People of the Inner Sea (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  As the Argive wánasha complained of the poor feast, the mouths of the travelers watered with anticipation. "Will we stay for the winter?" Odushéyu asked his fellow king as they crossed the main courtyard. When Meneláwo began to shake his head, the It'ákan hastened to say, "I know what you are thinking, Meneláwo. Today is the ninth since Tróya fell, a holy number. The luck of the great Lady is with us, after all. But you can not tempt her bounty. We must not sail further until the end of the month of storms."

  Meneláwo did not meet Odushéyu's eyes. The Lakedaimóniyan king answered quietly, so that Klutaimnéstra would not hear, "No, Odushéyu, we are no safer here on the lucky ninth day than we would be on the unlucky fourth. We will stay in Argo one day after this one, to rest and to deliver what news we have. On the next, we return to the coast. And the following morning we set sail once again. Even if we have to row another four days, we must go on until we reach my citadel at Aúgeyai. There alone we will be safe. There you and your men may take refuge from the stormy season. Spend the winter there as my guests, if you are afraid to go further. But do not ask me to stop before then."

  CHAPTER THREE

  KLUTAIMNESTRA

  At the top of the steep hill of Mukénai stood the palace, with its main entrance on the northwest. Through this great portal the travelers went, following a wide passage south, within the massive building, toward the rooms of state. The passage was dimly lit by the sunlight that entered the double doors with the visitors. Torches mounted in brackets on the walls brightened the hall little more. In the flickering gloom of the palace interior, the group passed frescoes of rosettes and shields. The paint was smoke-blackened and peeling. The musty smell of long-closed rooms entered their nostrils, dampening the travelers' weary spirits.

  The wánasha of Argo briskly led the way, talking as they went. But even her voice dropped in the deepening darkness. "My husband would not listen to my advice, you know," Klutaimnéstra said bitterly, shaking her head. "He could not wait for the grain crop, a grave mistake, unforgivable. The harvest was poorer than any I have seen in all my years in Argo. Ai, Meneláwo, you should have seen the people's reaction, during the festival of the Maiden’s Descent. The country women wailed and tore at their faces and breasts as if it were their own daughters who had died and not the child of the goddess. That miserable harvest was an omen, you see. They knew as well as I that it meant their menfolk would not be coming home."

  Skirting a large guest room on the southwest corner of the palace, the visitors passed between two wooden pillars and entered a courtyard that was open to the sky. In the sudden brightness, the travelers had to shield their eyes. Odushéyu quietly pointed out to Meneláwo the cracked and blistering paint on the columns, piles of paint flakes littering the stone bases. "The whole fortress reeks of neglect and decay," the It'ákan whispered. Meneláwo, overwhelmed with fatigue, only shook his head. He did not want to hear.

  Beside the courtyard entrance, Klutaimnéstra briefly halted. There, before a red-painted table, the wánasha raised her hands to ask the blessings of the dáimons of the gates. "Sons of Díwo," she called out, in her most commanding tone, her eyes to the cloudless sky, "Diwoskórwos, guard this house and all who enter it. Let the rain fall to the earth copiously, this winter. Make the wheat sprout up thickly to heaven." She took a cup of wine from the table. Raising the painted, terra cotta vessel, she spilled a few drops on the floor. The liquid fell to a depression carved in the paving slabs, a place darkly stained from many earlier offerings.

  The little ceremony over, Klutaimnéstra returned the wine cup to the table. She beckoned to the visitors to follow her through the courtyard, continuing her tale from where she had left off. "Owái, it was the same throughout southern Ak'áiwiya. Lakedaimón and Argo both look to me for salvation, but what can I give them? Néstor's kingdom has been allied to us for a generation, so you might think I could turn to his queen for help. But the commoners of Mesheníya have been restive for a hundred years, and now it is worse than ever. Poor Eyurudíka, she can give me no assistance. She can barely be considered the wánasha of her own palace, the way these farmers disobey! Ai, old Néstor will have his hands full when he gets home. He will have to retake all his lands, that is, if he can."

  Painted rosettes decked the stone walls of the courtyard, but even these showed signs of decay. The bright yellows and reds had washed away completely in some places and retained their original hues only in corners protected from the sun’s harsh glare. Odushéyu pointed to the bare spots wordlessly as they passed. Meneláwo only pushed the mariner's hand down, so that Klutaimnéstra would not see the gesture.

  A single door led from the courtyard to the inner palace, and the visitors entered it. They found themselves in a high-ceilinged room, its wall-plaster painted with lively hunting scenes. The floor was stuccoed like the walls and painted in many colors. Once bright, the worn zigzags of blue, yellow, and red were now barely visible. On a raised, gypsum slab beside the entrance to the room beyond, there sat an ancient, royal guard, a spear in his hand. At the sight of the visitors, he stood, shaking the long, white hair out of his eyes. Klutaimnéstra paused for him to pull aside the curtains draping the doorway.

  The queen and her visitors passed through, into the main room of the palace, the mégaron. Its plastered floor was painted to match that of the previous room, its walls enlivened with scenes of war and plunder. On one side, painted horsemen and soldiers marched off to battle. Another fresco depicted a procession of men and women bearing tribute to the conqueror. But even here, the decorations were not fresh. Around the great central hearth, the colors on the floor were completely worn away. The whole room was overlaid with a layer of fine, gray soot.

  As they entered the throne room, Klutaimnéstra's voice quieted still further than before. Leaning close to Meneláwo's ear, she whispered, "The word from Kep'túr is still worse. The drought struck even that holy land. The latest message from wánasha Médeya mentioned pestilence, as well. Ai, by the sweet goddess, I do not believe Idómeneyu will be able to hold his throne. Most of his people are not even true Ak'áyans, after all. What must Kep'túr be plotting when even my loyal Lakedaimóniyans are muttering?"

  Meneláwo did not respond, but only sank into the first chair he could find. Ariyádna wearily sat beside him, drawing her daughter into her lap. The bruised former captive ducked her head, trying not to see the grim frescoes and pressed 'Ermiyóna's little hands to her face. Her shadowed eyes tightly closed, the mother wrapped her child in her dirty cloak.

  Odushéyu alone remained alert and watchful. His eyes and ears followed the Argive queen with intense interest. Seating himself near the Lakedaimóniyan king, Odushéyu murmured to Meneláwo, "She calls it her Lakedaimón, did you hear? I am afraid you have an enemy in your own brother's house."

  Meneláwo did not speak. He leaned back against the sheepskins cushioning his chair, his eyes half-closed, one hand at his aching side. His lips were parted and he panted, his breath coming quick and shallow.

  To Odushéyu's surprise, Klutaimnéstra now took her place on an oversized, gypsum chair that rested against the south wall of the room. "She is sitting on Agamémnon's throne," the It'ákan hissed to his friend, scandalized. "Does she think she is the wánaks now?" Still, he could not rouse Meneláwo's interest.

  The wánasha waved impatiently at the serving women waiting in the shadows. "Do not stand about like statues, ladies. Prepare the food. Bring the wine and mix it with water. My sister must not think that Argo has forgotten the laws of hospitality."

  As the queen gave her orders, Aígist'o settled himself close by her, arranging the fleeces on his chair with studied attention. He, too, spoke to the serving women, though more quietly, so that the visitors could not hear his words. But they saw his gestures, directing them to the large, circular fireplace in the center of the room. About the hearth, four wooden columns held up the roof where it opened to let out the smoke. Virtually no light came through the high opening, so that the room was
lit almost solely by the fire and its reflections in the bronze-plate coverings of the columns.

  Odushéyu shook Meneláwo's arm. "Look how closely Aígist'o sits to her. Can they be lovers? Ai gar, your brother had better drive his wife out of the palace as soon as he gets back."

  Meneláwo's lethargy cleared enough for him to glare at Odushéyu. With a quick, nervous glance at Ariyádna, the Lakedaimóniyan king whispered, "Keep still!"

  The It'ákan followed his companion's gaze to Ariyádna's face. The blue-lidded eyes were closed, her cheeks pale. She rocked 'Ermiyóna slowly from side to side, ignorant of the words and actions of all around her. The child's crying had quieted to small hiccups. Little fingers clutched at her mother's cloak with white-knuckled intensity.

  The guest kings turned to the wánasha on the throne to find her penetrating gaze fastened on them. Klutaimnéstra raised a single black eyebrow, frowning. "Well then," she said, as if announcing an edict. "Give me your news. I take it Tróya has fallen?"

  Meneláwo shifted his weight in his chair, moving stiffly, leaning toward the pain in his side. He cleared his throat, preparing to answer.

  But Odushéyu could not keep still. His voice booming from his broad chest, he angrily called out to the queen, "Wánasha, you speak to us as if we were pottery merchants, reporting the number of jars sent to the distant island of Alásiya!" He sat straight in his chair and struck his woolly chest with his fist. "We are great Ak'áyan wánaktes, returning home after the greatest military victory of all time. Under the leadership of the high wánaks, Agamémnon, your husband," and here he glanced pointedly at Aígist'o, "we have shattered the formerly powerful Náshiyan empire!"

  Klutaimnéstra's displeasure showed in her stiff posture, her eyes gleaming with contempt. "I am pleased to hear it," she responded icily. "My husband has done just as I asked of him."

  "Asked!" Odushéyu began in a fury.

  But Meneláwo stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. "Be still, Odushéyu," the Lakedaimóniyan wánaks urged. "That is your overlord's wife you are addressing, not some Wilúsiyan captive. Show a little respect."

  Before Odushéyu could argue, Meneláwo raised his hands toward Klutaimnéstra and addressed her as meekly as a servant. "I apologize for my friend, wánasha. Ten months of battle cannot fail to roughen a soldier's manners. But Odushéyu meant no disrespect. Let me answer your question, sister-in-law. What he says is true, as you can see by your sister's presence. We took Tróya, just as you say. It seems that the Náshiyan Empire has become weak while Ak'áiwiya's alliance has grown strong. It was a great victory, auspicious for the future." His voice faded as he spoke the last phrase without conviction.

  Working at the fireplace, the serving women paused and looked at each other, unnerved by the Lakedaimóniyan king's appearance and manner, despite his optimistic words. The dancing flames cast strange reflections on the bronze-plate coverings of the supporting pillars. The hollow-cheeked faces of the guests were suffused with an eerie light and the war-like frescoes seemed to move. To the frightened eyes of the servants, the familiar pattern of the evening meal seemed fraught with evil omens. Even the painted, red plumes on the sides of the hearth seemed to hint of disasters to come. Surreptitiously, hiding their gestures from the queen, they made the sign of the Evil Eye toward the guests.

  Klutaimnéstra still frowned, adjusting her embroidered cloak about her shoulders. "I foretold Tróya's fall, of course. I knew that Náshiya would not be a threat to Agamémnon. That reminds me. A message came to me last month that may interest you. I hear from the city of Millewánda that the old emperor Qáttushli has died. His heir is said to be a certain prince Tudqáliya, a weakling ruled by his mother. It is no wonder the Náshiyans could not keep you from victory at Tróya with such a worthless leader. Idé, I am not at all surprised to hear that I predicted events correctly. My family has interpreted the flight of birds without error for a hundred years. You know it was I who sent the peerless Qálki to act as the army's seer." She paused, studying the visitors' faces. "No doubt he served you well in Assúwa. How is Qálki, by the way? Is he with Agamémnon? And tell me, what word do you have of my husband? Is he close behind you?"

  On the opposite side of the hearth from the travelers, the royal children perked up at the queen's last questions. The youngest, a boy of eleven, stood up in his eagerness, his mouth wide open. Like 'Ermiyóna, he had had his head shaved but for a shoulder-length lock at the back of his head and another, shorter one at his forehead. The boy was also richly clothed in an embroidered kilt and new sandals. His sisters behind him wore long, flounced skirts brushed with oil to make the varied colors shine. The oldest girl pulled the boy back to his seat abruptly with a rosette-adorned hand. Her long hair, like her mother's, was reddened with henna, and it fell loosely to her waist. "Sit down," she murmured.

  The younger girl whispered a warning. "Do not say anything about Pappa. Mamma will be angry with you," she said with a shake of her head, rattling the beads entwined in her newly growing locks.

  The boy pulled his arm free of the older child's grasp and he frowned, his lower lip jutting out. But he sat dutifully, wrapping himself tightly in the woolen cloak that he had earlier dropped into his chair, and said nothing. Unable to suppress his feelings completely, he kicked his feet with impatience.

  Meneláwo's arms fell and he leaned back in his chair with a grunt. "My brother is behind us, but I do not know how far. We took the shorter route across the Inner Sea. I do not know whether Agamémnon chose this same path or whether he kept to the coast. As for Qálki, he died on the battlefield in Wilúsiya, along with so many others."

  "What? Dead?" Klutaimnéstra's face reddened with suppressed fury. "Who killed my seer?" she demanded.

  "No one knows," Meneláwo sighed. Both visiting wánaktes bent their necks, hiding their eyes from the queen.

  She did not speak, but turned her flashing eyes toward Aígist'o. He nodded, meeting her gaze with a knowing look, and silently mouthed the name of the absent Argive king, "Agamémnon."

  At the same time, the little boy beside the hearth slouched in his chair, disappointed by the vague answer. He pulled the long topknot at the back of his head to his mouth and chewed the end.

  While the wánasha and her guests conversed, the serving-women had been busy. They mixed wine and water in large bowls and brought wine cups to all the high-born folk about the fire. The rich scent of meat cooking wafted through the chamber from caldrons set over the central hearth on three-legged stands. Baskets of freshly baked bread and of dried figs passed before the visitors in the servants' hands.

  The talk died down as the group began to eat, Klutaimnéstra's dark eyes taking in every detail of her guests' appearance and behavior. "Ariyádna, I would have invited you to bathe before dining," she said to her sister, frowning at the travelers' unkempt state. "But the drought has affected our life even in the palace. We cannot draw enough water from the springs to fill a single bathtub. Even I cannot bathe until it rains again."

  Ariyádna nodded without understanding. She ate sparingly, gazing only on her daughter's face. The child looked to her mother time and again, gingerly touching the dark scratches and bruises on the woman's cheeks, fingering the matted hair. 'Ermiyóna ate little too, pushing away the bits of bread and meat that her mother's fingers pressed to her lips. Meneláwo ate scarcely more than his wife and child, but he poured cup after cup of watered wine down his throat, slumping in his chair.

  Klutaimnéstra was visibly troubled, her forehead knitted with concern as she watched her sister and brother-in-law. A vague sense of foreboding crept into Klutaimnéstra's soul. What had happened to them, across the Inner Sea, she wondered. What unspeakable events had those haunted eyes witnessed?

  The It'ákan, however, was thoroughly enjoying himself. As Odushéyu's belly filled with food and wine, he relaxed and began to regale them all with tales of his own battle prowess. "The victims of my spear could not be counted on any man’s fingers and toes. The bronze I to
ok from their bodies would fill this room," he boasted. "But there is one feat of mine that will be sung about for years to come, when all else has been forgotten. The Ak'áyan army was hard pressed at that time, with our enemies camped in the field hardly a stone's throw away. Despite the danger, I made a courageous foray into the heart of the Wilúsiyan camp, to count their forces and especially their chariots. I had hardly set out when I encountered a Tróyan spy. The dog thought he would betray us. Ai, Tróyans are such godless men, no treachery is beyond them. I fought that spy with the rage of a wild boar. And he had the strength of a bull. But in the end, he died on my spear and his shining armor was mine to possess."

  Pausing to survey his audience, he took a sip of wine before concluding the tale. "I counted the number of Wilúsiyan allies that night for Agamémnon, with only Diwoméde with me. Ai, precious little help that boy was to me."