaks rose on his elbow, brows furrowed. "What?" Then it came to him. "Ai, I know, Klutaimnéstra. It is your sister. You want me to get Ariyádna back from Wilúsiya."

  "Yes," Klu
taimnéstra whispered solemnly. "I do."

  Agamémnon grimaced. "It was not easy for me to deny Meneláwo's request. And you mean a good deal more to me than my brother does. I would gladly do anything else for your sake, but not this one thing. I do not have the power."

  "What? You are the most powerful wánaks in all of Ak'áiwiya," Klutaimnéstra protested, her voice still sweet and low. "Who better to avenge my sister?"

  "Yes, yes, wife, I am the greatest wánaks," Agamémnon groaned. He sat up. "In Ak'áiwiya. And if any Ak'áyan had done this thing, whether pirate or king, I would not hesitate to make war on him. But this attack came from across the Inner Sea."