by Diana Gainer
Diwoméde dared not press the issue with his king. But he was uneasy and could not forget the matter so easily. The qasiléyu sought out Meneláwo and reported the same news, adding in a low voice, "The men are afraid it is the plague again. Some have even suggested that Artémito is angry because Ip'emédeya did not really die at Aúli."
Meneláwo was incredulous. "What?"
"I argued with them," Diwoméde said quickly. "I pointed out that we all witnessed the sacrifice. Every man in the army saw Agamémnon raise the girl's heart over her body." He shivered and wiped his damp forehead with the back of his hand. "But the rumors persist."
Meneláwo listened with more interest than his brother had. Squatting just inside his tent flap, he grew solemn, thinking of his young niece. But the king of Lakedaimón agreed with the overlord, just the same. He explained, "Agamémnon and I have been on many campaigns and you have not. So you do not know what to expect. But this expedition is no simple cattle raid or boar hunt. It is a war. Lady Artémito carries her deadly bow behind her brother Arét in every campaign. It is well known that the wild goddess shoots pestilence into two men with her unseen arrows, for every one that Arét sends to 'Aidé on the spears of the human enemy. Still, there are things that can be done. Insist that your men bathe every time they shed blood. Only the ritually pure have nothing to fear from the dáimons. Also, when the men relieve themselves, have them go at least a hundred paces from the camp. Evil smells draw the spirits of evil powers. They enter a man's breath and attack his soul." He paused, staring sightlessly into the distance. "But I would not tell Agamémnon what the men say about his daughter. That is a very touchy subject with him."
Qálki was at Diwoméde's fireside when the young qasiléyu returned, still troubled. When the seer heard of the illness, his eyes narrowed. "This is a sign," the little man whispered. "You are right to be concerned. The gods are angry."
Diwoméde shuddered. "Tell me what to do, Qálki. I am no coward, despite what men may say. I admit I ran in my first battle. But I will not do that again. Give me a spear and I will face any man in Assúwa. But this is different. Disease is sent by the gods. How can I fight a dáimon?"
The wrinkled prophet nodded somberly. "No man can do that. Not even Agamémnon. We can only wait on the immortals," he said and left the qasiléyu's fire.
At the second largest cluster of huts, Qálki announced, "I bring dire news to Néstor, wánaks of Mesheníya." Antílok'o showed the seer into his father's tent. Néstor welcomed the prophet. "Your face is grim," the old wánaks said with a half smile. "Can this mean more trouble for Agamémnon?"
Qálki nodded. "It can. It does."
"'Ékamede," the gray-haired king commanded his serving woman, "bring wine for my honored guest."
The next day the sick man was worse. He tossed on his bed of dried grass, thrashing with arms and legs, a cry like a horse's neigh coming from his mouth. A bleeding rash spread over his body and he vomited intermittently throughout the day. By nightfall he was dead and two others had fallen to the invisible arrows of the same illness. Like the first man, they coughed and vomited, they burned with fever, and their bodies reddened, bleeding as if from a thousand wounds, each too small for the eye to see. Diwoméde's experience with campaigns was limited. But he recognized the dread disease. As he had feared, the pestilence that had stricken the Ak'áyans at Aúli was stalking their encampment again.
Qálki visited every fireside, spreading the news. "Ten Argives have died," he told wánaks Panaléyo. "As many more are bedridden. Have your men offer sacrifices to all the gods, if Qoyotíya hopes to be spared." The seer was politely but firmly invited to visit someone else. He left the feathered king's hearth, cursing under his breath and, with dramatic, sweeping movements, making the gesture of the Evil Eye.
"Qasiléyu Menést'eyu," he whispered at the next cluster of tents, "Twelve men of Argo are dead already. Fifteen more will follow them to 'Aidé before dawn. I saw it foretold in the liver of the goat that Agamémnon killed for this morning's meal. Attika is fated to suffer an equal loss unless the gods can be appeased." Here the prophet was made welcome and given a place of honor beside the fire. At Menést'eyu's command, feathered-crowned Attikans delivered messages to the other northern kings to come to Menést'eyu's tent. The wánaktes of Lókri, Éyuqoya and Aitolíya came to the summons and took the seer's words to heart. Even Panaléyo, when he saw how many of his neighbors sided with Qálki, reconsidered his earlier stand and joined his fellow P'ilístas.
Of the northern troop leaders, only the commander of the T'eshalíyans would not come to Menést'eyu's hearth. "A wánaks does not come at a qasiléyu's call," Ak'illéyu said testily. The prince sent Patróklo instead. Later, at the quiet urging of the T'eshalíyan qasiléyu, Qálki went to Ak'illéyu.
"Wánaks," the little man hissed, "have you heard that the pestilence has returned? Twenty men are corpses because of divine anger. Three times that number are writhing in the grip of fevers."
"No, I had not heard," Ak'illéyu said with a frown. "What has Agamémnon done about this?"
Around the smaller campfires, low-ranked men began to grumble. Wandering to the edge of the Lakedaimóniyan cluster of huts, Meneláwo's chariot master spoke with a bare-skinned laborer from the neighboring Argive group. "T'érsite," St'énelo asked, "how many men has Agamémnon lost?"
"Just the three," answered an untroubled Argive. He ran his fingers through freshly washed but thinning hair, chuckling. "Listen to this. Diwoméde made us bury them right away, half a day's march from the camp. He said that the unfamiliar terrain would confuse their spirits and they would not come back to torment us. We burned the dead men's huts, too. The qasiléyu said that if the spirits did find their way back, they would keep on wandering when they could not find their homes. Then he made us all purify our souls by bathing – three times, no less! Ai, we have been carrying water jars about like a group of women." He laughed. "That boy is so eager to please his overlord, he tackles anything, even dáimons from 'Aidé!"
"Did it work?" St'énelo asked, dubious.
T'érsite shrugged. "No one else is sick."
"Yet," the chariot master sighed. "Ai, here we are, fighting to restore one man's wife, and widowing how many more in the process?"
T'érsite spat. "This war is not about women, St'énelo," he said bitterly. "It is about bronze and the power of the throne. Agamémnon cares nothing about 'Elléniyan captives. No king does but Meneláwo. The rest took oaths in hopes of gaining glory and shining metal."
The Lakedaimóniyan nodded ruefully. "You are probably right. Ai, when 'Elléniya was first attacked, I was angry and ready to fight. But now I am tired of eating barley gruel and sleeping under my shield. I would happily leave the kings here to their precious metals and their captured women, if only I could go back to the goats and sheep. When I was first sent to watch the herds, as a boy of thirteen, I did not want to go. I was afraid of wolves. As it turned out, loneliness was my worst enemy. It has been the same with this campaign. I came here fearing Wilúsiyan spears. I had no idea my worst enemy would be disease."
"I used to send my pigeons out every evening," T'érsite recalled wistfully. "I offered a jug of honey to 'Éra, opened the birds' cages, and waved my cloak over my head to make them fly away. Every time they came back to me, bringing with them the pigeons of other men. I expect my doves have all been captured by now. Ai, St'énelo, I would be happy for any excuse to go home."
As they talked, Qálki passed them on his rounds. Watching the little man go, St'énelo balled his fists. "As if things were not bad enough for Meneláwo, there goes the seer, spreading rumors. He has even the Kep'túriyans afraid to visit us now. If he were not a holy man, I would break his skull."
Diwoméde, squatting by his fire, overheard the low-ranked men conversing. He sought out Meneláwo once more and told the Lakedaimóniyan king of the rumbles of dissatisfaction among the foot-soldiers. "All they talk about is misery, whether they will die of the plague, and what they miss
from home."
The wánaks listened with greater concern this time. With a heavy sigh he rubbed his hands over his face, massaging the forehead that had held a frown for months, his eyes red from lack of sleep. "This war is taking too long. That is certain. I must find a way to get my wife back and soon."
"Should I tell wánaks Agamémnon?" Diwoméde asked, chewing his lower lip anxiously.
"No, I will do that," Meneláwo answered quickly, to the qasiléyu's relief. "In the meantime, you can help by inviting Odushéyu to your fire. Get him to tell you of the rich prizes he has won in distant lands, and of the glory of combat. Speak loudly. A little more wine with the men's rations and talk of treasure and they will forget their homes again, for awhile, at least."
"I do not think the men are interested in glory and prizes," the young man responded regretfully. "Why did my king have to bring so many commoners with us, anyway? Their minds are always on the harvest or their wives and children. It does not seem right for them to be here. It goes against custom. My father always said that war was for the high born."
Meneláwo nodded. "It was a risk. Making commoners into soldiers means fewer men to work in the fields, endangering the crops. But a siege is the only way to take a walled city. That means time spent camped in the open and many lives lost to disease." He pondered a moment. "I tell you what we will do, Diwoméde. We must speak to the lawagétas. Something must be done. Gather the other wánaktes to my fire. We will hold a secret assembly and decide what to demand of my brother, before I talk to him. He will only listen if we are united."
"Yes, wánaks," Diwoméde said, sickness rising in his stomach.
aaa
"We are forced to deal with issues ourselves, once again," Néstor later told the assembled lawagétas,. quickly taking command of the gathering. "The army elected Agamémnon as overlord. We must obey his word in matters of war. We all took oaths on that. But he is no prophet. We must know the cause of this plague that is raging among us. More importantly, we must discover its cure. Qálki, servant of Díwo, help us."
To the troop leaders' surprise, Qálki pronounced the offended god to be Poseidáon this time. "Usually, the divine Horse punishes men with storms at sea, as you well know. But the insult to Poseidáon occurred after we crossed the waters to Assúwa. Some of you may be thinking that the god who shakes the islands would send an earthquake. But you are forgetting that the land of Wilúsiya is horse-breeding country, sacred to Poseidáon." The little man looked around at the grim faces. Satisfied that none were going to contest his pronouncement, he continued. "It is a powerful man who has so offended the sea god," he warned. "If any of you hope to survive this war, I have no choice but to name the culprit. But you must protect me from his rage." Every lesser wánaks in turn vowed to protect the seer, swearing by 'Estiwáya, goddess of their home hearths.
Ak'illéyu spoke more confidently than the rest. "Even if it is the high wánaks, I will stand up for Qálki. I swear this by the river of death itself. But it cannot be Agamémnon this time. He proved himself already, at Aúli."
aaa
While the lawagétas held their assembly outside the walls of the Ak'áyan encampment, the Assúwan captive women gathered inside it to grind barley. By the break in the earthen wall they labored, where unclad men of low rank kept a close watch on them. The women's bare backs were deeply tanned from leaning over their stone grinding trays. Their hands had grown rough from the work, their knees accustomed to kneeling on the parched ground. With slow, rhythmic motions, the women rolled cylindrical pestles over the hard kernels of the grain, reducing it to a thick powder.
Wastunóme sniffed as they toiled, tears spilling over her unlined cheeks, dampening the new-made barley flour. Glancing at the unmoving features of the heavy-set woman beside her, Wastunóme asked, "How can you remain dry eyed, Wíp'iya? Are Lámnayan women heartless? Or do you have no one to mourn?"
"Yes, Wíp'iya," 'Iqodámeya said in a softer tone. She straightened her aching back, pushing the dark hair from her face with a flour-whitened hand. "How do you manage to hold back your tears? My Muné could be cruel when he was full of wine. Still, it hurt me deeply to see his body lie unburied, devoured by dogs. You lost a husband too. You told me so, yourself. How do you keep from weeping?"
Wíp'iya did not look up. She continued her grinding without breaking the rhythm of her work. "It is not impossible for a woman to find happiness with a second husband," she said, her face and voice an immovable mask. "It is said that a single night in bed removes a woman's distaste for a man."
"Who said that?" asked a third woman in angry disbelief. She stopped her grinding abruptly and sat up straight. "I do not believe it. I saw my betrothed die before I could share his bed. But I find nothing pleasant about sharing the sheepskins with Néstor." 'Ékamede pointed to several bruises darkening her sunburned arms. "Look what that Mesheníyan dog did to me last night. What fool said a single night would change a woman's feelings?"
"It is men who say that," came the matter-of-fact answer from a fourth woman, the youngest of the group. "Four years ago, when I was carried off to Tróya, I heard prince Paqúr say those very words. That fat Ak'áyan donkey said the same thing last month, when he dragged me from the banks of the Sqámandro. It was not true the first time or…"
"Owái!" Wastunóme cried. "Men who say such things are liars! I would rather lie down with my father's sheep than spend another night with Agamémnon. I will never lose my hatred for him."
"Yes, Dáuniya, yes, Wastunóme, it is men who say such things," Wíp'iya answered with quiet bitterness. "But there is some truth to it. One night in a man's bed means that there is no going back for you. Your Muné is dead, 'Iqodámeya. Whether he was a good man, or whether he was bad, you can do nothing more for him. You are Ak'illéyu's woman now. Accept that. 'Ékamede, you must submit to Néstor's embrace. Wastunóme, you have no choice but to do as Agamémnon commands. Think about your future."
"I am thinking of the future," 'Ékamede snapped. "Néstor may take me by force, but I will never give myself to him freely. There is no honor in that. If the goddess wills it, we may one day see our homes again. When that day comes, I will be able to look my kinsmen in the eye and say I did not surrender my areté."
"Owái, my future is nothing but misery and humiliation," Wastunóme wailed. She threw herself down in the dirt, sobbing with a child's abandon.
'Iqodámeya sighed. "It may seem that way, Wastunóme. But Wíp'iya is right. You must accept Agamémnon in the end. Once he slept with you, you lost something in the eyes of every other man, especially your own kinsmen."
"Ak'áyans may follow that barbaric code," 'Ékamede cried, tossing her long braids back over her shoulders. "No decent Assúwan man would hold our captivity against us."
Wastunóme raised her head from the ground and looked to Wíp'iya pleadingly. "Surely 'Ékamede is right, is she not? We were taken against our will. If we can make our way home again, our countrymen will not despise us, will they?"
Dáuniya answered for her. "You will not see your home again. Even when the warriors go out to do battle, they will leave some men in the camp to watch us. We cannot escape."
"Hush, Dáuniya," 'Iqodámeya scolded through gathering tears. "You could show a little compassion. We are all sisters in suffering." Turning to Wastunóme, she spoke more gently. "Listen to me, Wastunóme. Agamémnon has placed his mark on you. That is an unpleasant fact. But there is no denying it. Nothing can change that. So, look for what is good in your captor. There must be something. My first night with Ak'illéyu was truly horrible. I wanted to die. But since then he has not treated me badly. I have done everything he asked of me since. Now he smiles on me as warmly as a husband does his wife. He has even promised that when we are in T'eshalíya, he will marry me."
Dáuniya laughed harshly. "A soldier's word means nothing in wartime."
Wíp'iya continued her grinding. "Hush, Dáuniya. 'Iqodámeya is right. We must forget Assúwa. When we leave these shores, we will
not see them again. Make the best of whatever fate Lady Dáwan bestows on you. My first husband was a Pálayan. I lost him when his people rebelled against emperor Qáttushli. Then I went to a Wilúsiyan man as a prize of war. It was this husband I lost on Lámno. Now I am Patróklo's woman." Wíp'iya's voice had fallen to a whisper and for awhile she stopped, staring down at her whitened hands. "If I please him, Patróklo will keep me as a favored concubine and give me a place in the fortress he commands. He may assign me easy duties and, if the goddess wills it, I may bear him children to comfort my old age. You must all do the same. If you do not please your captor, you will still go far away. You cannot change that. But you will spend your life as a slave in the fields, with no family at all around you, tending flax and weaving linen until you die."