by Diana Gainer
Idómeneyu watched in distaste. To Diwoméde, the Kep'túriyan observed dryly, "No matter how fierce and brave they are to start with, they all cry like women when they are wounded. Do you think the war god, Arét, himself would make such a noise?"
Diwoméde frowned. "It is easy to mock another man's pain, Idómeneyu, when you are not hurt. My foot is still giving me pain. I cannot sleep at night until I have emptied a poppy flask. Ak'illéyu's wound is worse than mine. Paqúr's arrow struck deep. The barbs will tear a much larger hole when the arrow is pulled out, too. He may not be able to walk for a long time. Préswa might even take him."
"Ai gar, I feel no sympathy for that P'ilísta," Idómeneyu growled. "He shows no sense at all. The battle had ended. What was he trying to do? Standing in the middle of a battlefield, he was shouting insults at us, mind you, at us, not the enemy. Ai, he did not even hold his shield up. It is almost as though he were asking some Tróyan to send him to join Patróklo!"
The Argive nodded grimly. "You are right. He was tempting the gods. But he is not the only one. Meneláwo took an arrow in the hip in that first battle, you remember. The wound will not heal. It drips and smells foul. But he will not let Mak'áwon help him. Everyone else goes to the surgeon, but not him. Now, he spends less and less time in the company of his men. Every night, when the others are sleeping, he sits on that hillock, looking toward Tróya, sipping poppy wine and brooding. I do not understand it. I know he lost his wife. But no woman can be worth that much."
"Ai, you are still young," sighed the Kep'túriyan wánaks, as the men approached the banks of the Sqámandro River. "It is not the woman his mind is dwelling on. It is Meneláwo's areté that is at stake. A pirate like Odushéyu could accept the loss of his wife easily enough and just go back home. Men expect little more than a brief show of force from a petty king like that. But for a true warrior it is no simple matter to give up a quest of honor, especially when the eyes of all Ak'áyans are upon him. It is particularly difficult for Meneláwo because his brother is the most powerful man in Ak’áiwiya. It makes him more visible than he would ordinarily be."
Stepping painfully into the boat that would carry the wounded across the river, Diwoméde shook his head. "I do not believe that is it. How can Meneláwo retrieve any honor from this situation? Even if he regains Ariyádna, he cannot believe she will still be his wife, after all this time. Another man has bedded her for months. Ai, it has been a whole year since she was abducted. She may well have given Paqúr a child by now. By birth she may be 'Elléniyan, but in her heart she must now be a Tróyan."
Grunting with the effort to pole the little craft across the waters, Idómeneyu agreed. "The best that Meneláwo can do at this point is to avenge himself by sacking the fortress and regaining his possessions. Then he will have to kill his wife for committing adultery. I can see no other solution for him. Otherwise, for the rest of his life, people will whisper about his adulterous 'Elléniya of Tróya."
aaa
In the sunlit courtyard of the Tróyan palace, Ariyádna spun flax into thread, her dark head hanging on one side, her shadowed eyes empty. Sitting amid chunks of plaster that been shaken from the walls, she whispered to herself from time to time, dreaming of a little girl with a spinning top. Kluména stolidly turned her spindle whorl at the wánasha's side, ignoring her mistress, just as she ignored the sounds of men fighting and dying that rose over the courtyard. Alongside the foreign queen and her serving woman sat the widowed Andrómak'e, her eyes as lifeless as theirs, dutifully spinning, listlessly drawing out the pale, flaxen thread.
"Look at them," the young princess Piyaséma whispered from the doorway leading to the dark interior of the palace. "They look like the three faces of lady Dáwan, spinning the threads of fate." She shuddered and pointed her thumb, index finger and small finger toward the silent trio.
Beside her, Kréyusa trembled as well and repeated the gesture to turn back the blighting power of the Evil Eye. "Come away, little sister," she sighed. "In such evil times, we must not fall prey to evil thoughts like these. Let us go down to the sanctuary to pray, instead. We should take the golden scarabs that the Mízriyan commander gave us. Let us offer those to the goddess. We may yet soften her heart toward Wilúsiya."
aaa
The women of the Ak'áyan encampment followed their endless routine with as little enthusiasm as the 'Elléniyan queen and the royal Tróyan widow showed for their spinning. While the warriors fought, their captives toiled under the same merciless sun. No longer fearing that the camp would be overrun, the women waded into the shallow waters of the Sqámandro River to wash their laundry, and to bear water-filled jars back to the hearth fires, where they would pass most of the day grinding barley into meal.
"Are you going to mock me, 'Ékamede?" Wíp'iya bitterly asked one of her younger companions. "I have changed hands yet again. Why are you not gloating?"
'Ékamede glowered from behind a tangled web of black hair. Bruises darkened her arms and her jaw was swollen. "What would be the point?" she asked unhappily. "Mother Dáwan may have given you an evil fate, but she has treated me no better. I do not know which one is worse, Antílok'o or his father. They never go out to battle together anymore, but one stays in the camp each time. I never have any peace. I must run here and there, all day, every day. When they think I am too slow, they beat me in front of their men, to show what brave and strong warriors they are!" She sniffed and wiped a tear from her scratched cheek. With a little more spirit, she added, "But I still say you were wrong to pray for Patróklo's safety, Wíp'iya. That was disloyal."
"Was I truly wrong?" the older woman asked testily. "At least Patróklo was not cruel. This Aíwaks is a swine of a man! But I have learned my lesson. May Mother Dáwan do as she will. I have made no more clay images of household snakes. I will not pray for any man's house again. 'Iqodámeya, we should have listened to you and tried to escape in the beginning. We nearly got away that day when Qántili almost burned the tents. If only we had gone sooner…"
"…we would have been dragged back to the camp just the same," 'Ékamede angrily interrupted. "And even if Tróya had opened her gates to us, that day, by now we would be starving. Our bodies would be turning black from hunger. We have been over all this before."
'Iqodámeya broke in. "And what has become of your desire for revenge, 'Ékamede? I see that you still have the knife I stole for you. But when will you use it? And how?"
The younger woman's eyes darted toward the largest tent, the one in the center of the encampment, which was Agamémnon's dwelling. "I am still thinking about that," she whispered. "Do not ask any more questions."
Her companions looked at each other, suddenly filled with suspicion and curiosity. But as they considered what to say, the warriors began to appear from across the river. The women hurried back to the huts and tents of their masters, wet cloths in their arms.
'Iqodámeya's clean linens were soon put to use, washing the blood from Ak'illéyu's wound. Aíwaks and the captive woman held the prince down while Automédon pulled the arrow free and stopped the bleeding with the glowing end of a branch from the campfire. The T'eshalíyan charioteer cringed at the frantic screams of the prince, during the process. Sweating with anxiety, Automédon groaned, "He will take his spear to me for this, I am sure of it."
"Bring wine and poppies to ease his pain," Aíwaks told the T'eshalíyan of lesser rank. "It will help him forget, too. And I will get Qálki to pray to the gods for his recovery. Where is the seer? I have not seen him for several days." Both men soon left the small hut to seek remedies for the northern leader.
Alone with the wounded man, 'Iqodámeya wrapped his injured leg in linen with trembling hands. "Should I pray to Dáwan for healing?" she whispered, knowing he would not hear over his own groans. "Or should I pray for your death? Owái, Ak'illéyu, which would you prefer?"
The prince writhed on his pallet of sheepskins, tears dripping from his half closed eyes, his body glistening with sweat. "Patróklo," he moaned,
"where are you? I need you, Patróklo, I need you."
aaa
Late in the day, as weary men staggered back to the tents with their burdens of corpses and of firewood, Odushéyu crept to the shabbily repaired walls of Tróya. Following Agamémnon's orders, Diwoméde went after the It'ákan, trying not to let himself be seen. Following at a distance, the qasiléyu limped over the rolling hills, taking cover beneath the big oak tree that stood, leafless, below the citadel walls.
Beneath the city's main gate Odushéyu bellowed for entrance. "Let me in, Tróyans! You are my brothers. I have escaped from the Ak'áyans. Help me. Save me! Let me in!"
Suspicious guards opened the double doors, their spears at the ready. They inspected the welts and bloody stripes on Odushéyu's shoulders, questioning him about his origin.
"I am from K'rusé's island," he whined, bowing deeply to each man. "I am a captive, mistreated and overworked by the Ak'áyans. I am eager to fight for the Tróyan cause." He avoided looking the guards directly in the eye, glancing up at their chins only, as if he really were inferior in rank, keeping his head low.
"A great ally," Powolúdama said sarcastically. "We ought to kill you for letting yourself be taken alive like a woman."
Odushéyu fell to his knees and embraced the legs of the guard. "Owái, please do not kill me," he begged, truly frightened. "This is not the way I should die." He raised one hand toward the guard's whiskered chin. "My father is old and very rich. He will pay any ransom you name."
"Not likely," the Tróyan charioteer laughed, kicking Odushéyu away. "Get out of my sight before I change my mind."
Odushéyu gratefully scampered away from the gate, wiping blood from his nose, where the Tróyan's foot had struck him. When at a safe distance, he stood upright and muttered a curse in Powolúdama's direction, swearing revenge when the citadel should fall.
As the light faded at the end of the day, he roamed the streets, marveling, as he had once before, at the well-laid limestone foundations and the painted brick façades of the rich men's homes. Even in its overcrowded and disheveled condition, the fortress was finer than any city he ruled. In his mind he could see it all in its pristine state, the way it had appeared the previous year when he had accompanied Meneláwo to the palace to bargain for Ariyádna's release. Perhaps he had been too hasty in naming his reward, he thought. When the palace had been sacked, he might ask Agamémnon to be made the overlord's vassal with Tróya itself his assigned fortress.
Gradually Odushéyu made his way higher up the hill, once again awestruck at the increasing elegance of the buildings, earthquake-damaged though they were. Armed guards would not allow him into the courtyard before the hilltop palace and no sign of activity came from that quarter. So he went back down through the streets, stopping his wandering before the southern tower with its shrine and double pillars. He could hear women's voices from inside the building and he crouched by the wall, waiting, hoping for a glimpse of Ariyádna.
The women did not leave the sanctuary until darkness fell. When they did come out, it was all at once. Odushéyu saw immediately that he would have no chance to pull the 'Elléniyan queen aside, even if she appeared. Low-ranked servants, dressed in long, undyed tunics, walked at the head and the back of the procession of ladies, carrying lighted torches for their mistresses. In the order of their rank, the women of Tróya's royal family made their way back to the palace crowning the hill. Queen Eqépa was the first, her white hair shorn about her ears. Her wrinkled cheeks were marred with dark scratches, her robes, although sumptuously dyed, were unadorned with either previous metals or jewels. And her steps were slow, as if she carried a heavy weight on her sloping shoulders. She no longer seemed the queen of a wealthy land. Behind her came her daughters in order of age, Laqíqepa, Kréyusa, Kashánda, and Piyaséma. Their hair was long for the most part, loose about their shoulders, and as disheveled as their mother's. Each had cut a lock for her fallen brothers, one for Qántili, another for Lupákki. Behind them walked the royal daughters-in-law, Andrómak'e's hair as shorn as Eqépa's, her shoulders drooping. Ariyádna came stumbling at the back, her head tilted to one side, twisting a lock of hair around and around her fingers.
Odushéyu stepped forward as the Ak'áyan woman passed, so that he entered the light of the torches. Ariyádna glanced at him briefly, showing no sign of recognition at the sight of her cousin's husband, and walked on. Behind her, a heavy-set servant looked the It'ákan up and down, her eyebrows raised. The pirate waited until the serving woman turned away before falling in behind the group. But he was unable to get the Lakedaimóniyan queen to look at him again.
Odushéyu silently cursed, watching the last serving woman disappear inside the walled courtyard of the palace. He waited awhile, cloaked in the shadows of an abandoned house close by, hoping for a sign. After what seemed an eternity, a man in a tunic came and spoke to the guardsmen at the courtyard gate. Both disappeared into the palace shortly and no one came to stand in the guards' place. Odushéyu crept forward hopefully. He sat by the charred remains of a wooden column at the courtyard gate, his knees to his chest, his head in his hands.
"What have I gotten myself into?" he moaned softly, to himself. He could enter the royal buildings now, he decided. Still, he hesitated. Did he dare go on? Once inside, he would surely be discovered, he thought. What excuse could he give for being there? If Ariyádna had arranged to leave the courtyard unguarded, she might have cleared the way for him inside as well. But he did not know where to go. The previous year, he and Meneláwo had been forced to wait in the courtyard while their proposals were carried to the king within and his reply carried back out. So he had no knowledge of the palace’s interior.
His stomach growled and he shivered as a cool breeze brushed his bare skin. Odushéyu looked up at the stars, the baleful eyes of the night, as people said. He was a mariner, accustomed to reading the stars. They had always seemed welcome guides to him. But now he remembered the stories people told of the madness that fell on men sometimes, when they had been overlooked by those dim lights. "Help me, lady At'ána," he whispered. "I forgot to pour wine to you as I left the tents. But I did not mean to insult you. Forgive me, goddess. Help me now and I will burn a whole lamb wrapped in fat when I get back to the camp." He struck his forehead with the open palms of his hands, cursing his own stupidity.
"Come with me," said a woman's low voice and Odushéyu started, hurrying to his feet. He tripped in his haste and scraped his knee against the stone paving, cursed, and rose again. A woman he thought he should recognize stood before him.
"My lady says you should come to see her." The wide-hipped woman with graying hair turned and led the way without further explanation.
His heart pounding in his chest, Odushéyu followed. He knew her now. She was the servant who had given him such hard looks when the procession of women passed him. "Can you be Ariyádna's serving-maid?" he asked, he hoped. "But she did not recognize me. Or did she?"
Kluména did not answer.
As they crossed the courtyard, Odushéyu talked on, thinking aloud. "Perhaps she did know me but did not dare let on. Yes, that must be it. Tróyans were with her. She could not give me a sign, for fear they would see."
Still the woman before him did not respond, leading the way in perfect silence. Even her bare feet made no sound on the paving stones. In through torch-lit passages they passed, moving ever closer to the heart of the Tróyan palace.
Odushéyu began to look around at the dark rooms beside and about him, growing afraid. "Maybe she did know me and has now told prince Paqúr. You may be leading me to my doom." The It'ákan's mouth grew dry and beads of sweat formed on his flesh in spite of the cool night air. His hand went to his hip, seeking his sword. But he had no weapon, not even a belt to hold one. It had seemed wisest to appear at the gates naked, so as to rouse no suspicions. Now it seemed a foolhardy decision.
"I should have concealed a dagger somewhere, somehow," he whispered to himself. "Ai, but I am surrounded and outnumb
ered by Tróyans, in any case. Fighting would not save my life even if I had a weapon. If nothing else, I suppose I can embrace Paqúr's knees and beg for my life…."
The serving woman led Odushéyu to Ariyádna's bed chamber, where two Tróyan men waited for the guest, their backs to the entrance. The It'ákan trembled, acutely aware of his vulnerability in this foreign palace. He wished fervently that he had not listened to his heart's lust for Agamémnon’s favor and rich rewards. He prayed silently that At'ána would miraculously whisk him away from this place and back to his tent across the river.
Kluména gestured to an empty chair. "Be seated, wánaks Odushéyu," she said in a smooth, emotionless voice. Her face revealed no more feeling than her voice. Seated on the edge of the bed, Ariyádna's unlined cheeks were as impassive as her servant's. The women might be plaster figurines, or painted frescoes, for all that they showed of their thoughts.
Odushéyu went to the chair and was surprised to see that the waiting men were not Alakshándu's sons. He was even more surprised when Kluména handed him a clean, linen kilt to wrap around his waist and a belt. He tied the leather strap around the cloth, while Ariyádna herself brought large clay cups, polished until they resembled bronze. The 'Elléniyan woman set a similarly burnished, ceramic bowl before the three men. She poured water and wine into it for them to dip from. Kluména carried in wooden trays of dried figs and freshly baked, flat bread, replenishing the food as the men ate and drank their fill.