by Diana Gainer
"That is Agamémnon's fault, not mine," the foot soldier said defensively. "He will not give the boy any rest, giving him tasks day and night. That is what is disgraceful."
Diwoméde's eyelids fluttered and he moaned.
"He is feverish again, too," Dáuniya announced, her voice matter of fact. "I will wash the wound again, as if it were fresh, and wrap his foot in clean linen. But, unless he gets some rest, the spirit of plague will take hold and carry him off before the injury can heal."
But Diwoméde was not destined to rest that day. In Agamémnon's great tent, Ak'illéyu stood stiffly, his thigh wrapped in cloth, and commanded, "All men must fight today! Even those who did not fight before will take up arms this day. Helmsmen and carpenters will leave their beds of ease by their tents. Find swords and spears for them and make them take the field with us, Agamémnon. All Ak'áyans should witness the death of Tróya’s champion. But they must be prepared to fight, if the Wilúsiyans resort to treachery, as they did before. Their fates hang in the balance here just as ours do. If any man stays away, I will find him and slit his throat myself! Make the wounded come to the assembly, too. No man is exempt from duty today unless he is dead."
"Carpenters and helmsmen know nothing about war," St'énelo complained quietly to his king. "They were very little help the one time we armed them and today they should be seeing to our ships. The war will be over by nightfall and we will sail at dawn, will we not?"
But Meneláwo supported Ak'illéyu's demand. "I am tired of this endless siege," the Lakedaimóniyan wánaks growled to the gathered lawagétas. "We all are. Let us all swear an oath to fight to the death today. We must take Tróya now, at whatever cost."
"If even the noncombatants must fight this day, and even if we continue until death, what can it mean but the end of the world?" Idómeneyu complained.
Beside him, Odushéyu stretched his aching limbs and scratched his recently shorn locks. Dryly, he observed, "It can also mean that the maináds have been dancing with Ak'illéyu and Meneláwo both."
Mad though the T'eshalíyan and Lakedaimóniyan troop leaders might be, their wishes were obeyed. To the surprise of P'ilístas and Zeyugelátes both, Agamémnon agreed with them. "We have tried single combat before, without successfully concluding the war," the overlord reminded his troop leaders. "The Wilúsiyans have repeatedly shown themselves to be oath-breakers. If their champion falls today, as I fully expect he will, I want to be sure we have enough men to overpower the Mízriyans."
"But the wounded?" Néstor asked, incredulous. "Do you know what you are asking? Diwoméde and Meneláwo are so weak now that they can hardly cross our encampment without help. It may have been acceptable for them to fight when our survival was at stake, but now we must return to Diwiyána's ways. Do not listen to the P'ilísta prince. Leave the wounded men in their tents this time."
Agamémnon spoke vigorously. "I have better things to do than listen to a half-barbarian, drunk on poppy nectar. Ak'illéyu is only my vassal. I am not his, by any means. I am not taking orders from him or any man. But this is not a simple raid, Néstor. Today's battle will determine all our fates. We may be wounded," he said dramatically, raising his arm to show the half-healed cut running jaggedly through the hair and flesh of the limb, "but we are determined to do our part just the same." Nodding his heavy head, his jaw grimly set, "All men fight today," he commanded, repeating the order Ak'illéyu had first given. "All."
To the utter astonishment of Néstor and the lesser kings of the north, Qálki then stepped forward to address the Ak'áyan leaders. The wiry seer, too, agreed to the unusual order, leaving the lawagétas to speculate on whether he, too, had been into the poppy jars.
By dawn, the whole encampment bustled with life. Men took their time over the morning's meal, consuming opium with their wine, spilling more than the usual few drops to the divine beings who controlled their fates. They donned their armor and took up their arms. Fully prepared for war, they danced around their campfires reciting Odushéyu's magic formula. The sun's chariot wheel stood above the eastern mountains before they were ready to pass beyond the camp's earthen wall. But, at last, when every man was restored to battle condition by the poppy, Diwoméde blew a long note on a conch shell to summon the army out to fight.
Ak'illéyu quickly took his position at the front of the advancing Ak'áyan line, shouting with every step he took, cursing the Tróyans and dead Qántili above all, reviling the deities who supported those whom he hated. Clad in shining bronze, from head to toe, he contrasted sharply with the soiled and cratered gear of the rest of the lawagétas. 'Iqodámeya had held a vigil over the prince throughout the previous night, polishing his armor while all others had slept. "I will tell him that a goddess did this for him while he slept," the captive had prayed to Dáwan as she worked, "and in exchange for the undeserved thank offering he gives to you, you must be charitable toward my unborn child."
By mid-morning, the Ak'áyans had crossed the Sqámandro River, Qálki trailing at the back among the more seriously wounded men. The unfamiliar weight of his long spear and stout, ox-hide shield slowed the prophet's usually frenetic pace. From the back of the army, he called out prophecies that roused the fervor of the warriors. "Once again the gods of heaven, earth, and the waters have joined us on the field of battle!" the seer cried. As he spoke, the ground trembled yet again and distant thunder was heard from the direction of the mountains. As the troops neared the citadel commanding the dusty plain, the men raised their spears, pounded upon their shields, and cried out to their protecting god. "Díwo! Díwo!"
The earth shuddered again in response and the waves of the sea crested and foamed, breaking with unusual violence against the nearby shore. Qálki waved his round shield toward the sky. "Even Préswa below hears us marching across the roof of her realm in the underworld. With the gods themselves taking the field, the earth will fall in on the dread queen. 'Aidé itself will crack wide open today and expose the dark shades to the light of the sun!"
The Ak'áyan huts shuddered in the encampment near the shore and several tent posts fell. Debris crumbled from the surrounding rampart and tumbled down on some of the captive women who were grinding grain nearby. To the north of the river, the once great citadel suffered equally. The great limestone walls of Tróya shivered, spilling broken brick from their heights. The tall houses that had survived the previous quake, now weakened, collapsed on their inhabitants. The terrified populace, decimated by the earlier tremor and fire, wailed and rushed about the falling city, calling on the gods, offering to give one or another of their dearest children as sacrifices if only the deities would spare their own lives. The Sqámandro's dwindling waters battled their shores, too, but this time the river god did not leave his accustomed bed. Although fires began here and there in the hilltop fortress, they were separated by stone or brick rubble and no general conflagration drove the people from the gates.
"The battle today determines the fate of the world!" Qálki shouted. His voice carried all across the plain. In spite of the threatening natural signs, men of both sides strode forward, struggling toward each other. Even without the seer's interpretation, all were convinced of the day's significance. "It is Díwo who leads us today!" Qálki boomed. "Today will see the end of the world, the end of the greatest of ages!"
The earth quieted and both armies lined themselves up on the parched fields below the hill of Tróya, certain that their gods stood beside them. When the two rows halted before their enemies' spears, Amusís stepped forward into the gap, his sword raised over his head. In heavily accented speech, he shouted, "Who will fight with me?"
Several Ak'áyans immediately stepped forward, eager to take advantage of what they assumed would be their last chance to win glory. Idómeneyu scratched a sign or two on a pebble for each man to toss into his overlord’s helmet. Long gone were the gold thumb-rings that rich men customarily used as their tokens, when drawing lots. No man cared to cut a bronze plate from his chest armor, either, as it might prove to
be the very one that would cost him his life. Nor would those with amulets remove them from their necks, even briefly, fearing the loss of fortune's favor.
Meneláwo shoved Idómeneyu aside to be the first to place his marker in Agamémnon's horned helmet. With a hot look, the wánaks of Kep'túr cast his in, second. As the Lakedaimóniyan king backed up, to allow the next man to move in, the overlord removed his brother's token, dropping it to the ground with a hard look at his brother. Frowning silently, Meneláwo turned away. Odushéyu stepped up then, studiously avoiding the overlord's eyes, but nodding to the bigger man ever so slightly.
Aíwaks and Ak'illéyu came forward together, both in feathered headdresses, the T'eshalíyan prince limping. But the taller man put his beefy hand on Ak'illéyu's shoulder. "No, my friend," said Aíwaks. "Stay out of this one. You should not even be on the field today."
Ak'illéyu pushed the other's hand away, growing angry. "'Iqodámeya bound my wound. I am ready to fight." He dropped his pebble into the helmet.
The high wánaks tossed it out again just as quickly. Meeting the T'eshalíyan's burning gaze, Agamémnon explained irritably, "With that white cloth wrapped around your leg, you present too good a target for a quick sword. While I might not shed any tears over your death, I will not risk Ak'áiwiya's honor on a defective champion. You will stay out of this one, Ak'illéyu."
The feathered warrior drew his sword, cursing his overlord, but Aíwaks and Idómeneyu moved quickly to hold him back. "Listen to me. I am your friend," said Aíwaks, quietly speaking into the prince's ear. "Meneláwo is wounded, too. Agamémnon will keep his own brother out of the fight for that same reason. A wánaks should not play favorites. That is not honorable. If he allows you to fight today, he slights Meneláwo and every man here who is too badly injured to face Amusís."
Seeing that the overlord watched them with contemptuous, half-closed eyes, Ak'illéyu spat at Agamémnon's feet. "What does that bag of wine know about honor?" the T'eshalíyan demanded. But, surrounded by hostile Argives, Ak'illéyu returned to sit with his men.
Ignoring the P'ilísta's outburst, Agamémnon raised the helmet above his head and swirled it. Beside him, Idómeneyu picked up the first pebble that flew out and examined it. "It is Aíwaks," he announced with disgust. Odushéyu stared at the overlord in surprise and displeasure. But the assembled troops roared their approval of fortune's choice.
Amusís and Aíwaks faced each other between two armed lines that had been greatly thinned since Meneláwo and Paqúr had fought in the war's first single combat. Gone were the tossing horsetail crests on the bronze helmets, hacked away by enemy blades. Gone, too, were the rows of painted chariots and the paired horses that had borne the men of higher ranks into the first bloody battles. National and ethnic divisions had been largely erased on the Ak'áyan side, in the course of the campaign, although the northerners still preferred their traditional feathers to metal- or leather-helmets. Every man wore and carried gear of taken from the dead of many nations. Ak'áyans wielded curved Assúwan swords as often as their own double-sided blades. And the Wilúsiyans sported as much Ak'áyan spoil as their own native arms and armor. Only the Mízriyans stood out from the rest, their eyes not yet dimmed by hunger and battle-fatigue, or clouded by bowls and flasks filled with wine and opium.
Aíwaks made a fine showing as a champion, selecting weapons from those offered by fellow warriors, swaggering forth to meet the Mízriyan's challenge. The blue-eyed qasiléyu towered over the dark-skinned southerner, impressing the warriors on both sides with his bulk. But Amusís darted so quickly around his opponent that the Ak'áyan's tall shield served little purpose. The Mízriyan's sword removed half of the big qasiléyu's nose with moments, opened a gash in his wrist shortly after, and soon slit another the whole length of his thigh. The giant roared with pain and rage at each impertinent blow, unable to draw a single drop of blood from his opponent. More quickly still, Amusís slipped beneath his opponent's shield and cut the big man's belt, drawing another trickle of blood from his side, and a burst of laughter from the assembled troops as the garment dropped. The smaller man was clearly playing with his enemy. His troops and allies roared their approval.
Infuriated and shamed, Aíwaks thrust his spear into the center of the Mízriyan's shield, piercing it. With all his weight behind the lance, Aíwaks drove his weapon on through the man's quilted armor, into the flesh behind it. As Amusís staggered back, gasping and clutching at the air, his Káushans leaped forward with their bows drawn to keep Aíwaks from finishing him off.
"That is not fair!" the big man roared. Behind him, the enraged T'eshalíyans leaped up under Ak'illéyu's leadership. The P'ilísta commander threw his dagger over the top of Amusís's shield. The sharp blade bit into the Mízriyan's throat and Tróya's southern ally fell dead.
In a moment, the battle was on. But, after the first clash of bronze against bronze, Wilúsiya's war-weary soldiers quickly threw their shields over their backs and retreated to the citadel in disorder. Once again, only the long bows of the Káushans prevented them from being massacred. Outside the cracked fortification walls, the frustrated Ak'áyans could only blunt their spears on limestone and brick, and hurl insults and make obscene gestures. When the Tróyans tired of the show, the archers stationed on the tops of the walls rained deadly barbs on their foes below. Driven once more from the walls, the Ak'áyans regrouped on the field, collecting what little armor and weapons were worth obtaining, counted their dead and assisted the wounded back toward the camp.
By the riverbank, Néstor found Antílok'o, a small dagger with an ornate handle embedded in his chest. The old man did not shed any tears, but sat slack-jawed, staring blankly at the body of his son. With gnarled hands, he gently stroked the dead man's neatly combed hair.
On the opposite bank, 'Ékamede watched with a grim smile, as she filled a water jar beside the other captive women.
"I cannot believe you did that," Dáuniya whispered. "Did Agamémnon offer you a reward for the boy’s death?"
"Shut your muzzle or I will ask the overlord for another dagger," 'Ékamede hissed to her younger companion.
Odushéyu tossed the young man's corpse over his broad shoulders. "Any death in wartime is honorable," the It'ákan announced in a hearty voice. "Take comfort in that, Néstor." He dropped the body unceremoniously in the nearest ferry boat. Taking the pole, the pirate pushed the little craft over the muddy river, leaving Néstor behind, to wade across the waters as best he could.
Agamémnon himself led the bereaved father back to camp, supporting the grief-weakened legs with a strong arm. "Now you know the pain that a father's heart feels at the loss of his oldest child," the overlord whispered harshly in Néstor’s ear on the riverbank. Aloud, by the gateway to the camp he boomed, "Be assured, old friend, I will provide your son many fine gifts at his funeral."
At the sight of the grieving Mesheníyan, Ak'illéyu was suddenly filled with passion. He raced back across the plain to the fortress, shouting curses as he went. His men followed, along with a sizeable group of avenging Mesheníyans.
But Agamémnon gave no command to the army and the bulk of the men remained by the river. "Néstor," the overlord said, shaking the old man's drooping shoulders, "remember what you told me at Aúli. No price is too high to pay when the reward is areté. When it is the will of the gods that one should die, it must happen. It is fate. That is why the wise man sires many children. And do not forget. You are old. You will see the boy again soon, in 'Aidé."
Néstor stumbled, held upright only by the strong arms of the high wánaks. The old man said nothing, his eyes unseeing, his mouth still hanging open. He allowed himself to be led to Agamémnon's tent where he sat without eating or drinking as the captive 'Ékamede washed his son's body beside the Argive hearth. The captive woman worked with tearless eyes and, when none were watching, she spat on the still face.
aaa
As Antílok'o's corpse passed through the rampart gate of the Ak'áyan camp, Ak'illéyu and his sm
all group of followers reached the walls of Tróya. Not expecting any further fighting that day, a few hardy Wilúsiyans had reopened the main gates and were already dragging a few wagons onto the field, to gather up their dead and wounded. Startled by ululating warriors rushing at them, the men bolted, knocking each other over in their hurry to return to the citadel. Some, unable to turn back to the gates quickly enough, abandoned their carts and fled for the wooded hills to the east. Confused soldiers within the city hurried to close the gates, while their countrymen were still pressing their way through the opening. Ak'illéyu, leading his men, reached the great doors before they were shut all the way. Charging recklessly onward, Ak'illéyu thrust his spear into the nearest bodies, felling surprised Tróyans and Mízriyans as he entered the fortress. Behind him, the survivors succeeded in closing the gate, ignoring those of their kinsmen who were stranded outside, pounding on the impenetrable doors until the avenging Ak'áyans silenced them forever.
Unaware of his danger, and caring little in any case, the T'eshalíyan prince rushed toward the heights of Tróya with no more than a handful of Mesheníyans at his heels. "Díwo!" Ak'illéyu shouted, striking down both men and women as they appeared before him.