Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  But Ak'illéyu raised both his hands, saying, "Peace. That is enough. It is an equal contest." The watching kings looked at one another in surprise. It was the first sign that the T'eshalíyan had control of his senses. They looked to Agamémnon with new respect. So the big man had known what he was doing all along, they whispered to one another.

  Automédon came forward and pushed the wrestlers apart. "You both win," the charioteer announced, as the two contestants continued to glare at each other. "Aíwaks, take the woman. Odushéyu, take the tripod. The prizes are equal. Let us get on with the next game."

  The wrestlers left the ring, cursing each other, each believing himself cheated of the better prize. They brushed the dust from their bodies and wrapped their kilts once more about their waists. "I will get you next time," Aíwaks growled, gripping Wíp'iya's wrist and dragging the unhappy woman close to his side.

  Odushéyu gave a short, contemptuous laugh and spat in the dirt.

  Wíp'iya would not meet the It'ákan's gaze and, from their place by the rampart wall, 'Iqodámeya sighed to the other women, "Poor Wíp'iya, will the goddess never give her good fortune?" Beside her, another captive shook her head sympathetically.

  But a third, the youngest of them, did not share the others' pity. "It is better for her to have a miserable master in a rich country like Argo than to serve a champion in impoverished T'eshalíya."

  "Chariot racing," Ak'illéyu announced next. Automédon pretended he had not heard and closely inspected a scab on his arm. Like snakes speaking to each other, whispers hissed all around the gathered crowd. "Hardly a horse remains in all Wilúsiya," Néstor complained, rolling his eyes, "and the only carts left are for donkeys!"

  Idómeneyu grunted in equal disgust. "Nor would we be so foolish as to risk something as valuable and fragile as a chariot in such a funereal display, with the war still not over. Ai, for a moment there, I thought he had found his reason again. But now I see Ak'illéyu is as insane as ever."

  From his seat on the ground, Diwoméde grumbled, "If the maináds had to do something with him, why could they not carry him off to the mountains and dance him to death in the forest?"

  "Watch your tongues," Meneláwo urged them, from his place beside Diwoméde. "I think he heard you."

  The T'eshalíyan prince shivered, despite the heat, and put a hand to his forehead. But his temper did not flare. He only shook his head. "The foot race," he said quickly, "I meant the foot race. First prize is a bowl."

  His qasiléyu and charioteer forgot the old wound on his arm and held up a painted, ceramic vessel. Automédon turned it in his hands so that all could see the fine workmanship. "It holds enough to quench the thirst of twenty men," the driver told the assembled warriors. "Men of Kanaqán made it and traded it to the T'rákiyan king of Skúro. Patróklo took it as ransom for Lupákki, the Tróyan prince we captured on Lámno, last summer. Now, my lord Ak'illéyu offers it as first prize for the fastest runner at Patróklo's funeral." He set the bowl down, and Ak'illéyu gazed at it somberly for a long, silent moment.

  Agamémnon had not quarreled with any of the northern prince's actions. But as the quiet waiting continued, the overlord shifted his feet, his hands on his hips, and cleared his throat several times, trying to jog Ak'illéyu out of his reverie. "We will be here all night at this rate," he muttered to Néstor.

  At last Ak'illéyu raised his head, holding out a hand to point out a donkey that Automédon had led forward in the meantime. It was a rangy animal with prominent ribs and it walked slowly, its head down. "This is the second prize," said the T'eshalíyan prince. "For the slowest, there is a copper plate."

  Without hesitation, Aíwaks strode forward again. Other men of the north had made as if to join the competition, but they backed away at the sight of the long-legged qasiléyu. A second time, Odushéyu was right behind, he and Aíwaks each threatening to leave his competitor in his dust. Néstor's son Antílok'o followed them, at his father's prodding. "But listen, my son," said the pale-haired wánaks, "You must consider carefully what you will do. You are young and can easily outdistance either contender. But, if you do so, you will offend them. Let the older men win. It will be their last moment of glory. You will have plenty of chances to win fine prizes in the coming years. Now is the time to make allies for the future. But make a good showing. They must not know you held back." Antílok'o nodded solemnly.

  Automédon dragged his heel across the dirt to make a starting line. Toes to this line, the three runners bent down. "Go around that bush out there," the T'eshalíyan told them. "You know, the one Diwoméde made us use as a marker because of the plague, earlier. Remember, he told us not to relieve ourselves any closer to camp than that." The competitors nodded, their eyes on the small tamarisk.

  "Begin!" the charioteer called out, throwing his arms in the air. The runners leaped from the start and Aíwaks quickly pulled ahead, his long legs carrying him rapidly over the hard ground. Odushéyu, shorter-limbed, but fueled by his desire to even the score, followed less than an arm's length behind. Antílok'o, scarcely breathing hard, followed as closely upon Odushéyu, each runner blowing hot breath on the neck of the man ahead.

  As they neared the finish, Odushéyu shouted out, "At'ána!" His knees pounded up and down faster than ever, until he drew up alongside Aíwaks.

  By the stunted tree, the ground was still slick from the most recent visitor's deposit. When his bare feet hit this, Aíwaks slipped and fell, sprawling and skidding on damp earth. The filth plastered his face and filled his nose and mouth. Odushéyu crossed the finish, Antílok'o close behind him, before Aíwaks could scramble to his feet and clear his eyes. The watching men roared with laughter at the sight of the giant, still spitting dung when he returned to take the plate of red metal.

  "Préswa take you, Odushéyu!" he cursed. "That At'ána coddles you as if you were her baby! It was not skill that won you first prize, only the favor of the goddess. Run again. You will not beat me a second time."

  But Odushéyu was deaf to the big man's complaints. He raised the fine bowl over his head, exulting in his victory. Antílok'o quietly led the donkey to his father's side. Néstor nodded, a slight smile on his wrinkled face.

  "Perhaps Odushéyu will trade the bowl for Wíp'iya," 'Iqodámeya whispered, a hand to her mouth. "What do you think, 'Ékamede?"

  "Ai, you are a fool," her younger companion snapped. "That pirate cares no more for her than your feathered half-wit does for you. She is better off with the giant anyway."

  'Iqodámeya stared at 'Ékamede with injured eyes and moved away. The youngest captive followed, with a disapproving frown at the evil tempered woman. "Never mind her, 'Iqodámeya," the youthful captive said. "She is being hateful because she is afraid she is pregnant. She hates to think of bearing old Néstor's child or grandchild. You know, the old man wounded her father in battle and Antílok'o killed the man she was going to marry. She would do anything to avenge her kinsmen and here she is about to reward her enemies with an extra slave."

  "Ai, Dáuniya," 'Iqodámeya sighed. "I know how she feels. I was pleased at first to be returned to Ak'illéyu. What would Agamémnon do to me if he had found out I carried another man's baby? But Ak'illéyu is so changed. I am so afraid, for my own sake and for this child's. You are lucky you have escaped such a fate."

  aaa

  In the hilltop citadel, the Tróyan princes left Qántili's pyre still burning and called a quick assembly with the Lúkiyan príyam and his officers. "The way those Ak'áyan pirates treated Qántili is an outrage, by all the gods and demons!" Sharpaduwánna cursed. "He was a loyal ally when the Kuwalíyans attacked me five years ago, and the emperor was slow to send aid. I demand that Qántili be avenged. I want this Ak'illéyu's head on my spear before another day dawns!"

  Paqúr clapped the Lúkiyan on the shoulder. "You are a true man of honor, just as my brother was," the prince declared. "It is decided, then. We attack the Ak'áyans as soon as our men can arm themselves."

  The younger prince Lupákk
i threw back his shorn head and took a deep breath, preparing to give the battle-cry. But Ainyáh silenced him before the call passed his lips. "What is wrong with you?" the Kanaqániyan demanded, punching his brother-in-law in the stomach. "We must get Alakshándu's approval before any such venture. Did the king not agree to a truce with the Ak'áyans just this morning?"

  "If you do not have the courage to face the Ak'áyan dogs again, then stay behind where it is safe," Dapashánda urged indignantly. Leaning forward until the face of his brother-in-law nearly touched his own, the young prince hissed, "We will go ahead without you."

  "I am a king myself," Sharpaduwánna responded curtly, his eyes flashing. "I do not need your Alakshándu's permission to wage war."

  Stung, Ainyáh shouted at the other men, "I have fought enough battles to know true courage from mere boasting, Dapashánda! With your arm in bandages, you will not set foot outside these walls. And as for you, Sharpaduwánna, it is true that you need no king's approval. But that is not so for prince Paqúr. Is your father dead, Lupákki? Or has Alakshándu abdicated his throne to you, Paqúr? I tell you, I am not afraid to face any man, so long as I know the gods are with me. But I have felt the earth shudder more than once these past few days. Poseidáon's hooves are restless. The sea god is angry because it was a Tróyan who first broke his oath and started the fighting between the armies. The last thing we should do is break another truce and inflame the god further!"

  The Tróyan princes began shouting all at once, arguing heatedly among themselves. Sharpaduwánna listened for a moment, his face distorted with contempt. "Do as you please, Wilúsiyans," he growled. "Argue like women in the markets. My men prepare to fight!"

  aaa

  Ak'illéyu directed his qasiléyu toward four axes with double blades, from the shrinking pool of his possessions. "Archery," the prince announced. The T'eshalíyans set up a mast, ferried in from an anchored ship in the harbor. They tethered a dove at the top by a leather cord. The bird fluttered constantly, uttering its plaintive call.

  "Shoot at that," Automédon told them. "The man who hits the bird takes three axes. If a man misses the dove and hits the cord he takes second prize, a single axe."

  Odushéyu rose alone from among the men. Rubbing his hands together expectantly, he sent one of his men into the camp for his bow. "Now, you will see a true archer's ability," he crowed. Men of north and south looked at each other but none stepped forward. Odushéyu's skill was too well known. Even Aíwaks, smarting from his loss, would not enter this competition.

  "By the gods, will no one compete with that pirate?" sputtered the wánaks from Kep'túr. "Has he not already gotten more than his share of prizes?" Forgetting his intention to do the northerners no honor, Idómeneyu called for his own bow and arrows to be brought out.

  Automédon brought out a sheep's knuckle-bone and tilted his head back, balancing the bone on his forehead. The contenders called out their choices. The T'eshalíyan cried, "Lady Fortune, choose your man," and dropped his chin to his chest. The men rushed forward to see how the token landed.

  Odushéyu raised his arms over his head. "At'ána is with me!" he laughed, mocking Idómeneyu. "It is the horse side. I take the first shot." The It'ákan set a feathered shaft against the bowstring and drew it back to his nipple, sighting with one eye. With a sure hand, he released his arrow. The bowstring twanged. The arrow flew upward with a light rushing sound. But the bird continued to flutter, unharmed. The It'ákan's arrow struck the cord, releasing the dove to fly skyward. Friends of both competitors groaned, Odushéyu's companions for his loss of the first prize, Idómeneyu's at his loss of a chance at either one.

  Ignoring them all, the Kep'túriyan wánaks drew his own bow quickly and shot at the fleeing bird. "Dánwa!" cried the king of the great southern island, as he released the arrow. The dove wheeled and fell to the earth. Around him, Kep'túriyans whooped with delight, breaking into an impromptu dance, their arms across each other’s shoulders. Idómeneyu took the double axes with a smug grin while Odushéyu, muttering unhappily, carried away his single blade.

  "It is your own fault you lost," Aíwaks laughed. He was thoroughly enjoying his adversary's defeat. "What can you expect when you pray to an owl? You should have called on the mother of the eagle, like Idómeneyu."

  The games were over. As the sun's disk grazed the watery horizon, the Ak'áyan forces dispersed again to their quarters.

  Boats appeared in the harbor, small, sleek vessels without sails. "It must be the islanders with their so-called tribute," T'érsite decided, helping Diwoméde back to his tent. "We will eat well tonight."

  The young man craned his neck to watch, as the oarsmen rowed their small crafts to shore and dragged them up on the beach. "Just in time to collect the prizes won in the games," he observed wryly.

  T'érsite chuckled. "If you are complaining about keeping too little bronze, you must be getting better. Ai, St'énelo will not be pleased. He bet me a tin cup you would die before Tróya fell."

  The younger man was annoyed. "Die!" Diwoméde scoffed indignantly. "Two little arrows scratched me, that is all. Why should I die?"

  Dáuniya stared at the youthful qasiléyu, as she passed the men, on her way back to the Attikan section of the camp. Coming up on her from behind, 'Ékamede gave her a shove. "Watch where you let your eyes rest," the older woman warned. "If Mak'áwon catches you sleeping with another man, he will slit your throat. Your master may be too old in your eyes and he may prefer to lie with boys, as people say, but you are still his property. A captive has no say in who shares her bed."

  Dáuniya let 'Ékamede press on ahead, muttering to the woman's back, "I will have a say. Just you watch me. I may be a slave but I am not helpless. I will choose my own master yet."

  aaa

  In Tróya, the men of Lúkiya donned their leather chest-protectors and wrapped their shins with stout ox-hide. Their high, conical hats on their heads, they took up bronze-capped spears and shields of spotted hide and marched through the narrow northwestern gateway. With them, went the young prince Lupákki and his oldest brother, Paqúr, leading a handful of high-born Tróyans. Still shaking his head and grumbling, Ainyáh brought up the rear with two of his fellow Kanaqániyan mercenaries.

  "Where are you going?" an archer called down from the wall, guarding the entrance.

  "To fight!" Paqúr called up. "If you want to take areté from an Ak'áyan today, join us."

  "I will be right behind you," the bowman answered eagerly and several of his companions followed him to the wooden staircase in the western tower.

  aaa

  Beside his hut, Ak'illéyu lay sprawled in the dirt, a wine cup in his hand, a poppy flask beside him. He stared up blankly at the darkening sky, unaware of the evening bustle about him. From time to time, he moaned or cursed the gods, then lay still again. Men at their hearths all around him carried water and wood to their campfires, preparing their meal. They gave their commander a wide berth. Although they did not dare look directly at their leader, for fear of meeting his gaze and drawing his anger, they found excuses to glance in his direction from time to time. What they saw did not please them. The man was lost in grief again. All the elaborate rites had still not appeased him. 'Iqodámeya silently served her lord his portion of gruel and fish, only to carry it away again later, uneaten. The T'eshalíyans noted that and gathered close to the rampart's gateway to discuss their prince and their own grim fate.

  In a hushed voice, Automédon told the others, "We should take him home with us, even if we have to tie him up. He is useless here. Our only hope lies in king Péleyu. That old man would not throw away our lives in a fit of rage. He, at least, will know what to do with his mad son." No one argued. But no one made a move. Their wánaks was a formidable warrior. Great Aíwaks might well be the only man who could take him. But the giant served Agamémnon. And a fight between the overlord's big qasiléyu and T'eshalíya's prince would likely ignite a war among the Ak'áyans.

  As the T'eshalíyans muttered
their fears to each other and their prince lay before his hut, 'Iqodámeya spied movement in the fields before Tróya. She crept toward the open gateway in the camp's earthen wall, stealing anxious glances back at Ak'illéyu as she went. In her mind, she heard Wíp'iya's voice, as the heavy-set woman had spoken before the first battle before Tróya.

  "Once you have slept with a man, his mark is on you," Wíp'iya had told her fellow captives, her voice firm, almost passionless. "In the eyes of all other men, you have lost something. Even if you could return home, your own countrymen would despise you because of the areté you lost on Ak'áyan sheepskins. So accept your fate. Submit to your captor. Make the best of it, try to please him, and you may be rewarded with light duties in his fortress. Otherwise, you will still be carried across the Inner Sea, but you will end your days doing hard labor in the flax fields, alone, unloved, forgotten."

  The approaching Assúwans were nearing the Sqámandro River and 'Iqodámeya could make out the characteristic felt hats of the Lúkiyans. With a hand over her womb, she took another step toward the opening in the wall. Intent on the scene in the distance, she bumped into Automédon, making him drop a painted stirrup jug. The vessel fell with a crash and shattered on the hard ground, spilling olive oil newly bought from the visiting islanders. The T'eshalíyan qasiléyu cursed the captive, "To 'Aidé with you, woman! Watch where you are going!"