Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  "Did he have an impure heart, then?" Ainyáh asked, confused.

  "Yes," Shabáka stated with certainty. "He did. His soul was surely devoured by the crocodile at the final judgment. His ba never saw our lord, Usíri."

  "I do not understand," Ainyáh said, moving closer, sure that he was on the right track.

  The dark-skinned officer rolled his eyes at the ignorance of the northerner. But he took a deep breath and began to explain, slowly, simply, as if he were speaking to a child. "The ba is the part of a man that remains alive, when his body dies. If this ba is to live forever, it must pass the final judgment before Usíri, who is the lord of the dead, obviously. When he judges the ba, Usíri places the dead man's heart on the balance scales, in one pan. In the other pan is the spirit of truth and righteousness, the goddess Maqát. If the feather of the truth is heavier, then the Divine Crocodile devours the man's heart. Of course, that means his ba dies for all eternity." He demonstrated the nature of the divine scales, holding one hand out flat to one side and the other hand out flat to the other, raising first the one and then the other. At the end, he shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that nothing could be simpler.

  "But how can a feather be heavier than a man's heart?" Ainyáh demanded, laughing at the absurd notion.

  Shabáka began to lose patience. "You sea people know nothing of the great gods or of the life of the soul! That is why you cannot play the sacred game."

  "But tell me, my good man, how can a mere game be considered holy?" Ainyáh persisted.

  The southern warrior simply shook his head. He was beginning to believe it would be impossible to clarify matters for such a thick-headed person. He spoke each word more slowly than before and more forcefully, as if he could pound the words into the other man’s mind. "It is the symbol...of the journey...of a man's ba...that is to say, his spirit...after his death. You understand? We want to know whether we will live forever...or whether a second, final death...is to be our fate. You see? This game can tell us."

  The Kanaqániyan was more certain than ever that this peculiar game would provide the answer to his problem. "Let me play," he begged. "I must see if this is true."

  Shabáka's men laughed as they sat by the Sint board. "Let him play," urged one. "He can represent the forces of darkness against your ba. You cannot lose, Shabáka."

  The leader groaned at the idea, but, seeing that all his men were eager to see him defeat the foreigner, he finally agreed. "Very well, Ainyáh. You may sit on the side of the House of the Falcon, there, where Hutapí is sitting. It is your goal to prevent my dancers from progressing to the House of the Falcon. It is my goal to get at least one of my dancers past all of the dangers and off of the board."

  The slender Hutapí rose and beckoned to the Kanaqániyan to take his place. "Here are the fingers," he announced, holding out a handful of throw-sticks painted white on one side, brown on the other. "Toss them into the air and watch how they land on the ground. Count the number of white sides turned up and move your dancers that number."

  Ainyáh gathered up the wooden fingers and held them high. "But first," he said slowly, thinking a moment, and lowering them to his lap again. "First, let us add a little something from the games of my people. In Kanaqán, we always bet something on the outcome of any uncertain venture."

  The Káushans looked at one another, snickering at the Kanaqániyan's naivete. "Whatever do you mean?" Shabáka demanded. "Do you really mean to say that you wish to lose more than your immortal soul?"

  "I am not going to lose," Ainyáh scoffed. "I just want to win something I value. I have no use for your ba or soul."

  Shabáka looked around at his men, who were nodding at him, pointing out that they were certain he could not lose. He shrugged. "No? Then, name your bet."

  "I have no riches," the commander of mercenaries admitted. "It has been a long war and I have had to reuse every piece of bronze I took in battle. Let us play for the fate of Tróya. If you win, you stay here in Wilúsiya and fight until the end, no matter what messages come from home."

  Shabáka answered harshly. "It is not our way to run from a fight. We only ask that your king finish the war quickly."

  "I meant no offense," Ainyáh responded quietly. "But if I win, you return home immediately. It will be a sign that Mízriya needs you more than we do."

  The Káushans again looked at each other, beginning to smile. "Why not?" Shabáka responded easily, with another shrug of his shoulders.

  With a vengeance, Ainyáh played the game, taking one and another of the Káushan's dancers from the board, preventing all seven from reaching the blessed House of the Falcon.

  "Ayá," sighed the dark-skinned leader, taking the loss of both the game and his ba philosophically. "We made a bet. Now we must be going home."

  So it was that Alakshándu heard doubly bad news over his evening meal. Tróya's last allies were leaving. At the same time, a fresh contingent of T'eshalíyans had just joined the depleted forces of his enemies.

  aaa

  Many times during the short truce, Antánor and Ainyáh came, with Érinu the priest, to Agamémnon's tent. The high wánaks agreed wholeheartedly to press for Kashánda's hand in marriage, urging the return of Ariyádna as his only condition for an end to the war. True to his word, he questioned the Tróyan counselor about Ak'illéyu's killer, accusing Ainyáh to his face. But both of the Wilúsiyan king's sons-in-law agreed that the prince Paqúr had taken that honor.

  The overlord passed that bit of information on to Púrwo and Aíwaks, as they assembled the T'eshalíyans for Ak'illéyu's funeral games. While Púrwo selected prizes for the contests, Aíwaks walked from hearth to hearth, bidding the Ak'áyans from both the north and south to come. As a body, most of the northerners assembled, P'ilístas in their feathered headgear gathering to honor their fallen champion. Only the Qoyotíyan wánaks refused to attend, citing an unhealed wound in his cheek, close to his right eye.

  The Zeyugelátes, on the other hand, mostly stayed away. Each nation sent a man or two, a minimal token of respect. But, as for the rest, they told Aíwaks of pressing duties that prevented their attendance. The lips of high-born men and low brimmed with excuses. They had to repair armor, they explained, or burn their dead, or gather wood from the hills, or remain in their huts waiting for their wounds to heal.

  Furiously, Aíwaks repeated it all to Ak'illéyu's son. "They are staying away deliberately," the big qasiléyu told Púrwo. "Ak'illéyu's absence from the battlefield caused bitter feelings. This would have been forgotten by now, if it were not for Odushéyu. That It'ákan pirate is jealous of Ak'illéyu's fame. He has been talking about your father at every campfire, making Ak'illéyu sound like a madman or a simpleton and finding no fault with Agamémnon in their quarrel."

  "What about the overlord?" Púrwo asked. "As commander of the armies, Agamémnon should force the men to come and show honor to a fallen hero. I blame him for this poor showing. He thinks he can insult me freely because I am young. He must be taught a lesson."

  Aíwaks was alarmed. "Such talk is disloyal." Such words had meant little to the father. They meant no more to the son.

  Beside the rampart wall, a small crowd gathered for the funeral games. Púrwo ordered his father's ranking qasiléyu, "Bring prizes for boxing, Automédon."

  The driver led a donkey to the young prince and described it. "This animal is six years old and still unbroken. That is for the winner. For the loser, here is a two-handled cup of gold."

  From among the foot soldiers, T'érsite stepped forward, swaggering to show off his broad chest. With a wide grin, he took hold of the donkey's halter. "I claim this as Argo's representative!" he shouted. "Who is willing to take the cup?" The men laughed, and waited in silence, looking about, to see who would compete with him.

  Disappointed in the reaction, Aíwaks complained bitterly, "Kep'túr's boxers are famous but they refused to compete to honor a northerner."

  Argo's only other representative, Diwoméde, glared at the big qas
iléyu . He pushed Meneláwo's slender driver forward. "Give him a real contest, St'énelo," the qasiléyu ordered. St'énelo stepped forward uncertainly, scratching his head, looking back at his king. Meneláwo had lent his presence to the occasion, but he sat, hunched and wan, in the shade of the earthen wall, thinking his own dismal thoughts. He gave his man no sign.

  "Save yourself before it is too late," T'érsite mocked. "Take the cup and run while you have a chance."

  St'énelo laughed, and spat in the other man's direction. "There is no chance of that, you worthless bag of wind!" He pulled off his ragged kilt, wearing nothing but his leather belt. Automédon brought them both rawhide strips to wind around their knuckles.

  T'érsite taunted his rival all the while. "I am going to split your face open and crack your ribs, boy. Diwoméde, stand close! Get ready to catch him, when I knock him down."

  Again, St'énelo hesitated. But Diwoméde called out, "You can take him, St'énelo. He is all talk." The two fighters circled each other, grinding their teeth, then closed in, pounding each other with hard fists. T'érsite swung his left hand, his fist crashing into his opponent's face again and again, above now-puffy eyes. St'énelo swayed on his feet. His knees buckled and he tumbled backward onto the ground. The watching men roared with laughter. Smiling happily, T'érsite gave the charioteer a hand and pulled him back to his feet. St'énelo wobbled still, his eyes rolling about.

  Chuckling, Diwoméde limped forward to lead him from the open space. St'énelo's knees gave way so that he sat suddenly. He spat out blood and a broken tooth. Diwoméde helped him up again, but his head rolled loosely on his shoulders and he fell back to the ground, his eyes staring up blankly at the pale sky. Even grim-faced Meneláwo began to laugh.

  T'érsite squatted beside the addled man, bringing him the double-handled cup. "Good try, St'énelo," the Argive told him, with a pat on the head. The man on his back nodded, his eyes still rolling.

  Púrwo walked among his father's possessions, bringing out a spear, a shield, a corselet, and a helmet. These he laid on the ground, along with a gleaming sword. "This was Sharpaduwánna's," Automédon noted. "Ak'illéyu took it in battle. Two men in full gear will fight for this. The first to draw blood takes the silver-hilted sword. Both will divide the rest."

  Aíwaks rose once more and Diwoméde stood at the same time. Their comrades brought their gear and, while the men watched, they armed for combat. Meneláwo quietly spoke to his brother's young qasiléyu. "This is not wise, boy. You have had enough poppy nectar to feel no pain, but your foot is not healed. Aíwaks is much bigger than you, too." But Diwoméde would not listen.

  The two warriors charged each other at the same time, their spears back for thrusting. Aíwaks struck Diwoméde's shield but did not pierce it. At the same time, the younger man's point flew over the top of the tower shield of Aíwaks, almost striking the giant's throat. Alarmed, Automédon and Meneláwo rushed forward to separate the two.

  Automédon called out, "Break off the fight! Give them equal prizes!" But he turned to his young prince for confirmation. Púrwo nodded. He held out the sword, though, to Diwoméde. Aíwaks scowled, but did not protest aloud.

  Now Automédon brought a dark rock, setting it on the ground before the young prince. The T'eshalíyan qasiléyu announced, "Now we will throw the discus. This rock of black bronze fell from the clouds, from Díwo's spear. Ak'illéyu took it in battle at Lázpa. It does not look like much. But, in the east, this metal is said to be worth more than gold or tin. Who will try for the prize?"

  T'érsite stepped forward hesitantly, aware of his low status but wanting the unusual metal. Aíwaks also came. T'érsite only brought a laugh from the crowd as the stone he threw barely missed his own feet. Cursing his luck, he pushed to the back of the crowd and sat down.

  "Good try," Aíwaks crooned sarcastically, and, with his massive arms, sent the chunk far beyond the other.

  "Give T'érsite another shot!" St'énelo shouted, still rubbing his head. Other foot soldiers agreed.

  Confidently Aíwaks shrugged. "Go ahead," he agreed. "You will not do any better." But T'érsite hurled the stone still farther than the giant had, to the roaring applause of the low born, who gathered around him, cheering, to bear the victor's prize back to the ships.

  aaa

  "Let me fight Paqúr, hand to hand," Púrwo demanded of the high wánaks that evening. "You swore I could have my revenge. Do not break your oath. All the lawagétas heard you."

  Agamémnon squirmed at the boy's insistence and complained in private to his brother. "What am I going to do with that child? He has a mind like an ox hoof! He talks and acts just like his father. All he thinks of is honor. No matter that the little brat could not possibly win a single combat. Any Tróyan prince would down him with a single blow. By 'Aidé, he would not even win against a princess!"

  Meneláwo had no sympathy for his brother. "He is not the only one who wants another chance to spill Paqúr's blood," he reminded the king, darkly. "I have an older claim on that corpse. By the gods, Agamémnon, you had better see to it. I heard your oath to Púrwo but I heard another, earlier, at Aúli. If you were not my closest kinsman, I would accuse you of trying to cheat me. Then you and I would be at war."

  aaa

  In spite of his preferences, the high wánaks sent word for Antánor to come to his tent again, as the truce ended. "I know we have tried this before, but it is worth one more attempt," Agamémnon began. "My men want a single combat. Who can blame them, after all these months of suffering? Over half of my men are dead or wounded. And we know that most of the injured are already on the way down the Stuks to the land of the dead. Let us oblige them. It was Paqúr who started this war a year ago, by stealing my brother's wife…"

  Antánor broke in, objecting, "No, it was 'Erakléwe who started it, twenty years ago, by taking Alakshándu's sister."

  Agamémnon impatiently waved his hand, continuing as though there had been no interruption. "…and it was Paqúr who killed Ak'illéyu. So here I am facing Lakedaimón's demands for vengeance for the rape of their wánasha and T'eshalíya wanting revenge for the death of their wánaks."

  Antánor frowned. "I see your point. But who would Paqúr be facing? Little Púrwo? My brother-in-law would not do it. He would consider it an insult to face a mere boy. It would not be much better to suggest that he fight a man who is half dead."

  Agamémnon grunted with distaste. "No, no, we will let the goddess decide who our champion will be. I am sure Aíwaks will try for it and Odushéyu as well. I cannot say who else, but all of equal stature, all seasoned warriors. In any case, I am sure the Great Lady will choose someone worthy."

  "It is an interesting idea," the councilor mused, resting his thumb on his newly shaved chin. "It would certainly help my cause to have Paqúr out of the way. He is by far the strongest of Alakshándu's remaining sons. I would probably have to ask Ainyáh to kill him later, anyway."

  "So it is agreed," announced the overlord, “one last single combat at dawn."

  Antánor took the word back to the king of Tróya.

  aaa

  Alakshándu was not pleased. "What?! Another single combat? Are you out of your mind? Or perhaps Agamémnon is the one dancing with the maináds. These Ak'áyans never learn, do they? I tell you, I am as sane as ever and I refuse to risk the life of another son. We will simply stay behind our walls and wait for emperor Qáttushli."

  Losing the last of his patience, Antánor threw up his hands. "My king, you are condemning all of Wilúsiya to famine! Qáttushli is dead, remember? All of Assúwa has abandoned us. So has T'ráki. The Mar-Yandúns have come and gone. The Mízriyans have left now, too. The Náshiyans are not coming at all. We are alone, my lord, completely alone. All of our lives are at risk, Paqúr's as much as anyone else's. What is one more single combat compared to all that?"

  With sudden strength borne of long pent-up rage and grief, Alakshándu threw his heavy scepter at the councilor. "Take that man away and lock him in his chambers!" t
he old king shouted, pointing with his careworn fist. "I am tired of his tearless eyes. What is one less brother-in-law to you? I will tell you. It is your life, that is what!"

  Antánor's face paled and he shrank from the rough hands of the princes. But when the councilor was locked away, Paqúr returned to his father to say, "I think you should agree to the combat. If I am to be king after you, Father, I must have some measure of support from the army, if not the common people. As it stands, most of the soldiers blame me for their misfortunes, saying that the war is my fault. As for the rest of the people, I am cursed in their eyes. Kashánda even claims that the Qalladiyón has mysteriously disappeared. The citadel is lost, she says, all because I supposedly angered the goddess. I will not be able to rule under these conditions."

  "I had not heard about the Qalladiyón," Alakshándu cried, shaken. "When did this happen? What does it mean?"

  Paqúr scoffed at the fear in his father's face. "What it really means is that some cowardly fawn of an ally has stolen one more of our valuables. But what people say is that it means the end of Tróya. It is the women, especially, who are causing the trouble. Kashánda is the worst of them, too, urging them to kill themselves, jump into the sea, or throw themselves from the towers, rather than be taken to Ak'áiwiya as captives."