Golden Mukenai (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  The men's blood grew hot, lusting for revenge for the friends and kinsmen whose bodies they had burned in the great pyres the day before. Their bellies filled with hot porridge and lentils, the warriors of the two armies put on their helmets and chest armor, took up their weapons, and slung their shields on their backs. The horses of both sides, watered and fed, were backed into their traces and harnessed. The charioteers whipped the animals forward, bearing high-born warriors onto the plain. The many feet and wheels of the previous battle and the travels of the wagons afterward had flattened the ground so that the hastily repaired chariots rolled more easily now, unencumbered by the trampled grass. The Ak'áyan army crossed the Sqámandro River more quickly than on the day before, in their eagerness to resume the conflict. The largest number of T'rákiyans came to the Ak'áyan overlord as soon as he was across the low river. The newly elected leader of the tribesmen, his face covered with blue tattoes, offered to lend the spears of his warriors to Agamémnon's cause, seeing that fate was on his side.

  Shouting the names of their deities, the men marched forward, spears bristling over their heads. As the clouds overhead moved across the bowl of heaven, the bright sun broke through, heating the earth and the men in their gleaming armor. This time there was no hesitation between the two armies, no fear of being the unlucky first. That moment had passed. The opposing armies met upon the plain with a resounding crash, the men grinding their shields against each other, beating each other with their heavy blades, shouting in triumph and in agony whenever pitiless bronze met unprotected flesh.

  As the sky god's golden chariot rose over them, the sons of Diwiyána began falling back, pace by pace. White-faced with terror, the smaller forces under feather-capped Menést'eyu and Panaléyo suddenly turned their backs and fled back toward the ferry boats and the safety of the encampment beyond the Sqámandro. Close beside these first fleeing P'ilístas, Néstor shouted for his Mesheníyans to stay where they were and fill the breach, but all around him the call of panic was louder. Agamémnon, pushing with his more numerous troops at the backs of the lesser kings and men, prevented the retreat from becoming a rout. But he could not halt the Assúwan advance.

  "Kill the horses!" the Lúkiyan king ordered his men, close to the front of his troops. "We are warriors, not merchants. We want blood and glory, not wealth."

  The command instantly made every Ak'áyan lawagéta a marked man. Néstor's right-hand horse was the first to fall, a spear through its brain. His left-hand mare took a Lúkiyan spear in the belly almost as quickly. Bleeding profusely, the wounded animal reared, her neigh shrill with agony. She stumbled madly in a circle, dragging the corpse of her mate, crashing into the other chariots beside and knocking their drivers to the ground, trampling the loyal warriors of Mesheníya. Néstor clung desperately to the rim of his cart with both hands, and called on his men to cut the traces. But none would brave the flashing hooves of the panicked horse, uncontrollable in her death agony. Those who could run turned away from the stricken beast and made for the river. Even Antílok'o, tossed from the cart beside his father, scrambled away toward the Sqámandro. The Wilúsiyans and their Míran and Lúkiyan allies advanced rapidly as their enemies fled. At their head, Qántili bore down in his own chariot upon the oldest Ak'áyan wánaks, his spear raised, ready to taste blood.

  Diwoméde saw Néstor's plight and Qántili's implacable advance. He called quickly to Odushéyu to join him. "Where are you going, Odushéyu? Running like a dog? Help me keep the wild man off of Néstor's back!"

  But Odushéyu did not hear the question and he did not listen to the command. He continued toward the ferry boats, giving the young qasiléyu a wide berth. The It'ákan did not look behind, but ran for all he was worth, his feet pounding the earth, fearing a spear or arrow in the back.

  Diwoméde cursed the lesser wánaks and urged St'énelo to drive his new T'rákiyan mares toward the stricken king. "You take care of his horse and I will take care of Néstor!" Diwoméde shouted into his driver's ear and St'énelo nodded, flapping the reins. They drove to within a few paces of the dying horse and St'énelo leaped from the chariot with his dagger drawn. He hacked at the traces that bound the wounded animal to the cart, glancing fearfully over his shoulder at the onrushing Assúwans. Diwoméde jumped down at the same time, quickly dragging the old man backward, out of his cart and toward his own before the abandoned horses could leave them stranded.

  "Take the reins, Néstor!" Diwoméde yelled as Qántili bore down on them. The old man did not hesitate, but turning the chariot could not be done quickly. The younger Ak'áyan left the cart again to face the onrushing Tróyan. In desperation, he hurled his spear over the heads of the Wilúsiyan horses that were nearly upon him. The lance caught Qántili's driver full in the chest, throwing him flat on his back on the ground where he drowned, only too slowly, in the blood which filled his lungs. His horses were left uncontrolled, and Qántili could not respond with his own spear. Nor could he check the condition of his driver. It was all the Tróyan warrior could do to struggle to take hold of the reins.

  "This is our chance. The gods be praised!" Néstor cried, still engaged in his own struggle to turn Diwoméde's white team. "Ai gar, boy, these beasts are as wild as their old T'rákiyan owner. I cannot control them. Owái, what I would give for studded cheek-pieces!"

  Qántili regained the reins of his own team and returned for his charioteer. He found his driver lying still on the earth, his face white, his hands weakly clawing at the great spike in his breast. There was little breath left in him. With an anguished curse at the man's bad fortune, the Tróyan prince tied the reins around his waist. Using his sword belt for a whip, he drove his team after the Ak'áyans who were now fleeing toward the Sqámandro River as fast as they could drive their horses. "Sheep!" Qántili called after them, "Old women! Turn and fight!"

  Diwoméde looked back over his shoulder, stung by the words, and shook Néstor's arm. "Turn, old man. I am no coward."

  The king's face was as white as the mares he drove. "No, no, boy. The gods are against us."

  "I will not run," Diwoméde insisted. He tried to take the reins from the older man.

  Thunder crashed and a bolt of lightning leaped from the clouds, striking the earth where Diwoméde's chariot had been only a moment before. The team reared in terror and backed into the flimsy cart. Néstor lost his balance for a moment and the reins fell from his grasp.

  "Díwo is against us!" Néstor called out, more frightened than ever. With difficulty, he leaned over the side of the chariot basket and caught the flapping traces. Once more he directed the horses toward the river.

  Diwoméde was hard pressed to keep his footing. "I would rather be dead than a coward!" he shouted over the din of the battle and the oncoming storm.

  "No one thinks that," the king answered, still urging the horses on. "Qántili is just trying to bait you. But even you cannot fight Díwo."

  The qasiléyu howled in frustration. "No god is chasing us, Néstor. Qántili is just a man. Turn the horses." But the Mesheníyan king did not listen.

  A light rain began that slowed the flight of the Ak'áyans and the pursuing Assúwans. Men fell on earth that was slick with red-dyed mud, to be trampled by their frantic kinsmen or impaled by foreign spears. On the river, the ferry boats busily carried the retreating warriors to the far side. The captive women in the camp left their work as the spearmen began to stream in through the rampart's gate.

  Qántili shouted curses to his horses and they ran faster than ever, the man in the chariot tossed from side to side as the cart hurtled over the ground. As he neared the river, the earth shuddered. Horses all over the plain reared in fear. Carts on every side overturned. The thundering clouds hid the sun overhead. Lightning flashed on nearby Mount Ida, seat of the Wilúsiyan gods. "Poseidáon is with us!" Qántili exulted.

  Agamémnon's chariot had overturned just before the Sqámandro’s disturbed waters. He leapt from the cart, unhurt, shouting at his troops, trying desperately to turn th
em. Along the riverbank he ran, calling upon the men, who were charging into the water, "Are you nothing but timid deer? Turn and fight! Remember your honor!"

  It was to no avail. Frantic soldiers steadily passed him. The boatmen on the far bank refused to return for more passengers in the face of the Assúwan advance. Those Ak'áyans who could swim flung themselves into the river, abandoning their less skilled countrymen to die on the Tróyan side.

  Another crash of thunder interrupted the overlord as he alternately cursed his men and pleaded with them. All eyes turned up momentarily toward the black clouds and the lightning that sliced the air above them. An eagle flew overhead at that moment and, startled by the thunder, dropped a dove that it held in its talons. The limp prey fell through the air, to the wonderment of the Ak'áyans below.

  "Díwo is with us!" Agamémnon shouted, though despair was in his heart.

  The cry worked. Diwoméde was the first among the Argives to turn on the Sqámandro's bank. But he was not alone. He pointed up at the bird in the sky and other eyes followed the movement, and he repeated his overlord’s cry. In moments, many Ak'áyans were calling out the familiar phrase to each other, their faces no longer pale with terror. They remembered their areté and their weapons and turned to face their enemies' onslaught.

  The sudden push caught the sons of Dáwan off guard and the few wading into the river after the retreating Ak'áyans died quickly. The Assúwan front line turned away, back toward Tróya, receiving spear thrusts in their undefended spines. Still, rushing to the back of his own lines, Qántili once more worked his magic on his men. Around the prince, the Wilúsiyans held firm.

  It'ákan archers, with their resin-stiffened hair, came up close behind the rallying Argive spearmen. Hiding behind the shields of their brethren, the bowmen took aim. "Despise us as boys who hide behind their mothers, will you?" Odushéyu crowed. "Now it is the archers' turn for glory." He and his men rained death upon those Assúwans who were swirling in confusion in the center of the field. The men of his western isles pinned their enemies close before the Sqámandro River. Still, the sons of Diwiyána did not all join forces. Those standing firm only bought time for more of the Ak'áyans to cross the river and take cover behind their rampart's walls.

  Arrows flying into the bodies and limbs of men soon cleared a path across the front of the Assúwan army as it approached the riverbank. But Qántili himself, whom all the archers most wished to kill, remained untouched. Before him, one of his horses fell, its neck pierced, while the second horse pulling him chariot shied backward. Qántili sliced through the reins bound at his waist and abandoned the disabled cart. He ran toward Ak'áiwiya's archers, picking up rocks and hurling them as he went. One stone broke the collarbone of a bowman, rendering his bow arm useless. The man was soon down, helplessly groaning, his glory gone.

  The sight of this small victory encouraged Qántili's troops and they renewed their attack, pressing hard again toward the river, driving the thinning line of Ak'áyans back into the turbulent waters, once more. Qántili led the attack on foot, running here and there on untiring legs, picking off Ak'áyan stragglers, as a wolf picks off a shepherd's lambs. While the sons of Diwiyána continued to struggle across the Sqámandro and away from the slaughter, they raised their bloodied hands to their foreheads, calling upon all the gods and goddesses of Ak'áiwiya for help.

  "Father Díwo!" Aíwaks cried in a panic, dropping his tower shield in the water and removing his corselet so that he would not drown.

  "Lady At'ána, I will give you a hundred oxen when I return home," Odushéyu called as he swam.

  "Mother Dánwa," Idómeneyu screamed, barely outdistancing two pursuing Lúkiyans, "you have not received offerings for a generation. But I will bring you the finest gift of all if you bring me home safely. I promise my youngest child. Help me!"

  Qántili turned back to find a new chariot, as desperate groups of Ak'áyans began to rally in the shallow waters of the river's edge. No longer were they fighting for Lakedaimón's honor or the restoration of Meneláwo's queen. Now they fought to defend their own freedom, their very lives. Thunderbolts tore through the sky as the men contended, rain pouring down upon them. The earth moved again. Lightning struck one of the ships in the harbor, a large one the especially heavy mast of which had never been taken down.

  "The gods themselves are battling," Qálki shrieked at the sight. He scurried to the top of the rampart to watch the slaughter. Dancing in frenzy, he pointed to the distant horizon. "I see Poseidáon and Dáwan Anna upon the western sea. Apúluno and Tarqún are riding their chariots alongside the men of Assúwa. Díwo and Diwiyána are with the Zeyugelátes, Artémito and Arét with the P'ilístas. It is the great cataclysm foretold by the 'Elléniyan prophet! The end of the world has come!"

  His heavy breast-plates abandoned in the river, Agamémnon reached the earthen walls of his camp. Dripping and gasping for breath, he staggered down the rows of huts and tents to his own. Shrieking captive women scattered before him. The high wánaks flung open the flap of his tent and pounced on the neat stacks of goods in the back. Ignoring 'Iqodámeya's startled screams, Agamémnon snatched up an embroidered robe and with it left the tent. Waving the cloth over his head, he called out in a voice so booming that he could be heard from one end of the encampment to the other.

  "You are sheep, all of you! Over your wine, you said you would kill Wilúsiyans by the hundred! Now, a single Tróyan turns you to frightened deer. Qántili alone has scared you out of your wits. Have you no shame? Where are your wits? He will soon set our boats on fire. That will be the end! We will be hunted down like wild rabbits and killed or sold as slaves!"

  Men still scattered about him. Ak'illéyu's men began to don their feathered headdresses and take up their weapons. No Assúwans would be permitted to burn their shelters, they told each other. But they did not pass beyond the bounds of their own camp fires. They would not rebel against their own leader to help their fellow Ak'áyans, either.

  Lúkiyans in their conical hats began to enter the camp through the open gate of the rampart. "Díwo, do not let the Tróyans crush us completely!" Agamémnon called in desperation, naming the deity his heart had so long despised. "All is lost," he groaned, gulping for air. His voice cracking, he shouted, "I will give this robe to the first man who will turn and fight! My daughter in marriage as well!" His eyes darted from side to side at the confusion. "I offer three cities…."

  As if in answer to his prayers, Ainyáh blew loud and long on a conch shell, pulling the Assúwans back from the Sqámandro River. A few Lúkiyans, who had already crossed it, found themselves suddenly surrounded by enemy soldiers and outnumbered. None lived to hear the trumpet note repeated.

  The rain stopped soon, after noon, as Qántili's forces regrouped. The Tróyan prince sent several parties back to the citadel to bring boats to ferry his men across the river, as the main body of Assúwa's army could not cross without them.

  It was a momentary reprieve only, the Ak'áyans knew. As Agamémnon desperately mingled orders and pleas, the spearmen hurried to man the rampart walls. They closed the flimsy gate and began stacking firewood against it. They carried arrows and stones by the armload to supply the warriors taking their places at the earthen walls.

  Agamémnon climbed atop the rampart at its strongest point, beside the gate. He surveyed the scene, as the sun broke through the clouds, to shine in harsh splendor on the devastation. Cries rose on both sides of the muddy river, the moans and screams of injured men blending with the shrill neighing of dying horses. Warriors staggered without purpose among the Ak'áyan huts and tents, calling the names of their dead companions. The captive women crept fearfully from their masters' rough dwellings, and clung to each other with trembling hands. Campfires were allowed to burn themselves out, the stones that had surrounded the various hearths now kicked out of place and the embers scattered. A harsh wind blew from across the sea whipping the bare flesh of the frightened men.

  "By the gods," Agamémnon gasped, "h
ow many have died? What have I done?"

  His brother soon found him. "Brother, the Assúwans are holding an assembly before they make their final assault. Come down from there and call your own meeting of the lawagétas," Meneláwo urged, his voice low and dispirited. He leaned wearily against the sunbaked wall. "We must talk about what can be done."

  Agamémnon did not come, but beckoned for his brother to join him at the top of the wall. "Look, Meneláwo." He pointed toward the grassland and the citadel beyond. "There lie the chariots we so quickly pieced together. They are all shattered. Most of the horses died this morning, too. Who knows whether any drivers are still alive?"

  Meneláwo started to climb up to his brother's side. But he lacked the strength. Gripping his side, he said, "Néstor is alive. He can drive, despite his age. I saw Diwoméde's new horses behind your tent. And St'énelo has captured a few Tróyan mares."

  "Owái, Meneláwo!" Agamémnon cried. He dropped to the ground and grasped his brother's shoulders. "We have lost at least half our forces, half the young men of Ak'áiwiya."