by Diana Gainer
"There is no other way," Klóniyo added, though he wrung his gnarled hands to hear his own words.
All eyes fell upon Kt'oníya in the silence that followed. She struggled for composure, looking around at them all. They were depending on her, she knew. If she spared her own child, none of them would volunteer in Protogenéya's place. They would not fight well or die nobly. The men would be impaled on Argive spears, the women slaughtered like sheep, or taken captive, At'énai sacked and burned. She swallowed and stared down at the knife on the limestone paving. But she could not bring herself to pick it up.
Protogenéya watched her mother awhile, feeling nothing, as if watching a distant scene. With slow movements, she reached for the dagger. "I will do it myself," she whispered, her lips cold and numb. "I am a priestess, too."
Kt'oníya rushed forward and took the blade from her daughter's damp and icy hand. Without a word, the older woman grasped Protogenéya's long, black hair and pulled her head back, bending the undefended throat toward her. As quickly as she could, Kt'oníya drew the sharp bronze across Protogenéya's neck. The victim collapsed into her mother's arms, quivering. From beside Klóniyo, a woman bent with age rushed forward with her bowl, to catch Protogenéya's blood as it streamed from the wound. The young woman's eyes were wide in shock and her mouth opened. Spasms wrenched her limbs and Kt'oníya fell back. The graying mother burst into frantic tears and began to shriek, tearing at her face and breasts.
Most of the armed At'éniyans were surprised by the Argives, who found the feathered northerners still in the court behind the western gate. With sudden screams of terror, those nearest the entering warriors fell to their knees and begged for mercy. The overwrought Attikan princess saw only the waving horsetails atop the two leaders' heads and collapsed on the still form of her daughter. Not a few of the city's oldest citizens did likewise. In a moment, all of At'énai’s population was groveling before the two sons of Agamémnon.
Diwoméde had his men lift Orésta to their shoulders. From this raised position, the youthful Argive addressed the warriors and women of the northern kingdom. "I am Agamémnon's son, Orésta," he cried. "Attika slighted my father's honor, many years ago, and I have come to avenge him. But I do not make war on women and children. Nor have I any quarrel with bakers and merchants. I have no intention of doing battle with fishermen and shepherds. War is the proper occupation only of the high born. At'éniyans, hand over your royal family to me and I swear by the sacred hearth of my home that I will leave the rest of you and your city untouched."
A moment of silence followed. "The wánaks is in the palace mégaron," Klóniyo called out, staggering to his feet. Trembling, he glanced around at his fellow Attikans. None made any move to stop him. Though he slapped his bony thighs with the palms of his hands in distress, he added, "The princess Kt'oníya is here on the ground. Take them, Orésta, son of Agamémnon. We will bring the rest of the family to your camp. Only swear by the river of the dead, wánaks. Promise you will do us no harm in the name of the Stuks."
"I swear by the Stuks!" Orésta shouted exultantly. "May the dread goddess Préswa drag my soul down to 'Aidé this very night if I touch any citizen of At'énai but the king's family."
It was done. Erékt'eyu's wasted, shivering body was carried down the steep hillside on a litter of ox-hide, his grandsons supporting both arms of his daughter Kt'oníya, for she swooned again when told of Orésta's offer. "Owái, my child," she wept as she stumbled down the slope, "what have I bought with your blood but my own?"
Before his tent, Diwoméde took his revenge. The city's commoners and the Attikan country folk watched from the top of their walls. His own Argive troops seated themselves or knelt all around him, showing in their relaxed poses how little esteem they had for the house of Erékt'eyu. Orésta held the dying king up to watch as the qasiléyu slit the throats of the old man's kin, his two surviving grandsons, and one surviving daughter.
"This is for the slaughter of my men, ten years ago," Diwoméde announced as he killed the first young man. "This is for the suffering of the Argive captives," he growled before cutting the jugular of the second. The youths made no sound as they were slaughtered, though fear shimmered in their dark eyes. Kt'oníya watched in numb disbelief, but managed to pull herself together enough to curse Diwoméde's name and that of his father and mother, before she died. As her ample frame collapsed at the qasiléyu's feet, Diwoméde spoke between clenched jaws. "That is for Attika's slight to Agamémnon's honor on the plain below Tróya."
Advancing on the king with a bloody sword, the Argive troop leader leaned close to say, "And this is for abandoning Agamémnon to his wife and his murderous cousin." With that, he stabbed the old wánaks in the heart.
Orésta dropped the withered corpse, shaken, looking at his hands. "You killed them as easily as if they were sheep," he whispered, unable to speak any louder.
"I have had many years to think about it," Diwoméde responded, staring down at the bodies with grim satisfaction.
Swallowing, Orésta took a long, shuddering breath and stood. "Was it honorable to kill the woman?" he asked.
For a brief moment Diwoméde was angry and raised his sword as if to fight his younger kinsman. But Orésta made no hostile move, and, in fact, seemed unaware of the qasiléyu's rage. The younger man still held his hands out, looking from them to the bloodied bodies. "Bring me a bit of fleece to clean my sword," Diwoméde brusquely commanded the nearest spearman.
"I can see killing the king," Orésta went on, deeply troubled. "You had to avenge our father with Erékt'eyu's blood."
"His grandsons had to die, too," Diwoméde explained curtly. "It is every man's duty to avenge the death of his kin. I did not want one of them to come after me, some day. Or you, for that matter."
"And the woman?" Orésta asked, so quietly that the other was not sure he heard the words correctly. "Did the queen have to die?"
Diwoméde sighed, staring down at the brightly colored skirt, the flounces rustling in the breeze. "Yes. It is regrettable, but true. She might not seek vengeance directly. But she would marry or she would bear more sons. And they would have to take revenge in turn. The only way to put an end to the cycle was to kill the whole family."
Orésta shuddered and glanced once more at his hands.
Diwoméde was suddenly impatient. He grasped one of the younger man's hands and shoved it. "What are you looking at? I am the one who killed them. There is no blood on your hands." He shoved his half-brother again, nearly knocking him to the ground. "Now let us go. Meneláwo needs us in T'eshalíya."
aaa
As the T'eshalíyan port of Yólko came in sight of the Argive ships, Diwoméde joined Orésta in the little shed on the stern platform. "We are almost there," said the qasiléyu. Orésta started toward the open front of the little shelter, but Diwoméde stopped him. "There is something I must discuss with you first."
Orésta returned to his seat, frowning. "What is it? Have you changed your mind about our plans for Mukénai?"
"No," Diwoméde shot back heatedly. "Certainly not! This is about T'eshalíya…and my wife…and 'Ermiyóna."
"What about 'Ermiyóna?" Orésta demanded, growing hot himself. "Do not tell me that you have a claim on her."
"By the gods," Diwoméde cursed. "Hold your tongue and let me speak. I sent a message to prince Puláda of Aitolíya. He is on his way to join us. You know that your sister is promised to him."
"Yes," Orésta began, hesitantly. "What does that have to do with you?"
Diwoméde moved closer to his half-brother and lowered his voice. "I made a deal with Puláda. He agreed to support my cause against Aígist'o. In return, I promised to honor Lawodíka's betrothal to him…"
Orésta was furious and broke in. "You had no right to do that. I am Lawodíka's only legitimate brother. Only I have that right."
"Wait until you have heard the whole thing," Diwoméde urged him eagerly, overlooking the other man's anger. He took Orésta's arm and spoke quickly. "Argo need
s an ally on Ak'áiwiya's western coast, where the rain still comes. Queen Penelópa will be hostile to us after we depose your mother, and she controls Argo's neighbor kingdoms on the northwest, as well as the western islands. Mesheníya has been so battered by civil war that it will take years for the land to recover, even if the rainfall there is adequate. That leaves Aitolíya. You agree with me so far, do you not?"
"Yes," Orésta said dubiously.
Diwoméde moved to sit beside the younger man. "Now what makes for the strongest alliance between two kingdoms? Not political considerations. Those can change in a day. It is not the promised exchange of goods or services, either. A rival can offer just a little more and destroy such an alliance. No, the best thing is to exchange sisters in marriage. Look at Argo and Lakedaimón. Brothers ruling kingdoms side by side are just as likely to fight as two kings anywhere. But Agamémnon and Meneláwo never took up arms against each other in more than a decade of rule. Why? Because they married sisters, and two sisters as neighboring queens enforce a lasting peace."
Orésta's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "You mean, you promised Lawodíka to Puláda in return for his sister as your bride?"
Diwoméde smiled slightly. "Exactly. After all, you are already determined to have 'Ermiyóna. So you will rule Lakedaimón when the 'Elléniya dies. Puláda will have Argo in the end, with Lawodíka as his wife. Now, if you will only agree to my plan, I will take the throne of Aitolíya, allied to you by kinship, and to Puláda through marriage." He smiled and spread his hands, looking expectantly at the prince.
Orésta considered the plan a moment, tapping his still-sparse beard with his index finger. "Very well," he agreed at last. "Stand beside me from Yólko to Mukénai. Swear an oath of loyalty to me, as Argo's next wánaks. I promise to declare you my highest ranking qasiléyu and arrange your marriage to Puláda's sister."
Diwoméde's grin widened, showing his teeth. "It is good to have a brother," he decided happily.
On the T'eshalíyan shore, below the fortress of Yólko, Agamémnon's sons met with Odushéyu and Meneláwo a short time later. As Odushéyu had expected, the younger men were all for marching directly into the citadel and possessing 'Ermiyóna by force. "This talk of grain is nonsense," Diwoméde declared. "Let us take up our spears and get the woman now. We can easily overwhelm their defenses. We have two armies with us, after all. I am surprised you did not do this yourself already, Meneláwo."
The Lakedaimóniyan king sat upon the T'eshalíyan beach, shaking his head gloomily. "But king Péleyu does not know yet that his grandson is dead," he explained wearily. "And while his son and my brother had their quarrels at Tróya, Péleyu himself has always been a loyal friend to me. I owe it to him to do this properly. Why can you people not see that? It will take less than a month to bring the barley he asks for. Is that such a great price to pay for friendship?"
Orésta could not stand still in his impatience. "As the youngest here," he began, cutting off Odushéyu's answer, "I should be the last to speak. But listen to me, Uncle, despite my age. If king Péleyu does not know that his grandson is dead, then 'Ermiyóna is safe. That is true enough for the moment. But how long will it remain that way? If we had time to sail here from Attika, could no T'eshalíyans have done the same, before us? And even if they have not done so yet, they certainly will before we can return from T'ráki. What will happen to 'Ermiyóna then? Your friendship with Péleyu will not keep your daughter safe at that point, and you know it."
Meneláwo tore at his hair with his large hands. "Ai, I do not know what to do," he groaned. "Is there no honorable way out of this?"
Odushéyu answered quickly, knowing that the words would sting, "Is it honorable to abandon your closest kin to mortal danger? Does not such cowardice offend the very gods?"
Meneláwo recoiled as if he had been struck.
"I am a warrior, not a seer," Diwoméde complained, pushing the It'ákan aside. "What do I know about the will of the gods? Sometimes a man just has to do what seems best to him, even if he finds himself battling the immortals." He meant it as a veiled threat to the exiled king.
But Orésta had the last say. "We must take 'Ermiyóna now, Uncle. As my father always said, the only way to safeguard your people is to show the world that you are strong." With no further discussion, the warriors of the southern lands brought out their arms and armor from beneath their rowing benches and marched up the shore once again toward the fortress.
'Ermiyóna, left alone in her chamber, wept until she was drained of tears. No one came to console her and she realized that her father must have left the palace. She was alone once more, surrounded by P'ilístas whom she had been raised to despise and by Wilúsiyans who had every reason to curse her family's name. Shivering in the heat, she left her bed. Unnoticed, she dragged herself slowly through the torch-lit halls, leaning against the peeling plaster of the walls from time to time, to let her head clear.
She made her way to an altar that stood in a little courtyard at the back of the palace. In her arms she carried the blood-stained clothes she had worn earlier, when her child had been born. Placing these on the plaster relic, between the stylized horns at either end, she raised her hands and turned her eyes to the sky. "O Mother Diwiyána, I offer you the blood of childbirth. Give me another baby very soon. I will have lambs slaughtered on your altars every spring. I promise to weave the most beautiful shawls for you every winter. My daughters will serve you faithfully all their lives, and my granddaughters after them. Only, please give me children. Do not let my husband be angry with me. Make him hate Andrómak'e and love me, instead."
She felt blood trickling down the insides of her legs and began to cry again. Sinking to her knees on the cold paving stones, she wept, "O lady, help me, please help me. I have no father or mother any more. I am all alone. You are all that is left to me. Please, Great Lady, you must not abandon me, too."
Hearing distant shouts, she raised her head sharply, her prayers falling silent. The words did not come clearly through the open door leading to the courtyard, but she understood that ships had been sighted, many longboats. She was sure she heard someone cry, "Pirates!" From the sounds of rushing feet and the fearful cries of women and children, she knew that the citadel was under attack. She scrambled around the altar, its white plaster stained from libations of wine and the blood of sacrificial victims. Embracing the horns, she closed her eyes, mouthing prayers that she had no faith would be answered.
The clashing of metal against bronze and stone soon reached her from another courtyard, one she could not see. She heard the agonized screams of men mortally wounded. Púrwo had often boasted of killing Tróya's king on an altar, she remembered. This was only plaster in her arms, no source of divine aid. Terror gripped her limbs with icy claws and the sweat froze on her back.
Her weakness forgotten, she ran back to her chamber and shut the door. She fastened the latch, a thing of leather and bits of wood, which now seemed much too flimsy to do any real good. With sudden strength, she pushed her bed against the wooden door. The sounds of violence seemed closer, and her eyes, frantically combing the dim room, fell upon an ornately carved, wooden table, decked with little pots of ointment and paint, and boxes of beads, ivory combs, necklaces, and rings. With a sweep of her arm, she cast all the trinkets to the floor and began straining at the heavy table. Blood flowed between her legs at the effort but she did not care.
There was a cry at her very door and she wailed, "Oh goddess!" Something heavy pushed against her chamber door and there was a cacophony of voices, shouting to each either about who might be in the room behind. She cast about feverishly among the scattered possessions on the floor, seeking something to use as a weapon. But there was no blade, not even a small straight-pin. She regretted then her persistent refusal to wear the northern women's garment that required them. Her embroidered shawl fell from her shoulders, as she stood, shuddering, staring with dread at the door. The wood was beginning to bow as, time and again, something was shoved against
it with great force.
"Owái Mother Diwiyána!" 'Ermiyóna gasped. Her voice squeaked, a high, little sound. She could not breathe. Her hands went instinctively to her throat.
The door bulged and for a fraction of a second, she thought she had a glimpse of a feathered headdress. But the bed was heavy and the latch held, despite its flimsy appearance. An idea suddenly came to her. Winding the shawl as she had so often seen T'éti do, she made a rough rope of the garment. At one end she tied a noose, her hands cold, trembling so violently that she feared the door would give way before she finished. Her eyes rose to the ceiling, and the great logs that supported the roof. But her rope was not long enough. She tore off her skirt, ripping the flounced layers apart, and tying them one by one to the shawl.
She clambered up on the table and threw the rope over the nearest rafter as one of the door's leather hinges came free of the wall. "Owái, mother of the gods!" 'Ermiyóna wailed, flinging the noose over her head.
But she was not quick enough. The latch and second hinge gave way at that moment and she did not have time to secure her rope. The door fell upon her bed and a handful of armed warriors rushed into the room. She screamed as they came near, "Do not touch me! Do not touch me!" And she hurled the curses that were a woman's last defense, "Préswa destroy you! May your father's souls devour your children! 'Aidé will never accept you when you die!"
Taken aback by the young woman's frenzy, the warriors backed away, leaving her standing, naked but for her bodice, the inside of her thighs painted crimson. Alone on the table she remained, the noose still around her neck. Her panicked eyes noted the drawn and blackened spear blades and, for a moment, she considered throwing herself against them, thinking, 'A quick death would be better than…'
A young man's face appeared and the youth scrambled through the half-blocked doorway. "'Ermiyóna," Orésta cried, "what are you doing?"