Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  A fourth Wilúsiyan dragged himself from the river, unarmed, just as Ak'illéyu sent the third away. Gasping and choking, the half-drowned Tróyan fell to his knees at the sight of the Ak'áyan's upraised sword and begged the warrior to think of ransom.

  Ak'illéyu stared in disbelief. "Lupákki!" he exclaimed, recognizing the Tróyan. "I could have sworn it was you I ransomed on Lámno."

  Lupákki yelped, seeing the yellow blade coming down at him. Scrambling on all fours, he dodged the blow. Still crouching at Ak'illéyu's knees, he clasped the Ak'áyan's sword arm with both his hands. "Yes, you pitied me once, Ak'illéyu. I earned you a bowl worth ten bulls that day. My father is the king of Tróya, the richest man in all of Assúwa. He will give you twice that amount for my life this time."

  Ak'illéyu kicked the man away and pitilessly raised his weapon again. With quick strokes he slashed away the young man's frantically grasping fingers. "This is not a game, Tróyan!"

  "Three times that amount!" Lupákki screamed, in terror and pain. "Please! I have only had ten days of freedom…." Opening his arms wide, he collapsed in terror on the ground and received Ak'illéyu's blow on the back of his neck. Blood and clear spinal fluid poured from the wound. The Tróyan prince made no further sound as he died.

  Ak'illéyu stabbed the body repeatedly, exulting. "Your mother will not bury you, dog! The Sqámandro will have that pleasure."

  Again the ground shook under the unseen hooves of the Great Horse. Ak'illéyu fell on his back at Poseidáon's blow, and about him others did the same. Scrambling to his feet again, the T'eshalíyan prince struggled to leave the riverbank, slashing at any Wilúsiyans who lost their footing close by him. The River Sqámandro rose and fell, spilling across its banks and pouring over the low-lying ground. The smaller stream of the Simóye washed over the land, north and east of Tróya, as the Sqámandro ejected pale corpses in its rush toward the Ak'áyan camp. Frightened cries rose from men of both armies, "The gods are against us!" From the shore, Agamémnon's men began to run, with the sea at their backs, Lúkiyans racing alongside them.

  Ak'illéyu ran, too, now using his sword only to keep away the blows of those who came too near him, his legs pumping as fast as they had ever gone. How could a man fight an angry river? The ground rumbled again briefly and a wave crashed against Ak'illéyu legs, knocking him down. He was washed away for several yards, unable to regain his footing. A bushy tamarisk met his back and he threw his arms around it, struggling to keep his head out of the flowing water. Choking and spitting mud, he saw men’s flailing limbs all around him. The river's rage overcame the little tree, tearing at the dirt enclosing its roots, forcing it to bend low over the swirling waters. The Sqámandro's passion subsided and Ak'illéyu let go of the trunk. He struggled on through the knee-deep flood, his greaves chafing his shins, the pressure of the water wearing out the strength in his legs and threatening to wash the ground from under his feet. Each man was on his own, in the confusion. Those with enough presence of mind crawled toward higher ground. Others madly tried to outrun the river and ended up washed away, drowning in the attempt.

  Turning his eyes to the heavens, Ak'illéyu prayed desperately, "Díwo, you wolf of a god, do not let me die this way, like a shepherd boy caught in a winter rain. Do not send me to 'Aidé until I have fulfilled my vow to Patróklo." Plunging with high and angry strides, he outpaced the flowing water and worked his way up a low hill. On the summit he rested, his hands on his knees, the breath tearing from his lungs. He looked across the plain, at swirling corpses in the confused waters, men crouching fearfully on higher ground, praying to the bull-like spirit of the river or to the high gods who might restrain the Sqámandro. A great blast of wind rushed over the land, toward the sea, bearing the smell of smoke. Over Tróya's walls, Ak'illéyu was one of the first to spy a sooty pillar rising toward the clouds.

  Above them all an eagle flew, giving its piercing cry. Heads turned upward at the sound of the bird sacred to Arét. It was an omen, men told each other, on both sides. Though the waters were settling down again, the fighting did not resume for a long moment. Anxious eyes sought to read the meaning of the sign winging above them, looking for an interpretation of the earthquake. In the eagle's talons was a writhing snake and in that fact the warriors saw the intent of the gods. The god who shakes the land was battling the Divine Bull, father of the serpent.

  "Díwo is lost," low-ranked Ak'áyan soldiers cried in dismay.

  "Poseidáon is the victor," Wilúsiyans exulted.

  Lúkiyans sheathed their swords, confused. "What kind of omen is that?" Sharpaduwánna asked, frustrated. "Snake and bird of prey are both sons of Tarqún!"

  The snake continued to writhe in the eagle's talons, arching its long body upward to strike at the bird's breast. With another, still more piercing cry, the eagle opened its talons and released the snake. The bird sailed away across the sky, wheeling and turning in agony, to fall into the sea. At the same time, the snake dropped to the earth among the Assúwans closest to the shore. Men shuddered and backed away from the thing as its shattered body rippled in its death throes.

  The warriors hesitated a moment, Ak'áyan and Assúwan alike fearful and awe-struck at the strange sight. "You will not finish us today," Meneláwo called out in the lull, his voice booming over the plain as it had early in the war, before he had received his wound. Other sons of Diwiyána took up the cry around the southern wánaks and left their places on the low hills, rushing against the scattered Assúwans.

  Here was an interpretation clear enough for the Lúkiyans and they gathered about their king, spears or swords at the ready. Ainyáh and Paqúr ran among the rest of the Assúwans, encouraging their resolution and threatening their fears. But they could not prevent the Wilúsiyans from abandoning the fight in a rout. Sharpaduwánna speared a feathered Ak'áyan in the eye and, when the man's legs collapsed, beheaded him. He raised the severed head on his spear, the bronze point still embedded in the eye-socket. "Tell this little boy's mother to cry for him!" the Lúkiyan commander cried. It was enough to rally the Assúwans still south of the Sqámandro.

  Ak'illéyu galloped down from his low hilltop, toward Sharpaduwánna and the two clashed in the center of the battle's flame. His spear encumbered, the Lúkiyan's sword leaped forward and grazed Ak'illéyu's shoulder. The T'eshalíyan prince was luckier, as his own blade struck close to the Lúkiyan's breastbone, nearly piercing the king's heart.

  Sharpaduwánna fell hard. His wounded leg in its stiff wrapping had kept his knees from buckling, so that he dropped full length on the earth. Choking as the dust rose around him, the Lúkiyan's mouth opened and closed, his hands clutching at the weapon piercing his chest. "Kill him, Tushrátta," he gasped, "avenge me…." On all sides of the fallen man, felt-capped men of lesser rank thrust sharp spears at the Ak'áyan, driving him away from his victim. Ak'illéyu could not possess the king's corselet with its overlapping bronze plates. But there was nothing the Lúkiyans could do to save their commander. His breath gurgled in his throat and he lay still.

  "The king is dead!" came the cry of the Lúkiyan's second in command, kneeling at Sharpaduwánna's side. Tushrátta stood, moving his shield to his back and shouted, "The gods are against us. Fall back!" The southern warriors turned and fled, avoiding Ak'illéyu and his fellow P'ilístas as best they could.

  The T'eshalíyan prince strode forward, shouting in triumph, to claim Sharpaduwánna's armor at last. Ak'illéyu pressed his foot against the Lúkiyan's chest, and drew his sword from the body, tearing out the man’s diaphragm with the blade. "Gather close around me," he called to the men who had come up around him. "Guard me while I strip this Lúkiyan sheep."

  But Tushrátta had not run away in fear. He sought out Ainyáh with news of what had happened. "Sharpaduwánna is dead," Tushrátta cried out in anguish. "Help us, Ainyáh. Do not let those Ak'áyan dogs dishonor his body the way they did Qántili's."

  The Kanaqániyan stared at Tushrátta in horror. "Not Sharpaduwánna!" he cried in horror.
"He was our strongest ally."

  "He taught us all the true meaning of courage in war, fighting in spite of his wound," Paqúr lamented beside his brother-in-law. "This must be avenged." Hot with anger and grief, the Tróyan prince and the Kanaqániyan raced toward the spot where Sharpaduwánna had fallen.

  The strength of the avenging Tróyans and Lúkiyans overpowered their own doubts about the omens and matched that of Ak'illéyu's battle-maddened followers. Around the fallen king, a fierce battle soon raged. Spears crashed through round shields and into ribs. Sword blades sliced into thighs. When their bronze blades were embedded in bone and could not be easily retrieved, the Assúwans split Ak'áyan skulls with their daggers, pushing back the men with the feathered crowns. But Ak'illéyu threatened his own men with his sword, vowing to slit the throat of any man who turned away. Filled with war-fury, the prince's deep-set eyes seemed to spit fire. His coarse voice inspired greater fear in his own people as they saw that the war-god had possessed the T'eshalíyan. Saliva frothed at his lips, his feet pawed the ground like a rampaging bull. The P'ilístas rallied, thrusting their spears thick and fast, and regained possession of the famous corpse. The sons of Dáwan battling or retreating elsewhere on the field could not see the fallen king, so covered in weapons, dust, and blood was he, so closely around him the opposing forces struggled.

  But Agamémnon's men, led by his qasiléyus, Aíwaks and Diwoméde, were cutting down the scattered Wilúsiyans beyond that single knot of determined warriors. With the giant's numenous eyes and the young man's poppy-induced fervor at their front, their overlord's determination at their back, the Zeugelátes came together as a single body. They crossed the Sqámandro River and cut down Assúwans like so many sheaves of ripe grain. Ainyáh, seeing that Sharpaduwánna's cause was lost while others might yet be won, raised his spear, calling for his men to retreat. Once the first Tróyans had backed away, the rest were unable to hold their ground. Despite the efforts of the Lúkiyans, their king's body was lost.

  As the sun's last colorful rays dipped into the western sea, Ak'illéyu repossessed the corpse. Without further contest, he removed the heavy corselet from Sharpaduwánna's shoulders. Donning the torn and bloody armor, the prince shouted for his men to finish off the last of the Assúwans south of the river.

  Diwoméde stormed ahead of his fellow Argives and cut a swathe through the Wilúsiyan warriors as far as the wide-branching tree beneath which Qántili had once made his fatal stand. There, not far from Tróya's main gate, Diwoméde backed away from the fighting. He sat down by the big oak, fighting nausea and weakness. His side ached and his head swam. Moaning, he untied the bindings beneath his chin and removed his helmet. Long, dark hair was plastered to his head and neck with sweat, and he felt he could not breathe. Pulling off his chest-protector, he found the leather under-tunic, too, was drenched. Even his shield strap was dark with moisture. He could feel the perspiration flowing over his ribs and back. He leaned his back against the oak, his gear beside him, and inspected his injured foot. The bandage was nearly off and the wound was bleeding again. Sharp pain stabbed through his foot with every move . He groaned aloud. "It is dark now," he complained to no one. "It is time to put down our weapons." Another moan escaped him. "The gods will be angry if we continue," he whispered. The young man's stomach finally rebelled. Diwoméde vomited, then lay on his back, his face pale and his eyes closed.

  Despite the gathering gloom, fighting continued among the scattered clusters of warriors. Watch-fires blazed atop Tróya's thick walls. Seeing their countrymen beleaguered below, many of the city's remaining archers filled their quivers with arrows and descended to the gates to guard their kinsmen's retreat. Agamémnon, never one to wait on the gods, sent men back to the camp for torches to light the way for the warriors. "The moon will be up soon," he bellowed. "We will finish these dogs tonight and celebrate at dawn!"

  Odushéyu came upon the young warrior some time later, his spear and shield in hand. The It'ákan stood by the big tree a moment as he peered into the darkness, considering where to turn his weapon next. Diwoméde groaned behind him, and the older man whirled around, his spear ready to thrust. There was a slight movement on the ground. Cautiously, Odushéyu came closer, until he recognized the Argive qasiléyu's face twisted in agony.

  "Ai, Diwoméde, you are no son of Tudéyu," Odushéyu spat contemptuously. But he removed a poppy-shaped flask from his belt and tossed it down.

  The qasiléyu's eyes opened and he raised himself on his elbow. "Tudéyu is my mother's husband," he said through clenched teeth. With quick, angry movements, he pulled the fig stopper from the jug's narrow neck and took a swallow.

  Unimpressed, the It'ákan kept on, "That may be, but he is not your father and every man here knows it. Look at you, whining about this little cut on your foot. Your heart is hollow, boy. I do not know why Agamémnon keeps you as his qasiléyu. You are worthless."

  Diwoméde stiffly raised the tunic of leather and bronze, and slid it over his shoulders, energized by his rising anger. "All right, I am no son of Tudéyu and every man knows it. But this is no little cut and I am not whining. My heart is as strong as a lion's. I just needed a little rest, that is all." He rose to his feet and put his helmet back on his head. Holding up a battered Assúwan sword, the young man cried, "Come on!"

  Odushéyu trilled, "Alalá!" and followed the young Argive back among the Assúwans stumbling through the darkness toward Tróya's gates. Though Diwoméde yelped with pain at every step, the poppy soon warmed his blood and he fought as before, downing Wilúsiyans and Lúkiyans, possessing their spears and swords.

  A fallen warrior with a bronze helmet grasped Diwoméde's knees as the Ak'áyan stood over him, his sword raised. "Take me alive," the wounded Tróyan begged, his eyes wide with terror. "My father is a wealthy man…"

  Before the request was finished, Ak'illéyu came up on them and pierced the would-be prisoner's chest with his spear. "Kill them all!" shouted the T'eshalíyan wánaks in his battle-frenzy, placing his foot against the still-quivering corpse to draw out his lance. "Slaughter them to the last man!"

  Tushrátta, now in command of the Lúkiyans, found Paqúr still close to the northern bank of the river, collecting arrows from Wilúsiyan foot-soldiers. Angrily, the Lúkiyan shouted, "You with your great name, you are no great warrior! You care only for men born in Wilúsiya. No Lúkiyans will fight for Tróya after this. From this day we are enemies. You left our king Sharpaduwánna to be despoiled by those scavenging Ak'áyans, though he was your greatest ally."

  Paqúr glared at Tushrátta in angry astonishment. "What do you want from me? Can I bring a dead man back to life? Avenge yourself on Ak'illéyu, not on me!"

  The Lúkiyan answered, "If you had true fighting spirit you would not have let the Ak'áyans take possession of my king's body. But you did not dare face that madman. By Tarqún, he is a better warrior than you are, you coward!"

  The Tróyan prince was furious. "I am not afraid of any Ak'áyan! Show me where the T'eshalíyan is and I will give you his head!" Together, they headed toward the citadel, barely visible across the fields.

  As they awaited the moon's light, men sought the quiet of outlying areas to rest. A little fighting continued here and there, and the torches and watch fires threw only the feeblest rays over the field. T'érsite came upon St'énelo crouching behind the remains of an abandoned chariot, its right wheel cracked, the axle shattered, and its left wheel long since carried away. A sudden flight of arrows, more heard than seen, drove T'érsite to take cover beside his friend. "How long have you been here?"

  St'énelo grunted. "A while. Did you see Diwoméde this time? Did you see how he fights?"

  T'érsite shook his head. "Did he do well, do you know?"

  A dry laugh shook St'énelo's narrow shoulders. "Do well? You remember when Meneláwo told me to take the boy in my chariot in that first battle? Ai gar, I was afraid the boy would panic as soon as the fighting really got going. I thought I was dead for sure. After all, everyon
e said he turned and ran in the battle the previous year. So I insulted him a bit – you know how it is – to rouse his anger and get him to fight. Ai, you should have seen him, T'érsite! That boy is a madman when he gets going. I have never seen such a battle frenzy! Even Aíwaks never faced an enemy with nothing but rocks for weapons." He sighed. "He is still out there, even now. Here he is, wounded, doomed to be crippled if he does not die. Even so, he fights as if he were the legendary 'Erakléwe, son of the gods. I tell you, there were moments this afternoon when I thought he would even do battle with maináds and dáimons if any came near him."

  T'érsite peeked up over the rim of the chariot's basket only to be met by another volley of arrows. He crouched down again, grasping his spear. "Now that is something I would like to see. Maybe I should stop telling jokes about the boy's parentage. Where is Diwoméde now?"

  "Still out there fighting, I suppose," St'énelo answered. "The Lúkiyans had Aíwaks on the run, the last time I saw him. Diwoméde passed me a little while ago, heading after them. I could not keep up. Owái," he sighed, "I wish Qálki would see an omen for peace. He never did find a sign that said we should do battle. Can he do nothing besides divine the identity of bones and ashes?"