by Diana Gainer
Ak'illéyu moaned more loudly, his dirty fingers clutching at his shorn hair. He sat again, his shoulders drooping and his head hanging. "Owái, that cannot be right," he sighed and laid his head on the woman's bare shoulder. "Patróklo's father brought him to T'eshalíya when he was just a boy of twelve and I was six. You would not guess it, but Patróklo used to have a temper like 'Erakléwe in the legends. Once, he had killed the son of a wánaks in anger over a game of knuckle-bones. He could not remain at home after that, so his father brought him north to my country. It was a pointless crime, a childish thing to do, and Patróklo always regretted it. My father saved his life by paying the qoiná but Patróklo stayed in our household from then on. He and I were raised together as if we were brothers. When I was fifteen, my parents married me to a girl from Skúro and when I went to live on her island, my father made Patróklo my qasiléyu. He swore he would follow me until death." The prince cried out and clapped his hands to his head. "Ai, that was not supposed to mean his death. He was supposed to follow me until my death. I cannot go on alone."
"Let me tell you a story," 'Iqodámeya sighed. "It is an ancient legend, as well known in Assúwa as the song of 'Erakléwe is in Ak'áiwiya. Once, in a kingdom far to the east, beyond Kanaqán, there was a ruler called Bilgámash. He was a ruthless and cruel king, who fought innumerable wars and violated the wives of countless men. His own people determined to be rid of him at last and they prayed and made offerings to the great mother goddess. Dáwan Anna heard and the prayers conceived a new creature in her heart. She gives life and fertility to all things, to people and their croplands, to their cattle and sheep and horses, and to her own wild things that men cannot tame. Taking from each of these domains, she created a being of three natures, part man, part domestic beast, and part wild nature. She called him Enkídu, which means child of the untamed seas. Then she sent this savage creature against Bilgámash.
"Despite his power over his country and his people, Bilgámash could not conquer the wild man on his own. He called upon a priestess, but she could do nothing to help him. He called upon his army, but they could do nothing, either. Finally, he turned to a prostitute, a woman with no husband to support her and no family to find her a spouse. No one had lower status than this woman, but she alone had the power to quiet the creature's wild nature.
"Then Enkídu and Bilgámash became friends. With their strength combined, there was nothing they could not accomplish. They battled men and dáimons together, and conquered both from one end of the world to the other. But, in the end, Enkídu fell sick and, as all men must do in the end, he died. Bilgámash could not accept this loss or what it meant for him. He could not bear to think that he, too, would have to die one day, that there was one place he could not conquer. Since he and his friend had devastated every earthly country, he was determined to sack the citadel of 'Aidé itself and return Enkídu to the living.
"Bilgámash began a great journey that took him through every land, civilized and barbarian, as he sought to learn where the plant grew that snakes feast upon so that they live forever. This magical herb, Bilgámash swore to possess. He almost succeeded, just as men sometimes live past the normal span and see their sons die of old age before them. Though Bilgámash was fated to see his friend again, he could not restore Enkídu to life. Both had to submit to the power of the goddess of death in the end. Nor can you bring Patróklo back by desecrating his killer's body.
"Now I tell you, as Enkídu's spirit once told Bilgámash, go and enjoy life while you can. Love or hate as you are inclined, do what you want and must do. But do it now. Because one day your soul will pass on to Préswa's realm and none of earth's treasures will go with you."
Ak'illéyu had listened in somber silence to the woman's story. Sighing deeply, he said, "All right, 'Iqodámeya, all right. If someone comes with a ransom, I will let him take Qántili away. Now, sing for me. Sing the lament. I must hear it one more time."
In a soft, clear voice, 'Iqodámeya complied.
"O Hear me, men and maináds,
Attend, great god and goddess,
And, listen, bird-like spirit,
You soul of slain Patróklo.
Spread your wings and fly,
O you cherished soul.
Do not stay beside us,
Leave your friends behind.
You must not harm the living,
Sweet soul, fly toward 'Aidé
Préswa awaits,
Beyond the Stuks' black waters,
Your mother's arms are empty,
Your father's eyes are dim.
Your wife cannot go with you…"
aaa
In Tróya, king Alakshándu spent the night at the narrow postern gate on the northwestern side of the fortress, where a single monolith honored the direction of the dead. He and Eqépa clung to each other, lamenting their son's death and his soul’s continuing torment. They had done the same every night since Qántili had died and vowed to continue until the prince's body was returned for a proper funeral. In the morning, their living sons implored them to come to the palace, to dry their tears, to bathe, and to don fresh clothing. "Messengers have come from the Ak'áyan camp," Paqúr told his father. "Only you have the authority to negotiate another truce. Forget the dead for a moment. Take care of the living. All Tróya is depending on you. You must come."
With many sighs, Alakshándu rose, stiff and aching, caked in dust from rolling on the ground and from sweeping dirt over his head in mourning. The queen followed, too weary to cry any longer. But, once in the hilltop palace, Alakshándu refused to wash his body, or take food. Wrapped in a torn, woolen cloak, he entered the mégaron to speak to the Ak'áyan envoys.
Odushéyu and Aíwaks stood before the king's ivory throne, washed and wearing kilts, sun-faded but clean. The tall qasiléyu showed his surprise at the old man's condition by widening his ill-omened, pale eyes. Odushéyu's darker eyes narrowed and, though he did not smile, there was something in his face that suggested glee. The stocky It'ákan did the talking, spreading his arms and letting his melodious voice fill the shaken room. "King Alakshándu, listen to my words. I am the wánaks of It'áka, the greatest island of the west, and I am renowned for my wisdom. So, even though I am your enemy in this campaign, hear me out.
"This war has been a curse upon both our peoples. We have all lost kinsmen, friends, allies, in great number. Our harvests are endangered, for this siege has lasted far too long. Ai, it is said that, in peace, even the rocks will bring forth abundantly, but, in war, the most fertile fields become a desert. What truth there is in the wisdom of the ancients!
“There is, of course, a matter of honor to settle between our two peoples, but I have not come to speak of that. No, my mission today is simply to ask for a truce. Allow the Ak'áyan army to sail home, for the winter. We need time to return the bones of our dead to their native soil. We will swear oaths not to touch your people until next summer, when the proper season for war comes again. You must take oaths not to attack us in our encampment, as we prepare to leave."
Alakshándu and his sons stared at the Ak'áyan in astonishment. "A truce?" the king asked, not believing his ears. "Did you say a truce for the winter?"
"Indeed, I did," Odushéyu announced. "Will you consider this noble request?"
Alakshándu nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes, indeed, a truce! We will take oaths, yes, a truce is quite acceptable, yes, yes! I will have wine and mutton brought immediately. No, no, I forget myself, we have no more sheep. But I have a few geese and ducks left. You must stay and eat with us to cement this new bond of friendship. Come, sit!"
Prince Paqúr glared at his royal father, trying to signal to the old man. "He should not agree so quickly," he whispered anxiously to his younger brothers. "The Ak'áyans must not learn the extent of our losses." But the old still man ruled. His will was followed and the prince was given no chance to object.
Alakshándu sat unmoving and silent, watching his surviving sons dine, despite their reluctance, with
the Ak'áyan messengers. But the king himself ate and drank nothing. When, at last, the pirate and the tall visiting warrior leaned back in their chairs, patting their full bellies, relaxed from the watered wine, Alakshándu spoke. "Now, honored guests, tell me what I most want to hear. What about my son? What about Qántili? Will you release his body to me for a proper funeral?"
Aíwaks looked uncertainly to Odushéyu. The It'ákan wánaks took his time to respond. He looked at his greasy hands and wiped them on his curly beard, gazing up at the smoke-hole in the ceiling, supported by four pillars at the corners of the hearth. "Ai," he sighed dramatically at last, "that is a most difficult question. You see, our prince Ak'illéyu is rather fond of that particular corpse and reluctant to let it go. He thinks it would make a fine meal for his hunting dogs."
Tróya's three princes, Paqúr, Lupákki, and Dapashánda, immediately leaped to their feet with curses. "Préswa take you and your truce! To 'Aidé with all Ak'áyans!"
The aging king groaned. "Show mercy!" he begged.
But Odushéyu raised his hands, palms forward. "Peace, peace, I did not say it was I who thought that. It is the great northern warrior, Ak'illéyu, who says such things. And it is happens to be our custom to allow a man's killer to decide the fate of any particular corpse. But, perhaps, we can come to some understanding. It just so happens that this prince Ak'illéyu has not gained very much in the way of treasures, you see. He is actually a rather poor man, despite his high status, no cattle or sheep, no tripods, not very much bronze, only the one woman…" Again Odushéyu gazed at the cracked ceiling, rubbing his beard in pretended contemplation. "That is a sorry way for a great hero to return home."
Alakshándu stood, wrapped tightly in his old cloak. "I see your point, Ak'áyan. I understand," he responded stiffly. Without another word, he left the room, leaving the entertainment of the guests to his startled sons.
Odushéyu sat and enjoyed the Tróyan princes' discomfort for awhile, before turning to Aíwaks, who was not having nearly as much fun. "We really ought to be going," he told the qasiléyu. "Agamémnon does not like to be kept waiting." With clenched fists and tight jaws, the Tróyan princes saw the Ak'áyan messengers out the gates of their fortress.
aaa
Alakshándu's royal wife and daughters knelt together by the hearth of the queen's mégaron, wailing and singing lamentations for the many young men who had gone down to Préswa beneath the spears and swords of the Ak'áyans. "None will be missed more than Qántili," Kréyusa said, putting her arms around her mother's heaving shoulders.
"Yes," the old woman wept, "all our hopes died with him."
Sitting a little apart, Kashánda muttered fragments from ancient epic songs, prophesies of Tróya's doom.
"When they came from steep Wilúsa,
Heroes of the silver age,
Then began the end of time,
Doom of giants, doom of good.
Brothers, twins, they took their spears,
Tower shields, and crowns of gold.
Out upon the plain they strode,
Gaining glory, gaining bronze.
One, the offspring of a god,
Men called 'Éktor, Champion.
Now his twin is slain beside him.
'Éktor only holds the field.
Tróya dies, Wilúsa with her,
On the day that 'Éktor falls…"
Alakshándu stood in the doorway, watching silently for a long time before the mourners noticed him. Kréyusa at last raised her head, and the king stepped forward. He sighed once, a heartfelt, hopeless sound. "I am going to bring Qántili's body back," he announced, to the women's astonishment.
At once, Eqépa clasped his hands over her heart and sobbed, "No, no, do not go, my husband! Do not leave the city. That wild man will kill you, too, and I will lose everything, everything!"
But Alakshándu pulled his knobby hands away, no longer bearing himself with the pride of royalty, bent and broken like any of the old men within Tróya's walls. "I have agreed to a truce with our enemies. Now I am going to ransom my son," he said quietly. "For this, I need your help. I have given away all my gold and tin and most of the bronze in my treasury, buying the services of our allies. Now bring me every valuable trinket you own, the diadems for your heads, the beads for your necks, the golden badges sewn to your clothes. We must have enough ransom to melt the Ak'áyans' anger."
Eqépa stood, the breath coming harshly from her lips. "Melt their anger?" she asked, as if she could not believe what her ears told her. She began to laugh and her laughter grew louder and louder until she was screaming. Her soft, plump hands became fists and she pummeled her husband with surprising strength. "Alakshándu, fight against the mainád who has possessed you. Ai, husband, you are as mad as Ak'illéyu if you go to the Ak'áyans. They are ravenous wolves! They will kill you. Have you no sense left at all? They are rabid dogs, those pirates of the Inner Sea! They have no shame, no pity for anyone. They care nothing for the laws of Mother Dáwan. Ak'illéyu is a dáimon spawned by Préswa herself, a lamíya who sucks the blood and life from sleeping children! Ai, if only I were a man, I would take up my spear, old as I am, and run him through! Ak'illéyu should be torn apart by lions! He should be surrounded by wolves and devoured along with his accursed father's sheep! Ai, if Paqúr could bring me that man's corpse, I would eat his heart, tear it apart with my own teeth!" Shrieking and keening, she was dragged from the king by her weeping daughters.
Alakshándu stood, hunched over, his eyes to the floor. He listened to his wife with as little interest as he had often heard lawsuits among the common folk, women quarreling over the possession of a goose, men arguing about the placement of boundary stones between croplands. "I am going," the king repeated once more. "If the Ak'áyans have betrayed me with this talk of a truce and I die, well, I am an old man. I do not care to live and see Tróya in flames."
From their chests of aromatic cedar, the royal ladies brought Alakshándu robes of state, cloaks and rugs woven by captive women, linen and woolen cloth dyed in many colors, diadems of gold and electrum, their last silver cups, and elaborate earrings from the many treasures Alakshándu and his sons had acquired in decade upon decade of war and trade. Lesser born women, servants in the palace, gathered finely wrought tripods and caldrons, metal utensils that could be melted down for the valuable bronze. At the main gate, the best of the Tróyan treasures were loaded on a wagon, as the people of Wilúsiya gathered around their aged king.
"Let me go instead, Father," begged Lupákki, one of the younger princes. "Ak'illéyu knows me. He sold me into slavery. It was his own father-in-law who ransomed me. The gods are clearly with me. Even the most godless man would not try to harm me a second time."
The other princes agreed. "I would go myself, if it were not for my arm," Dapashánda said apologetically. "If I had to defend myself…"
"And I would go," the oldest of the three announced more forcefully, "but someone must be in charge here." Paqúr gave his father a harsh look. "There are things to be done in this fortress besides sitting about in sackcloth and ashes, singing the praises of the dead."
In sudden anger, Alakshándu drew himself up and lashed out at his sons. "You whelps, get out of my sight! I wish the lot of you were dead instead of Qántili! By the gods, I have no one left to me but women. You are fit only to look after my lambs, all of you!" Falling back at the king's words, they let the old man go.
Only one of the princesses appeared at the gate. The priestess, Kashánda came, clear-eyed and somber, with wine in a clay cup. "Here, Father, pour out a little wine before the six holy pillars, before you go. I will pray to Dáwan and Poseidáon for you. My sisters and I will burn what offerings we can, at the shrine of twin columns. Perhaps it will be enough. It may be that lord Apúluno will grant you a safe return to these gates that he sanctified."
Alakshándu nodded, dispirited now that he given vent to his rage. He climbed onto the wagon and turned to his driver to find a boy, not yet fully grown, no sign of
down yet growing on his chin. "Child," the king said in surprise, "are you the only driver in Tróya who is not wounded?"
"Yes, my lord," answered the boy, drawing himself up proudly. "I am twelve years old. Another year and I will be old enough to take the flocks to the mountain pastures and stay all summer."
Sighing, the aging king nodded and the wagon clattered out of the gate. The young driver held his donkeys still for the king to make the libation to the six obelisks, as the royal priestess had advised, then they were underway. As the wagon crossed the parched fields between the citadel and the river, Tróya's princes left the gates for the palace that capped the hill upon which the city perched. Standing alone, Kashánda put a hand to her heart and raised it to her forehead and the sky in salute to the divine mother. "Great Dáwan Anna," she whispered, glancing up at the sky. "Let my father succeed today. If we must all die, then let it be as you will. But let my brother's body come back to Tróya. Let his soul go to 'Aidé alongside ours."