by Diana Gainer
"Boasting!" cried T'érsite, his bushy eyebrows raised. "If Agamémnon angered the gods, it was not with his words. It was because he killed his oldest daughter, his own flesh and blood!"
Diwoméde struck furiously at the laborer, knocking him down a second time. "It was his duty to sacrifice Ip'emédeya! The goddess of wild animals demanded it."
Again T'érsite sat up spitting. "Diwoméde, you have a temper just like your father! Ai gar, you should try to learn from his mistakes, not repeat them. Now, think about those events again. Remember how it was when all the Ak'áyan ships gathered in Qoyotíya, there in the north. The lady Artémito held back the wind and struck us with a plague. We can agree on that. Our seer told us that the goddess would not end our troubles unless Agamémnon sacrificed his oldest daughter. We can agree on that, too." As he spoke, he held out one hand and then the other, palms up, as if displaying the pair of facts on the calloused surfaces.
"I remember that well enough without you telling me," the younger man growled, picking at the earth with a twig.
"Of course," T'érsite said patiently. "But think now, what was it the men said after that?"
"They said that Agamémnon had to sacrifice Ip'emédeya and he did!" cried the qasiléyu, throwing his stick away.
T'érsite clapped his hands to his bare, dirty thighs, losing patience. "Ai gar, you are not listening to me. I want you to think of what the men were saying, the common foot-soldiers, not the troop leaders. It was the lawagétas who demanded Ip'emédeya's blood, not us. No, if any commoner had heard such a message about his own child, he would have gone home, I tell you. That is exactly what Agamémnon should have done. He was never intended to kill his daughter. No goddess wants to smell the spilled blood of a human sacrifice, not even the great mainád! No, Artémito's divine anger meant that we should not have gone to Tróya in the first place."
"Not go?" Diwoméde was astounded. "Abandon an Ak'áyan queen? Leave her a slave in Wilúsiya?"
The laborer shrugged his hairy shoulders. "It would not have been the first time such a thing had been done. After all, was it not an Ak'áyan who made Wilúsiya our enemy in the first place by abducting a Tróyan princess, all those years ago? If the legendary 'Erakléwe had not done that, a generation before, no Tróyan prince would have come to Ak'áiwiya to steal away our 'Elléniya."
Diwoméde shook his head emphatically, tossing his long, black hair. "We could not abandon the 'Elléniyan wánasha. It was a matter of honor. I will not listen to anything more about that point. Besides that, once we had taken our sacred oaths to take down the Tróyans, we could not turn around and go home empty-handed. No, Agamémnon had to sacrifice his daughter. There was no honorable alternative."
"Owái," groaned T'érsite. "Spoken like a true qasiléyu." In his black eyes, a grim light flickered. No longer cheerful, he spoke bitterly. "You men of rank are all alike. Honor is all you talk about. But think about what we did in Wilúsiya, once we achieved our goal. We burned villages and slaughtered most of the men in our foraging raids. There must have been no livestock on any of the islands of the Inner Sea by the time we sailed home. When Tróya fell, at last, what did we do with the women and children? I will tell you because I think your memory is especially weak on this point. Those women and children did not make war on Ak'áiwiya. But they suffered our vengeance just the same. We raped the women, some of them more than once. We killed the old and weak ones because they would not make good slaves. Only the littlest children were untouched."
Diwoméde turned away, hunching his shoulders. He rested his elbows on his knees and laid his head on his folded arms so that the laborer could not see his face.
"You can cover your ears and close your eyes," T'érsite continued, his voice rising, "but you know these things are true. High-born lawagétas love to talk about areté. But at heart both wánaks and qasiléyu are no better than the lowest shepherds. Some are worse. Some go so far as to kill their own daughters. No, Diwoméde, war and honor never come together."
Stung by the harsh words, Diwoméde lifted his head. "Shut your muzzle, dog!" he cried. "Some Ak'áyans did dishonorable things at Tróya. I will agree with you there because I have no choice. But it is the nature of war to bring out those who lack areté as well as though who revere it. If any man did evil, though, he is suffering now because of this endless drought. But that does not mean that every man should abandon the quest for honor. No, T'érsite, your arguments do not impress me. I know what you shepherds and pot-makers talk about. It is all 'O my dear wife and my sweet children,' and 'where is my soft bed?' and 'Let me fill my belly' and may Arét live with Préswa in the underworld!"
With a knowing look, T'érsite grunted. "In the months we camped beneath Tróya's walls you never thought of these things, never thought about your next meal or wished you had something softer to rest your head on than a pile of rocks?"
Diwoméde squirmed. "Of course, we all did. But there is more to life than such things."
"Yes, yes," said the older man, unimpressed. His waved his dirt-blackened hand toward the citadel above them. "Of course, there is always a building project, a new circuit wall to raise, or a new gate to be made in an old wall, or a new passage or another storeroom to be added. If you run out of hilltop to build on, then you can always set the men to digging tunnels, so they can discover how rabbits live, underground."
The qasiléyu grasped the laborer's arm with a firm hand. "You will be glad of those extra walls, one of these days, my friend. When I was a child, only those of highest ranks lived within the citadel walls. But wánaks Atréyu ordered the whole hilltop be rimmed with walls as wide as a man is tall, and more. He did this for the sake of the commoners, those men who wasted their lives dreaming of soft beds and full bellies. If Argo is attacked now, there will be room for all her shepherds and flocks, as well as the shepherds’ precious wives and children. Those new storerooms that you built will hold the grain and wine that we are always buying from the merchants who visit from the lands north and west of here. This food is not only for the bellies of the high-born, either, but for the common folk, so that the next miserable harvest will not mean another famine.
"That tunnel we are starting to work on is for all of the Argives, too. When we are attacked – and we will be, T’érsite, one of these day – we will be safe behind our walls. You will see that, because of all this building, we need have no fear of the sharpest spears or swords. Even so, if we run out of water, we are lost. So, this tunnel we are digging will lead to an underground cistern. When we are done with it, we will build a second one, just like it. Then, when our supplies of food and water are ensured, we will truly be safe, no matter who comes, and no matter if they besiege us, no matter if they anchor their ships in our harbor and blockade the port. We will outlast any enemy."
T'érsite listened with quite some surprise. The harsh light in his eyes died down. "Ai, Diwoméde, I always did say too much. My tongue is an evil serpent!"
Diwoméde sighed deeply, relaxing against the tree once more. "I do not blame you, T'érsite. At heart, I am not so different from you as you imagine. I am not Meneláwo or Ak'illéyu, married to a wánasha as soon as hair grew between my legs. No, I became a Wolf at fourteen years, and guarded the flocks before I cut my childhood locks of hair and became a man, just as you did. I ate the meat of the great bull sacrifice, to pass from Wolf to Man, too. There are still days when I wish I were back in the hills with the sheep, facing nothing more terrible than a wild boar." With his eyes fixed on the past, Diwoméde rubbed at the large scar on his shoulder.
T'érsite nodded in his knowing way and lay down. Draping an arm over his eyes, he said no more for a long while.
aaa
In the calm waters of the Inner Sea, a trio of longboats slowly made their way north. A single, square sail of rough linen billowed above each narrow vessel, allowing the bare-skinned oarsmen to rest. On the platform at the stern of the lead ship, Ainyáh took refuge from the sun in a small shed. Beside him sat Odushéy
u, sifting through his sack of Mízriyan jewelry.
"Put away your trinkets, pirate," Ainyáh snapped. "We are almost within sight of the fortress walls."
"Ai, you are an evil-tempered man," Odushéyu complained. But he did as the Kanaqániyan ordered, dropping the necklaces, earrings, and amulets into the goatskin bag and drawing it closed with a leather cord. "One day, that anger of yours will get you into trouble."
His companion gave a short laugh of derision. "You are a fine one to talk about trouble. I just hope you said nothing to betray me while we were in Lakedaimón."
The It'ákan's eyes widened, in a look of wounded innocence. "How can you accuse me of treachery? Did I not claim to be a Kep'túriyan merchant, just as we planned? When prince Megapént'e asked me if he and I had met before, did I not mislead him with stories of Mízriya's wonders?"
Ainyáh glared at the exile with mingled suspicion and doubt. "I heard your words and your tales, pirate. But how do I know that you did not secretly pass him some sort of token that would let the Lakedaimóniyan queen know who you really were? Your former wife was kin to her, was she not?"
Odushéyu dismissed that with a wave of his calloused hand. "Idé, even if I did, the woman is such a poppy-juice drunk, she would not recognize a token like that, any more than she would recognize me, after all these years. You saw how she was, spinning invisible threads, her mind away somewhere, dancing with the maináds. But I did nothing to upset our plan. After all, why should I?" he demanded, speaking ever more loudly, gesticulating angrily. "Do I not have reason enough to seek vengeance, just as much as you?
"Lakedaimón has given me nothing but grief, or have you forgotten? I will not even mention that miserable hag I married. But then, what happened after Penelópa threw me out of It'áka? I fought long, hard, and most loyally to restore what was Meneláwo's, at Tróya. How did he reward me, after all that effort? Did he help me regain my rightful place on the throne of the western islands? No! He gave me no ships or men, not a single one! Neither did Néstor or Agamémnon, Erékt'eyu or Panaléyo. I had the support of no Ak'áyan king but poor old Idómeneyu. That is precisely what caused Lady Fortune to abandon me, in the end, I am convinced of it. My men were overwhelmed by the Mízriyans' superior numbers. I should never have listened to that evil-hearted navigator about attacking the heart of the southern empire. We should never have gone so far south, never! We were doing fine assaulting the dependent cities on the islands and the coast nearby, but he insisted on going right into the river delta. Ai, but all that is over, now. Put your heart at rest, Ainyáh. Megapént'e did not know me. The boy is too young to remember me and the queen is as mad as a mainád."
The Kanaqániyan's heavy-lidded eyes narrowed over his prominent nose. "The old serving woman remembered me. That is certain. She may have known you, too, despite your changed appearance. There was nothing wrong with her mind, in any case."
The It'ákan threw his hands in the air. "Ai, you worry like an old woman yourself, Ainyáh. Who cares what a slave remembers?"
"I tell you, if Megapént'e discovers your true identity, there is nothing I can do about it. Someone is bound to recognize you, sooner or later. When that happens," he drew his dagger and pointed it at Odushéyu's face, "remember my vow to you, pirate. If you betray me, I will take my men to It'áka, sack your capital, rape your women, and feed them to the fishes. If that is not enough to dissuade you from evil, I will make you another vow. I will do the same to your son, I swear it by the Sqámandro River!"
aaa
As the Argive workmen napped beneath the olive trees, the sky above them remained clear and blue, the sea beyond empty of vessels. It was a peaceful scene, but the two men still awake were untouched by it. Still on his back, T'érsite asked the qasiléyu, "Do you think the old wánaks really killed his daughter?"
Diwoméde turned in irritation. "Of course, we saw Agamémnon raise the knife over Ip'emédeya. She was bound and gagged on the altar. His beard was drenched with tears, or did you not notice? He bent double over the girl when he brought the knife down because of the pain in his heart, I suppose. I still sometimes see that again, in evil dreams at night. Then he held up her heart, the blood dripping down to his elbows. How can you even ask such a question?"
"Ai, I am a foolish, old man," shrugged the laborer. He lifted the arm he had laid over his eyes just enough to peek beneath it. "Still, the wánaks was a crafty, old goat. Agamémnon did not want to sacrifice the girl, that was clear enough. Then, again, I have heard rumors that he substituted a deer at the last moment."
"A deer!? How could he do such a thing with everyone watching? You are right only about being foolish, old man." Diwoméde turned away from the laborer in disgust. After a short silence, the qasiléyu spoke again. "Still, if anyone could have done such a thing, it would have been Agamémnon." He considered the thought a bit longer, but then shook his head. "No, I cannot believe that. I saw Ip'emédeya on the altar and I saw the bleeding heart in the king's hands." He shuddered and rubbed his arms. "I can understand why Klutaimnéstra bore a grudge, though. Another man would have taken the seer's words to mean it was time to go home. You are right about that. Agamémnon sacrificed his daughter to ambition as much as to the goddess."
T'érsite grunted in agreement. He paused only briefly before asking, "Did Ip'emédeya bleed?"
Diwoméde was even more astounded at this question than he had been by the previous one. "Of course she did! How could Agamémnon cut out her heart without making her bleed? Let us talk about something else. I do not like to think about that day."
"But did you actually see her bleed?" T'érsite persisted.
The qasiléyu nodded, speaking through clenched teeth. "I saw blood drip from the heart, down to Agamémnon's elbows."
T'érsite's face split with a grin. "A deer's heart drips as much blood as a girl's. But did the princess herself bleed?"
Diwoméde covered his face with his hands and muttered a curse. "I remember the heart held up over Agamémnon's head. And I remember a snake that came from under the altar…"
T'érsite began to laugh. "Yes, yes, of course. The old dog held up the knife, very dramatically. Then he bent down to the ground, you see, reaching behind the altar where the girl was lying all tied up, to a box or bag, where he had his supplies all ready for the show. I have been thinking about this a lot, I am telling you. It was not his heart that hurt him, my boy, it was the need to reach down and grab a bleeding deer's heart that made him bend so low. So, he raised up the freshly killed hind’s heart, and, yes, the blood ran down to his elbows, again very dramatic, and we all looked at that. No one thought to check the girl lying there, as quiet and still as a sheaf of grain. Then the snake came out from behind the altar and what a thing that was! It was as big around as a woman's arm, we told each other that night. By the time we had been sitting in front of Tróya's gates for a month, we were saying that the snake was as fat as a man's thigh. Why, just yesterday, I told my son-in-law that it was as big as a horse and it had two heads!"
"By the gods," groaned Diwoméde. "What are you saying? That we imagined it? That it is all a lie? I know what I saw."
"Yes," the older man chuckled. "And no doubt you have seen many a serpent like that one, over the years, with bold stripes like that."
The kilted leader stared hard at T'érsite, perplexed. "No. No, I have not. In fact, I never saw a snake that big or that brightly colored, before or since. Even the house snakes of the palace are not that big, and they are fed milk every day, to honor the noble ancestors."
T'érsite rose quickly to squat beside Diwoméde, placing an eager hand on his lord’s scarred knee. "Listen, qasiléyu. There is only one place that has snakes like those. A merchant once told me that the Mízriyans worship a goddess called Wadít and they raise serpents in her honor in great, huge temples across the Great Green Sea. Now, suppose that when Agamémnon sent his messenger to Mukénai to fetch Ip'emédeya, he sent another, at the same time, all the way to Mízriya, to fetch this gia
nt, lovely snake. Suppose that when Ip'emédeya lay on the altar, tied up so that she could not move, her father had a freshly slaughtered doe behind it, or at least part of it, along with this very big snake, in a box or a basket, or something. He raised the knife very high so that we would watch him, he dropped the blade, bending low over it, so that we could no longer really see the bronze, and suddenly he brought up the deer's bleeding heart." T'érsite clasped his hands together over his head and dropped them suddenly, reenacting the events as he described them. "He raised the heart in the air so that we would look up at it and not down at his daughter, because she was still breathing and untouched. We thought nothing of her silence, because she was gagged, and we thought nothing about the fact that she was lying still, because she was all tied up! Then, suddenly, the serpent was out of the box, too, all of our eyes were on that. Ai gar, once that happened, little Ip'emédeya could have jumped up and danced naked on the altar, and no one would have noticed a thing, so auspicious was that omen!" He stood and trotted about, his arms held up at shoulder height, dancing a jig to emphasize his point.
Diwoméde was listening intently now.
"Now, consider this – where was old Meneláwo when all this was happening?" T'érsite went on, squatting down again, pointing a finger at the open-mouthed qasiléyu. "He was not with the men, in front of the altar, like all the other kings, was he? No, and what a strange thing that was! He was behind the altar, all that time, with Agamémnon, with his brother. He could have released the snake from the box, very easily, you know. Just think, man, we were not watching him. Nobody was! After all, Ip'emédeya was his flesh and blood, too, his niece, the daughter of his wife’s sister. Now remember, as soon as the snake came out, what did he do? Meneláwo jumped in front of the altar and pointed it out to us. He called it an omen, an auspicious one, and only then asked the seer to interpret it for us.