Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  “By ‘Aidé!” Aíwaks swore, his face growing pale. “A woman’s curses are the worst. Close her mouth before she dooms us all!”

  “Stone her!” the pirate’s men demanded. “Odushéyu, you must stone her and stop these curses or we are all damned!” The call was taken up by other Ak’áyans, first by the P’ilístas and Kep’túriyans, finally by all the foot soldiers, from north and south. “Stone her or we are all damned!”

  Undaunted by her threatened fate, Eqépa shrieked and struggled as madly as ever. Bitten by words that touched their deepest fears, Odushéyu’s men dropped the white-haired queen and she once more returned to the cluster of captives. Standing before the kneeling women of Tróya, Eqépa raised her hands to the heavens. “I have lost my husband and all my sons to you, lord Arét, king of the netherworld. I accept my loss. It was fate. Lady Préswa, you are welcome to my heart, now, too. Take me, great lady, take me. But let me see these foreign swine forever waiting to enter your lands. Do not let their worthless souls cross the foul waters of the Stuks. Close the gates of ‘Aidé’s citadel against them. Force them to wander the earth forever, in torment, thirsting always, forgotten by their descendants, suffering neglect throughout eternity. Sink their blasphemous ships, lord Poseidáon! Drag their filthy bodies down into the sea where they can never be buried!”

  “I will close her evil mouth!” Púrwo cried, alarmed at the fear that threatened to envelope the victorious forces. He raised his bloody sword and marched toward the former monarch with determined steps.

  She met his gaze as he came, unafraid of his, and stood her ground. “Send me to join my dear sons!” she shouted, her voice coarse, hardly human. “I am not afraid to die. By the will of the Dove, may you die before the holiest shrine of your own people. Yes, by the will of the Horse, may you perish at sea. May Préswa take your every child before she claims you. Let there be an end to your accursed family!”

  Aíwaks stopped the young T’eshalíyan and pulled the weapon from the boy’s hand. “You do the woman honor to take her life with bronze,” the tall man argued. “If she must die, we should give her a coward death, a woman’s death. Stone her!”

  Odushéyu paced among his men, waving his arms and yelling at them. “Eqépa is only a weak woman and an old one at that. She cannot fight with bronze, so she throws words! We are not afraid of tongues, are we? How can you be such weak fawns? She is my prize, my booty! Take her to my ship, I say. Do it now! Put her under the rowing benches. Tie her up and stuff her mouth with wool, if you want her silenced. I am no more concerned over her curses than I am to hear sheep bleating or dogs barking!”

  But his men hesitated, looking out at the gray sea and its white-capped waves. “Díwo rules the sky and protects us on the land,” Aíwaks reasoned, nervously pulling at his full beard. “But Poseidáon rules the sea and this is Poseidáon’s city that we just sacked.”

  “Agamémnon!” Odushéyu cried in desperation. “Wánaks, I supported you. Where is your support for me?”

  Meneláwo stood with his arms crossed on his chest, his wife now safely out of sight and encircled by his men. Untouched by the swirling passions of the crowd, he watched in silence as events unfolded, dropping no tokens into his brother’s helmet, claiming no further prized from fallen Tróya. But he nodded now at the Argive overlord. “The woman is Odushéyu’s rightful prize, to do with as he pleases,” the Lakedaimóniyan said.

  Even his words carried no weight with men facing the sea god anger. “The sailing season is over and we are at the mercy of Poseidáon’s storms,” Aíwaks roared to eager ears.

  Agamémnon forced a laugh and shouted, “We have destroyed a great fortress and taken control of the tin trade. All of Náshiya is at our feet, do you hear? We have vanquished the greatest empire in the world! How can fear an old, weak woman?”

  Odushéyu took hold of Eqépa himself, and when she still resisted, he tossed her up on his broad shoulder. “Dog! Jackal!” she shrieked, kicking and flailing until she unbalanced him and forced him to drop her. The It’ákan contingent rushed forward, pushing their wánaks out of the way, and hurled rocks until the queen’s furious screams were stilled forever.

  Shrill cries came from the captives, but silence from the Ak’áyans. “Ai, Odushéyu, that was bad luck,” Agamémnon commiserated, at long last. “But never mind. She was old and would not have lived long, anyway. Where is your token? Try again. Fortune may be kinder with your next allotment. There is another princess and several merchants’ wives still to be had.”

  Odushéyu cursed his assembled men as well as lady luck. But nothing could undo what had been done. As the high wánaks suggested, he placed his pebble in the overlord’s helmet for every woman and child on the field after that, each time raising his hand to his forehead and the sky, calling, “Lady At’ána!” Still, the goddess held his stone inside the head-piece at every turn. He received no compensation for the loss of Eqépa.

  Serving maids and merchants’ wives were allotted next, divided among the men according to the will of fortune. The dead prince Paqúr’s three boys were among the last captives. They stood naked but for their topknots and tears, holding onto each other’s arms. To the army’s displeasure, it was Púrwo’s pebble that flew from Agamémnon’s helmet. Idómeneyu cursed his own bad luck, when he read the name scratched on the small token. So disgusted was he with the goddess’s choice that he abandoned the field altogether and headed for his own campfire.

  Odushéyu turned on the high wánaks. “You are purposely holding my pebble in the helmet with your thumb,” the It’akán pirate accused the overlord. “The goddess loves me. She would not cheat me this way.”

  Agamémnon roared with righteous anger. “I have done no such thing. You are dancing with máinads now! If I wanted to cheat, I would grant the prize to my brother or myself, would I not? Why would I choose to honor that pup of a P’ilísta?”

  Infuriated northerners drew their swords at the insult and Agamémnon’s own tall qasiléyu joined them. “The choice is fair!” Automédon announced in a loud voice from among the T’eshalíyans. “The goddess honors Ak’illéyu’s glory.”

  Aíwaks added, “And the Great Lady punishes those who dishonor her. Was it not you who stole her Qalladiyón?”

  Odushéyu, too, drew his blade, his own men and much of the south assembling behind him. “And what did you do on her altar, with Kashánda? That was a worse sacrilege!”

  The men with feathered headdresses fell on the men from the western islands and the small kingdoms of the south. Even Idómeneyu returned to the assembly, spying the fray, to enter the fight with his men, southerners turning their heavy spears against the men of the north. Agamémnon bellowed at the battling men, assembling his large contingent with Diwoméde’s aid. But his Argive foot soldiers separate the angry factions only with difficulty.

  “Stop your fighting, men!” the overlord commanded. “Two royal Tróyans still remain to be allotted. They are mine by right, but, to show my good will and my generosity to all Ak’áyans, I offer them up freely as part of the allotment. I have one of Qántili’s brothers in my tent. He will be next. But no man who spills another Ak’áyan’s blood will be allowed to try for these last two captives. Put away your swords and spears. Bring your tokens for Erinu.”

  Disgruntled lesser wánaktes sheathed their weapons and their followers laid down their arms. Once more, Agamemnon’s helmet filled with inscribed pebbles. The overlord made a great show with his hands to allay fears that he was cheating. He held the headgear well above his head as he swirled the tokens, too. When the first pebble plopped to the ground, Agamémnon cried, “Behold the will of the goddess of fortune!”

  Idómeneyu spat after reading the stone. “Púrwo again!”

  The captive priest’s head dropped when he heard the name. “Préswa take him,” Erinu moaned, pulling his bound hands to his forehead. “Am I to serve the son of my brother’s murderer, the killer of my own father?” He was dragged, naked, to the P’ilísta�
��s largest ship and tethered beneath a rowing bench.

  “The king had one more daughter,” Agamémnon announced, hoping to head off further threats of violence. “Where is the youngest princess? Where is Piyaséma?”

  Although he did not mean to do so, Ainyáh turned to look behind himself, seeking to ensure that the young Tróyan woman was there. Odushéyu saw the Kanaqániyan’s eyes turn and quickly waded into the group of foreigners from the far southeastern land, to find the dark-haired princess. She shuddered and cried, three idols of baked clay in her arms.

  Ainyáh’s sword flew from its weather-beaten scabbard. “Stand back, Ak’áyan!” Tróya’s former ally shouted. “My household is off limits to your kind. Your commander swore an oath!”

  “Assúwans take no prizes here!” Idómeneyu bellowed. He pushed forward to stand beside the It’ákan wánaks. Both island kings were joined by their low-ranked followers, outnumbering the small band of Kanaqániyan mercenaries. Ainyáh called to Agamémnon, but the overlord did not stand by him.

  “The girl is Alakshándu’s daughter, not yours, Ainyáh,” the high wánaks announced. “Bring out Piyaséma.”

  With his father trembling at his back and his son clinging to his kilt, Ainyáh could not afford to begin a fight. With anguished eyes he watched the young princess dragged away. She wailed loudly, her eyes turned beseechingly toward the Kanaqániyan as the Ak’áyans led her away. She dropped the household idols her sister had entrusted to her and Ainyáh’s father knelt stiffly to gather them in his aching arms.

  The little boy at Ainyáh’s knee began to bawl, “Mamma! I want my mamma!”

  At the child’s call, Ainyáh looked around at his household, noticing for the first time that his wife was not there. “Kréyusa!” he gasped and a sudden rush of fear came over him. Piyaséma was instantly forgotten. Ainyáh turned back to the streets of Tróya and began to search through the smoke and rubble for the mother of his son. He called her name, shouting in terror at the sight of every bloodied corpse. But nowhere could he find his dark-eyed Kréyusa. Crackling flames were the only answer to his calls, along with muffled roars, as one after another timbered roof caved in among the abandoned houses.

  Out of the field, Aíwaks held the lucky stone, this time. Piyaséma went, sobbing, to his campfire, clutching at her shorn hair and digging with her fingernails at her smooth, young cheeks. Wíp’iya, bruised and weary, gave the younger woman little sympathy.

  “You thought to rob me, Agamémnon!” the giant roared in triumph, as T’érsite directed the princess away from the circle of warriors and toward the new encampment. “But lady Diwiyána chose to restore what the greedy wánaks stole.”

  “Watch your tongue, barbarian!” the overlord shouted in return, his reddening. “I have taken prizes from better warriors than you!”

  “Continue the allotment,” Idómeneyu demanded, as violence once more threatened to erupt among the varied contingents. “Kep’túr has not yet taken a war prize. I do not intend to go home empty-handed.”

  The small pile of valuables, mostly jugs of oil and wine, after so many months of war, was divided among the men according to rank. When the wheel of the sun’s chariot stood directly overhead, only the Qalladiyón remained to be given out.

  ”It is mine,” Odushéyu protested, when Agamemnon called for it to be brought forward. “I was the one who brought it out of Tróya. I risked my life for it, so I should keep it.”

  Aíwaks thrust his pebble close to Odushéyu’s face, clasped tightly in his fist, sneering, “And I say it is mine. I am the best fighter on the field and I deserve a prize of honor for that. I claim the Qalladiyón.”

  Both men dropped their markers in the overlord’s helmet. Agamemnon turned questioning eyes to his youngest qasiléyu, who had not yet spoken for a single item. But Diwoméde made no move to join the contest. When the high wánaks rattled the pebbles, Idómeneyu read the name of the It’ákan king on the small stone that bounced out onto the ground. Aíwaks cursed the islander and his own king both, throwing his headdress to the earth and stomping it into the dust.

  “Take the Tróyan horse,” Odushéyu suggested with a snort.

  Aíwaks laughed bitterly. “You would like that. The Qalladiyón has the true power of the goddess. It came from the heavens. But that ridiculous figure we made is worthless.”

  “It has also been burned to ashes by now,” Púrwo added, helpfully, coming to stand beside his adopted uncle.

  “Give me the idol or I will smash your face in!” the blue-eyed giant demanded. Once more, behind him, the northern troops roared their approval.

  “Aíwaks is the greatest hero left among us!” cried St’énelo, the southern charioteer.

  “Award our champion the prize!” added T’érsite, another southern foot soldier. “Give it to Aíwaks.”

  Increasingly, low-ranked men from the south added their voices to the din until Agamémnon stepped forward, beckoning to Diwoméde to do the same. “I cannot believe my ears today!” the overlord cried out with mock dismay. “Are you the men who feared Artémito and demanded that I sacrifice my own daughter to her? Are you the same believers who made me give up my hard-won prize to K’rusé’s Assúwan god? How is it that your fine piety fails you now, when Lady Fortune herself allots the booty according to her whims? Ai gar, so be it! Who am I to question the will of the army? Diwiyána has had her say. Now, the troops will have theirs. Men, you will vote to decide the fate of the Qalladiyón. Who deserves this prize?”

  Now Diwoméde came to life. Immediately, he answered in a loud voice, “I do! I have done as much for the success of this campaign as any man here. I took wounds and still fought in every battle when others stayed out of the fight.” He glared in the direction of Púrwo’s T’eshalíyans as he spoke. “And I accompanied Odushéyu on his secret mission to take the idol and to kill the Tróyans’ allies from the far north. But I have received no prize worthy of a champion.”

  Agamémnon raised his hands to quiet his young qasiléyu. “Now, who will speak for Odushéyu?”

  The pirate king spoke on his own behalf, describing in glowing terms his clever plan to steal the Qalladiyón, the great dangers of penetrating the enemy citadel, the harsh pains and acute humiliation he suffered in doing so, his crucial role in tricking the dastardly Tróyans with the ruse of the false idol of the horse, his great wisdom that now exceeded that of the aging Néstor, silenced by grief. Agamémnon nodded dramatically at every phrase as the It’ákan spoke, making a great show of his head movements so that every man would understand clearly which side he was on.

  Púrwo then strode to the center of the group and spoke briefly for Aíwaks, describing as best he could the champion’s courage and strength. His youthful voice was higher in pitch than the other men’s and he had not seen many of the great deeds that he told of, first hand, so that his story paled in the telling. Nevertheless, many men of lesser rank murmured their approval of his speech. Still, they dared not shout or raise their weapons over their heads as they would have liked, for fear of the overlord, who glared furiously at every approving sound.

  Diwoméde ended the debate when it again came his turn. “I concede to Aíwaks,” he said simply, hoping to sway his king.

  But Agamémnon awarded the Qalladiyón to Odushéyu once more, although Aíwaks turned purple and swore under his breath to spill the pirate’s blood. Púrwo and the T’eshalíyans clustered around the big man, clapping his back with their hands. “Uncle,” Púrwo told him, loud enough that all could hear, “do not let this loss embitter your heart. Today, you are no longer the least of Agamémnon’s Argives. You are a northerner by birth and Ak’áiwiya’s greatest living champion. We P’ilístas will share our own lesser prizes with you. We know that you deserved better than you received.”

  But Aíwaks would not be placated so easily. He continued to announce his disappointment to every man who came his way and did not long hold down the volume of his curses. “Odushéyu has cheated me for the last time!�
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  “No, Uncle, it is not Odushéyu who cheated you. It is the commander of the armies, the same man who dishonored my father,” complained young Púrwo. “Is it not strange that P’ilístas always lose in the allotment?”

  The big man snorted. “You did not do so badly, little P’ilísta!” he observed bitterly. Leaving his honorary nephew, he rejoined the last of his followers from the little island of Argive Sálami, making his way back to the newly rebuilt campfires.

  aaa

  It was late in the day when the allotment was completed, too late to begin the long journey home. It was not safe to sail by night, at that time of year, with winter’s fearful storms so close.

  On the beach, Agamémnon slept poorly and kept his youngest qasiléyu awake with his musings. “I must think about how to deal with Klutaimnéstra now,” the overlord told the young man. “She will not be pleased to see Kashánda enter Mukénai’s gate, not that it worries me. My wife has not shown much fondness for me since Orésta, our youngest, was born. But at least she tolerated me. If she gave me too much grief on any subject before, I had only to hit her a few times to silence her. It was not a bad life. But now, after this mess with Ip’emédeya...” He groaned at the memory. “By Díwo, I wish I had slit Qálki’s throat that day in Aúli!”