by Diana Gainer
“He will not like it,” Antánor worried, thinking again of his recent release from the storeroom, and of the rats with which he had shared that cramped space.
Agamémnon laughed and his troop leaders followed suit. Even Ainyáh was unconcerned. “The old man cares nothing for his living sons,” the mercenary reminded his brother-in-law. “All he can think about are ones he has lost. It will mean nothing to him if Érinu does return with us. No, Agamémnon’s plan is best.”
Antánor frowned more deeply than his kinsman had before. “Let us get back to the negotiations, then. Now, we cannot possibly meet Diwoméde’s demand. Let us agree to two hundred ingots of metal, be it gold, silver, tin, or bronze, and leave it at that. There is probably that much in the sanctuaries, but I doubt seriously that there is more. And we do not want to arouse Alakshándu’s ire again. He appears to dance with the maináds from time to time, as it is. It is possible that he and all of Tróya’s people will throw themselves into the sea rather than give themselves up to you, anyway. The whole idea here is to name a reasonable price, one he will agree to.”
“What about the grain?” Diwoméde asked, threatening the councilor with his dagger.
Ignoring the blade, Ainyáh answered impatiently, “We would have to go to T’raki to find enough and you can do that more easily than we can. You burned our ships when you arrived, or had you forgotten?”
Odushéyu broke in, as disgusted as the Kanaqániyan. “I agree with Antánor. We do not have time to wait for shipments from T’ráki. Think about the weather! The storm season is approaching quickly. Some of us will have a grim enough welcome back home, as it is. This war cannot end too soon. Once we sack Tróya we will have all their possessions anyway. This payment is just a ploy!”
Agamémnon spoke up, silencing the others who would have objected. “Odushéyu is right. Antánor, tell the king that our price is two hundred ingots. And Kashánda.”
Antánor threw up his hands in frustration. “He will never agree to give you his daughter! Why can you people not understand that?”
The Argive wánaks laughed without humor. “Very well, two hundred ingots and that is all. I will have his daughter in the end, just the same.”
The councilor nodded, rolling his eyes at the stubbornness of the barbarians. But Ainyáh scratched at the neatly trimmed beard on his chin, his brows drawn together. “I do not know that he will agree even to that little. He still thinks that you should be the ones paying the ransom – for ‘Elléniya.”
Meneláwo rose, stung to fury. But Agamémnon put out a hand to hold his brother back. “What do you suggest?” asked the overlord.
The Kanaqániyan said, “You Ak’áyans have a reputation for special insight into the gods affairs, according to my brother-in-law, Érinu. He says that your prophets and priestesses are the best in the world and the most trustworthy.” He looked around the circle of nodding Ak’áyans.
The warrior continued, “Now that Tróya has lost her Qalladiyón, the people are close to panic. Any man who wishes to rule here will have to find a replacement for the idol to restore the people’s faith in the gods’ favor. Otherwise, there is no telling what the commoners will do. They might even burn the citadel themselves, preferring to die with it. So, let us put these two things together, your reputation and our need. Antánor and I will return to Alakshándu. We will tell him that we have negotiated a lasting peace. Therefore, Wilúsiyans and Ak’áyans must exchange gifts as a gesture of goodwill. We will give you metal. You give us an image to replace the Qalladiyón, something imbued with the power of the goddess or her consort.”
The Ak’áyan leaders looked at one another skeptically. “I am no seer,” Agamémnon complained. “I know nothing about idols or omens. What in the name of ‘Aidé do you want us to do? Give back the Qalladiyón?” He was ready to discard the idea immediately.
But Antánor raised his hands in the gesture of peace. “Wait,” he said. “Listen to this. I just had an idea. Remember the earthquake? Remember how it shook the walls and nearly brought them down? The people of Tróya said that it meant that Poseidáon was against us.”
Agamémnon chuckled, truly amused now. “Is that so? My people said that it meant Diwo was against us.” He guffawed at the irony of the idea. Although many of the lawagétas stirred uneasily, making the sign of the Evil Eye, Odushéyu and Diwoméde joined the overlord’s raucous laughter.
The Tróyan counselor smiled, relaxing. “So, give Tróya a horse for the sanctuary by the gate. Make us a symbol of Poseidáon. It will be taken for a sign that the Divine Horse is on our side again. The people will be delighted, I assure you. Then they will let down their guard.”
“And leave the gates open?” Odushéyu asked, doubtful.
“No,” Ainyáh admitted. “They always close the gates at night.”
Antánor hastened to add, ”But, that will not be a problem. The northwestern gate has no door. You remember, Odushéyu, it is the narrow passage you used on the way out of Tróya the other night, when you came as a spy. It turns first one way, then the other, as a horse’s hind leg does. We call it the Horse’s Leg. Ainyáh will see to it that the Horse’s Leg is unguarded so that you may enter safely. Then, after the peace celebrations, when everyone has drunk too much wine and danced too many rounds, you can come in and....” He quailed, picturing in his mind what they would do, one they were inside the fortress.
Agamémnon’s face hardened. “How do I know that you will do as you say? What is to prevent you from taking this horse figurine to restore your people’s confidence, then setting archers on the walls of this passageway to attack us when we come?”
Antánor’s hand flew to his chest, as if he had just received a mortal blow. “How can you ask this? You have no reason to be suspicious! Alakshándu and his reckless sons have brought disaster to my whole country. No Wilúsiyan wants one that cursed family as king now. As for me, I have been Alakshándu’s prisoner once too often. It is time I took my rightful place on that throne and he took his rightful place at Préswa’s feet!”
Ainyáh cleared his throat to interrupt the councilor. “We must be practical, Antánor. They require proof, brother-in-law. Very well, I will give you a password. My Kanaqániyans have the duty of guarding the western gate. Tell them, ‘The Horse is coming,’ and they will let you pass. Come tonight and test us.”
“It sounds like a good plan,” Odushéyu decided quickly.
Agamémnon smiled fiercely. “I like that. The Horse is coming.”
The councilor stood and summarized the agreement. “We are finished here. Ainyáh and I will return to Tróya now and report to Alakshándu. Tomorrow we will all feast together and swear oaths of friendship. Each side will present the other with gifts, and so on. We will give you metal and you will give us a horse. By noon, you will burn your camp and take your ships back out to sea. Sail to the headland to the west and wait there, close behind it. Tomorrow night, after the citadel is quiet, I will come out here and light a bonfire. At that signal, return to the fortress. Use the password. Ainyáh will let you in. Just remember, he and I and our households are not to be touched.”
Agamémnon nodded. “I will give the order. Mark the doorposts of your houses with lamb’s blood, so that we will know where your people are. You and yours will not be harmed. Now, go. But leave Érinu here.”
aaa
Tróya exploded with jubilation at Antánor’s news. Joyfully, the people stripped their wealthy sanctuaries and shrines of gold and silver ornaments, bronze tripods and caldrons, and tin figurines. In place of the metal objects, they placed boughs of holy laurel, decking the altars and doorposts of their own homes with the sacred branches. K’rusé’s boats arrived, bearing sacks of grain, baskets of dried figs, and jugs of wine. Wilúsiya’s skeletal commoners embraced one another and opened their doors to orphans and widows, making room for every hungry soul at their replenished tables.
Before the damaged obelisks outside the great south gate, Tróya’s high pries
tess slaughtered the last of the gods’ domestic geese. Kashánda beheaded the birds with a bronze knife, and prayed aloud, her hands raised to the sky. “Let there be an end to suffering, with the death of the old year,” she urged the deities, “and with the birth of the new year, let there be a new age of prosperity.”
In mock anger, the commoners and nobles joined to chase the priestly goose-killer from the fortress. They tossed pebbles behind her flying feet and drove her into the shallow water of the Inner Sea, pursuer and pursued laughing the whole way. They ended the game by bathing in the salt water to honor Dáwan, mother of all things, mortal and immortal.
The young women of the city removed their clothing and painted themselves white with ashes from head to toe, representatives of the Divine Dove. The surviving shepherd boys clothed their naked bodies in black soot, acting for the bellowing Bull of the dark thundercloud, whose presence they all longed to see. The black line met the white before the blood-stained walls of the citadel for a mock battle, where so many had died in real combat so recently. With laurel branches they thrust and parried, warding off the gentle blows with their hands, fighting for possession of the sacrificial victims. When the young shepherds won, they laid the dead birds on the bases of the shattered columns before the fortress gate. Then the white representatives of the goddess chased the dark ones into the fields, to lie with them in the sacred marriage rite.
The meat of the slaughtered geese was given to the older, married women to prepare, part of it roasted, part of it boiled. Every man tasted the flesh, Ak’áyan and Wilúsiyan alike. After the small meal, all gathered before the six idols to call to the sky, “Rain!” and to the earth, “Conceive!”
Tróya’s skilled craftsmen freely entered the camp on the shore and rowed out to the ships in the harbor. After so long at anchor, some of the longboats were not ready for the homeward voyage. Tróyan hands willingly repaired leaking Ak’áyan hulls, replaced rotting cables, and patched rat-chewed sails.
The priests and priestesses of Tróya emptied the sacred precincts and carried the images of the deities in a grand procession through the streets. Behind the gods’ slaves, the people of Wilúsiya danced, their hair loosened and flying in the perpetual wind, songs of thanksgiving coming from mouths that for so long had uttered only lamentations.
Queen Eqépa kissed her sons-in-law, so pleased was she that Agamemnon no longer pressed for her daughter in marriage. “Antánor, I knew that you would make a fine husband for my Laqíqepa. And Kréyusa could have no better husband than you, Ainyáh, If I can only find equally good men for my two unmarried daughters, I will say that I am truly blessed, despite my sorrows,” she announced, clasping each man’s hands to her heart.
But Kashánda was still fearful. “Can we trust them?” she asked her kinsmen. “Can we trust these Ak’áyans, even when they are bearing gifts? What mysterious illness can my brother Érinu be suffering, that only barbarians can treat?” Her single voice of suspicion failed to dampen the generally joyful mood.
Andrómak’e remained subdued, too, worn out from long days of weeping, and could not bring herself to rejoice. In a mirror of polished bronze, she examined the scratches she had made on her cheeks and wondered aloud how long it would be before they would heal. “And how long before my heart stops aching?” she asked no one. Tears welled again in her swollen eyes at the sound of revelries from outside. She whispered, “Owái, Qántili, peace and war are all one for me, now that you are gone. If it were not for our little Sqamándriyo, I would throw myself from Tróya’s highest tower while they are all celebrating!”
aaa
Ariyádna, locked away in Dapashánda’s bed chamber, crouched by the wall and wailed until her long hair was damp with her tears. She called on the named of her brothers, fallen in the raid that had stolen her away from her native land so long before. She wept for her little daughter, as good as orphaned, if even she were still alive. Imaged flitted through her mind, scenes of her parents, gone to ‘Aide years ago, and of the many who had fought for so long and at such great cost over her. “Owái, great lady,” she prayed through her tears,” Mother Diwiyána, let me die!”
aaa
Vast quantities of river water came to the city of Tróya and to the Ak’áyan camp, carried in tall jars on the women’s heads. Wilúsiyans and Ak’áyans washed their bodies, their clothing, and their eating utensils, for the first time in many months. Jars of perfumed oil soothed weather-worn skin and gave sun-bleached garments a cheerful sheen.
Messengers went out from citadel and camp, bearing the news of the truce to the homelands of Tróya’s former allies, to distant Ak’áiwiya, and to the Náshiyan emperor. With each message went an urgent request. Food was needed, barley most of all. The islands of the Inner Sea could not supply enough and another harvest had been compromised. The specter of famine lurked behind the happy festivities.
In the Ak’áyan camp, Odushéyu directed the carpenters as they built a wooden image of a horse. It was a crudely shaped thing when finished, low and squat. It had none of the curves of the true animal’s body, but was as angular as a cart. Nevertheless, when placed on a donkey-cart at dusk, decked with ribbons of many colors, it seemed a glorious thing to the Wilúsiyans.
“Poseidáon is with us again!” the people of Tróya called to each other. Throughout that day and into the next, Wilúsiyans of lesser rank poured wine as a farewell gesture to the obelisks before the main gate. In family groups, clan by clan, they headed back to their homes beyond the walls of the fortress. The villages of the coastal plain, abandoned for so long, soon rang again with the sounds of voices and footsteps.
At nightfall of the second day of the celebrations, the citadel’s heavy gates were closed, the Tróyans safely inside, the Ak’áyans rested in their huts and tents. Odushéyu and Aíwaks went together by moonlight across the quiet plain. They waded across the Sqámandro, hardly more than a stream by that time. In the dim light, they traversed the rolling hills where so many of their companions and their enemies had fought and died. On the northwestern side of the fortress stood the narrow passageway, the Horse’s Leg. With the hair standing up on the back of their necks, the two Ak’áyans crept into the dark corridor. They held their shields up and glanced nervously at the battlements on the top of the walls, expecting to hear the whistling of arrows at any moment. The It’ákan wánaks called out in a loud whisper, “The Horse is coming!”
To their immense relief, Ainyáh appeared out of the deep gloom between the close walls. “Tomorrow night is the real thing,” he told them quietly. “Only my Kanaqániyans will be here, just as you see now. You will pass through this entrance unharmed. I swear it by Astárt, queen of the gods.”
aaa
At dawn, the wooden horse came to Tróya on its donkey cart, adorned with all its ornaments. Ainyáh’s Kanaqániyans floated the little wagon over the low river on inflated goatskins, so that it would not get stuck in the mud, and pulled it to the main gate of the citadel. The high-born men and women of Tróya poured from the city to meet the advancing image. With songs of praise for Poseidáon, they drew their new talisman into the fortress. Their bare-skinned children danced about their feet. And they all sang songs of thanksgiving and of welcome to the symbol of the god who shakes the islands.
By mid-morning, the troop leaders from both sides were sitting in Alakshándu’s mégaron, dining on lentils, figs, and bread baked from the last wheat in Wilúsiya. When the sun was high in the sky, their bellies full, the officers gathered before Tróya’s six shattered columns. They ceremoniously washed their hands, purifying their spirits, and poured as an offering to the deities. Recalling the hearths of their homes, each wánaks and qasiléyu, each prince and commander swore an oath of friendship, with the gods and goddesses of Assúwa and Ak’áiwiya as witnesses.
By late afternoon, the Ak’áyan encampment was burning, dilapidated huts disappearing in flames, the longboats in the harbor newly water-proofed with bitumen. One by one, the ships’ oars were f
astened in the oarlocks by thole-pins of oak and strips of leather. As the helmsmen called out the cadence from the platform at each stern, the men rowed their black ships out of the harbor and into the Inner Sea.
aaa
Once at sea, Agamémnon formally took possession of Néstor’s captive woman, ‘Ékamede. With a fierce look that chilled the old Mesheníyan, the overlord said that the woman had done him a great service in Wilúsiya. In gratitude, the high wánaks had sworn that he would return her to her father and her island home. Thoroughly disheartened, the white-haired Néstor did not dare question the action or object.
aaa
Alakshándu ordered Tróya’s remaining warriors to stand watch on the towers until the last Ak’áyan vessel disappeared beyond the headland. When the message came to the king that all were gone, the sun had begun its descent into the western sea. Relaxing at last, the watchmen returned to their houses to take off their armor and put away their spears.
Andrómak’e lulled her baby to sleep, keeping the little boy beside her in a bed now too big, too empty for comfort. She clasped the sheepskins beside her where Qántili used to lie beside her and pressed the wool to her face to smell his disappearing scent. As on previous nights, she cried herself to sleep, whispering to her sweetly slumbering baby, “I have no one in this world now, but you, Sqamándriyo. Owái, my Qántili, Antánor should have died instead of you! I would rather die now, too, than share that councilor’s bed.”