by Diana Gainer
"I can see as well as you," Meneláwo said, knocking his brother's hands away, the wild light returning to his haunted eyes. "That is the nature of war. Men die. Women are carried to foreign lands. Now, come with me to your tent, Agamémnon. Call the troop leaders. Make a plan for this afternoon's battle."
The Argive wánaks stared at Meneláwo with stricken eyes. "How can we think of fighting, now, after what we have lost?"
Meneláwo's soul was filled with the power of despair, his grim courage sustained by the poppy. "You promised me, Agamémnon," he whispered menacingly. "You swore by the Stuks that you would see Ariyádna returned. I may release other men from their oaths. But you are my kinsman. You and I cannot give up. We must continue fighting until we win or we die."
In subdued silence the lawagétas came to the overlord's tent, during the lull in the fighting. Dreading the assembly, they gathered with troubled hearts. Agamémnon had little hope to offer them. With only a broken spear shaft to signal his role as speaker, the overlord said, "We have lost more men than I can count. Hardly a single chariot remains to us. Panic is walking through the camp, each man's fear feeding on that of the next. Ai, my friends, I have seen terrible storms at sea, when icy winds from the north shriek over the water, stirring up the waves and driving masses of seaweed onto the beach. Mariners fear these storms more than any other thing. No man wants to die by drowning, far from home. His body would never be recovered, his soul never sent safely to the underworld. His spirit would wander the earth forever, in torment, always thirsting. But to me, such a storm and such a death would be preferable to the terror that grips me now, better than defeat at the hands of the Assúwans." He let tears fall from his eyes. "I do not know what to tell you."
Diwoméde put down the poppy juglet he had been sipping from and reached for the speaker's staff. "Wánaksh," he began, his voice slurred.
But Agamémnon waved the young man back. "If we do nothing but wait, between this morning's losses and our present fears, we are sure to lose the war before darkness comes. Death or slavery is our fate. And what is to stop this from happening? I can think of nothing. The rampart seemed massive and well-built before. Today, I see that it is a small and flimsy thing. We cannot depend on it to save us."
Silence blanketed the cold hearth. Néstor took a deep, shuddering breath. "Have you spoken to Qálki?" he asked. "Are the gods really against us, as the men say? What is the meaning of this thunder and the shaking of the land? Is it the sky god’s fist or the hooves of the Divine Horse?"
Agamémnon shook his head, his long, tangled curls swinging from side to side. "I have not seen the prophet. Ai, by the gods, I hate to admit defeat. Even if I survive to be ransomed, no man will respect me. If I cannot breach Tróya's walls, no Ak'áyan will follow me again."
"We should have accepted the Tróyans' offer of treasure this morning," Aíwaks muttered, not bothering to stand or take the speaker’s spear.
"We should have left during the truce," Idómeneyu said bitterly.
Meneláwo stood, swaying unsteadily, a poppy flask in his hand. "I will not return home without Ariyádna. But, this is not your quarrel. Go, since that is what you want to do. I release you from your oaths to me. Do you hear? I release you. But, as for me, until Préswa herself forces me to stop, I will stand my ground and fight." He sat, gripping the wound in his side.
Odushéyu took off his boar's tusk helmet and spat. "Ai gar, the maináds have caught all of you. Would men on shore continue to fight if they knew we were making for our ships? Would they defend us against our pursuers, if they saw us abandoning them to their fates? No! And would the Assúwans just let us go now? They are collecting their boats, as we speak, I tell you! They can row out into the harbor with them just as easily as they can cross the river. We cannot leave now, no matter what are chances are in the next battle. Now, think! We must have a plan."
Hesitantly, Diwoméde rose for a second time. He glanced around the circle of officers, his face looking far older than its years. "Wánaks, I have to argue with you. I have the right to do that, here in the assembly. Do not be angry with me. After all, you have insulted me often enough before. Everyone here has heard you say that I am a coward because I ran from the Tróyans last year, that I am a bastard and do not know my father."
Nods from the troop leaders gave him confidence. "But Díwo did not give you every gift," he went on, wiping his nose clumsily with the back of his hand. "You do not have the greatest gift of all, and that is perseverance. Ak'áyans are not as weak and cowardly as you think they are. If you must sail home, do so. No one will stop you, Agamémnon. There is your ship in the harbor. Aíwaks and I will even load it with bronze, before you set sail. But the rest of us Argives are not afraid. We came for the sake of Ak'áyan honor. We will stay until we take Tróya."
"Disloyal pup," Agamémnon growled. But he did not rise to speak again.
"Brothers, are you with me?" Diwoméde asked.
Every man’s eyes turned to the side or to the ground, avoiding the young qasiléyu's face. "This boy is drunk," Idómeneyu said grimly. "And Odushéyu is right. We are trapped like mice in a weasel's jaws."
"I say we go now, while we still can and we take our chances with the Tróyan boats," said Aíwaks. "I will not carry bronze to any man's ship first, either."
"If others want to go, let them!" Diwoméde cried angrily, waving his arms and spilling viscous drops of bitter liquid from his small jug. "Meneláwo and I will stay and fight, then, just the two of us, if we have to. But we will stay until we see Wilúsiya destroyed. We came here under the protection of the god and we trust in him! Yes, men have died. Yes, chariots are broken. But I remember a snake that came from under the altar at Aúli. That was the living son of Diwiyána! Do you men have no faith in the gods? When has the sun ever failed to rise in the morning? When has dawn ever failed to appear, no matter how dark the night was before? I tell you, Díwo has not betrayed us. He is just letting our enemies have their moment, before he gives us the final victory. Ai, that triumph will be all the sweeter, for coming after so much suffering. What do you say? Are you true sons of Diwiyána? Will you fight with me?"
Stirred by the courage in the young man's voice, Odushéyu and Menést'eyu rose and cheered. "Díwo is with us! Take glory or give it today!"
Idómeneyu raged, "That is easy enough for qasiléyus to say. They have nothing but their kings' favor to rely on. Even Odushéyu has nothing to lose but a few tiny islands. But I must think of other things besides war and areté. There are the crops to think about. Kep'túr depends on me."
"Coward!" Menést'eyu roared, throwing down his feathered headgear.
"Barbarian!" Idómeneyu shot back. The angry lawagétas reached for their daggers, ready to spill blood.
Néstor stood, both hands raised. "Peace! You are all Ak'áyans. Our enemy is on the other side of the river. Remember that." Others forcibly parted the two. Still seething, the troop leaders sat down, daggers again in their leather sheaths. "Now," said the oldest king, "we should speak with Ak'illéyu again…."
"No!" Diwoméde cried, back on his feet. "We should never have asked Ak'illéyu to rejoin us, or offered him gifts, especially such fine ones. He is a vain and arrogant man, always trying to show everyone he is the best in everything. Agamémnon's offer just brought out the worst in him. He will fight when the god moves him. Forget him! Drink a little of my wine, and you will all feel better," he urged them, waving his poppy juglet. "What are we worried about? Our enemies are no better off than we are. And they are Assúwans, godless men and cowards. But we are Ak'áyan warriors!"
Menést'eyu and Odushéyu trilled the war-cry, showing their approval. And Meneláwo joined them, after another sip from own poppy flask.
But Agamémnon silenced them, raising the speaker's staff over his head. "It will take more than courage to save us from disaster," he said quietly. "We must come up with some strategy…."
His youthful qasiléyu was drunk and excited. "Wánaks, you have had a plan a
ll along," Diwoméde laughed. "Remember how you talked on the journey over the sea! Deploy the last of the chariots in front, with the spearmen and the archers in back. All Ak'áyans will fight together this time, regardless of rank and nation. The old rivalries are forgotten now. Let us prepare for the final battle as Ak'áyans, as civilized men, to stand or fall together. You can stand in the center to inspire us all. And then we will make war, the only fit occupation for men of areté!"
All the lawagétas cheered this time, a little of their pride and confidence returned to them. "Yes, what are we so worried about?" Aíwaks said. "We may have lost ground to the Assúwans this morning. But now we are behind walls and they are not. Who is to say which way it will go the next time?"
"Fortune never stays long with the same man," Odushéyu added.
Idómeneyu laughed without humor. "You ought to know, pirate." The camp filled with sudden laughter, as the mariner filled with sudden rage. Meneláwo embraced his brother's illegitimate son, tears falling from his dark-rimmed eyes.
After a perfunctory offering of spilled wine, the high wánaks prepared for the crucial battle. He had 'Iqodámeya open a great chest of cedar wood in the back of his tent and bring out armor taken early in the war. Agamémnon clothed himself as never before, in a breastplate made of a single piece of bronze, taken from an island king. Blue lapis snakes adorned the surface of the armor, serpents that seemed to crawl toward the overlord's neck.
"The snake is Díwo's child," Qálki cried, horrified at the sight. He gripped Diwoméde's arm with strong fingers. "Listen to me, if you want to live, boy. It is an evil omen that the high wánaks wears." But the qasiléyu's eyes glowed with passion for bloodshed. He roughly shoved the prophet aside.
Qálki turned to the foot soldiers further from the big tent. "Remember this morning's signs. The hooves of the great Horse shook the ground. Poseidáon is against you. Did you hear the great Bull, bellowing in the clouds? Díwo is far away from these shores. That was the cry of Tarqún and he is angry with you. Retreat while you still can. Run for your lives!"
But Diwoméde had followed the wrinkled seer and struck the old man in the face with the butt of his spear. "I remember a sacrifice like no other at Aúli," the qasiléyu repeated, with poppy-strengthened boldness. "We have all felt the earth tremble and heard thunder before. But not until that day in Aúli had we actually seen Diwoskórwos with our own eyes. The snake that came from the altar was a more powerful omen than any of us will ever see again. We cannot lose!"
Howling, Qálki scurried away to hide among the boatmen of Wórdo. The men of the eastern island had abandoned the ferries that bore the Ak'áyan warriors over the Sqámandro River. No king thought to give them orders and they squatted anxiously by their cold hearths and listened to the muttering of the seer. "They will see," Qálki warned, wiping blood from his broken nose. "The gods will punish them. They are doomed."
Unaware of the prophet, the high wánaks hung a gold-studded sword in his scabbard and put on his burnished helmet adorned with horns and a crest of horsehair. His shield on his left arm, a spear in his right hand, he shouted so that all the camp would hear, "Díwo, I have no time to make a proper sacrifice, now. Be with us today and when I go home, I will dedicate twenty heifers to your name!" As if in answer, thunder answered from the heavy clouds over Mount Ida.
As their leader prepared for war, so did the men, though in less elaborate array. Men whose weapons were shattered took the spare blades of their slaughtered companions. Those who had come without armor took from the piles of bronze collected earlier from the Assúwan dead. It made no difference whether the stacks lay in front of the hut or tent of an officer. No high-born man objected to any soldier adorning himself. All were in this fight together. As Wilúsiyan boats began carrying the Assúwans over the Sqámandro, the Ak'áyans manned the walls of the rampart, ready to defend their camp and turn back the eastern sons of Dáwan.
"Sons of Diwiyána!" Agamémnon roared to them, as he stood by the gate in all his glory. "All Ak'áyans are brothers. Today we forget the borders of our individual lands. All archers to the wall. Spearmen, stand behind the bowmen if you have no armor. Men with armor, come with me outside the wall. It is time we had our revenge. Préswa, wánasha of the dead, I call upon you, Great Lady. Crowd 'Aidé with the sons of Dáwan. Let Assúwan blood cover the land. Drink your fill today."
Their fighting spirit roused, the men shouted the names of the gods of storm and war, "Díwo! Arét!" and raised their weapons to the sky. The overlord took his place before the rampart, standing in the last Ak'áyan chariot that was still intact, Diwoméde's white horses pulling the cart. No sooner had he taken his position than Sharpaduwánna rode forward with his own team, leading the Lúkiyans and Mírans from the southern bank of the river, thirsting for blood.
A volley of Ak'áyan arrows fell upon Dáwan's people as they neared the earthen walls surrounding the camp. Assúwan arrows flew in the opposite direction. Assúwans and Ak'áyans collapsed like so many trees, felled by dáimon woodsmen. The hard-pressed Ak'áyans kept their enemies away from the rampart's walls, with sharp blades that pierced undefended skulls, spattering brains over the hard, trampled ground. The Mírans began to turn back and several Ak'áyans left the safety of their line to pursue them.
Agamémnon now struggled at the forefront of his troops, slashing at Qántili's officers. But Lúkiyan bowmen soon downed his horses and he was forced to fight on foot. A Míran spearman deftly avoided the overlord's blows and thrust his ash spear toward the king's ribs. The glancing blow failed to pierce the smooth bronze and blood did not flow. Enraged at the attempt on his life, Agamémnon gripped the spear and pulled its owner toward him. The unlucky man bent forward, still grasping the spear shaft. The high wánaks struck the back of the man's bare neck with his double-edged sword, opening the spine.
As Agamémnon bent to strip the corpse of its armor, a second Míran cried out, "My brother!" The bereaved kinsman leapt forward with his lance, jabbing Agamémnon's arm just above his shield. The overlord roared in pain as the barb tore into his flesh. The dead man's brother grasped the body by the foot. "Help me, Mírans!" he called over his shoulder, trying to drag the corpse away from the battle. Mad with agony, the Argive king turned the spear that had struck him and rammed it back toward its owner. The man fell as the shaft cleared the bottom of his shield and it impaled him. Agamémnon bounded forward, unmindful of the hot blood flowing from his wound, and beheaded his screaming victim.
The sun had turned down from the peak of the sky and headed toward the western horizon. The heat increased. Once Agamémnon had avenged himself, his ardor cooled. Pain shot through him at every move. He shrank back from the front and sought an Argive foot-soldier. "T'érsite, help me back to the camp," he told his man, face contorted with pain, holding the injured arm close to his body. T'érsite pulled the king's other arm over his shoulder, only too happy for an excuse to leave the thickest fighting behind.
Behind them, Ainyáh taunted the retreating pair. "The king of Ak'áiwiya is a little boy, running home to his mother! Look, Wilúsiyans and Lúkiyans, their champion is leaving the field. Forward!" The sons of Diwiyána fell back at the sudden Assúwan onrush.
Close to the open gate, Diwoméde spied Ainyáh leading the wave of men. The qasiléyu hurled his dagger at a Lúkiyan throat. The Assúwan fell. Around him, warriors dropped away, taking that as an evil omen, despite Ainyáh's urgent commands. Thinking himself safe, then, behind Odushéyu's arms, Diwoméde stopped to strip the corpse by his feet. He shoved the dead man into a sitting position, to remove the Lúkiyan's corselet, sewn with bronze plates, a better protector than the one he was wearing. But as the blood-spattered armor came free in Diwoméde's hand, Paqúr let loose an arrow from behind his younger brother's shield. The dart hurtled toward Diwoméde, striking the qasiléyu's right foot, parting bones and flesh. The young warrior collapsed on the earth, crying out and clutching his wound.
Prince Lupákki exulted, "You hit him, Paqú
r! The next shot will finish the bleating goat."
Odushéyu moved to give his companion greater protection and shouted back, "It is just a little boy's shot, a scratch."
Diwoméde gripped the feathered shaft, gasping, and tore the arrow from his foot. The barbed arrowhead had penetrated deeply and, when it came free, it dragged flesh and sinew with it. Through the effects of the poppy, the sharp pain drove like shafts of sunlight breaking through the clouds overhead. The qasiléyu hobbled toward the rampart gate, leaving behind his sword and shield. Odushéyu backed slowly after him, surrounded by Assúwan spearmen. Bronze spearheads danced all about the It'ákan’s face until a Wilúsiyan lance crashed through his shield and dug into the flesh of his ribs, finding the single space where a bronze piece had fallen from his corselet earlier.
"I got him!" the Tróyan whooped, raising his shield triumphantly.
Odushéyu knew his wound was not fatal. He roared back at his attacker, "I will get you for that!" and threw his dagger. The man realized his error almost immediately and began to lower the round ox-hide. But the It'ákan was faster. His blade caught the would-be killer's abdomen and the Tróyan's knees gave way. He fell with a thud. Bathed in sweat, Odushéyu exerted his last strength, dragging himself backward through the rampart gate, just as it was closing.