Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  Odushéyu shrugged. "Ai, there was that matter of slitting the throats of three men, you know. He did swear on oath to do that."

  The overlord groaned and ran a rough hand over his face. "Idé, I had forgotten about that. As much wine as he has been drinking, I am surprised Ak'illéyu remembered that himself. All right, we will stay for one more battle, if it does not take too long. I was not looking forward to breaking the news of our departure to my brother in any case."

  The It'ákan nodded understandingly. "Meneláwo will not be pleased, that is certain. I suggest you get him drunk before you talk to him…"

  "Idé, get him drunk, you say?" Agamémnon exclaimed with a mirthless laugh. "He is half-drunk with poppy wine all the time now. Have you not noticed where he goes every night? He sits on that hill across the river, staring at Tróya's walls and sharpening his sword. Ai, he will wear the blade down to nothing if he keeps up that brooding. I cannot believe my own brother is so obsessed with this campaign. He made a valiant effort to get his wife back, after all. And he has provided the country with an heiress, to carry on the kingship. I told him all he has to do now is declare 'Ermiyóna the wánasha and call himself her regent. No Lakedaimóniyan in the country would throw him out, priestess wife or not. In fact, they would be only too happy to see him return with a few of their sons still alive!"

  "Meneláwo says it is not his kingship that he is concerned with," Odushéyu said, shaking his head at the oddity of it. "He must be planning a terrible revenge, something worse even than what Ak'illéyu has in mind."

  Agamémnon grunted a not very happy agreement. "I know that I would slit my wife's throat as soon as I could, if I were in his sandals. An adulterous woman does not deserve to live. And I would see to it that Paqúr died a very slow and painful death for raping her."

  "Yes, any self-respecting Ak'áyan man would do the same," the It'ákan agreed. "Any man but a born-and-bred Lakedaimóniyan, that is. And that may be something of a problem for you, Agamémnon. Let us say we do manage to sack Tróya soon. If your brother kills his wife as we expect, then the Lakedaimóniyans may rise up and overthrow him for committing a sacrilege. They are very touchy about their priestesses and seeresses, you know. Ai, they might even kill Meneláwo."

  "I would not worry about that, my friend," the overlord laughed scornfully. "My Argives are twice as numerous as the Lakedaimóniyans. Given a good excuse for war, I could sack every fortress in 'Elléniya and Lakedaimón in a single month."

  Odushéyu frowned, nodding. "But still," he said, "you can never predict how men will fight when caught up in religious fervor. Such a war could cost you more than you think. If it did, if it weakened you, every P'ilísta and his brother would be only too happy to join your enemies and harry you at home and at sea."

  Agamémnon had not thought of that. The idea troubled him. "What do you propose I do about this?" he asked. "Depose Meneláwo myself? Now, there is an idea. I suppose I have as good a claim to the throne of Lakedaimón as any man, since that was my queen, Klutaimnéstra's birthplace."

  "You could," the island king agreed, "but then you would have to make peace with your wife. And after what we learned from Idómeneyu, that might not be in your best interest. No, I have another suggestion. Let Meneláwo do as he will with his wife and then, for the sake of both Argo and Lakedaimón of course, you simply prevent him from returning to his kingdom. Keep him in Argo with you, say as one of your qasiléyus. Now that old Tudéyu is dead, you could give your brother the fortress at Tíruns. Then, place upon the throne of Lakedaimón another man, one whose loyalty to you is unequalled, and who also happens to have a Lakedaimóniyan priestess for a wife." He smiled. "Then you would be free to do with your wife as you please."

  Agamémnon roared with laughter. "You mean, put you on my brother's throne, of course! By the gods, Odushéyu, you have more cleverness in your smallest toe than Néstor has in all his body!" He thought a bit, cocking his head to one side. "Seriously, though, I just might take your suggestion. Now, our only problem is how to extract the Wilúsiyans from their citadel for one more battle."

  At midday, Ak'illéyu rose from his nap. He made his way to the pyre where his foster brother had been burned. Though his legs ached, he paced round and round the smoldering embers, pouring libations of river water and of wine to quench the fire and assuage the thirst of Patróklo's soul. Alongside him, representatives from each of the Ak'áyan kingdoms combed through the ashes, gathering dead men's bones, bringing them to Qálki for identification. The prophet's bony fingers crumbled dry leaves and small twigs of efficacious herbs. By a small fire set up near the great pyre, the seer recited the names of the dead as he tossed the bits of wood and leaves into the flames. Watching the changing colors in the fire, listening to the crackling, he made his pronouncements. This skull was Knagéyu's, these half-burned thigh bones Akasto's, that bit of backbone Prokléwe's.

  As the T'eshalíya's commander waited to gather in his foster brother's remains, he swayed from side to side, wailing hoarse, inhuman cries that stirred men's hearts to fear. 'Iqodámeya kept watch by the door of his hut, unable to concentrate on her endless chores. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, not yet swollen, and whispered prayers to Dáwan for the unborn child.

  Aíwaks tried to distract Ak'illéyu from his task with talk of Patróklo's glory in his last day of combat. "Let us drink wine and eat together," the big man urged, "in honor of the dead. Join me as I comfort my soul with a song of your brother's great deeds. I will get T'érsite to bring his lúra. It is time he gave us an ode to a great man instead of his ridiculous song of battling mice and frogs."

  As the tall man spoke, Automédon ran to the overlord's tent. "My wánaks is in the hands of the maináds again," the T'eshalíyan qasiléyu said. "Please, high wánaks, get him away from the pyre. I am afraid he will go completely mad, as 'Erakléwe did in the old legends. If his disturbed mind tells him that we are all Wilúsiyans, he could halve the Ak'áyans before coming to his senses."

  Agamémnon and Odushéyu took up fine, bronze gifts and paid a sudden visit to the T'eshalíyan prince, reluctantly following Aíwaks. The southern kings spoke at length of the renown of all the P'ilístas they had known, telling admiring stories of northern warriors' depredations all around the Inner Sea. Word spread throughout the encampment that Ak'illéyu had lost his senses. Men shook their heads despairingly.

  "A father mourns a son who dies, newly married," Qálki pronounced in gloomy tones, as the low-ranked soldiers remained by the small fire of divination, "but no man has ever mourned the death of a brother more than he. His father called him Ak'illéyu, the Griever, thinking that with such a fierce name the boy would bring sorrow to others. Little did Péleyu know that the grief would be in his son's own heart!"

  T'érsite, squatting beside the growing collection of Argive remains, growled at the prophet, "No one cares how he was named. You would help us more by telling us what to do about him. Look into the future and prophesy for us. Will Ak'illéyu's grief finally be satisfied when he has angered every god and they all send plagues to finish us off?"

  Outside the T'eshalíyan prince's hut, his troop leaders and captive women muttered among themselves. "I will tell you what to do," 'Iqodámeya told them with sudden determination. "We must all take turns keeping Ak'illéyu's mind off his sorrow. You go to the pyre, Automédon, since you are the highest in rank now. Pick Patróklo's bones from the ashes yourself. It should please Ak'illéyu that you did it, when I tell him about it later."

  Automédon was uncertain, and looked at the captive woman in dismay. "How do you know how he will react?" he asked. "Ak'illéyu was not aware of it, but we threw other men's bodies on that fire. I am afraid he will accuse me of bringing him some other man's bones. And how would I know whether he was right? I have heard of priests and prophets with extraordinary powers and I have seen them divine the identity of someone who has worked magic against a man's family, or the name of the god who cursed a place with plague or flood. But I have never
seen or heard of any servant of a god who could identify bones of dead men when all were mixed together."

  "All that happens is known to the gods," 'Iqodámeya told the qasiléyu. "The names of all the dead are in the hearts of the deities who sent them doom. Identifying the men is no more difficult for one with true sight than is divining the god who sent death to them. And Qálki is no ordinary seer. He is famous all through Assúwa." She took up a painted urn, sent over earlier by one of the northern wánaktes as a peace offering. "Put Patróklo's remains in this," she commanded the T'eshalíyan charioteer firmly. "Then bring this back to me and I will make a special place for it in Ak'illéyu's hut. I will spit three times in every corner of this little house to purify it and lay offerings of milk and honey before the urn, if I can get them. That should please Ak'illéyu, to see his brother's soul shown honor by an Assúwan slave."

  "Ai gar, woman, what are you suggesting?" Automédon cried, horrified. "Do you intend to worship Patróklo's spirit, as if he were a god?"

  "Consult Qálki, if you do not approve of my plan," 'Iqodámeya suggested. "Ask him to work for you. Perhaps a seer of such renown can tell you what the future holds for your wánaks and, if it is a bad fate, whether it can be averted. It may be that he knows a way to lengthen the thread that the triple goddesses weave of each man's destiny."

  "All right, all right," Automédon noisily agreed, knowing that such a thing was impossible. "I see what you are getting at. I will do as you suggest." But, when she had gone, he gave his task to a T'eshalíyan of lower rank. "I suppose it makes no difference whose bones they really are, so long as you bring back the right number," the qasiléyu said in disgust. "Wánaks Ak'illéyu knows nothing of the other bodies on the pyre. He is too lost among the maináds to suspect that what we bring to him may not be Patróklo's remains. As for the souls of the dead men, well, they have had their offerings and have gone on their way across the Stuks. They have no reason to trouble us, either."

  When the southern troop leaders could hold Ak'illéyu's interest no longer, 'Iqodámeya joined him in his hut. She spoke soothingly as he paced inside the little shelter. She could feel in her heart that Patróklo's soul was at peace, she told the grieving prince. He had gone to his fate, as all must do. If he had never been destined to have long life, still, the time that he had lived was filled with glory. And was it not true that, to a warrior, areté meant more than the length of his days? But the prince seemed caught in a cloud, unable to see or hear her clearly. In the doorway of his hut he stopped his pacing, swaying on his feet. With sudden fervor he told her, "If I am killed here, have them put my bones in the same jar as Patróklo's. Make them build an Ak'áyan tomb, then, a proper death chamber lined with stones. Lay a spear and a sword beside each of us and bury it all beneath a mound of earth. Swear that you will see this done."

  She wanted to protest, to say that he surely would not die on these shores, and that the war must surely end very soon. But his glazed eyes frightened her and she only nodded, her hands resting protectively upon her abdomen.

  The sun was well past its zenith, nearing the watery end of its daily journey, when the bones had all been gathered into jars. The men of lesser rank were hot and tired and complained to each other of their unreasonable commanders. The whole campaign had been nothing but a series of preposterous and horrific events. Inaugurated with a human sacrifice, followed by a few brief battles but many long days of inactivity, it had seemed an expedition doomed from the start. Only the foot soldiers seemed to see that reality, though. The troop leaders were like men possessed by otherworldly dáimons, incapable of reason, no matter how monstrous the signs were for the future. Perhaps the lawagétas had all been overlooked by Díwo's Evil Eye. Some dreadful curse seemed to hover over the whole Ak'áyan army.

  "When I saw Qántili fall to Ak'illéyu's spear, I was sure that was the end of the war," St'énelo sighed, rubbing the tracery of half-healed scratches, minor cuts, and bruises on his arms. "All this slaughter should be enough for even the most blood-thirsty wánaks."

  "Agamémnon has had his fill. I know that. So have Idómeneyu and Néstor. I just hope Ak'illéyu is satisfied now," T'érsite remarked, taking a ceramic jar in each arm.

  "By the gods," his companion exclaimed. "He has already offended everyone in Assúwa, mortal or divine. What more could he possibly want?"

  But 'Iqodámeya came from the prince's hut before the sun set with yet another order from the T'eshalíyan wánaks. "Ask Agamémnon to assemble the Ak'áyans," the captive woman told Automédon with a sigh. "Ak'illéyu has ordered that all his treasures be brought out. It is time for the funeral games."

  "Games! Here?" Automédon groaned. He could scarcely believe his ears. But he dared not try to talk his prince out of the idea.

  The overlord, for his part, was both astounded and furious to hear of the new demand. The lesser kings were no more pleased when Agamémnon called them to an assembly around his hearth. "We have many more important things to worry about than one man's funeral," Idómeneyu complained, crossing his arms on his chest. "We have already shown Patróklo more honor than he was due. If Ak'illéyu wants games he should go home and have them in T'eshalíya, where he will not bother sensible men!"

  But Meneláwo prevailed on his brother and his friend. "It is absurd, of course," the Lakedaimóniyan king admitted, beseeching them all with shadowed eyes. "But humor the T'eshalíyan a little longer. Soon, we will all have Tróyan treasures to repay us for our troubles. We have come so far and toiled for so long. The end is near. Let us finish what we came to do."

  So it was that, yet again, Agamémnon's order was given and every wánaks had to obey. "Do as Ak'illéyu wishes," the overlord demanded. "Gather outside the rampart for the funeral games. But be quick about it. I want this funeral finished before dark this night."

  Ak'áiwiya's diminished manhood again assembled, as reluctant as before, if not more so. To the flat ground south of the walled camp, the remaining soldiers wandered without formality. They left their war gear in their tents and huts this time. Men of lesser rank did not bother to shave off their mustaches before appearing, either. Nor did anyone bathe or comb his hair. Barefoot and dressed only in kilts or wearing nothing at all, they sat in a rough circle. Despite his wound, Diwoméde was among the first to arrive, riding on T'érsite's back. The young man's swollen foot was wrapped in stained linen. But his eyes were bright, no longer dimmed with fever. The smaller wound on his shoulder was also healing well.

  The noncombatants came to watch, too. The carpenters and navigators stood or squatted apart from the warriors, in no particular order. Even the captive women looked on from the shade of the camp's earthen rampart. Ak'illéyu sat atop the wall, overseeing the ceremony. His shoulders were hunched and his eyes listless. He acknowledged none of those who hailed him, wánaktes or qasiléyus, P'ilístas or Zeugelátes. In a voice hoarse from lamenting, he simply announced the first competition with a single word. "Wrestling."

  Automédon set a tall three-legged stand on the ground beneath his prince's feet. Wíp'iya came forward at his gesture. Her eyes downcast, the woman knelt beside the bronze stand. "The tripod is bronze. The captive is a good weaver. Both are worth four oxen," Automédon explained. "Now, who will compete?"

  Many men, especially those from the southern Ak'áyan kingdoms, dropped their gaze to the ground or turned their faces away, toward the sea. They did not intend to do this T'eshalíyan any more honor than what the overlord required of them. But, without hesitation, Aíwaks came forward, pulling off his kilt. Odushéyu followed just behind, stripping as he came and he winked at the stolid woman he expected to win. Wearing only their belts, the two men faced each other. Each gripped the other's elbows with beefy hands, and pushed and strained to throw the other down. Joints creaked and the men grunted with the effort, their faces reddening, their bodies pouring sweat. Though Aíwaks was head and shoulders taller, Odushéyu was broader. Neither man could budge the other. Sinews stood out against their toughened skin. Red
welts came up on their ribs and shoulders where each man's fingers took hold. But neither man moved.

  The watching soldiers began to lose interest. Disgruntled lawagétas talked of earlier matches they had seen across the Inner Sea in Ak'áiwiya. T'érsite regaled the men of lower ranks with recollections of a fine meal of rabbit meat he had eaten earlier in the summer.

  Between clenched teeth, Odushéyu muttered, "Come on, Aíwaks, we are both losing, this way. Either you lift me or I will lift you, by Díwo's will." With his last strength, the tall man hoisted Odushéyu into the air. But the It'ákan caught the big man behind the knee with his dangling feet, and Aíwaks fell over on his back. Odushéyu landed on top of his opponent, the two lying chest to chest.

  The observing warriors stood, their eyes back on the fight, shouting to their favorites. Northern men called the name of the blue-eyed giant. Southerners cheered the pirate, king of the small, western isles. The wrestlers got back to their feet and almost immediately, Odushéyu again wrapped one leg around Aíwaks. Both men went down a second time, this time with Odushéyu on the bottom and Aíwaks on top. Coated in dust, they rose once more and faced each other, their fingers spread, panting like bulls.