by Diana Gainer
"Lady Tusirát," Odushéyu groaned breathlessly, at the sight of his mistress. "Why are you still here?"
The woman sat morosely in a wooden chair carved with scenes of her royal husband raising a hand to crack the skull of captive Assúwans. "My place is in the palace," she answered grimly. "I refuse to leave."
"But lady," the slave argued weakly, glancing over his shoulder, filled with wordless anxiety.
"I am king Siptáha's co-regent," Tusirát noted quietly. "May he have unending life, health, prosperity." She recited the formula with bitter irony, seeking Odushéyu's dark eyes with her own. "General Satí cannot let me live if he is to be king. And with him against me, there is no place in all of Mízriya where I will be safe."
"To 'Aidé with you, woman!" the slave cursed and raised a fist. To his surprise, Odushéyu could not bring himself to strike her, as he had the lesser wives. "Come north with me," he pleaded, hearing the sounds of advancing footsteps. "I will take you across the sea to Ak'áiwiya with me. Satí cannot touch you there."
The woman shook her head with a contemptuous smile. "What, and live among barbarians? No, my foolish Udu, Mízriya is my homeland. I will never leave it."
From outside the walls of sun-baked brick rose the sounds of feet, the clatter of metal, and the thudding of wooden spear shafts against leather shields. The main fighting seemed to be over in the palace. Calls of commanders to their men rang out in the courtyard. "By the head of the god Díwo, you are the worst woman in the entire world!" Odushéyu cried, clapping his hands to his head. "You will be the death of both of us if you do not come away with me now!" He could hardly keep his feet still, practically dancing in place, in his eagerness to be gone. Even so, he could not bring himself to leave the woman behind.
"Go, my Udu, I release you from your slavery," Tusirát said, grimly calm. "Save yourself."
The It'ákan argued no further. Although the queen's courage moved him in a way he scarcely understood, after so long in his debased role, he could not resist snatching a handful of jewels from the coffers by the harem's back exit.
By the end of the month, Odushéyu was spreading out those same trinkets of gold and lapis lazuli, of silver and carnelian, ebony and ivory. On the wooden dock of a northern port, the slave emptied the valuables from a bag of dirty leather and ran his grubby hands over them. "Look at them, Ainyáh," Odushéyu urged his companion eagerly, anxiously polishing an earring on his stained kilt. "The queen of Mízriya herself gave me these, the best of her treasures, out of her love for me. It is enough to ransom an emperor, let alone an exiled king of a few islands. They are yours, all of them, if you will give me passage in your ship, back to Ak'áiwiya. I do not insist that you ferry me all the way west to It'áka. That would be too much to ask, even of an ally and close friend such as yourself. Just take me to the Ak'áyan mainland, say to Argo."
Ainyáh viewed the valuables with scorn. His deeply lined face betrayed no warmth of feeling for the It'ákan. "I have traded better jewels than these for half a sack of wheat, Odushéyu. You will have to offer me something better than this."
Odushéyu clapped his hands to his balding head, trying in vain to grip the gray stubble just beginning to show above his ears. "I ask you this every year, Ainyáh, with more riches each time. But always you refuse me. Are we not still allies? Did we not swear oaths over the ashes of Tróya, pledging to assist each other to the ends of our lives? You should take me back to Ak'áiwiya without any payment at all! But now, out of the goodness of my heart, here I am offering you the finest treasures in all of Mízriya, straight out of the royal coffers! You must help me, Ainyáh, you must! If I do not leave now, I will be killed, I tell you. General Satí has come from the south and sacked the palace. It is a miracle I survived this long. Ai, if it were not for lady At'ána's divine guidance, I would never had gotten this far north. But now I am at the end of my rope. I have no kinsmen to turn to in this accursed place. My loyal followers are enslaved, as helpless as I am. Ainyáh, I am telling you, I was one of the most trusted men of the queen of this whole place! But there has been a slaughter of the whole royal family. Now, I am a dead man, unless you save me. Ai gar, Ainyáh, I knew you were a mercenary, but are you made of stone?"
"So we were allies and friends, were we?" the other man responded, unmoved by the It'ákan's dramatic, emotional appeal. "I remember my oaths and yours. Do you? Yes, we pledged our respective lands as allies at the fall of Tróya. We certainly fought together after the war. But I am not a native of Wilúsiya, or have you forgotten? I was born and raised in Kanaqán. When I left you, years ago, I gave my Wilúsiyan warriors over into your hands. 'Lead them anywhere you please,' I told you, 'anywhere but Kanaqán.' You swore me an oath at that time, a sacred vow, that you would do as I bid you. But someone pillaged and burned every single coastal city in my homeland very soon after I returned to Wilúsiya. Tell me, now, Odushéyu, who was it who did that? Who?"
"Owái, my friend, how would I know?" Odushéyu wailed, throwing his arms wide. "Why do you ask me this, again and again? It could have been anyone! It might have been renegade Lúkiyans. Or, or, again, it might have been those wild dogs of Ashúr, perhaps. They attacked and killed whoever they ran into, did they not? That was ten years ago and so far away! How can any man hope to discover the culprit at this late date? But I had nothing to do with it, I swear by the head of Díwo himself!" He knelt at Ainyáh's feet and embraced the man's knees. With tears in his eyes, Odushéyu begged, "Take me home. Kill me there, if you still cling to this vile suspicion. But take me back to Ak'áiwiya. At least let me die where my kinsmen will give me a proper burial."
Ainyáh spat, pulling away from the weeping It'ákan. "If I take you with me, what will you give me in exchange? I am a merchant as well as a mercenary. I do nothing without payment."
Still on his knees, the former pirate instantly forgot his misery. He began gathering the jewels into their leather container. "I know where the king's concubines went," he suggested, wiping his nose with the back of one hand. "I could take you to them. They were all exquisitely beautiful, skilled at music, dancing, and love-making."
"There are more than enough women in Tróya," the other snapped. "Besides, I want to be out of this oven of a country, as soon as possible. This general you speak of may have proclaimed himself king, but it seems to me that no one is in charge. I have enough barley now and I want to be gone before anyone tries to steal it."
"I know who has the Qalladiyón!" Odushéyu cried, in sudden excitement at the thought. "The land of Wilúsiya has suffered terribly without its holy idol, or so I hear. If I tell you where the thing is, perhaps you can get it from him and make your adopted country prosper again."
Ainyáh was only mildly interested. "It might be worth the effort. Then again, it might not. Either way, that is not enough. If I am to carry you all the way across the Great Green, from Mízriya to Ak'áiwiya, I will have to risk the open sea and who knows how many pirate ships. What is worth risking my life and all this grain?"
The exile rose to his feet with a bitter groan, his shoulders drooping. "Vengeance is worth it. Yes, Ainyáh, this time I will agree with you. I will help you get your revenge for the atrocities my people committed at the sack of Tróya. I do not believe the gods are on your side in this. I have told you countless times that it was the P'ilístas who dishonored our agreement and I am sure it was one of them who killed your wife. But I will not argue with you any more. You have worn me down. Take me to Ak'áiwiya and I will do whatever you ask of me."
Ainyáh smiled, the harsh lines deepening in his hollow cheeks.
aaa
At that moment, Qelémak'o and T'rasuméde were sailing westward with bruised ribs and faces, unaccompanied by Lakedaimóniyan ships. In the south-facing harbor of his capital city, king Meneláwo's own fleet of longboats lay at anchor. His warriors had taken their places on the rowing benches lining the sides of the sleek sailing vessels. Their heads were visible from the shore, as they sat in the summer sun, bare-
skinned, their hands on the long oars. On a platform, at the stern of each pitch-blackened ship, stood the helmsman with his extra-long steering oar in his hand.
Watching from the shore, the 'Elléniyan queen stood, dreamily twisting a lock of her hair around and around her finger. Her pale cheeks were scratched and her eyelids were puffy and red from weeping. But poppy-tinged wine had softened the sharp edge of her sorrows and she looked out over the ships with dry, if clouded, eyes. Kluména, clad only in her simple, ankle-length skirt, as always, supported her.
"I will guard Lakedaimón with my life, Father," Megapént'e announced stoutly, standing beside the queen.
"Just keep the wánasha safe," Meneláwo whispered in the young man's ear. "And watch over your mother."
"We sail first to Tíruns," the wánaks told his nephew, a little later, as the oarsmen directed the ships over the sea, "to rendezvous with my ally in Argo."
Orésta was astonished. "Ally? Wánaks Aígist'o may be your kinsman and he may bribe you with sacks of grain so that you will not attack him. But you cannot trust him to support you in war."
Meneláwo shook his graying head. "You think very little of me, Orésta. I bowed to expediency ten years and abandoned your father to his fate, I know. Ai, well, you are a young man. I do not expect you to understand. But we are not going to Mukénai. Even I would not condescend to visit my brother's murderer in his own capital city. No, we are going to Tíruns on the coast, and no further. There we will visit your half-brother. It is qasiléyu Diwoméde who is my ally."
CHAPTER TWO
T'ERSITE
On a rocky hillside, overlooking the sea, a small crowd of laborers toiled. Their bare bodies were dark from long hours in the sun and they gleamed with sweat. With ropes and wooden levers, they pushed and pulled several large stones up the slope on wooden sledges. Embedded in the packed earth of the path were cross timbers, unevenly spaced. Over these, boys accompanying the men poured water, to ease the friction created by the movement of stones over the wood. As the men worked, they chanted in unison, breaking the rhythm of their song with grunts of effort.
On the crest of the low lying hill, there stood a man in his early thirties. He wore a dusty kilt, woven in stripes of blue and yellow, its hem fringed. Unlike the workers, he had sandals to protect his feet. But he, too, was hot, perspiration gluing his black hair to his forehead and neck.
"You there!" the kilted man shouted, gesturing toward the biggest of those who pulled the ropes. "T'érsite, put your back into it!"
The man he had addressed threw the rope down from his burly shoulder. "By all the gods, you are a hard master, Diwoméde! Do you want us all to die of thirst? Or do you prefer sunstroke?" Around him, other bearded laborers let down their heavy cables and rough levers, angrily calling out their agreement, wiping their damp foreheads.
Diwoméde began to descend the northern crest of the hill, approaching the bellowing workers. "You will continue until I say it is time to rest," he called. In spite of his sandals, he navigated the slope with difficulty, a pronounced limp slowing his progress.
Watching Diwoméde's painful march, the laborers grew quiet. By the time he came face to face with T'érsite, Diwoméde was breathing hard and sweat dripped from his nose and bearded chin. From close up, the workers could see the many battle scars on their leader's body, a large knot on one shoulder, the man's mangled right foot missing four toes, and countless smaller lines on his arms, ribs, and shins. Just before the gathered men, Diwoméde stopped and rested his hands on his knees, coughing and trying to catch his breath.
The naked workman who had started it all watched in silence a moment. T'érsite scratched at his thinning mop of gray hair, fearlessly asking, "Or is it your wish that we watch you die of sunstroke? Ai gar, a good qasiléyu stands up for his men, against the overlord, if necessary. A true leader does not sacrifice his loyal followers."
Diwoméde managed a short, harsh laugh from his bent position. "Loyal! Since when have you been a loyal follower, T'érsite?"
Other men laughed as well. Unfazed, T'érsite crossed his heavy arms on his chest. "I followed king Agamémnon to Tróya and back and took my share of Wilúsiyan bronze while I was at it, the same as you, Diwoméde."
Diwoméde had recovered enough to stand erect. "Idé, I remember seeing you at Tróya," he responded, with some heat. "What I remember is a waggling tongue and a slow spear. But I do not remember you taking any bronze, or a wound, for that matter."
T'érsite shrugged and dropped his eyes under the leader's angry glare. "As you say, I took no wounds. But, is it my fault the goddess of fortune was with me?" His eyes wide with a look of exaggerated innocence, he threw both his beefy hands in the air.
Diwoméde laughed with greater merriment this time and the crowd joined him. The kilted leader clapped the workman on the shoulder. "All right, you will have your time for rest and for food and drink. Ai, I cannot believe I listen to such a lazy coward as you, T'érsite."
Leaving the massive stone blocks on the path where they stood, the laborers happily trotted down the hill to a grove of desiccated olive trees in the little valley below. In the shade of those broad, leafy limbs, the workmen lay down to rest, sipping watered wine from goatskin bags that they had left there earlier, and munching on dry bread.
T'érsite drew Diwoméde's arm over his shoulder and helped the younger man the rest of the way down the slope. "Diwoméde," said the workman, "I talk loudly, true enough. But you know I will always follow you. After all, we are kinsmen."
Diwoméde looked askance at the nearly toothless grin beside him. "What do you mean, kinsmen? I am the son of Tudéyu."
T'érsite chuckled. "Yes, and I am the son of Kapanéyu." He winked and added, "Both of our mothers gave birth before they were six months along, too, and we survived, even so. What a miracle!"
In disgust, Diwoméde spat and pulled away from the older laborer. "You are suggesting that we are bastards. But I once heard of a child who was born in the sixth month who survived for a few days, at least. Such a thing is possible."
T'érsite's overhanging belly shook with uproarious laughter. "Ai, yes, and I have heard of men living on the rim of the world, who are as tall as trees. Each one has a single eye in the middle of his forehead, as big and round as a wagon wheel." He cupped his hands at his own moist forehead to demonstrate and guffawed again at the thought. "That pirate, Odushéyu, used to say that he traded with those round-eyes, those Kuklóqes." More quietly, he put a hand on the knot of scar tissue at Diwoméde's shoulder, adding, "But you and I know it was really Agamémnon who fathered you, while Tudéyu was across the sea."
Again, the younger man shook off the laborer's hand. Still, Diwoméde did not argue. He sought a shady place a little distance from the others and sat down, leaning his back against a rough tree trunk.
T'érsite, ever undaunted, squatted close beside him lord, resting his elbows on his knees. "In the same way, Agamémnon's father, Atréyu, visited my mother when Kapanéyu was away from home. So, in truth, I am Agamémnon's brother." His smile widened, revealing a lone, blackened tooth on one side and his eyes disappeared in crinkled skin. "Diwoméde, I am your uncle."
The kilted leader had frowned most of the way down the hillside and had seated himself with the same grim face. At T'érsite's revelation, the younger man suddenly burst into laughter. With a hard blow, he knocked the workman on his side in the sparse undergrowth below the tree. "Ai gar, T'érsite, you will die of old age before I call you kinsman. You are no uncle of mine."
The heavy set laborer sat up, spitting twigs and dirt, but grinning as broadly as ever. "No, no, you will see. Some day, Agamémnon's people will return to his kingdom and throw the wánasha out into the streets. When Klutaimnéstra is gone from the palace, once again it will be a good thing to be kin to the wánaks who led all of Ak'áiwiya to glory."
Diwoméde's smile abruptly disappeared. Solemnly, he looked down at the dry earth and sighed. "I do not think so, T'érsite. If Klutaimnéstr
a did not have the gods on her side, she would not have been able to kill Agamémnon as soon as he returned from Tróya. Ten years ago, he seemed to be at the peak of his strength. Owái, who knew that the sack of Tróya meant the end of a united Ak'áiwiya and not the beginning?"
Beside him, T'érsite's smile faded, too. Silently, he nodded at Diwoméde's words. For a long moment, nothing more was said. The distant sounds of relaxed voices and bird song filled the air. The droning of cicadas lulled tired workers to sleep in the heat, one by one.
Above the men resting in the olive grove, there rose the hill with the citadel encircling its crest. High walls of limestone radiated the heat of the day, the walls on the north gleaming with the newness of their ashlar facing. Rising well beyond the height of a man, the stone was topped with still taller structures of baked brick. On the uppermost surface, beneath a flat, wooden roof, men rested their bows of ibex horn and quivers of arrows, as they watched the approach from the Inner Sea nearby.
Diwoméde kept his eyes on the fortress walls and spoke quietly to the workman lazily gumming his bread at his side. "I will never forget the events of the Tróyan campaign, T'érsite. Such a war we will never see again, I think. After all our sufferings across the Inner Sea, and all our troubles getting home again, I thought the great goddess was with us. Surely nothing worse could happen, I believed. So did king Agamémnon. He was planning to make war in the east again, the following summer, remember? He claimed he would take the whole Assúwan coast and start his own Ak'áyan empire, a third great realm to rival Náshiya and Mízriya! Owái, if only he had not said that! I am sure that was what doomed us. The gods do not like boasting."