People of the Inner Sea (The Age of Bronze) (10 page)

Meneláwo pushed him away, glancing fearfully to either side.  "Be quiet or someone will hear us.  You are free to do as you wish, Odushéyu.  I have no power over you.  But do not say anything more to me.  I have made up my mind.  I am not staying.  In the morning I am taking my wife and child and my nephew and I am heading back to Tíruns to finish my journey.  I plan to be at home in time for the winter solstice."  He turned to the door of the nearest bed-chamber.

"What is wrong with you?" Odushéyu growled at his back.  "Are you a coward?  Are you afraid of one fat woman and her priestly lover?"

Meneláwo whirled abruptly and shoved Odushéyu hard against the wall, damaging the plaster with the pirate's head.  "You have seen me fight often enough to know I am no coward," Meneláwo said through clenched teeth.  "Why did I fight the Tróyans?  Have you forgotten?  It was to regain Ariyádna.  Now that I have her at last, do you think I want to endanger her again?  I realize that Klutaimnéstra is plotting against my brother.  But I expected that.  You and I both know that Agamémnon is plotting against her, at the same time.  I have no intention of getting caught between the spearmen of my brother and those of my sister-in-law.  Lakedaimón is my kingdom.  My first loyalty, my first duty, is to the land I rule.  So it should be with you.  But if It'áka means nothing to you, stay in Mukénai.  I do not care!"  He released the other man and leaned against the wall, pressing a shaking hand to his injured side.

Odushéyu backed away from the Lakedaimóniyan king, rubbing his head.  He stared for awhile at Meneláwo, at the heaving shoulders, the forehead creased with pain.  The mariner laughed, somewhat shakily.  "Ai, Meneláwo, you are not as empty-headed as people think.  You were right earlier when you said that war makes a man ill-mannered.  Forget what I said to you just now.  Your country comes before your brother, just as you say."  He leaned against the wall beside the other man. "Ai gar, it is just that I do not think we know the whole story here.  This husband and wife are angry because he sacrificed their daughter.  Each blames the other.  That is understandable.  But anger is too flimsy a reason for civil war.  No, if the sacrifice was their only quarrel, they would patch things up as soon as they saw each other.  One would burst into tears, the other would follow, and in a moment they would be in each other's arms.  Ai, Meneláwo, you and I both know there was bad blood between those two before Agamémnon ever left home.  There is something more at work."

Meneláwo would not look at his companion.  "Perhaps.  They often quarreled over who would marry their daughters.  Qálki may have sent word of my brother's Wilúsiyan concubines, too.  Klutaimnéstra is an old-fashioned woman and cannot stomach his adulteries, I know that for certain.  Agamémnon definitely angered his wife when he made his bastard son the qasiléyu at Tíruns.  You heard Klutaimnéstra curse Diwoméde.  But in my opinion it is these things that are flimsy reasons for divorce, let alone for war.  My brother is hardly the only king who has an illegitimate son, nor the only one who gave his bastard a minor post."

Odushéyu scratched the thinning hair atop his head.  "You may be right.  Perhaps you are right about not getting involved, too.  Agamémnon will throw the woman out in the street soon enough, without our help.  He has most of Argo's men with him, after all, and they are battle-hardened."  He laughed again, more heartily this time.  "Ai, I suppose I just wanted an excuse to avoid going home."

It was Meneláwo's turn to laugh, a genuine chuckle.  "What, are you afraid of your meek, little Penelópa?"

The mariner sighed and rubbed his scraggly beard.  "I notice that Klutaimnéstra did not mention my islands tonight.  She sends messages to every queen in Ak'áiwiya and knows the internal affairs of every kingdom.  But she says nothing about It'áka, where her own cousin rules in my absence.  That can only be a bad sign.  I have to admit that I suspected as much already.  The Wórdoyan boatmen brought me news while we were still in Assúwa.  They said many queens planned to depose their husbands who were away, fighting at Tróya.  The rumors spoke of my Penelópa as well as of Médeya and Klutaimnéstra."

Meneláwo nodded sympathetically.  "I heard those things myself.  Ai gar, there is nothing more we can do about it now, though.  Let us go to bed.  I want to be off early tomorrow in case Agamémnon came across the sea as quickly as we did."  A second time he turned to the chamber door.

"But Meneláwo," Odushéyu said quickly, as the door opened.  "There is one last thing that I do not understand.  What is this about taking your nephew with you?  Agamémnon will not be pleased to find his son gone, when he returns!"

Meneláwo silently cursed his companion and pulled the door closed.  "Klutaimnéstra asked me to take Orésta."  He waved an impatient hand.  "It has always been the custom for a woman's brother to take a hand in raising her sons.  Klutaimnéstra has no living brothers, now, so who else should she turn to but me?"

Odushéyu snorted.  "Atréyu had no use for that old custom.  His son will not find it any more pleasing.  No, the queen wants Orésta out of the way for some other reason."

Meneláwo could listen to no more.  He struck Odushéyu in the jaw, knocking him to the plastered floor.  Glaring over the fallen man, the Lakedaimóniyan king growled, "You will not draw me into your schemes, pirate.  This matter is between my sister-in-law and me.  I do not intend to discuss it with you any further.  Now I am going to bed."  This time Odushéyu did not prevent him from entering the dark room.

Meneláwo closed the door behind himself carefully, trying not to make a sound.  Hearing the quiet, rhythmic breathing of his wife and daughter, he sighed, exhausted.  He took a small jug from his belt, a poppy-shaped flask he had kept hidden in the folds of his kilt and dropped his ragged clothing on the floor.  With the small container in hand, he stepped carefully through the darkness, feeling his way to the bed.  He slipped between warm fleeces and pressed his body close to Ariyádna's, pushing the juglet up behind the wooden headrest.

His wife shuddered at his touch and turned toward him, half asleep, her hands out to push against his chest.  "Owái, Dapashánda, no," she whimpered.

Meneláwo soothed her with quiet words, stroking her curly hair.  "It is all right, Ariyádna.  It is me.  I will not let anyone hurt you again."

The woman relaxed under his caress, murmuring, "Ai, Meneláwo."  She rested her face against her husband's hairy chest.  In a sleepy voice, she said, "I did not see Ip'emédeya tonight.  Do you suppose she is sick?"

Meneláwo's heart began to pound.  "Yes," he whispered to his wife, his broad hand still on her hair, "she is sick."

"Ai, poor little bird," Ariyádna sighed and sleep overtook her again.

When his wife's breathing was smooth and deep once more, Meneláwo drew the poppy flask out and removed the dried fig that closed its spout.  "Owái, Diwiyána," he sighed to the silent room, "what have I done?"  With a quiet moan, he took a deep swallow of the juglet's contents.

CHAPTER FOUR

'IQODAMEYA

The morning dawned with clear skies.  At breakfast, Orésta learned that he was leaving with his aunt and uncle.  He threw a tantrum, breaking a good many dishes before Aígist'o quieted him with blows from his belt.  The boy was still sniffing when the party left the citadel, no longer protesting, but unhappy under Meneláwo's guiding hand.

Before the city's main gate, Aígist'o sacrificed a goat to the god of journeys, 'Érme, and Klutaimnéstra called on the deity to guard the travelers until they reached their homes.  The visitors prepared to leave, accompanied by a donkey cart filled with presents from their host.  Klutaimnéstra gave her departing sister several fine garments in various patterns of many colors, stripes, shells, and pale rosettes on a dark background.  For Meneláwo and Odushéyu, she added warm, woolen cloaks.  But she sent no bronze with them.

"She gave us no jars of oil or wine, no horses, or painted chariots, nor even a small bit of metal," the It'ákan wánaks bitterly noted, “nothing but a little cast-off clothing from a forgotten storeroom!  What kind of hospitality is that?  Ai, 'Érme himself must be offended to see wayfarers sent off with such measly gifts."  Once on their way, Odushéyu pointed out to Meneláwo, too, that the sacrificial ram had been extraordinarily thin.  The Argive wánasha's blessing had been unusually brief, as well.

But the Lakedaimóniyan wánaks ignored the It'ákan's ominous hints, interrupting the string of complaints.  "I know what you want, Odushéyu," Meneláwo grunted.  "But my mind is made up and you cannot change it with any amount of clever words."  He set his eyes on the east, where Tíruns lay at the end of the day's travel.

Along the roads, the country people did not flock to greet the wagons, as they had on the earlier journey.  The plowed fields they passed had been sown with wheat and barley while the commoners had still awaited the return of Ak'áiwiya's great army.  Now, the first green shoots were breaking through the soil.  It was this seasonal rhythm that held the attention of the country folk.  With unusual fervor, the villagers were occupied with singing hymns to Kórwa, the maiden goddess now rising from beneath the earth.  They ignored the passing carts, concentrating on their labors.  With wooden hammers, the farmers broke the heavy clods of earth around the new green shoots, anxiously praying, "Mother Diwiyána, you have your divine daughter again at your side.  Now pity us, your human children.  Pour the waters of the sky on our fields or next summer we will be eating the seed grain."

With the same heartfelt emotion, Meneláwo prayed for the clouds to stay away.  "No rain, just for a little longer, lady Diwiyána," he whispered to the great goddess, spilling more than a little wine before the evening meal.  "Keep the last leg of our sea journey safe from storms."

aaa

Where the Lakedaimóniyans and their island neighbors had begun their journey, on the Assúwan shore, the army of Ak'áiwiya held its final assembly.  Summoned by blasts from a conch shell and ululating calls, the men of northern and southern Ak'áiwiya gathered.  One last time they dressed and armed in battle gear.  Circular shields of ox-hide, most heavily patched and torn, rested on their left arms.  In their right hands they carried spears, some with broken shafts, the bronze heads of others bent beyond repair.  Their linen kilts were threadbare and faded and their feet were bare.  On their heads, the northerners of high rank wore their crowns of feathers, leather or bronze helmets adorning the officers of the south.

Before them all, on a low grave mound overlooking the Inner Sea, stood Agamémnon.  His body was ringed from neck to knee in solid bands of bronze.  Though scratched and dented, the armor had been cleaned, and polished with olive oil until it gleamed.  The hem of the overlord's tunic, hanging beneath the shining bronze, was as patched and worn as the garments of the soldiers.  But, alone among the men, he wore leather sandals.  His paramount rank was evident to all.

In his right hand Agamémnon raised a wooden staff capped with enameled birds of prey.  "Men of Ak'áiwiya!" he called out, his voice booming out over the assembled troops.  "As custom demands, we have feasted for nine days to thank the gods for our victory.  Today is the tenth since Tróya fell.  At dawn, I made the Great Sacrifice for your sakes.  You were my witnesses to it, the second great offering I have made for the good of all Ak'áiwiya.  My dagger slit the throat of a Tróyan princess, the youngest daughter of Wilúsiya's fallen king.  Because of Piyaséma's blood, the vengeful spirit of the sea god is appeased.  Lord Poseidáon will grant us safe passage home, now, despite the fact that we burned his city.  Great Díwo, angry god of the storm, has been calmed.  He will shelter us from evil winds in our journey across the sea, now, in spite of any sacrilege that may have been committed by a warrior of Ak'áiwiya.  My brother Ak'áyans, do not let the season trouble you any longer.  It is only autumn.  Winter is still a month away and the gods are with us.  Our ships will soon be drawn up on the shores of our home nations in Ak'áiwiya."

The wind whipped the men's battered bodies and their cheers came wearily, as they lifted spears and shields with aching, wounded limbs.  "Díwo!"

The Ak'áyan overlord turned, stiff in his banded armor, to observe all his troops.  As he continued, at his every phrase, the assembled warriors lifted their blood-stained weapons and called the name of their high god, in triumph.  "Ak'áiwiya will never forget what we have done here!" Agamémnon shouted.  "Tróya was the greatest western outpost of the Náshiyan empire and we have destroyed it."

"Díwo!" cried the men.

"Dáwan's city is in ruins," Agamémnon went on.  "Her men are slaughtered, her women and children bound in the holds of our ships, destined for Ak'áyan slavery.  Rejoice in this victory, men.  The Tróyans raped the 'Elléniyan queen.  But we have taken her back and the Tróyan royal women as slaves and concubines, into the bargain.  Vengeance is ours!"

"Díwo!" the men shouted, more loudly than before.

Agamémnon raised his staff again.  "Glory is ours!"

"Díwo!" the army responded with greater vigor.

"Ak'áiwiya is the greatest power in the world!" Agamémnon thundered, raising both his arms over his head.

Their fatigue was forgotten as the men exulted in the words of their leader.  The calls of "Díwo!" were drowned out as the warriors pounded the wooden rims of their shields with their spear shafts.

When the tumult subsided, Agamémnon went on, his eyes burning with enthusiasm beneath his bronze helmet, its bull's horns and horsetail crest waving as he tossed his head vigorously, punctuating his comments.  "Today we sail for home, my brothers!  Next year, when the summer season comes, we will prepare for another war, even greater than this one.  The Náshiyan emperor is now a weak, old man.  He cannot stand against us.  This year we took his prize city, here, in the north.  Next year we will march south from Tróya, sacking Náshiyan towns all down the western coast of rich Assúwa.  What Náshiya is too feeble to hold onto, Ak'áiwiya will take by force of arms!"  Thumping the ground with his staff, Agamémnon smiled grimly as the soldiers cheered about him.  He nodded with satisfaction at the troops' enthusiasm, the horse-tail on his helmet tossing.

Behind him, clothed in blood-stained, leather armor, a young man stirred uneasily.  One foot was wrapped in dirty linen and he kept it off the ground.  He leaned heavily on his spear, his head down so that the ragged crest of his dented helmet hung in his face.  "Wánaks," he said quietly to the overlord, "do you really think that all these men will come back here next summer?"

Agamémnon laughed humorlessly.  "Diwoméde," the king answered, without turning to look, "you are my best qasiléyu, but you still have many things to learn.  I proved my strength and power by sacking Tróya against overwhelming odds.  My prestige has increased immeasurably with this victory.  No Ak'áyan lawagéta will dare take a stand against me, now.  Whatever title he gives himself, whether he calls himself wánaks or qasiléyu, king or commander, each is my vassal now."

"But if they unite against you…" Diwoméde began, thoughtfully rubbing his shaved upper lip.

"They will not."  Again the overlord laughed without humor.  "Just watch and see, boy.  The moment I relax my hold, each petty wánaks will be at odds with his neighbor.  I am the only power that can hold them all together."  As he spoke this time, he glanced around at the younger man.  Diwoméde met the overlord's gaze with trusting eyes.  The high king smiled and nodded.  "Ai, Diwoméde, ten months ago you would have made the sign of the Evil Eye, hearing these words.  But now you see that boasting does not anger the gods.  I said that I would take Tróya and I have done so.  By this time next year, I will have half the coast, from Tróya to Millewánda."

"Yes, wánaks," Diwoméde responded loyally.  "But what will you do about the crops?  The Argive people judge their king just as other Ak'áyans do.  They blame their wánaks whenever there is a drought or famine.  If the people at home go hungry in the coming year, they will say you angered the gods."

Agamémnon shrugged as best he could under the heavy bronze.  "We sail home along the northern coast.  The T'rákiyan barbarians have many rich grainfields.  We will just take what we need, along the way.  My Argives will be so happy to have wheat, they will praise me to the skies."

The Argive ruler was interrupted by a small group of warriors in feathered crowns marching forward from the assembled troops.  At their head came the lawagéta from Attika, Menést'eyu.  Like the others around him, Menést'eyu's limbs bore a tracery of minor wounds, old and new.  One of his ears was half gone, too, and the injury was incompletely healed.  He ground his teeth and took the speaker's staff from Agamémnon.  "Wánaks, the P'ilístas demand justice!  If we must follow you to Assúwa next year, we will.  If we are to face Náshiyan armies next summer, we will do so bravely.  Northern men are afraid of no power on earth.  But first, you must avenge the death of our countryman, Aíwaks the giant."

Agamémnon's bushy eyebrows rose and anger began to darken his face.  "Your countryman!  What is this?  Aíwaks led Sálami.  That island is mine.  Its qasiléyu answers to me."

"Sálami belonged to Attika in the days of our grandfathers," Menést'eyu shot back.  "Furthermore, Aíwaks was a northerner by birth.  His father was a Lókriyan.  We P'ilístas are his closest living kin.  We demand blood for blood.  It is our right.  Swear before the army that you will kill his murderer."

Diwoméde limped forward to take the speaker's staff, though the Attikan warrior was unwilling to yield it.  Unable to wrest the shaft from the northerner's hand, the young Argive qasiléyu spoke forcefully nonetheless.  "You still believe the rumors that Odushéyu killed Aíwaks," Diwoméde began, reasonably enough.  "But this is not true.  The wánaks of It'áka had no reason to do such an evil thing.  Odushéyu won the Tróyan idol in the contest, did he not?  It was Aíwaks who then threatened to kill Odushéyu, not the other way around."

From behind the bearded P'ilísta from Attika came another feathered warrior.  This one was very young, barely fourteen and of slight build.  There were only wisps of hair on his cheeks.  But with the arrogance of high rank, he took the staff and had his say.  "Do not try to save that fawn-hearted pirate!" the youthful soldier cried.  "Aíwaks was your qasiléyu, Agamémnon, so it is your reputation that is at stake.  If you let his death go unavenged, you prove yourself to be without honor, without areté, and not fit to lead those of us who are true Ak'áyans.  Odushéyu is guilty so he must die."

"Shut your muzzle, Púrwo!" Agamémnon bellowed, not bothering to grasp the speaker's staff.  "I do not need any half-grown child to tell me about honor.  I fully intend to investigate the death of my vassal.  If I find evidence that Aíwaks was killed, I will not rest until I have either the blood of his killer or a respectable blood-payment."

Menést'eyu spat, shoving the youthful and injured Argive qasiléyu aside.  He shouldered the still younger P'ilísta away from the speaker's staff.  In disgust, the bearded Attikan leader snapped, "Investigate! Evidence!  What nonsense is this?  We found Aíwaks dead on the beach with at least twenty arrows in his back.  Surely you are not going to repeat that fable about him committing suicide!"

Agamémnon tore the shaft from the other man's hand, glaring so harshly that the feathered warrior turned away his eyes.  The overlord raised the speaker's staff over his head for all to see.  He roared out his response to the whole of the army.  "I have said that I will investigate the death of my qasiléyu, Aíwaks!  I swear this by the hearth of my home, by immortal 'Estiwáya.  Every man here is witness to my oath.  But how can I discover the murderer here?  Where is my seer?"  He spread his arms wide and turned from side to side, as if looking for the prophet.