Conspiracy of the Islands (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  Filing past, the troop leaders of both sides dipped their hands in the liquid, put their lips to it, and shook a few drops to the ground from their fingers. As each did so, he swore, "I accept the result of the combat as Díwo's will. If I break my oath, may my blood be spilled in this same way."

  When all had sworn their oaths, Panaléyo delivered the bowl, the sheep's carcass, and the remainder of the wine to the women, waving them back up the hillside to the city, accompanied by an aging qasiléyu. Púrwo took up his shield and spear and impatiently scuffed his sandals against the earth, waiting for them to be gone.

  As the women began to climb the stepped path, lifting their heavy skirts to their knees, Panaléyo took up his shield and turned it, strap side up, between his hands. "Which one of us will strike first? Put your token on my shield and we will let the gods decide."

  Púrwo cut a single bronze scale loose from his tunic and dropped it on his opponent's shield. Panaléyo took a large gold ring from his thumb and placed it alongside the small, metal plate. Holding the shield above his head, he called, "O Lady Fortune, make your choice!" He gave the shield a quick shake as the soldiers called out the names of their respective champions, urging the goddess to choose their man.

  "Choose Púrwo!"

  "At'ána, let it be Panaléyo!"

  Panaléyo's ring bounced from the shield first, to the cheers of his troops and the groans of Púrwo's. But the T'eshalíyan wánaks only spat contemptuously, taking his place on the fighting ground, unafraid. The Qoyotíyan king quickly thrust his spear at the younger champion. Púrwo's shield deflected the blow and he shoved his own lance forward in a quick response. Panaléyo dodged the blade, swinging his arms wide as he turned in a fast circle, coming to stand right beside his opponent. The unusual movement caught Púrwo by surprise and the Qoyotíyan's spear caught the younger man's jaw, slicing a gash across his cheek and ear. The young prince man cried out in pain and shock, but thrust again with his own weapon in response.

  Púrwo's men rose to their feet with anguished calls to the gods, at the sight of their leader's blood. Arrows leaped quickly from T'eshalíyan bows, landing with quiet thumps in Panaléyo's neck and thigh. The king fell heavily, gurgling, a strangled cry unable to pass his lips. The shield and spear dropped from his hands and he clutched at his neck as blood streamed over his chest. Several Qoyotíyans rushed forward with their shields, to protect the wánaks from further wounds. But in a moment Panaléyo was dead. The battle began in earnest over his corpse.

  Furious spearmen lunged at the undefended bodies of the T'eshalíyan archers, since a bow takes both hands to use. Púrwo's troop leaders led their foot-soldiers to where their countrymen died and, with jabbing blades, the T'eshalíyans took revenge. Erk'omeníyo, the gray-headed troop leader of the northern kingdom, hurried the wailing wife and daughters of the dead king up the steps toward the fortress with many fearful glances over his shoulder. T'eshalíyan arrows flew after them. The darts soon downed the qasiléyu and the heavy-set queen, when they had yet to cover half the distance to the safety of the gate. One of the younger princesses fell with an arrow in her back as well, and she sprawled, screaming, on the steps, as her sisters fled in a panic above her.

  The Qoyotíyan warriors of the citadel had eaten little, preparing for a long siege, while their enemies had feasted on plundered livestock. With their bellies full, Púrwo's soldiers moved more quickly and thrust their spears with greater strength. Panaléyo's death was a hard blow to his men, too, and there was no single qasiléyu who was clearly in charge now that he had fallen. The Qoyotíyans soon retreated toward the safety of their city walls, running up the hillside toward the wide open gates. Some flung their shields over their backs for protection. But hurled spears easily pierced the leather to find the softer flesh beneath. The slope was soon littered with the dead and dying, slick with blood.

  Púrwo hurriedly struggled free of the mass of fighting men to lead a charge toward the main gate while it was still open. The civilians standing on top of the walls watched with horror as they came, and met the T'eshalíyans with volleys of brick. Women and old men did their best to use the few bows that had been left atop the walls, as well. But the archers who could truly defend the entrance were down on the plain below, fighting for their lives, or struggling to survive the climb to the edge of the plateau.

  "Close the gate!" cried a white-haired man on the western tower, waving at his kinsmen on the ground. They heard and stationed themselves at either door. But they hesitated to do as the old man demanded, as Qoyotíyan warriors were still struggling to make their way through the opening. Púrwo's contingent rushed through the gate just behind the largest group of native spearmen.

  With jabbing spears and slashing swords, the entering T'eshalíyans tore through the citadel, leaving death behind wherever they passed. In the confusion, many of the villagers who had earlier sought refuge in Kópai now took up what they could carry and streamed out of the northern and western gates of the fortress. Desperate women upon the citadel walls leaped to their deaths, seeing T'eshalíyan slavery about to overtake them.

  Most of Panaléyo's men died in the rout, either on the plain where they first turned their backs, or on the stepped path. Abandoned by their companions, the few who stood their ground below the hill were quickly surrounded by T'eshalíyans and slaughtered. Those beleaguered Qoyotíyan warriors who survived the hillside climb lost all direction. Each went his own way, searching for his wife and children behind the walls, or fleeing to the forested hills alongside panicked shepherd boys and the older, unmarried girls.

  By nightfall, Kópai's palace had been emptied of everything of value, metal vessels and tripod stands, stores of weapons, painted pots filled with food, wine, and oil. Mothers and their little children, high-ranked and low, were caught by Púrwo's men and herded to the camp on the plain below, their hands bound. The citadel buildings were set on fire, smoke rising into the darkening sky, a signal to friend and foe alike that another Qoyotíyan fortress had been sacked. Long into the night, the victorious T'eshalíyans celebrated with songs and dancing, drinking undiluted Qoyotíyan wine, raping the captives, boasting to each other of the numbers they had slain.

  But Púrwo spent a difficult night. Once the battle fury left him, the wound he had received at Panaléyo's hand began to trouble him. His cheek was cut through, showing his teeth, and he could neither eat nor drink. When he demanded of his qasiléyus that one of them sew up the gash, they backed hurriedly away into the darkness. He chased down the oldest of his troop leaders, a charioteer, Automédon, though the gray-haired driver tried to take refuge in the captives' tent. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Púrwo grasped the older man's arm with a powerful hand. "Sew up my wound," the young wánaks demanded.

  Looking about in anguish and fear, Automédon caught sight of the brilliant colors of a flounced skirt among the cowering women and children. "Here, by the gods, look here, wánaks," the horseman cried, reaching for the princess in the bright skirt. She let out a high, despairing wail as he grasped her long hair and forced her to her feet. "Sewing is a delicate task, better done by gentle hands," Automédon urged, shoving the young woman toward his king.

  "Bring her to my tent," Púrwo growled, releasing the charioteer's arm. As the wánaks strode back through the night, Automédon scurried after him, drawing the reluctant Qoyotíyan captive by the wrist. She wailed and begged, catching at the hands of the other women, throwing herself to the ground when Automédon pulled her beyond their reach. He caught her hands in both of his and dragged her, screaming and kicking, much to the amusement of the T'eshalíyan foot soldiers whom they passed on the way.

  Just before the king's tent, Automédon stopped. Shouting, "Be quiet!" he rained heavy blows on the young woman's head and shoulders. She stopped her struggling and cowered at his feet, her trembling hands raised in supplication. "Púrwo is your king now," the gray-haired charioteer told her grimly, "so you have no choice but to obey. Go inside and sew up his wound.
Do it properly and he may yet spare your life. He might even make you his concubine. Then you would live at ease in his palace at Yólko, instead of spending the rest of your days doing hard work in the fields."

  Her head bowed, the princess rose to her feet. Crying quietly, she entered the tent. The wánaks lay on his side on a pallet of sheepskins, one hand at his forehead, the other gingerly feeling the edge of his wound. Dried blood matted Púrwo's beard and blackened his neck and hands. Deep groans came from his swollen lips.

  Eying the war leader uneasily, the princess knelt at his side. Jars of water and wine were clustered near the warrior's head, alongside bowls of bronze and clay. Stacks of sheepskin and folded linen cloths further crowded the small room. Glancing through the booty for what she could use, the princess poured water from a jar into one of the smaller bowls and washed the dirt from her shaking hands. Taking a length of undyed cloth from one of the many stacks, she dipped it in the water and began gingerly washing the blood from Púrwo's face and neck.

  Behind her, Automédon came through the tent flap with a small bag of leather. On the sheepskin of the king's pallet, he laid out the contents of the little sack, strips of sinew and a large needle carved of bone. The princess glanced over the sewing equipment with dread, continuing her cleaning. Púrwo grasped her thigh with one hand as she worked. The young wánaks pressed his strong fingers hard into her flesh, a fistful of sheepskin in the other hand. When the cleansing liquid touched the gaping wound itself, he roared with pain and sat up abruptly, his arms raised and shuddering. The princess was startled. She gasped, dropping the stained cloth, and jumping back, spilling the bowl of water.

  Automédon, too, started. "Do you want me to wait outside, wánaks?" he asked hopefully.

  "No," growled Púrwo, catching the princess's arm. "Watch her," he ordered the driver. To the woman, he commanded, "Sew it up, first. Then wash."

  "Yes, wánaks," the princess whispered, her face pale and damp with terror. She threaded a strip of sinew through the needle's eye and held it close to the young king's face. He closed his eyes, grinding his teeth together, and clenched his fists, pressing them against his thighs. With a brief glance toward the heavens and a whispered prayer, the princess pierced Púrwo's cheek with the needle. Púrwo shuddered and growled with pain at every stitch, but he held still until she had closed the gash in his cheek.

  "I am finished, wánaks," the young woman whispered at last, as Automédon leaned forward with a bronze dagger to cut the binding sinew close to his king's face. The princess laid the bloody needle down on the sheepskin and sighed, wiping sweat from her forehead with a shaking hand.

  "Wine," Púrwo groaned. Automédon pushed the woman out of the way and poured wine into a two-handled cup. He held the drinking vessel to the king's lips and Púrwo sipped, wincing at the pain. With a moan, the wánaks lay down on his bed. Waving a bloody hand in the direction of the princess, he curtly ordered, "Kill her."

  "Better you than me," Automédon muttered and pulled the woman from the tent by the hair. She shrieked desperate prayers to gods and goddesses, flailing at the hands that held her. Just outside the tent flap, the charioteer stabbed her in the back with his dagger, though it took several jabs to silence her cries. Flinging the corpse over his shoulder, he carried her body to the edge of Kópai's stepped path. There, where Qoyotíyan bodies lay in a heap, the qasiléyu threw down his load.

  Then he returned to the celebrations, greatly relieved that the chore was over. By the nearest camp fire, he was soon regaling his companions with the account of his clever escape from Púrwo's wrath. They laughed heartily at the tale and plied Automédon with wine. "Drink up, enjoy yourself while you can," they urged. "The wánaks will put us to work in the morning, either collecting the dead for burning, or carrying booty to our ships on the coast."

  In his tent, the T'eshalíyan leader tossed and turned on his pallet. The wound in his face burned fiercely, keeping him from sleep. Nor would the pain allow him to rest. He pressed wet cloths to the gash but found little relief in their coolness. From time to time, he raised himself on his elbow and forced himself to swallow undiluted wine. Even that could not dull the throbbing in his cheek, nor could it wash the taste of blood from his mouth.

  In the morning, the prince rose, exhausted. The whole side of his face was darkly swollen and his body ached with fever. Through blood-shot eyes, he glared at dawn's pink and orange clouds. "Owlé, Dawn, and to 'Aidé with you," he cursed with an abbreviated salute to the eastern sky. Staggering to a nearby campfire, he kicked a sleeping soldier in the ribs. "Get up, dog," Púrwo said through clenched teeth. "Bring my qasiléyus."

  Once again, he sent his troop leaders to assemble the men, while he drew on the accoutrements of war. More slowly the prince made himself ready this time, demanding assistance from his qasiléyus as they appeared in turn, driving them away afterward with angry blows and brusque commands. Less quickly, too, the T'eshalíyan troops gathered on the plain that day, a few nursing wounds, many with heads aching from the previous night's wine. Flies buzzed around his head as Púrwo stood before his people, filthy with blood and dust, and gave his orders for the day.

  He put both the foot-soldiers and the new captives to work, as they had expected. But the dead were not to be burned. "Leave them for the Qoyotíyans in the hills to deal with," Púrwo commanded, "or for the dogs and crows to eat." Nor were Kópai's riches to be carted to the T'eshalíyan ships. It was vengeance that Púrwo sought that day, in return for the pain he had suffered at a Qoyotíyan hand. He ordered them all to destroy the famous dams, those ingenious works of a generation of imported Assúwan architects, the source of the kingdom's wealth.

  The captives raised their lamentations to new heights, offering unheard-of tribute if only he would relent. Even his own qasiléyus pleaded with the prince to change his mind, for such an undertaking would take many weeks, time that would be better spent tackling other rich fortresses. Or, if their leader preferred action to another siege, there were still many smaller towns they could overrun easily. After all, northerly Qoyotíya was unparalleled in its numerous villages, places protected by walls of only brick or small stones, in which chinks could easily be made with bronze-tipped spears. This countryside was more populous than any other in Ak'áiwiya. The wealth they could take away from such a land was surely unprecedented.

  But Púrwo was implacable. Nothing would sate his spirit but the destruction of Kópai's farmland. "Destroy the damns," he commanded. "Pull them down, stone by stone!"

  The qasiléyus could only complain quietly to each other at that. Púrwo's grandfather, Péleyu, would not be pleased when they returned home, they knew. And it was old Péleyu who was T'eshalíya's true king, Púrwo being wánaks in name only. In reality, the prince was just the commander of the troops. But no man dared to confront great Ak'illéyu's greater son. They remained camped on the plain until the height of summer, when at last the dams of Kópai were thrown down.

  By that time, the T'eshalíyan leader's wound was badly infected, exuding puss, the surrounding flesh deep red. His face was swollen beyond recognition and the prince's body was wasting away. He had been unable to eat anything but a little barley gruel through all the hot days. As his agony increased, and weakness overcame his limbs, so his anger grew, and his thirst for revenge. Not content with the devastation of the countryside, Púrwo ordered all the survivors of Kópai slaughtered when the work of destruction was done, their bodies thrown into the newly flooded fields.

  Qoyotíya's southern allies arrived at the northern coast, while Púrwo's troops maintained their encampment below Kópai's fire-blackened walls. Argives, Lakedaimóniyans, and a few Mesheníyans fell upon the T'eshalíyan ships waiting in the famed harbor of Aúli. The northern longboats were lightly guarded and the southerners easily slaughtered the outnumbered defenders. Under Diwoméde's leadership, the allies marched inland toward Éyutresi. Along the way, they encountered bands of dispossessed Qoyotíyans, their towns and villages burned to th
e ground, people living like wild animals in the forests. In return for a little food and wine, Qoyotíya's menfolk eagerly swore oaths of loyalty to Diwoméde and took up arms alongside his Argive ranks.

  When they reached Éyutresi, the citadel had just capitulated and seen the flower of its youth, male and female, herded east as Attikan slaves. Driving the remaining P'ilístas out of the city and to the east, the southern allies soon overcame Menést'eyu's men and their plunder. The Attikan army was surprised and outmanned. At the sight of the attacking spearmen in their southern horned helmets, the captives from Éyutresi fought against their would-be masters. Though naked, their hands bound, they used their feet and teeth as best they could to interfere with the Attikan response to Diwoméde's men.

  Menést'eyu, beard was shot through with gray, and he had a sudden, anguished thought that he was too old for this bloody game. He saw his feather-crowned men fall like sacrificial rams under the blows of the onrushing southerners. All around the chief qasiléyu, startled soldiers turned and fled for the hills, overcome by sudden terror. Menést'eyu cried out, both to the gods and to his men, trying to rally them to stand their ground and fight beside him. But, in the tumult, his voice went unheard and unheeded.

  In his bronze helmet, Diwoméde rushed forward at the head of his troops, leading the attack despite his awkward gait. The cries of "Alalá!" rang in his ears, rousing his blood. Years of subjugation to an unjust ruler fell away from him, endless seasons of humiliation and servitude forgotten. He forgot, too, the wounds he had received in previous battles, no longer remembering the bitter taste of defeat. There was no fear in him. Overcome by battle frenzy such as he had not felt since the Tróyan war, he thrust his spear into one Attikan after another till his right arm was washed in northerners' blood.