Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze) (15 page)

Ariyádna wept as well, led to the chamber by her Lakedaimóniyan serving woman.  But the captive queen's tears were for her own child, far across the Inner Sea.  "Owái, t'ugátriyon," she whispered, twisting a lock of hair around and around her finger, hanging her head to one side.  "Do you see?  Do you see 'Erakléwe lying dead before you?  Did you learn the prophecy I taught you, 'Ermiyóna?  It is the end of the world, the end of time.  A queen taken across the sea, warriors battling Díwo's chosen…it is the end of the world.  I will see you in 'Aidé, little daughter."

As the women of his household sang their laments, Alakshándu sent his servants to attend to the prince's funeral.  As the sons of Diwiyána had done for their fallen champion, so the sons of Dáwan did now, bringing wood for the royal pyre.  Too few animals remained to sacrifice beside the honored dead, still fewer riches to send with him in the rising smoke.  Only the prayers and tears of his kinsmen accompanied his spirit, their only offerings locks of their hair.  As the sun began its westward journey from the peak of the sky's bowl to the sea, a meager banquet was held in Qántili's honor, to send his soul safely on its way down to queen Préswa.  In Alakshándu's throne room, beneath bright frescoes and about the warm fireplace, the royal family sat down to dine on stale flat bread and a thin soup of boiled lentils, drinking diluted, poppy-tinged wine.

CHAPTER FOUR

ARETE

After Alakshándu's departure, Ak'illéyu at last ate his fill of fish and barley cakes, and drank as men normally did of watered wine.  When 'Iqodámeya brought him unbleached cloths for drying, he did not wait for her to speak, but walked to the seashore, splashing in the cool water to wash away the accumulated dried blood, sweat, and dust.  From there he went to the riverbank, to rinse the salt from his skin.  He returned to his hut looking like a prince once more.  With his head in 'Iqodámeya's lap, he dozed, while she ran her fingers through his tangled hair, removing lice and soothing him into slumber.

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While Ak'illéyu bathed and while he slept, the flames roared on Qántili's pyre before the walls of Tróya, fanned high by the brisk, autumn winds of Wilúsiya.  Wíp'iya learned from 'Iqodámeya what had transpired between the T'eshalíyan prince and the king of Tróya.  In turn, Wíp'iya sought Odushéyu out and spoke to him of it.  "Remember that I was the one who told you this," the woman said, when her news was given.  "Do not forget your promise to me."

Odushéyu smiled and took the wide-hipped captive in his arms.  "My heart is yours, my queen," he told her slyly.  "How can I help but remember?"  From the It'ákan's lips the news soon reached the ears of the Ak'áyan overlord.  "Ai gar, Ak'illéyu causes me no end of grief!" Agamémnon complained.  "I expected Meneláwo to be upset at the idea of leaving Wilúsiya for the winter.  So I told him nothing.  But what is Ak'illéyu's problem?  He has avenged Patróklo, has he not?  Qántili is certainly dead.  And I let the feather-head hold an unnecessarily elaborate funeral.  Ai gar, I even forced the kings of every nation to attend it, against their will.  What more can he want?"

Odushéyu shrugged.  "Ai, there was that matter of slitting the throats of three men, you know.  He did swear on oath to do that."

The overlord groaned and ran a rough hand over his face.  "Idé, I had forgotten about that.  As much wine as he has been drinking, I am surprised Ak'illéyu remembered that himself.  All right, we will stay for one more battle, if it does not take too long.  I was not looking forward to breaking the news of our departure to my brother in any case."

The It'ákan nodded understandingly.  "Meneláwo will not be pleased, that is certain.  I suggest you get him drunk before you talk to him…"

"Idé, get him drunk, you say?" Agamémnon exclaimed with a mirthless laugh.  "He is half-drunk with poppy wine all the time now.  Have you not noticed where he goes every night?  He sits on that hill across the river, staring at Tróya's walls and sharpening his sword.  Ai, he will wear the blade down to nothing if he keeps up that brooding.  I cannot believe my own brother is so obsessed with this campaign.  He made a valiant effort to get his wife back, after all.  And he has provided the country with an heiress, to carry on the kingship.  I told him all he has to do now is declare 'Ermiyóna the wánasha and call himself her regent.  No Lakedaimóniyan in the country would throw him out, priestess wife or not.  In fact, they would be only too happy to see him return with a few of their sons still alive!"

"Meneláwo says it is not his kingship that he is concerned with," Odushéyu said, shaking his head at the oddity of it.  "He must be planning a terrible revenge, something worse even than what Ak'illéyu has in mind."

Agamémnon grunted a not very happy agreement.  "I know that I would slit my wife's throat as soon as I could, if I were in his sandals.  An adulterous woman does not deserve to live.  And I would see to it that Paqúr died a very slow and painful death for raping her."

"Yes, any self-respecting Ak'áyan man would do the same," the It'ákan agreed.  "Any man but a born-and-bred Lakedaimóniyan, that is.  And that may be something of a problem for you, Agamémnon.  Let us say we do manage to sack Tróya soon.  If your brother kills his wife as we expect, then the Lakedaimóniyans may rise up and overthrow him for committing a sacrilege.  They are very touchy about their priestesses and seeresses, you know.  Ai, they might even kill Meneláwo."

"I would not worry about that, my friend," the overlord laughed scornfully.  "My Argives are twice as numerous as the Lakedaimóniyans.  Given a good excuse for war, I could sack every fortress in 'Elléniya and Lakedaimón in a single month."

Odushéyu frowned, nodding.  "But still," he said, "you can never predict how men will fight when caught up in religious fervor.  Such a war could cost you more than you think.  If it did, if it weakened you, every P'ilísta and his brother would be only too happy to join your enemies and harry you at home and at sea."

Agamémnon had not thought of that.  The idea troubled him.  "What do you propose I do about this?" he asked.  "Depose Meneláwo myself?  Now, there is an idea.  I suppose I have as good a claim to the throne of Lakedaimón as any man, since that was my queen, Klutaimnéstra's birthplace."

"You could," the island king agreed, "but then you would have to make peace with your wife.  And after what we learned from Idómeneyu, that might not be in your best interest.  No, I have another suggestion.  Let Meneláwo do as he will with his wife and then, for the sake of both Argo and Lakedaimón of course, you simply prevent him from returning to his kingdom.  Keep him in Argo with you, say as one of your qasiléyus.  Now that old Tudéyu is dead, you could give your brother the fortress at Tíruns.  Then, place upon the throne of Lakedaimón another man, one whose loyalty to you is unequalled, and who also happens to have a Lakedaimóniyan priestess for a wife."  He smiled.  "Then you would be free to do with your wife as you please."

Agamémnon roared with laughter.  "You mean, put you on my brother's throne, of course!  By the gods, Odushéyu, you have more cleverness in your smallest toe than Néstor has in all his body!"  He thought a bit, cocking his head to one side.  "Seriously, though, I just might take your suggestion.  Now, our only problem is how to extract the Wilúsiyans from their citadel for one more battle."

At midday, Ak'illéyu rose from his nap.  He made his way to the pyre where his foster brother had been burned.  Though his legs ached, he paced round and round the smoldering embers, pouring libations of river water and of wine to quench the fire and assuage the thirst of Patróklo's soul.  Alongside him, representatives from each of the Ak'áyan kingdoms combed through the ashes, gathering dead men's bones, bringing them to Qálki for identification.  The prophet's bony fingers crumbled dry leaves and small twigs of efficacious herbs.  By a small fire set up near the great pyre, the seer recited the names of the dead as he tossed the bits of wood and leaves into the flames.  Watching the changing colors in the fire, listening to the crackling, he made his pronouncements.  This skull was Knagéyu's, these half-burned thigh bones Akasto's, that bit of backbone Prokléwe's.

As the T'eshalíya's commander waited to gather in his foster brother's remains, he swayed from side to side, wailing hoarse, inhuman cries that stirred men's hearts to fear.  'Iqodámeya kept watch by the door of his hut, unable to concentrate on her endless chores.  She pressed a hand to her abdomen, not yet swollen, and whispered prayers to Dáwan for the unborn child.

Aíwaks tried to distract Ak'illéyu from his task with talk of Patróklo's glory in his last day of combat.  "Let us drink wine and eat together," the big man urged, "in honor of the dead.  Join me as I comfort my soul with a song of your brother's great deeds.  I will get T'érsite to bring his lúra.  It is time he gave us an ode to a great man instead of his ridiculous song of battling mice and frogs."

As the tall man spoke, Automédon ran to the overlord's tent.  "My wánaks is in the hands of the maináds again," the T'eshalíyan qasiléyu said.  "Please, high wánaks, get him away from the pyre.  I am afraid he will go completely mad, as 'Erakléwe did in the old legends.  If his disturbed mind tells him that we are all Wilúsiyans, he could halve the Ak'áyans before coming to his senses."

Agamémnon and Odushéyu took up fine, bronze gifts and paid a sudden visit to the T'eshalíyan prince, reluctantly following Aíwaks.  The southern kings spoke at length of the renown of all the P'ilístas they had known, telling admiring stories of northern warriors' depredations all around the Inner Sea.  Word spread throughout the encampment that Ak'illéyu had lost his senses.  Men shook their heads despairingly.

"A father mourns a son who dies, newly married," Qálki pronounced in gloomy tones, as the low-ranked soldiers remained by the small fire of divination, "but no man has ever mourned the death of a brother more than he.  His father called him Ak'illéyu, the Griever, thinking that with such a fierce name the boy would bring sorrow to others.  Little did Péleyu know that the grief would be in his son's own heart!"

T'érsite, squatting beside the growing collection of Argive remains, growled at the prophet, "No one cares how he was named.  You would help us more by telling us what to do about him.  Look into the future and prophesy for us.  Will Ak'illéyu's grief finally be satisfied when he has angered every god and they all send plagues to finish us off?"

Outside the T'eshalíyan prince's hut, his troop leaders and captive women muttered among themselves.  "I will tell you what to do," 'Iqodámeya told them with sudden determination.  "We must all take turns keeping Ak'illéyu's mind off his sorrow.  You go to the pyre, Automédon, since you are the highest in rank now.  Pick Patróklo's bones from the ashes yourself.  It should please Ak'illéyu that you did it, when I tell him about it later."

Automédon was uncertain, and looked at the captive woman in dismay.  "How do you know how he will react?" he asked.  "Ak'illéyu was not aware of it, but we threw other men's bodies on that fire.  I am afraid he will accuse me of bringing him some other man's bones.  And how would I know whether he was right?  I have heard of priests and prophets with extraordinary powers and I have seen them divine the identity of someone who has worked magic against a man's family, or the name of the god who cursed a place with plague or flood.  But I have never seen or heard of any servant of a god who could identify bones of dead men when all were mixed together."

"All that happens is known to the gods," 'Iqodámeya told the qasiléyu.  "The names of all the dead are in the hearts of the deities who sent them doom.  Identifying the men is no more difficult for one with true sight than is divining the god who sent death to them.  And Qálki is no ordinary seer.  He is famous all through Assúwa."  She took up a painted urn, sent over earlier by one of the northern wánaktes as a peace offering.  "Put Patróklo's remains in this," she commanded the T'eshalíyan charioteer firmly.  "Then bring this back to me and I will make a special place for it in Ak'illéyu's hut.  I will spit three times in every corner of this little house to purify it and lay offerings of milk and honey before the urn, if I can get them.  That should please Ak'illéyu, to see his brother's soul shown honor by an Assúwan slave."

"Ai gar, woman, what are you suggesting?" Automédon cried, horrified.  "Do you intend to worship Patróklo's spirit, as if he were a god?"

"Consult Qálki, if you do not approve of my plan," 'Iqodámeya suggested.  "Ask him to work for you.  Perhaps a seer of such renown can tell you what the future holds for your wánaks and, if it is a bad fate, whether it can be averted.  It may be that he knows a way to lengthen the thread that the triple goddesses weave of each man's destiny."