Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  Ak'illéyu sat up abruptly at the noise. "What are you doing?" he bellowed, and clambered to his feet unsteadily, spilling his wine. "'Iqodámeya! Where are you going?"

  The men in the T'eshalíyan section of camp fell silent. They remembered sudden, urgent business matters among their distant kinsmen, at hearths on the far side of the encampment, leaving 'Iqodámeya to face their leader alone. She trembled but did not run from his threatening advance. "My wánaks," she began, but the hostile look in his eyes silenced her.

  "I should not have listened to you," the prince said, glowering at her through his eyebrows. "I should not have relinquished Qántili's corpse." He stepped toward her, threatening with hard fists. "You have betrayed me…"

  She forced herself to turn her eyes from his face and toward the north. Swallowing with difficulty, she gulped, "Look, wánaks, spears! The Lúkiyans are coming this way."

  With a suddenness that frightened the captive woman, Ak'illéyu ran out the gate of the encampment and stared toward the river. There he saw the Assúwans wading waist deep, their spears and shields held above their heads. "Alalá!" the T'eshalíyan prince called out, giving the battle cry as he raced back to his hut for his spear.

  The encampment exploded into action, men taking up their weapons and armor, shouting to each other in anger, fear, and confusion. Ak'illéyu was among the first Ak'áyans out of the camp, leading the warriors against their oncoming enemies. Alongside him, T'eshalíyans and other P'ilístas, Argives and their fellow Zeyugelátes rushed forward, mingled without regard for nation or kinship.

  Two threatening lines of men drew up, facing each other close to the Sqámandro's waters. They pounded with their spear-shafts on the wooden rims of their shields. Ak'áyans cried out, "Díwo!" as they struck their circular ox-hides. "Tarqún!" returned the Lúkiyans, invoking their god of storm to the rhythm of their drumming. "Run while you have a chance, little boys!" mocked the Wilúsiyans, shaking their long shields, each a rough figure-eight in shape. "Poseidáon will trample you into the dirt."

  "Owái," Odushéyu bellowed with pretended fear, taking a step in front of the other Ak'áyans. "Look at the fierce lambs and kids before us." Behind and beside the stocky wánaks, other men mimicked the bleating of goats and sheep and waved their spears above their heads.

  As each side hesitated to be the first to strike a blow, Ak'illéyu and Ainyáh stepped forward into the empty stretch between the armies. They hurled insults at each other, each accusing his enemy of kinship with domestic animals, boasting of his own lineage. Ak'illéyu called, "Prepare to die, son of mongrels! I am the son of the wánasha of gods!" He raised his spear in thrusting position, stabbing the air with quick, dramatic movements.

  "Diwiyána!" cried the other T'eshalíyans, beating their round shields with their spears. Around them the other P'ilístas and Zeugelátes did the same, trilling the warcry, "Alalá!" Still the Ak'áyans, including their champion, hesitated to close the gap between the armies.

  "I am the son of the goddess of war!" Ainyáh hurled back, wielding his own spear in the same way. "Say goodbye to the cow who bore you!"

  On either side, his Kanaqániyans clashed their spears together and cried, "Astárt!"

  "Enough of this playing!" the Lúkiyan king shouted, and as he spoke Sharpaduwánna jumped forward despite his injured leg. In the blink of an eye he drove his spear against Ak'illéyu's untouched shield. With that act, the two armies fell to fighting, thrusting heavy lances into the undefended spaces above and beside ox-hide shields. The first man fell, a Lúkiyan, curling up on the bronze blade that pierced his abdomen, screaming shrilly at war's most painful wound. An Ak'áyan bent down to possess the curved sword hanging at the dying man's side. Into his undefended backside a spear darted, ending the killer's quest for the shining bronze blade. He collapsed on his still-writhing victim, his backbone severed. Sharpaduwánna exulted over his first kill, calling on the storm god of Assúwa. But there was no time to celebrate, as a bristling wave of Ak'áyan spears came up around him to prevent him from beheading or despoiling his prey. With his lance still buried in bone and flesh, the Lúkiyan ruler drew the sword at his side and slashed at the unprotected limbs of his enemies. With screams of anguish and shouts of triumph, Lúkiyans and Wilúsiyans met and mingled with Ak'áyans, spattering each other with blood.

  Behind the cluster of men fighting hand to hand, Paqúr gathered his archers in a line. "There!" the prince directed them, "Send your arrows against the rampart gate." Flight after flight of deadly shafts rained down on the steady stream of Ak'áyans running toward them from the encampment. The Tróyan's command had its desired effect. Only a portion of Ak'áiwiya's army had come toward the river at Ak'illéyu's first cry. Without their full armor or all their weapons, feather-crowned P'ilístas and leather- or bronze-capped Zeugelátes fell quickly to the well prepared Lúkiyans thirst for revenge. Paqúr's bowmen mowed down their enemies as the narrowness of their gate forced them into a small area. Wilúsiyan barbs put a final end to Ak'áyans by the dozen before their bronze could taste Assúwan blood. Like waves in a storm on a winter sea, Lúkiya's fierce warriors swept across the field to the very gate of the Ak'áyan camp, leaving behind them great numbers of bodies littering the southern bank of the Sqámandro River. Only their lust for bronze slowed Sharpaduwánna's men. If they had not taken time to take the swords and spears of the dead and mortally wounded, the Lúkiyans would have been digging earth from the encampment's rampart wall with their spears before the archers had depleted their store of arrows.

  But as the men of Assúwa approached the rampart, the deadly rain thinned, as they ran out of ammunition. Paqúr sent his bowmen forward in the Lúkiyans' wake, urging them to collect every arrow from the ground or from the fallen. The brief interlude was all the Assúwans' enemies needed. The bulk of Ak'áiwiya's soldiers abandoned the gate, with its dam of corpses and clambered over the whole north face of their rampart wall. Mesheníyans and Lakedaimóniyans had taken the time to don all the armor they possessed and to arm themselves fully. Aroused by the sights and sounds of their fellow countrymen dying, they leaped down upon their foes and beat back the Lúkiyan advance, despite the best efforts of Sharpaduwánna's men. Those men, after all, had paused, from time to time in their progress, to take whatever metal objects attracted their eyes from the men they had downed. They now paid for that slowness with their lives.

  In all the slaughter, Tróya's princes avoided death. Lupákki stood with Ainyáh and the Kanaqániyans, holding their ground when others began to retreat around them. As his fallen brother had formerly done, Paqúr roamed the back of his Wilúsiyan lines, rallying his men when they seemed on the verge of turning back toward the riverbank. "Do not give up now," he called to them. "The sea god is with us. Listen to his voice. Remember your areté." When honor's allure faded, Paqúr threatened the warriors with his spear. "Any man who turns is food for crows!"

  Feeling the ground beginning to vibrate beneath their feet, the battle-dazed men thought they saw the Divine Horse himself, tearing from this place to that on the field at mind-numbing speed. They felt the power in his hooves that pounded the earth, and heard the whistling of the wind created by his passing. Scattered randomly over the battle ground, the Assúwans came together around the stalwart Ainyáh. Closing ranks, the Tróyans and their allies again pushed toward the Ak'áyans' walls, fighting hand to hand, pitting muscle against muscle and bronze blade against bronze.

  But new cries of "Díwo!" rose from the sons of Diwiyána as reinforcements came from the camp, men with less serious wounds responding more slowly to the summons to do battle. Aíwaks, Idómeneyu, and Odushéyu shouted encouragement to their fellows. "The wánaks of the gods is with us! Hear his thunder! He will blast the Assúwans with his thunderbolt for breaking the truce!" Again, Ak'áiwiya's manhood surged northward toward the Sqámandro’s turbid waters. The Assúwans gave ground reluctantly. But the retreat did not become a rout. Little by little, they slowed the Ak'áyan advance and turned the tide
again. Back and forth the two armies pushed each other, until the fields between the encampment and the riverbank were washed in blood.

  "I hear the distant sound of Díwo's battle-axe," Qálki told Diwoméde as the young man limped from his hut, spear in one hand, a flask of poppy-tinged wine in the other. "He is angry because we burned the dead in the Wilúsiyan manner. His lightning bolt may strike our ships."

  Diwoméde stared at the small, bony prophet. "No, surely the god understands. Ai, there were so many dead! There was no time to dig proper tombs. Go and take your omens to someone else. As soon as the pain in my foot dulls, I will be at my overlord's side in the battle." He moved toward the north wall of the camp, trying to see how the fight was going. Arrows still rose high in the air and came down near the edge of the encampment, falling on the huts with a light clatter. But the darts were scattered and came in small spurts now. More numerous were the spear-points visible above the rampart.

  "Idé, the land of the dead is crowded with souls." Qálki shook his head, following Diwoméde. "Consider how the wounded have been dying. The boatmen on the Stuks are busy these days, ferrying souls to the halls of 'Aidé. Still Préswa's greedy heart is not satisfied. A battle on a holy day, a funeral day, is a most evil omen. I fear Agamémnon may be called upon to make yet another sacrifice to save his men."

  Diwoméde was troubled. He stopped where he was, measuring what he saw in the seer's narrowed eyes. The qasiléyu took a swallow from his small jug and wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, the spear in his other hand resting, butt-end on the ground. "Meneláwo says it is common for more of the wounded to die than to live. My father used to say that, too. Agamémnon has already given up his best war-prize, the captive woman, and later he gave back her replacement. He even sacrificed his own daughter for this expedition, and that was right at the start. That makes three sacrifices. Surely that is enough for any god. No, I cannot believe anything more can be demanded of the high wánaks." He gulped down the last of the bitter liquid in his juglet.

  Qálki squinted hard, black eyes at the younger, taller man. "Are you so sure, Diwoméde? Listen to the gods, boy," the seer whispered loudly. He pointed out toward the sea, repeating, "Listen to the gods."

  A distant rumble came to their ears, so deep and low they felt it in their very bones. For a moment, the qasiléyu was filled with a sense of foreboding and dread. But the poppy began to work its magic, washing away his doubts and the pain of his unhealed wound. No thoughts of unseen dáimons troubled his mind as he drew on a heavy set of chest armor from the store by Agamémnon's great tent. He selected a bronze helmet from the same stack, headgear decked with a pair of bull's horns and the tail of a horse. With the emblems of the great gods on his head, he felt strong again. His heart beat faster, his blood warming to the task ahead. The din of the nearby struggle beckoned to his spirit. He could not wait to take up his spear and send more Assúwans to the dread queen of 'Aidé.

  At Ak'illéyu's feet a wounded Wilúsiyan embraced his knees, tears of pain and fear dripping from eyes that saw death perched on the T'eshalíyan's shoulder. "Do not kill me, please!" the young man begged, "My father will pay you any ransom…"

  Without pausing to consider that plea, the Ak'áyan prince sliced open the man's side so that blood and entrails poured into his lap. Other men just as quickly lost their lives, until Ak'illéyu's pitiless sword was hot with blood. The polished bronze of his gear was soon darkened, his arms blackened to the elbows. With untiring limbs, he waded on into the thick of the fighting, slashing, thrusting, shouting hoarsely, insatiable. His fellow P'ilístas felt honor bound to follow the mad, northern prince, despite the danger of his exposed position. Under such an assault, Assúwan discipline cracked and men began to fall away, running north toward the river and the citadel beyond.

  The earth shook with savage force, knocking the men off their feet. The fighting stopped for a moment, as the warriors looked around in sudden terror. The ground had shuddered before, but never had it moved so powerfully. The waters of the Inner Sea now rose in violent waves and in the earth's rumbling the men of Ak'áiwiya thought they heard the bellowing of the Divine Bull. "Díwo!" they called out, raising their weapons to the sky in an abbreviated salute. But they remained on their knees, unsure whether the sign meant the god was with them or against them.

  Equally confused, Wilúsiyans knelt before the thundering hooves of the Divine Horse. Stunned Lúkiyans shouted the name of the storm god whose voice they were sure they heard, but they, too, made no move to resume the battle. Several huts in the Ak'áyans' encampment collapsed in a clatter, dust rising along with the screams of captive women struck by the falling debris. All eyes turned south, to see chunks of the earthen wall of the rampart tumble down on either side. Their eyes turned north, next, toward the besieged capital of Wilúsiya. Tróya's high, rounded battlements began to crack beneath invisible blows. Sun-baked bricks rained down the sloping, stone faces of the city's massive walls. The six slender columns before the main gate shivered on their stone bases. Inside the fortress walls, roofs of plastered wood and bricks from the walls of the upper stories shook down from the houses of the rich to crush the shacks of low-born farmers in the wide streets. Screams rose from the shaken citadel. Saucer-shaped lamps overturned and the spilled oil flamed brightly. The supporting timbers of houses great and small began to burn. Huts flared up quickly in the dry heat, and, as one shelter was consumed by flame, the fire spread easily to its neighbors. The people rushed about the crowded streets in a panic. But there was nowhere to go.

  In the Ak'áyan camp, Qálki began to shout, dancing on feet made suddenly limber by excitement. "It is the end of the world!" he cried, climbing up to straddle the earthen wall of the encampment. "Warriors battle for a stolen queen. Díwo's chosen marches out to war. Look, men, can you see the shining dáimons stalking the battlefield? The gods themselves have taken up arms beside the warriors. The Divine Horse and the Great Bull are at war. It is the end of the world, the end of the age of Bronze!"

  Wounded Ak'áyans with rotting limbs crawled from their collapsed tents and dug their way out of fallen huts, not knowing what to do. "Where is Agamémnon?" they asked each other. The noncombatants knelt, navigators and carpenters shouting frantic prayers to every god whose name they knew, Ak'áyan or Assúwan.

  Meneláwo did not look for his brother as he limped from his tent. The king of Lakedaimón quickly downed a cup of poppy-tinged wine, gripping the festering wound at his hip. He poured himself a second portion, but dropped it as the sounds of combat resumed. He did not bother to search for armor but simply took up the nearest spear and shield and made for the gateway, giving the ululating call to battle. Those of the wounded who could followed suit, while others dragged themselves to the Lakedaimóniyan's tent to help themselves to his poppy-shaped flasks.

  About the gently rolling plain the armies fought, the T'eshalíyans in the forefront, pushing the Assúwans slowly but inexorably toward the low waters of the Sqámandro. On the banks of the sluggish river, the two sides battered each other with renewed vigor. King Sharpaduwánna's men, having begun this fight for the sake of glory, were determined not to die a coward's death by drowning. The Lúkiyans stayed close to one another, no longer wasting their time and energy trying to collect booty from the fallen. Ak'illéyu in his blood-darkened gear drove hard through the less organized Wilúsiyan ranks. His T'eshalíyans followed closely behind him, followed by the other northern troops, splitting their enemies into two groups.

  Half the men of Assúwa retreated around their cool-headed leader. Sharpaduwánna moved them along the riverbank, toward the shore of the nearby sea, and away from the greatest concentration of fighting men. The Lúkiyan's progress was slow, inching westward little by little, standing to fight again and again. Agamémnon directed the bulk of his forces against the king in the conical, felt hat. "We have them on the run," the overlord shouted to his men. "We will corner them on the beach where the river is the widest and throw their bodies in
to the Inner Sea. They are food for fishes now!"

  The other Assúwans ignored the call of areté and Paqúr's invocations. They turned into the Sqámandro River in panic, abandoning Tróya's princes. Ak'illéyu leaped in among these terrified men, chasing them across the shallow, muddy waters and cutting them down. Smacking the water as they fell, Wilúsiyans stained the river with their life's blood. The living tried to swim, but, in the wild eddies of the shaken stream, many drowned, pulled down by their heavy gear.

  "Stay by the bank, Automédon," Ak'illéyu ordered his qasiléyu. "I will collect my three sacrificial victims today." The T'eshalíyan prince ran into waters that were choked with bodies, striking to the right and left with his sword. When his arm burned with weariness from the butchery, Ak'illéyu took captive a high-born Tróyan who clasped his knees and begged for his life. The prisoner's eyes were as wide and startled as those of a fawn, the whiskers on his chin still sparse. Trembling in every limb, the youth waded from the water at sword-point to where Automédon stood. Stripping the young man naked, Ak'illéyu used the captive's own sword belt to bind his hands behind his back and ordered Automédon to take the Tróyan back to the encampment. Three times he led such a man ashore, sending the bound prisoner back to his camp under T'eshalíyan guard. Each time, the northern prince turned again to furious battling.