Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze) (23 page)

The visitor raised an eyebrow.  "I assure you, it is my own country, Mízriya, which is the world's strongest realm, and I am the only commander of reinforcements from east, north, or south, whom you are going to see from either of the Great King’s."

Beside the Mízriyan troop leader, Antánor leaped to his feet, waving his arms about his bearded head.  "Listen to him, my father-in-law and king!  Why do you still refuse to hear the truth, lord Alakshándu?  I have been trying to tell you this, all along.  We cannot outfight Agamémnon's big army.  Negotiate for peace.  Do it now!  Return the Lakedaimóniyan treasures and the 'Elléniyan woman.  Get the people of the Inner Sea out of our sacred land!"

As distinctive as the Mízriyan commander was, the common soldiers were darker still, unlike any people the Wilúsiyans or the Ak'áyans had ever seen.  The newly arrived warriors were tall and thin, and their short hair was tightly curled.  Like their leader, they shaved their chins and dressed only in white linen.  They did not have Amusís's long, light-weight robe to wear over their kilts, though.  Still, like him, every man wore sandals, even the lowest in rank.  The spearmen carried rectangular shields as well, larger than those of the Ak'áyans.  Rather than the heavy lances or slashing swords common to all those who had thus far fought beneath the walls of Tróya, most of these men used a long bow, in height reaching from the archer’s ankle to his shoulder.  These Káushans created a stir in Tróya's streets, though the people could not agree on whether the dark-skinned strangers' unexpected arrival was a good or an evil omen.  Their connection with the birthplace of the sun was certainly auspicious, everyone agreed.  But the country folk feared that the newcomers were revenants, for many a shepherd boy had glimpsed the dark shade of an unburied man in his endless days alone with the flocks.  Such walking dead men, too, were known to be very dark, so most of the commoners could only conclude that the city’s new allies had come from 'Aidé itself.

At the request of the populace, the royal priestess, Kashánda, drank deeply of poppy-tinged wine and danced through the dark night, seeking a vision that would explain this unusual sign.  Just before dawn, she shouted out her enigmatic answer in a voice as coarse as a man's.  "The glowing embers of Tróya's fate have breathed a new wind, riding over the western sea," she chanted.  "An ancient fire has begun to burn again in Wilúsiya, a flame that will melt and consume the golden past, giving birth to a hard, black metal, which will be the father of the coming age."

As the royal priestess gave her strange warning, a band of men and horses were spotted by the watchers on the city's walls, moving toward them.  Word went up the hillside through the shattered houses of the great and the ashes of the small homes.  From the northeast, a second troop of reinforcements was approaching Tróya.  At their head marched a Tróyan prince and priest, Érinu.  The long-sought son of Alakshándu was returning from his mission to Qáttushli's great city in the heart of the continent, from the emperor’s capital.

In his father's mégaron, Érinu gloomily confirmed what Amusís had said concerning Náshiyan troops.  "But I could not bear to return here without at least one ally," the young prince explained.  "So, when I left Qattúsha city, I traveled north, to the mouth of the Mar-Ashántiya river.  There I spoke with our old trading partners.  They negotiated with their contacts, on the opposite shore of the Hostile Sea.  It is these people, the Mar-Yandún, who have come with me, to defeat the Ak'áyans...if the gods will it."

aaa

In the Ak'áyan encampment, Qálki wandered about the campfires once more, warning of superhuman powers in the hearts of the Tróyans' strange visitors.  "These are not human beings like us," the small seer told the foot soldiers.  "They are divine beings, dáimons who have taken human form only temporarily.  No warrior, however brave, can stand before their magical arrows.  Have you seen those ominous, dark skins?  Living men do not have flesh like that.  They are spirits, shades of the dead."

"I am glad you brought this up," Odushéyu announced loudly, when the prophet came to the It'ákan section of camp with such tidings.  "I have seen these beings in my travels, many times.  Because of their proximity to the sun, their faces are burned.  For this reason, they are called the Ait'iyoqíyans.  But in my journeys I learned more than their name."  With a gleam in his dark eyes, he added, "I know how they can be defeated!"

Hearing this, men from the small, southern kingdoms of Enwáli and Arkadíya joined the men of the western islands by Odushéyu's tent.  The It'ákan wánaks had his new troops stand close together with his islanders.  "Each man will march forward in battle this same way," Odushéyu instructed them.  "At all times, you must remain in a line, the edge of each man's shield overlapping the next.  Wield your spears above the row of shields, so that every man is always protected.  Even a god could not break such a close rank," the pirate king declared.

A number of foot soldiers and qasiléyus from other nations came to see what the commotion on the edge of the encampment was about.  Automédon, carrying his feathered crown in his hand, shook his headdress at the southern men practicing and laughed aloud.  "You look as frightened as sheep, huddled together like that," he roared.  Other northern men agreed.  The larger contingents of the south shook their heads, too.  Mesheníyans and Argives agreed that there could be no honor gained with such a battle tactic.  No, a true warrior wanted nothing better than to rush out alone, ahead of all his countrymen, cutting down men on all sides.  Now, that was areté!

Nevertheless, ignoring the other men's taunts, the number of Odushéyu's followers increased steadily throughout the day.  As long as Qálki continued his dire predictions, more soldiers made their way to the It'ákan section of the camp, men whose leaders had fallen, men whose hearts were weary of endless, indecisive battles.  While Meneláwo drank his opium-laced wine, silently brooding on his lone hill, Lakedaimóniyans came to Odushéyu to learn the new, magical technique.  On their behalf, St'énelo vowed to follow the It'ákan in the coming fight.

"A wise choice," the pirate king advised him, welcoming Meneláwo's charioteer enthusiastically.  "Your own king spends far too much time alone, on that hillock beyond the river, with no company but a poppy flask.  He was never one for strategy and now, with his mind clouded, you cannot look to him to save you."

St'énelo nodded sadly.  "He seems to age before our eyes, looking years older after every phase of the moon.  His wound is festering and exuding pus, his eyes are rimmed with dark circles, and his face has lost all its color.  He was not a talkative man to begin with, but now he hardly speaks at all."

The It'ákan listened with a great show of concern.  "Yes, I have noticed these things, myself," he sighed dramatically, putting a broad arm on St'énelo's shoulders.  "Just the other day, Idómeneyu pointed out in the assembly that Meneláwo's men were beginning to lose faith in their king.  But they cannot turn to Agamémnon.  He is too soft hearted when it comes to his own brother.  He would never invite all of you to join him.  I am only too happy to fill the position of leadership."

St'énelo was troubled.  "Temporarily, of course," he hastened to say.

"Of course," Odushéyu cried, throwing his arms wide, in an expression of wounded surprise.  "I would not dream of holding you to your oath of loyalty once Meneláwo is recovered.  If he recovers, that is."

The day wore on.  When the sun was high and the air too hot to allow further practice on the new formation, the island wánaks addressed the ever growing crowd of followers gathering in his section of the camp.  "That is not all I can teach you," he announced to them.  As the captive women and the men of lowest rank prepared food and drink for the other warriors, Odushéyu taught them a magic incantation.  "Memorize this formula.  Say it three times before a battle and drink a cup of wine touched by the poppy.  Spill a drop for the lady of the opium and spit three times on your chest.  Then the sharpest arrows will not pierce you.  Say the words six times and drink three cups and your arms will have the strength of 'Erakléwe's.  But say it nine times," he said, dropping his voice nearly to a whisper, "and drink four cups….Ai, then no power in heaven, on earth, or beneath the ground will be able to cause you harm.  Listen carefully now."  He began to chant in a low monotone that none but those nearest his hearth could hear.

"Hear my song, mainád and dáimon,

Hear my words, O Lady Préswa.

Songs can draw the moon from heaven,

Songs transform from man to pig.

As clay hardens in the fire,

So my heart grows hard in battle.

As wax softens in the flame,

Melts my foe before my spear."

The chant caught on quickly and men soon carried it to every section of the Ak'áyan camp.  With it came word of Odushéyu's wisdom.  By noon, Idómeneyu himself was leading his Kep'túriyans in the It'ákan's train.

aaa

In the mégaron of Tróya's palace, Alakshándu sat on the edge of his throne, bent double and rubbing his aching head.  "I have been listening to the half-truths of your brother-in-law for a quarter of a century now, Érinu," the old man said with a grimace.  "But I simply cannot believe that what Antánor says is true.  The emperor will not abandon us.  Never!  Wilúsiya has been loyal for over four hundred years.  We control the trade in tin.  The Náshiyan empire simply must come to our aid.  He must!  You misunderstood the emperor, surely.  Tell me, my son, exactly what did Qáttushli say when you asked him for troops?"

The beardless, young man standing beside the king ducked his head, unable to meet his father's eyes.  He answered timidly.  "He listened and said nothing.  Another message came before he gave me his answer."

"There it is!" the king triumphantly exclaimed, straightening his back.  "How can you know that he means to send no soldiers, if he said nothing?  Ai, Érinu, if you are ever to be a decent prophet, you will have to learn to use better sense than this!  Study how to read the souls of men through their eyes."

"Father, he will send us no help.  I know this."  The young man's voice was insistent, though his thin limbs trembled.

"Tell us exactly what the emperor said," Antánor demanded, quietly fuming at the king's left hand.

The youthful prince squirmed under the harsh gazes of his father and brother-in-law.  "A message came on a clay tablet, from the emperor of Ashúr."

"By the gods!" Paqúr snapped, giving his younger brother an impatient shove.  "Ashúr is a poor kingdom whose king is hardly more than one of Qáttushli's own vassals.  It was great enough in its day, but it is hardly an empire and certainly no match for the Náshiyan army.  Why should a letter from that miserable place concern us?"

Érinu glanced around at the men in the throne room.  Not a single pair of eyes appeared friendly.  He threw up his hands.  "I do not know what to tell you to make you see.  When Qáttushli read the Ashúriyan message, he was very angry.  He threw the tablet down and it shattered on the floor.  He stood and waved his scepter and shouted curses on Ashúr.  In his anger, he struck the messenger who came with the tablet, cracked the man's skull with his scepter.  His brains…"