by Diana Gainer
"This is a terrible fate," St'énelo wailed, pulling at an oar.
At his side, Diwoméde agreed, gulping. "My father said it was the worst of omens to lose your first battle."
Odushéyu hopped down from the platform and struck the young qasiléyu repeatedly in the face. "Shut your mouth, you pup! Ai gar, it was your cowardice that doomed us. If you had not turned from the battle, we would have won. You are a fawn, a worthless sack of wine! You do not even know your true father!"
Meneláwo roughly dragged the mariner away from the youth, shouting, "Return to your post, pirate! Take the steering oar. We have no time for this. Get back up on the bench, Diwoméde. Row, men, row for your lives!"
aaa
On the beach, Tróyans continued to call on their prince as he kicked and cursed, trying to break free of their restraining hands. "We made them run like frightened deer," Ainyáh exulted, shaking his fellow commander's shoulders. "We won, brother-in-law, we slaughtered them!"
The light of recognition finally returned to Qántili's eyes and he stopped struggling and began to laugh, a full and hearty sound that rang from his broad chest. "Go tell your mothers you will stay home like good little boys, after this," the Tróyan shouted toward the sea. The men about him hurled other insults after the panicked Ak'áyans, shooting a few last arrows for good measure. The men of lesser rank began to walk back toward the walled citadel rising from Wilúsiya's plain. Picking up discarded shields and fallen weapons, they cheerfully pounded their kinsmen's backs and recounted the number they had slain.
Qántili whooped in triumph and tossed his bloodied helmet into the air. "They will think twice before attacking Wilúsiya's shores again!"
Ainyáh threw an arm over the younger man's shoulder. "This is a good omen for us, very good," the man from Kanaqán announced. "And it is a sad, sad tale that goes back to Ak'áiwiya."
aaa
The women of Tróya watched the brief battle from the southern tower, captive and free alike. Those of high rank cheered their kinsmen's victory, dancing on the high, brick structure with their hands in the air, making a high, ululating cry echo over the town.
Weeping, Kluména clung to her mistress. "Owái, Ariyádna, this is an evil omen," the nursemaid wailed. "I told 'Ermiyóna that her pappa would come and protect her, if only she would hide in the big storage jar. I told her to be quiet like Kórwa. 'Does grain make a sound?' I said. Ai, she was afraid, poor little bird. She wanted her mamma or her nurse with her. But she closed her little mouth and hid just as I told her. Owái, she has lost both her mother and father now!"
The captive wánasha stared blankly at the yellow grass below and the dark sea beyond. Her eyes, blackened where hard, warrior's hands had struck her, were wide but unseeing. She whispered, "Listen, t'ugátriyon, and I will tell you the words of the holy spiral, the story of the prophecy. You must learn it for it tells of the end of this world."
Kluména pulled at the queen's limp arms. "Come away, wánasha, and do not talk like that. Your little daughter is not here."
Ariyádna was compliant. She followed the nursemaid away from the fortress walls, whispering as she walked:
"The warrior will do battle, he of the Land of the Crossroad,
For the wánasha of the Fertile Land.
To the Bull of the sea the wánasha will pray.
The warrior will take uncounted treasures and captives.
To the Crossroad Land he will sail by the will of the Bull."
Kluména shuddered at the younger woman's voice. "Sweet Diwiyána, what are you saying?" she gasped. "Is this your own story?"
Ariyádna absently patted the nursemaid's bruised arm. "Hush, t'ugátriyon, and listen. Remember what was foretold to us by the goddess.
"On the island, to the wánaks, the tale of the battle will be poured out.
In weapons and treasures, his losses will be uncounted…
To the Land of the Crossroad and of treasure, a multitude will set sail….
By the will of the Bull …the will of Díwo….
Over the sea is his wánasha."
"Enough, enough of this story," Kluména begged. "You frighten me with this talk. If you are the queen of the ancient prophecy, then we really are about to see the end of the world." The nurse pulled her wánasha into the dark corridors of Tróya's palace. "Ai, the maináds have your soul and will not let you go," Kluména wailed. In Paqúr's bed chamber, she collapsed upon the cool paving stones, weeping. "Owái," Kluména keened. "The gods themselves will fight over you, wánasha. Díwo will hurl the thunderbolt against his brother, the sea, and Poseidáon will shatter the land with earthquakes."
Beside her servant, Ariyádna collapsed on the floor, writhing. "The twin sons of Díwo have taken up arms against the daughters of Diwiyána," she called out, her voice thick and coarse, unblinking eyes fastened on the realm of the unseen. "The Diwoskórwos have slaughtered their sisters, the Dawns. My lord Sun has murdered the Lady Moon. We will all go down the Stuks. It is the end of the world, the end of the world!"
aaa
Upon the rough waters of the Inner Sea, Odushéyu and Meneláwo argued heatedly. "Let me turn north toward the T'rákiyan coastline," the It'ákan pirate demanded. "It is too late in the year to risk the open sea. I have seen the violent storms that Poseidáon sends out here. Many a well-built ship has shattered between high waves and many a good man has drowned in these waters. Listen to me, Meneláwo. We must go north."
"Maintain your course, men," Meneláwo shouted to the rowers. "As for you, Odushéyu, hold your tongue, for once in your life. We do not have time to hug the shore. The Tróyans may be after us."
Odushéyu rested his right hand on the pommel of his bloody sword, his left hand still gripping the long steering oar. "I am not your qasiléyu, Meneláwo. I speak and act as I see fit. I say we go home by way of T'ráki. Barbarian tribesmen are more likely to show us hospitality than is Poseidáon. The sea god is the enemy of every son of Diwiyána. We must turn north, Meneláwo, before it is too late."
The Lakedaimóniyan wánaks did not wait to see whether his fellow king would draw the sword beneath his fist. Meneláwo struck Odushéyu with the flat of his own blade, bloodying the It'ákan's nose. "We cross the sea here!" Meneláwo cried, in his bull's bellow. "Head straight for Aúli. We winter in Qoyotíya this year. Agamémnon will meet us in the spring."
Odushéyu nearly fell over the side of the narrow vessel at the other king's blow. Meneláwo caught the steering oar, shouting, "I will hear no more arguments!" Cursing quietly, the It'ákan crouched on the small platform, wiping at his bloodied face. He said no more about the far north.
Hearing the name of their destination, Diwoméde stopped rowing, momentarily. "Qoyotíya!" he cried in astonishment. "Why would my wánaks go there?"
"Because that is where his wánasha sent him," Meneláwo roared. "Now pay attention to your rowing, boy, or you will turn the ship. Raise the mast, St'énelo, and tie the stays. Odushéyu, make yourself useful and raise the sail. We cross the sea here."
CHAPTER FIVE
WASTUNOME
At dawn a man in his early thirties walked slowly to the shoreline, between the two headlands cradling Tróya's port. He was a tall man, broad in the chest and strong, his skin bronzed by the sun. The sea before him was dark and as listless as the day threatened to be. Anchored ships cluttered the harbor, their sails long since packed away beneath the rowing benches, the masts taken down and wrapped with sheepskins for some small protection against the sun's burning rays. On the shore, the man yawned and stretched. He scratched at the long, dark hair clinging to his forehead and neck, already damp with sweat. Looking down at his linen kilt, he called, "'Iqodámeya, come, wash my garment."
A moment of silence answered him. In irritation he looked back over his shoulder at a rough hut of driftwood and thatch close by. Opening his mouth to call again, he decided against it. With a perfunctory gesture of dismissal, he turned again to the sea. Lifting his kilt, he urinated into the foam at
the water's edge and yawned again. He returned toward the little hut, noting the trees on the distant hills. The leaves were beginning to change color. "It is time to leave," he said to himself.
Rosy threads on the edges of the clouds hovered over the eastern horizon, as the sun's golden chariot began its daily journey. The man raised his right hand to his heart, forehead, and then to the sky, palm outward. "Owlé, Lady Dawn, hail to you," he yawned.
A little way up the beach a younger man, his beard still sparse on his cheeks and chin, saluted the sun in the same fashion. "Owlé, wánaks Ak'illéyu," he called out afterward, repeating the gesture in the direction of the older man.
Ak'illéyu turned away without returning the greeting to the youth. "To 'Aidé with you, Diwoméde," he muttered to himself. "I am sick of you Zeyugelátes, you southern ox-drivers."
Further up the shore, Diwoméde urinated in the shallow water, cursing quietly, "Préswa take these P'ilístas, these northern feather-crowns. Even their name is half barbarian."
A faint, rhythmic sound came to Ak'illéyu's ears, a high pitched ring of metal against metal. His morning lethargy was forgotten and he trotted quickly away from the shore. The rampart was nearly complete, he noted, as he passed the seaward edge of the earthen wall. Another day or so and the whole shore-side encampment would be protected against attack. Rows of small ferry boats, their planks fastened together with decaying ropes, lay high up on the beach, close to the rampart of rammed earth. They had been turned hull up, so that the wood would dry in the sun rather than rot. But Ak'illéyu found himself wondering whether the larger ships, anchored in the harbor, would still be sea-worthy when these little boats finally ferried the men out to them. Or would his people discover their longboats to be leaking, the linen sails and the cables of twisted flax all rotted away?
Ramshackle wooden huts and dilapidated tents, some of leather, some of linen, stood behind the protecting rampart. Smaller shelters clustered in groups around a few larger structures. Ak'illéyu knew that their number was greater than any seen on that shore before, though he could not count them. It must be more ten groups of a hundred each, he reflected, too many men packed into too small a space. As he skirted the edge of the great encampment, he passed unclad men with bronzed skin, their curly hair long like his. Most squatted or sat about the campfires, tending pots of lentils and barley. A few still lay sleeping on the ground, or on dirty fleeces, their round shields over them to keep off the morning dew. Some glanced up with mild interest. A few hailed him as Diwoméde had. But he ignored them all.
The rhythmic sounds grew louder. Heads began to turn toward the north and the last sleepers awoke. "Someone is coming from Tróya," Diwoméde announced, following in Ak'illéyu's footsteps. "They must have crossed the Sqámandro River before dawn." In a rush, men flocked to the earthen wall to see.
Over the low hills beyond the camp came a slow procession. The garments of the approaching visitors were unfamiliar. Despite the heat of the end of summer, they wore ankle-length robes of black wool. An old man marched in the lead, a bough from the laurel tree in each hand, resting on his bony shoulders. Thin strips of gold and copper trailed from the leafy branches, figs and olives tied to them with linen string. Behind the old man came younger ones with shaved heads and beardless faces, bearing in their arms finely wrought objects of precious metals, strangely shaped vessels and odd figurines. At the back of the procession came three women, the first one not yet fully grown, the second with the wide hips of one who had given birth, the third with hair whitened by age. Entwined in each woman's long hair, strands of beads clacked together. Each one's long, flounced skirts swirled about her feet as she proceeded. With bronze finger cymbals the women marked the rhythm of their march.
Ak'illéyu sprinted to a large hut near the wall, shouting to those within. "Wake up, Patróklo. My sword!" But he did not wait for it to be brought out. A moment later, Ak'illéyu was in the shack, grasping the short, bronze blade in his hand.
Patróklo rose abruptly from the sheepskins where he had been lying, a plump woman in his arms. "What is it, wánaks?" the man asked, hurrying to his feet. Beneath him, the woman scrambled out of the way.
Waving his sword, Ak'illéyu simply answered, "Someone is coming. It may be the old priest from the island. He has men with him." Without further explanation he leaped from the hut into the open, nearly colliding with a smaller woman about to enter, a tall jar balanced on her head.
"'Iqodámeya," he shouted angrily to the bare-breasted woman, taking her roughly by the shoulder. The terra cotta jar toppled from her head and shattered on the stones lining the nearby campfire. Water poured over the hard-packed earth. 'Iqodámeya fell to her knees at the sight of the armed warrior. Her arms raised, she cried, "Wánaks Ak'illéyu, do not kill me."
But before she had finished her plea, Ak'illéyu was gone, Patróklo with his spear close behind. 'Iqodámeya remained on the ground, trembling, to watch the men rushing toward a breach in the incomplete rampart. Patróklo's plump woman came to the door of the small cabin, her black hair disheveled, still fumbling with the leather belt of her skirt. The two women looked at each other with wide, frightened eyes.
"What is it, Wíp'iya? What has happened?" 'Iqodámeya asked.
"Ak'illéyu mentioned a priest. It may be K'rusé coming for his daughter. Ai, the lucky woman! Wastunóme is about to be ransomed," Wíp'iya sighed.
'Iqodámeya rose with her hand over her heart. "Praise the mother goddess," she whispered. "Praise Dáwan Anna."
aaa
Ak'illéyu and Patróklo were not the first to meet the procession. A small, thin man with a heavily-lined face greeted the visitors with his hands up, palms out in friendship. "Owlé, godly ones," he called out in a ringing voice as they approached the opening in the wall. "Hail to you. I am Qálki, servant of the great god Díwo, reader of signs and omens for the Ak'áyan troops."
"Owlé," said the old man at the head of the procession, with less drama. He waved a laurel branch. "I am K'rusé, priest of Apúluno, come with the slaves of the god to see your king."
Qálki led the way through the breach in the earthen wall to the center of the encampment. Before the largest tent, its linen woven in stripes of blue, yellow and red, the seer stopped. The great tent's colors had faded from long days in the sun, but more small huts clustered around it than about any other. "This is the tent of the high wánaks, our overlord," Qálki announced in his most dramatic tones, though it was hardly necessary. He raised a thin, leathery arm and continued, "Here is the dwelling of the king of Argo, commander of all the Ak'áyans, Agamémnon." He gestured toward a big man reclining on a few fleeces before the big tent.
Agamémnon wore only a kilt like other men of rank. But his garment's red and blue stripes were still bright, and its hem was fringed. On his shins he wore greaves of shining bronze to show his lofty status. The overlord did not hear Qálki's introduction. His heavy brows were low over his eyes, his face grim. He did not speak to K'rusé or even turn to see the old man. His attention was on other matters.
Around the overlord's campfire sat the more powerful kings of Ak'áiwiya's many lands. Néstor stood addressing the others, a long staff in one hand, stroking his white beard with the other. "At the rate we are going," Néstor was saying, "the rampart will be finished by the day after tomorrow, at the latest. At that point, Panaléyo and I will divide our troops and direct them in separate tasks. My Mesheníyans will work on a wooden gate, while the Qoyotíyans begin digging a moat around the perimeter of the wall. If they have time, they will connect it with the sea, so that our enemies will have to cross water to reach us."
"A moat?" Meneláwo demanded incredulously from his brother's side. The Lakedaimóniyan king was astonished and not at all pleased. "But that will take months."
Néstor raised his staff, pointing the knobbed tip at the man who had interrupted. "I have the speaker's staff, Meneláwo," the gray-haired king noted testily. "Be silent until I have had my say."
"Let
him finish," Agamémnon agreed. Qálki attempted to draw the big man's attention but Agamémnon waved him away without a second glance.
Néstor resumed his speech. "As I was saying, Panaléyo will direct the digging of a moat. Until it is complete, the Qoyotíyans will fill it with sharpened stakes." He turned toward another kilted ruler, one of several wearing a cap adorned with feathers. "Do you have anything to add, Panaléyo?"
The feathered king of Qoyotíya shook his head.
Meneláwo quickly stood, reaching for the knobbed stick. Néstor released it and sat down beside Panaléyo. "We do not have time for so much building," Meneláwo complained. "This campaign has already taken far longer than it should have. We lost most of the spring season waiting at Aúli. When I had to leave you, I was afraid Tróya would fall before I could catch up to you again. But now I find you wasted half the summer just crossing the Inner Sea! What madness made you stop at all the islands on the way over, Agamémnon? Was it lust for areté? If you were so anxious to sack and burn Wilúsiyan cities, why did you not come straight here? You could have gained twice the booty and three times the honor by taking Tróya immediately. You could have dealt with the islands on the way back. Autumn is upon us now and still we have not fought the Tróyans. I am sick of waiting. I am tired of building. It is time to fight!"