Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze) (2 page)

"You have nothing to worry about, St'énelo," said the youngest of the four men, his speech slurred.  "Many of us depend on the poppies now.  I would not be able to fight since Paqúr put an arrow in my foot, if it were not for the opium."  He looked down at his feet, one wrapped in darkly stained linen.  "But we lost so many warriors in those first battles, we need every man.  So I cannot stay in camp any more than wánaks Meneláwo.  But when Tróya falls and I do not need to fight anymore, then I will have my wine mixed with nothing but water.  I am sure Meneláwo will do the same."

The bigger man nodded.  "Diwoméde is right.  You have nothing to worry about, St'énelo.  I have been on many campaigns.  Men always turn to poppies for awhile.  But once the war is over, they lose interest.  And Tróya cannot last much longer."

The fourth man at the hearth ran a hand through his thinning hair and scoffed, "I have heard that said before.  Prince Qántili was the only man who could keep the Tróyans and their allies together.  That is what we all said, after the first battle.  Then, when Ak'illéyu killed him, everyone said that the city would open its gates to us immediately.  But here we are, two days after the last battle, and still the dead are strewn all over the fields on both sides of the river.  But the gates are still closed and the end of this war is as far away as ever.  Ai, the Tróyans will not even send a man out to negotiate a truce with us!  If we cannot coax them out from behind their walls, we cannot finish them off."

Agamémnon began idly tossing small twigs and branches into the fire.  "Ai gar, T'érsite, you foot-soldiers are as gloomy as 'Aidé itself.  Tróya will negotiate, eventually.  I am not worried about that."  Before any of the others could respond, the big man added loudly, "And I do not care to hear any more of this kind of talk."

"Sing to us, then, T'érsite," St'énelo said, obligingly changing the subject.  "Let us have an old song of heroes."

"Yes," agreed Diwoméde, cradling a newly refilled wine-cup.  He gingerly stretched his legs, moving his bandaged foot with great care.  "Sing the one about 'Erakléwe's raid on Tróya years ago."

T'érsite went to the nearest hut and brought out a lúra, a rude instrument little more than a sound box of tortoise shell, strung with dried gut.  Settling himself by the fire again, he rubbed his aching back.  "A song you want.  A song you will have."  He threw his head back and bawled the words, not especially musically.  "Listen, men of Ak'áiwiya.  These are fine days to live in, but the past was truly golden.  Living men cannot match the deeds of our ancestors."  He struck a discordant note upon the lúra and took a deep breath.  In a gravelly voice, hoarse from overuse, he sang:

"Artop'ágo, king of Mice,

Called up his loyal qasiléyus:

'O Mice, three evils have been mine.

I lost three children, dear to me.

'The first was raped by yonder Weasel,

Carried to 'Aidé, I fear.

The second, Man has torn from me--

Deceitful traps have killed my son.

'But now the worst of all the fates

Has come to Lík'enor, the prince.

The Frogs have lured him to their pond

And strangled him upon the deep.

'O Mice, my brothers, don your arms,

your bull-rush spears and flat bread shields.

Put nutshell helmets on your heads,

with bean pod greaves protect your legs.'

The wine gnats gave the battle-cry…"

He stopped his raucous singing and made a high-pitched buzzing sound, his tongue against his teeth.

Roaring with laughter, the slender St'énelo threw a terra cotta cup at the singer's head.  "That is enough, T'érsite!  I wanted heroes, not frogs and mice."

The broad-chested singer protested in mock anger, "But I have not told you who won."

"I know who won," St'énelo crowed.  "The frogs drove the mice into the pond and slaughtered them."

"Yes," laughed T'érsite, pointing to the sky, "but then the gods sent in the lobsters’ army to eat the frogs."

Diwoméde did not join the laughter.  He swallowed hard.  Staring into his murky wine, he said, "Those words make me think of how prophets speak.  The messages from the oracles of 'Elléniya and Put'ó are like that, all in symbols.  I heard many such mysterious prophecies when I was a boy. 'By the will of the Bull,' they would say, and 'beneath the wings of the Dove.'  Your song may foretell our fate…"

T'érsite's mirth dissipated quickly at the thought.  St'énelo, too, was abruptly solemn.

"Are we the mice, then, do you think?" Diwoméde asked, nervously rubbing the sparse whiskers of youth on his chin.  But he did not receive an answer.

Agamémnon, listening quietly, muttered to himself, "What I want to know is, who are the lobsters?"

"Agamémnon," Meneláwo called, coming out of the shadows.  "I must speak to you, brother."

The other three rose as Meneláwo appeared, T'érsite and St'énelo helping the younger man to walk.  They left Agamémnon's campfire, St'énelo casting many backward glances at the brother kings.

Meneláwo set down his burdens and sat beside his older brother.  He spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.  "I saw the Tróyans' allies leaving just now.  The Pálayans and Mírans have abandoned the city."

Agamémnon raised his bushy eyebrows.  "This is good news!" he exclaimed quietly.  "And what about the Lúkiyans?"

Meneláwo frowned and shook his head.  Rubbing his damp mustache, he stared thoughtfully into the fire.  "No.  They did not leave.  Their king, Sharpaduwánna, was a good friend of Qántili's.  He and his Lúkiyans will stay to avenge the prince's death, I am sure."

Now it was the bigger man's turn to become thoughtful.  "I will call the troop leaders to my tent in the morning," Agamémnon decided after a moment of silence.  "We will decide then what to do.  But now, you should go to your tent and get some sleep.  The men are beginning to talk about you, brother."

"I know," Meneláwo said.  But he made no move to leave.  His dark-rimmed eyes fell upon his half-empty wine-bag.  He lifted it and poured himself another cup.  As he reached for the poppy flask, his brother caught his hand.

"You have had enough tonight," Agamémnon scolded.  His voice was low, threatening, the voice of an overlord and not a kinsman.  "Just look at you, walking about naked as if you were a low-born foot soldier.  That is no way for the king of Lakedaimón and 'Elléniya to behave.  We are Ak'áyans, civilized men, not barbarians.  What would your brothers-in-law think if they could see you this way?  Ai, they would be sorry they let you marry their sister and take their country's throne."

Meneláwo shuddered.  "Owái," he moaned.  "I would give back all of Lakedaimón's cities and my 'Elléniyan island as well, if only I could see Kástor and Poludéyuke again!  Ai gar, I would gladly give up my kingdom if I could just retrieve their bones from the sea and bury them properly in Ak'áyan soil!"

"Ai, you are completely drunk," Agamémnon growled in disgust.

"No," his brother whispered, "not completely.  I can drink enough to forget this pain in my side.  But I can never get so drunk that I forget how the loss of those good men stings my heart."

The bigger man stood, dragging the other to his feet.  "Go to your tent, Meneláwo.  In a moment you will be crying like a woman and I do not want the men to see that.  Listen to your older brother.  Go."

This time, Meneláwo went, but not before retrieving his bag of wine and the flask in the shape of a poppy.

Many more such juglets littered the crowded streets of the city on the hill.  Across the river from the Ak'áyan camp and its earthen walls, Tróya held its own share of wounded men.  In the palace on the crest of the hill, a royal prince found the solace of opium-tinged wine, as well.  Dapashánda's right, sword-bearing arm was thickly wrapped in blood-stained linen.  With his left hand he clumsily dipped his wine-cup, again and again, in a wide-brimmed bowl.  When the bowl was empty, he called on his serving women to fill it again, mixing water and wine and the bitter essence of poppies.

In a large room centered on a massive, stone hearth, the prince sat in a wooden chair, listening as his father held a council.  The king slumped on his throne, his white hair disheveled, his long robes torn and dirty.  With tear-dimmed eyes, the old monarch watched as younger men argued around him, debating the future of Tróya.  Along the walls sat the men of high rank, Tróyan elders and princes, and troop commanders from allied kingdoms.  They dressed in long-sleeved tunics that fell to their knees or ankles, their feet covered with soft, leather shoes with upturned toes.  Bearded and wearing their hair long, they sat on plaster benches or wooden chairs, draped with sheepkskins, or cushioned with linen pillows, for comfort.

The first speaker was graying, and as ragged as the king on his stone seat.  But his voice was strong and confident as he raised his heavy staff.  "You all know me.  I am Antánor, our lord's oldest son-in-law.  My wife and I mourn the death of her brother, Qántili, as does the whole land of Wilúsiya.  Naturally, we too would prefer to see his death avenged.  No one wants those godless Ak'áyans driven out of the country any more than Laqíqepa and I.  But we must do what is best for the land of Wilúsiya as a whole, not just what the city of Tróya desires."  Angry murmurs began to rise from the men on the benches that lined the walls of the big room.

"My brother Assúwans, listen!  That is not all I have to say," Antánor went on, raising his voice to drown out the others.  Gesturing toward the white-haired man on the throne, he continued, "King Alakshándu assembled a mighty army here, this summer.  The whole continent of Assúwa sided with us against the Ak'áyans.  It was a wondrous thing to see men of every nation, Wilúsiyans, Mírans, Kuwalíyans, Pálayans, and Lúkiyans all fighting as one.  We are grateful to the gods for that.  But let us be realistic.  Despite the size of our combined armies, the battles we fought were inconclusive.  There is no denying that.  Our enemies are just too many for us.  Wánaks Agamémnon is a great king after all.  He brought the whole of Ak'áiwiya with him, something we thought could not be done.  Ak'áyans may appear to be divided into warring, independent states, but the army camped across the Sqámandro River is living proof that they follow a single overlord.  Now, the gods are against us as well, for we have become oath breakers.  I have discovered that it was a Tróyan arrow that began the first battle, against the vow that all men took, to accept the consequences of the single combat."