by Diana Gainer
Antánor directed a Tróyan to the carcasses on the grass without another word and the man put them in the royal chariot, to be taken to the city. "We will not watch the combat," Alakshándu said. At that brief announcement, Antánor turned the horses in a wide arc and returned to Tróya.
Agamémnon snorted contemptuously as the local king disappeared. "Alakshándu could not face the prospect of seeing his son lose his life. But I will watch my brother take the same risk. Ai, if the old goat's sons are all as weak as their father, this land will be mine before the sun sets!"
Ignoring the insulting boast, Qántili took off his bronze helmet. "Champions, come forward. Let the gods choose which of you is to strike the first blow. Put your tokens in this," he said. Paqúr took a gold ring from his thumb and tossed it into the helmet, which his brother was holding upside-down. Meneláwo cut free one of the bronze plates on his corselet and tossed it in. Qántili began to shake the helmet, swirling the tokens round and round.
"Higher," Odushéyu urged him. "Raise it so that none but the gods can see the tokens."
Qántili complied, lifting the helmet over his head, and shook it vigorously. The Tróyan prince's ring quickly bounced out. "The gods have chosen Paqúr," his brother announced with obvious satisfaction.
The men of Ak'áiwiya groaned and Meneláwo spat, displeased. But he made no complaint. Men of all nations sat beside the weapons they had earlier laid down, while the two combatants took up theirs. Qántili gave Paqúr his spear and shield. St'énelo carried Meneláwo's shield to his king.
"I am first," Paqúr called out, as the two entered the marked ground. No sooner had the Tróyan spoken than he thrust his spear toward Meneláwo, striking the Lakedaimóniyan's shield. The bronze point grazed the shield's metal rim but passed harmlessly over Meneláwo's shoulder.
Meneláwo wielded his lance in a quick response, his long-suppressed anger giving it added force. The metal head broke through the Tróyan's leather shield, tearing across the prince's arm. With a yelp and a curse, Paqúr dropped the tattered shield, entangled with the spear, and drew the sword at his hip. The Lakedaimóniyan released his spear at the same time and pounced on his enemy, his own short sword in hand. With a quick overhand blow, Meneláwo brought his weapon down on the Tróyan's helmet. Stunned, Paqúr stumbled backward, dropping his curved blade.
But Meneláwo's sword crumpled and broke upon impact. With a roar of anger and frustration, the Lakedaimóniyan threw down the ruined blade and seized the horsetail crest of Paqúr's dented helmet. With this, he dragged the Tróyan toward the Ak'áyan lines, shouting, "Bring me another spear to finish this lamíya!" The leather chin-strap cut into Paqúr's neck, choking him, and the prince flailed helplessly.
Men of both great armies stood, shouting to their respective champions, encouraging their gods to take part, also. Paqúr's chin strap broke, and the helmet flew from Meneláwo's hands into the Ak'áyan lines. The Lakedaimóniyan fell hard, instantly surrounded by unarmored foot-soldiers fighting for the prize of Tróyan metal. T'érsite drove away all contenders and set the crested head-gear over his own thinning hair. Unnoticed in the commotion, gasping for breath, Paqúr scurried toward the Assúwan lines on all fours.
Meneláwo scrambled to his feet and shoved the low-ranked men aside. He snatched up the nearest warrior's spear, ready to return to the fight. "Where has that dog gone?" the aggrieved husband roared. But his prey had passed beyond the Wilúsiyan front line and could no longer be seen. Assúwans stood with their shields in hand, closing ranks to hide their champion. "Díwo send you all to 'Aidé!" Meneláwo cursed in frustration, hesitating before the barrier of wickerwork and ox-hide shields.
"Paqúr, where are you? Come, you can take Dapashánda's sword," Qántili cried, waving a shining weapon. But he did not see his brother in the crowd. His brother made no answer, either.
Agamémnon directed his chariot forward, making for the space between the armies. "Send your champion back to the fight," he called, greatly pleased at the direction the fight had taken.
Spear in hand, still shouting insults, Meneláwo could wait no longer. He shoved his way among the Assúwans, past one man and another, searching for his victim. "Cowards! Swine! Do not hide that fawn-hearted man! Where is he?"
Men of Assúwa and Ak'áiwiya alike began talking, all at once. What was to be done? Some took up the battle gear they had earlier laid down, encouraging their hesitant brothers to do the same. But others recalled to each other their oaths and went about with hands raised in peace, urging all to remain calm. Unseen, Tróya's champion stumbled to the back of his assembled troops. Withdrawing from the field, he sought the safety of the citadel's walls, his heart in his throat.
aaa
Agamémnon rode out between the armies. From his chariot, he addressed Wilúsiya's army and allies. "Paqúr has left the field," he announced with unconcealed delight. "He is defeated, even if he is not dead. Meneláwo is the winner. Give us Ariyádna and her treasure. Remember what you swore before gods and armies. You owe me tribute, Wilúsiyans, now and in the future. I am now your wánaks!" Behind him, the Argives took up their spears and swords, giving the war cry, trotting in place in a peremptory victory dance.
Ainyáh spat to show his disapproval. After a moment of hesitation, he turned toward the steep path, leading to the fortress gate. "I do not like this. But we did take an oath," he reminded his men. "We dare not break it. Come with me. Alakshándu must be told of this. He alone can decide how we are to proceed." With Ainyáh went many men. But others remained on the plain.
Qántili threw down his sword in disgust and paced about the field, calling his brother's name. "Paqúr!" he shouted. "Show yourself! It is not yet finished. Where are you, milk-fed pup of a brother? You must fight to the death. We cannot give up so easily." Around him, men milled about, asking each other what they should do.
"Paqúr is wounded and cannot finish the fight," a Tróyan archer told to his fellows. "But we are not cowards. One of us should kill Meneláwo and end this talk of tribute." As he spoke, he drew an arrow from his quiver.
His comrades were uncertain. "But, Qándaro, what about our oaths?"
"Are you women?" Qándaro demanded. "Oaths are nothing but wind. Tribute is hard bronze that you can hold in your hands. Think of our glory when Meneláwo is dead."
The bowmen still hesitated. "But the gods…our dead kinsmen…."
"Ai, if you are all too weak to act, then I will do it myself. I have nothing to fear from my ancestors. They were warriors. They would do the same, if they were here. They will intercede with the gods for me, I know they will. Now hide me, so the Ak'áyans will not see what I am doing." This was a command they could follow easily enough. Shields rose around the archer. He placed his arrow and pulled back on the bow, closing one eye as he took aim.
"Look," Powolúdama said from the entrance to the city. He pointed his spear toward the rising shields. "Our brothers are preparing to fight."
Ainyáh hesitated in the open gate, seeing that others remained on the field. The sight of shields raised and a bow drawn roused his spirit. "To battle!" he cried. Uncertain before, now the warriors responded. Here was a clear order, spoken by a commander of royal status. Those at the gate returned toward the row of archers, striking their spears against their shields and calling on the god of the sea. At that moment, Qándaro let a feathered arrow fly, then quickly another, and readied his bow for one more.
Meneláwo saw the missiles coming like small bolts of lightning. Instinctively, he raised his arms. A sharp blade bit into his flesh just above the belt. The king cried out in surprise and pain, stumbling backward. Dark blood ran from the wound over the king's kilt, gluing it to his thigh. He fell to his knees, gripping the feathers of the shaft. Lakedaimóniyans rushed forward and raised their shields to protect him from further attack. Qándaro's second and third arrows were wasted on spotted ox-hide. Other men hurried to shield their own kings with protecting shields, Assúwans shouting in triumph, Ak'áyans with indigna
tion.
The wounded king grasped the barb in his side and tried to pull it out. He cried out again as another wave of pain poured over him. Color drained from his face and he sat back heavily, the metal still embedded in his side.
Standing before Agamémnon's chariot, Aíwaks turned and demanded, "Wánaks, lead us into battle. They have broken their oaths. Your brother is wounded." Around the tall qasiléyu, men began to push toward the enemy's disordered line. "Alalá!" came their ululating battle-cry.
But Agamémnon had seen his brother hit and his wounded kinsman was his first priority. "Lead the charge for me, Aíwaks," the overlord commanded. As his blue-eyed qasiléyu trotted forward against the Wilúsiyan line, the high wánaks left his chariot and sought Meneláwo's side. Diwoméde hesitated a moment, torn between his desire to follow Aíwaks and his personal loyalty to the sons of Atréyu. With some regret, he carried his spear after his king. The sight of the younger ruler's pale face, and his kilt washed in dark blood, brought an anguished cry from Agamémnon. He clapped his hands to head. "Owái, this is my fault. I should not have let you fight alone. Ai, brother, I sent you to your death for nothing!"
Meneláwo was inspecting his wound, panting heavily, sweat dripping from his nose and running over his dark eyebrows. "No, look, Agamémnon," he said breathlessly. "The lashings of the point are outside the wound. It is not deep. I will be all right." He ran the back of a trembling hand over his damp forehead and laughed weakly. "Calm yourself, brother. You will upset the men."
Agamémnon laughed heartily in relief. He clapped his young qasiléyu on the shoulder. "Diwoméde," he ordered. "See to Meneláwo's wound. I must get back to my horses. The battle has begun."
With the young qasiléyu on one side and St'énelo on the other, Meneláwo made his way to his own chariot and St'énelo drove the three of them in a wide, slow arc toward the army's flank and the river behind.
At the bank of the Sqámandro, Diwoméde helped Meneláwo lie down on the soft earth by the water’s edge. St'énelo knelt at the wounded man's side and quickly yanked the arrow free, tearing the flesh still more and making Meneláwo shout again with pain. As they worked, a small crowd of bare-skinned navigators gathered to watch.
"Has the war begun, then?" asked the oldest among them. But he received no answer.
"Should we take him back to the camp?" Diwoméde asked St'énelo.
"Let us help him out of his gear first," the Lakedaimóniyan charioteer decided. Together they pulled off the heavy armor and the sweat-dampened and blood-soaked garments beneath it, until the wounded man lay naked on the damp ground. St'énelo dipped Meneláwo's kilt in the river and with it washed the king's wound. The king drew up his knees and gave a strangled cry at the sting. "Lie still until your head clears, wánaks," the driver said to him. "I will bring you the essence of poppies to ease the pain."
Meneláwo grunted, lying still, an arm laid over his eyes. "By Diwiyána," he groaned. "This is a bad omen."
Diwoméde did not hear the king's words. He was on his feet, watching the troops milling on the plain. On the field, confusion still reigned as the armies of some nations prepared for battle, while others continued to urge peace. Men took up the weapons and armor they had earlier laid down, insults and curses flying. Here and there, bronze met bronze as the fighting began. To the charioteer, Diwoméde said, "When Meneláwo is rested, help him back to the ships. I am going to fight. Agamémnon needs me."
As the young man trotted back toward the army, Meneláwo whispered, "I am not so badly wounded as all that. Just give me a moment to catch my breath. I will be right behind you." But he remained prone on the riverbank, pale and sweating, his arm across his eyes. The driver bent over his king. Meneláwo told him, "Go with the boy, St'énelo. Take him in your chariot."
"Yes, wánaks," the driver responded obediently and, with a flick of the reins, sent the horses hurrying after Diwoméde.
A gray-haired boatman soon came from the camp and knelt at the king's side, in his hand a small, earthenware jug in the shape of a dried poppy head. Lifting Meneláwo's head, the laborer said, "Wánaks, drink this," and put the juglet to the king's lips. "The first taste is bitter, but the second will be sweeter than honey. I promise." He smiled wanly, showing bare gums.
aaa
Up and down the lines of his Argives, Agamémnon now rode in his chariot. "Horsemen, send all the carts to the front. Bowmen, move to the back. Quickly, spearmen, give the archers cover. Death to the Tróyan oath-breakers!" The warriors from Argo surged toward the Assúwan lines. There, Lúkiyans showed themselves eager to do battle, even if their northern brothers were not. Without hesitation, Odushéyu joined the Argive advance with his It'ákans and the Lakedaimóniyans, eager to avenge their king, followed suit.
But Idómeneyu stood to the side. He urged his Kep'túriyans to remember their oaths and hold their places. "Meneláwo is my friend," he told his qasiléyus. "But I gave my word."
Néstor, too, raised his hands and urged peace. "The gods will turn against us if we break our oaths." The P'ilístas also remained aloof on either side of the Mesheníyans and the men of Kep'túr.
Closer to Tróya's walls, Qántili still sought his brother, cursing the older prince's soul to 'Aidé. He demanded that his men lay down their arms once more and he interrogated every man of rank. "Paqúr, you sheep, where are you? By 'Aidé, I wish I knew who shot that arrow. If you know, you must tell me. I will kill the criminal myself, when I find out. The man has no areté!"
Ainyáh protested that it made no difference who had begun it. The battle was on. Shouting face to face, he and Qántili argued, soon embroiling the Míran officers in their dispute. Ringing bronze and pounding hooves shook the air and the heart of the Lúkiyan king filled with the exhilaration of battle. "To fight is always better than to submit," Sharpaduwánna told his soldiers. "Only a weak, old man would agree to pay tribute to pirates. Never mind what others do. Slaughter the barbarians!"
"Tarqún!" his felt-capped warriors cried in response. The Kuwalíyans, too, took up the cry along with their arms. The glory-hungry of both sides leapt into battle with or without their leaders.
Two disorganized forces met in a swirl of chariots and foot-soldiers, archers in clumps sending their deadly volleys over their countrymen's backs. Flying arrows whistled through the air. Bronze ravaged bull's-hide shields, metal clashed against metal and devoured softer flesh. Shouts of elation and cries of agony rose amid the shrill neighing of horses and the braying of Pálayan donkeys. Dark blood spilled on the ground where Paqúr and Meneláwo had met. A Tróyan went down with a spear through his helmet, skull, and brain. His Ak'áyan killer bent down to steal the bloody lance from the lifeless hands. An Assúwan javelin pierced the slayer's undefended backside, bearing his spirit to 'Aidé at the end of a long, frenzied scream. The Ak'áyan's body collapsed on his victim's and the triumphant Assúwan bent to strip the new corpse of its bronze, only to be slain in his turn in the same way.
Men in feathered headdresses began to feel the pull of the battle frenzy. Attikans soon poured into the thick of the fighting, Lókriyans not far behind. Alongside them came soldiers in crested helmets from Mesheníya, though Néstor and his son lagged in the rear, still trying to turn them back. Sharp lance heads easily passed between ribs protected only by linen or leather. Low-ranked men without armor dragged aside the bodies of the high-born, to possess their valuable metal. Bending over the dead, they exposed their vulnerable groins to their enemies. More received a death blow from behind than took away the metal armor they craved. A man fell and his companions rose in anger. They brought down their kinsman's slayer in revenge, only to fall victim to the brothers of the newly slain.
Foot-soldiers tripped over the dying, their own limbs soon crushed beneath the hard hooves of onagers and horses. The high-born fared little better in their fragile chariots. Horses reared in panic and fragile axles shattered on the uneven ground. Drivers and riders fell from their carts to be finished off by foot-soldiers of low rank
. Arrows flew down upon Assúwan and Ak'áyan alike in an early rush of deadly rain. As the opposing lines of men then intertwined, the unshielded bowmen fell to sword and thrusting spear. A man down was soon dead, if not from the first wounding blow, then from another following quickly after. Dust rose, the sun beat down, and, in their heavy armor, the troop leaders' bodies ran with sweat. The smell of blood and death filled the men's nostrils, and the stench of fear, of vomit and excrement.
The Kuwalíyans saw their officers fall and the men of lesser rank began to recoil from the battle. The Ak'áyans took advantage of the breach and advanced toward the still open gate of the citadel. Qántili and Ainyáh forgot their dispute and led the Wilúsiyans into the fray to prevent the city from being taken so quickly. The balance tipped in the other direction. The sons of Diwiyána were soon hard pressed to resist the push of the Assúwans. Bones cracked under hurled stones, bowels spilled from unarmored bellies, missiles pierced lightly armored chests, drowning the wounded as their lungs filled with their own blood. Wilúsiyans gathered round their fallen and repulsed Ak'áyan attempts to strip their gear. Qasiléyus could not hear their kings' shouts or spearmen the commands of their officers.