by Diana Gainer
That pleased him. "You must not believe everything that people say about us," he told her. "How many times have you heard that Ak'áyans are interested only in bronze and do not care how they get it? That may be true of Argives, Mesheníyans, It'ákans, and even Kep'túriyans. But those are all southerners, Zeyugelátes. Ak'áiwiya is more than the south. We P'ilístas of the north are different. We know that wealth is like good luck. A man has it one day and loses it the next. The only thing that lasts is honor. If a man loses his possessions but keeps his areté, then one day he will have bronze again. But without areté the wealthiest man can expect to die in poverty."
The young woman rested her head on Ak'illéyu's broad chest, fingering the thick hair there. "Is it really that simple?" she asked somberly. "Have you never known an honorable man to die miserably? I think that life is what matters. What is honor, after all? You cannot eat it. Areté will not shelter you from rain or snow. When you are dead, honor will not bring you up from 'Aidé to see the sun again."
"You have convinced me," Ak'illéyu smiled and rolled her beneath him again. He thought no more of what Agamémnon had done that morning.
But Qálki remembered. "You are a godless man," he said to the high wánaks, still at Agamémnon's fireside after all the kings and qasiléyus had returned to their own huts and tents. "This is an outrage. K'rusé came with the god's own symbol."
The Argive king glowered at the seer. "Apúluno has no power in Ak'áiwiya. His priest means nothing to me. Now, leave my hearth."
Qálki stood his ground, his thin body quivering with anger. "Díwo demands respect for all gods, foreign as well as Ak'áyan. Though you may have no fear of me, Díwo is the wánaks of Ak'áiwiya's gods. He will not forget your sacrilege. Do not forget that you will have to sail back across the sea to go home. You will see Díwo's power in the bolt of lightning that splits the mast of your ship. You will hear his anger in every clap of thunder as the rain pours down to fill your longboats with water."
Agamémnon snorted. "Save it for the herdsmen and potters, Qálki. I am no beardless boy, old man. You cannot frighten me with stories of monstrous witches who eat bad children." He lifted his sword from its leather scabbard with its inlays of precious metal. "This is the only god I need," he said, raising the weapon above his head. "This is what made me Argo's wánaks, and overlord of all Ak'áiwiya, not that soggy cloud you call Díwo." The sword's point lowered to the seer's throat. "I let you live only because the men will not fight until they hear a prophet read a favorable omen," Agamémnon went on in a fierce whisper. "In my eyes your kind are blood-sucking lámiyas. My father's seer knew his place. When the wánaks Atréyu needed a good omen, his prophet might cut open as many as ten goats, until the entrails gave a favorable sign. But not you. One bird flies past and you shake in your sandals and cry, 'No battle today.' Keep away from me, you old fraud. You have pushed me too far already. I will never give up another thing I desire. Never!"
Qálki's thin eyebrows rose in terror. He pointed toward Agamémnon with his index and small fingers. "You are a fool, wánaks," he gasped. "Too much boasting attracts bad luck. The envy of Díwo's Eye will catch up with you one day. You are powerful, Agamémnon. But the Evil Eye is stronger still and it is not afraid of sharp bronze. The only way to save yourself is to sacrifice what you value. Give up Wastunóme before it is too late!"
With a roar, Agamémnon struck at the seer with his blade. Qálki leaped away, a thin line of blood on his hairless chest, a shrill cry on his lips. The lawagétas had made their way back to the overlord's fire, at the sound of the men quarrelling. Several raised their weapons in readiness for combat when they saw Agamémnon's sword upraised. But each hesitated to act. Diwoméde twice lifted his sword and then replaced it in its scabbard, looking from the overlord to the prophet in confused apprehension.
Only one leader was unafraid, one nearly tall as the king, though less broad in the shoulders and noticeably thinner than he had been at the start of the campaign. Meneláwo caught the Argive wánaks by the arm before he could strike Qálki a second time. "Brother, wait. Are you out of your mind?"
Agamémnon was breathing hard, his blood hot with rage. "Let me go, Meneláwo."
The younger wánaks did not obey. Urgently, he hissed into Agamémnon's ear, "Have the maináds caught you? No man here will follow you if you kill the prophet. That is sacrilege! You will lose everything." Agamémnon paused, grinding his teeth, his eyes still full of fire. Meneláwo added more quietly, "You will lose your kingship."
The overlord shook himself free of his brother's grasp. But he did not advance on the seer. Qálki drew his ragged cloak from the ground and wound it about his shoulders with all the dignity his shuddering limbs would allow.
"Get out of my sight!" the Argive king shouted, waving his sword at the prophet. "You have had your last sacrifice from me." He returned to his tent, dragging Wastunóme, keening, with him.
"You will pay for this, Agamémnon," Qálki said, but not so loud that Agamémnon could hear over the cries of his captive. "I fear no one but the wánaks of the gods, Díwo himself. He will bend you to his will in the end." Eyes glittering with hatred, the little man left the Argive king's fireside, every lawagéta's gaze following him.
A gloomy peace settled on the camp. By their many fires, men of high rank and low talked in quiet voices. They whispered to each other about the sacrifice their overlord had made at the beginning of their journey. They spoke, too, of the curse that surely hovered over them all because of it.
aaa
"Tell me, my wánaks," 'Iqodámeya asked softly. "What terrible thing is it that lies between the prophet Qálki and your overlord?"
Ak'illéyu's face grew solemn. He turned on his back as they lay side by side on a fleece-covered pallet. Not looking at 'Iqodámeya, he spoke to the leaky thatch of the hut. "When all the wánaktes from Ak'áiwiya answered the challenge to our honor, we met at Aúli, the largest port in Qoyotíya. We held a council there when spring ended and elected an overlord to command us all. Meneláwo wanted us to choose him, because it was his queen who had been abducted. Néstor said that he should lead since he was the oldest and wisest. But we voted for Agamémnon. He had the most power and the largest number of fighting men, so we really had no choice in the matter. In fact, Agamémnon had sent each wánaks a message, threatening to sack our cities if we did not acknowledge Argo as the seat of his Ak'áyan empire. None of us knew that the others had been threatened. Each one thought he was alone against all the rest. So each of us came to Aúli unwilling, and we all raised our hands for Agamémnon, making him our commander.
"We prepared our ships to cross the sea in the spring, even before the harvest was all in, because Agamémnon demanded it. But our ships could not sail from Aúli, day after day, because the wind would not blow from the west. Agamémnon was too impatient to take the long northern route, hugging the T'rákiyan coast, rowing the whole way. The journey would consume the whole of the sailing season, if we went that way, he said. He would do nothing but wait.
"Most of us thought he was being stubborn and unreasonable. We wanted to be off, so we could finish this campaign and get back to our lands again. Many had troubles at home. The previous harvest had been poor in the eastern countries and hungry people are always restive. If we stayed away too long, we were afraid we would not have thrones to return to. So we asked the prophet for help. 'Why doesn't the wind blow?' we asked. Qálki consulted the signs and laid the blame on the high wánaks. Agamémnon had gone hunting in Argo, just before he sailed for Aúli. He killed a hind without sacrificing first, Qálki said. That had offended the great mainád, Artémito. She was the dáimon who had sent the unfavorable winds.
"Meneláwo accused the seer of fraud. We should have known he would support his brother. He even claimed that Klutaimnéstra had paid Qálki to delay us, to avenge her husband's infidelity. Of course, Agamémnon agreed with this preposterous story. But we had all heard Agamémnon boast of his wealth and power, without giving cred
it or praise to any god. Even Meneláwo had to admit that his brother was not a pious man.
"Naturally, we P'ilístas believed in Qálki and most of the south sided with us, too. Néstor and Idómeneyu, at least, fear the gods. But no one dared to accuse Agamémnon to his face and demand that he expiate his guilt. Each wánaks feared it would mean war. If that happened, Argo's army could destroy any lesser force there. So we kept silent and waited. We sacrificed to the goddess Artémito ourselves and hoped that she would relent.
"Then a plague struck us. Men began to sicken and die, very quickly. Agamémnon claimed this was only the result of bad fish. But Qálki told us that the pestilence, too, was Artémito's work. Not that we had to ask him that time. Every Ak'áyan knows that a quick death from sickness is caused by Artémito's arrows. Only a sacrifice from Agamémnon himself would appease the goddess and save our lives. This time, we lawagétas held a secret council, without telling Meneláwo or his brother. We agreed to confront Agamémnon as a group. I was elected the leader of the P'ilístas. Néstor spoke for the Zeyugelátes. Both of us swore to protect the seer from the overlord.
"We all gathered for one more full assembly. Qálki accused Agamémnon to his face and said the overlord must make restitution. Artémito commanded it. Qálki insisted on it. Because of the prophet's words, the north demanded it and so did half the south. Even some of the Argives and Lakedaimóniyans of low rank sided with us. Aíwaks, Agamémnon's right-hand qasiléyu, spoke to us all. He said he was a true southerner and a loyal Argive, but he too wanted an end to this plague. How could he have done otherwise? His troops were dying just as ours were.
"Agamémnon rarely listens to other men. But, when all his army agreed on a thing, even he had to pay attention. So he swore by the hearth of his home that he would make the sacrifice. We thought everything was settled then and we could relax. But then Qálki insisted that Agamémnon take a greater oath, that he swear by the river of the dead, by the very Stuks! We knew then that the sacrifice would be great.
"Agamémnon could see that too, of course. At first, he refused to give his word and threatened to kill Qálki, instead. But I stood up for the seer, protecting him with my drawn sword. All the P'ilístas were behind me, and more than half of the Zeyugelátes, with Néstor and Aíwaks at their head. Only Meneláwo and Diwoméde stood with the overlord. It would have meant civil war, Ak'áyan against Ak'áyan, if Agamémnon had refused to take the oath. The high wánaks had no choice. His face darkened and he cursed so violently, every man but Qálki made the sign of the Evil Eye to protect himself. But, in the end, Agamémnon swore by Préswa's river and told the seer to name the sacrifice."
Eyes intent on the warrior's face, 'Iqodámeya said, "Ai, it is good to know that even the highest Ak'áyan obeys the gods."
Ak'illéyu rubbed his eyes, avoiding the woman's gaze. "Yes, that is good. But what came afterward will not please you. No man here will ever forget the look on Agamémnon's face when Qálki named that sacrifice. The overlord's face was still black as the night. Then when the prophet told what Artémito demanded, the high wánaks grew as pale as bleached linen. Even Meneláwo cried out and put his hands to his chest, as if the words had pierced his heart." Ak'illéyu stopped and swallowed hard before continuing in a whisper. "The seer demanded Agamémnon's oldest daughter. The princess Ip'emédeya would have to die."
'Iqodámeya sat up suddenly, her eyes wide. "But it is a monstrous crime to shed the blood of a human being, especially a kinsman. Surely this goddess allowed a substitute. Ai, you would have to be barbarians to allow such a sacrifice."
Ak'illéyu shook his head, grimacing at the memory. "Artémito is the queen of the maináds. They are all wild and untamed goddesses. Even when it is human blood Artémito thirsts for, it is human blood she must have."
'Iqodámeya began to cry. "Owái, what kind of people am I to live among?" she wailed, pushing at Ak'illéyu's chest when he tried to take her in his arms again. "Do Ak'áyan fathers hate their own children so much?"
"No, no, it is the old way," Ak'illéyu tried to explain, grasping her hands in his. "When the gods make their demands, we must obey, no matter how hard it may be. And when a man gives his oath, he must stick to it. The goddess demanded Ip'emédeya and Agamémnon had sworn he would give what she demanded. It was a difficult thing for him to do. Nothing could have made him suffer more anguish. Ak'áyans love their children more than their own lives. Agamémnon was angry and his brother Meneláwo sided with him. Diwoméde even offered to kill the prophet, but Qálki had asked for protection from the warriors. I had sworn I would do this. So, I stepped forward, and again others stood beside me, Aíwaks and Néstor, alongside all the lawagétas of the north. Agamémnon had no choice but to do as the seer said. If he had not backed down, it would have meant the end of the Assúwan campaign before it had really begun."
"Owái, Mother Dáwan help me," 'Iqodámeya wept. "If an Ak'áyan man will kill his own child, what hope is there for a captive? My husband used to beat me when he was drunk. When I was heavy with our first child, he drank poppy-tinged wine and that time he beat me so that I lost the baby. I nearly died. No man could be worse than Muné, I thought. Owái, but you, Ak'illéyu, you made a man kill his own daughter after she had been born and named." Gulping and shaking, 'Iqodámeya crawled away from Ak'illéyu, cowering by the flimsy back wall of the hut.
"Stop crying," Ak'illéyu begged, coming after her. In spite of her tears and protests, he pulled her into his arms and back to the sheepskins. He found himself trembling as violently as the woman. A feeling of sickness rose in his throat. "Ak'áyans are men like any others, 'Iqodámeya. Agamémnon drenched his beard with his own tears. And so did Meneláwo. He was the girl's uncle, after all. But do you not see? There was no other way. The overlord or the rest of us, we had no other choice. Agamémnon had to give his daughter to Lady Artémito, just as I had to protect the seer's life. The gods' demands must be honored, no matter what the cost. Do you think I enjoyed watching that sacrifice? Ai, the memory troubles me still. When I was a child, I saw my own three sisters fall to plague, to Artémito's deadly arrows. Since I became a man, I have seen warriors die in combat on islands all over the Inner Sea. I have seen ten hundred deaths or more and none pains me like the thought of Ip'emédeya. They did not tell her she was going to die, you see. Agamémnon told her she was going to marry me. But then they gave her strong wine tainted with bitter poppies. Even so, at the last, her eyes were just like those of a deer when it has been wounded and cannot run any longer. She knew then. She knew she was going to die. I see those eyes sometimes in my dreams."
Tears began to well in his own deep-set eyes and he clasped his woman tightly, hiding his face in her dark hair. "Listen to me, 'Iqodámeya. You have nothing to fear from me. I do not think of you as a foreigner or as a captive. I love you, 'Iqodámeya, even though I won you with my spear. I love you as much as any man loves his wife. I will never beat you. I swear it by 'Estiwáya."
She stopped struggling, wanting to believe him. "Will you make me your true wife when you go back to Ak'áiwiya?" she asked querulously. "Or will you send me to the fields to sow and reap the flax?"
"I will marry you," he whispered, "and make your children my heirs. I swear it by the guardian spirit of my hearth."
aaa
In his damp tent by the sea, Agamémnon told Wastunóme the same tale of his daughter’s death, making her weep more bitterly than ever. "You will never leave me, girl," the overlord told his captive, downing one of several cups of undiluted wine. "My family was shattered because of Qálki. Little Ip'emédeya is gone from my sight forever. Ai, it is her mother who is to blame for that, not I. It was Klutaimnéstra who sent me that lamíya, that blood-sucking Qálki, to me. My wánasha's schemes have gone too far, this time. I needed her before to keep my kingship. But you are a priest's daughter, as holy a woman as any wánaks could want. Stop your struggling, Wastunóme, and I will make you a promise. In golden Mukénai, I will make you my queen in Klutaimnéstra's pla
ce. I swear by the Stuks and by the souls of my forefathers, Qálki will get nothing more from me."
He pressed his body against Wastunóme's, tearing the skirt from her legs as she screamed endlessly, biting her hand to avoid his lips. "Ai, this is a true soldier's payment," Agamémnon groaned with fierce joy. As he slid into her, he decided that it was all worth it. In that moment, the anger, the bitterness, the oppressive heat of summer were all forgotten. This was the prize that made up for the rotten food, the infuriating insects, the bronze lost, and the blood spilled.
CHAPTER SIX
AK'ILLEYU
Late in the day Diwoméde came to the overlord's tent. His shoulder-length hair was still uncombed, his kilt rumpled and dirty. Only a single bronze greave showed that he ranked among the lawagétas. "Wánaks, it is Diwoméde, your qasiléyu," he announced, nervously pacing outside the flap of the tent. Wastunóme's shrill cries had quieted and no voices could be heard from inside. Still, the young man hesitated to enter. "A man is sick, one of our camp," Diwoméde called. "He has pains in his head and his chest. He coughs constantly."
With her reddened eyes downcast, Wastunóme pushed aside the flap. The qasiléyu entered and stood uneasily before his overlord. Agamémnon rolled his eyes contemptuously, as he reclined, unclad, on his sheepskins. Wastunóme returned to the king's side to resume picking lice from the long, greasy hair on his head. "Diwoméde," the wánaks said with barely contained exasperation, "if you want to remain my qasiléyu, you will have to learn to handle these trivial matters yourself. Do not bring every minor problem to me. I do not have time for it. Men who will not throw their refuse into the sea every day have to expect disease to seek them out." He waved, dismissing the qasiléyu.