Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  The high wánaks sighed. "Is that not clear by now? My sovereignty was the issue. I had no interest in Ak'illéyu's captive. If I had really desired her, would I have left her untouched in my tent? Never! But I had to show all the men who was in charge here. I could not let that pup get away with defying my authority."

  "Evidently, you learned nothing from that episode. Ak'áyans are not like the sons of Dáwan," Néstor warned. "Our peoples will not worship a man as if he were a god, whether he is dead or alive. You cannot hope to gain the same kind of control over your lawagétas that the great kings have."

  Agamémnon threw up his hands with a grunt. "That may be. But one man can take an oath of loyalty to another, even in Ak'áiwiya. My point is that, where there is no native overlord, one will come from abroad. We will be united one way or the other. That is inevitable. I am just trying to ensure that Ak'áyan unity serves Ak'áiwiya's interests. I am only doing what is best for all of us."

  Odushéyu was quick to speak up. "I understand and I agree. Ak'áiwiya must have one ruler and he should be an Ak'áyan, not a Náshiyan or a Mízriyan. The quarrel with Ak'illéyu is in the past. Forget it. Let us concentrate on the present."

  "And the future," the overlord added, mollified.

  "The need to end this campaign now remains pressing," Néstor insisted. "Regardless of any man's desires or plans, negotiation is still the only reliable route to peace. Let us settle things now and return home."

  "Ai, Néstor," the high wánaks growled. "You are as stubborn as a donkey. I am well aware of the season and the value of negotiation. But how can I stand before this army and say, well, never mind, it was a bad idea, and then send everyone home empty handed? Tell me a way to end this conflict that will not lower my standing in the men's eyes."

  "We need something to hold over the Tróyans," Odushéyu said, thinking deeply. "You know, it is a shame we gave up Qántili's body. We might have bargained for that."

  The overlord snorted. "And started a civil war, here among the tents? You know Ak'illéyu would not have given the corpse to me. If I had taken it by force, I would have lost the support of every P'ilísta."

  "This might be a good time to consult Qálki," Néstor suggested. "He has not had much to do since…" He did not finish the sentence, seeing the Argive king's face darken.

  "The Stuks will overflow its banks before I listen to that son of a sow again!" Agamémnon roared, rising so vigorously that his feet raised a cloud of dust from the dry ground.

  Néstor glimpsed movement out the tent flap and took that moment to leave. "I see my son and your qasiléyus have returned from the fields. Let me consult with Antílok'o. Perhaps he will have good news. If another of Alakshándu's sons has been killed, we have our bargaining tool." He walked from the tent as quickly as decorum would allow.

  Odushéyu began to chuckle as the older man disappeared. "Ai, Agamémnon, Ak'illéyu may not comprehend how high your status has become, but Néstor certainly does. Perhaps his reputation for wisdom is not completely undeserved, after all."

  The overlord laughed too, his anger dissipated. But a small group of feathered northern kings interrupted his amusement. "I have a complaint to make to you," Mak'áwon announced. "And it concerns Ak'illéyu." When the high wánaks groaned and the other southern lawagétas rolled their eyes, the P'ilísta nodded. "Yes, I know it is first one problem and then another with the T'eshalíyan. But this time he has really gone too far. Something must be done. You are surely aware that he took three male captives when the Lúkiyans attacked us."

  Agamémnon frowned. "He has not actually killed them, has he?"

  Mak'áwon nodded again. "That is precisely my complaint. Automédon came to my tent because of a wound he took to his elbow, and he told me about it. Ak'illéyu has ordered his qasiléyus to bring the captives to the site of Patróklo's pyre at sunset. Of course, they knew the prince intended to sacrifice the men. When I heard, I went to Ak'illéyu at once and tried to talk him out of the idea. It was a practical matter, you understand. At least one of the prisoners was of royal blood. He might be ransomed for a considerable amount of bronze."

  Odushéyu snickered. "Yes, I have heard about that one. A young man, they say, without a full beard, and good looking. Ai, admit it, Mak'áwon, you did not have ransom in mind."

  The northern surgeon bridled at the suggestion. "What difference does it make what my motives were? The point is that Ak'illéyu's behavior is completely unreasonable. He made a rash vow to Patróklo's spirit, one that any sane man would have put aside. But he insisted on keeping that vow and, when I objected, he slaughtered all three prisoners at once!"

  Agamémnon sighed heavily and shook his shaggy head. "By all the dáimons of 'Aidé, that man is a constant thorn in my flesh! I am half inclined to make a prize of honor for the Tróyan who kills him for me!"

  The northern kings looked at each other in dismay. "That is not what I had in mind," Mak'áwon hastened to say.

  "Then what do you want from me?" the overlord demanded, angered. "I cannot reason with a man who refuses to leave the company of maináds! If I make demands, he will only throw another tantrum and keep his T'eshalíyans out of the next battle. Just let it go, Mak'áwon. He has had his magnificent funeral for Patróklo, games and all, and he has fulfilled his despicable oath, now. Just be glad he listened to Meneláwo and did not sacrifice twelve men."

  aaa

  "Antílok'o," the royal father called to his son. "How did it go today? Did you recover much bronze? Did we lose many?"

  Antílok'o's feet dragged heavily toward his father's hearth. "No, there was not much bronze for the taking. Those fighting women of 'Aidé wore truly wondrous armor, but their weapons were of inferior quality, not worth collecting."

  Néstor put an arm around his son's shoulders. "I warned you that there would be days like that. But what about the Mízriyans? They come from a wealthy nation. It is said that even the common people in Mízriya have no dishes of baked clay, but eat from bronze plates."

  Antílok'o did not meet his father's eyes and answered in a low voice. "We did not kill many Mízriyans."

  "Ai," sighed his father. "Never mind. Go to our tent and have 'Ékamede bathe you and oil your skin. That will make you feel better. Then you can begin the talks we discussed this morning. Our standing is more seriously threatened than I thought. Now, I must leave you. I have a guest to invite to our hearth. Qálki will be joining us tonight."

  aaa

  At the evening meal, Néstor wined and dined the prophet, praising his insights at the beginning of the campaign in Qoyotíya, and his later courage in facing the high wánaks over the matter of the daughter of the island priest-king. "I agreed with you that we should leave the Assúwan islands alone, early in the summer. When Agamémnon allowed his men to cut down the trees in the sacred groves, I sided with you and demanded punishment for the sacrilege. Worst of all, I deplored the way Agamémnon treated K'rusé when the old priest came to ransom his daughter from us. Ai, the overlord has done nothing but make one mistake after another!"

  "Indeed," Qálki agreed eagerly. "I am not surprised that a wise man like yourself would recognize that fact. It is unfortunate that so many here cannot see it."

  "I do what I can to enlighten the men," the Mesheníyan king sighed, "but foolish words in a powerful man's mouth pass for wisdom in these evil times. Yes, I have always admired your unearthly sight, Qálki. If only Agamémnon had listened to you and to K'rusé to start with, then the overlord would not have been shamed by our forcing him to give up K'rusé's daughter. Of course, then Agamémnon would not have angered Ak'illéyu by confiscating the T'eshalíyan's woman to make up the loss. I know a great many people here blame Ak'illéyu for the deaths of their kinsmen. But Agamémnon is the one who is really at fault."

  "Your overlord is a sinful and arrogant man," the prophet said, shaking his head. "But even he will have to bend to Díwo's will, in the end."

  "Ai, yes, it can be no other way," Néstor agreed. "It is inter
esting to see what has happened since you made Agamémnon sacrifice so much. K'rusé has turned out to be a valuable ally during the long campaign, sending supplies to keep our army fed," the gray-haired king marveled, refilling Qálki's wine cup himself. "No, it is never a good idea to anger a man of god. Such men are best kept on one's own side or they give priceless aid to one's enemies."

  Qálki basked in the old king's praise, and, warmed by the undiluted wine, he told of other prophecies he had made in his day. He described his uncanny knack for reading the flight of birds and the entrails of sheep, and of the rare and awful sacrifices he had required from kings all around the Inner Sea. "Still, no sacrifice has ever been greater than the one I required from Agamémnon in Qoyotíya," he recalled darkly. "Ip'emédeya's early death was the most awe-inspiring of them all. But then, never has there been such a godless man as that high wánaks. Beware of him and of Odushéyu. That pirate thinks only of ingratiating himself with Agamémnon. The gods have a dreadful fate in store for them both."

  As the campfire burned low, Néstor encouraged him to talk still more, and, with discreet nods to his captive woman, encouraged the continuous flow of wine. The stars rose in the sky and other Ak'áyans went to their sheepskin pallets to sleep. Still, Néstor plied Qálki with ever more drink and covered the seer with praises. Long after the moon had risen, the Mesheníyan king turned the topic of conversation to Wilúsiya.

  "You know, I was actually born and raised in Tróya, myself," Qálki told him, his sunken cheeks grown rosy. "I could win this war all by myself, with what I know." The thin prophet chuckled into his cup, and discovered it to be empty.

  Néstor quickly poured more of the honeyed liquid and asked with dry and trembling lips, "How is that possible? You, a single man?"

  Qálki chortled for quite some time, spilling most of the freshly poured wine, then leaned forward to speak in a loud, slurred whisper. "Wishdom is shweet, my friend, shweeter than honey and more powerful than bronzhe. Remember that." He winked and tossed his head, gulping the remaining wine from the cup. His host's son returned to the fireside and quietly took his place beside his father. Neither the king nor the prophet acknowledged the prince's presence. Antílok'o took his cue from his father and remained silent, listening.

  Néstor poured a small amount for his guest, encouraging him to continue. "Go on, please, Qálki. I always thought myself a wise man but you continually teach me things I never knew."

  The seer smiled, revealing gaps between his blackened teeth, his head nodding. "I could tell you thingsh that would raishe the hair on your neck, yesh, I could."

  "Ai, no doubt," the southern wánaks said, keeping his voice calm, though he quivered all over with anticipation. "Tell me about Tróya, now. What magical power do you have over that citadel?"

  "The Qalladiyón," Qálki hissed, his voice taking on its dramatic flair, as if he were prophesying. "The shacred shtatue of Tróya's protecting goddesh. It fell from heaven, untouched by human handsh, in the daysh of the ancients. It holds the city's soul, yesh it does. If an enemy could steal it out of Dáwan'sh sanctuary, Tróya would die." He barely sighed the final word, with a rough, leveling gesture of his hands that made him drop the cup. His eyes rolled and he slumped forward. He would have fallen into the fire but Antílok'o moved quickly and caught the bony man.

  Néstor rose, a fierce joy in his face. "Make the old fool a bed, Antílok'o. Stay beside him until he wakes up, then give him all the wine he wants. If he talks more, all the better. Try to find out where this Qalladiyón is and what it looks like. I must tell this to Agamémnon."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ANTANOR

  Agamémnon struck Diwoméde with a heavy fist when the qasiléyu roused him from sleep. "What is the matter with you, you son of a goat?" the high wánaks bellowed. "It is still dark!"

  Néstor rushed into the tent before the king could strike the young man a second time. "Listen to me, Agamémnon. I have a plan for taking Tróya."

  Agamémnon sat up straight, blinking the sleep from his eyes. "What plan? Diwoméde, leave us." The overlord rose from his pallet and gestured for his guest to sit on the fleeces beside him. Not bothering to dress, in his excitement, the overlord asked, "What is this plan?"

  Néstor did not answer immediately. He sat where the Argive king indicated and stared pointedly toward the tent flap where Diwoméde stood hesitantly. Disappointment colored the young man's face. Agamémnon snapped, "I said, leave us, boy." Diwoméde obeyed, limping away with his head hanging.

  Néstor reclined on his arm, looking at his overlord with half-closed eyes and an inscrutable half-smile. "Did your mother and father teach you nothing about the laws of Diwiyána? There are rules of hospitality, you know. Are you not going to offer me some wine?"

  The high wánaks cursed violently, but looked about for a jug.

  Néstor laughed dryly and put out a hand to stop him. "Never mind, just listen. The key to Tróya is a sacred stone that fell from the sky, called the Qalladiyón. It contains the city's soul. If we can get a volunteer to sneak into the citadel and steal this idol, the Tróyans will lose heart and give up the fight. Our only problem now is to find out where the thing is and what it looks like. My son is working on that now."

  Agamémnon stared in disbelief for a moment, his eyes fastened on the older king's face. "Are you serious? I heard rumors of such an object, but I did not believe them. Can this be true? Can it be that simple?"

  The Mesheníyan nodded, his smile widening to crease his whole face. "I should think this would be worth a few fortresses from the high wánaks of golden Mukénai," he said.

  Agamémnon began to chuckle. He stood and raised his arms to shoulder height to dance a little jig, hopping up and down, turning in a circle. He roared with laughter, throwing back his head. "I will give you every citadel that Ak'illéyu refused and one of my daughters in marriage as well," he shouted, clapping Néstor on the shoulder, knocking the old man flat on his back. "In fact, I will give you both of my daughters, K'rusót'emi for you and Lawódika for your oldest boy." He danced again, bellowing with laughter, and Néstor joined him. Arms on each other's shoulders, they hopped and sang the Ak'áyan victory song.

  "When they came from golden Mukénai

  Young 'Erakléwe was twelve years old.

  The hero tied feathers on his head,

  On his chest a lion skin.

  His chariot wheels are painted red;

  His enemies' blood is spilled in streams;

  His beardless face soon painted black,

  In the city's smoke and dust.

  A sacker of cities

  At twelve years old,

  'Éra's glory,

  Son of the gods!"

  The commotion they made roused half the men in the encampment and they began to cluster about the great king’s tent, asking one another what was going on. Agamémnon soon assembled Aíwaks, Diwoméde, and Odushéyu beside the tent of the aging Mesheníyan king. At the sound of groans and vomiting, Néstor decided there was no need for them all to enter. "We will just wait for Antílok'o to come out," the older king decided. They did not have to wait long.

  The young Mesheníyan prince left the tent in disgust. "That dog is too sick to tell me his own mother's name."

  Agamémnon spat in the dirt. "The fawn!"

  Néstor calmly said, "Ai, we can wait until morning for him to recover from the wine. He will tell us soon enough."

  Aíwaks fingered the hilt of the dagger he had brought with him. "I can get him to remember his mother's name…and tonight," the big man growled. The overlord nodded and Aíwaks entered the tent. High-pitched wails pierced the air, waking the rest of those in the camp who were not yet on their feet. The cries abruptly ceased. But Aíwaks soon came out into the night air, as disgusted as Antílok'o. "The miserable dog passed out."

  The men outside groaned, cursing the foreign-born seer in their disappointment. Agamémnon kicked at the hearth and sent glowing coals flying. The captive woman, 'Ékamede, who h
ad been lying beside the campfire, quickly jumped up and scurried away in alarm. From the corner of his eyes, the overlord noted a gleam about the woman's skirts as she moved, a flash of metal reflecting the fire's light. Watching the captive's retreat, the Argive king noticed the men gathered all around, their hair disheveled, their eyes blinking away sleep and fastened on his every move. "Go back to bed, all of you!" the high wánaks bellowed. "This does not concern you."

  Odushéyu rubbed thoughtfully at his bushy whiskers for a moment, considering the scene. Then he touched the overlord lightly on the arm to draw his attention. "I believe I could discover the whereabouts of this Qalladiyón," the It'ákan said slowly, eyeing Agamémnon from the side, "if I had enough motivation."

  Agamémnon's anger-reddened face grew darker as he glared at the pirate king. But the overlord clenched his fists and drew himself up, regaining his composure. "Ten tripods and first pick of a Tróyan woman," he offered through clenched teeth.

  "Twenty tripods and Alakshándu's wife," Odushéyu responded quickly, his eyes narrowed. The others gasped at the It'ákan's foolhardiness.

  To their surprise, far from losing his temper, the high wánaks burst out laughing. "What do you want with that old witch?"