by Diana Gainer
"Yes, wánaks," the chariot master sighed. "It does not look as though it will rain any more, not this year either. The barley crop will be no better than before." The two sat in silence for a long while, drinking wine that had been so thinned with water, the painted designs at the bottom of their cups were visible through the liquid. "Where do we go this time? Back to Alásiya? Or should we try Wórdo again?"
Meneláwo shook his head, running a hand through his thinning, graying hair. "No, we no longer have sufficient bronze to trade for Alásiya's grain. As for Wórdo, it is overrun with Assúwans. We cannot go north, either. Attika and T'ráki are still hostile to my brother's kinsmen. The messages I send to Mízriya go unanswered, so the south may be starving, too, for all I know. This time, you will sail west. I know it is dangerous. But I am afraid the bull country that is called the ítalo land is our last hope."
St'énelo shuddered. "I have heard terrible stories about the bull country. Odushéyu says that it is peopled by giants, monsters with only a single eye in their foreheads."
A slight smile softened the king's somber face. "Ai, do not worry about what Odushéyu has said. You saw Diwoméde's captive woman at Tróya, did you not? She is from the ítalo country. She looks ordinary enough, does she not? As for Odushéyu's one-eyed men, ai gar, years ago, he swore that the T'rákiyans had dogs' heads. Now all of Ak'áiwiya knows that was a lie. Do you remember what he said when the Mízriyan army came to Tróya? The men with black skins were dáimons from 'Aidé and we were all doomed unless we fought Odushéyu's way."
The chariot master chuckled. "Yes, and when the dark men's blood was spilled, snakes would supposedly come from their wounds. But, when they were stuck with our spears or arrows, they only bled and died, just like us." As he and the king stared at the glowing embers on the hearth, the smiles faded from their lips. "If we have so little bronze, what can we use in the ítalo country? Should we raid them and take their grain by force?"
Meneláwo could not meet his horse trainer's eyes. Rubbing the rim of his wine cup with his thumb, he muttered, "I will provide you with metal."
"But where will you get it?" St'énelo persisted. "Your brother is dead and your sister's wife has remarried. Klutaimnéstra will not lend you any bronze. As for our storehouses, they are empty. No, my wánaks, we possess nothing else that the western barbarians value. Weaving women and embroidered clothes mean nothing to them."
"I will provide you with trade goods," the wánaks repeated wearily. "If there is no metal in my fortresses, then I will open the graves of my wife's kinsmen. We buried many treasures with the old king and queen, and the cenotaphs of Ariyádna's brothers are nearly as rich."
The chariot master was shocked and the wine cup dropped from his hand. The ceramic shattered, unnoticed, on the paving stones of the big, empty chamber. Whispering in awe and dread, he began, "But the spirits of the dead…." Choking on the thought of the angry shades rising from their graves, he could not go on.
"They will understand," the king sighed, tears welling in his dark-rimmed eyes. "Kástor and his brother were good men. They must have greeted many of their people in 'Aidé these past two years. I cannot believe that pleased them."
aaa
As Lakedaimón's wánaks prepared to take the wealth of the dead, Argo's king contemplated the same move in his own throne room. "We would not touch the sacred grave circle in Mukénai, of course," Aígist'o reassured his wife. "My illustrious ancestors would never forgive me for that."
Klutaimnéstra clapped her hands to her elaborately styled hair. With a keening wail, she frightened the servants toiling at the hearth. "You godless dog!" she shrieked. "How can you even consider such impiety? You are worse than Agamémnon." And she slapped her second husband's cheek, calling out more angry epithets.
"Hear me out, woman," Aígist'o shouted at her, catching her hands in his, digging his nails into her soft flesh. "Listen to me and stop this unseemly behavior. You are a queen, not a wild mainád. Ai, your temper is as violent as Artémito's!" he bellowed.
Klutaimnéstra did not answer, but pulled her hands from the king's grasp, still furious. Breathing hard, the wánaks growled, "I realize that my suggestion is shocking. But, think about it for a moment. We show our respect for the dead by placing gifts in their graves. But it is not our custom to leave such presents underground forever. No, the next time a kinsman dies and the family tomb is opened, the living carry away the old riches. No one admits to doing this, but how could it be otherwise? If no dead man's possessions were ever removed, the graves would soon be filled to overflowing."
"But that is different," the queen objected bitterly. "You are not proposing that we wait until there is a funeral. You suggest that we open the graves before there is a need for the tomb. Ai, may Agamémnon's whole clan be cursed, they are so blasphemous!"
"Speaking of my cousin," Aígist'o said through clenched teeth, "you cannot object to robbing Agamémnon's grave, at the very least. He flaunted the laws of Mother Diwiyána all his life. I am amazed that you provided his tomb with as many riches as you did."
The wánasha glared at the slender king. "I had good reason for my actions. Agamémnon's memory means nothing to me, personally. But he was the father of my children, after all. You should know, as a priest, that the dead torment their surviving kinsmen when their spirits are dishonored. I do not want to see my son or my daughters suffer."
Aígist'o frowned at his heavy-set wife. "Very well," he agreed at last, though it filled him with disgust to say the words. "Have it your way. The dead will keep their wealth."
aaa
Unaware of the quarrels of his king and queen, Diwoméde dozed on his throne in Tíruns, wrapped in a warm cloak, his feet resting in Dáuniya's lap. The serving woman smiled fondly at the sleeper, stroking his feet. "He will be walking alone by the time of the harvest," she announced quietly to a nearby laborer.
The man, draped in a bulky, patched cloak, smiled back. "Good," he said, rubbing his back. "He is getting fatter by the day. And I am getting too old and stiff to carry such a weight."
Dáuniya chuckled. "Ai, you are not old, just lazy, T'érsite. You are as strong as an ox."
The laborer's grin broadened, showing a toothless gap across the front of his mouth. "Just the same, it will be good to see him walking again."
The serving woman gazed at him with genial suspicion. "Why should a common laborer care whether his qasiléyu walks or not?"
T'érsite shrugged, cheerfully explaining, "He is more than my qasiléyu. He is a kinsman. We bastards must stand up for each other."
Dáuniya laughed out loud at that and Diwoméde started awake. For a brief moment, he stared without seeing, his eyes wide and fearful. But, as gentle hands caressed his feet and his sight focused on two friendly faces, he relaxed. "Help me to my bed-chamber," the young man said, raising his arms to be lifted to T'érsite's broad shoulder.
aaa
Further north, in T'eshalíya, wánaks and wánasha unconcernedly talked of importing a little T'rákiyan grain the next year. As the aging rulers of the northern kingdom lay in bed, sandwiched between warm fleeces, Péleyu suddenly raised himself on an elbow. Facing his wife, the king said, "I have been thinking about the fate of T'eshalíya. As it is, we have only the one heir, our grandson Púrwo."
"Yes," T'éti agreed, rolling her eyes. "What an uncivilized prince he is, too. A couple of summers in the mountain pastures with the sheep will do him good."
"But there is also our granddaughter to think of," the wánaks went on, touching a hand to his wife's lips to silence her complaint.
The gray-haired woman smiled. "I am so pleased that the little thing has survived her first year. Ai, what a sweet child she is, at that. She looks just like her father when he was that age." Her eyes misted at the thought. "Ai, Ak'illéyu," she whispered. "My poor boy…."
Péleyu impatiently patted her hand to drive away the memory. "Forget the past for a moment, my good wife, and consider the child's future. She is illegit
imate and cannot inherit the throne."
"Mm," T'éti mused, frowning. "When Púrwo imports a wife, our poor granddaughter may not be welcome in her own country." King and queen looked at each other a moment, saying nothing. The queen broke into a smile and shook a finger at her husband. "I know what you are thinking, Péleyu," she said with an attempt at a frown. "You are going to suggest we adopt her as our own."
He nodded. "She is our own flesh and blood, after all. And 'Iqodámeya claims that our son promised to marry her when they returned from Tróya. What do you think?"
"Inheritance should indeed pass through the female line," T'éti said firmly. "It is an excellent idea. And you may keep the child's mother in the palace as her nursemaid." She nodded once to indicate that the matter was settled and Péleyu repeated the gesture.
But the king was not finished. "That will still leave us with a problem. What will happen to our granddaughter when Púrwo goes south to marry? And he will go, you know. The boy is proud. He will leave T'eshalíya, looking for a wife with a throne as her dowry. Suppose our granddaughter's husband takes it into his head to beat her? A woman without brothers to protect her is almost as helpless as a widow."
Again, T'éti smiled in response. "I know you too well, Péleyu. You want us to adopt Andrómak'e's little boy, also."
He shrugged. "Why stop there? The captive children are all still babies. They will not remember any other parents but us, by the time they are grown."
"Adopt them all?" the queen asked in surprise. She stared open-mouthed at the wánaks, as he waited for her reply. "Ai," said T'éti with another brief nod, "why not?"
aaa
At the festival of the vernal equinox, the king of Mízriya received reports from his vast territories with an impassive air. Mirniptáha was not a tall man nor was he broad in the shoulders, and he was nearly swallowed by his gilded, wooden throne with its carved scenes of war, inlaid with gold, silver, and precious stones. A raised stool of equally elaborate design held the sandaled feet that otherwise would have dangled in the air. His bony shoulders sagged under the weight of an enormous, golden collar and sweat trickled down his cheeks from beneath the two massive crowns on his head, a high, white cap inside a low, red one. Through the diaphanous, white fabric of his long tunic could be seen the king's prominent ribs, as well as the bright reds and blues of his short underskirt. His clean-shaven face was gaunt, falling in a mass of wrinkles over a braided, false beard of black sheep’s wool that was tied to his chin. But the king's expression was without emotion, as if unaware of his own physical frailty.
Dressed in matching cloaks of transparent linen, two high-born officials bowed low before their monarch, touching their foreheads to the ground. Both the clean-shaven men adjusted the short wigs on their heads, as they rose to their elegantly sandaled feet once more. Lesser ranked men in similar wigs and short kilts hurried forward with their necks and knees appropriately bent, to hand rolls of inked papyrus to their superiors.
"O golden Harú," called out the heftier of the two men of highest rank. Perspiring profusely with anxiety, he moved forward to rest a sandaled foot on the first step of the king's raised dais. "O Strong Bull of Mízriya, my royal father, Mirniptáha Hutpí-hírma, with dreadful regret that weighs down my heart, I bring you most unwelcome, evil news."
His taller, thinner companion shot him a furious look. "Be still, Amun-musís," he interrupted loudly. "As supreme governor of Upper Mízriya, I should give my report first."
"But, Siptáha," hissed the shorter man. "This is important!"
Ignoring the stocky man beside him, Siptáha strode forward on long, spindly legs, his eyes on the king. "O Great House of Upper and Lower Mízriya, may you have a life of a thousand years, prosperity beyond imagining, and eternally excellent health! O beloved of the two noble goddesses, king Mirniptáha, your tax-collectors' first reports are in and once again your Divine Father, Ra, shining in the sky, has blessed your lands with a wondrous harvest."
The aging monarch did not speak. His immobile features displayed no more awareness of the squabbling officials before him than he did of the weight of his crown and collar. As if carved of granite, he stared past his overseers in their ankle-length garments, silent and unmoving.
Behind him stood four men, two of them waving tall fans to cool the royal limbs. Their banners of ostrich feathers created a breeze that occasionally moved the lion's tail that hung, limply, from the back of the king's belt. The slight stirring of the emblem, visible between the thin legs of the monarch's chair, made the king seem even more like a statue. The fan-bearers' skin was lighter than that of the officials before the dais, their hair less curly. And Amun-musís glared at them with malevolence, hating them for their very presence, despising them all the more because they were obviously foreigners in his native land.
The stocky official's gaze fell with no more favor upon the other two men behind the throne. These servants held parasols, shading the royal head from Mízriya's already hot sun, though the day had scarcely begun. Their short hair was as tightly curled as that of the wigs worn by the highest ranking officials. Unlike the fan-wavers, the parasol bearers' skin was as dark as their eyes, marking them as foreigners from the opposite end of the earth from the former.
"O protector of the Black Land, lord of the Two Kingdoms, life, prosperity and health be yours forever and ever! I beseech you, send these barbarians away," Amun-musís urged the Great King, waving at the four, in their short, white kilts, cropped hair, and bare chins. "I have momentous and terrible news that is fit only for imperial ears." His gauzy tunic clung to his damp skin and he pulled the wig from his head to wipe the sweat from his head. "My report concerns the city of the sun. The fate of holy Un is at stake."
His prominent nose in the air, tall Siptáha called out more loudly than ever, "The people's hearts swell with joy at your name, and the plants and animals of the nation rejoice, O shining child of the Sun's Disk, O Mirniptáha, for you will overthrow all the lands of the wicked barbarians, as your father and your grandfather did before you! The gods have set you upon the throne of Mízriya and you will reign for millions and millions of years, shining among men upon your dais, as the Sun shines in the sky, as your father shines in heaven! May life, prosperity, and health be yours forever and ever! I will now read to you the amount of taxes so far collected in each province of the Upper Kingdom…."
But as Siptáha paused for breath and rolled out his papyrus scroll, the shorter official began to speak. "O Great House of the sacred Black Land," Amun-musís called out, reciting only the briefest titles and speaking as hurriedly as possible. "King Mirniptáha, life, prosperity, health to you, if you will not send your slaves away, I will just have to give my report in their presence. I absolutely must describe our situation to you. The situation is dire! The whole of the western desert is on the move! The Libúwans have been raiding Lower Mízriya ever since the Aigúpto was in full flood. I got the news late because of the unprecedented height of the waters and I did not realize myself how serious the problem was. I thought this was just another cattle raid, at first, one such as your father and grandfather endured many times. A few Káushan mercenaries went to the fortresses in the delta to deal with the Libúwans, but…."
Annoyed by the interruption, the long-limbed Siptáha angrily waved his scroll at the speaker. "Brother, you will curb your tongue until I have finished my report to the king. You will have plenty of time to discuss these mundane matters after I am done with the tax lists."
"By Ra and Amún and Awsít himself!" cursed Amunmusís, "you try my patience, Siptáha. If we do not deal with this crisis now, Mízriya will soon have no Great House to praise!" Turning back to the immovable king, the shorter man shouted, "The whole of the Lower Kingdom is overrun! The Libúwans hold the western delta all the way from the edge of the desert as far as the Aigúpto's banks. Still worse has befallen the eastern delta. The chieftain Mirurí has returned from exile with allies from all the northern islands. These barbarian sea p
eople have laid waste to the eastern half of the Lower Kingdom. Even holy cities are being sacked and plundered without compunction! The temples in Bubást have been emptied of all the treasures allotted them by your illustrious father, may he rest in Ra's horizon forever!"
Enraged, Siptáha opened his mouth to speak. But the king on the throne seemed suddenly to waken at the final phrase. "What is the tax report from the Lower Kingdom?" he asked, his voice tremulous with age.
"Tax report!" Amunmusís cried, tossing his papyrus scroll to the ground and throwing his broad hands in the air. "I cannot collect any taxes at all! My great royal father obviously does not comprehend the gravity of the situation. You are no longer lord of the two lands, O son of Ra, life, prosperity and so on, but only of the one, the Upper Kingdom by itself. Nothing can come to you from the delta but an invading army! And that it will do, indeed, I can promise you, before this harvest is in! If you do nothing, holy Un itself will fall to the barbarians before the next month ends! From there it is but a short march to Manufrí."
"Manufrí!" Siptáha exclaimed, the blood draining from his face. "Here?"