Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  Meneláwo groaned. "Idé, that is true enough! Have you seen what Ak'illéyu did to Qántili's body? The madman keeps it tied to his chariot and every time he thinks of his dead friend, he hitches up his horses and drags the corpse around the camp."

  Idómeneyu nodded. "All this time, we wanted Ak'illéyu to patch up his quarrel with the overlord and fight with us again. Now that he has, I do not know that this is a good thing, after all. The man shows no restraint, no respect at all for custom. Everyone knows that kind of insane behavior angers the gods. Ak'illéyu is bringing divine curses down on all of us!"

  Agamémnon had taken his seat as the others spoke. Now he smiled and leaned to the side, reclining lazily on one arm. With only a perfunctory gesture toward the speaker's staff, he said, "I knew all along that hot-headed T'eshalíyan was no savior for Ak'áiwiya's cause. I tried to tell you. Still, while Ak'illéyu may not be much of an ally, he would be worse as an enemy. Ai, Néstor, you and Idómeneyu fret like a couple of women! Do not worry. I have things well in hand. Ak'illéyu will want a grand funeral for his foster brother. We will give him that. He is bound to sacrifice an unheard of number of animals for Patróklo's spirit, enough to service the souls of all our dead. We will let the mad T'eshalíyan conduct whatever rites he chooses for his foster brother. Then, as soon as Ak'illéyu is satisfied, we will bring along the rest of the dead, and dispose of them quickly at the same time."

  "That is all very well and good," Néstor said, smarting from the overlord's insult. "But how are you going to convince Ak'illéyu to give up Qántili's body? Even aside from the wrath of the great gods, there is the more practical problem of the corpse itself. It poses a danger to all of us. Have you seen it?" He made a face. "Ai gar, the thing is beginning to turn black and it smells. We all know that evil smells cause the plague and we have had more than our share of that already. And do not forget. Qántili was a formidable warrior in life. His avenging spirit could inflict who knows how much damage on our men's souls! What are you going to do about that, Agamémnon?"

  "Yes, what are you going to do?" asked one of the feather-capped northern warriors. "We Qoyotíyans are pious men and this behavior offends the wánaks of the gods, the great Díwo himself. The power of his Evil Eye will soon be turned against us all, if we do not take strong action. Send Aíwaks," the northern king suggested, pointing to the tallest man among them, the only one with pale eyes. "Have your big qasiléyu beat some sense into the man."

  Aíwaks considered the idea for a moment, squinting his blue eyes. At length he stood, towering over all the other men present, and nodded. "I am a P'ilísta myself, by birth," he told them, his voice deep and slow. "And I hesitate to criticize a fellow northerner. Ak'illéyu is a close personal friend of mine, too. But I am afraid of the gods also. We do have to do something and soon. Still, if I attack Ak'illéyu, no matter what my reasons or who orders me to do it, he will never rest until he kills me or I kill him. No, I say we should get Odushéyu to handle this. He is a pirate, after all, and as clever with words as I am good with a spear. People say he has cheated men out of their bronze on all sides of the Inner Sea. Do not be offended, wánaks Odushéyu. I mean this as a compliment. Go to Ak'illéyu and distract him with talk. Then I will just take the corpse and throw it in the river for the fishes to eat. That ought to be enough vengeance for anyone. Even Ak'illéyu."

  The big qasiléyu glanced around the group, looking for support for his proposal. The man's sky-colored eyes unnerved the other troop leaders and they could not meet his gaze. Disappointed and annoyed at the subdued response, Aíwaks sat, muttering to himself, "Well, I thought it was a good idea."

  Néstor was not so sure. Once more taking a turn with the spear, he suggested, "It might be better to bribe him. Remember, when Ak'illéyu first quarreled with our overlord, he complained that he was not getting his fair share of the spoils of war. You promised him many fine things, Agamémnon, if he would rejoin us. I think you owe him those gifts, now that he has killed Qántili for us." The old, bronze-helmeted king had spoken to the group as a whole to begin with. But now he turned to Agamémnon with a stern look.

  The overlord frowned, surprised and displeased. "Ai gar, Néstor, I do not think I have to go that far. After all, he refused my offer, as Aíwaks and Odushéyu can attest. No, I will return Ak'illéyu's woman to him, but that is enough. She was the reason for our quarrel, after all. Besides, he was evidently fond of 'Iqodámeya. She might even be able to talk some sense into him. That may not be enough, though," he added quickly, seeing that Néstor was preparing to stand yet again. "So, when Odushéyu goes to Tróya to negotiate the truce for us, he should suggest that king Alakshándu should prepare a ransom for Qántili's body. If Ak'illéyu accepts the Tróyan offer, then our problem is solved and we are no poorer because of it. On the other hand, if Ak'illéyu is angered and refuses, he will be upset with our enemies and not with us. In that case, we will take Aíwaks's suggestion and deal with the body ourselves." He was smiling broadly when he finished.

  Néstor's lined face was stony. "Clever," he said bitterly. "Very clever."

  The other troop leaders brightened. One, short and broad and covered with bushy hair, laughed out loud, slapping his thighs. "You are learning, Agamémnon," he crowed. "You will make a decent pirate yet!"

  "You should know, Odushéyu," Néstor muttered between clenched teeth.

  The men rose to leave the assembly just as Ak'illéyu entered the circle of kings and qasiléyus. The T'eshalíyan was grim-faced and pale, his long hair tangled and oily, his kilt filthy, and he had not washed the blood from his body after the last battle. "When do we attack Tróya next?" he asked, his voice a hoarse croak.

  "Yes, when?" Meneláwo repeated, unhappy with the course the meeting had taken. He alone had not risen but remained seated by Agamémnon's fire, a hand at the unhealed wound in his side.

  Agamémnon spread his hands wide as if to show he had no control over that. "As soon as we can coax the Wilúsiyans out from behind their walls."

  Ak'illéyu's deep-set eyes fastened upon the overlord's face. "When will that be?" the T'eshalíyan prince demanded.

  Agamémnon met the smaller man's gaze with an equally unrelenting stare. "When the men have rested and eaten their fill." On the ground, Meneláwo grunted, nodding with evident satisfaction at the answer.

  But the northern prince spat at the overlord's feet. "The only thing I hunger for is Tróyan blood," Ak'illéyu snarled. "Until I taste it, I swear by 'Estiwáya, who guards my hearth, that I will not eat. And if you do not share my thirst for blood, I curse you all, your fathers, and your grandfathers. Zeugelátes are not men. Southerners know nothing of honor. To 'Aidé with all of you!"

  Idómeneyu and Odushéyu stood, Néstor and the other bronze-capped leaders beside them. Each reached for his dagger. "You will take that back," Néstor demanded.

  At Agamémnon's signal, Aíwaks and the northern men with feathered headgear stopped the fight before it began, intervening with their own bodies between the antagonists. "Listen to reason, Ak'illéyu," Aíwaks urged. The tall man put his hands on the other's shoulders. "You and I are friends, almost kinsmen. Even though I serve a southern king, at heart I am still a P'ilísta. I invite you, as a fellow northerner, to sit and eat with us, here at Agamémnon's hearth. Do this to show that you have rejoined our cause, if not for your brother's spirit. While we eat, Agamémnon can have his people bring out all the fine gifts that he promised. That will make your heart glad. You will fight even better for it."

  Alarmed, Agamémnon spoke up. "Yes, as Aíwaks says, I will award you your prize of honor for killing Qántili. And while your woman is still here in my tent, I will swear before the whole army that I never touched her. Aíwaks, go, find 'Iqodámeya and bring her to my tent. Quickly now!"

  The big qasiléyu obeyed, but with a scowl on his face. Clearly, the overlord did not intend to give all that he had once promised to the T'eshalíyan. But Ak'illéyu did not notice the overlord's duplicity. And he was no more pl
acated than before. "We can do this some other time. Patróklo is lying dead in my hut, bled white by Qántili's spear. How can you think about eating when my brother's enemies are still alive? Fight now. Eat at sunset when we have had revenge."

  Meneláwo had quietly calmed the southern kings, inviting them to take their seats about his brother's hearth once more. Now he came forward, and laid an arm over Ak'illéyu's shoulders. Soothingly and calmly he spoke, trying to reason with the T'eshalíyan. "You are a fine warrior, Ak'illéyu, the best spearman here. And we have every intention of honoring your desire for revenge. Indeed, we want vengeance ourselves, just as much as you do. Every man here has lost kinsmen. And no one has any more reason to fight than I do. It was my city the Tróyans attacked, starting this war. It was my people who were slaughtered during a holy festival. I will not eat well or sleep soundly until I have avenged my wife, who was carried off to be a Tróyan's concubine.

  "But think, Ak'illéyu. If we fasted every time a kinsman died, when would we ever eat? This is not sensible. No, the only thing to do with the dead is to mourn them. We must eat well and drink our finest wine, as custom demands, to send the souls of the departed on their final journey. And we must not fast for another reason, so that we will be strong when we meet our enemies the next time. That is how a man gets revenge. So we will do what we must. Then, when we are ready, we will fight, all of us this time. No man will stay by the tents. The carpenters and helmsmen will join us in our last battle. Ai, we will even find a spear for old Qálki. The seer has had nothing to do since Agamémnon's dreams gave us the good omen we needed to go into battle. Now, the old prophet will really earn the bread and wine he has been consuming all these months."

  Ak'illéyu stood downcast, his sudden anger spent. Without further argument, he nodded. The blue-eyed qasiléyu soon returned with a woman, clad only in a long, faded skirt, her black hair in a thick braid down her back. 'Iqodámeya was fearful, wringing her hands as she came, glancing anxiously at the faces of the lawagétas, the kings and their qasiléyus, hoping for a clue to her fate. Seeing the men seated, she dutifully began to prepare the morning meal, cooking over the open fire before Agamémnon's tent. As she worked, the other captive women in the camp did the same at other campfires, serving boiled lentils and barley porridge to men of lesser rank.

  The kings remained at the overlord's fire with Ak'illéyu, for the most part. Néstor talked of the deep and abiding friendship that now existed between his southern realm of Mesheníya and Ak'illéyu's native T'eshalíya in the north. "I might have had my quarrels with your father, Ak'illéyu," the older man admitted. "But all that is in the past now. What a fruitful alliance ours will be, with my kingdom the wealthiest and most fertile in the south and yours the…well, the best known in the north for its…how shall I say…battle-frenzied warriors. Yes, between T'eshalíya's prowess in war and Mesheníya's in trade and horse-breeding, we should be able to increase the prosperity of both our lands three-fold!"

  This made little impression on the T'eshalíyan. Elbowing the elder king aside, others recalled the brave deeds that Ak'illéyu and his dead companion had performed. Odushéyu recounted Patróklo's attempts to storm the walls of the Lázpayan fortresses, climbing with his hands and bare feet, too impatient to wait for ladders to be constructed. That had been the highlight of the campaign's early months. Agamémnon recalled how, on the island of Lámno, Patróklo had chopped down a tree in the grove sacred to Apúluno. The act had demonstrated clearly the contempt in which the Ak'áyan attackers held the local god of gates. No doubt that had helped them take Lámno's small cities more easily. The dead warrior had been afraid of nothing, they all agreed. Ak'illéyu's foster brother had set himself against foreign gods as well as Assúwan men, in his pursuit of honor, in his quest for areté. Patróklo's name would live forever in the tales that men told of valor in war.

  "Díwo is to blame for our quarrel," Agamémnon said, throwing a heavy arm over the T'eshalíyan's shoulders. "You and I should never have been anything but the best of friends. The god was the one who put it into my heart to take your woman, you know. Ai, Lady Artémito should have shot her invisible arrows of plague and killed 'Iqodámeya, so that this would never have happened."

  Ak'illéyu's breath began to come harsh and quick, fury rising again in his dark-rimmed eyes.

  "His anger is not forgotten after all," Idómeneyu whispered to Odushéyu, his forehead lined with worry.

  "It is not that," the broader man murmured back. "Look at the woman. He does not even see her."

  'Iqodámeya crouched in the opening of the overlord's tent as the high-born men ate. With a rough, wooden ladle she stirred together wine and river water, dipping the liquid out to fill and refill the men's two-handled wine cups. She hardly recognized the grim and dirty T'eshalíyan sitting beside Agamémnon. Ak'illéyu's eyes did not meet hers and, true to his word, he took neither food nor drink, though 'Iqodámeya laid both before him in shining, bronze dishes. He stared straight ahead, his eyes focusing on nothing, fingering the handle of the knife that rested in its scabbard at his hip.

  Another woman, heavy-set, her hair braided like 'Iqodámeya's and wearing the same nondescript garment, beckoned from a distance. 'Iqodámeya quietly backed away from the assembled kings. "Wíp'iya," she asked quietly, "what have you heard?"

  Her companion gave her a sad smile. "Agamémnon is returning you to Ak'illéyu. All the camp is talking about it. I do not know whether to congratulate you or lament your fate. Your old master is much changed."

  In the T'eshalíyan section of the camp, by the embers of the prince's abandoned campfire, the women embraced, tears coming to their eyes. Wordlessly they looked each other over. 'Iqodámeya gently touched a recent bruise on Wíp'iya's arm and scratches just beginning to heal on her cheeks. "I lamented Patróklo as if he were my own husband," the heavy-set Wíp'iya said. "But that was not enough for Ak'illéyu. Yes, he was the one who struck me." She covered the blue mark with a hand and, with inquiring eyes, looked at 'Iqodámeya.

  The younger woman placed a hand on her belly with a rueful smile. "Ak'illéyu's," she whispered. Looking from side to side to make sure none of the men noticed, 'Iqodámeya brought a dagger from where it had been concealed in the folds of her ankle-length skirt. "I took this from Agamémnon's stores during the last battle," she said quietly and handed the short, bronze blade to Wíp'iya. "I have nothing to fear from Ak'illéyu now. So, this is yours. Keep it, in case your new master is worse than Patróklo was."

  Wíp'iya was reluctant to take it. "If Ak'illéyu finds I have this, he will probably kill me."

  "Then give it to 'Ékamede," 'Iqodámeya suggested, "if she still wants revenge."

  "Fasting is unnatural," Néstor scolded at Agamémnon's fireside. "I hear you married young, Ak'illéyu, and your wife was a T'rákiyan barbarian. I suppose your wild father-in-law raised you as much as your own father did. So it may be that you do not know any better. But it has been the Ak'áyan custom since the beginning of the world to hold a feast in honor of the dead."

  The grieving man would not listen. "I am as Ak'áyan as you are," Ak'illéyu retorted, irritated. "I married a woman of the island of Skúro and lived with her people for several years. But I know the custom. Just the same, I do not care for it. Hear me, Zeyugelátes. Listen to me, you southern ox-drivers. I will not eat. A pain is burning in my chest. That will give me all the strength I need to take my revenge. Now leave me alone or I will put my spear in your full bellies!"

  The prince rose and left the overlord's tent, the other kings shaking their heads at his unreasonable behavior. As the T'eshalíyan moved out of earshot, Agamémnon complained, "The man never does anything halfway, does he? Anyone else would force himself to take a mouthful or two, just for show. But not Ak'illéyu! If he takes it into his head not to eat, it becomes an issue for a new war."

  "True enough, but leave it, brother," answered Meneláwo, his hand at his unhealed wound. "We need him. After all that has happened, we do not want to tur
n him against us again."

  aaa

  Returning to his own fire and hut, Ak'illéyu sat and rested his head on his hands, his elbows on his knees. "Dogs," he groaned, "Zeyugelátes are nothing but weak fawns!" Quietly 'Iqodámeya came to kneel beside him. With tentative movements, she reached toward him.

  "Ai, the P'ilístas are no better," the T'eshalíyan groaned, pulling at fists full of his hair. "My own fellow northerners have forgotten their honor too." 'Iqodámeya pulled her hand back, afraid to touch him. He ran his hands over his oily hair, his fingers black and sticky with dried Tróyan blood. "Owái, Patróklo," he moaned quietly.

  "How can I comfort you?" the woman asked, and she cautiously stroked his matted hair.

  Without raising his head, Ak'illéyu answered hoarsely, "You cannot."

  'Iqodámeya said nothing more, but kept her place, running her fingers over the man’s long, tangled curls.

  He sighed heavily, rubbing his burning eyes, lifting his head to look at her. "Owái, 'Iqodámeya, nothing could be worse than this. I would rather hear that my own father was dead. I could mourn him one day and forget him the next."