People of the Inner Sea (The Age of Bronze) (6 page)

Nevertheless, it was with profound relief that the travelers spied land the following night.  In the northern land of Attika, on the mainland, all eagerly knelt to kiss Ak'áyan soil as the sun set for the fifth time since they had left Assúwan shores.  In the port of Attika's capital city, they rested for two days.  King Erékt'eyu feasted them well, in the citadel of At'énai.  This white-haired wánaks welcomed them to a land that had seen sufficient rain the previous year, one that had grown adequate crops of barley and wheat.  His was a kingdom that had not sent too many of its menfolk to distant Tróya and had managed to bring in the full harvest.  The signs at last seemed favorable, even to Odushéyu.  The men began to believe that they would see their homes once again, after all.

On a bright, autumn day, the ships left At'énai and turned their prows south.  The rowers' hearts were filled with hope, now that the worst part of the voyage was past.  Now, Meneláwo agreed to do as Odushéyu advised, and the ships kept close to the coast.  They made an overnight stop in the village nearest the narrow isthmus that divided the northern kingdoms of Ak'áiwiya from the south.  On the following night they dined at the table of a qasiléyu of the southern kingdom of Argo.  Taking a day to round the eastern promontory of Agamémnon's powerful realm, and one more to row west, they landed on the beach below the fortress of Tíruns on the ninth day since Tróya was sacked.

Graying fishermen helped them pull their vessels up on the shore below the Argive citadel at Tíruns.  The wives of the city's bronze-smiths and carpenters clustered around the Lakedaimóniyans while they were still on the beach, asking after their sons and husbands who had sailed away with Agamémnon the previous spring.  The oarsmen told the throng about Ak'áiwiya's victory over the east, but they spoke without triumph as they numbered the slain.  Wails tore through the brisk air as the news spread – the 'Elléniyan queen of Lakedaimón was returning to her people, but half the warriors who fought for her were left behind.

Odushéyu roared at the lamenting women, "Do not tear your cheeks this way, cowardly fawns!  Stop your bawling.  You should be celebrating our great victory!"  His words did nothing to soothe the bereaved.

Ariyádna shuddered at the women's grief and clung, trembling, to her husband's arm.  Breathlessly, she chanted, "Warriors battle for the wánasha of the fertile land…the will of the Bull, it is the will of the Bull."  Collapsing in a heap at Meneláwo's feet, she wailed, "The ancient prophecy is coming true.  Owái, the end of world is upon us!"  Hearing their priestess-queen's words, the Lakedaimóniyans were alarmed.  More than one joined the lamentations of the local women.

Into the tumult rode a tall Argive on a painted chariot, he and his driver wrapped in ankle-length cloaks of wool, the hemlines embroidered with rosettes and spirals. "Owlé, Meneláwo!  Hail to you!" the well-dressed passenger called from the cart.  He shouted the words a second time, cupping his hands at his mouth to make himself heard over the cries of the wailing women.  "Owlé!  Welcome to your homeland, cousin.  Is your brother with you?  Or is our wánaks coming close behind?"

"Aígist'o, owlé!" Meneláwo called back with forced cheer, dragging his queen to her feet.  Pulling Ariyádna along by the wrist, he struggled through the massed people to stand beside his cousin's cart.  "No, Agamémnon is not with me.  He left Assúwa after I did.  I do not know how far behind me he may be or which route he chose to cross the sea.  Have you come from Mukénai?"

Aígist'o nodded, his long, oiled locks shining.  "I have.  The wánasha Klutaimnéstra would have come to greet you herself, but the duties of government are too pressing.  She sends you blessings and invites you to ride to her city in the morning."

"Owái," Ariyádna sighed, "my poor child…"

The tall man left the chariot, staring in disbelief at the Lakedaimóniyan queen.  "Your daughter is well, wánasha," Aígist'o assured her, looking her up and down.  "Tomorrow you will see for yourself that I speak the truth."

As Aígist'o directed, on the following day, onager-drawn wagons carried the Lakedaimóniyan king and queen to the capital city of Argo.  Odushéyu went with them, but the rest, It'ákans and Lakedaimóniyans, rowers and helmsmen, remained in Tíruns, resting in the guest rooms of the port citadel, before the final journey home.

In each village along the inland road, the scene from Tíruns repeated itself.  Meneláwo addressed the women and children who came running alongside the wagons with questions about their kinsmen.  Torn cheeks quickly surrounded them in every village.  Mourning wails soon filled their ears, all along the way.

In Mukénai itself, the following evening, the king of Lakedaimón fell grimly silent.  He left Odushéyu to answer the tearful queries of the Mukénayan women.  Shouldering past these low-ranked Argives, Meneláwo put his arm around his wife's trembling form and half-led, half-carried her up the hillside capped by the main citadel of the kingdom.  Between ruts carved by chariot wheels over the years, the royal couple approached the entrance-way with its massive door of bronze-plated oak.  Above the gate stood two stone lions, their front feet on the pedestal of a sacred column, gilded tongues hanging from gaping, stone mouths.  Beneath these symbols of the paramount Ak'áyan state, the Lakedaimóniyan king and queen marched without an upward glance.  Once within the lion gate, Meneláwo made a perfunctory salute to a broad circle of graves on the right.

Behind them, Odushéyu paused at the gate to lift his hand to his forehead and to the sky in respect.  Aígist'o, too, stood still a moment beneath the lions for a more dramatic salute.  At the circle of graves, the Argive caught his kinsman's arm as Meneláwo turned to press on.  "Will you not you stop to leave an offering to the souls of the illustrious dead and to pray for their support?" Aígist'o asked.  With his free hand, he gestured toward the walled enclosure with its six underground tombs, each marked with a carved stele.  His eyebrows raised high on his forehead, the bearded Argive made his disapproval clear.

Meneláwo glanced a second time at the circle, his eyes taking in the holy site.  It was scattered with debris left from the construction of the paved entrance-way.  Skinny, unkempt dogs prowled the place, sniffing at the spots where libations had been made, cocking their legs to urinate on the gravestones.  Part of the circle's outer wall had fallen.  One headstone leaned precipitously.  He answered only, "No."  With Ariyádna hanging on his arm, he continued his march toward the palace on the crest of the hill.

Aígist'o unhappily shook his head.  He remained awhile to gaze on the headstones, roughly carved with scenes of war and the hunt, with horse-drawn chariots and men bearing weapons.  "Of Atréyu's sons, which one is more impious?" he growled, clapping his delicate hands to his thighs.  He did not see that Odushéyu, passing him, surreptitiously made the sign of the Evil Eye toward the resting places of those illustrious dead men.

The residents of the palace, serving women and royal children, began to scurry down the slope toward the visitors, calling to each other with happy, excited voices.  As if unaware of the noise and activity, Meneláwo pressed on, breathing hard, his steps slowing, his eyes to the ground.  Ariyádna trembled ever more violently.  She whispered muddled prayers and her knees threatened to give way beneath her.

"Mamma!" came a shrill cry from above.  Filled with sudden strength, Ariyádna tore loose from her husband's grip to race toward the sound.  Three children came through the gate of the palace courtyard, one little girl running ahead of the rest.

"Wait, wait, you will catch cold!" a white-haired woman called from the door in the courtyard wall.  Clothed in a long skirt of undyed wool, she held up a child's cloak and hurried forward with it.  But she could not catch up with the palace children.  The little girl whose bare form she wanted to cover was too quick.

Ariyádna caught the naked child in her arms, shouting, "'Ermiyóna, t'ugátriyon!  Little daughter!"  The once captive queen whirled her daughter around and around, laughing and crying at once, repeating the name again and again, pressing kisses to the small neck, the round eyes, the shaved head.  With shuddering hands the mother stroked her child's long locks, one at the back of the little head and the other at her forehead.  "Owái, t'ugátriyon, I thought I would never see you again," Ariyádna wept, laughing, and sank down, the child's weight more than she had strength to hold.

Meneláwo leaned against the courtyard wall, breathing painfully, fighting nausea.  Beside him, Odushéyu offered support.  But the Lakedaimóniyan king was unaware of the It'ákan, his eyes on his wife and child.

Ariyádna's work-worn hands fluttered all about her little girl, touching the small shoulders, arms, knees, and feet.  "Owái, owái," Ariyádna repeated breathlessly at each touch.  "You are not hurt?  They did not harm you?  Owái, my child, I did not see you in Tróya and I was afraid they had killed you.  Owái, owái, t'ugátriyon, my 'Ermiyóna, are you really all right?"  Kneeling on the cold, limestone pavement, Ariyádna embraced her daughter again, smothering the child once more with kisses.

'Ermiyóna stiffened at her mother's every word and touch, her big, brown eyes widening.  The little girl began to cry. "You are not my mamma.  My mamma had long hair!" she sobbed, backing away from the woman in the ragged skirt and filthy cloak.  "My mamma had long hair!"

But Ariyádna did not hear.  She swept the little one up in another crushing embrace, then clasped the dimpled hands in hers and began to dance.  'Ermiyóna took a last step backward and burst into a fresh round of screams.  The Lakedaimóniyan queen, who had hardly spoken above a whisper since Tróya's burning, now began to sing, oblivious to everyone and everything, even to her daughter's distress.

'Ermiyóna shivered at the sound of the familiar voice and threw her arms around her mother's waist, shrieking loudly, "Mamma! Mamma!"  The girl's full-throated voice was beast-like in its passion.

Meneláwo stumbled forward to wrap his arms around his weeping wife and child.  He too began to cry.  Around the little family, the cheery voices fell silent and Mukénai's palace residents dropped their smiles.  Children and servants clung to each other, staring with wide eyes at the disheveled king and queen, afraid to approach them.

At length, a trembling hand fell on Ariyádna's shoulder.  It was a plump and pale hand, soft and unused to work.  A rosette in red paint adorned the back of that hand, a gold ring encircling the thumb.  "Come inside, sister," the owner's voice said tremulously.  "Ariyádna, come into the palace."  Klutaimnéstra lightly placed her other hand on Meneláwo's arm.  He looked at her through dazed and brimming eyes as if he could not remember who she was.

Long, henna-reddened hair fell to Klutaimnéstra's thick waist, spiraling locks entwined with strings of brightly colored beads, blue lapis lazuli, red carnelian, yellow opal and agate.  Draped in an embroidered cloak, she wore a flounced skirt of seven layers, each woven in brightly colored patterns.  Her soft, white feet were sandaled, the leather new and shiny.  At her neck was a string of heavy beads, some of precious stone, others of still more precious metals.  "Come inside," she repeated, patting her brother-in-law's battle-scarred arm.

Clasping their daughter's hands between them, Meneláwo and Ariyádna headed toward the palace courtyard, following the wánasha of Argo.  Aígist'o silently beckoned to the accompanying It'ákan king to join them.

"Prepare food," Klutaimnéstra called to the hesitant serving-women with a wave of her heavy arm.  "Children, dress in your finest things and come to the mégaron.  We must have a welcoming feast for my sister."

To the ragged guests she spoke more softly.  "I must apologize for what you will eat.  The past harvest was not good and I am afraid the coming one will be no better.  We have only a little wheat left in our stores and we are forced to eat unleavened barley cakes.  At least there is a little meat.  There is hardly a sprig of green in the fields, nothing to feed the livestock until the next rain.  So I ordered the shepherds to bring their surplus flocks here for slaughter.  You will have a bit of mutton, thanks to that.  And, praise Diwiyána, fish and water birds are still sufficient to feed us.  Owái, but to think that Ak'áiwiya's richest queen celebrates her sister's homecoming with roast goose instead of beef!  What evil times are upon us!  Ai, Ariyádna, you must be so disappointed.  The onions were small this year and the figs no better.  Apples are only beginning to ripen now and even the bees were lazy and gave us too little honey…."

As the Argive wánasha complained of the poor feast, the mouths of the travelers watered with anticipation.  "Will we stay for the winter?" Odushéyu asked his fellow king as they crossed the main courtyard.  When Meneláwo began to shake his head, the It'ákan hastened to say, "I know what you are thinking, Meneláwo.  Today is the ninth since Tróya fell, a holy number.  The luck of the great Lady is with us, after all.  But you can not tempt her bounty.  We must not sail further until the end of the month of storms."