Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze) (40 page)

"I had not heard about the Qalladiyón," Alakshándu cried, shaken.  "When did this happen?  What does it mean?"

Paqúr scoffed at the fear in his father's face.  "What it really means is that some cowardly fawn of an ally has stolen one more of our valuables.  But what people say is that it means the end of Tróya.  It is the women, especially, who are causing the trouble.  Kashánda is the worst of them, too, urging them to kill themselves, jump into the sea, or throw themselves from the towers, rather than be taken to Ak'áiwiya as captives."

Alakshándu groaned, rubbing his face with his hands.  "Owái, my son, my son!"

Paqúr put a hand on his father's bent shoulder.  "I am here, Father.  Do not worry about me.  I will prevail in the fight."

Alakshándu sat up straight and gazed into his son's face without recognition.  "I was thinking of Qántili," the old man whispered.

Paqúr jerked his hand away from his father as if burned.  The prince's face hardened.  "So you blame me, too!  Is that it?  Ai, just remember, old man, it was you who sent me on that voyage to 'Elléniya, you who demanded revenge for Ishqíyanna's rape.  If I am at fault, you are too."

The king's eyes overflowed with tears.  "Owái, my son, my son!" he moaned again.  "What have I done to you, my poor son?"

Paqúr stormed from the mégaron, calling on his highest commander.  "Ainyáh, speak to the men!  I will fight the Ak'áyan champion tomorrow, at dawn."

aaa

When the truce drew to a close, the Ak'áyan forces drew on their battered armor, unenthusiastically.  They ate sparingly that morning from their depleted stores, making up for the larger portions they had taken to celebrate on the nights before.  "Another month of this, and we will all be food for crows," St'énelo complained.

T'érsite nodded.  "I came here without a name and without armor.  I have taken three bronze corselets already and lost them all.  My name is no better known than before.  I am afraid the next time it will be my flesh that takes the spear."

"Quiet, son of a dog," urged Odushéyu.  "You do not want the high wánaks to hear that kind of talk.  He swaggers with more confidence all the time."

"What does an archer know about confidence?" T'érsite growled back.

Odushéyu became angry.  "Archers are soldiers every bit as much as you, little spearman.  I happen to know that Agamémnon has no plans to leave these shores any time soon, either.  So, you had better get used to lentils and barley gruel.  It will be a long time before you eat meat again."

aaa

As his weary troops armed, the overlord drew Diwoméde aside.  "I agreed to attempt a single combat once more, but I still want one more battle," the overlord told his young qasiléyu.  "I cannot trust Aíwaks any longer.  But I know I can count on you.  If our champion does not kill Paqúr, have one of the archers finish him off.  That will start the fight and, with a little luck, we will storm the walls before noon.  I swore to Ainyáh and Antánor that I would not have them or their people touched if they put the agreed-upon sign over their doors.  But if we crack the walls today, those traitors will not be ready and we can kill them as they deserve, without penalty.  See to it."

Diwoméde frowned.  "But, wánaks, your oaths to Ainyáh and Antánor are not the only ones you have taken.  What about the oath you will make today, before the combat?  Will you not swear to accept the decision of the gods?"

Agamémnon spat.  "If I do, it is my own business.  Do not worry about me.  I will take my chances with my dead kinsmen.  By 'Aidé, they would do the same thing if they were in my sandals!  Now, can I depend on you?"

Diwoméde nodded, touching a hand to his forehead as if in worship.  "Yes, my wánaks."  As he turned to go, the overlord called him back.

"By the way, bring Qálki out to the field as well.  I want him to witness the end of this war."  The overlord's eyes gleamed as he spoke.

Qálki, for his part, did not object.  "So, the old blasphemer has finally seen my true worth!" he exclaimed.  "My prophecies before the last battle turned the tide in our favor."

Diwoméde did not argue.  But he did not believe that was the reason for Agamémnon's command.

aaa

Between the drawn-up lines of warriors, Paqúr strode with his leopard skin over his shoulder, as he had when first the two armies met.  But the great cat’s spots barely showed in the dirty fur.  The horse-tail crest had long been lost from his battered helmet and, like all his men, he was now barefoot.  The grass had gone from the battlefield under the constant trampling of horses and men, and a dusty haze hovered in the air that smelled strongly of death.  Even the points of the weapons they all wielded spoke of poverty, as no longer were all the arrowheads and spear points bronze.  Now, many were fashioned of rough stone or, at worst, they were merely fire-hardened points of wood.  Raising his curving bow over his head with one hand, a spear in the other, the Tróyan prince shouted to men who had nearly forgotten the cause of the conflict, "Who will fight with me?"

Púrwo was the first of the Ak'áyans to come forward, and Idómeneyu inscribed a pebble with the first syllable of his name, to throw in Agamémnon's helmet.  Meneláwo and Diwoméde came forward together, Aíwaks behind them.  Idómeneyu scratched a syllable of each man's name on his stone.  Odushéyu came forward as well, carrying a finely-carved bow of ibex horn.  He pulled the amulet from its string at his neck and dropped it in with the other markers.  With a piercing look at Agamémnon, the It'ákan said, "May Lady At'ána choose an archer to face an archer."

Agamémnon did not respond to the pirate, either in word or in gesture.  "Qálki!" the overlord roared, his eyes fixed on the It'ákan, "pray to all the immortals for us."

The prophet raised his bony arms and called out a prayer that left the men bored and almost eager for war, so long did it last.  While it poured interminably on, Agamémnon surreptitiously looked through the pebbles, placing those of his brother and of Ak'illéyu's son under his thumb.  At last, the old seer finished his speech and the high wánaks raised the helmet, swirling it until a pebble flew out.

Idómeneyu pounced upon it, then threw it down, announcing in disappointment, "It is Odushéyu.  By Díwo, it is a pirate!"

Aíwaks groaned loudly.  "And he is an archer.  The fickle goddess made a poor choice this time."

But the It'ákan stepped forward eagerly, other bowmen cheering him on.  "Show them that we are real men too.  Kill that Tróyan sow!"

Paqúr shot first and his dart stuck fast in Odushéyu's chest armor.  With a grin, the Ak'áyan plucked the arrow from the tough leather and shot the same one back at the Tróyan.  It skimmed the edge of the prince's shield and struck Paqúr in the arm.  He wheeled around, crying out in surprised pain.  As the prince turned, Odushéyu whipped out a second arrow from his quiver and shot the Tróyan beside the shoulder blade.  The wounded man yelped still louder and stumbled, trying to run for cover behind his men's lines.  But this time the men backed away, both from the flying arrows and from the dishonor of shielding a coward.  They would not protect their champion from his fate a second time.  Odushéyu's third arrow bit his enemy's leg, toppling him to the ground.  One more caught Paqúr's foot as he lay bleeding and wailing in the dust.  The victorious It'ákan stood over the dying man for a final shot into the heart from behind.

The Ak'áyan archers cheered and gathered about their man, as he bent to strip the corpse.  But here, the Wilúsiyans drew the line, pushing forward to recover the body and its gear.  Agamémnon raised his hand to get Diwoméde's attention.  But it was not necessary.  Without a moment more of peace, the war resumed, the Ak'áyans moving quickly, relentlessly toward the open gate of the fortress.

Qálki was soon left behind the crowd of advancing warriors, as he shrieked in vain, "Men, put away your arms!  Honor your oaths!  The gods will punish you for this outrage!  I see your dead kinsmen rising from 'Aidé to urge you not to fight!"

Behind him, the white-faced high wánaks pounded with heavy steps.  "Qálki," he said, just loud enough to make the seer turn to face him.  "Remember my daughter?  You wanted me to send her to Préswa on the point of my sword.  Now go to 'Aidé yourself."  Before the prophet could cry out in fear, the Argive wánaks ran his spear blade into the undefended rib cage.  The prophet fell, his eyes glazed.  Agamémnon bent down and stabbed the twitching body once more.  "And that is for taking my captive woman," he growled.  Then the overlord joined the rush for the Tróyan gates, trilling the war cry, "Alalá!".

            Ainyáh had considered the possibility of yet another broken oath.  He had stationed six men beside the heavy door at the southern entrance to the citadel, ready to close it at the first sign of trouble.  Though the contest was fierce, only a few Ak'áyans entered the city and they died as Ak'illéyu had, surrounded and stabbed from every side, behind the closed gate.

Púrwo and Meneláwo took turns chopping the limbs from Paqúr's body after the gates had closed.  As one hacked at the corpse, the other held his shield high to protect both from the occasional arrow that flew from the city walls.  When the wánaktes were finally sated with their bloodletting, they left the mangled body where it lay.

"I will not offend the gods the way Ak'illéyu did," Meneláwo panted.  "I will not insult this body any further.  Paqúr, lie here until the Tróyans find you or the dogs and crows do, whichever ones have the greater courage."  His hand at his throbbing hip, the Lakedaimóniyan returned slowly toward the Sqámandro River.

aaa

It was not until dark that the sons of Dáwan dared venture forth to carry Paqúr’s remains back within their shattered walls, draped over a donkey's protruding ribs.  The Tróyans had wailed frenziedly over his brother Qántili's remains, but for Paqúr the populace merely rubbed another handful of dirt into their filthy hair and called a single lamentation in voices that had grown all too weary of mourning.  The funeral song wound down to tired chanting by the time the royal family received the news and came to the gates.

Looking down at the broken body of yet another son, Eqépa moaned and sank to her knees.  "I have no more tears," she sighed.  But her torn cheeks were wet, just the same.

Alakshándu swayed on his feet and collapsed beside his wife.  Dapashánda and Érinu, the last of the princes, looked at each other as though through a heavy fog, not seeing clearly.  Like children who have cried to the point of exhaustion, but who continue their monotonous wails without passion or tears, the brothers clung to each other, lamenting the loss of their third brother in the same war.

War-weary soldiers of Wilúsiya looked down on Paqúr without sorrow.  "He was the one who caused all our suffering," Ainyáh heard more than one man say.  "We should have left him outside the walls for the dogs."