by Diana Gainer
Menést'eyu saw his southern counterpart coming, leaving a trail of dead and mangled bodies behind. The Attikan threw down his spear and fell to his knees before the onrushing southern leader. Raising his shield instinctively in his left hand, Menést'eyu reached with his right toward the grim Argive's face, and cried, "By all the gods and goddesses, do not kill me!"
Diwoméde had only blood in his eyes and drew his arm back, ready to run his enemy through with his blood-stained spear. But Odushéyu and Orésta, following close in the Argive qasiléyu's wake, caught his furious arms and urged him to spare the Attikan. "He is a qasiléyu," Odushéyu shouted in Diwoméde's ear, with burly arms wrapped around the younger Argive's spear arm. "Think of the ransom that king Erékt'eyu will pay for him."
Groveling at the feet of the man he had once defeated, Menést'eyu desperately repeated, "Think of the ransom!"
"He may prove useful in the future," Orésta shouted in Diwoméde's other ear, gripping the warrior's other arm. The mass of southern troops hurtled past them in pursuit of retreating Attikans and it was all that Diwoméde's companions could do to keep him from shedding Menést'eyu's blood. "He knows all of Attika's secrets," Orésta continued, struggling to maintain his hold on Diwoméde's shield arm. "We will force him to reveal At'énai's weaknesses and we will sack the city."
Breathing heavily, the Argive qasiléyu tore free of the other men's hands. Still half mad with lust for blood, he kicked Menést'eyu aside, shouting, "After them!" And Diwoméde followed the surviving Attikans as they fled in a rout toward the tree-shrouded hillsides. Odushéyu dragged Menést'eyu to his feet and tore the shield from the man's trembling arm. Orésta, on the other side, stripped the Attikan troop leader of his soiled kilt and chest armor, using the captive's own belt to bind his hands.
That night, the young women of Éyutresi freely offered to their Argive saviors the pleasures that the Attikans had taken by force the night before. The young men of the countryside sang Diwoméde's praises at their fires, swearing oaths to follow him as if he were the new wánaks of Qoyotíya. The qasiléyu himself, exhausted by the day's events, went to bed. But before he did so, he gave orders that Menést'eyu was to be bound hand and foot and left alone in a tent without food or water. "That will remind him of the suffering of the Argive prisoners he took a decade ago."
Flushed with victory and confident of their strength, the southerners divided their forces, the next morning. Diwoméde led the largest group on toward the east, marching once more on Attika's capital city, At'énai. The Argive qasiléyu waited only for his men to complete their morning meal and sacrifice a ram, before setting out. Still the highest in rank, king Meneláwo was to remain with the rest of the combined army, in Qoyotíya, to deal with the T'eshalíyans.
Odushéyu was none too pleased to find himself left with this smaller group. As he and Orésta watched the Argive line disappear over the nearest hill, the It'ákan exile complained, "Ai gar, this is a fine lot that fallen to us! We are going to face Ak'illéyu's mad son with a drunkard for a leader."
Orésta shot an angry look at the older man. "Say that again and I will have you stripped and beaten like the slave you are! My uncle, Meneláwo, is perfectly capable of doing whatever is necessary. I will see to it." He turned back to the camp, shouting orders as he walked, directing the men to prepare to march.
Odushéyu held his tongue until Orésta was out of hearing, then threw up his hands and turned his eyes to the sky with bitter drama. "Owái, so we have two fine leaders, a slave of the poppy and a child!"
aaa
The mixed southern contingent under Meneláwo's command crossed the hills before Kópai's plain at midsummer. As they marched inland toward the famous citadel the dams it once had guarded, Orésta spoke with his uncle of distressing rumors he had heard from some of the homeless Qoyotíyans who had joined their army. "They tell of an unspeakable crime, Uncle," the young man quietly told Meneláwo. "Prince Púrwo has destroyed not only the great citadel but also the dams of Kópai. Those are not merely works of stone and earth, either, but a gift from the gods themselves. And the surrounding farmland once had the most fertile soil in all of Ak'áiwiya. It would be madness to ruin Kópai's dams. Worse than that, it would be a sacrilege. Idé, that would be as great a crime as burning the holy groves at Put'ó, and that is the most sacred shrine in all the north. Only 'Elléniya is a more holy place."
"I have heard these things, too," Meneláwo told his nephew. "Such tales have their uses. When men hear them, their thirst for vengeance increases and they fight all the better for it. But these are only rumors. You cannot believe every tale of atrocity that you hear. In times of war, people always say such things about their enemies, whether true or not."
Orésta listened respectfully and made no reply. He wanted to remind the older man that the T'eshalíyan prince was widely known as an impious man. Púrwo had not shrunk from defiling a sanctuary with human blood at Tróya. Now, ten years later, the young wánaks had earned a reputation for ferocity in battle. Orésta voiced none of these thoughts. He knew Meneláwo would only turn sorrowful eyes on his nephew and ask again to be forgiven for marrying his daughter to Púrwo.
When the southern warriors came upon the valley of Kópai, it was immediately obvious that the rumors had been true, after all. There were Qoyotíyans in the ranks who remembered what the valley had looked like, who saw at once that the waters of the lake had been released and that the breadbasket of northern Ak'áiwiya had been destroyed. Without waiting for Meneláwo's orders, they dropped the bags of provisions that they carried, released the guiding reins of the accompanying donkeys that bore their tents and cooking vessels. As if all shared a single mind, every Qoyotíyan rushed down the hillside upon the T'eshalíyan camp, shouting curses, and calling on the names of the gods. The Lakedaimóniyans were right on their heels.
Púrwo's men had moved their encampment to higher ground to avoid the rising waters of the lake and were getting their first rest after weeks of heavy labor. Although most had the presence of mind to take up their weapons and shields at the appearance of their enemies, they put up little resistance. The greater number fled in the same direction that the Qoyotíyans had gone, at the sack of Kópai's citadel earlier. Only those T'eshalíyans unfortunate enough to be caught and surrounded, with no place to run, stood their ground and fought.
Prince Púrwo rose from his bed of pain at the first shouts. His limbs shook, with fever as well as fear. But he did not run. Through clenched teeth, he tried to call to his qasiléyus, "Stand and fight, you worthless sheep! Where is your honor?" His voice did not carry far, as he could scarcely open his mouth from the swelling. Nor did his men care any longer what he demanded of them. Abandoned by his troops, Púrwo held his ground, standing naked before his tent with his sword drawn, despite the quaking in his knees.
There Orésta found his rival, his southern spear thirsting for the T'eshalíyan's blood. The young Argive had run as fast as his short legs would carry him, to be among the first in the enemy camp. Orésta had sought out the largest tent, in the midst of the others, praying to Díwo that he would find the northern wánaks there. With a triumphant cry of "Alalá!" Orésta leaped toward the T'eshalíyan commander as Púrwo awaited death on unsteady legs.
As he had followed Diwoméde years before, so Odushéyu now followed Orésta, keeping up only with great difficulty. Seeing Orésta's spear at the ready, about to thrust forward and end Púrwo's life, Odushéyu threw himself on the younger, smaller man. "Think of the ransom," the It'ákan exile gasped, as he tackled the youthful warrior. "Péleyu will pay dearly for his grandson's life."
Orésta stumbled under the impact of the heavy-set exile's body, but remained on his feet and his eyes never left the T'eshalíyan's face. "Púrwo took my promised bride," argued the youthful Argive, trying to shake himself free of Odushéyu's grasp.
Púrwo blinked and shivered, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles, in a face that had become a horror to look upon. "You Zeyugelátes
are all women," he growled through his aching teeth. "Run home to your mother, Orésta. Hide behind the skirts of an Argive whore."
It was all Odushéyu could do to hold Orésta back as the young man lunged forward with his spear. But still the It'ákan held the slender arms of Agamémnon's son, shouting in his ear. "Think, boy! We may have to sack Yólko to save 'Ermiyóna. Púrwo knows the city's every weakness. We can force him to tell all of king Péleyu's secrets."
With a well-placed kick to Odushéyu's groin, Orésta fought free of the restraining hands. Púrwo's eyes rolled back in his head as he was impaled on Orésta's spear. The T'eshalíyan's shrunken limbs collapsed and blood spilled out over the ground. Orésta jerked his lance back out of the senseless body, drawing the intestines with the blade. Again and again, he plunged the point into the corpse as it twitched its last.
Meneláwo came up behind with the last of his men, wheezing, gripping his aching side. He halted beside his nephew with a great groan and dropped to his knees. Breathing heavily, the king shook his shaggy head. "Ai, Orésta, you have dishonored me. Púrwo was my kinsman, my son-in-law. You had no right to kill him."
Orésta turned upon his uncle in fury. "Who are you to tell me about areté, old man?" he cried, brandishing his dripping lance as if he would now spear Meneláwo himself. "Where were you when my father died? Where were you when my mother dishonored him in Aígist'o's bed? Ai, you were hiding in a woman's arms!" With that, he rushed away from his uncle's side, chasing the last T'eshalíyans running to the forested hills.
Odushéyu bent down and clapped Meneláwo on the shoulder. "Old friend, you have fallen on hard times, indeed. How can you let the boy talk to you that way?"
Meneláwo continued to moan and shake his head. "Ai, Odushéyu, I deserve it, I deserve it. He has every right to curse my name. Owái, all of Ak'áiwiya has suffered because of me. It is all my fault. I should have taken no one with me but my most loyal Lakedaimóniyans to Tróya. There we should have all died, in the name of Ariyádna's honor. She would have had a long and prosperous life as a Tróyan queen, for all I know. But my pride would not let me do that. I pulled my brother into the conflict and all of Ak'áiwiya followed, as I knew it would. Owái, what a price we paid for my sweet wife! How many men have I sent down to 'Aidé for her sake?"
Odushéyu shook the Lakedaimóniyan king's shoulders. "Meneláwo, come to your senses! You are talking nonsense. You did not force anyone to go to Assúwa. Agamémnon wanted the glory. That was why he went, not for your wife. We all did the same."
"Ai, but I abandoned my brother to his fate in the end," Meneláwo continued, beating his fists against his thighs. "I let him die to spare my people further suffering, and to protect Ariyádna from the sight of her sister's blood. Owái, but what did I gain from that sacrifice? I made her a slave of the poppy to stop her laments for her brothers and for her niece, little Ip'emédeya. And I gave myself over to the same mistress, to find peace from my evil dreams." He threw his head back with a great cry of anguish, drawing his nails over his cheeks, tearing the skin till he drew blood.
"By all the gods and dáimons!" Odushéyu swore, dealing the king a swift blow to the head with the flat of his hand. "Stop that howling, Meneláwo. You will upset the men. Are you a wánaks or a silly woman? Stand up. Get on your feet and look over the camp."
Meneláwo stared in disbelief at the It'ákan, tears still streaming from eyes that were dark-rimmed and glazed. "Agamémnon?"
Odushéyu cuffed the Lakedaimóniyan again. "No! What is wrong with you, you empty wine sack? Have you forgotten your closest friend?"
Meneláwo rose to his feet unsteadily, blinking the fog from his eyes. He rubbed his forehead. "Idómeneyu?"
"To 'Aidé with you!" his companion roared and struck the king once more. "I am Odushéyu."
Meneláwo blinked again, frowning and rubbing his head. "Ai, Odushéyu, yes, now I remember," he whispered. "Your son came to see me, did I tell you?"
"Qelémak'o?" Odushéyu asked, surprised and suddenly filled with anxiety. "No, you did not tell me. When was this? What was he doing in Lakedaimón? Has something happened in It'áka?" The two walked, side by side, through the T'eshalíyan camp, as southern warriors ransacked the tents, and Meneláwo told what he could remember of the visit from the younger It'ákan early in the spring.
The following day, Odushéyu urged an immediate return to the south. "We have killed the T'eshalíyans' commander and shattered his army. Qoyotíya is safe from T'eshalíyan violence now. I say that we have honored the alliance between this land and Lakedaimón. Our work is done here. It is in the south where danger lies now. Ainyáh is prowling Ak'áyan waters, or did Diwoméde forget to tell you about that? And did he also warn you that Ainyáh has broken the treaty between his king and Ak'áiwiya? Yes? Good! Ai, if my son has been looking for me, that can only mean that there is trouble in the islands. We must go south before disaster overtakes both your lands and mine."
To the It'ákan's surprise, Meneláwo refused to listen and stood firm against all of his most ingenious arguments. T'eshalíya was to be their next destination and that was that. Meneláwo's daughter was there. Not even the possibility of an attack on Lakedaimón could dissuade the king to leave the north without his dear, young 'Ermiyóna.
Odushéyu turned to the king's nephew, but found no support there either. His need for vengeance satisfied, Orésta sided determinedly with his uncle. "We sail to Yólko as soon as we reach the coast," the youthful Argive commanded. "'Ermiyóna is a widow, now that Púrwo is dead. She needs me and I will not fail her."
Since he could not deal with Ainyáh's threat alone, the exile reluctantly agreed to stay with the Lakedaimóniyan contingent. "But think," he urged Orésta and Meneláwo, "devise a strategy before you go to T'eshalíya. One of you must go quickly, straight to 'Ermiyóna's side. Someone must be there to protect her from Péleyu's vengeance when the news arrives of his grandson's death."
"I will go," Orésta stated firmly. "She was first promised to me. If king Péleyu will just release her, she may become my bride, after all."
Meneláwo sighed. "No, son, I should go. It was her father she wrote to. She asked me to come."
The It'ákan pushed his way between the two men before Orésta could object. "Respect your elders, boy. Meneláwo is the one who should go. But what is your next move? I will tell you – it is to get 'Ermiyóna out of T'eshalíya safely, of course. Now, what reason will you give for taking your daughter back, Meneláwo? You do not want to tell Péleyu that Púrwo is dead, not right away, at any rate. That would begin a war on the spot and you would not have all your forces with you. No, let the word come slowly. Perhaps, no T'eshalíyan is still alive who knows how the prince died. You may yet preserve the peace. But Orésta should go south…"
"Why should I not go with my uncle?" Orésta demanded angrily.
With equal heat, Odushéyu responded, "Ai, you have a mind like an ox hoof, boy! If you are there, king Péleyu will suspect the truth. He knows that the girl was once promised to you. Why else would you come to his land, if not to possess her? But besides that," the It'ákan continued, suddenly calm, a friendly arm encircling Orésta's shoulders, "you must go to Attika to round up Diwoméde. We did not come here to make war on old king Erékt'eyu, after all. We came to save Qoyotíya. That we have accomplished. But you know that dáimon of a qasiléyu! Diwoméde has no self-control once the battle-madness gets into him. He will not stop until he has burned At'énai to the ground and slaughtered every man, woman, and child in the city. Can we afford to waste so much time and effort on Attika? No! We must think ahead. T'eshalíya is only a minor stop on our journey. We have Mukénai to think of, and the unavenged death of our former overlord, the high wánaks."
"Agamémnon?" Meneláwo whispered, unable to believe what he had heard.
Orésta froze, stricken. "What do you mean?" he asked, gripping the pirate's scarred arm.
Odushéyu saw that he had both the dead man's son and brother in the palm of his hand.
The exile made the most of it, urging on them the task that Diwoméde had found so compelling in Tíruns. Agamémnon's spirit had suffered long enough. Aígist'o's death was not only overdue, but surely destined. Had Orésta and Meneláwo not both dreamed at times of that very thing?
"As for Klutaimnéstra," the It'ákan shrugged, "ai, the continuing drought is proof that the gods did not approve of Agamémnon's murder. No doubt the gods themselves will provide an answer to the problem of the queen."
"No doubt," Meneláwo echoed somberly. The king's nephew had been caught up in the excitement Odushéyu had generated. But now Orésta frowned. Was his uncle actually agreeing with the It'ákan? The idea unnerved him.
"Then, when Argo is once more in the hands of Agamémnon's illustrious family," Odushéyu continued, rubbing his hands together, "no doubt you will remember who has been loyal to your cause. A small reward will do, for I act purely out of friendship. A few ships perhaps, a fortress or two on some distant frontier…that is, if I prove unable to retake It'áka…"
"Why not ask for a new kingdom to rule?" Orésta asked, though the irony in his voice was lost on the former slave.
"Indeed," Odushéyu replied enthusiastically, "why should any Ak'áyan remain on a parched and impoverished island when there are other places with greater wealth, say, south of the Inner Sea, for instance? Why settle for a small, hilly country where shepherds easily elude a king's notice and fail to provide the citadels with the proper number of sheep?
"The great southern empire has no such problems, you know. There, in Mízriya, the king has a regular army of scribes who write down the size of every man's flock. Those scribes are men, too, not women as in Ak'áiwiya. Best of all, barbarian soldiers from the southern rim of the world serve at the pleasure of such a king. Those warriors are the darkest of men and what is that but a sign of closeness to the sun god's birthplace? Ai," Odushéyu sighed, "to rule there would be the closest thing to being a god that a man could ever experience."