Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze) (48 page)

Serving maids and merchants’ wives were allotted next, divided among the men according to the will of fortune.  The dead prince Paqúr’s three boys were among the last captives.  They stood naked but for their topknots and tears, holding onto each other’s arms.  To the army’s displeasure, it was Púrwo’s pebble that flew from Agamémnon’s helmet.  Idómeneyu cursed his own bad luck, when he read the name scratched on the small token.  So disgusted was he with the goddess’s choice that he abandoned the field altogether and headed for his own campfire.

Odushéyu turned on the high wánaks.  “You are purposely holding my pebble in the helmet with your thumb,” the It’akán pirate accused the overlord.  “The goddess loves me.  She would not cheat me this way.”

Agamémnon roared with righteous anger.  “I have done no such thing.  You are dancing with máinads now!  If I wanted to cheat, I would grant the prize to my brother or myself, would I not?  Why would I choose to honor that pup of a P’ilísta?”

Infuriated northerners drew their swords at the insult and Agamémnon’s own tall qasiléyu joined them.  “The choice is fair!” Automédon announced in a loud voice from among the T’eshalíyans.  “The goddess honors Ak’illéyu’s glory.”

Aíwaks added, “And the Great Lady punishes those who dishonor her.  Was it not you who stole her Qalladiyón?”

Odushéyu, too, drew his blade, his own men and much of the south assembling behind him.  “And what did you do on her altar, with Kashánda?  That was a worse sacrilege!”

The men with feathered headdresses fell on the men from the western islands and the small kingdoms of the south.  Even Idómeneyu returned to the assembly, spying the fray, to enter the fight with his men, southerners turning their heavy spears against the men of the north.  Agamémnon bellowed at the battling men, assembling his large contingent with Diwoméde’s aid.  But his Argive foot soldiers separate the angry factions only with difficulty.

“Stop your fighting, men!” the overlord commanded.  “Two royal Tróyans still remain to be allotted.  They are mine by right, but, to show my good will and my generosity to all Ak’áyans, I offer them up freely as part of the allotment.  I have one of Qántili’s brothers in my tent.  He will be next.  But no man who spills another Ak’áyan’s blood will be allowed to try for these last two captives.  Put away your swords and spears.  Bring your tokens for Erinu.”

Disgruntled lesser wánaktes sheathed their weapons and their followers laid down their arms.  Once more, Agamemnon’s helmet filled with inscribed pebbles.  The overlord made a great show with his hands to allay fears that he was cheating.  He held the headgear well above his head as he swirled the tokens, too.  When the first pebble plopped to the ground, Agamémnon cried, “Behold the will of the goddess of fortune!”

Idómeneyu spat after reading the stone.  “Púrwo again!”

The captive priest’s head dropped when he heard the name.  “Préswa take him,” Erinu moaned, pulling his bound hands to his forehead.  “Am I to serve the son of my brother’s murderer, the killer of my own father?”  He was dragged, naked, to the P’ilísta’s largest ship and tethered beneath a rowing bench.

“The king had one more daughter,” Agamémnon announced, hoping to head off further threats of violence.  “Where is the youngest princess?  Where is Piyaséma?”

Although he did not mean to do so, Ainyáh turned to look behind himself, seeking to ensure that the young Tróyan woman was there.  Odushéyu saw the Kanaqániyan’s eyes turn and quickly waded into the group of foreigners from the far southeastern land, to find the dark-haired princess.  She shuddered and cried, three idols of baked clay in her arms.

Ainyáh’s sword flew from its weather-beaten scabbard.  “Stand back, Ak’áyan!” Tróya’s former ally shouted.  “My household is off limits to your kind.  Your commander swore an oath!”

“Assúwans take no prizes here!” Idómeneyu bellowed.  He pushed forward to stand beside the It’ákan wánaks.  Both island kings were joined by their low-ranked followers, outnumbering the small band of Kanaqániyan mercenaries.  Ainyáh called to Agamémnon, but the overlord did not stand by him.

“The girl is Alakshándu’s daughter, not yours, Ainyáh,” the high wánaks announced.  “Bring out Piyaséma.”

With his father trembling at his back and his son clinging to his kilt, Ainyáh could not afford to begin a fight.  With anguished eyes he watched the young princess dragged away.  She wailed loudly, her eyes turned beseechingly toward the Kanaqániyan as the Ak’áyans led her away.  She dropped the household idols her sister had entrusted to her and Ainyáh’s father knelt stiffly to gather them in his aching arms.

The little boy at Ainyáh’s knee began to bawl, “Mamma!  I want my mamma!”

At the child’s call, Ainyáh looked around at his household, noticing for the first time that his wife was not there.  “Kréyusa!” he gasped and a sudden rush of fear came over him.  Piyaséma was instantly forgotten.  Ainyáh turned back to the streets of Tróya and began to search through the smoke and rubble for the mother of his son.  He called her name, shouting in terror at the sight of every bloodied corpse.  But nowhere could he find his dark-eyed Kréyusa.  Crackling flames were the only answer to his calls, along with muffled roars, as one after another timbered roof caved in among the abandoned houses.

Out of the field, Aíwaks held the lucky stone, this time.  Piyaséma went, sobbing, to his campfire, clutching at her shorn hair and digging with her fingernails at her smooth, young cheeks.  Wíp’iya, bruised and weary, gave the younger woman little sympathy.

“You thought to rob me, Agamémnon!” the giant roared in triumph, as T’érsite directed the princess away from the circle of warriors and toward the new encampment.  “But lady Diwiyána chose to restore what the greedy wánaks stole.”

“Watch your tongue, barbarian!” the overlord shouted in return, his reddening.  “I have taken prizes from better warriors than you!”

“Continue the allotment,” Idómeneyu demanded, as violence once more threatened to erupt among the varied contingents.  “Kep’túr has not yet taken a war prize.  I do not intend to go home empty-handed.”

The small pile of valuables, mostly jugs of oil and wine, after so many months of war, was divided among the men according to rank.  When the wheel of the sun’s chariot stood directly overhead, only the Qalladiyón remained to be given out.

”It is mine,” Odushéyu protested, when Agamemnon called for it to be brought forward.  “I was the one who brought it out of Tróya.  I risked my life for it, so I should keep it.”

Aíwaks thrust his pebble close to Odushéyu’s face, clasped tightly in his fist, sneering, “And I say it is mine.  I am the best fighter on the field and I deserve a prize of honor for that.  I claim the Qalladiyón.”

Both men dropped their markers in the overlord’s helmet.  Agamemnon turned questioning eyes to his youngest qasiléyu, who had not yet spoken for a single item.  But Diwoméde made no move to join the contest.  When the high wánaks rattled the pebbles, Idómeneyu read the name of the It’ákan king on the small stone that bounced out onto the ground.  Aíwaks cursed the islander and his own king both, throwing his headdress to the earth and stomping it into the dust.

“Take the Tróyan horse,” Odushéyu suggested with a snort.

Aíwaks laughed bitterly.  “You would like that.  The Qalladiyón has the true power of the goddess.  It came from the heavens.  But that ridiculous figure we made is worthless.”

“It has also been burned to ashes by now,” Púrwo added, helpfully, coming to stand beside his adopted uncle.

“Give me the idol or I will smash your face in!” the blue-eyed giant demanded.  Once more, behind him, the northern troops roared their approval.

“Aíwaks is the greatest hero left among us!” cried St’énelo, the southern charioteer.

“Award our champion the prize!” added T’érsite, another southern foot soldier.  “Give it to Aíwaks.”

Increasingly, low-ranked men from the south added their voices to the din until Agamémnon stepped forward, beckoning to Diwoméde to do the same.  “I cannot believe my ears today!” the overlord cried out with mock dismay.  “Are you the men who feared Artémito and demanded that I sacrifice my own daughter to her?  Are you the same believers who made me give up my hard-won prize to K’rusé’s Assúwan god?  How is it that your fine piety fails you now, when Lady Fortune herself allots the booty according to her whims?  Ai gar, so be it!  Who am I to question the will of the army?  Diwiyána has had her say.  Now, the troops will have theirs.  Men, you will vote to decide the fate of the Qalladiyón.  Who deserves this prize?”

Now Diwoméde came to life.  Immediately, he answered in a loud voice, “I do!  I have done as much for the success of this campaign as any man here.  I took wounds and still fought in every battle when others stayed out of the fight.”  He glared in the direction of Púrwo’s T’eshalíyans as he spoke.  “And I accompanied Odushéyu on his secret mission to take the idol and to kill the Tróyans’ allies from the far north.  But I have received no prize worthy of a champion.”

Agamémnon raised his hands to quiet his young qasiléyu.  “Now, who will speak for Odushéyu?”

The pirate king spoke on his own behalf, describing in glowing terms his clever plan to steal the Qalladiyón, the great dangers of penetrating the enemy citadel, the harsh pains and acute humiliation he suffered in doing so, his crucial role in tricking the dastardly Tróyans with the ruse of the false idol of the horse, his great wisdom that now exceeded that of the aging Néstor, silenced by grief.  Agamémnon nodded dramatically at every phrase as the It’ákan spoke, making a great show of his head movements so that every man would understand clearly which side he was on.

Púrwo then strode to the center of the group and spoke briefly for Aíwaks, describing as best he could the champion’s courage and strength.  His youthful voice was higher in pitch than the other men’s and he had not seen many of the great deeds that he told of, first hand, so that his story paled in the telling.  Nevertheless, many men of lesser rank murmured their approval of his speech.  Still, they dared not shout or raise their weapons over their heads as they would have liked, for fear of the overlord, who glared furiously at every approving sound.

Diwoméde ended the debate when it again came his turn.  “I concede to Aíwaks,” he said simply, hoping to sway his king.

But Agamémnon awarded the Qalladiyón to Odushéyu once more, although Aíwaks turned purple and swore under his breath to spill the pirate’s blood.  Púrwo and the T’eshalíyans clustered around the big man, clapping his back with their hands.  “Uncle,” Púrwo told him, loud enough that all could hear, “do not let this loss embitter your heart.  Today, you are no longer the least of Agamémnon’s Argives.  You are a northerner by birth and Ak’áiwiya’s greatest living champion.  We P’ilístas will share our own lesser prizes with you.  We know that you deserved better than you received.”