Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  At the Sqámandro's muddy, northern bank, the onagers pulling the wagon paused to drink. To Alakshándu's weary eyes, the waters seemed unusually low and murky. "The Ak'áyans are choking off our life's blood," he muttered, "and now Dáwan has chosen to deprive us of our water. Ai windy Tróya, my Tróya, your only hope is the sea. Lord Poseidáon, remember the rich offerings I made you in all the many past years. If ever my gifts pleased you, send our salvation across the Inner Sea."

  The boy stood and whistled at the donkeys, flicking the reins. The animals moved forward, rumbling over the muddied waters of the Sqámandro River. The water came as high as the animals’ thighs, wetting the feet of the driver and his passenger. But neither beasts nor men were forced to swim. T'érsite, guarding the opposite bank, watched them go and offered no resistance. But when they had passed, he hurried to Agamémnon's tent, to bring the high wánaks the news.

  Others in the camp pointed the way to Ak'illéyu's hut, where the old man struggled to climb down from the cart. Leaving the boy to hold the team outside, Alakshándu entered the T'eshalíyan prince's hut, finding him reclining on filthy sheepskins as 'Iqodámeya cleared away the half-eaten remains of the morning meal. The T'eshalíyan and his woman looked up at the old man's entrance. 'Iqodámeya inclined her head and touched her hand to her forehead to show her respect. But the Ak'áyan did not recognize the king.

  Alakshándu fell at the prince's feet. The old man clutched the warrior's dirty hands and kissed them. "I am Alakshándu, king of the land of Wilúsiya. If you worship the gods, take the ransom I have brought in my wagon. In exchange, give me the body of my son."

  Ak'illéyu pulled his hands free, looking at 'Iqodámeya in angry astonishment. The prince said nothing.

  The Tróyan wánaks continued his pleading, "You have a father. Is he as old as I am? Is he not alone now, with no one to defend his old age, with war and ruin facing his cities? How alike he and I must be! Ai, he must ache with longing for news of you, hoping to see you once more before he dies."

  Ak'illéyu stirred uneasily. He turned his face away, frowning. Watching him, 'Iqodámeya put her hand to her mouth, trying to warn the king against more speech of this kind.

  But Alakshándu went on recklessly, "People tell me I still have many sons. But I would not complain if Préswa took each one, now. The best of them all was Qántili and you killed him, fighting for my land. I have come to buy his body in exchange for all the riches I possess. Be merciful, I beg you. Let me ransom my child."

  Ak'illéyu rose, backing away from the old man. 'Iqodámeya touched the prince's arm and whispered, "Think of the gods, Ak'illéyu, and think of your brother's troubled soul."

  Embracing his enemy's knees, Alakshándu raised a hand toward Ak'illéyu's beard. "I kissed the very hand that killed my boy. Take pity on me, the most miserable of men, because I have brought myself to do what no other man would consider."

  "For the gods," the captive woman murmured. "For the sake of Patróklo's soul, show pity."

  Ak'illéyu's forehead furrowed with pain. "All right," the T'eshalíyan wánaks moaned. "I do not like this. But it must be the gods' will. I will grant your request. Now sit and drink a cup of wine with me. It is the custom."

  The king shook his white head. "I will not swallow a single drop until Qántili is mine again. Come outside, Prince. Come and see the gifts I have brought you."

  Anger quickly rose in Ak'illéyu's black eyes. "Do not push me, old man," he snarled. "I said I would give you your corpse. But I will do so only when I am ready. Watch your step or the hand that killed your son will kill you too."

  Alakshándu's chin fell to his chest and he said no more. Ak'illéyu stared down at the bowed and aging king with contempt, a hand going to his right side for a dagger. But the prince was unarmed. His fingers closed on thin air. Abruptly, Ak'illéyu left the hut, calling to Automédon. The youthful driver holding the donkeys still watched, wide-eyed, as unclad northern warriors began to unload the eastern king's valuable gifts from the wagon, placing them beside the rude hut.

  The sight of the gleaming metal softened the T'eshalíyan's anger. "Leave a single robe for Qántili's shroud," Ak'illéyu told his qasiléyu. "But take the rest." Then he called to 'Iqodámeya to bring water from the sea and bathe the swollen, blackened corpse. The woman could do little but pour water over the body and cover it with the purple cloth that her captor had set aside. Ak'illéyu and Automédon himself lifted Qántili's battered corpse and laid it on the Tróyan wagon. Looking down on the still form, the prince covered his face with his hands. "Ai, Patróklo," he groaned, "the gifts were not worthy of you." His men looked at each other in dismay. They were eager to see the foul-smelling thing go and now feared that their commander would not release it, after all.

  'Iqodámeya placed an arm around the prince's waist. "Let him go," she whispered, "for Patróklo's sake. Your grief disturbs his rest."

  Sick at heart, Ak'illéyu threw up his hands and turned back toward his hut. "Qántili's body is on your wagon, Alakshándu," he said through gritted teeth. "But before you go, we will drink. That is the custom." Alakshándu did not dare argue this time. The enemies only sipped a little diluted wine together. They did not speak and they watched each other with unhappy eyes.

  At last, Alakshándu broke the silence. "I must go, wánaks. I have not slept since Qántili died. As you wished, I have forced myself to drink. But I cannot keep my eyes open any longer."

  Ak'illéyu nodded, mollified by the king's show of submission. Now he would be generous. "How long do you need for Qántili's funeral?" the prince asked. "Your army did not attack us while we held Patróklo's rites. We owe you for that. I will make Agamémnon hold the army here until you are finished."

  "Until next summer," the Tróyan king said, puzzled by the question. "But have I not already…"

  "What? That is over nine months!" Ak'illéyu cried. "I will give you three days and no more."

  Perplexed and disturbed, Alakshándu said, "But the Ak'áyan messenger said, just this morning…"

  "What messenger?" Ak'illéyu demanded. "Has Agamémnon spoken with you behind my back?"

  The king raised his hands, palms forward, saying, "Peace to you, wánaks, peace, I must have misunderstood." He touched a gnarled hand to his brow. "I am an old man. My memory is not what it used to be…"

  "Three days," the T'eshalíyan repeated firmly. "That is what I grant you. I will tell Agamémnon. Now, go."

  To the main gate on the southeastern side of the fortress, Kashánda had returned after her prayers. Reciting formulas of good fortune, she walked around and around the sacred obelisks guarding the wide entrance and watched for a sign of her father. The sun's chariot wheel rose far above the mountains in the east before she saw the wagon coming north from the river. At the sight, she raised a high, ululating cry, her tongue running rapidly from one side of her mouth to the other. "Alalá, look, people of Tróya, Qántili is coming! It is our hero, our legendary 'Éktor! Prince Qántili is coming!"

  Tróyans poured from their homes at the sound of Kashánda's summons. They gathered by the gates to greet their fallen prince, the men clapping their hands to their heads, the women scratching their cheeks, all scooping dirt from the ground and pouring it over their hair. Queen Eqépa led the princes and princesses from the royal buildings, running down the steep hillside path to meet her husband. Despite her years, she clambered up beside the corpse, unaided. Tearing her hair and scratching her withered cheeks anew, she flung herself on the broken form in its Kanaqániyan cloak.

  Alakshándu's eyes were wet, but he stood and spoke to his family and people. "Come now, people of Wilúsiya, let the wagon pass. Let me take my son's body to the palace. Then we will have our fill of mourning. Prepare prince Qántili's funeral. Bring wood from the hills. Bring wine and oil from your household stores. His pyre will burn tonight." The crowd parted and the boy drove the donkeys to the heights of the city, where Qántili's brothers carried his battered corpse to his bed chamber.

>   In the early morning, Andrómak'e had arisen, to nurse the baby beside her in the bed that was now too large. "It will be today," she whispered to the drowsy child as he sucked. "Your pappa did not come to us, last night. But I dreamed his arms were around me. Dreams are the daughters of Lady Dáwan. They must be true. Qántili will come home to me today."

  Little Sqamándriyo returned to sleep when his belly was full. Filled with anticipation, his mother could not keep her eyes closed. In the dim light of an oil-burning lamp, she rose and dressed and took up her weaving. Periodically, the wails of the bereaved filtered into her dark chamber. But Andrómak'e smiled confidently, as she worked.

  When Eqépa's weeping in the corridor roused the child from his morning nap, Andrómak'e picked him up and held him close. "Ai, what silly subjects we have, Sqamándriyo," she told the little boy with a fragile smile. "Many things frighten people, in this world. The earth shakes whenever the Divine Horse runs by. But when Poseidáon has passed, we pick up the fallen bricks and everything is fine, sometimes even better than before. And no bronze spear or arrow, no matter how sharp, can pierce these fine walls. Your pappa will take care of everything. You will see. They will all see."

  A sudden, high scream came in through the open doors. Andrómak'e trembled. The smile faded from her lips. "That sounded like Kashánda," she whispered to herself. Her baby on her hip, she stood and hurried from the bed chamber. "Is it prince Qántili?" she asked, shaking so violently that she had to lean against the wall to keep from falling. "Is my husband coming?"

  The anxious serving-women, assembling in the corridors of the palace, did not hear the woman's questions over the confusion and noise. Keening cries echoed through the halls from time to time and the sound of men's voices raised in fury. The servants' own frightened chatter was all of vengeance and atrocities committed. "Did you see how Ak'illéyu dragged the prince behind his chariot?" asked one of the oldest women. "The gods will surely punish him for that."

  "At first, I thought that Qántili had killed Ak'illéyu," responded another. "That is what I heard. But now they say it was Ak'illéyu's brother that our prince took down. And Ak'illéyu swore that he would have revenge."

  Andrómak'e pushed aside the low born and foreign women, her limbs suddenly strong with fear. She raced through the torch-lit halls of the palace to the entrance courtyard. There she saw a shroud-draped figure carried on the shoulders of her husband's brothers. "No," she whispered as her chest tightened. "It cannot be him." Tróya's constant breeze caught the edges of the imported cloth, uncovering the corpse's head. Andrómak'e could not breathe. A great, icy hand seemed to grip her, squeezing the life from her as she saw her husband's mangled remains. She collapsed. The baby fell from her limp arms and bumped his head on the stone pavement. Sqamándriyo burst into loud tears.

  To Andrómak'e's side came her weeping sisters-in-law. Kashánda raised the fallen woman's head and brushed the hair from her white face. "You see now, do you not?" the priestess whispered. "My brother is dead. You would not believe us when we told you. But you are a widow now, just as I am. The gods grant no special favors to those of high rank."

  The procession of men passed them, heading for the dead prince's chamber. Kréyusa, leading her own little boy by the hand, took Sqamándriyo in her arms and tried to comfort him. But the baby strained against his aunt's unfamiliar arms. He arched his little back, leaning away from her kisses, his face red and streaming with tears.

  When her eyes fluttered open, Andrómak'e called out weakly, "Qántili, Qántili, you cannot leave me! Owái, Dáwan, I wish I had never been born! Let me go, Kashánda. I will follow him to 'Aidé. I will throw myself from the walls and die! I cannot live without Qántili." Her kinswomen half-carried and half-dragged her to the bed chamber, Andrómak'e protesting and struggling at every step, sinking to the floor time and again.

  In the corridor before the chamber door, Kréyusa held little Sqamándriyo out to her sister-in-law. "Andrómak'e, take your baby," the older woman wept, her own child clinging to her skirts in floods of tears of his own. "Come back to your senses. Sqamándriyo needs his mother. Do not let the maináds catch you. Be strong for your son."

  The baby squealed fearfully at his mother's changed face, putting both hands in his mouth. He did not recognize her and did not want to go to the wild woman. He squirmed and screamed, clinging to his aunt's hands. But Andrómak'e took the child up and cradled him, still sobbing. "Poor baby, poor Sqamándriyo," she cried, pressing her cheek to the child's head. "You are an orphan now. Owái, your father is dead." She choked on the stream of her own tears and, when she caught her breath, gave a high scream, throwing back her head. The baby bawled in fear, kicking his pudgy feet and waving frantic hands. Kréyusa took back the little boy. Pressing him against her shoulder with one hand, she wrapped her other arm about her own child. She laid her cheek first against one shaved head and then on the other, her sisters crouched beside her. Clinging to each other, the Tróyan princesses lamented their loss. The dead man's sisters could not bear to approach his corpse, disfigured beyond recognition by Ak'illéyu's mistreatment.

  Stumbling into the bed chamber alone, Andrómak'e collapsed on the bed beside her husband. "Owái, my beloved, Tróya is lost without you! Little Sqamándriyo will do hard labor for some brutal Ak'áyan now. Or one of those godless barbarians will throw him from the walls, in revenge for a brother you killed. Owái, Qántili you have broken your vow and my heart! This cannot be happening. You cannot be so cruel to me. Open your arms and take me!" she shrieked, tearing away the cloth that covered the corpse. "Say something, Qántili. Ai, why would you not stay with me when I asked you to? Owái, I will mourn you for the rest of my life!"

  Through streaming tears, Eqépa sang lamentations at the bedside, falling to her knees with a scream of horror when her son's form was revealed. A second time, Andrómak'e lost consciousness. She fell across her husband's body, her body rigid and twitching, her eyes rolling back in her head. Around the bed, the princes stepped back, stricken at the sight of the swollen, black flesh. The queen raised a trembling hand over the dead man's blood-matted hair, but could not bring herself to touch it. "Qántili you were my favorite son, but the gods did not love you as I did. Owái, what would I not give to have you safe with me again! Poseidáon and Dáwan have betrayed us."

  Ariyádna wept as well, led to the chamber by her Lakedaimóniyan serving woman. But the captive queen's tears were for her own child, far across the Inner Sea. "Owái, t'ugátriyon," she whispered, twisting a lock of hair around and around her finger, hanging her head to one side. "Do you see? Do you see 'Erakléwe lying dead before you? Did you learn the prophecy I taught you, 'Ermiyóna? It is the end of the world, the end of time. A queen taken across the sea, warriors battling Díwo's chosen…it is the end of the world. I will see you in 'Aidé, little daughter."

  As the women of his household sang their laments, Alakshándu sent his servants to attend to the prince's funeral. As the sons of Diwiyána had done for their fallen champion, so the sons of Dáwan did now, bringing wood for the royal pyre. Too few animals remained to sacrifice beside the honored dead, still fewer riches to send with him in the rising smoke. Only the prayers and tears of his kinsmen accompanied his spirit, their only offerings locks of their hair. As the sun began its westward journey from the peak of the sky's bowl to the sea, a meager banquet was held in Qántili's honor, to send his soul safely on its way down to queen Préswa. In Alakshándu's throne room, beneath bright frescoes and about the warm fireplace, the royal family sat down to dine on stale flat bread and a thin soup of boiled lentils, drinking diluted, poppy-tinged wine.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ARETE

  After Alakshándu's departure, Ak'illéyu at last ate his fill of fish and barley cakes, and drank as men normally did of watered wine. When 'Iqodámeya brought him unbleached cloths for drying, he did not wait for her to speak, but walked to the seashore, splashing in the cool water to wash away the accumulated dried blood, sweat, an
d dust. From there he went to the riverbank, to rinse the salt from his skin. He returned to his hut looking like a prince once more. With his head in 'Iqodámeya's lap, he dozed, while she ran her fingers through his tangled hair, removing lice and soothing him into slumber.

  aaa

  While Ak'illéyu bathed and while he slept, the flames roared on Qántili's pyre before the walls of Tróya, fanned high by the brisk, autumn winds of Wilúsiya. Wíp'iya learned from 'Iqodámeya what had transpired between the T'eshalíyan prince and the king of Tróya. In turn, Wíp'iya sought Odushéyu out and spoke to him of it. "Remember that I was the one who told you this," the woman said, when her news was given. "Do not forget your promise to me."

  Odushéyu smiled and took the wide-hipped captive in his arms. "My heart is yours, my queen," he told her slyly. "How can I help but remember?" From the It'ákan's lips the news soon reached the ears of the Ak'áyan overlord. "Ai gar, Ak'illéyu causes me no end of grief!" Agamémnon complained. "I expected Meneláwo to be upset at the idea of leaving Wilúsiya for the winter. So I told him nothing. But what is Ak'illéyu's problem? He has avenged Patróklo, has he not? Qántili is certainly dead. And I let the feather-head hold an unnecessarily elaborate funeral. Ai gar, I even forced the kings of every nation to attend it, against their will. What more can he want?"