Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze) (6 page)

But the northern prince spat at the overlord's feet.  "The only thing I hunger for is Tróyan blood," Ak'illéyu snarled.  "Until I taste it, I swear by 'Estiwáya, who guards my hearth, that I will not eat.  And if you do not share my thirst for blood, I curse you all, your fathers, and your grandfathers.  Zeugelátes are not men.  Southerners know nothing of honor.  To 'Aidé with all of you!"

Idómeneyu and Odushéyu stood, Néstor and the other bronze-capped leaders beside them.  Each reached for his dagger.  "You will take that back," Néstor demanded.

At Agamémnon's signal, Aíwaks and the northern men with feathered headgear stopped the fight before it began, intervening with their own bodies between the antagonists.  "Listen to reason, Ak'illéyu," Aíwaks urged.  The tall man put his hands on the other's shoulders.  "You and I are friends, almost kinsmen.  Even though I serve a southern king, at heart I am still a P'ilísta.  I invite you, as a fellow northerner, to sit and eat with us, here at Agamémnon's hearth.  Do this to show that you have rejoined our cause, if not for your brother's spirit.  While we eat, Agamémnon can have his people bring out all the fine gifts that he promised.  That will make your heart glad.  You will fight even better for it."

Alarmed, Agamémnon spoke up.  "Yes, as Aíwaks says, I will award you your prize of honor for killing Qántili.  And while your woman is still here in my tent, I will swear before the whole army that I never touched her.  Aíwaks, go, find 'Iqodámeya and bring her to my tent.  Quickly now!"

The big qasiléyu obeyed, but with a scowl on his face.  Clearly, the overlord did not intend to give all that he had once promised to the T'eshalíyan.  But Ak'illéyu did not notice the overlord's duplicity.  And he was no more placated than before.  "We can do this some other time.  Patróklo is lying dead in my hut, bled white by Qántili's spear.  How can you think about eating when my brother's enemies are still alive?  Fight now.  Eat at sunset when we have had revenge."

Meneláwo had quietly calmed the southern kings, inviting them to take their seats about his brother's hearth once more.  Now he came forward, and laid an arm over Ak'illéyu's shoulders.  Soothingly and calmly he spoke, trying to reason with the T'eshalíyan.  "You are a fine warrior, Ak'illéyu, the best spearman here.  And we have every intention of honoring your desire for revenge.  Indeed, we want vengeance ourselves, just as much as you do.  Every man here has lost kinsmen.  And no one has any more reason to fight than I do.  It was my city the Tróyans attacked, starting this war.  It was my people who were slaughtered during a holy festival.  I will not eat well or sleep soundly until I have avenged my wife, who was carried off to be a Tróyan's concubine.

"But think, Ak'illéyu.  If we fasted every time a kinsman died, when would we ever eat?  This is not sensible.  No, the only thing to do with the dead is to mourn them.  We must eat well and drink our finest wine, as custom demands, to send the souls of the departed on their final journey.  And we must not fast for another reason, so that we will be strong when we meet our enemies the next time.  That is how a man gets revenge.  So we will do what we must.  Then, when we are ready, we will fight, all of us this time.  No man will stay by the tents.  The carpenters and helmsmen will join us in our last battle.  Ai, we will even find a spear for old Qálki.  The seer has had nothing to do since Agamémnon's dreams gave us the good omen we needed to go into battle.  Now, the old prophet will really earn the bread and wine he has been consuming all these months."

Ak'illéyu stood downcast, his sudden anger spent.  Without further argument, he nodded.  The blue-eyed qasiléyu soon returned with a woman, clad only in a long, faded skirt, her black hair in a thick braid down her back.  'Iqodámeya was fearful, wringing her hands as she came, glancing anxiously at the faces of the lawagétas, the kings and their qasiléyus, hoping for a clue to her fate.  Seeing the men seated, she dutifully began to prepare the morning meal, cooking over the open fire before Agamémnon's tent.  As she worked, the other captive women in the camp did the same at other campfires, serving boiled lentils and barley porridge to men of lesser rank.

The kings remained at the overlord's fire with Ak'illéyu, for the most part.  Néstor talked of the deep and abiding friendship that now existed between his southern realm of Mesheníya and Ak'illéyu's native T'eshalíya in the north.  "I might have had my quarrels with your father, Ak'illéyu," the older man admitted.  "But all that is in the past now.  What a fruitful alliance ours will be, with my kingdom the wealthiest and most fertile in the south and yours the…well, the best known in the north for its…how shall I say…battle-frenzied warriors.  Yes, between T'eshalíya's prowess in war and Mesheníya's in trade and horse-breeding, we should be able to increase the prosperity of both our lands three-fold!"

This made little impression on the T'eshalíyan.  Elbowing the elder king aside, others recalled the brave deeds that Ak'illéyu and his dead companion had performed.  Odushéyu recounted Patróklo's attempts to storm the walls of the Lázpayan fortresses, climbing with his hands and bare feet, too impatient to wait for ladders to be constructed.  That had been the highlight of the campaign's early months.  Agamémnon recalled how, on the island of Lámno, Patróklo had chopped down a tree in the grove sacred to Apúluno.  The act had demonstrated clearly the contempt in which the Ak'áyan attackers held the local god of gates.  No doubt that had helped them take Lámno's small cities more easily.  The dead warrior had been afraid of nothing, they all agreed.  Ak'illéyu's foster brother had set himself against foreign gods as well as Assúwan men, in his pursuit of honor, in his quest for areté.  Patróklo's name would live forever in the tales that men told of valor in war.

"Díwo is to blame for our quarrel," Agamémnon said, throwing a heavy arm over the T'eshalíyan's shoulders.  "You and I should never have been anything but the best of friends.  The god was the one who put it into my heart to take your woman, you know.  Ai, Lady Artémito should have shot her invisible arrows of plague and killed 'Iqodámeya, so that this would never have happened."

Ak'illéyu's breath began to come harsh and quick, fury rising again in his dark-rimmed eyes.

"His anger is not forgotten after all," Idómeneyu whispered to Odushéyu, his forehead lined with worry.

"It is not that," the broader man murmured back.  "Look at the woman.  He does not even see her."

'Iqodámeya crouched in the opening of the overlord's tent as the high-born men ate.  With a rough, wooden ladle she stirred together wine and river water, dipping the liquid out to fill and refill the men's two-handled wine cups.  She hardly recognized the grim and dirty T'eshalíyan sitting beside Agamémnon.  Ak'illéyu's eyes did not meet hers and, true to his word, he took neither food nor drink, though 'Iqodámeya laid both before him in shining, bronze dishes.  He stared straight ahead, his eyes focusing on nothing, fingering the handle of the knife that rested in its scabbard at his hip.

Another woman, heavy-set, her hair braided like 'Iqodámeya's and wearing the same nondescript garment, beckoned from a distance.  'Iqodámeya quietly backed away from the assembled kings.  "Wíp'iya," she asked quietly, "what have you heard?"

Her companion gave her a sad smile.  "Agamémnon is returning you to Ak'illéyu.  All the camp is talking about it.  I do not know whether to congratulate you or lament your fate.  Your old master is much changed."

In the T'eshalíyan section of the camp, by the embers of the prince's abandoned campfire, the women embraced, tears coming to their eyes.  Wordlessly they looked each other over.  'Iqodámeya gently touched a recent bruise on Wíp'iya's arm and scratches just beginning to heal on her cheeks.  "I lamented Patróklo as if he were my own husband," the heavy-set Wíp'iya said.  "But that was not enough for Ak'illéyu.  Yes, he was the one who struck me."  She covered the blue mark with a hand and, with inquiring eyes, looked at 'Iqodámeya.

The younger woman placed a hand on her belly with a rueful smile.  "Ak'illéyu's," she whispered.  Looking from side to side to make sure none of the men noticed, 'Iqodámeya brought a dagger from where it had been concealed in the folds of her ankle-length skirt.  "I took this from Agamémnon's stores during the last battle," she said quietly and handed the short, bronze blade to Wíp'iya.  "I have nothing to fear from Ak'illéyu now.  So, this is yours.  Keep it, in case your new master is worse than Patróklo was."

Wíp'iya was reluctant to take it.  "If Ak'illéyu finds I have this, he will probably kill me."

"Then give it to 'Ékamede," 'Iqodámeya suggested, "if she still wants revenge."

"Fasting is unnatural," Néstor scolded at Agamémnon's fireside.  "I hear you married young, Ak'illéyu, and your wife was a T'rákiyan barbarian.  I suppose your wild father-in-law raised you as much as your own father did.  So it may be that you do not know any better.  But it has been the Ak'áyan custom since the beginning of the world to hold a feast in honor of the dead."

The grieving man would not listen.  "I am as Ak'áyan as you are," Ak'illéyu retorted, irritated.  "I married a woman of the island of Skúro and lived with her people for several years.  But I know the custom.  Just the same, I do not care for it.  Hear me, Zeyugelátes.  Listen to me, you southern ox-drivers.  I will not eat.  A pain is burning in my chest.  That will give me all the strength I need to take my revenge.  Now leave me alone or I will put my spear in your full bellies!"

The prince rose and left the overlord's tent, the other kings shaking their heads at his unreasonable behavior.  As the T'eshalíyan moved out of earshot, Agamémnon complained, "The man never does anything halfway, does he?  Anyone else would force himself to take a mouthful or two, just for show.  But not Ak'illéyu!  If he takes it into his head not to eat, it becomes an issue for a new war."

"True enough, but leave it, brother," answered Meneláwo, his hand at his unhealed wound.  "We need him.  After all that has happened, we do not want to turn him against us again."

aaa

Returning to his own fire and hut, Ak'illéyu sat and rested his head on his hands, his elbows on his knees.  "Dogs," he groaned, "Zeyugelátes are nothing but weak fawns!"  Quietly 'Iqodámeya came to kneel beside him.  With tentative movements, she reached toward him.

"Ai, the P'ilístas are no better," the T'eshalíyan groaned, pulling at fists full of his hair.  "My own fellow northerners have forgotten their honor too."  'Iqodámeya pulled her hand back, afraid to touch him.  He ran his hands over his oily hair, his fingers black and sticky with dried Tróyan blood.  "Owái, Patróklo," he moaned quietly.

"How can I comfort you?" the woman asked, and she cautiously stroked his matted hair.

Without raising his head, Ak'illéyu answered hoarsely, "You cannot."

'Iqodámeya said nothing more, but kept her place, running her fingers over the man’s long, tangled curls.

He sighed heavily, rubbing his burning eyes, lifting his head to look at her. "Owái, 'Iqodámeya, nothing could be worse than this.  I would rather hear that my own father was dead.  I could mourn him one day and forget him the next."

"No, wánaks, you cannot mean that," the woman protested gently.  "A man may have any number of friends, but he can never have another father."