Golden Mukenai (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  Antílok'o hurried after the northerner. "Ak'illéyu!" he called out, hanging onto the other man's arm. "You cannot go out there this way. You have no armor, no spear."

  With heavy fists, Ak'illéyu drove the Mesheníyan away. "I swear to Díwo, I will have Qántili's blood! I will make him pay for what he did." He drew his short dagger and gave the Ak'áyan battle-cry.

  With fear adding strength to his limbs, Antílok'o gripped the T'eshalíyan's sword arm and once more held Ak'illéyu back. "Listen to me! Think about what you are doing. You must find a spear and armor. Your sword! Where is your sword?"

  Ak'illéyu turned in confusion, liquid dripping from his nose and deep-set eyes. "Patróklo needed me and I was not there," he cried in anguish. "It is all because of Agamémnon, Préswa take him! Leave me alone. I am going."

  Forced to trot alongside, Antílok'o argued, "Yes, avenge Patróklo. But your spear! Your sword! Think! What about armor?"

  Ak'illéyu drew the back of his hand over his streaming eyes, staring at the slender youth. "What about armor?" he repeated, gulping. "Maybe Panaléyo will lend me…but he is in the battle today." His hands went to his hair again and pain once more contorted his face. "Great Díwo, I will cut off Qántili's head and hang it on the battlements of Tróya before I am done! Wild boars will eat his corpse."

  He knocked Antílok'o to the ground and took the Mesheníyan's dagger. Attacking every man he passed, he tore a shield from the surprised hands of the first, a spear from the next. Antílok'o watched for a moment, helplessly. "Agamémnon!" the Mesheníyan suddenly said to himself. "I must find the overlord."

  An unearthly cry came from Ak'illéyu's foaming lips, his eyes wide, the whites showing all around the brown. In vivid contrast to the bone-weary men about him, his movements were quick and violent, filled with power. Before the damaged rampart, Ak'illéyu sprang, shrieking his ghastly cry, a beast-like sound that could be heard over the dimming clash of arms and the weakened cries of the dying. The scattered Assúwans who heard the shout thought of wild northern gods and fell back in sudden terror.

  Meneláwo and Aíwaks took advantage of the confusion caused by Ak'illéyu's sudden appearance, and hurried with Patróklo's body through the open gate. The big qasiléyu was nearing collapse with fatigue. He sat heavily, just inside the earthen wall. Once past the ruined door, Meneláwo took the shoulders of the corpse. Seeing St'énelo near by, the Lakedaimóniyan king called for the charioteer to take Patróklo's feet.

  The sight of his foster-brother's body made Ak'illéyu forget his thirst for blood, momentarily, and he trailed behind the southern king, calling the dead man's name. The overlord and young Antílok'o were waiting for them when they entered Ak'illéyu's hut. Agamémnon's shoulders sagged with fatigue and his injured arm was wrapped in stained linen. But there was a gleam in the Argive's dark eyes. "Ak'illéyu," the high wánaks said, as soothingly as he could manage, under the circumstances, "I offer you my richest armor, this breast-plate with its holy snakes, if you will lead our peoples across the river, against Tróya."

  Ak'illéyu sank to his knees as if the overlord's offer stung his heart. Choking on sobs, the T'eshalíyan laid his head on the blood-spattered shoulder of the corpse. "I swear an oath to you, Patróklo," Ak'illéyu wept, taking the dead man's hair in his hand. "I swear by 'Estiwáya and the Stuks that you will not be buried until I bring back the gear and the head of the man who killed you."

  Antílok'o was frightened now, more than before. "Your oath goes beyond custom, wánaks. The maináds must have caught you," he moaned.

  "Do not tell me how to grieve, boy," Ak'illéyu shouted, instantly red with rage. He rose and struck the young man's face. The Mesheníyan cried out and scurried from the hut, his hand to his bruised cheek.

  Agamémnon had removed his chest-armor. Now he held it out to the grieving P'ilísta. The overlord smiled, despite the burning pain in his arm. "So you are ready to fight, are you? I see you have found a shield and a spear. Here is my armor, T'eshalíyan. Take it and avenge your kinsman!"

  Swiftly donning the overlord's breast-plate, Ak'illéyu commanded, "Hold the vigil over Patróklo for me, Agamémnon." With a cry of "Arét!" the T'eshalíyan raced into the open.

  The sun's rim had touched the watery horizon while the men had fought over Patróklo's body. Now, although no king or commander had ordered it, both sides separated and the fighting died down. Lúkiyans and Wilúsiyans fell back to the river, ferrying themselves across the blood-reddened waters. Word spread quickly that Ak'illéyu was back among the Ak'áyans. But Qántili or Ainyáh would face the T'eshalíyan prince in the morning, the Assúwan men told each other. The day was over, this battle as bloodily indeterminate as the previous one. Night was falling. There could be no more blood-letting for now.

  Ak'illéyu raced out among the men returning to the encampment, shouting for his T'eshalíyans to join him in battle. "The goddess of the night is with us," the prince announced. "Let us send an offering of bloodied, eastern men to Lady Artémito!" With their leather shields and bronze-tipped spears, the northernmost P'ilístas returned to the battlefield. Only a handful of Ak'áyans joined them from the rest of the camp. Most were exhausted from the day's hard fight. The rest feared the anger of the gods.

  But Automédon eagerly took up his wánaks in the last chariot and shouted to the horses, "Do not betray your driver again! May the Lady of Horses herself run with you this time." Beside the charioteer, Ak'illéyu trilled the battle-cry and the cart leaped forward.

  On the Wilúsiyan side of the Sqámandro River, Ainyáh and Qántili plodded at the back of their troops. They spoke with each other of the day's losses, of the ever-present need for watchmen on Tróya's walls, and of whether a few chariots might be repaired before morning.

  In disbelief, the two leaders turned, hearing the T'eshalíyan's war cries. They watched in horrified amazement as feather-capped warriors crossed the river and marched toward them beneath ever-darkening skies. Shouting in alarm, Ainyáh jogged back toward the Sqámandro to meet their attackers. "I cannot see who that is," he called over his shoulder to Qántili. Neither could the prince make out the features of his enemies in the half-light. But they knew the Ak'áyans had ended the day with a single chariot. And they knew that it was Ak'illéyu's.

  Holding high the battered shield that had preserved his life thus far, Ainyáh shook his ashen spear, and cried, "I curse you, Ak'áyan, and all Ak'áiwiya with you. This is sacrilege! May Astárt send you all down the Stuks. I curse Diwiyána, the witch who spawned you, and that worm you call Díwo!"

  Coming up behind Ainyáh, Paqúr shuddered. "Calm yourself, Ainyáh," urged the Wilúsiyan. "Do not offend the undying ones. That may be a god riding against us."

  The Kanaqániyan was not listening. Neither was Qántili. The Tróyan prince commanded, "Find me a chariot and bring it here, Paqúr, you cowardly fawn! This night we will see a final settlement of the war."

  As soon as he had crossed the Sqámandro’s churning waters, Ak'illéyu charged toward the small line of Wilúsiyans moving to cover their army's retreat. The T'eshalíyan's spear thrust out toward Ainyáh as his chariot passed and, with a high, screeching sound, the bronze rim of the Kanaqániyan's shield gave way. Seeing the lance coming, Ainyáh ducked and the spear passed harmlessly over his shoulder before Ak'illéyu drew it back. But, in his effort to avoid the blade, Ainyáh lost his balance and stumbled. Overcome with dread, he glanced around. There was no time to retreat and no one near enough to help him. Ak'illéyu leaped from his chariot and pounced on Ainyáh, his borrowed shield in one hand, his spear in the other, a wild war-cry tearing from his lungs. Ainyáh hurriedly lifted a stone and hurled it at the T'eshalíyan.

  At that moment, Paqúr brought the chariot that Qántili had demanded. As Ak'illéyu jumped aside to avoid Ainyáh's rock, the Tróyan charioteer swung his cart around. Shouting for Ainyáh and his brother to jump into the cart, Paqúr drove the horses back toward the rear. Qántili managed to clamber aboard, one hand out to grasp
Ainyáh's. But the Kanaqániyan moved too slowly and Paqúr would not wait. He drove the horses on, abandoning his cursing brother-in-law, ignoring his brother's cries of "Wait! Go back!"

  The pounding hooves and shrill whinnying of the Tróyan mares startled Ak'illéyu's team, and they reared, fighting Automédon's control. The T'eshalíyan prince had to concentrate on avoiding his own animals' hooves. By the time Automédon had regained the traces, the darkness was too thick. Ak'illéyu could no longer see Ainyáh. The mercenary had taken advantage of the momentary confusion and was running toward Tróya with all his might.

  Bitterly, the T'eshalíyan swore, "To 'Aidé with the gods! They saved the Tróyan dog."

  Automédon called from the cart, "Forget him. There are many more to kill. Wait until the moon rises to give us a little light and we will finish them all off."

  With only the distant watch fires atop the fortress to guide them, the men of Assúwa and northern Ak'áiwiya pushed on toward Tróya. Their progress was slow, as exhaustion added its weight to limbs weakened by hunger and thirst. Only the first Assúwans reached the safety of the capital city before the moon's light revealed their forces scattered in complete disarray over the plain.

  Qántili remained at the back of his army, urging his weary troops to press on until the landscape lightened, then calling them to renew the battle. "Do not be afraid," the Tróyan prince shouted. "Pretty armor does not make a warrior." At his side, the limping Sharpaduwánna added, "T'eshalíya's champion will bleed as easily as any man."

  The Lúkiyan spearmen needed no other encouragement. In righteous anger at the timing of this latest attack, they turned upon the gilded warrior and Ak'illéyu was forced to slash with all his strength to save his own life. He split his first attacker's skull, crushed the second under the hooves of his team, and drove a spear through a third man's temples, spattering brains on the warriors around him. The fourth Assúwan turned and ran for his life. Ak'illéyu's sword crashed through the fleeing man's back, passing through his body and out through the navel, drawing the entrails with it.

  His eyes aflame and shaking his spear, Qántili screamed, "I will slit your throat, you Ak'áyan swine!"

  The T'eshalíyan wánaks saw him coming and shouted, "Come on and die, Tróyan dog!" Each thrust his spear. Each dodged the blow. Again they sent their lance heads darting forward. Again one and then the other missed his target and they were parted by a whirlpool of battling and fleeing men. Deprived of his most desired prey, Ak'illéyu bellowed like a maddened bull.

  The gates of Tróya opened, with a groan of wood against stone. At the sight, Assúwa's exhausted warriors turned their last ounce of energy to running, seeking refuge behind the massive walls. On the heights, the princess Kashánda stood and watched with the other high-born women of Tróya. They called down words of encouragement to their fleeing brethren, hurling curses on their enemies, and promising innumerable sacrifices to the numberless gods and goddesses of the great Náshiyan empire.

  One weary fighter leaned against a large oak tree just beyond the row of six stone columns guarding the main gate. Sipping the last drops from his poppy-shaped flask, he faced Ak'illéyu as the T'eshalíyan came forward, driving well ahead of the rest of the other feathered warriors. Qántili chewed his lip, glancing backward at the wide gates that seemed to beckon like the soft arms of his wife. He had to force himself to look again toward Ak'illéyu as the T'eshalíyan raged among the fleeing Wilúsiyans. Saliva foamed over the Ak'áyan's lips. Deep-set eyes burned with inhuman ferocity. Two Lúkiyans managed to bring down one of Ak'illéyu's horses and soon paid with their lives. But the ploy gave other men time to run for the citadel's protection.

  "Apúluno, give me strength to defend these gates," the Tróyan prince whispered beneath the tree.

  As the last of the beleaguered Wilúsiyans rushed through the main gate, Qántili stepped from the tree’s shadows and into the open. Behind him, no man waited for his kinsman but, gasping and trembling, thought only of taking cover in the fortress. The heavy doors closed and bolts of sturdy oak slid across to secure them.

  "No bronze can pierce this door," the councilor Antánor exulted, as he helped with the task. Looking about at the muddied warriors, he called, "Agánor! Where are you, my son?"

  "As long as the Ak'áyans cannot scale the walls, we are safe," Alakshándu sighed, from his seat between the battlements of the well-tower.

  The women of Tróya came down from the walls to greet the soldiers, bringing them water to wash away the sweat, and watered wine to drink, until thirst and terror left them. By the cool, limestone walls, the war-weary men rested, as mothers and wives roamed among them, tearfully seeking their loved ones. In the crowded alleyways, the din was nearly as great as that on the plain had been a moment before. For some time, Alakshándu did not realize that one of his own sons remained outside the walls.

  Qántili remained alone on Tróya's plain, looking out at the confused ranks of Ak'áyans. Most had been unable to catch up with the fleeing Assúwans. They returned now toward the river and the camp beyond it, or crouched in small groups, too tired to move. Ak'illéyu roamed, directionless, finishing off the unfortunate wounded, men too weak to flee, shouting after the other T'eshalíyans to remain on the field. Alone, the maddened prince turned again toward the citadel and attacked the silent obelisks with his sword.

  "Damn you, Díwo!" Ak'illéyu cried, as his harsh blade splintered against the harder stone. "You let Qántili escape my spear. I will burn nothing but the bones of diseased lambs in your name. I will burn excrement for you!"

  Alakshándu and his queen embraced atop Tróya's southern tower. "Is all the army within the walls?" Eqépa asked her husband. Alakshándu nodded and raised his arms in grateful prayers.

  But the priestess Kashánda, roaming up and down the battlements, spotted the madman attacking the sacred columns below. She gave a great cry, tearing the ribbons from her long hair. "It is Ak'illéyu!" she cried and struck her head with both hands. "Sacrilege! Atrocity! That is no ordinary mortal! He takes up arms against our very gods. Owái, that is Díwo's chosen warrior who does battle for the queen of the fertile land. It is the end of the world, as the 'Elléniyan prophesied!" The priestess screamed a quivering, full-throated wail that sent a tremor of fear into all Assúwan hearts.

  Qántili tossed aside his empty juglet of poppy essence, and strode away from the tree, toward the T'eshalíyan who was desecrating Tróya's sacred obelisks. Kashánda caught sight of him as she danced in frenzy on the tower heights. "Qántili, my brother, why did you not come inside?” the priestess wept. “Owái, you are doomed, my brother! Dáwan Anna has decreed an evil fate for you."

  "Qántili!" Eqépa shrieked, tearing her cheeks with her nails. "Listen, you men below. Open the gates."

  "No, no, my son," the old man on the wall wailed, leaning over the cracked battlements, stretching out his plump hands as he had years before when he could still lift his child. "Do not face this dáimon alone!"

  In the confusion about the great doors, the men below could not hear the queen's command. Nor did Qántili hear his sister's warning or his parents cries. His knees trembled as he approached the dáimon warrior, his spear in his blood-stained hand.

  Suddenly, Ak'illéyu turned his burning eyes on the Tróyan prince. Without making a conscious decision, Qántili abruptly turned and ran from his enemy. Ak'illéyu chased his prey along the old wagon road that skirted the circuit wall, past the fountains that ran hot and cold from beneath the ground. Here, Wilúsiyan women had washed their clothing in better days, on banks lined with smooth, flat stones. Out onto the plain and back up the steep, hillside path Qántili ran, knowing in his heart that there was no refuge for him, no escape from his pursuer. Ak'illéyu followed, maintaining his pace, though his breath burned in his throat, his lungs bursting, pain stabbing his side. Like a lion closing on an antelope, he thought of nothing but his prey, hungering for the death of Patróklo's killer.

  On the great tower, Alakshándu
's oldest son-in-law joined his king and queen. "Where is Agánor?" Antánor asked, surveying the plain. "You are not the only ones whose hearts are torn with fear for a son."

  aaa

  The Ak'áyans assembled uncertainly on the northern bank of the now-quiet Sqámandro River. "Do you think we should go back to the citadel?" Automédon asked. "I do not see Ak'illéyu here with us. We should look for him, in case he is hurt." But the charioteer spoke without enthusiasm.

  His aching sides heaving, Meneláwo turned his face toward the pale walls of the fortress. He frowned, staring, not certain of what he saw. He raised a hand that was heavy with fatigue, as if to shade his eyes from a sun that had long since gone down. Hardly realizing what the distant scene meant, the Lakedaimóniyan pointed and panted, "Look!"

  Around him, others began to notice. Two small figures, dark silhouettes against Tróya's pale walls, moved from east to west before the city. "Is that Ak'illéyu?" men asked each other. "Who is he chasing?" The T'eshalíyans began to walk in the direction of Tróya and Meneláwo limped with them. Word spread on the banks and across the river that Ak'illéyu was about to fight a single combat beneath the Lady Moon. Forgetting their pain, no longer panicked, Agamémnon and his lawagétas all came toward the riverbank to see.