Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze) (12 page)

'Iqodámeya pressed her lips together, no longer frightened of the T'eshalíyan.  There was one more thing she knew to say to him, something her heart told her would move him to the right action.  "Did you not say that Patróklo came to you, his soul wandering in pain?"

"Préswa take you!" Ak'illéyu shouted hoarsely.  He pushed 'Iqodámeya away and tipped up the nearest jug.  Finding it empty, he threw the vessel away.  It broke against the wooden wall of the small hut.  "More wine, woman!" he demanded.  "Bring me more."

"Wine will not ease your heart," 'Iqodámeya insisted, her face hardening.  "The pain you feel is not your own, but Patróklo's.  If you truly love the dead, you must not grieve for them too long, or you will disturb their rest in the underworld.  Your brother's sleep is disturbed now and you are the cause."  She pointed to the prince as she spoke.

As if pierced by an invisible dagger, Ak'illéyu moaned and fell back on the sheepskins.  He turned his face to the wall of sticks and clay, his back to his captive concubine.  "That is a lie," he groaned, covering his face with his hands.  "Tell me it is a lie."

'Iqodámeya crept to his side and, after a moment of hesitation, began stroking his hair.  Her voice was gentle again when she spoke.  "If Patróklo had lived and you had died, would you want him to grieve this way for you?  Would it please you to see him consume nothing but wine, still clinging to your dead body?  No, you would want him to observe the last rituals for you, then end his mourning and begin to live again.  If he would not eat and continued to shed so many tears, it would hurt you.  Do you see?  It is the same for your brother.  You do him harm when you continue in this way."

Ak'illéyu moaned more loudly, his dirty fingers clutching at his shorn hair.  He sat again, his shoulders drooping and his head hanging. "Owái, that cannot be right," he sighed and laid his head on the woman's bare shoulder.  "Patróklo's father brought him to T'eshalíya when he was just a boy of twelve and I was six.  You would not guess it, but Patróklo used to have a temper like 'Erakléwe in the legends.  Once, he had killed the son of a wánaks in anger over a game of knuckle-bones.  He could not remain at home after that, so his father brought him north to my country.  It was a pointless crime, a childish thing to do, and Patróklo always regretted it.  My father saved his life by paying the qoiná but Patróklo stayed in our household from then on.  He and I were raised together as if we were brothers.  When I was fifteen, my parents married me to a girl from Skúro and when I went to live on her island, my father made Patróklo my qasiléyu.  He swore he would follow me until death."  The prince cried out and clapped his hands to his head.  "Ai, that was not supposed to mean his death.  He was supposed to follow me until my death.  I cannot go on alone."

"Let me tell you a story," 'Iqodámeya sighed.  "It is an ancient legend, as well known in Assúwa as the song of 'Erakléwe is in Ak'áiwiya.  Once, in a kingdom far to the east, beyond Kanaqán, there was a ruler called Bilgámash.  He was a ruthless and cruel king, who fought innumerable wars and violated the wives of countless men.  His own people determined to be rid of him at last and they prayed and made offerings to the great mother goddess.  Dáwan Anna heard and the prayers conceived a new creature in her heart.  She gives life and fertility to all things, to people and their croplands, to their cattle and sheep and horses, and to her own wild things that men cannot tame.  Taking from each of these domains, she created a being of three natures, part man, part domestic beast, and part wild nature.  She called him Enkídu, which means child of the untamed seas.  Then she sent this savage creature against Bilgámash.

"Despite his power over his country and his people, Bilgámash could not conquer the wild man on his own.  He called upon a priestess, but she could do nothing to help him.  He called upon his army, but they could do nothing, either.  Finally, he turned to a prostitute, a woman with no husband to support her and no family to find her a spouse.  No one had lower status than this woman, but she alone had the power to quiet the creature's wild nature.

"Then Enkídu and Bilgámash became friends.  With their strength combined, there was nothing they could not accomplish.  They battled men and dáimons together, and conquered both from one end of the world to the other.  But, in the end, Enkídu fell sick and, as all men must do in the end, he died.  Bilgámash could not accept this loss or what it meant for him.  He could not bear to think that he, too, would have to die one day, that there was one place he could not conquer.  Since he and his friend had devastated every earthly country, he was determined to sack the citadel of 'Aidé itself and return Enkídu to the living.

"Bilgámash began a great journey that took him through every land, civilized and barbarian, as he sought to learn where the plant grew that snakes feast upon so that they live forever.  This magical herb, Bilgámash swore to possess.  He almost succeeded, just as men sometimes live past the normal span and see their sons die of old age before them.  Though Bilgámash was fated to see his friend again, he could not restore Enkídu to life.  Both had to submit to the power of the goddess of death in the end.  Nor can you bring Patróklo back by desecrating his killer's body.

"Now I tell you, as Enkídu's spirit once told Bilgámash, go and enjoy life while you can.  Love or hate as you are inclined, do what you want and must do.  But do it now.  Because one day your soul will pass on to Préswa's realm and none of earth's treasures will go with you."

Ak'illéyu had listened in somber silence to the woman's story.  Sighing deeply, he said, "All right, 'Iqodámeya, all right.  If someone comes with a ransom, I will let him take Qántili away.  Now, sing for me.  Sing the lament.  I must hear it one more time."

In a soft, clear voice, 'Iqodámeya complied.

"O Hear me, men and maináds,

Attend, great god and goddess,

And, listen, bird-like spirit,

You soul of slain Patróklo.

Spread your wings and fly,

O you cherished soul.

Do not stay beside us,

Leave your friends behind.

You must not harm the living,

Sweet soul, fly toward 'Aidé

Préswa awaits,

Beyond the Stuks' black waters,

Your mother's arms are empty,

Your father's eyes are dim.

Your wife cannot go with you…"

aaa

In Tróya, king Alakshándu spent the night at the narrow postern gate on the northwestern side of the fortress, where a single monolith honored the direction of the dead.  He and Eqépa clung to each other, lamenting their son's death and his soul’s continuing torment.  They had done the same every night since Qántili had died and vowed to continue until the prince's body was returned for a proper funeral.  In the morning, their living sons implored them to come to the palace, to dry their tears, to bathe, and to don fresh clothing.  "Messengers have come from the Ak'áyan camp," Paqúr told his father.  "Only you have the authority to negotiate another truce.  Forget the dead for a moment.  Take care of the living.  All Tróya is depending on you.  You must come."

With many sighs, Alakshándu rose, stiff and aching, caked in dust from rolling on the ground and from sweeping dirt over his head in mourning. The queen followed, too weary to cry any longer.  But, once in the hilltop palace, Alakshándu refused to wash his body, or take food.  Wrapped in a torn, woolen cloak, he entered the mégaron to speak to the Ak'áyan envoys.

Odushéyu and Aíwaks stood before the king's ivory throne, washed and wearing kilts, sun-faded but clean.  The tall qasiléyu showed his surprise at the old man's condition by widening his ill-omened, pale eyes.  Odushéyu's darker eyes narrowed and, though he did not smile, there was something in his face that suggested glee.  The stocky It'ákan did the talking, spreading his arms and letting his melodious voice fill the shaken room.  "King Alakshándu, listen to my words.  I am the wánaks of It'áka, the greatest island of the west, and I am renowned for my wisdom.  So, even though I am your enemy in this campaign, hear me out.

"This war has been a curse upon both our peoples.  We have all lost kinsmen, friends, allies, in great number.  Our harvests are endangered, for this siege has lasted far too long.  Ai, it is said that, in peace, even the rocks will bring forth abundantly, but, in war, the most fertile fields become a desert.  What truth there is in the wisdom of the ancients!

“There is, of course, a matter of honor to settle between our two peoples, but I have not come to speak of that.  No, my mission today is simply to ask for a truce.  Allow the Ak'áyan army to sail home, for the winter.  We need time to return the bones of our dead to their native soil.  We will swear oaths not to touch your people until next summer, when the proper season for war comes again.  You must take oaths not to attack us in our encampment, as we prepare to leave."

Alakshándu and his sons stared at the Ak'áyan in astonishment.  "A truce?" the king asked, not believing his ears.  "Did you say a truce for the winter?"

"Indeed, I did," Odushéyu announced.  "Will you consider this noble request?"

Alakshándu nodded vigorously.  "Yes, yes, indeed, a truce!  We will take oaths, yes, a truce is quite acceptable, yes, yes!  I will have wine and mutton brought immediately.  No, no, I forget myself, we have no more sheep.  But I have a few geese and ducks left.  You must stay and eat with us to cement this new bond of friendship.  Come, sit!"

Prince Paqúr glared at his royal father, trying to signal to the old man.  "He should not agree so quickly," he whispered anxiously to his younger brothers.  "The Ak'áyans must not learn the extent of our losses."  But the old still man ruled.  His will was followed and the prince was given no chance to object.

Alakshándu sat unmoving and silent, watching his surviving sons dine, despite their reluctance, with the Ak'áyan messengers.  But the king himself ate and drank nothing.  When, at last, the pirate and the tall visiting warrior leaned back in their chairs, patting their full bellies, relaxed from the watered wine, Alakshándu spoke.  "Now, honored guests, tell me what I most want to hear.  What about my son?  What about Qántili?  Will you release his body to me for a proper funeral?"

Aíwaks looked uncertainly to Odushéyu.  The It'ákan wánaks took his time to respond.  He looked at his greasy hands and wiped them on his curly beard, gazing up at the smoke-hole in the ceiling, supported by four pillars at the corners of the hearth.  "Ai," he sighed dramatically at last, "that is a most difficult question.  You see, our prince Ak'illéyu is rather fond of that particular corpse and reluctant to let it go.  He thinks it would make a fine meal for his hunting dogs."

Tróya's three princes, Paqúr, Lupákki, and Dapashánda, immediately leaped to their feet with curses.  "Préswa take you and your truce!  To 'Aidé with all Ak'áyans!"

The aging king groaned.  "Show mercy!" he begged.

But Odushéyu raised his hands, palms forward.  "Peace, peace, I did not say it was I who thought that.  It is the great northern warrior, Ak'illéyu, who says such things.  And it is happens to be our custom to allow a man's killer to decide the fate of any particular corpse.  But, perhaps, we can come to some understanding.  It just so happens that this prince Ak'illéyu has not gained very much in the way of treasures, you see.  He is actually a rather poor man, despite his high status, no cattle or sheep, no tripods, not very much bronze, only the one woman…"  Again Odushéyu gazed at the cracked ceiling, rubbing his beard in pretended contemplation.  "That is a sorry way for a great hero to return home."