by Diana Gainer
When Megapént'e would have spoken again, the wánaks raised his hand and stopped his son. Looking instead at his It'ákan guest's expectant face, the battle-scarred king said, "I know why you are here, Qelémak'o. Odushéyu is across the Great Green Sea in Mízriya. Your father was driven out of his homeland by his wánasha and sailed to the big, southern island of Kep'túr. He joined forces with the Kep'túriyan king, Idómeneyu, who faced the same fate at the hands of his own rebellious people. The two exiled kings roamed the seas, raiding towns and cities of every land, until men feared their names on every shore of the Inner Sea. They sailed south in the end, not satisfied with the wealth of the whole Assúwan continent. The richest empire in the world has always been Mízriya and it was there that they went, at last. They were drawn south, across the Great Green Sea, by their insatiable thirst for bronze and for glory. But there Odushéyu’s patron goddess, At'ána, failed them. I will not offend you by arguing that dishonorable acts brought about their misfortunes. I do not believe such things myself. Would the Assúwan great goddess punish Odushéyu for stealing a holy Tróyan idol, but leave Ainyáh untouched when he delivered her city to its enemies? Certainly not. It was bad luck that led to your father’s misfortunes and that is all."
"Ai gar, wánaks Meneláwo," Qelémak'o said, growing angry once more. "I have learned nothing from you tonight, not even whether you will help me free my father. To hear you tell it, no one achieves areté but the war god, Arét himself. Are you saying that lady Diwiyána gives good luck to one man and bad luck to another, regardless of what they deserve? What nonsense is this? No immortal would behave so irrationally! By the gods, T'rasuméde and I might just as well have gone to 'Elléniya and listened to the seeress recite her inscrutable prophecies!"
At that, Ariyádna suddenly stood, her eyes vacantly fixed on a point unseen by the others. When she spoke, her voice rang out with authority. Her hands held up, her palms by her ears, the wánasha chanted in an unearthly tone:
"Warriors battle to possess the wánasha of the Fertile Land.
They bargain across the sea for the queen of the prophecy.
The warriors are death to the men of the Blessed Land.
To take possession, they sail, they bargain.
From the Isle of the Helmet they pour out for battle.
A message is sent to the Isle of the Tulip."
"Owái, woman, stop this prophesying!" Meneláwo howled, clapping his hands to his head. He stood and took his wife by the shoulders, shaking her. She looked at him, her face as blank and emotionless as a plaster statue. Cringing before that passionless stare, Meneláwo turned to the young men. "Leave my palace!" the wánaks cried in anguish. "I cannot help you, Qelémak'o, any more than I could help Idómeneyu. Odushéyu is in Mízriya, south of the Great Green Sea. Your father is a slave and cannot be ransomed. I know you want me to lead an Ak'áyan expedition to rescue him. But I can spare you no ships. It is all I can do to hold my own country of Lakedaimón together, in these unsettled times. If I go anywhere, it will be north to save my daughter. Go now. Go!" He waved his battered arms.
Ariyádna swayed and blinked rapidly, leaving her trance. "North?" she whispered, shivering. "Save…'Ermiyóna?"
"Come," Orésta hissed insistently. All four of the young men obediently left the throne room, casting dismayed glances at each other. In the dimly lit corridor outside the mégaron, Orésta put a sympathetic hand on Qelémak'o's high shoulder. "I know you are disappointed, but you must understand. My uncle does what he thinks is best for all of Lakedaimón. That is why the people here still support him, despite all the years of hardship. Commoners usually blame their wánaks when they have a bad harvest or any other calamity, saying that their king brought it on their land by angering the gods. But Meneláwo did not raid his neighbors when times were good. He did not even send raiders into the small and weak kingdoms. He always said that peace was the best guarantee of a full harvest and healthy flocks. No farmer or shepherd could disagree, even though his high-born qasiléyus grumbled about being held in their fortresses like sheep in a pen.
"When the Tróyans attacked us, ten years ago, he went to war with the full support of all the nobles and the common folk. In the end, my uncle took back what the Tróyans had stolen from him, but no more. That restraint gained him stature in the eyes of all the Lakedaimóniyans. They have always been a religious people and even the qasiléyus agreed that this land had earned more areté in the war than those who had taken home the most bronze.
"When Uncle Meneláwo came home after the war, he did not pretend that all was well. He knew that two harvests had been compromised. He fed the hungry from the stores of his own fortresses. Over the next years, he traded away all his bronze for barley from Qoyotíya or T'ráki. Every year that the drought continues, he has his carpenters build ships to carry people to the west, to settle where the rains still come, or to the east, where there is still enough wealth to buy Míziriyan grain. But my uncle will never go with these ships. He stays at home with his most loyal warriors, watching the coasts for sign of attack, guard those who choose to remain. That is his way. He loves Lakedaimón as he loves his queen. The people adore him for it. They will never rebel or drive him away, the way the people did elsewhere."
Megapént'e agreed. "And they love the wánasha. She is a holy woman, as all queens were in the olden time. She says that her abduction was the beginning of the end of the world. The cataclysm is coming that will destroy everything. Those words that she was chanting are from the prophecy of that final catastrophe, the one that made the island of 'Elléniya famous." He drew himself up proudly at that. "My father's wife is the greatest of 'Elléniya's many seeresses."
"You talk as if she were Mother Diwiyána herself or one of her maináds," Qelémak'o said with some surprise and not a little disdain. "But It'áka has a holy queen, too. My mother is a priestess also. So is Mesheníya's queen."
"We show our wánashas respect. We do not worship them," T'rasuméde clarified, testily.
Orésta's small frame shook as a high, piercing wail rent the air. All four youths looked back over their shoulders toward the closed door of the throne room. "My uncle must have admitted that he was going north to fight for 'Ermiyóna. Ai, the queen loves her daughter as much as Diwiyána loves her divine Kórwa. Sometimes I wonder if the wánasha really is one of the maináds. She looks at things that no one else sees. Like a goddess, she spins invisible threads. Who knows but what those may be the fates of men!"
"Do not talk that way," urged his cousin, shuddering at the thought. Megapént'e directed the group to the columned courtyard outside, where Ariyádna's frenzied cries could no longer be heard. "All over Lakedaimón, people have begun to talk of our wánasha as if she were a goddess. Everyone calls her the 'Elléniya but my father. She might be offended by the misuse of her divine name."
"But she is your own mother," cried Qelémak'o in disgust. "Are Lakedaimóniyans insane? Have all your people been caught by the maináds? "
"Lakedaimóniyans are no less sensible than It'ákans," Orésta answered irritably, seeing that Megapént'e beside him was balling his fists. "We do not know whether or not the 'Elléniya is a goddess. And neither do you. But everyone has heard of gods taking mortal shapes. My aunt could well be one of Diwiyána's hand maidens."
The visitors were visibly perturbed at the idea and said no more about the queen of Lakedaimón. "But the 'Elléniya is not our mother," Orésta went on, more softly. "The princess 'Ermiyóna is her only child. I am her nephew, the son of Agamémnon and Klutaimnéstra." He spoke the names of his parents gingerly, as if the sounds burned his lips.
Megapént'e continued, "And the serving woman, Kluména, is my mother. She was a wedding gift from wánaks Atréyu to his son, my father, the kind Meneláwo."
The It'ákan guest was shocked. "You are a bastard, Megapént'e?" the tall prince gasped. "But you live in the palace as if you were the king's legitimate son."
Knowing that the Lakedaimóniyan prince would ta
ke offense, T'rasuméde hastened to add, "My friend has no manners, I am afraid. That is what happens when a boy grows up without a father. Still, Megapént'e, you must admit, it is not often that a concubine's son lives as a prince. Most queens would take that as a blow to their honor."
As eager to avoid more violence as the visitor, Orésta hastened to explain. "You heard what my uncle Meneláwo thinks of areté. It is elusive at best and at worst only an illusion. What is foremost in his mind is what is practical. A woman needs brothers to protect her. The wánasha could not give him sons to protect their daughter, so he brought Megapént'e into the palace. And the queen adopted him for that same reason."
T'rasuméde nodded understandingly. "These days many wánaktes do the same. Each wants a daughter, but just the one to carry the kingship on through the family. For the rest, they want sons to command their fortresses and to go abroad for bronze. What is amazing is not that king Meneláwo wanted you in the palace, Megapént'e, but that his wánasha agreed."
"I will ignore the insult," Megapént'e announced magnanimously, despite his irritation. "As for the 'Elléniya's consent, well, she, too, can be practical, especially when it comes to her daughter. Besides, my mother went to Tróya as a captive, too. She suffered everything that the queen did."
"All this is very interesting," Qelémak'o said impatiently, "but what good does it do me? Is my father any closer to freedom?"
Orésta shrugged, fixing the tall guest with a cold eye. "We were ready to go with you to Mízriya, Qelémak'o. You told us your story and we wanted to help rescue your father. But you did not listen to my advice, did you? You did not embrace the wánasha's knees and gain her sympathy. If she had asked my uncle to help you, he could not have refused. No, you had to do things your own way. Instead, you started a brawl and upset her. And the one thing that Uncle Meneláwo cannot bear is the sight of his wife's tears."
Megapént'e agreed. "I know my father. He may not have been sure which course to take before, but he is decided now. He will go north to see about his daughter. Either Orésta or I will go north with him, while the other stays here to protect the queen. Neither of us can help your cause now."
"But what is all this talk of 'Ermiyóna?" cried Qelémak'o, slapping his thighs in distress. "I thought your sister was married. Is her own husband not looking after her?"
"She is married, yes," answered Orésta, growing annoyed, "and she is in T'eshalíya, where the drought has not been so severe. We thought she was safe and that she could stay in the north until our wánasha died. Then she and prince Púrwo would come back to Lakedaimón to rule. But her husband is now making war on Qoyotíya like the great fool that he is. Regardless of whether my uncle sides with Qoyotíya or T'eshalíya, his daughter is no longer safe. Without brothers or her husband close by to protect her, 'Ermiyóna's very life is endangered."
"T'eshalíya!" cried Qelémak'o still more loudly. "Ai, with you Lakedaimóniyans it is one madness after another. How could you marry a southern princess to a northern kingdom? By the gods, T'eshalíyans are practically barbarians!"
"And with you It'ákans it is one insult after another!" Megapént'e shouted back.
Barely restraining his cousin, Orésta held Megapént'e back, preventing him from landing a fist on the visitor’s still-pristine nose. "Should we have kept 'Ermiyóna here to starve in Lakedaimón?" the small prince demanded of the It'ákan. "Or should we have sent her to some island king, like yourself, to be carried off into captivity, like her mother? Or are you suggesting that we should have sent her to Argo, marry her to Diwoméde? Ai, he may be the best qasiléyu in all of southern Ak'áiwiya but he can barely keep his own fortress from being overrun by pirates."
"You could have sent her to Mesheníya," offered T'rasuméde, bitter and as angry as his host's son and nephew. "My father has three unmarried sons for your sister to choose from. If her P'ilísta husband now gives her trouble, you have only yourselves to blame."
Megapént'e and Orésta exchanged anguished glances. "Ai gar, it is not as simple as that," the smaller youth groaned. "Meneláwo once promised 'Ermiyóna to me. But I am not welcome in Argo since my mother remarried. If I took Lakedaimón's throne, the Argives would probably march south and overrun the land. I could not protect her."
With a hand on his cousin's slender shoulder, Megapént'e added, "No southern wánaks could ensure 'Ermiyóna's safety, no, T'rasuméde, not even your father, Néstor. Mesheníya is no better off than Lakedaimón. Your lands may have seen more rain than ours, but have they produced any more grain? Ai, what with It'ákan claims to your lands, refugees forming bands of marauders crossing the fields in every direction, and rebellious commoners refusing to pay their taxes, what kind of security would 'Ermiyóna have there? Your capital city does not even have walls and cannot be defended properly. Wánaks Néstor was a powerful ruler in his prime. But he is an old man and weak, now. Your father cannot so much as walk to the seaside without a hundred armed men to protect him."
"Púlo needed no walls until your kinsman brought disaster on Ak'áiwiya with his crimes!" the enraged Mesheníyan youth hurled back. "Agamémnon's soul should have been cursed to wander forever, never allowed within the walls of 'Aidé!" For a second time that evening, the young men fell on each other, kicking, hitting, and biting.
aaa
Far to the south, across the Great Green Sea from Ak'áiwiya's many warring kingdoms, Qelémak'o's enslaved father had no more luck than his son. There was fighting in the Mízriyan royal palace, with more deadly effect than in Lakedaimón. Guarding the entrance to the women's quarters, Odushéyu heard the unmistakable sounds of a conflict he could not see. His head and beard shaved, the former king of the It'ákan isles anxiously hitched up his white kilt, straining his eyes and ears so as to guess the outcome of the battle in the main building beyond the door he guarded. Metal struck metal with resounding clangs, men's cries of agony and of exultation punctuating the rising tumult. Furniture crashed against walls and doors were flung open to bang against walls of sun-baked brick. The palace windows, high in the white-plastered walls, gave no glimpses of the melée. Odushéyu hopped from one sandaled foot to the other, trying to decide whether to run, or to stay and join the fight himself.
He looked at the slender javelin, thee shaft of which rested in his right hand, the bronze point polished to a sheen. It was more ceremonial than real, this emblem of his position. Undoubtedly the arrows of Mízriya's famed archers would finish him before he would have a chance to wield the flimsy weapon, he decided. The back of his neck prickled at the thought.
Men began to run from the palace into the great courtyard where Odushéyu stood. High-ranking officials in diaphanous gowns rushed into the neat gardens in the big opening, calling upon Mízriyan gods. Long, heavy wigs of dark, curled hair fell unheeded from the heads of the high-born men, as they frantically sought to escape from the slaughter in the king's palace.
Tame monkeys screamed, startled in their leafy homes in the palm trees lining the courtyard. The tramp of many feet grew louder. "General Satí!" cried a fat official, stumbling backward from the palace. Slowly he dragged himself through the courtyard, gripping his ample belly, bending ever closer to the ground with each hesitant step. A trail of dark blood poured over the man's soft hands, plastering the translucent linen of his outer gown to his flesh. The shorter kilt beneath the gown was washed with crimson and the wig fell from the dying man's head. At Odushéyu's feet, the official collapsed. "It is general Satí," he managed to gasp, gazing up at the slave. "King Siptáha is doomed. Save the queen…"
Odushéyu cried out in alarm when he spied flashing blades through doors hastily flung open on the distant side of the courtyard. He threw open the gate to the harem, and shouted, "Run for your lives, ladies! The king is dead! Satí has come!"
Inside the high-ceilinged room, slender women in long wigs and diaphanous gowns glanced at each other in fear and dread. Eyes painted with kohl widened and lips reddened with ochre opened to panic stricken voices.
The embattled monarch's concubines dropped the musical instruments they had been playing moments before. The women fled the building, screaming, clad in nothing but their ribbons and transparent robes. The royal wives, no less distraught, rushed through the double doors behind their lesser ranked sisters. Sandals, newly woven of reed and rush, adorned their feet and lumps of perfumed fat sat atop their wigs, salving parched skin as they melted. But these women remained in the courtyard, trampling the fresh-cut flowers that had been strewn there earlier that morning, and clutching at each others' arms. Tossing dirt upon their perfumed heads and tearing their fine clothes, they bewailed the fates of their children, still in the larger palace, their fates unknown but surely evil.
"Go! Go!" Odushéyu urged them, waving his arms at the princesses, as if they were so many geese. "There is nothing you can do here. Run, while you have the chance. You will all be killed."
While some fled the way the concubines had gone, a few could not bear to leave their little ones behind. They called to one another and to the gods, alternately shrieking in fear and sobbing in anguish for their lost sons and daughters. When they did not respond to his gestures or cries, the slave at the gate dragged or drove them from the palace grounds with his fists. Through ornately painted hallways they ran, into storerooms, across rows of potters' workshops, wine-makers' vats, more courtyards and gardens, and into yet more workshops of every description.
At the edge of the last courtyard, Odushéyu turned around, hesitating to make his escape. "Ai gar," he complained to himself, "what is wrong with me? I should leave the high queen to her fate and go while I still can." Not certain himself why he did so, he returned to the gate that it had been his duty to guard for the last ten years. Back at the house of the women, only the chief royal wife remained. She was a tall woman for a Mízriyan, and her face was deeply lined with advancing age. Atop her long wig lay a golden vulture, its gleaming wings draped over her ears, its metal head rising above her forehead.