Golden Mukenai (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  Ak'illéyu laughed bitterly. "That old goat never thought about anything but how to keep what little was his, how to build a stronger wall, how to hide his wealth. Ai, my own father is no better. Let him take Púrwo from my wife's people. Péleyu can raise his grandson to be his storehouse guard. Now leave me alone."

  "Ak'illéyu, you must make a decision," Patróklo said in frustration. He rose and put his hand on the prince's shoulder. "If you do not intend to fight the Wilúsiyans, there is no reason for us to stay here. If you do not want to go home, then go elsewhere. We can sail south and raid Kep'túr while Idómeneyu is gone, if you like. Let us gather the riches that Agamémnon denied us."

  Ak'illéyu did not look at his qasiléyu, but repeated the hated name, "Agamémnon…." Again, his thoughts returned to 'Iqodámeya and he pictured her lying on the overlord's fleecy pallet, her thick, black hair spread like a fan beside her head, the high wánaks covering her body with his own. Filled once more with impotent fury, he threw handfuls of sand and pebbles into the sea, shouting curses on the Argive overlord.

  Throwing up his hands in defeat, Patróklo left his raging leader and made his way back to the T'eshalíyan huts. "Will we sail?" Wíp'iya asked him timidly, and bare-skinned T'eshalíyans gathered around anxiously to hear the answer.

  "No," the qasiléyu said, shaking his head unhappily.

  "Then we fight?" asked the boldest of the men.

  Patróklo sighed. "No, Automédon, we do not. And do not ask me why not. Ak'illéyu has been caught by the maináds. We stay here and do nothing."

  "It is 'Iqodámeya. He will not leave without her," Wíp'iya said knowingly.

  Patróklo stared down at her kneeling figure, wanting to ask her questions, but knowing nothing to say.

  aaa

  Before the sun was well up in the sky, both Ak'áyan and Wilúsiyan work-parties were at their tasks. In the wooded foothills nearby, the enemies kept well away from each other, warned away by the sounds of double-bladed axes and falling timber. But, on the rolling plains, the two groups often met face to face, each leading its small, two-wheeled wagons with wicker sides, pulled by recalcitrant donkeys or compliant oxen. The night before, in their exhaustion and their eagerness to eat and drink, the men had not realized the full extent of the slaughter. Now, in silent horror, they searched for their kinsmen among the vast number of mutilated bodies littering the fields, gathering in severed limbs and heads, chasing away the crows that had come to pick at the dead eyes and open wounds.

  At the same time, the carpenters in the city and the camp were set to repairing the chariots, as many as possible. When the dead were all collected from the field, Agamémnon ordered the wagons broken down, in his eagerness to restore the strength of his chariotry. In the citadel and the encampment, bonfires burned day and night, sending the souls of the departed to 'Aidé. Smaller, hotter flames softened or melted the damaged bronze of weapons used in the previous battle to make new arrowheads and spear points to avenge the many deaths.

  Hardly touching his evening meal, Meneláwo went to sit on a low hilltop overlooking the river. With a jug of poppy-tinged wine, he sat until twilight, staring at the pale walls of the citadel and sharpening his sword. Darkness fell and still he did not leave his place of solitude. Although his sword's double-edged blade was razor sharp, still he passed the whetstone down its length again and again.

  When the moon rose over the quiet encampment and the silent fortress, Meneláwo was surprised to see a large group of longboats arrive on Wilúsiya's shore. He watched in incredulous dread as tattooed warriors in fox-skin cloaks disembarked. They brought chariots and horses in their slender vessels, one team as white as bleached linen. As the party of newcomers began to march toward Tróya, Meneláwo left his post on the hill, returning to the Ak'áyan camp.

  aaa

  By the largest campfire, Meneláwo found his brother pacing. "Agamémnon," the younger king whispered, "I must talk with you." They entered the overlord's tent, keeping their voices low so that they would not wake the men outside or rouse the captive resting at the back of the shelter.

  "What is it?" Agamémnon asked. "Why are you not asleep? Is it your wound? I will have Mak'áwon bring you another poppy flask."

  Meneláwo said, "Ai, no, brother, I can hardly feel that little scratch in my side now." He rubbed his drawn face. "By the gods, I have not had a good night's sleep since the attack on 'Elléniya. I vowed to myself and to Díwo that Ariyádna would come back to my arms and her home, or I would die fighting for her. It was easy to swear it then, when my blood was hot. No honorable man would have done any differently."

  "Of course," said Agamémnon. "Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?"

  His brother hardly heard the question. "But at every turn, fate is against me. I lost my first battle with the Tróyans. Well, I thought, we were unprepared. Then there were the disasters at Aúli. When we managed to deal with those, still things did not improve for my cause. Qálki saw nothing but evil omens for so long, the very season became my enemy. Now the Ak'áyan alliance is coming apart. Ak'illéyu will not fight and this evening I heard the Lókriyans and Aitolíyans talk of siding with him. After yesterday's battle, I am afraid even Idómeneyu is considering abandoning me. A year has passed and I have not avenged the deaths of Kástor and Poludéyuke. Ariyádna has probably given up hoping for me to save her." He sighed deeply, tears spilling from his shadowed eyes and dripping to his beard. "Ai, Agamémnon, I know you want to leave this place. But I cannot leave Wilúsiya without Ariyádna. What can we do?"

  "Do not torment your mind this way, brother. I am with you," answered Agamémnon. He put his hand on Meneláwo's shoulder. "I have not forgotten what you did at Aúli. I have every intention of keeping my oath to you. We just need to consider what is the best way to accomplish it."

  Meneláwo groaned. "Will you really keep your word? I saw T'rákiyan horsemen just now. Hrósa must have sided with Tróya."

  "What?" the overlord whispered, taken aback. "T'rákiyans? That is bad news. Ai, Meneláwo, I have never been one to wait on the will of the gods. You know that. But to tell the truth, I have never before seen a single man do as much damage as Qántili did to us in that battle. It makes a man wonder if the gods indeed take sides." He sighed heavily. "Fate does seem to be against us."

  The Lakedaimóniyan wánaks looked up at the older man's face. "Whatever the cost, I cannot leave here without my wife," Meneláwo said quietly. "It is a matter of honor." He paused and dropped his gaze to the hard-packed earth, and began again, speaking slowly. "But…I cannot ask all Ak'áiwiya to die with me. These men have no quarrel with Wilúsiya. They came because you ordered it. I release them from their vows to me. You and I should face Tróya alone and let the gods decide whose cause is just."

  The overlord was pleased until his brother spoke the words 'you and I.' Then his face hardened. "The wánaktes came because they wanted plunder and glory," Agamémnon said contemptuously. "I did not have to push them hard. It is not as if you or I bear the guilt for all these deaths. No, no, Diwoméde had the right answer for us in the last assembly. Wilúsiya expects defeat now. We will stay with you, brother. Do not worry about Hrósa. I tell you what I will do. I will give Ak'illéyu's woman back to him as a gift and let his T'eshalíyans deal with the T'rákiyans. Those two nations have been fighting each other for years anyway."

  Meneláwo hesitated a moment, then nodded and rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his muddled thoughts. "Will you get a spy to look over the T'rákiyan camp, too?"

  Agamémnon's brows rose in surprise. "Ai, well…yes, of course. I suppose we should look for some weakness in our enemies to give the men courage. What has come over you? It is not like you to think about strategy. Ai, never mind. Wake Diwoméde for me. I will have him bring a few lawagétas to my tent."

  "Only some?" Meneláwo questioned, frowning. "Why not all?"

  Agamémnon shook his head. "They must rest in order to fight well in the morning. We will consult only with the best and
most loyal. Let me see. Bring Aíwaks, the giant. He is my best fighter, if not the best thinker. We may need his courage. And, you know, Diwoméde has turned out to be a better fighter than I had expected. He may sit in with us, too. Old Néstor, I suppose. He is not much of a warrior, anymore, but the men listen to him. Better to have him growsing to me than to less steadfast minds. You might as well get Odushéyu, too. That pirate has gotten himself out of many difficult situations. He might have an idea for us. Now, tell Diwoméde to be polite and call each man by his patronymic, too. This is no time for us to be concerned with our status. At this point we need the good will of every king, no matter how petty."

  Meneláwo started toward the tent flap. Opening it, he hesitated and turned back to his brother. "I wish you had thought of that before. Ak'illéyu is probably the only Ak'áyan who can match Qántili on the field." He left his older brother fuming in silence.

  Néstor was the first to reach the overlord's tent. He found the high wánaks refilling a large, two-handled cup with undiluted wine. "Is it true what I hear, that T'ráki sides with Wilúsiya?" the Mesheníyan asked, looking at Agamémnon with piercing eyes. "What command will you give in the morning?"

  The overlord clapped a free hand to his head dramatically, the murky liquid having left his tongue unguarded. "By the gods, I wish I knew! Going home sounds the best to me. But if I send the men back to Ak'áiwiya to save their lives, they will lose all respect for me. I worked long and hard to build Argo into a great land. So did my father before me. But if I am only a weak woman in other men's eyes, no man will follow me. And no wánaks or pirate will hesitate to attack Argo. By all the dáimons of 'Aidé, I stand to lose everything if I send the men home, even if it is the best thing to do!"

  "Then give the command to stay and fight," said Néstor with a gloating half smile that the overlord did not notice.

  Agamémnon groaned into the wine-cup, "If I do that, I may be sending them all down the Stuks."

  "You are the overlord here," Néstor said, clearly unsympathetic. "I realize that this is a difficult decision. But, as our high wánaks, you are the one who must make it. It is you who must deal with the consequences as well."

  The Argive king sat back on his heels, astonished at the coldness in his powerful ally's voice. The flap of the overlord's tent was flung open just then, before Agamémnon could react to Néstor's words. Meneláwo entered first, his hand at his aching side, followed by Diwoméde, Aíwaks, and the lesser wánaks from It'áka. Odushéyu had his boar's-tusk helmet on his head and a dagger in his hand, while Diwoméde had thought only to bring a spear. Both were otherwise unclad. Only the tall qasiléyu from Sálami had taken the time to don all his arms and armor.

  Néstor stood to address the group. Agamémnon gave way to the older man, just as happy to be saved from revealing the trembling in his limbs. "I assume Meneláwo has told all of you the situation. What we need is a man to sneak into the T'rákiyan camp," the gray-haired Mesheníyan announced. "He must count the enemy's numbers so that we can plan tomorrow's battle." He paused a moment, considering the men's hesitant faces, barely visible in the dark tent. "The man who does this will earn unparalleled glory throughout Ak'áiwiya."

  Silence answered the Mesheníyan's speech. Agamémnon cleared his throat and quietly added, "And I will award him a handsome prize. I will see to it that every wánaks gives him a black ewe and I myself will give him a black ram. He will have a whole flock of black sheep then. There has never been a token of honor like that before."

  Diwoméde rose, setting down the half-empty cup of wine he had unthinkingly picked up. His speech was unclear, his eyes a bit glazed. But his voice was strong. "I am ready to gain areté."

  Agamémnon's surprised glance fell first upon his young qasiléyu, then upon Aíwaks. Ashamed, the big man stood, despite his reluctance. Odushéyu, too, soon decided he was prepared for adventure, although he was completely worn out from the long day’s fighting. Meneláwo looked up at the determined faces with tears in his eyes. "I should be the one to go," he said, choked with emotion. All looked to the high wánaks to make his choice.

  Néstor opened his mouth to speak. But Agamémnon had regained his composure. "The choice is mine," the Argive king announced firmly. The older wánaks bit his tongue as the overlord briefly considered the men. "Diwoméde, I awarded you the post of qasiléyu only out of respect for your father. But you have since proved yourself good and worthy of that position. You will go. Choose your companion, whichever one you want." His eyes fell on Meneláwo's drooping head and then met the young qasiléyu's with a stern look. "Do not defer to rank or high birth."

  Through the wine, Diwoméde missed the hidden message. But he did not hesitate. "I choose Odushéyu. He is shrewd and the goddess of fortune loves him. The two of us could go to the shores of the Stuks and come back safely."

  Odushéyu's chest swelled. "No need to flatter me, boy. These men know me," the It'ákan said gruffly. But he was clearly pleased. "Now let us be on our way."

  Relieved that he had not been chosen, Aíwaks magnanimously offered his corselet to Odushéyu and his great shield to Diwoméde. But the It'ákan king shook his head. "I must move quickly and quietly. My dagger is all I need."

  Nor would the younger qasiléyu take the big shield. "It would just weigh me down."

  "Take this, son," Agamémnon said, handing Diwoméde his own two-edged sword. Their eyes met.

  "I will not let you down, my lord," the qasiléyu said, his voice husky.

  aaa

  When the lesser wánaks and his youthful companion left Agamémnon's tent, Meneláwo rested on his brother's sheepskins and soon fell asleep. But the remaining lawagétas did not return to their beds. "Aíwaks," the overlord whispered, "bring the other wánaktes. We will have a secret assembly. But talk to each king individually. Do not make any loud noise. I do not want the foot-soldiers to know what we are doing."

  Aíwaks obeyed, understanding from his king’s whisper that it was really Meneláwo who should not learn of this gathering. "I have a bad feeling about this," he muttered as he led the kings of Kep'túr and Qoyotíya to the great tent. We should have accepted the Tróyans' attack on 'Elléniya as justice for the attack our ancestors made a generation earlier on these shores. That would have put an end to this war before it began."

  "We should have left these shores when Agamémnon first said to do so, before that terrible battle," Panaléyo said. "I lost twenty men to plague before that day and thought that a great loss. Now I would be happy to sail away, leaving twice that many." Idómeneyu was not happy to hear the talk against his friend. But he did not feel badly enough to speak up for Meneláwo's cause.

  When all were gathered in a shaken circle before their overlord's tent, Agamémnon finished yet another cup of wine and spoke. His voice was no longer strong and confident. It wavered and cracked. He paused between phrases. "Friends, lawagétas, I must tell you now what I could not say in front of my brother. Díwo has ruined me. He promised Wilúsiya to me, I swear that he did. But he is a faithless god. It must be his will that we return to Ak'áiwiya empty-handed. Board your ships and go home. Save yourselves." His voice fell to a whisper. "We cannot take Tróya."

  As he finished his speech, the overlord saw that the kings' eyes were not on him. Turning to see what they were looking at, he was startled to find his brother standing just before the tent flap. Meneláwo limped into the open, his right hand gripping his side. With his free hand he slapped his thigh and cursed loudly, "Díwo send you to 'Aidé, Agamémnon! I swore I would not return without Ariyádna. That has not changed. It never will. Go if you must, brother! Break your oaths to me, all of you! I do not care anymore. But I will fight until I have what is mine or I will die in battle!" He stormed away, leaving the others brooding in silence.

  aaa

  Odushéyu was the first to catch sight of a man trotting along the shore. "Someone is coming. Hide," he whispered to Diwoméde. They crouched behind a stunted tree with low-growing branches.

>   "Is he theirs or ours?" Diwoméde asked, scarcely breathing.

  Odushéyu squinted. "Wait until he passes us. Then we can tell. If he is one of them, we will drive him to our encampment."

  The younger man chewed his lip thoughtfully. "What if he runs back toward the T'rákiyans? He could sound the alarm."

  "A spear in the back will stop that."

  The Ak'áyans lay still, camouflaged by the shadows, until the runner sped past. Weapons ready, the spies leapt out to follow the man. Hearing feet behind him, from the direction of his own camp, the runner stopped and turned. His pursuers' long locks flew about their shoulders, catching the moonlight, and the runner began to flee, in fear of his life. The two Ak'áyans chased him into the sea, back toward the land, and into the water again, but always away from the T'rákiyan camp.

  As the Ak'áyan rampart loomed into view, Diwoméde sped forward, spear raised, and shouted, "Stop or you are dead!" He hurled his sword after the runner but missed. The sudden breeze beside his ear terrified the runner and he tripped, nearly falling on the quivering sword stuck in the ground before him. His lance fell from his hand and rolled to the water's edge. Teeth chattering with fear, he scrambled to his feet. Diwoméde grasped the runner's right arm and Odushéyu, just a step behind, took hold of the left.