by Diana Gainer
"Yes," Diwoméde agreed, pointing an unsteady finger at the It'ákan. "Why not Put'ó? Qoyotíya would have been much closer and Ak'áyan. I do not even know the names of the king and queen of T'esprotíya. They are Párparos, though, I know that, even less civilized than T'rákiyans."
"But Put'ó was sacked by Púrwo's men, during the last campaign," Ainyáh answered irritably. "Did you not hear about that atrocity? The T'eshalíyans slaughtered all of the Qoyotíyan priests and priestesses, down to the very oldest, cut down the sacred groves, and burned the logs and stumps!"
While they were marveling at the dead prince's impiety and crimes, Odushéyu filled them in on the royal house of T'esprotíya, the last independent realm of the Párpariyan tribes that had held sway over all of Ak'áiwiya in the distant past. "The queen is named for that best and most Ak'áyan of virtues, Areté. She is lovelier than any other mortal woman," the It'ákan announced.
"The king is called Alkinówo," added Ainyáh. "His people may be Párparos, but he himself is half-Ak'áyan."
His curiosity satisfied, Meneláwo interrupted with his own announcement. "Here is where I break with you, Orésta. I will take only a single ship. You may continue to command the rest. I will have the men drag my longboat across the land here, where it is narrowest. Then I will sail northwest and take the lady Ip'igéneya to her new home at Put'ó. Her skills as a priestess are desperately needed there, it seems. From there, I will sail on to Aitolíya, and bring my daughter to Argo."
Orésta and the qasiléyu simply nodded. But Ainyáh and Odushéyu glanced at each other in sudden alarm.
aaa
It was summer when Argo's shore came into view, the traditional season of war. The ships of the southern coalition rode triumphantly into the harbor below Tíruns, at the beginning of the month of dying, where Aígist'o welcomed them. Argo's wánaks ordered the merchants of the port city to open their homes to their returning countrymen, while he himself took the bulk of the visiting Lakedaimóniyans into the citadel. But Diwoméde was not invited to dine in what had been his own mégaron just the previous summer. Nor was the expedition leader, Orésta, welcome there. Only Odushéyu and Ainyáh joined the Argive king at the victory feast.
The It'ákan exile urged the disappointed Diwoméde and outraged Orésta to accept king Aígist'o's actions, for the time being. "Let me see what I can find out from him," Odushéyu urged the younger men. "Ainyáh and I will eat and drink with him tonight, and entertain him with stories of other lands. When king Aígist'o is relaxed, he will begin to talk about himself. Then, we can learn what condition the country is in, whether there is trouble between Klutaimnéstra and him, perhaps find a weakness we can use against him later."
Diwoméde scowled through the It'ákan's speech. "I would rather force my way into the fortress right now and entertain him with my spear. I could do it, too. I have the men."
"No, I have the men," Orésta corrected his older brother sternly. "We attack only when I give the order."
"Then give it," growled the qasiléyu.
"Not yet," Orésta responded firmly, gritting his teeth and frowning. "I like Odushéyu's plan. In particular, I want to know what Aígist'o is doing in Tíruns and whether the queen is still in Mukénai."
Accordingly, Odushéyu went into the fortress through the main gate, on the east, accompanied by the Lakedaimóniyans. Orésta and Diwoméde remained in the lower town, outside the walls, morosely biding their time in a merchant's crowded villa, until nightfall. But at the coming of darkness, Orésta interrupted his half-brother's meal. "Is there no other way into the citadel, besides the main gates?" asked the younger man. "Think, Diwoméde, you commanded this place for years. How can we get inside, without Aígist'o knowing?"
The qasiléyu had a sip of wine tinged with the essence of poppies before he would answer. "On the west," he told Orésta, "there is a narrow passage between the walls, completed only in the last year. This gate has no door. It is guarded well by archers, though."
Orésta began, "We could bribe them…"
But Diwoméde shook his head, squinting into the deepening gloom as he tried to marshal his thoughts. "Inside, we would have to climb a long, narrow staircase to the top of the guard tower beside this gate. At the top of the stairs, there is a gap, a sheer drop the full height of the tower. It is too far to jump, over twice a man's height in width. The head archer in the tower will lower a wooden ramp for you to cross, but only if you say the right words. I am sure Aígist'o has warned him against us."
"Then how can we get in?" Orésta asked, impatient and angry.
Diwoméde did not answer immediately. He was silent for a time, thinking. Lazily, he raised his chipped wine cup to his lips. But Orésta knocked it from his hands, shattering it on the hard floor of the merchant's guestroom, spilling the tainted wine. The qasiléyu angrily stood, groping for his dagger.
But Orésta was quicker. With the hilt of his own blade, the younger man struck his half-brother on the cheek, toppling him to the ground. In a fury, the younger Argive shouted, "You are as worthless as Meneláwo! If you cannot get me into Tíruns tonight, I swear by 'Estiwáya that you will never enter it as my qasiléyu in the future! Now, think, Diwoméde. How can I get in?"
The qasiléyu stared up at his kinsman from the floor, blinking stupidly, unable to decide whether to feel ashamed or angry. He had often felt the same way when confronted by his lesser-ranked friend, T'érsite, he recalled. Thinking of the man, he remembered the laborer's complaints about his master's many building projects there at the citadel. "The tunnels!" cried the qasiléyu, surprised that he had not thought of them before. Forgetting his distress at his half-brother's actions, he went on in a rush, "I had the men dig tunnels to the underground springs, on the northwest. It will take some work, but we can get in through those to the lower level. There would still be the problem of the inner gate on the southeast, though. There are two doors and each will be guarded…"
"We will either bribe the guards or kill them," Orésta decided quickly, his anger gone in an instant. He dragged Diwoméde from the house and sent the qasiléyu to collect a few men. With only the light of the full moon, the Argive party made its way to the site of the tunnels and began to dig at the spot Diwoméde pointed out, far enough from the fortress walls that the guarding archers would not be likely to spot them.
Late at night, their bronze shovels scraped against stone and, with a great deal of grunting and straining, they levered a single massive capstone from the roof of the tunnel. Orésta left two men to guard the entrance they had made, and the rest entered the hole in the ground. They passed through the tunnel in pitch darkness, guided only by their hands along the walls, beneath a corbelled vault of stone. The sides of the tunnel slanted inward toward the flat capstones and, feeling for this change of angle was their only protection against bumping their heads, or running into the walls. They came up into fresh air at last, bathed in sweat, eager to be out of that enclosed, dank place. It took Diwoméde a moment to realize where they were when he emerged. Gradually comprehension pierced his murky thoughts. He was inside a wooden shed, a ramshackle guardroom.
Beside the open door of the little building lay the guard, soundly sleeping. There was nothing to cover the man's naked body, and only a torn shield of ox-hide between him and the hard ground. But, for all that, he snored loudly, his head thrown back and his mouth wide open, his hands lying quietly on his barrel chest. Diwoméde was the first to stumble out of the blackness of the tunnel, making his way to the door. He came to stand over the sleeping guard. But he did nothing until Orésta's head came out of the dark.
"Kill him," hissed the younger Argive, alarmed at Diwoméde's inaction. "Slit his throat before he wakes up and gives the alarm." When the qasiléyu made no move to obey, Orésta scrambled toward the doorway, drawing his own knife.
But Diwoméde raised a hand to stop his younger kinsman. "No, I know this man," he said and lightly kicked the sleeper in the ribs.
With a snort and a jerk,
the guard awoke and flailed about, trying to turn to his side and get up. "Ai, qasiléyu," he grumbled, his voice thick with sleep, "is that you? I was not sleeping, I swear. I was only resting my eyes."
"T'érsite," Diwoméde whispered, squatting beside the guard, "I am back."
T'érsite was surprised. He looked around at the others, Orésta with his bronze blade drawn, four more Argives behind him also ready for combat. Wide-eyed, the guard scrambled to his feet. "Diwoméde, it is you. What are you doing down here? Why are you not in the mégaron? Has king Aígist'o banished you?"
"That is what you must tell me," Diwoméde answered, laying a hand on the older man's shoulder. "I sailed away to get barley, as qasiléyu of Tíruns. I come back with the grain to find that I am not welcome in my own fortress. What has happened in Argo since I left?"
T'érsite drew a hand over his face, coming at last to full awareness. "Owái, Diwoméde, you are in trouble, I am afraid. The king came here right after you left, with Peirít'owo beside him, you remember, the exiled prince of Kep'túr. Peirít'owo reported to Aígist'o that Odushéyu had come to Tíruns, and that the two of you had left together as pirates."
"Why would he say that?" Diwoméde asked in bewilderment. "I kept Odushéyu locked in a storeroom until Peirít'owo was gone."
"I have not spoken to the prince myself, so I cannot explain it," T'érsite admitted.
"But what about the common people?" Orésta inquired quickly. "What do they think? Are the Argives against Diwoméde as well?"
The low-ranked man shook his head. "No, I tell every man I meet that you sailed to fetch grain, not booty, qasiléyu. The people support you. But what can they do? Aígist'o is the wánaks. He commands the army."
"I must get into the palace tonight," Orésta stated abruptly. "If you are a true Argive…"
T'érsite interrupted the young man to ask Diwoméde, "Who is he?"
"That is Orésta," answered the qasiléyu, knowing that would impress the guard.
"Agamémnon's son?" T'érsite asked, disbelieving. He turned to the young man and put calloused hands on the young shoulders. "Come into the light where I can see your face," he directed the younger man and looked the youth over. "By the gods, it is! We heard rumors that you died in Qoyotíya. Ai, every man in Argo will welcome you to his hearth, wánaks. We all honor your father's memory here."
"Good," responded Orésta, more impatient than ever and eager to get going. "Then get me into the mégaron."
"Ai," T'érsite cried, clapping a hand to his head as he finally understood what was happening, "you are going to kill Aígist'o."
Orésta bit his lip, not certain whether to trust the laborer with an answer.
But T'érsite did not need one. "Come with me," he told them and led the party through the lower courtyard, filled with sleeping Lakedaimóniyans, to the entrance to the palace on the south. With only a whispered, "It is the son of Agamémnon, come to avenge his father," T'érsite got them past spearmen and archers at both inner gates. The same brief explanation gave them safe passage through the succession of courtyards and into the small antechamber before the mégaron. But there, the small war party was disappointed, for the royal host and his guests had long since left the central chamber for their beds.
"Where does Aígist'o sleep?" Diwoméde demanded.
T'érsite did not know. "I will find Dáuniya and ask her," he whispered. "Stay in the mégaron until I return."
Orésta's skin prickled as they waited. "Can you trust him?" he asked Diwoméde several times. "Are you sure he will not betray us?"
The qasiléyu answered simply, each time, "He is loyal." Tired and aching, he slumped on the plaster bench that stretched the length of the wall. He felt out of place in the familiar room, as if he had been away for many years. It seemed to him that he could remember another time when he had sat in just that spot, at just that hour of night. But he could not think of when that might have been. As qasiléyu, he had always sat on the throne. As a child, when his father, Tudéyu, had commanded Tíruns, Diwoméde had not been allowed in this room of state. Nevertheless, the memory of what had not yet happened was powerful and it unnerved him.
"I need a drink," he announced to no one in particular. Holding out his hand, he noticed that his fingers were trembling. A feeling of dread overwhelmed him, as he thought of the faces of those he had killed in his years as a warrior, of the citadels he had seen burning. "Orésta," he said suddenly, startling his half-brother by using his normal voice, "kill only Aígist'o. Do not touch anyone else."
Orésta frowned. In a loud whisper, he said, "Keep your voice down. We do not want everyone to know we are here. As for killing, I will do what I must, whatever that turns out to be. There are bound to be men loyal to Aígist'o. They will have to die."
"You should give every man a chance to join you, first, before you kill him," Diwoméde argued quietly. Orésta ignored him. The qasiléyu wiped perspiration from his forehead and looked toward the door. "What is keeping T'érsite?" he asked, though he expected no one to answer.
"Who is this Dáwa he is looking for?" Orésta asked in return, shuffling his feet. He, too, was sweating and the other men were growing equally anxious at the delay.
"Dáuniya," Diwoméde corrected. "She is one of my captives, from Tróya."
"Ai, to 'Aidé with her," Orésta cursed in a bitter whisper, rolling his eyes in disgust. "A captive woman? She is probably in Aígist'o's bed, if not in Odushéyu's."
The thought gave Diwoméde a sudden pang. "Odushéyu is more likely locked in an empty storeroom," he responded petulantly. "Klutaimnéstra always hated him. She probably sent Aígist'o here to capture him and bring him back to Mukénai for execution. Aígist'o would not dare sleep with another woman. The queen would kill him."
Orésta laughed mirthlessly. "I do not care to hear my mother spoken of so lightly, Diwoméde. If you were not my kinsman, I would slit your throat for a remark like that," he spat.
T'érsite slipped back into the mégaron before the tension erupted in violence. "Aígist'o is in the south tower," he gasped, panting from exertion. "He is making plans there with his qasiléyus. Something is to happen at dawn, but I do not know what."
The party hurried toward the tower, the latest addition to the citadel, through a maze of rooms and corridors, some older than legend, others completed only recently, under Diwoméde. The men walked quickly, as they knew that sunrise was not far away. They held their swords before them as they went, ready for trouble. But there was no resistance and no outcry wherever they went. The serving women of the palace had begun to rise for their morning labors. They recognized Diwoméde at the head of the advancing warriors and they did not shout in alarm. Silently, they watched the men pass and then hid themselves beneath their beds, with the domestic weasels.
T'érsite directed the men to the southernmost of the tower's two rooms. In a rush, Orésta took over the lead, throwing open the door. With a ululating cry, he leaped upon the troop leaders within, quietly gathered about a low table. The young Argive's sword felled Aígist'o first, before the king had a chance to cry out. The others shouted for help and scrambled for the spears they had leaned against the walls. But the rest of the small war party quickly followed Orésta into the room. Soon every man who had met with the wánaks was dead, the floor bathed with their blood and urine.
Orésta began issuing orders to his followers. "Diwoméde, search out Odushéyu and Ainyáh. You there, Ark'esílawo, rouse the Lakedaimóniyans in the outer courtyard. And you, Wipíno, open the fortress gates and bring the rest of the Argives in from the lower town."
T'érsite was directed to assemble the servants of the palace in the mégaron. There the young leader announced that Aígist'o was dead and that Agamémnon's son now ruled in Argo. Orésta set some of the serving women to cleaning the gore from the tower room, while others were to prepare the morning meal, a true victory feast for a triumphant king.
Diwoméde found the It'ákan, as he had expected, locked in a cold and a
irless storeroom. Laughing, the qasiléyu released the prisoner and his Kanaqániyan companion. "Perhaps you should plan on making your home here, Odushéyu, when we return from Mukénai. This room seems to like you."
Odushéyu was not amused. "Any more jokes at my expense and I will not tell you what I learned last night."
"What?" Diwoméde asked, expecting nothing of interest. "Was Aígist'o planning a welcome for us to match the one he gave Agamémnon?"
"He was here with the princess Lawodíka," Odushéyu said sharply.
Equally displeased with the qasiléyu's attitude, Ainyáh added, "That may be of interest to her brother Orésta, even if it means nothing to you."
Orésta was indeed interested, when Odushéyu brought him the news. T'érsite was immediately dispatched, to bring the young leader's sister before him. She came, pale as death, her hair disheveled, and clad only in an underskirt of white linen. Despite her fear, she kept her head proudly erect. "Idé, little brother," she complained when she came before the young man, in the throne room. "Have you brought me here to kill me?"
Orésta was shocked at the question and he rose from the throne to approach her. "Certainly not," he responded. "I came here to avenge the death of our father. I have done so, at long last. Aígist'o is dead. Does that displease you?"
Lawodíka spat. "Aígist'o should have gone to 'Aidé years ago."
Orésta gestured for her to sit in a chair near him. "Then you and I are allies, not enemies. So, tell me, sister, why are you here?"
"I am the promised bride of prince Puláda of Aitolíya," she answered with regal arrogance, adjusting her long, black hair as she took her seat. "Did you not know about that?"
"I knew," Orésta responded, puzzled by her distant air. "But why come to Tíruns? Aitolíya is on the northwest. Why not go to Kórint'o?"
"Kórint'o is not safe," the princess answered with some heat. "It is too vulnerable to attack from Attika. Someone from Argo has turned that land against us." She turned venomous eyes on Diwoméde, slumped once more on his bench. "Tíruns is the only port still in our mother's power that can be defended against attack," she went on. "The whole of the western shore of Ak'áiwiya is in wánasha Penelópa's hands and she is hostile to Aitolíya. She opposes my marriage to Puláda and she has threatened to make war on us if I am wed against her will."