Golden Mukenai (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  "Agamémnon is right," Idómeneyu said, not without regret. The Kep'túriyan addressed the group, carefully keeping his voice low and controlled, "My kingdom is wealthy and more powerful than any land but Argo. But Néstor would never follow me. Neither would Qoyotíya. Aside from Agamémnon, no king would have my vote for overlord but Meneláwo."

  "Yes," agreed the aging king of Mesheníya, "Meneláwo is the only king besides Agamémnon who can count me as an ally." For a moment it seemed that the northern warriors would assemble behind the overlord's brother.

  But Panaléyo shook his feathered crown. "Qoyotíya has been Lakedaimón's enemy for a generation. Ak'illéyu, you show yourself to be nothing more than a hot-tempered shepherd boy. No king but Agamémnon could pull us all together and command Ak'áiwiya as a whole."

  Patróklo took his leader's shoulder, saying, "Calm yourself, Ak'illéyu. Do not let this go any further, my wánaks. You are only making enemies for your father."

  "I claim the loyalty of every man of honor!" Ak'illéyu called out, shoving his qasiléyu aside. "Why do you think I am here at all, Agamémnon? Think about that for a moment. I did not come here for revenge. It was not my cities that a Wilúsiyan sacked. It was not my women that a Tróyan stole. Do you think I came all this way just to watch my men die of plague at Aúli?"

  A chill fell upon the assembled lawagétas at the mention of the northern port. "Agamémnon proved his worth at Aúli," Odushéyu growled, "proved himself for all time, I say."

  Many others nodded, including the feather-capped Qoyotíyan wánaks. "No man can quarrel with the overlord because of what happened there," Panaléyo declared with an air of finality.

  By this time, even the seer was frowning at Ak'illéyu. "The gods are working their will through Agamémnon," Qálki pronounced, his voice and eyes severe. "This is his expedition and you cannot take it over."

  Oblivious to the changed and frowning faces, Ak'illéyu addressed the group. "Think, men, why did we cross all those miles of sea? Do you not remember? It was because of Agamémnon and his brother's cause. We are fighting for Ak'áiwiya's honor, to avenge Meneláwo. He has no right to accuse any of us of disloyalty. We are here, are we not? We came here because of our loyalty to the sons of Atréyu and our respect for honor." Turning back to the high wánaks, the prince added, "You heartless cur, you have either forgotten this or you care nothing for areté."

  "I have forgotten nothing," Agamémnon roared. "Shall I tell you what I remember? It was I who called up this expedition or are you the one who has forgotten? I contributed more men, more ships, and more bronze than any other king. Idé, I even provided ships for the Arkadíyans, because they had none of their own. It was in recognition of my greater contribution that all of you elected me overlord. Is it not always the poor man, the naked foot soldier without a scrap of bronze, who cries, 'areté'?"

  "Then there is no problem," Ak'illéyu shot back. "Just give Wastunóme back to her father and let it go at that. We will let you keep your rank. You let us keep what is ours. No man loses his honor."

  "Let me!" the high wánaks laughed in fury. "Let me? I am the most powerful man in Ak'áiwiya, with or without your recognition of it. You cannot take that from me, little princeling, not with a vote, nor with a spear. I brought two hundred ships to Wilúsiya. How many sailed with you, boy? Fifty? Do you really think that is enough to command the respect of all Ak'áiwiya?"

  "Listen to him," Patróklo begged, looking around at the uncompromising glares of the other troop leaders.

  But Ak'illéyu was white with fury. "It is my honor that commands respect. But that is something you would not understand, Ox-Driver! I may have only fifty ships and I may not command the land of T'eshalíya, not yet. But I am every bit as much the wánaks of my men as you are of yours. Now you threaten to take my woman, as if I were nothing but a slave in your palace. 'Iqodámeya is mine. You have no right to her."

  "But he does have that right, Ak'illéyu, and you know it," Meneláwo cried in exasperation. "Be reasonable. Do not let your concern for honor blind you to the facts of the world. It is always the man of highest rank who decides how the spoils will be divided in a campaign. That is our custom. That is Diwiyána's law and even the war god himself must obey it."

  Agamémnon added with magnificent arrogance, "I am high wanaks and my word is final. My decision is that I will have a captive woman to share my bed. It is Ak'illéyu who must wait for his share until Tróya falls."

  "That is not fair," Ak'illéyu protested. "I have seen more action than you, killed more men than you, led more raids. But you, the overlord who commands from the back of the battlefield, you always get the best of the booty and those of us who really do the fighting get what is left. Ai gar, I am sick of it. Why should I stay in Assúwa just to enrich you? I ought to take my ships and go home."

  "Go ahead," Agamémnon said, laughing mirthlessly and tossing his arms wide. "Take your little army. I will not miss you. You have been nothing but trouble to me from the beginning, always ready to oppose the will of your chosen leader." He approached the younger man menacingly, pressing his index finger against Ak'illéyu's chest. "Go where you like, but leave your woman here, T'eshalíyan. I claim her as my prize of honor. Let everyone see, no man here is my equal."

  Ak'illéyu's hands closed around the shaft of his lance. "You will have my spear to answer to, if you try to take her! I took her by force of arms and only force of arms will take her from me." Patróklo recognized the tone of his prince's voice. No longer attempting to reason with his countryman, he lowered his spear to thrusting position. At that signal, the gathered T'eshalíyans adopted the same stance.

  Alongside the overlord, the Argive qasiléyus tilted their own spears, prepared to fight. At Néstor's nod, the Mesheníyans drew up behind those of Argo. Meneláwo and his Lakedaimóniyans stood ready with them, along with the other men of southern Ak'áiwiya.

  As the men of the camp pressed forward, ready to do battle with one another, the captive women hurried away from the overlord's hearth and the assembled army. Wastunóme shed tears of relief and joy, dancing ahead of the other women. "I knew the gods would not abandon me. I knew it!"

  "He will be killed," 'Iqodámeya wept, behind her. "Ak'illéyu will never give me up until he is dead." The other captives had no words of comfort for her.

  At the high king's fireside, Ak'illéyu looked about, checking the number of warriors at his side. From the corner of his eye he saw the bright flash of the firelight reflecting on the heads of a grove of spears. "P'ilístas, are you with me?" the T'eshalíyan prince called out.

  But, taking their places alongside the southerners, the feathered soldiers of Qoyotíya sided with Agamémnon. The men of the less powerful nations looked to Qálki, undecided. The seer shook his head. "I cannot condone civil war. Lower your spear, Ak'illéyu." Bare-skinned Lókriyans and the feathered-crowned men of Aitolíya joined the larger group about the current overlord.

  "Go ahead, wánaks. You can take Agamémnon," Patróklo urged with grim loyalty. "We will fight his men. Attika and Éyuqoya will be with us, at least. We are not afraid to die."

  But there were too many. Gritting his teeth with suppressed rage, Ak'illéyu let his right arm relax. "I will not send all my friends down the Stuks," he said, his voice tight with anguish. The other spears rested beside his.

  A fierce smile curled the high king's lips. "Not only is the little prince brave but he is wise," Agamémnon crowed. Around him, Argives and their southern allies laughed. The tension lifted and men began to turn from the fireside.

  "Let it go," Patróklo advised his leader, seeing the color once more drain from Ak'illéyu's face.

  But the laughter stung his pride. The P'ilísta prince was not ready to go quietly. "You bag of wine!" he shouted at the overlord. "You dog with a sheep's heart! You do not even have the courage to put on your armor and fight alongside your own men. I have never seen you lead a charge. No, you stay where it is safe, with men all around to protect you. Then, w
hen the hard part is over, you take the best treasures. If you know anything of honor, then face me in single combat now. Let us settle this like true men!"

  Agamémnon said nothing at first and all around him, men were shocked to silence by the challenge. Moving with leisurely contempt, the overlord approached Ak'illéyu and stared into the younger man's deep-set, dark eyes. Without blinking or averting his gaze, Agamémnon spat.

  "You are a lámiya and a commander of filth!" Ak'illéyu raged. He would have thrust his spear into Agamémnon's abdomen, but Patróklo and his other qasiléyus came from behind to hold him back. "I am through fighting for you!" Ak'illéyu cried, as his men dragged him backward. "The day will come when you will beg me to help you. Tróya's army will tear your troops to pieces without me."

  Meneláwo hurried to take the staff that the younger man had dropped. "Ak'illéyu," he called over the prince's cries, "you are a good fighter, one of the best. A champion who fights with his men, as you do, gains honor and glory. No one would argue that. But, do you not see? There is more at stake here than areté. If we are to win this war, we must have a leader who stands at the back and observes during battles, an overlord who directs the troops as a whole. These are not shepherd boys we are facing, but trained warriors from all over Assúwa. No one champion can outfight a whole army. Even the legendary 'Erakléwe did not attack Tróya single-handed. And do not forget your oath to me, Ak'illéyu. A man of honor keeps the word he has sworn."

  Néstor joined the Lakedaimóniyan, his white beard quivering with suppressed passion. "I cannot believe what I have heard today from the two of you! Agamémnon, Ak'illéyu, think how happy the men of Wilúsiya would be if they knew how divided we are. Idé, in my time I fought with the best, with T'eséyu, P'iloktéta, warriors who fought like dáimons. Together we reversed the fortunes of a poor country and made Mesheníya a great power. Yes, I was a champion in my youth, just as you are, Ak'illéyu. I know what it is to have the battle-frenzy burning in my heart. When I came to be wánaks of Mesheníya in later years, still my kingdom's fortunes continued to grow. That was due to my wisdom, to my head for strategy, Agamémnon. I understand you both and I understand that this expedition needs you both. You cannot spit on me, Agamémnon, or silence me. I am no ruler of barbarians. Mesheníya is no impoverished outpost. I brought ninety ships from my rich lands, more than any other country besides Argo. My city at Púlo has no walls, as you all well know. Why is that, you may ask? Because of the great strength of my army and my cleverness in diplomacy! I am a man of real substance, no matter what you value in a king, and the oldest wánaks here. So listen to me, both of you.

  "I joined this campaign for the sake of Ak'áyan honor, as did the rest of you. But I am especially eager for it to succeed because it may be my last. That is why my son, Antílok'o, is here, to learn the ways of war so that he can take over for me when I am done with this life. It would be an evil omen indeed for his first campaign to fail. No man is more anxious to see a victory in this war than I am."

  Meneláwo was losing patience and would have spoken, but the older wánaks would not release the speaking staff. "Ak'illéyu," Néstor went on, his voice harsh and imperious, "you should not defy your overlord. You were there when we elected Agamémnon and you had your chance to ask for votes. Instead, you did as we all did and swore your loyalty to Argo's king. That makes you Agamémnon's vassal, if only for the duration of this campaign. You are not his equal, any more than I am, even though we are both wánaktes in our own lands."

  Now it was Ak'illéyu who wanted to speak. But again, Néstor kept the emblem of the speaker and continued his speech. "I do not understand you, Ak'illéyu. What is all this anger about? What would your father, king Péleyu, say about your behavior here? Can you really be as ignorant of Ak'áyan custom as all that? Perhaps you have spent too much time among barbarians and too little in Ak'áiwiya. It has always been the custom for the leader to take the largest portion, as befits his rank. It was never our way to award the spoils of war according to who took them in the fighting. That may be acceptable to T'rákiyan tribesmen, who do not know any better, but for civilized peoples that would be absurd! A king might leave the field with nothing and a common foot-soldier take home a captive queen!"

  "Néstor is right," Odushéyu agreed, carefully catching Agamémnon's eye before he spoke. "No man from It'áka takes home more than I do."

  "But, Agamémnon," Néstor went on, turning toward the Argive ruler with an equally harsh tone. "Do not take the woman from Ak'illéyu. She has been to his bed. That is almost the same as putting a mark of ownership on an ox or setting a boundary stone between farmers' fields. You have the right and the power to take her, of course. We all recognize that right and that power. The fact that we all just stood beside you, against T'eshalíya, shows that. But a wise commander does not disregard the feelings of his men, simply because he may do so. It is especially unwise to deliberately anger men of high rank and status. They may prove useful in the future, perhaps even necessary. This is my advice to you. Demonstrate your generosity, now that you have demonstrated your power. Let the prince keep his prize."

  When the old man yielded the staff at last, the high wánaks shouldered aside his brother and Qálki, both of whom were vying for the speaker's symbol, and took it up. "That is enough out of you, old man. We have all heard how you and T'eséyu fought the Bull of Kep'túr at the beginning of time. Too often, in my opinion! No one needs to be reminded that you are the oldest here. Your white beard and shrunken arms are witness to that!" Now it was Néstor and his son who could barely contain their rage.

  "But," the swaggering overlord went on, certain now of his supremacy, "I could not follow your advice even if I were inclined to accept the loss of my own prize. Ak'illéyu is no meek and loyal officer who deserves my generous gratitude. He has challenged my authority to lead this expedition. Did you not hear him just now? Or has your advanced age dimmed your hearing as well as your wits? This throneless prince wants to be the overlord over all of Ak'áiwiya, with his measly fifty ships and ferry boats! I cannot let that go unpunished."

  In a fever of anxiety, Meneláwo tried to take the speaker's staff from his brother's hand. "No one doubts your rank, brother," the younger king said quickly. "How could we? We voted for you at Aúli, all of us. We will repeat our oaths of loyalty right now, if you doubt us. But Ak'illéyu is an experienced warrior, Agamémnon, not an expendable shepherd boy. His men may be few but they are professionals. The men of Lámno and Lázpa feared his name before they ever heard yours. We need the T'eshalíyans, do you hear, we need them."

  "I need nothing from Ak'illéyu but my due," Agamémnon answered, pulling the staff from the younger king's hand. "And what is my due? It is my prize of honor, his woman."

  Forgetting the niceties of the assembly, Ak'illéyu leapt forward, threatening the overlord once more, this time with his dagger. All around, weapons rose again in startled hands. "I will not fight you over this woman, Agamémnon," the T'eshalíyan cried, his voice cracking with emotion. "I will not stop you, although 'Iqodámeya is mine and you have no right to her. Prove your point, prove your status, and take her. But hear what I say, all of you. I swear by 'Estiwáya, this is the last command that Agamémnon will ever give me. Are you listening, high wánaks? If you try to take one more thing of mine, I will blacken my blade with your blood!" He turned abruptly and left the assembly, Patróklo and his men behind him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  'IQODAMEYA

  As men milled about the encampment, arguing among each other, the captive women separated and went to the huts and tents of their masters. Wíp'iya and 'Iqodámeya returned to the T'eshalíyan section of the camp, as the sunlight weakened. There, they built up the fires of the northern prince and his officers, preparing flat barley-cakes and cooking a few fish caught earlier by the men of lesser rank. To lighten their spirits, they sang snatches of the melodies that accompanied the harvest in their native lands, verses that thanked the goddess Dáwan for the gift of
grain. Twilight turned to darkness before the high-ranked T'eshalíyans came to their campfires. Something was wrong, the women told each other in low voices, although they had heard no sounds of violence from the lengthy assembly and no man's blood had been spilled. But among the T'eshalíyan commoners, the mood was gloomy.

  Ak'illéyu took 'Iqodámeya by the arm and raised her to her feet without a word. He touched her cheek and hair, then pushed her away and sat, head down, before his hut. 'Iqodámeya knelt at a short distance, chilled by the look in his eyes, wanting to ask what had been decided, but afraid to speak to him. The qasiléyus found their own campfires without conversation. Her heart pounding, 'Iqodámeya turned to Patróklo as he passed her. "What has happened?" she whispered. "What will become of me?"

  Patróklo looked away. He did not have the heart to answer. Before Ak'illéyu's shelter, the qasiléyu squatted close to his prince, deep in thought. He tossed a few twigs into the low flames of the fire, nervously rubbing his shaved upper lip. The captive woman took her cue from Patróklo and said no more.