by Diana Gainer
The king’s eyes met his son’s. With a cruel grin creasing his lips, he replied, “She is yours.”
Ariyádna screamed, “No, no!” and tried to run. Dapashánda caught her by the arm and flung her up against the wall. With his good hand, he struck her again and again, until she slid to her knees, blood dripping from her nose and lips, her eyes swelling shut. Dapashánda turned and told her family, “Eat without me. I will have something in my chambers later.”
“Teach her what it means to be a captive!” Eqépa called after him as he left the great room, bitter tears spilling over the dried blood on her cheeks. “The ungrateful bitch!”
Érinu came toward the doorway. “Wait,” he suggested, “we should discuss this...”
But the king took his younger son by the arm. “She is Dapashánda’s now. What he does with her is his business, not yours. Sit down, boy.”
The young priest frowned. “But what she has been saying makes sense...”
“Sit down, I say!” Alakshándu cried. “I am still king here, not you, worthless jackal pup! You will do as I say, or I will have thrown over the walls to the Ak’áyans!”
Shocked, Érinu returned to his chair and small table as Ariyádna’s screams grew faint down the palace corridors. Without speaking further, the king, his queen, and their surviving son and daughters ate their meager meal and drank their sour wine. Only when the serving women came to take away the empty dishes did Érinu again break the silence.
“Father, I will always obey you, as long as you live,” he said, forcing his voice to remain measured and quiet. “Surely you know that. But Tróya is in great danger. Why do insist on keeping ‘Elléniya at this late date, and risk utter destruction, when giving her back now could save us all?”
The princess Kashánda, silent until then, nodded. “Listen to him, Father.”
Alakshándu leaped to his feet and threw his half-empty cup at his daughter. “Shut your mouth, you disloyal cow! I will not hear any more of this. Honor your brothers’ memory! This ‘Elléniya is our property until force of arms takes her from us. That is what Paqúr wanted. That is what Qántili and Lupákki died for.”
“But, I thought you were negotiating a truce, and a marriage for me?” Kashánda asked timidly, cringing at her father’s fury.
Alakshándu shouted, “I would promise that Ak’áyan ox of a wánaks the very moon and stars if I thought it would get him out of my land! But no son of Diwiyána will ever bed a daughter of mine. Now get out of my sight!” With a heavy hand, he struck repeatedly at both his daughter and his son, driving them from the throne room.
Safely behind the doors of Érinu’s chamber, Kashánda wiped her tears on her brother’s dirty sleeve, saying, “Owái, little brother, something terrible is going to happen, I know it! Father is lost among the maináds. He is destroying all of Wilúsiya!”
Érinu patted her shoulder, trying to comfort his sister. “I do not know what to say. I really thought we were negotiating a truce. But now, it seems that Father is planning some kind of trick. Does he not remember that it was a trick that brought about ‘Erakléwe’s revenge, a generation ago? The worst part about it is that he has been using me, me, his own son!”
Kashánda tried to calm herself, backing away and straightening her dark robes. But her lips trembled. “The end is near. I know it is. The sacred Qalladiyón is gone from the temple and with it, Tróya’s very soul. We cannot hold out much longer.” She began to cry again. “Owái, my only comfort is that my poor, little boys will not suffer at the hands of Ak’áyan masters. They died before all these terrors came upon us!”
Érinu was thunderstruck. “The Qalladiyón is gone!? How? When?”
Through her tears, the priestess told him, “It is my duty to place laurel wreaths on the images at the ceremonies, you know. It was not there, at the festival of the second ascent, yesterday. I do not know where it could be, or how it could have disappeared. The goddess herself dropped it from heaven in ancient times. She must have taken it back, herself, too. Owái, Érinu, Dáwan Anna has betrayed us!” She tore at her long, black hair and would not allow her brother to comfort her again.
aaa
Alakshándu called an emergency session of the assembly of elders that night. Slowly, the gray heads filed into the mégaron of the palace to seal themselves on the cracked benches lining the walls. Their ranks had been thinned by disease and hunger, and they were subdued, broken in spirit. No one in that chamber lacked the marks of mourning. Patches of pale, thinning hair were shorn on every head. Every cheek was scratched. Even the crumbling frescoes on the walls seemed dispirited, cracked by the earthquakes earlier and faded by the light of the torches. It was not with reverence or with respect that they eyed their aging ruler, either.
Antánor, locked in his own chambers and under guard, could not attend. But Ainyáh came to the assembly and spoke for him. Without bravado or cheer, the Kanaqániyan announced, “In our negotiations with the Ak’áyans, we have reached an agreement. An end to the war is in sight.”
This was not what the king wanted to hear, however. Angrily, he cried, “Why was I not told of this before?! Who is the king here? No one can negotiate such an agreement but me!” Sunken eyes burned under his white eyebrows and the torn flesh of Alakshándu’s cheeks quivered in his fury.
Ainyáh responded with a quiet, even voice, though he spoke through clenched teeth, looking up through his dark eyebrows at the ruler on his raised throne. “If you did not want this, why did you send us to the Ak’áyan camp?”
All about the cold room, gray-haired men in frayed cloaks murmured in dismay. “Is the king in the hands of the maináds? Or is this sheer stubbornness? How can he refuse to negotiate for peace now, when we have come to this?”
Alarmed at the impatient rumbles, Érinu rose and urged Alakshándu to calm himself. “Listen to Ainyáh, please, Father. You can decide whether or not to accept the agreement after he describes it.”
King Alakshándu hunched his shoulders, leaning against the hard back of the throne. Contemptuously, he looked down at his son-in-law. “Go on then, Kanaqániyan. Tell me what you promised these foreign wolves.”
Ainyáh swallowed hard, struggling against his rising anger. “Princes of Tróya and elders,” he began, trying to make his voice sound melodious, as if he were perfectly calm. “This war has been cruel to us. We have all lost kinsmen. Many have suffered wounds that will never heal. But, as bad as things have been, they can only get worse with the passage of time. We lost the last harvest due to drought, and this summer was unusually hot. The time for sowing the new crop has already passed. Even if the war were to end immediately, there are so many dead that some families have no sons left to work the land or to watch the herds. The dead are so many that we cannot give them all proper funerals. Their spirits are sure to torment us in the future. Widows and orphans face a harsh life in the best of times. There are so many now that they are already starving. I have even heard of widows eating their own children. That will soon be the fate of every Tróyan unless we can bring grain from the north. If we are to do that at all, it must be soon. Winter is nearly upon us, and with it, the month of storms.”
He paused to let the enormity of the situation sink in. “And what is the reason for all this suffering? I will tell you – a woman, just one ‘Elléniyan priestess queen. Do the Wilúsiyans truly love this ‘Elléniya so much that they are willing to sacrifice all their children to her?”
“Get on with the agreement!” Alakshándu shouted over the sound of dissent reverberating through the mégaron. “I have heard enough of your speech-making! We know what the situation is!”
Ainyáh continued with greater confidence, knowing then that the elder supported him. “We must give this evil woman back to the Ak’áyans. She is a curse from the gods. Let the Ak’áyans suffer the disasters that follow in her wake. We must reconcile ourselves with our enemies in order to survive. Is your memory really so short, king Alakshándu? Have you forgotten that we
used to trade with these same people of the Inner Sea? We bought their grain and flax and sold them our horses and tin. Wilúsiya was always prosperous, even wealthy, because of that trade. It could be that way again. Give ‘Elléniya back to the Ak’áyans.”
A great shout came from the assembled elders. Rising to their feet as a group, they cried with one voice, “Ransom Tróya!”
Dapashánda stood and drew his sword with his good hand. “Ransom?!” he shouted, incredulous. “Do I hear all of you correctly? Can you really be saying that we should pay ransom to the Ak’áyans?”
Ainyáh raised his voice just as loudly in response. “Yes! They already negotiated for ‘Elléniya’s return and you refused, once. It is too late to ask them for ransom now. They have us cornered. We are without allies, without food stores. If we do not give them presents to placate them at this point, they will take those same gifts from us by force, soon enough!” Again, the chamber echoed with shouts of agreement from the assembled elders.
Pale with dread, Érinu rose and waved his arms for quiet. “What are you saying, Ainyáh? We have no more treasure to give! We sent the bulk of our riches away at the beginning of the war to our allies, to buy their assistance. What little we kept for ourselves has already gone to ransom our kinsmen, alive or dead, or to accompany them to the underworld. Even if we were willing to pay more, what could we possibly give?”
Alakshándu snorted in disgust, clutching the faded robes that covered his knobby knees. “Answer that, you miserable excuse for a mercenary!”
The Kanaqániyan took a deep break and clenched his fists, maintaining his composure only with a struggle. “Our shrines still have rich ornaments...”
Raising his sword as if for combat, Dapashánda shouted furiously, “No!”
“That would be sacrilege!” Érinu cried in horror.
But the rest of the council voiced their assent without hesitation. “We cannot win this war by force of arms,” one after another pointed out. “Honor is a fine thing, but survival is more important. Give those godless Ak’áyans whatever they want, whatever they demand. Just get them away from holy Tróya before all the gods abandon us, like our mortal allies did.”
At length, Alakshándu was forced to listen. His face, red with fury at the start, soon lost all its color. He slumped on his throne and hung his head, no more vigor in his limbs than in his garments. “All right,” he said with a grimace. “I will give in to you. The gods have forgotten me. Now, my friends desert me, too. No one supports me but the least of my sons. This is an evil day for me and for all of Wilúsiya.” Tears fell from his eyes and he dropped his trembling hands in his lap. “But I will do as you wish. Ainyáh, release Antánor from his chambers. Find out what it will cost us to get the barbarians out of our country.” His voice had fallen to a whisper by the final words.
Ainyáh nodded. Stiffly, he left the mégaron. Outside, in the corridor where the others could not see, he leaned, shivering, against the cool stone of the walls, and wiped his sweating forehead with a deep sigh. “Goddess, be with me,” he whispered. “Am I doing the right thing? Guide me, Astárt.” When at last the trembling left his knees, he walked through the gloomy corridors toward the storerooms where Alakshándu’s oldest son-in-law was imprisoned.
Érinu met him in the dark halls before he reached his destination. “I will go with the two of you to the camp,” the young prince told him.
Ainyáh stared harshly at the young priest, trying to decipher his intent. “Come on then,” the warrior said, leading the way to Antánor’s prison cell.
aaa
On the following morning, Antánor, Ainyáh, and Érinu ate their morning meal with Agamémnon and his lawagétas. That gathering, too, lacked the vigor and enthusiasm of earlier days. Alongside their wine, the troop leaders sipped from poppy-shaped flasks, nursing old wounds that remained inflamed despite the treatment of their best surgeon. Meneláwo had grown thin and his face was ashen. One arm remained always at his injured side. He had cut all his hair short, as much for convenience as for mourning. It was much the same with all the wánaktes and qasiléyus, all but Agamemnon. The P’ilístas and the island kings combed their dark locks, but Meneláwo’s fell unkempt and dirty in his face. Dark circles at Diwoméde’s once youthful eyes told of the draining gash in his foot that he kept wrapped in filthy linen. Néstor, shattered by the loss of his son, no longer spoke in the assembly, but sat in empty-eyed silence.
Agamémnon alone remained unruffled, swaggering with his full head of hair and his neatly combed beard. His injured arm had healed a little stiffer than before, but only those who knew him well noticed the difference.
“King Alakshándu is ready to meet your demands,” Antánor announced after they had finished their thin porridge. “What are they?”
Agamémnon crossed his well-muscled arms on his chest and stared up at the cloudless sky. “Certainly a decent amount of tin will be involved, as well as the priestess, Kashánda, for my new wife.”
“Barley is what we need right now,” Meneláwo told his brother in a low voice. “It is worth its weight in bronze to hungry men.”
Ainyáh broke in, “The whole of Wilúsiya has been impoverished by this war. You cannot demand much.”
Odushéyu was impatient. “Get this over with. We cannot afford to let these negotiations drag on indefinitely. Autumn is already half gone and the sailing season with it. I, for one, do not relish the thought of surviving all this slaughter only to drown in the first winter storm.”
Diwoméde raised a poppy flask to signal his desire to speak. “I say we demand a hundred ingots of copper, five hundred of tin, and a thousand bushels of wheat.”
“To ‘Aidé with the lot of you!” Ainyáh cursed in exasperation. Beside him, Érinu’s eyes widened in dismay.
Antánor coughed. “And how long do you intend to give us to acquire this exorbitant ransom?”
Aíwaks leaned close to the Tróyan councilor. “Pay it now and we will leave. Pay it again every summer for the next ten years or we will come back and finish you off.”
Érinu waved his hands. “You cannot mean that! Ainyáh told you. We do not have that much!”
“We did not come to Wilúsiya to give you a bargain,” Idómeneyu growled, feeling the hilt of his dagger. “We came to sack Tróya. We can still do it if you do not give us enough.”
Érinu shook his head in mournful disbelief. “Agree to anything they say, Antánor,” the priest moaned. “We do not have any choice. The Qalladiyón is gone. Tróya is doomed. My father, my mother, my sisters...” He suddenly collapsed backward, an unearthly scream coming from his lips, and his limbs twitched violently. His eyes rolled far back in his head, saliva dripping from his mouth. His breath growled in his chest, unable to enter or leave.
The Ak’áyans left their seats abruptly, backing away from the unearthly sight, Ainyáh with them. “What is wrong with him?” Diwoméde gasped.
Antánor knelt at the stricken man’s head, trying to keep it from banging against the hard ground. “It is the sickness of the gods,” the councilor explained. “He sees things that no mortal should. When the vision overtakes his body, this happens.”
“Is he dying?” Odushéyu asked, nervously fingering the lozenge-shaped amulet at his neck.
Antánor answered, “No. The spell will last only a short while.” To the troop commanders watching in awe, though, the moment seemed long. At last, the young priest’s twitching stopped and he lay very still, breathing normally, though shallowly. His eyes fluttered open briefly before closing again. He moaned softly.
“He will sleep now,” Antánor announced.
No sound came from the assembled lawagétas.
Antánor repeated his statement, adding, “I have seen this many times before. He will be himself again by nightfall. Then, he will be able to tell us the nature of his divine vision.”
Agamémnon shrugged and gestured to his qasiléyu. “Fix him a pallet in my tent, Diwoméde.”
When Érin
u lay sleeping on the overlord’s sheepskins, the lawagétas and Tróya’s envoys returned to the campfire outside. “It is possible that Érinu will help our cause,” Ainyáh told them all. “I was not able to discover his thought last night, since Antánor and I had to make preparations for this morning’s embassy. I do know that he wishes the war to end now. So, when we are ready to leave here, I will take Érinu aside and find out exactly where he stands.”
But Agamémnon was not willing to take such a chance. “I will just keep him here until it is all over,” he decided. “I need a new priest anyway. My prophet died in the last battle. So tragic.” His face was slit by a hint of a smile, but no man dared to question, much less accuse him.
“What will we tell Alakshándu?” Ainyáh asked, with a frown.
“Tell him that his son fell sick and we are taking care of him,” the high wánaks suggested easily. “Tell him anything you like. He is hardly in a position to object.”