by Diana Gainer
Odushéyu smiled. "My wife has been plotting against me, remember? No doubt Penelópa will have a new husband when I return, one ready to do battle to keep me out of my homeland. Ai, but when I return, she is the one who will be forced from It'áka and the other western islands. To retain my kingship, then, I will need a royal woman for my new queen, a priestess. If Eqépa was good enough for the vassal king of Wilúsiya she will be good enough for the wánaks of It'áka. She may not be much to look at, but I expect to take home a serving woman or two from this campaign and that will make up for it. But Eqépa will be too old to bear me disloyal children to bedevil my old age. After we have sacked Tróya she will have no living kinsmen to plot with, either."
"Very well, Odushéyu, you crafty old goat," Agamémnon laughed. "Bring me the Qalladiyón and you will have your prize, just as you wish, twenty tripods and the queen of Tróya. These men bear witness to my oath on that. I swear it by 'Estiwáya of my hearth."
Happily, Odushéyu turned on his heel and sprinted toward his own tent to prepare. Behind him, he did not hear the overlord's quiet command to Diwoméde, "Follow him."
In the It'ákan section of the camp, the pirate king stripped himself naked. He gave himself a quick, careless shave with his qasiléyu's' bronze razor, too. Sleepy It'ákans watched with curiosity as he removed both his curly, graying beard and the thinning hair on his head. He then took a thin leather belt and began beating himself across the shoulders. This last step was too much for the men to bear and his astonished underlings tried to stop him. But Odushéyu drove them away with the same lash.
"Stay away from me!" he roared. "I know what I am doing!"
They stood back after taking a blow or two, but kept their eyes on the strange figure flailing away, who cried out in pain at each whiplash.
"What is happening here?" T'érsite asked one of the confused men, as he had been wakened by the earlier sounds from Agamémnon's tent and drawn to the It'ákan section by the strange noise.
"The maináds have caught him," St'énelo answered, coming up alongside him. He shook his head sadly. "We have lost too many, this way. It must be from the endless fighting."
T'érsite snickered. "No immortals have his spirit. That old pirate has something in his mind, some wild plan. When have you ever known him to act without plotting first? Just wait and see."
His companion considered the idea, leaning on the spear he had carried with him out of habit. "If it is not insanity, then perhaps he has been infected by the godless ways of the Assúwans. I hear that the sons of Dáwan beat themselves after the harvest, mourning the death of the grain."
The Argive foot soldier frowned at the Lakedaimóniyan. "Our farmers do that in Argo. That is not madness, or even impiety. It makes the crops grow back the next season. Kórwa would stay under the ground with the seed grain all year if they did not do that."
St'énelo responded angrily, "I know that. Do you think the maináds have me as well? But it is not harvest time."
"Not only is it not harvest time," T'érsite said, looking up at the dark sky. "It is just past time for planting. And we missed it. Look at the stars."
His slender friend shivered in the night air. "Will Agamémnon keep us here all through the winter, do you think? Our families would starve without our help with the crops."
T'érsite shrugged, adding bitterly. "I do not think Agamémnon loses any sleep thinking about our families."
Odushéyu had finished with his strange work and struck again at the onlookers with his lash, interrupting their discussion and driving them away. "Get back to your tents, you worthless sacks of wine!" he shouted, sending them scurrying.
aaa
When the night ended, all too soon for the beleaguered city, a messenger arrived at Tróya's main gate on the south. He bore a small packet of dried clay from distant Qattúsha. The royal priest, Érinu, deciphered the tablet when it was brought to the king's throne room. Tracing the wedge-shaped symbols on the clay with his index finger, the young priest spoke to the assembled leaders of Tróya. "The Great Sun has set and become a god. Our overlord, Qáttushli, is dead." The princes and counselors murmured uneasily. Érinu glanced at up his father's face, to see the blood draining from the wrinkled cheeks. The prince took a deep breath and continued reading, "A new Sun has risen and taken the throne. The great lord Tudqáliya, beloved son of the god Qáttushli and his great, royal wife, the empress Puduqépa, is now the Náshiyan emperor."
"I am not a priest by any means," Antánor said, coming to stand before Alakshándu's throne. "But the timing of the emperor's death seems divinely significant. What can this mean, that our great lord Qáttushli dies when we most need him? Your daughter reads the flight of birds, my king. Princess Kashánda talks constantly, these days, of the impending end of an age. If the Great Sun has set, the priestess must be right."
Swaying on his throne, king Alakshándu asked, "Who is this lord Tudqáliya? I do not believe I know him. Ai, but I forget myself. If there is a new emperor we must show our loyalty. We will have to send him rich gifts. I will have my son, the prince Lupákki, take a dozen red horses to Qattúsha city."
"So Náshiya has a new ruler," Paqúr said impatiently, ignoring his father. "What is disturbing about that, Antánor? Did you think emperors were immortal? I see no need to focus on dismal signs and endings. It makes more sense to speak of the dawning of a new age."
Ainyáh rose to speak, his crested helmet under his arm. "All I want to know is whether this emperor Tudqáliya intends to send us his army."
All around the mégaron, the voices of the high-born rose, repeating the question. "Will Tudqáliya send us aid?"
Érinu smiled weakly when they all turned their anxious faces to him. "He does not say," the royal priest answered nervously. Seeing the stricken looks on all the familiar faces, he noted hopefully, "But, if he does nothing, he stands to lose a great deal more than just this citadel."
"He would lose the northern trade route," Dapashánda agreed, holding his bandaged arm close to his body.
"He would lose more than that," Paqúr added firmly. "The whole western seacoast has been destabilized by this war. It would be sheer madness to let Tróya fall. Tudqáliya will send aid, I assure all of you. Old Qáttushli was probably getting senile and that is why he concentrated on the east. But his son is younger. Once he has had time to reflect on what is at stake here, he will reconsider his father's policy."
A cry of rejoicing thundered through the room, drowning out the prince's brother-in-law. Antánor asked in vain, "If Tudqáliya is already beset on three sides, can he even maintain his grip on the empire? Will he even keep his throne?"
aaa
In a torch-lit corridor of the palace, Ainyáh spoke privately with Antánor after the assembly. "I find little reason for hope these days," the Kanaqániyan told the older man. "Our last two allies came from opposite ends of the world. To my eyes, that was proof that Wilúsiya is making a last ditch effort to stave off defeat. The last battle went badly, too, in spite of the help we had from the latest reinforcements. I am afraid it is only a question of time before this fortress falls to Agamémnon's troops."
The councilor nodded grimly. "In the stars, any man can see more reason for concern. The sailing season has ended and still the Ak'áyans have not left our shores. The traditional time for war is past and still the foreigners will not give up this feud. It is now autumn, and no crops were sown to receive the first rains. You do not have to be a seer to understand what that portends for the future harvest."
"King Alakshándu and his sons are too busy thinking of honor to remember the needs of the living," the Kanaqániyan commander complained bitterly. "They are intent on fighting this pointless war to the last man. But I do not care to sacrifice myself and my family needlessly. Bronze is important and honor has its place. But, first of all, there is the need for survival. I am afraid we have no choice but to take matters into our own hands. Find a solution to this war, Antánor, and let me know what you come up wi
th."
aaa
On the beach at dawn, Ak'illéyu staggered into the foam at the water’s edge, clutching his aching head. Groaning, he urinated into the salt water. "Owái, wánasha Dawn," he moaned, turning for a perfunctory wave at the pink, eastern sky at his back. "Why must you be the one goddess who never fails us?" His dark-rimmed eyes fell on the low mound where Patróklo's pyre had been. Sharp pain tore another deep groan from his chest and he sat heavily on the damp ground. "'Iqodámeya," he called, grimacing, as the sound of his own voice worsened the pounding in his head.
The captive woman had expected the call and was waiting nearby, crouching behind a stunted tamarisk not far from the shore. She came to the T'eshalíyan wánaks and bent her sun-browned back before him. "Yes, Ak'illéyu."
Squinting his bleary eyes, the prince studied her without speaking, unable to recall why he had beckoned her. She was pale and wan, he noticed, and it occurred to him that she ate little these days. "Are you sick?" he asked.
The question surprised her and she did not answer immediately.
Ak'illéyu shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and rubbed his face. "Bring me wine," he demanded gruffly, interrupting before she could answer.
'Iqodámeya bit her lip anxiously. "Would you like me to fix your morning meal?" she asked timidly, rising to her feet.
He waved as if to dismiss her but said nothing. His eyes fell to his hands with their many small cuts, some of them healing, some beginning to fester. "Ai, woman," he groaned, "put more of the poppy in it this time. I am tired and my head hurts."
"Wánaks, you must eat before going out to fight. The poppy cannot sustain your strength all day." 'Iqodámeya wrung her hands as she spoke, expecting an angry response.
Ak'illéyu looked up at her. He caught her trembling fingers in his and pulled her closer. "Sit here with me a moment," he said, his voice suddenly tender. She knelt beside him, pulling up the ragged hem of her skirt so that it would not touch the sand. Stroking her thick hair, the prince stared into her eyes. "Do you love me?" he asked.
"Yes, wánaks," 'Iqodámeya answered in a whisper. "Now, let me go and fix your breakfast."
Resting his head on her bare shoulder, Ak'illéyu sighed. "I am not hungry. Ai, by the gods, I would like to go home. I have had enough of war. All my life I have watched people dying around me. When I was a child, it was my sisters. We all had the whooping cough one winter and the oldest died. The next year it was smallpox that took the youngest. One was killed when Párpariyan tribesmen attacked my father's citadel. He and all his men were away, fighting the Qoyotíyans. My mother ran with us to hide in the mountains and somehow my sister took an arrow on the way.
"My parents were so afraid that I would die, too, they did not let me take the sheep to the high pastures in the summer, according to custom. Instead, they chose a bride for me when I was hardly old enough to be a shepherd. When I married, I left T'eshalíya and all my thoughts of death stayed behind. But the grim goddess, Préswa, followed me to the island. The great lady took my wife when I was on Skúro, bleeding her white when my son was born. I could not bear to stay there after that. Patróklo and I traveled around the Islands in a Circle and then we struck the T'rákiyan coast. We raided villages, taking sheep and cattle to enrich my father's kingdom. Owái, 'Iqodámeya, where can I go to get away from this insatiable Préswa?"
The woman sighed, stroking the hard muscles of his forearm. "There is no land where the goddess cannot go, Ak'illéyu. You know that as well as I do. She has visited me, too." Ak'illéyu groaned and gripped the woman in his arms so tightly, she cried out. "You are hurting me, wánaks!"
The prince released his concubine and pressed his hands to his face. "Owái, woman, bring me poppy wine," he moaned. "There is a pain in my head and heart that will not go away. Ai, by the gods, I am sick of war!"
"Perhaps you should set sail for home," 'Iqodámeya suggested anxiously, starting to rise, wringing her hands again.
The prince shook his head, despairing. "I cannot."
"But you have so few men left," the woman pointed out. "And your father is alone in his old age, undefended. Surely Agamémnon would understand…"
"No, no, I cannot leave until Tróya falls or I die fighting," Ak'illéyu argued, in despair. "It is not Agamémnon who demands this of me. It is areté, the worst tyrant of all. If I act without honor, no man would be my ally. Every man would be my enemy. And honor comes only to those who engage in war." Filled with bitterness, he recited the warrior's creed, but without the least enthusiasm. "War is the only fit occupation for men of areté."
"Owái, wánaks, it is the nature of war to bring death. This is no way to avoid the queen of 'Aidé." 'Iqodámeya hesitantly ran her work-roughened hands over the prince's filthy, matted hair.
He closed his eyes and placed his fevered hands over hers. "Bring me wine," he groaned once more. "Make it bitter with opium."
aaa
The Ak'áyan lawagétas met for yet another assembly, as the men ate their meager meal. Once again, kings from the north and south pointed out the late season and urged Agamémnon to finish the campaign quickly so that they could return to their homes before disaster overcame them all. But, as always, the overlord spoke to them of honor and of wealth. Meneláwo, implacable as ever, reminded them all yet again of their sacred oaths. The Lakedaimóniyan king, seemingly older and thinner with every passing day, demanded yet another foray against the city. It could not hold out much longer, he was sure. Other wánaktes pointed out that they had heard that said before, far too often, and still the fortress remained standing.
But Meneláwo would not release them from the loyalty they had sworn, on their honor and on the goddess of their sacred hearths. "If any man leaves before my wife is restored to me," he reminded them, "he and I are at war."
"And any man who makes war on my brother, makes war on me," Agamémnon warned them, when it seemed that some were willing to risk a feud with Lakedaimón. As had happened each time before, every king backed down at that, and the alliance survived once more.
By mid-morning, the battered walls of Tróya and the surrounding slopes of the hill, devoid of grass, received yet another bloody offering. The insatiable goddess of the dark land beneath the earth welcomed still more souls to her realm. This time, no warriors left the safety of the Wilúsiyan fortress, as they feared defeat. Though the Ak'áyans pushed with determination, they could not scale hill, stone, and brick. They exerted all their strength through the morning, while the sun crossed a cloudless, autumn sky. Pitiless arrows whistled through the oppressive heat, raining from the heights of the battlements onto the men below. Spears thrust downward from those areas where the earthquake had previously brought down the upper courses, where the Ak'áyans had thought the walls to be the most vulnerable.
Battered shields inevitably gave way below. The air grew stifling and the battling men lost their fury. Slowed by exhaustion, the sons of Diwiyána eyed their enemies over shields spattered with brains and blood. And the men of Wilúsiya and distant Mízriya glared down from shattered battlements painted scarlet by the injured and dying. By unspoken command, blackened spears dropped and the Ak'áyans fell back, abandoning the assault.
Ak'illéyu stood at the foot of the Tróyan hill and watched as, all around him, P'ilístas as well as Zeugelátes drifted back toward the river, not long after noon. "Where are you going?" the T'eshalíyan shouted angrily. "The sun is still high. It is a long time till night! Come back and fight beside me, you women! You are cowards, all of you!"
Limping painfully, Diwoméde glared back over his shoulder at the northern prince. "He can do nothing in moderation," the Argive qasiléyu complained. "When we needed his spear, he would not fight. Now he cannot get enough, even though the battle is hopeless. We cannot even reach anyone with our spears or swords. What is the point in continuing? Ai gar, Agamémnon should send him home and put Aíwaks in charge of the T'eshalíyans."
Idómeneyu agreed, leaning on his broken spear sha
ft. "Why does Tróya's prince Paqúr not shoot him? I have been tempted to put an arrow in him, myself, more than once."
As if he heard, Tróya's foremost prince stood on top of the massive southern tower of his citadel, glaring at the feathered warrior, far below. He pulled back the string of his bow of ibex horn and let the barb fly. Ak'illéyu did not see the dart coming, as he shouted to the retreating sons of Diwiyána. The arrow found his flesh and he crumpled on the ground with a cry of agony, gripping his leg.
The lawagétas on the field turned back to protect their champion, although more than one groaned to do it. "Préswa take him!" Idómeneyu spat. But he dutifully drew his own bow and shot two arrows, one after the other, up toward the now-exulting Tróyans. Aíwaks was the first to reach the wounded T'eshalíyan. A small band of feather-capped men followed, with their shields raised protectively. The big qasiléyu lifted the screaming prince on his broad shoulders to bear him back to the tents. Blood spilled over the tall man's chest and Ak'illéyu washed Aíwaks's back with vomit before he passed out.