by Diana Gainer
"I do not remember either Father or Mother," Kurawátta announced calmly. "And I do not want to. It is bad enough hearing Andrómak'e talk on and on about Uncle Qántili all the time. Look at her, still crying about him after ten whole years."
Andrómak'e was indeed weeping. She pulled Sqamándriyo from his chair alongside hers, taking him onto her lap, although he was too big. The boy came only reluctantly and her baby protested, squawking, trying to push the bigger child out of the chair.
"Owái, Sqamándriyo," Andrómak'e whispered into his cloak, "you are the only thing left to me from Tróya. Qántili, owai, my beloved why did you leave me? Owái, owái, when will this pain release my heart?"
Sqamándriyo broke free of his mother's grasp. "Stop crying, Mamma. I hate it when you cry."
'Iqodámeya patted Andrómak'e heaving shoulders with tears in her own dark eyes. "It is war itself that is to blame for our losses," she said aloud, addressing the king and queen as much as her fellow captive. "Qántili was not an evil man," she added, her voice quavering. "Although he killed prince Patróklo and in doing so harmed wánaks Ak'illéyu. Ai, I was your son's spear-won bride, but I loved him just the same, and I grieved when the maináds caught him."
The king of T'eshalíya sighed into his burnished wine cup at the woman's words. "Owái, it was a hard blow to hear that Ak'illéyu and Patróklo were both dead," Péleyu remembered. "Who would have guessed that they would both die in the one war?" He shook his balding head, laying his hands to his temples.
T'éti gave a heartfelt moan. "Yes, and I hardly knew which grieved me more, to hear that Ak'illéyu was dead or that his behavior had been so monstrous! Owái, sweet Diwiyána, dragging corpses, refusing to allow kinsmen to bury the slain. It is no wonder the Great Lady has been cruel to Ak'áiwiya after such evil deeds!"
"He was such a quiet boy, too," Péleyu groaned, pressing a hand to his chest in pain. "He always listened to me, always acted so much older than he was." Again he shook his head. "It is so hard to believe that it was Ak'illéyu who dishonored the dead."
"But we are partly to blame, too," wept T'éti. "We were so afraid that our dear son would die. Ak'illéyu did not spend his years on the mountain as a wolf, the way he should have. That was our mistake, my husband. We sent him to Skúro as soon as he turned fourteen, to marry and father a child. He did not learn proper behavior on that island. Owái, we should not have married him off so young! What were we thinking, leaving our boy with T'rákiyans?"
Péleyu groaned and tore at his hair, tears streaming down his face. "I thought it would be Patróklo whose temper would ruin him in the end. That boy was so quick to anger when he was young. Owái, my wife, if we failed, it was with Patróklo! I beat him too often for that temper. I must have beaten it out of him altogether. His anger must have failed him on the battlefield, or he would not have died."
"Ai, what nonsense!" T'éti sniffed, drying her eyes and staring in disbelief at her husband. "Patróklo was completely uncivilized when he came here and we made a nice, decent boy out of him. Old man, you are losing your wits along with your hair! It was Ak'illéyu we failed, not Patróklo."
The wánaks wiped the tears from his face and argued, "No, no, the plague was raging all through T'eshalíya. We did the right thing to send Ak'illéyu away. The boy would have died if we had not."
T'éti swatted her husband's arm. "Ai, you have as much sense as an ox hoof! You are no better than that great swine, Aíwaks. I knew that giant pig would never amount to anything. By the sweet goddess, I never understood why you let him stay in the palace when Ak'illéyu was little. He was not a good influence on our son." She shook her finger at the wánaks.
"By the gods, woman!" Péleyu bellowed, shoving his wife's accusing hand away from his face. "That is no way to talk to your king!"
'Ermiyóna had ignored the reveries, her eyes tightly shut and her face as pale as undyed wool. She cried out suddenly, both hands at her swollen belly. "Owái, goddess!" she screamed. "The baby is coming. Owái, it is too soon, too soon!" She gave another shriek and doubled over.
The dead and their festival were forgotten. Wánaks and wánasha were on their feet in an instant, serving women hurrying forward with anxious faces. Moloshíya rushed away from the throne to 'Iqodámeya's arms, wailing, "Mamma!"
The mother embraced her oldest daughter, with a fearful glance at Andrómak'e over the child's shoulder. "She will blame us," the Wilúsiyan women whispered to each other.
'Ermiyóna struggled to her feet, gripping her stomach and leaning on the arm of her chair. A bright splash of blood darkened her yellow skirt and she burst into frantic tears. "It is the Evil Eye," she sobbed, trying to walk to the door. "Someone has cast the Evil Eye on me." Another pain dragged her wailing to the floor.
The royal shepherds gathered around the pregnant woman. "What should we do?" Kurawátta asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot with anxiety.
"Should we carry her to her bed-chamber?" Mármaro suggested.
Idálu asked, "Is she going to die?"
The three similar faces towered over 'Ermiyóna, the flickering firelight giving them an eerie, orange glow. A flash of memory came to the young woman on the floor, of a time when she had hidden in a storage jar as big as a man. It was dark there, she recalled, and uncomfortable, with a layer of dried seed grain beneath her. A helmeted warrior's head appeared to her clouded eyes, a Wilúsiyan face, as she had seen it as a small child, when he peered down into her hiding place. She remembered the horse-tail crest tossing on his bronze helmet, heard again the cries of dying men and of women begging not to be taken captive. "Mamma!" she had wanted to scream, but the word would not come. "Lie still in the jar," she remembered her nursemaid telling her, "be quiet like the grain and your pappa will come to save you." She had pulled the long topknot from the back of her head and put it in her mouth, biting down. When the Wilúsiyan prince had stared down on her, she had made no outcry, only praying silently to her father.
Her heart beat with such great force that she was sure it would break free of her chest. It was the eyes of that same Wilúsiyan prince that she saw, as he had appeared the night of his raid on 'Elléniya, when her mother had been carried away and changed forever. That man was now dead, she knew, but somehow here he was, still staring down at her from those similar three faces. 'Ermiyóna began to shriek in terror as well as pain, striking at the hands that tried to lift her. "Mamma, Mamma!" she cried hysterically.
"By the gods!" T'éti cried in mixed exasperation and concern. "She will certainly lose the baby if she continues this way. Go! Go away, all of you." The queen shooed the wolves from the mégaron, with her rolled shawl. "You too, 'Iqodámeya, go and fetch clean garments for 'Ermiyóna. Andrómak'e, close the door behind you and keep everyone out." The wánasha knelt stiffly beside 'Ermiyóna, who lay on her side, crying frantically. T'éti took the hand of her granddaughter-in-law, clasping it tightly and stroked the perspiring forehead. "Ai, ai, calm your heart, little princess. Stop calling for your mamma. I am with you."
"I am losing the baby," 'Ermiyóna wailed.
T'éti sighed. "Yes, child, but there will be others."
The young woman shrieked and stiffened as another pain shot through her. "It is the Evil Eye. Andrómak'e has cursed me. She is trying to take my husband away from me. Owái, why does my father not come and help me? It is sorcery. Ai, Diwiyána, hear me! Destroy Andrómak'e's children, send my rival to 'Aidé."
"'Ermiyóna, what is this?" T'éti scolded. "It is not unusual for a woman to lose her first child, especially one as young as you. But you still have many years ahead of you, in which to bear many, many strong, healthy children. There is no need to be vindictive! Listen, child, if you like, I will repeat the ceremony of fruitfulness in the spring. I will deck you and Púrwo with flowers and laurel leaves. The whole household will throw the first fruits of the season at the two of you while I call upon Diwiyána to bless you with fertility."
'Ermiyóna turned to lie on her back, tea
rs streaming to her ears. She pulled her hand free of T'éti's. "Owái, what good will that do? You threw fruit at the captive women, when they first came here from Tróya, did you not?"
"Of course," T'éti answered with some irritation. "That is the custom. Every man wants to father many children, by his slaves and concubines, if not by his wife. But that should not concern you. Andrómak'e has Púrwo's interest today. That is only natural. Men prefer wide hips and you still have the figure of a child. But time will change that. Just be patient."
Her speech was interrupted by more screams as the child in 'Ermiyóna's womb pressed toward birth and the light of day. T'éti helped the young woman to rise from the floor and squat, her stained skirt gathered up to her waist to keep it out of the way. Beneath 'Ermiyóna, the queen spread her own shawl for the baby to lie upon. The princess screamed no more but bore down. Between her legs, the top of a tiny head appeared, its dark hair matted and wet with blood. Between pains, 'Ermiyóna leaned heavily on her husband's grandmother, sweating profusely and breathing hard. With each pain, she held her breath and pushed and the child's head emerged. It was a very small head, too small, followed quickly by a wrinkled, miniature body. T'éti caught the baby as he dropped and urged 'Ermiyóna to lie down to wait for the afterbirth.
The tiny life in T'éti's hands was very red. Dainty hands opened and closed again, little limbs quivering. The small, toothless mouth opened, too, as T'éti held the baby upside down, patting his back to release the plug of mucus from his throat. 'Ermiyóna's little boy took his first breath and cried weakly, a high, mewling sound. The queen laid the child face down on 'Ermiyóna's belly as the afterbirth came. Before the wánasha could get a bronze knife to cut the cord, the child had stopped breathing. And 'Ermiyóna began to scream and wail again, clutching the dead baby to her breast.
In the corridor outside, the rest of the household waited, listening at the door. At the sound of renewed cries, 'Iqodámeya looked with dread at Andrómak'e. "I think the child is dead. 'Ermiyóna will blame you."
Péleyu shook his head and clapped his age-spotted hands to his thighs. "By the gods, that 'Ermiyóna is as mad as a mainád!"
"Just like her mother," Mármaro rashly blurted, with a venomous glare at the closed door. His brothers quickly made the sign of the Evil Eye toward the room.
Péleyu's face darkened with rage. "That is enough from you!" he bellowed, raining hard blows on the heads of the three youths. "You are members of my household, not slaves. 'Ermiyóna is the wife of your foster-brother. Show her respect."
Mármaro and his brothers backed away from the angry king. Andrómak'e and the smaller children crouched by the walls. Only 'Iqodámeya dared to approach Péleyu. She took his arm and begged him to calm himself. "They are only wolves and do not know any better, wánaks. Do not be angry, I beg you."
Breathing harshly, the old man gave the oldest boy one last blow. "Ai gar, get out of my sight, all of you! You will spend the rest of the day in the stables with your damned Tróyan uncle." The youths turned and ran toward the courtyard, Sqamándriyo loosing himself from his mother's grasp to follow.
Andrómak'e began to rise, shakily, clinging to her crying baby. Péleyu turned and frowned at her. "And you too," he bellowed with an abrupt wave, "stay out of sight, woman. That squalling brat is an insult to 'Ermiyóna's grief." Andrómak'e ducked her head, tears brimming over her cheeks, and hurried after the wolves.
"Péleyu," 'Iqodámeya said softly, gently rebuking the king with her large, sad eyes. "She is not to blame for bearing Púrwo a child." She looked around at her own girls and the smaller boy, clinging to each other and sniffing away frightened tears.
The wánaks sighed, his anger dissipated. "Ai, you are right, 'Iqodámeya." He put an arm over her shoulders and she rested her head against him. "Ai gar," the king went on ruefully, "I will still have to leave the boys alone for awhile. I would look foolish if I rescinded my orders too soon. But do not worry, beloved, they will all be back in the palace by the time 'Ermiyóna is up and about."
At that moment, Sqamándriyo came rushing back up the corridor. "Ships!" he shouted, jumping up and down in his excitement. "Ships are coming!" With pounding hearts, those still in the corridor hurried to the courtyard to see.
Andrómak'e fled to the royal stables, taking refuge in the arms of one of the servants. He was naked, the hair on his chin and head closely cropped. His body was well muscled from hard work and he was filthy from head to toe. Oblivious to the dirt, Andrómak'e set down her little one and threw her arms around the man, pressing her damp face in his shoulder.
"Owái, Érinu, my worst fears are coming true," she wept. "Princess 'Ermiyóna has lost her baby and they all blame me. Now ships are coming. It must be king Meneláwo, here to avenge his daughter. Ai, what is to become of my children and me?"
Érinu sighed, his mouth and eyes hard. He raised Andrómak'e's face so that she would meet his gaze. "I warned you," he said, without sympathy. "Ak'áyans cannot be trusted, even when they seem to bring you gifts."
The woman was stricken. "Owái, Érinu, your words sting my heart. You are angry with me because I lay with prince Púrwo, but what else could I do?"
Érinu released her and stepped back, crossing his arms on his shaggy chest. "You should have done as I did. A true Wilúsiyan does not submit to an Ak'áyan master."
Andrómak'e's child crawled to her and stood unsteadily. Pulling on her skirts with one hand, the baby raised the other hand and whined. The mother knelt to pick up her little one. Cradling the shaved head against her shoulder, she turned tear-filled eyes on Érinu. In a choking voice, she said, "I did not go to Púrwo of my own free will. If I had been given a choice, I would have thrown myself from the walls of Tróya, rather than spend all these bitter years in exile, without my sweet husband." And she turned away from the dirty slave.
Érinu's harsh glare softened. He groaned and came to kneel beside Andrómak'e. Wrapping his arms around her skirt, he said, "I did not mean that you should die. I never meant that you should kill yourself. You had Sqamándriyo to think of back then. What would have happened to him, without a mother or father? Who would have taken care of my brother's child? My mother and my sisters are dead. All but Laqíqepa, that is, and she is married to a traitor. I would not wish her household on Sqamándriyo." He spat to show his contempt.
Andrómak'e dried her tears and Érinu rose beside her. With a work-worn hand, she gently traced the marks left on his back by many beatings. "The life of a slave is very harsh," she whispered, "almost as hard as that of a widow or an orphan."
Érinu jerked free of her touch, cursing. "By 'Aidé, woman, how dare you call me a slave! I recognize no man as my master. I am a royal Tróyan by birth and a priest, whatever work I am forced to do." He returned to that work, shoveling the royal horses' manure into large baskets, to be carried outside.
Andrómak'e watched him in silence for a time. "Ai, Érinu, you make your lot worse than it has to be, with this stubbornness and pride. Look how hard king Péleyu makes you work and never do you have a day of rest. Even on this feast day, you toil from dawn to dusk. And what will you be given to eat, when you are through? Nothing but yesterday's stale bread and a little sour wine."
The slave threw down his shovel and shouted, gesticulating, "Shut your mouth, you fawn-hearted woman! I am not blind. I see how much better off you are than me." He circled Andrómak'e, tearing at her clothing. "I see you wearing fine, T'eshalíyan robes and growing fat on T'eshalíyan mutton! I know that you sleep beneath warm fleeces, too, the roof of the palace over your head. But it would be better for you to go hungry and lie in the straw with the horses, and with me, rather than share Púrwo's bed. Have you forgotten that he is the son of Ak'illéyu? Have you forgotten that it was Ak'illéyu who killed your husband? Does it mean nothing to you that Ak'illéyu dishonored my brother in death?"
Andrómak'e burst into tears again and the baby on her hip wailed as well. The woman sank to her knees, her head bowed over the c
hild in her arms. "Owái, Érinu, how can you say such things! I would rather be beaten every day, or even burned to death than lie with the son of Ak'illéyu! But I have no choice. Can you not see that? Qántili loved honor, but he did not want Sqamándriyo to suffer. If I refuse Púrwo, I endanger my son's very life and his health! Even if that meant nothing to me, Qántili's spirit would be grieved. If I could choose my second husband, do you not know that it is you whom I would take?"
Érinu dropped to his knees once again, beside his sister-in-law. He put his arms around her and kissed her hair. "I am sorry, Andrómak'e. Stop crying. I am sorry." He sighed heavily. "I should not hurt you. I do not know why I say such things."
"You strike out at me because I am easily hurt," Andrómak'e said wearily. "No one else will tolerate your outbursts. Ai, Érinu, when will you give up trying to please your father? If he did not appreciate your priestly gifts, then he was a blind, old man. It does his spirit no good for you to suffer endlessly."
"No, Andrómak'e, do not say that!" Érinu cried, stung by her words. "You do not understand. It is not my father's approval I am trying to gain. I resist Ak'áyan rule for the sake of areté, the same virtue that Qántili valued above all things. That is something Ak'illéyu never understood. Ai, Andrómak'e, if I am harsh with you, it is only because I am worried about your future. You cannot trust Púrwo. He says he loves you now. But one day he will turn away from you, when some other concubine pleases him more. And while he can go from one woman's bed to another's, he would strike you dead if he found you in mine."
"I know, I know," Andrómak'e wailed. "And when Púrwo is tired of me, if he does not kill me, 'Ermiyóna will. Owái, my poor Sqamándriyo! What chance does he have of growing to be a man? What chance does this little child of yours have?" She looked down at the whimpering baby clinging to her hair.