Conspiracy of the Islands (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  CHAPTER SIX

  ANDROMAK'E

  An old woman stepped gingerly across an open courtyard, strings of stone beads clattering in her long, white hair. Her felt boots were T'rákiyan, with their upraised toes. Her long, simple skirt was fringed in the manner of the northern barbarians as well. Her arms and torso were covered by cloths pinned at each shoulder, in the style of T'ráki's women, also. But around it all was draped an embroidered shawl from southern Ak'áiwiya. It was before an Ak'áyan palace that she walked, too, a tall building with a stone foundation and a brick construction above, on a wooden framework.

  "Yayá!" called a little girl of ten, at the courtyard gate. "Granny, come see them. Hurry, they are almost here." In her excitement, the child hopped on booted feet, dipping the hem of her long skirt in the dirty water that had pooled on the paving stones of the courtyard. Her head was shaved but for a long lock at the back of her head and another, shorter lock falling over her forehead. Both dark curls bounced with her movement. She was covered neck to toe in red-dyed wool, as her grandmother was, but her activity kept the material constantly slipping off one shoulder.

  "I am coming, Moloshíya. Be patient," the old woman called back, her pace not quickened in the slightest.

  From beyond the open-air courtyard came the sound of young men singing, their voices cheering the otherwise gloomy countryside. Above the singers the sky was hard and white, and the barren fields surrounding the hilltop palace were parched yellow. Even the drab olive trees at the foot of the hill seemed miserable.

  Their spirits undampened by the grim scenery, a singing procession approached the outside of the palace courtyard as the grandmother reached the gate. Her hands raised before her, the old woman called out in her scratchy voice, "Owlé, Father Poseidáon! Hail to you, servants of the great god!"

  "Owlé! Owlé!" called the excited child beside her, still bouncing. "Hail to the Divine Horse!"

  "Stop that jumping," snapped the grandmother, with a gentle slap to the girl's head. "Ai, you are too big for this kind of behavior."

  The little procession entered the courtyard, three shepherd boys in their early teens. They had led the royal flocks to their high pastures at the beginning of summer, and they had lived among animals for most of the year. Now, with the impending arrival of autumn and the new year, they had come down from the mountains to winter with their families. Their high-topped boots of spotted goatskin marked their status as "wolves," no longer children, but too young and wild to be men yet.

  The oldest among them carried a tall, wooden cross. Tied to the crosspiece with a strip of leather was a dead sparrow, symbol of the new year entering the land. In voices sometimes sweet and high like those of little children, sometimes deep like those of grown men, and sometimes squeaking awkwardly from the one to the other, the wolf-youths sang:

  "We bear the prince of autumn

  To the door of your house.

  Good luck and health be yours,

  If you bring gifts from the king."

  "Welcome," cried the old woman at the gate, her wrinkled face now as animated as the smooth features of the little girl beside her. "You are welcome to the fortress of Yólko, welcome to the capital of T'eshalíya. I, wánasha of this land, I welcome you, I, high priestess of the sea god, queen of the household of wánaks Péleyu."

  Their little ceremony over, the boys crossed the courtyard in a rowdy bunch, pushing and shoving each other. The old woman scolded them as they entered, "Idálu, stop that shoving. Ai, you are truly a wolf, Kurawátta, nothing but a wild animal. Such a disgrace you are, too, Mármaro. Who would guess that you are royal princes? Behave yourselves." She grasped the center of her outer shawl, and, twirling it around a few times, made a twisted rope of the garment. With this she gave each unruly wolf a whack as he passed her.

  At the far side of the courtyard, warmly greeting the youthful shepherds, were the other women of the palace. The oldest, approaching forty years, held a small, naked child by the hand, his little head shaved but for a short tail at the back. Peeking from behind her skirts was a wide-eyed girl of seven with the double scalp-locks of older childhood on her head. Dressed like Moloshíya, she smiled shyly at the royal shepherds.

  "'Iqodámeya!" the tallest of the wolves called to the woman, leaning his sparrow standard against the courtyard wall. "What are we having for the feast?"

  The broad-hipped woman smiled, deepening the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. "You will see soon enough, Mármaro," she said.

  "Come, give your auntie a hug," said a second woman, younger and smaller than the first. She held a baby on her less ample hip, with her free arm reaching for the tall youth.

  Mármaro tried to back away, complaining, "No, I am too old for that." But the other two youths came up behind and pushed him toward the royal woman.

  "Go on, Brother, give Auntie Andrómak'e a kiss," the smaller of the two urged and the other laughed raucously.

  Rather than hug and kiss his aunt, the tall youth shouted, "Idálu, get away. Let me go, Kurawátta." He turned on his brothers and wrestled them to the hard floor of the courtyard, all three wildly laughing.

  The third woman at the back of the courtyard threw up her hands in alarm as the wrestlers threatened to tumble in her direction. She was younger than the other women, as young as the shepherds. Unlike all the others, her skirt was flounced, each layer made of cloth of a different pattern. She kept one protective hand before her protruding abdomen. "Ai, stop this! Stop this! Owái!" she wailed, backing against the far wall.

  Attracted by her voice, the tallest youth disentangled himself from his wild companions. Whooping and laughing, he pointed at the youngest woman, crying, "Idálu, Kurawátta, look at 'Ermiyóna. Our brother, Púrwo, has been busy." The others left their wrestling to laugh and cluster around the young woman, patting her swollen belly none too gently.

  'Ermiyóna squealed in distress and slapped at the rough hands. The other women joined forces to drive the wolves away from her. 'Iqodámeya put a motherly arm over 'Ermiyóna's trembling shoulders. "Ai, now, little princess, do not let them upset you. They are nothing but wild animals. They do not know any better. But we will not let them hurt you. Do not worry about the child in your womb."

  'Ermiyóna wiped tears from her pale cheeks and allowed the older women to lead her into the inner halls of the palace, away from the bustling courtyard. They passed a boy of eleven in the dim corridor as he stood with his arms crossed, sulking beneath a torch in its bracket on the wall.

  "Ai, Sqamándriyo," Andrómak'e scolded as she passed him. "Shame on you! You should have joined us in the courtyard. Why did you stay in here?"

  Sqamándriyo frowned deeply and ducked his head, pulling at the longer scalp-lock at the back of his head. "I should be a wolf, too, Mamma. If you had sent me to the mountains this year, I would have been out there helping them carry the sparrow."

  "My son, you are so willful," Andrómak'e sighed. "It will be another two or three years, at least, before you are big enough to go up to the summer pastures. I know you are anxious to grow up, but being a shepherd is very dangerous. There are wild boars in the mountains and bears."

  "I am not afraid," Sqamándriyo scowled, petulantly kicking the plastered floor with the toe of his boot.

  "Ai, that is enough! Come to the mégaron with us, now, my son. It is time for the feast. You will offend the gods as well as the souls of the ancestors if you do not attend." Andrómak'e's voice was harsh now and she grasped the boy by the shoulder to force him to go.

  As he slouched along behind the women with their little children, Sqamándriyo continued to complain. "I do not want to join the feast. I do not feel like eating. Anyway, why should I honor the T'eshalíyan gods? I am a Wilúsiyan. And so are you."

  An uncomfortable silence answered Sqamándriyo's speech. Andrómak'e stared at her son, stricken by his words. 'Iqodámeya shot the boy an angry look, making him hang his head.

  'Ermiyóna glanced around at those surrou
nding her, her eyes growing wide with fear. "You are all Wilúsiyans," she whispered, trembling. "All of you. Even princess Moloshíya is the child of a Wilúsiyan mother."

  'Iqodámeya sighed deeply and reached out for the pregnant woman. "Ai, now, do not think about such things. Wilúsiya is far away. T'eshalíya is our home now. Péleyu is our wánaks, even though it was a spear that brought us to his household."

  But 'Ermiyóna scurried away from the Wilúsiyans, clutching her abdomen with one hand, raising the hem of her skirt with the other. She hurried to the central room of the palace, with its circular hearth of stone and the throne of the T'eshalíyan king.

  In the big chamber, servants were hard at work. Over the glowing coals of the hearth, three-legged stands bore caldrons of gooseflesh. Slabs of mutton roasted on spits over the fire. Small tables surrounded the raised fireplace, and half-naked women placed sheepskins in wooden chairs for comfort. Plaster benches lined the shadowed walls of the room, laden with baskets of flat barley-cakes, dried figs, fresh green onions, and leavened wheat loaves in the shape of phalli. Scattered among the baskets were ceramic jars of olive oil and goatskin bags filled with purple wine.

  'Ermiyóna made her way past the toiling serving-women to seat herself beside the king's wooden throne. The aging wánaks looked at her reddened eyes with some surprise, but asked no questions. He patted her hand in a paternal way, and turned his attention to the details of the feast. Péleyu's thinning hair was white, his skin leathery and deeply wrinkled. But his dark eyes gleamed and danced as they had in his youth. When he laughed, his voice was still strong and his open mouth revealed a full set of teeth. Woolen robes cloaked his body from neck to ankle, but he was not yet bowed or broken by the advancing years.

  'Ermiyóna drew the sheepskins of her chair around her shoulders, sniffing quietly and wiping tears from her cheeks. But she made no complaint to the T'eshalíyan king. 'Iqodámeya and Andrómak'e entered the mégaron with their dark heads bowed, keeping their children close to their sides with firm hands. They seated themselves in the chairs nearest the doorway, their places the furthest from the reigning wánaks on his throne. The old man smiled to see them enter and nodded at the children who, unlike their mothers, boldly met his eyes.

  Not far behind came the three brother wolves, making the hall echo with their loud voices. Each tried to be the first to enter the great room, creating a jam in the doorway which none could penetrate. Flailing away with their fists and feet, each cursed his brother and urged him to back away. From his throne, Péleyu called to them to behave themselves, threatening to make them eat in the royal stables. But they were too engaged in their struggle to listen. And the king did not carry out his threat.

  The wánasha came to the entrance last, with Moloshíya's hand in hers. Finding their way blocked, the grandmother again whirled her shawl into a rope and snapped the fighting boys on their backs. "Ai, what rude beasts you are! I do not know which one of you is the worst. Stop acting like barbarians. Out of my way, you uncivilized wolves!" she scolded.

  Mármaro finally broke through, the effort sending him sprawling at 'Iqodámeya's feet. The two younger boys dutifully backed into the hallway to let the wánasha and the little girl through. But Kurawátta and Idálu then clashed again in the doorway, neither willing to let the other go first. At length, they managed to squeeze through at the same time and found their chairs.

  "Ai, Pappú, grandfather, you should have seen the sparrow," Moloshíya cried, dancing beside her grandmother as they made their way toward the throne. The queen seated herself beside her husband, the child taking her place in a chair close to their knees.

  Péleyu pressed the queen's withered hands in his to keep her from winding up her shawl yet again, as the boys began throwing insults and bread phalli at each other. "Hush, T'éti," he said to his wife, with mild irritation, "stop scolding the boys. It is time for the ceremony. Let us now make the offering to the dead." He waved his free hand toward the two Wilúsiyan women near the door.

  'Iqodámeya rose from her seat, quietly telling her toddler to stay put. Andrómak'e, in a nearby chair, had just unpinned her garment and put her baby to her breast. She beckoned to the other woman's little one, as 'Iqodámeya walked toward the entrance. Beside the door, two small figurines stood on a plaster bench and 'Iqodámeya carried these to the hearth. Respectfully, she raised a hand to her heart, her forehead, and above her head, saluting the terra cotta idols.

  Ignoring his mother's admonition, her littlest child followed her to the bench and hearth, grasping her skirt and squalling to be picked up. Andrómak'e reached for him as the little boy passed, but only succeeded in disturbing her nursing infant. To quiet her own baby, she let the other go, whining, to his mother. Her part in the ceremony finished, 'Iqodámeya lifted the two-year-old to her hip and returned to her place and her daughter. From her place beside the throne, T'éti scowled, shaking her white head so that the beads rattled in her hair. On the king's other side, young 'Ermiyóna watched the queen with angry eyes.

  'Iqodámeya and Andrómak'e ducked their heads, aware of the displeasure of the women of higher rank. But their children, like the wolves making faces at each other, were blissfully unaware that anything was amiss. 'Iqodámeya's older child had stayed obediently in her chair near the entrance, waving her booted feet in the air. But, when her mother sat down beside her, the little girl began poking her little brother in the ribs to make him fuss. The wánasha frowned furiously in the direction of the door. At that unspoken signal, 'Iqodámeya slapped her daughter's hands and hissed loudly when the child began to cry.

  When the room was finally quiet again, the old woman nodded to Moloshíya and gestured toward the idols. "Now it is your turn, t'ugátriyon." The girl promptly headed for the same bench that had held the figurines, skipping.

  "Ai, ai, Moloshíya," T'éti scolded from the throne, waving her wrinkled hands. "Stop that. Walk! Show respect to the dead."

  The king again pulled his wife's hands down to her lap. "Let the child alone, T'éti. Next year will be soon enough to begin teaching her to be a woman."

  "Péleyu, you are too easy on these children," T'éti sputtered at her husband. "They will all grow up totally uncivilized."

  "Owái, just let them grow up is all I ask," the king answered, his voice so low that only the queen beside him heard the words. "The goddess knows we have seen too many of our children die." The old woman smiled warmly and scolded no further.

  Moloshíya carried a little basket from the bench to set on the floor before the figurines. Taking a phallus-shaped loaf from the basket, she broke it in two. She laid one piece before the first idol, a column with a disk midway up, two breasts the only indication of gender. "Fathers and mothers, visiting from the land of the dead, here is wheat for you to eat. When next you see Lady Préswa in the underworld, tell her that we treated you well." The child stood up then, so abruptly that she overturned the basket. Smiling broadly, she turned to 'Iqodámeya. "How did I do, Mamma?"

  The woman smiled nervously over the heads of her younger children. "You did well, Moloshíya," she whispered.

  Bouncing, Moloshíya returned to her place at the knees of the royal couple. "I did it, I did it!" she crowed. "I remembered the words."

  Péleyu smiled and nodded. "Yes, Granddaughter, you did a good job. Now sit."

  T'éti now rose, slowly and stiflyf. She walked to the same bench and took up a lamp, a saucer-like dish of baked clay, one end pinched up to form a spout. The lamp was filled with oil, a wick of twisted wool laid in the spout, one end resting in the dark liquid, one held up by the clay rim. The wánasha placed her lamp on the edge of the hearth and lit it with a stick of kindling.

  "I light this lamp for our dear son, Ak'illéyu, who died in the Tróyan war, and for our foster-son, Patróklo, as dear as our own child. This light is for our daughters, Ait'ré and Mélisha, who fell to the arrows of smallpox, and for our three little ones who died at birth. The lamp is lit for all our kin, may their names be r
emembered, forever. Hear me, vengeful ones, do not trouble us with evil dreams. Enjoy our feast and fly back to 'Aidé in the morning." She sighed deeply, staring transfixed at the light.

  Quietly, Péleyu told Moloshíya, "Go get your grandmother before the meat gets cold."

  The child obediently skipped to the queen's side and took the gnarled hand. "Come on, Yayá."

  T'éti returned to her seat, to wipe her tears on the hem of her shawl as the serving women dipped goose meat from the caldrons and laid bread on the many tables. Moloshíya tried to comfort the white-haired woman with kisses and succeeded in making her way onto her grandmother's lap, though the child was nearly as big as the woman.

  'Ermiyóna watched the proceedings, feeling isolated and friendless. She chewed her fingernails in anxiety, glancing around at the faces of the household she had married into, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. From time to time, she winced and closed her eyes, a hand on her abdomen. Each time, the pain soon passed. But she had no appetite for the meat or bread that the serving women set before her, no interest in the watered wine.

  As food appeared on the tables, the hall quieted. All those in the household ate, thinking of the visiting souls of the dead. Then, even the unruly youths grew solemn. They spoke to each other in whispers, surreptitiously spilling drops of wine in honor of the Wilúsiyan dead. "Our father should never have gone to Lakedaimón," Mármaro told the other two. "He should have gone to Kep'túr. The natives there are said to be our brothers. That is what our aunt Kashánda used to say. They would have thanked our father for taking their foreign queen away. And Idómeneyu would have been driven from the throne back then, instead of after the war, when his loss did the Ak'áyans no harm."

  "I can barely remember our father," said the smallest, Idálu, thoughtfully. "But I remember our mother's face. Every time I hear the 'Elléniyan queen mentioned, I think of our mother and I get so angry I want to kill someone."