by Diana Gainer
Pale and trembling, the captive gasped, "Do not kill me! Please, do not kill me. My father is rich and I am his only son. He will pay you any ransom you want to name. I am called Dolón and I have piles of bronze and many horses, and seven sisters who can weave!"
His voice quiet and reassuring, Odushéyu said, "Do not be afraid. We are not going to hurt you. We just want information. What are you doing out here all alone at night? Looking for lost arrows?" Diwoméde retrieved his sword and pressed it to the runner's side.
The frightened captive nodded vigorously, his lips grimacing in a smile of terror. But he could not meet Odushéyu's unblinking gaze. "Or did Qántili send you out to spy on us?" the It'ákan asked, his voice still quieter.
The runner's legs threatened to give way as he looked from Diwoméde to Odushéyu and back. No sign of pity did he see on either face. Words poured from his mouth so quickly he stammered. "Qántili s-s-sent me but I did not want to come, b-b-but he promised me a chariot, my own horses too, if I went, and he wanted to know your numbers and if you were going to sail away but I did not want to come and you must believe this because my father will p-p-pay you a s-s-s-splendid ransom so you m-m-m-must not k-kill me…"
Odushéyu smiled and spoke in his smooth, reassuring voice. "Ai, so Qántili promised you a chariot, did he? What a fine prize for such a puppy!" He laughed heartily. Dolón laughed weakly too, hoping for a reprieve.
The smile disappeared from Odushéyu's bearded face. "Where is Qántili? Who are all these men camped in the field? Have sentries been posted? What is the name of this king who just arrived? How many warriors came with him? And how many horses does he has?"
Swallowing with difficulty, Dolón again turned his wide eyes from one man's face to the other. Diwoméde said nothing but increased the pressure on the blade at the runner's ribs, breaking the skin. Again, desperate words poured from the captive man's lips. "Qántili is with his troop leaders camped in the field on the Tróyan side of the Sqámandro River, and the other group closer to the shore came from T'ráki with their chieftain, Hrósa, and no, there are no sentries because we sent word to Hrósa that we were under truce." Again he swallowed, gasping for breath, feebly struggling against the unyielding grasp of the two warriors. "Please, let me go," he whimpered.
Odushéyu did not slacken his grip. "Tell me exactly where this Hrósa is."
Tears welled up in Dolón's wide eyes under the It'ákan's glare. The Tróyan's mouth opened and closed silently, several times. "I do not know," he said at last.
Diwoméde drew his blade across Dolón's ribs, drawing blood and a gasp from the captive. "Tell us!"
The captive gulped, "Please." But Diwoméde's sword crossed the bare flesh a second time, cutting a little deeper. "I will tell you, I will tell you! Please, do not…" The runner stopped and caught a shaky breath. "Hrósa is beside the old mound where the great king was buried, and he has the best horses outside Wilúsiya, not red like ours, but white like sun-bleached linen, did you see? A-a-and his armor is a wondrous thing, too, a single great piece of bronze, carved with lions and bulls, a corselet that a god would wear!" He paused, panting, seeking a sign in his captors' eyes of his fate. "Will you take me to your camp, now? Or, or you could tie me up, hand and foot, so I cannot escape, while you go and see that I have told the truth. You will do that, will you not? You said you would not hurt me…"
Odushéyu frowned at the small man. "It makes no difference whether you have told us the truth. You will not get away from us in any case." He let go of Dolón's arm and stepped back, as if to see the situation more clearly. The two Ak'áyans had come without kilts and the Tróyan spy's tunic had no belt.
"I will go back to the camp for a rope," Diwoméde said.
Odushéyu raised his dagger to stop the other man. "We do not need it."
Dolón's teeth chattered at those words. "My father…"
"Yes, what about his father's wealth?" the young qasiléyu asked, a bit angry. "I have not taken any ransom yet and neither have you. We should not turn our backs on this chance."
"Suppose we did let him go," Odushéyu explained grimly. "Another day he would be back, spying on our camp again. On that day we might not be so lucky. This is not just a raid, boy. This is war. We are fighting for our lives!"
Diwoméde frowned. "This is not honorable," he complained.
Tears fell from Dolón's eyes. He knelt at Diwoméde's feet and embraced the young man's knees. "Please…."
The It'ákan brought his dagger down, piercing the back of the runner's neck. Diwoméde released the man's arm and Dolón fell face down in the sand. The Ak'áyans stripped him, pulling off his wolf-skin cloak, removing a bow and a quiver of arrows from his shoulder, and retrieved the fallen spear. Odushéyu wrapped the booty in the hide and held it over his head, praying, "Lady At'ána, send us more luck and give us those T'rákiyan horses. In return I promise you a goose tomorrow and a bull calf when I am back in It'áka." He took the parcel as far as the tamarisk tree that had given them cover moments before and shoved the bundle into the lowest branches.
Onward the men went, circling around the enemy camp to the far side, the Tróyan side, where the T'rákiyans lay in clusters, a chariot in the center of each group. Each team of horses was tethered beside its cart. In the center of them all, chariots and horses, arms and men, slept Hrósa with his fabled armor beside him. At his feet stood his snowy team.
"There he is," Odushéyu whispered to Diwoméde, pointing out the barbarian chieftain. "So, what is wrong with you? Why are you still standing here? Get to work. Go and loose the horses." As Diwoméde stepped forward, the It'ákan held him back. "Better yet, let me untie the horses and you kill the men."
Diwoméde leaped into the gathering of men with a suddenness that took Odushéyu by surprise. The young qasiléyu's sword slashed right and left so that only small, pitiful sounds came from the dying, as their throats were cut. Behind him, Odushéyu crept forward to drag the dead away by the heels, clearing a path for the white horses. Half a dozen T'rákiyans died under Diwoméde's furious bronze that night, with no more struggle than if they had been undefended lambs torn apart by a ravenous wolf. The T'rákiyan chieftain gasped in his sleep, as if dreaming of the disaster overtaking his men. In an instant, the Ak'áyan sword sliced his neck, too, and, after a quick spasm of muscled limbs, he breathed no more.
Odushéyu moved quickly, freeing the horses from their hobbles, binding them to each other by the chariot's traces. He whacked the animals' haunches with the flat of his dagger and sent them on their way toward the Ak'áyan camp, their light nickering making his hair stand on end. "Diwoméde," he hissed. "It is time to leave."
But the qasiléyu's blood was high. "I am not ready to go yet," he whispered back harshly. "I want to do more, something that will strike terror into the hearts of our enemies when they wake up in the morning."
"There is no time," Odushéyu argued, glancing nervously at the surrounding T'rákiyns. "Come, before we are discovered."
"Maybe I will slaughter another man or two. Or here is an idea. I will lift the pole of the chariot and steal it away, loaded with the weapons of the dead."
Odushéyu whistled low to distract Diwoméde from his mad task. The It'ákan beckoned dramatically, urgently.
For a moment longer the young qasiléyu hesitated. "We must do more. A few dead men will not change the outcome of tomorrow's battle."
Odushéyu looked at the horses, considering whether to go with them and leave his companion behind. "A brave man should listen to a wise one," he hissed.
The younger man turned to follow Odushéyu, but stopped beside the It'ákan. "The goddess listened to you. She granted your request for luck two times tonight. A man may ask a third time before the dáimons grow angry."
The pirate ran a hand through his thinning hair, casting about for words. "But Díwo himself did not support us earlier, when the sun was still up. Concentrate on getting back alive. Poseidáon might wake the T'rákiyans and take back our prize. The
re will be time enough to fight in the morning." Diwoméde followed reluctantly.
As the spies passed the outskirts of the T'rákiyan camp, one man rose on his elbow. He stared at the chieftain's white horses heading away from the fire. Blinking hard, the T'rákiyan rose to his feet to look toward Hrósa's fire. "What is he doing, driving his horses around at this time of night?" he muttered to himself. As the flames of the campfire rose and fell, the T'rákiyan thought he spied pools of liquid. He began to walk toward the fire, calling, "Lord Hrósa! Are you awake?" No sound came from the fireside, no movement. He broke into a run, as sleeping T'rákiyans stirred. By the fire, standing in a pool of blood, he looked down at the slaughtered warriors.
With an anguished shout, he called the men to arms. "Wake up, men! King Hrósa is dead!" Other cries sounded. A wild din soon engulfed the whole of the camp.
"What will we do?" the Argive qasiléyu cried in a panic, running alongside the horse team.
Odushéyu grasped the younger man's shoulder. "Help me to the horse's back!" he cried.
"Are you out of your mind?" Diwoméde gasped. "No man sits on a horse's back!"
"Help me," the It'ákan repeated, aloud now and desperate, as men neared them. Too frightened to resist further, Diwoméde boosted his companion. At the unfamiliar burden, the white mare shivered and whinnied, then raced toward the walled encampment, dragging the other horse alongside. Diwoméde ran on foot behind, his heart pounding. At the animal's every step Odushéyu nearly fell, gripping the horse's back with his knees, the shaggy mane in his hands, leaning low over the mare’s heaving neck.
Odushéyu pulled the traces backward with all his strength when he reached the tamarisk tree where the Tróyan's gear was stowed. The white mare reared and kicked, pitching Odushéyu to the damp ground. He scrambled to his feet as the horses milled about, bound to each other and unable to proceed without guidance. Odushéyu recovered the plunder from the tree, but could not calm the horses. Diwoméde was able to catch up with the It'ákan as the mariner struggled with the team. While the confused T'rákiyans cried out ever more loudly behind them, together the Ak'áyans managed to turn the horses toward their camp, trotting beside the animals the rest of the way, laughing at their luck.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NESTOR
Agamémnon and his lawagétas remained at the overlord's campfire late into the night, staring gloomily into the last glowing coals, no sound rising above that of their pounding hearts. At length, Néstor rose and cast a baleful glance over the faces of the assembled leaders. "As the oldest man here, I deserve the respect of all," said the Mesheníyan. "Listen to all that I have to say and do not interrupt. Agamémnon, we elected you the high wánaks. You outrank every man here and Ak'áyans respect rank as well as age. No one will go against your orders, whatever they may be."
There were scattered murmurs of discontent at that. But no one cared to dispute the gray-haired king openly, not with Agamémnon watching. Néstor frowned at the dissenters and went on. "Nevertheless, I am older than you, Agamémnon. My counsel should not be taken lightly. Nor should it be taken as criticism. In spite of your youth, Agamémnon, you have shown clear thinking and courage in this campaign. Still, as you say, Díwo opposes us. Tonight, you said what had to be said, even though it pained you. I speak now only to support you. We must discuss our situation, with full honesty and without fear. Remember my words, Agamémnon, and listen to each man, without interrupting and without anger. Then, take the best advice. Give your command. We will obey because, above all, we must maintain our unity.
"My fellow Ak'áyans, I see you shaking your heads as I say this. But bear in mind that we face two problems. Of course, the Wilúsiyans and their allies are our enemies. Obviously, something must be done about them. But it is the other problem that I fear the most. Our alliance is crumbling. Each nation blames its traditional enemies for our misfortune. My Mesheníyans talk of attacking Kep'túr, as is only natural for countries that have been trading rivals for generations. Among the P'ilístas, men are saying that the Qoyotíyans attacked the Attikans during today's battle and slaughtered several lawagétas. None of us can trust the T'eshalíyans, since Ak'illéyu broke with Agamémnon. It is even conceivable that they intend to betray us to the Tróyans.
"That is our greatest enemy, my brothers. The alliance of all Ak'áiwiya is more important to the future of every man than even the outcome of this war. No true Ak'áyan can want a civil war among our nations, fighting with his own kinsmen over what are in essence only petty feuds concerning territorial boundaries and traditional competitions. There would be no glory in such a combat of Ak'áyan against Ak'áyan. So we must all accept what Agamémnon decides and act as if we were a single nation. All of us will stay here together or we will all leave for home together, whichever you command, high wánaks."
The overlord nodded wearily, resting his shaggy head in his hands.
Idómeneyu stood, pressing his lips together with distaste at what he had to say. "There are too many Assúwans. It is that simple. They are as innumerable as the stars. The end of the world must be near, as Qálki says. We cannot stay here."
Néstor leaned close to his son and whispered, "You see how things are working out? Agamémnon has overstepped his bounds, as I knew he would. Watch how the men react now. They accepted my argument for a united front and that is good. They will begin to turn to me for advice now, and in a short time I will have the power of the high wánaks, though as yet I lack the title. I will be the one who saves the day for Ak'áiwiya. Men will remember that for the rest of their lives." He enjoyed the look of astonishment and admiration on the beardless youth's face.
As the Mesheníyans whispered to each other, Menést'eyu took his turn to speak. "Attika is loyal to Agamémnon. My men will do as the overlord commands. But we are also bound to Meneláwo by sacred oaths. If we must leave Wilúsiya, find a way for us to go with honor, so that Díwo and our dead kinsmen cannot reproach us in our old age." One by one the other P'ilístas voiced their agreement. Their cause was doomed and no man wanted to stay. But only an honorable retreat would be acceptable.
Aíwaks sided with the northerners, adding his own suggestion for a way out. "Let us fight one more battle, for the sake of areté. But have it on our side of the river, this time, here on the south. That way we can take cover behind our rampart if the Assúwans get the upper hand. If things go badly for us again, then we can ask Meneláwo to release us from our vows and go home without fear of the gods."
"By Díwo's beard," Idómeneyu snapped, without taking the speaker's staff. "If we set out tomorrow expecting to retreat to the rampart, we might as well save the Wilúsiyans the trouble and simply slit our own throats tonight!" Angry shouting erupted all around the group.
"Is this what you wanted, Father?" Antílok'o asked in a low voice. "If the men leave, blaming Díwo for everything, how will you gain prestige? How will Agamémnon lose it? A man cannot fight dáimons."
The gray-haired king began to feel concerned. Motioning to the tall qasiléyu to sit, Néstor spoke again, shouting them all down. "I said before that we must speak with all honesty. But here you are, wasting your candor and wisdom, arguing about minor issues. It seems that I must be the one to say what is really in all of our hearts. Agamémnon, you set the stage for this situation when you took Ak'illéyu's woman. Remember, I counseled against that. But you did it, just the same, and dishonored the T'eshalíyan. You took his prize and you still have her."
The assembled lawagétas watched Néstor in stunned silence. "Agamémnon will not take this quietly," Aíwaks whispered to Idómeneyu. "Néstor has gone too far."
The Kep'túriyan whispered back, "Ai, so much for the old man's reputation for cleverness."
The overlord stared in gloomy astonishment at the older king. With bone-weary resignation, Agamémnon asked, "All right, then, Néstor. What would you have me do? How much must I give up for this campaign?"
The aged Mesheníyan rested his hands on his hips, looking the
overlord straight in the eyes. "I am not sure I like the tone in your voice, my friend. You have given up a great deal, certainly. But such is the duty of the high wánaks and the reason for his larger share of booty. There is no alternative, Agamémnon. You must give, yet again. Make peace with Ak'illéyu and do it now. You dishonored him, wounded his pride. Offer him rich gifts and soft words now, as if you were negotiating a qoiná, the blood-gold that appeases the kinsmen of a murder victim. You must get him back on our side."
Agamémnon's face fell to his hands and a groan came from the depths of his soul. "Is this the best advice you can give? Can a single ally really save us tomorrow?"
"Ak'illéyu is more than just another ally. He is an unparalleled warrior, one of the old kind that our grandfathers spoke of, men who work themselves into a battle frenzy. The men of every northern land look up to him for that, even his enemies. Besides Ak'illéyu's prowess, there is Patróklo's. He, too, is a fine soldier, though not his prince's equal. And there are all the other T'eshalíyans, a small enough force beside yours and mine when we began this war, I admit. But, remember, we have just fought a battle such as men have never seen before. Our forces are considerably smaller now and they are exhausted. But the T'eshalíyans lost no one, since they did not fight. They are fresh. Remember, too, that the Assúwans suffered along with us. A handful of barbarian horsemen will not replenish their losses, either. Ak'illéyu's troops could well tip the balance and win the day for us."