Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze) (38 page)

Agamémnon rose, upsetting a platter of beans and hard bread.  "I said that was enough.  Go, tell your war stories at your own hearths.  I do not care to hear any more."  He gestured expansively toward the far sides of the encampment, his elbow catching 'Ékamede as she came by with a stirrup jar filled with more wine.

Púrwo grasped at the heavy vessel as the overlord's violent movement knocked it from the captive woman's hands.  The handle came off in the young prince's hand, and the jar shattered on the hard ground, spilling its liquid contents.  "An omen!" Púrwo gasped in awe, staring, horrified, at the handle in his hand.  "What does it mean?"

The fireside roared with laughter.  "It means it is time to get your woman to make a new jar," Odushéyu bellowed, before collapsing on the ground, with more guffaws.

Púrwo reddened and threw the handle to the ground.  "Come, Uncle Aíwaks, we are finished here."

The tall man followed the boy, shaking his head at the lawagétas.  "Remember his father.  Do not anger him," he tried to warn the others.

When the two had gone, Diwoméde burst into renewed gales of laughter.  "Yes, we must not make the little one angry.  He might kick us in the shins."

Odushéyu suggested, "Or he might follow his pappa's example and sulk in his tent."  He stuck out his lower lip, drawing his brows together over his nose, in imitation of a petulant child.  "By Díwo, I am mad at you, wánaks," he pouted, in a silly, high-pitched voice.  "I am not going to fight any more.  I am putting my sling-shot away for good."

Agamémnon chuckled, in spite of his irritation.  "Ai, the boy will forget all about vengeance during the funeral games.  Give him a couple of old, rickety tripods and a fat woman and he will be happy."  He seated himself and took up the wine cup he had dropped a moment earlier.

The group at the campfire rocked with laughter again, stinging the ears of the young wánaks heading toward the shore.  Close to tears, Púrwo told Aíwaks, "I will show them.  I am as good a fighter as my father was.  They will see."

"Ai, now, do not get excited," the big man urged, putting his arm on the youth's shoulders.  "It is natural for men to laugh after battles.  What happens in camp does not matter.  No one remembers that.  It is what happens on the battlefield that lives with you.  Be patient.  Your time for glory will come soon enough."

aaa

During the short truce, the Káushans gathered in small groups in the crowded streets of Tróya.  "We should be leaving soon," they told Ainyáh in hushed voices.  "We cannot remain here long.  Urge your king to bring this war to a quick finish."  Ainyáh met privately with Antánor as they tried to find a means to persuade this last ally to go even sooner.

While the troops from Mízriya were waiting for the next battle, they brought out wooden boxes inscribed with three neat rows of ten squares each.  Upon these boxes they set “dancers,” small cones of rough clay.  Somberly, they gathered about these boards, two men at a time tossing short sticks, moving the dancers on the board and shouting when one was removed.

"What is this?" Antánor asked Ainyáh.  "What can they be doing?  It looks like a game, but they act as though their lives hang in the balance."

Ainyáh did not know.  "I will find out.  Perhaps I can use it to our advantage."

"Teach me to play this game, Shabáka," Ainyáh asked of the new leader of the Mízriyans, the man with the darkest skin and a shaved head.

"It is called Sint, which means the Passing.  It is more than a game," explained Shabáka.  "It mirrors the progress of the player's soul down the river of death, through the netherworld.  But, since you do not have a pure heart, I do not believe your ba can cross the river successfully."

Ainyáh was intrigued.  "What is wrong with my heart?  I have done nothing I am ashamed of."

Shabáka shook his head.  "You eat the flesh of the sacred bull.  In my homeland, you would be put to death for such an impious offense."

"But Amusís ate beef," Ainyáh objected.  "Was he not a decent Mízriyan?"

Shabáka sneered.  "His province worships the cat goddess, Basát.  My people have often made war on his for that sacrilege."

"Did he have an impure heart, then?" Ainyáh asked, confused.

"Yes," Shabáka stated with certainty.  "He did.  His soul was surely devoured by the crocodile at the final judgment.  His ba never saw our lord, Usíri."

"I do not understand," Ainyáh said, moving closer, sure that he was on the right track.

The dark-skinned officer rolled his eyes at the ignorance of the northerner.  But he took a deep breath and began to explain, slowly, simply, as if he were speaking to a child.  "The ba is the part of a man that remains alive, when his body dies.  If this ba is to live forever, it must pass the final judgment before Usíri, who is the lord of the dead, obviously.  When he judges the ba, Usíri places the dead man's heart on the balance scales, in one pan.  In the other pan is the spirit of truth and righteousness, the goddess Maqát.  If the feather of the truth is heavier, then the Divine Crocodile devours the man's heart.  Of course, that means his ba dies for all eternity."  He demonstrated the nature of the divine scales, holding one hand out flat to one side and the other hand out flat to the other, raising first the one and then the other.  At the end, he shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that nothing could be simpler.

"But how can a feather be heavier than a man's heart?" Ainyáh demanded, laughing at the absurd notion.

Shabáka began to lose patience.  "You sea people know nothing of the great gods or of the life of the soul!  That is why you cannot play the sacred game."

"But tell me, my good man, how can a mere game be considered holy?" Ainyáh persisted.

The southern warrior simply shook his head.  He was beginning to believe it would be impossible to clarify matters for such a thick-headed person.  He spoke each word more slowly than before and more forcefully, as if he could pound the words into the other man’s mind.  "It is the symbol...of the journey...of a man's ba...that is to say, his spirit...after his death.  You understand?  We want to know whether we will live forever...or whether a second, final death...is to be our fate.  You see?  This game can tell us."

The Kanaqániyan was more certain than ever that this peculiar game would provide the answer to his problem.  "Let me play," he begged.  "I must see if this is true."

Shabáka's men laughed as they sat by the Sint board.  "Let him play," urged one.  "He can represent the forces of darkness against your ba.  You cannot lose, Shabáka."

The leader groaned at the idea, but, seeing that all his men were eager to see him defeat the foreigner, he finally agreed.  "Very well, Ainyáh.  You may sit on the side of the House of the Falcon, there, where Hutapí is sitting.  It is your goal to prevent my dancers from progressing to the House of the Falcon.  It is my goal to get at least one of my dancers past all of the dangers and off of the board."

The slender Hutapí rose and beckoned to the Kanaqániyan to take his place.  "Here are the fingers," he announced, holding out a handful of throw-sticks painted white on one side, brown on the other.  "Toss them into the air and watch how they land on the ground.  Count the number of white sides turned up and move your dancers that number."

Ainyáh gathered up the wooden fingers and held them high.  "But first," he said slowly, thinking a moment, and lowering them to his lap again.  "First, let us add a little something from the games of my people.  In Kanaqán, we always bet something on the outcome of any uncertain venture."

The Káushans looked at one another, snickering at the Kanaqániyan's naivete.  "Whatever do you mean?" Shabáka demanded.  "Do you really mean to say that you wish to lose more than your immortal soul?"

"I am not going to lose," Ainyáh scoffed.  "I just want to win something I value.  I have no use for your ba or soul."

Shabáka looked around at his men, who were nodding at him, pointing out that they were certain he could not lose.  He shrugged.  "No?  Then, name your bet."

"I have no riches," the commander of mercenaries admitted.  "It has been a long war and I have had to reuse every piece of bronze I took in battle.  Let us play for the fate of Tróya.  If you win, you stay here in Wilúsiya and fight until the end, no matter what messages come from home."

Shabáka answered harshly.  "It is not our way to run from a fight.  We only ask that your king finish the war quickly."

"I meant no offense," Ainyáh responded quietly.  "But if I win, you return home immediately.  It will be a sign that Mízriya needs you more than we do."

The Káushans again looked at each other, beginning to smile.  "Why not?" Shabáka responded easily, with another shrug of his shoulders.

With a vengeance, Ainyáh played the game, taking one and another of the Káushan's dancers from the board, preventing all seven from reaching the blessed House of the Falcon.

"Ayá," sighed the dark-skinned leader, taking the loss of both the game and his ba philosophically.  "We made a bet.  Now we must be going home."

So it was that Alakshándu heard doubly bad news over his evening meal.  Tróya's last allies were leaving.  At the same time, a fresh contingent of T'eshalíyans had just joined the depleted forces of his enemies.

aaa

Many times during the short truce, Antánor and Ainyáh came, with Érinu the priest, to Agamémnon's tent.  The high wánaks agreed wholeheartedly to press for Kashánda's hand in marriage, urging the return of Ariyádna as his only condition for an end to the war.  True to his word, he questioned the Tróyan counselor about Ak'illéyu's killer, accusing Ainyáh to his face.  But both of the Wilúsiyan king's sons-in-law agreed that the prince Paqúr had taken that honor.

The overlord passed that bit of information on to Púrwo and Aíwaks, as they assembled the T'eshalíyans for Ak'illéyu's funeral games.  While Púrwo selected prizes for the contests, Aíwaks walked from hearth to hearth, bidding the Ak'áyans from both the north and south to come.  As a body, most of the northerners assembled, P'ilístas in their feathered headgear gathering to honor their fallen champion.  Only the Qoyotíyan wánaks refused to attend, citing an unhealed wound in his cheek, close to his right eye.