Golden Mukenai (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  "Yes, wánasha, " Kluména answered and disappeared into the darkness of the palace's interior.

  "Máya!" 'Ermiyóna stopped in mid-sob to call after her nursemaid. "Do not put any mint in it this time. I do not like mint."

  But Kluména was already back, the kukeyón in a round, painted jug in her right hand. "Now, child," the wide-hipped woman scolded, pouring the liquid into two-handled cups of bronze that she brought in the other hand. "Mint is good for you. The strong scent discourages the attention of dáimons who would make you sick. Do not argue now, little princess, just drink."

  'Ermiyóna was not pleased, but she drank thirstily and held out her cup for more. "I still want to eat something," the child said petulantly over her refill, as Ariyádna and Kluména sipped more slowly from their own cups.

  "You will, soon enough," Kluména soothed. "When Kórwa comes back to her mother tonight, we will have a feast."

  'Ermiyóna jumped to her feet with excitement. "Is Kórwa coming back tonight, Mamma? Will there be lots to eat, máya?"

  The mother and nursemaid laughed. "Yes, t'ugátriyon," Ariyádna answered fondly. "When it is dark we will light torches and parade through all the streets to look for Kórwa. Do you not remember from last year? I will dance at the head of the procession, so you must stay with your máya. Hold her hand. I do not want you to get lost."

  The little girl did not like the sound of that. "Why do I have to stay with my máya? I want to dance beside you, Mamma."

  "'Ermiyóna, you are as strong-willed as a mainád!" Kluména exclaimed with pretended anger. "Your mother is high priestess and queen of the kingdom of Lakedaimón and 'Elléniya. She must lead the procession and everyone else must follow, even you. That is the custom. That is Diwiyána's law."

  The child looked to her mother for confirmation. "All right, Mamma," 'Ermiyóna agreed reluctantly, when Ariyádna nodded. "But then, after the parade, what will happen? Will we eat then? Do you know where Kórwa is?"

  Both women laughed again. Kluména answered. "Everyone knows where she is, child. Kórwa is the grain in the storage pits, under the ground."

  Ariyádna nodded. "When we bring the grain up to the palace altar, then Kórwa is reunited with Mother Diwiyána."

  "But when do we eat?" 'Ermiyóna demanded impatiently.

  "Ai," Kluména sighed, smiling. "A meal like no other we will have, to celebrate the reunion of the goddesses. There will be roast pork and boiled lamb, mixed wine and water, apples, figs, barley cakes, and fresh-baked wheat loaves, fish cooked in oil, olives…"

  'Ermiyóna whimpered and stomped her foot, "I wish we could have it right now."

  "Have another drink of the kukeyón," Kluména urged. "Then off to bed with you, child." She reached for the little girl's cup, but 'Ermiyóna dropped it on the paving stones at the mention of bed.

  "And me, too," Ariyádna said quickly, to head off her daughter's protest. "I will be awake all night, so I must rest now."

  Trying to postpone the inevitable, 'Ermiyóna asked, "Why will you be awake, Mamma? I want you to sleep with me. I might have a bad dream."

  Ariyádna sighed, staring into space. "No, t'ugátriyon, on this night I will not be 'Ermiyóna's mamma, or the wife of king Meneláwo. This night I will be the high priestess, Ariyádna, the Very-Holy, she who will lie in the thrice-plowed field with the chosen one of the goddess. Tonight I will sleep with Yákk'o, and, if the great Lady is with me, I will conceive a child." Her voice trembled and she was no longer aware of the serving-woman and the girl beside her. Her eyes glazed, she whispered, "Diwiyána, be with me. Lady, do not fail me this time."

  Kluména hurried the child from the courtyard, leaving the wánasha to dream in the cool sunshine. In the dark side-chambers of the king's house, the nursemaid led the little girl to her bed chamber. "Lie down, now, princess," Kluména said, taking up a pitcher of water from beside the door. "Think about the feast and the procession. Then you will forget all about hunger and sadness." The woman poured water into a wide-mouthed bowl of baked clay, with painted dolphins on its sides.

  "I will never forget how hungry I am," 'Ermiyóna complained as she let the woman wash clay from her cheeks and a moustache of kukeyón from her upper lip. "But I do not have any sadness to forget."

  "Owái," sighed Kluména, with a sad smile. "Your mother has had sorrows enough. May the goddess give her a little one tonight."

  "She does not need a baby," 'Ermiyóna protested, avoiding the bed toward which the nursemaid beckoned. "She has me, máya."

  Kluména chuckled. "Yes, she has you. And one day you will be the queen and high priestess of this land. But your mother needs a son, too. You will need a brother to protect you. Your father cannot seem to give her one. Perhaps the Yákk'o will give her what the wánaks Meneláwo cannot. Now, lie down, little princess."

  'Ermiyóna lay on the low bed and let Kluména cover her with sheepskins. "Pappa does not need a baby, either," she continued, rubbing her heavy eyes. "He has me, too."

  Kluména stroked the lock of hair on 'Ermiyóna's forehead. "Ai, child, I will not argue with you anymore. You are, indeed, enough for anyone."

  aaa

  At the foot of the hill, far below the citadel where the child slept through the afternoon, the men of 'Elléniya gathered, to watch a chariot race. "Hail to you, wánaks Meneláwo, from all the western islands!" the first charioteer cried. He drove his cart to the starting point at the boundary of the fallow field. In a chariot painted bright red, the broad-chested man raised his lash. "Owlé, wánaks Meneláwo!" he roared, saluting the king over a spirited pair of horses.

  On a low mound before the starting lineup, the king stood. He was a tall man, dressed to impress in a kilt of purple linen, his chest gleaming with rows of small bronze plates sewn to a leather corselet. His long, dark hair tossed in the breezes that came from the sea, and his beard and moustache were full, to show his high rank. But his heavy brows were drawn together and he ground his teeth before making his reply.

  "May Diwiyána give you good luck, wánaks Odushéyu," Meneláwo called back to the passing driver, his voice melodious, carrying well over the broad field. More quietly, he addressed the princes and lesser-ranked men near him on the mound. "I would have been just as happy if Odushéyu had not honored me with his presence this year." Leaning close to the ear of a man dressed only in a striped kilt, the king said, "Keep an eye on him for me, St'énelo."

  Beside him, St'énelo fingered his clean-shaven upper lip. "Ai gar, I will watch that one very carefully," he said. "Odushéyu's horses look exceptionally well fed. He must have stolen them. The island of It'áka could never raise such fine animals. They say that a child born of the union of priestess and Yákk'o has no father but a god. But it would be a shame if you had to raise the child of that pirate!" Alongside St'énelo, princes and men of lesser ranks started with shock at the man's statement.

  The grim lines of Meneláwo's face matched St'énelo's sentiment. "By the gods," the unhappy king said through clenched teeth, "If I had not given Ariyádna my oath that I would not race…."

  But the wánaks did not finish his sentence. He was interrupted by the second charioteer, a taller man than the first, his left arm scarred, and his chariot's design showing finer craftsmanship. The wooden wheel-rims were protected by bronze-plating, the axle placed well to the rear of the cart for greater maneuverability, the cart's basket painted with geometric designs. "Wánaks Meneláwo, owlé to you from Kep'túr!"

  "May Diwiyána give you good luck, wánaks Idómeneyu," Meneláwo called back, with greater enthusiasm than before. As the cart rolled past, the king turned again to St'énelo. "Well? What do you think? What are Idómeneyu's chances?"

  "Any man may win if the goddess favors him," the bare-chested man of lesser rank answered, frowning at the king. He rubbed his bare upper lip thoughtfully and chose the rest of his words with greater care. "His team is certainly well trained and he is experienced. But his horses are not as big as Odushéyu's. If he wins, it will not
be easily."

  Two men rode in a third chariot behind the next pair of horses. The younger of the two, whiskers barely showing on his chin, raised the whip. "Owlé!" the youth cried, his voice cracking with excitement. It was to the gray-haired man beside him that the Lakedaimóniyan king called back, "May Diwiyána give you good luck, wánaks Néstor!"

  "Ai gar, it may be Néstor's boy who wins," Meneláwo observed unhappily, nodding with grudging admiration at the passing team, the well brushed, reddish coats, the darker manes adorned with colorful ribbons.

  But the lesser-ranked St'énelo was unimpressed, quietly advising his king, "Néstor will not win. Nor will his son, if the old man lets him do the driving this time. Either is a skillful charioteer but the animals are too small. Odushéyu must have stolen all the good horses from Mesheníya."

  The fourth cart rattled loudly, its paint peeling, the little horses showing no spirit. "May Diwiyána give you good luck, qasiléyu Diwoméde!" Meneláwo called to the youthful driver.

  Diwoméde, his beard hardly thicker than the Mesheníyan prince's, called in response, "Owlé, wánaks Meneláwo!" He did not immediately ride on to join the line of chariots, but stood awkwardly opening and shutting his mouth. At last he chose his words. "Wánaks Agamémnon sends you his greetings and those of his wife. H-He would have come himself b-b-but his son was ill. I have come in his place to do you honor." As the words left his mouth, his horses decided to move. One wheel of the cart hit a small rise in the earth and the young man nearly fell. The upraised whip fell from his hand as he caught the rim of the chariot basket to steady himself.

  The spectators laughed merrily, to the young man's distress. "He has no chance at all," St'énelo cheerfully announced.

  "I can see that," Meneláwo growled, clenching his fists in sudden anger. "Ai, this is just like my brother! He sends this boy as an insult, to say that a child could do what I cannot. Agamémnon probably made Diwoméde a qasiléyu just for this purpose."

  St'énelo furrowed his brow at the king's distress. "No, wánaks, I am sure your brother meant no insult to you. If Agamémnon himself had come, no other man would dare beat him." He glanced round, encouraged by the other princes nodding. "Yes, wánaks, I am sure that is why Diwoméde is here instead. You know the other kings are all afraid of Agamémnon because he is so powerful. But you would not be pleased to know that your own brother would lie with your wife. Agamémnon knows that. Surely that is the true reason he stayed away."

  "If that were so, he could have sent a better qasiléyu," Meneláwo argued, flushed with anger and shame. "If he truly wanted to do me honor, he would have sent Aíwaks. The man has no more sense than a sheep. But he would make a better showing in a race than this little shepherd! Ai, Diwoméde cannot be as much as twenty years old."

  To this the other had no reply. A fifth and final cart rumbled forward, a battered thing beneath its dark paint, but following the largest horses on the field. Most surprising of all, the black animals stepped forward in perfect rhythm, neither pulling ahead of the other. "Owlé, king of 'Elléniya!" called the driver. "The land of the Sqámandro River sends you greetings."

  The wánaks stared hard at the long-limbed man raising his whip. "May Diwiyána give you good luck, and welcome, stranger!" When the chariot had passed, Meneláwo turned to the others in surprise. "Sqámandro River? Where is that?"

  But the princes knew no more than their king. "I have never heard of such a place before," said one. "The man cannot be an Ak'áyan."

  "I have never seen such long legs on a pair of horses," another crowed. "This charioteer must be an Assúwan."

  "An Assúwan!" Meneláwo repeated in astonishment. "Here?"

  St'énelo shrugged. "Stranger things have happened. In the days of our grandfathers, the Náshiyan emperor was stricken by pestilence and he sent to 'Elléniya for a copy of the prophetic disk." The princes confirmed the tale.

  The Lakedaimóniyan king was bewildered. "Whatever for? Surely he could not read it or have his wife read it for him. Not that he would want to. Ai gar, every time Ariyádna prophesies, I feel sick to my stomach. How could a foreigner believe such a thing would make him well?"

  St'énelo smiled. "Just the same, the emperor recovered, as soon as the disk arrived. So you see, 'Elléniya's fame goes far beyond Ak'áyan shores."

  "The wánaks does not sound very happy," remarked the stranger, taking a position beside the first chariot in the line.

  "He hopes the goddess will choose a lesser man than he," explained the burly charioteer beside him. "Are you a stranger here that you do not know that?" Odushéyu of It'áka looked the other over with a critical eye, noting assorted small scars on the taller man's long limbs, hints of gray in the beard and moustache. But the pirate's gaze dwelled longest on the big horses.

  "Yes, I am a stranger here," responded the first man. "I am prince Paqúr of the land of the Sqámandro River."

  "Ai, yes, I have heard of it," said the shorter chariot driver. "The Sqámandro is the principal river of the kingdom of Wilúsiya, I believe. That is all the way across the Inner Sea in Assúwa. You have come a long way." When the other was surprised at the burly man's knowledge, he went on, "Evidently you have not heard of me. I am Odushéyu, wánaks of It'áka and the other western islands. There is no finer mariner in all Ak'áiwiya. I have sailed from one end of the world to the other and traded with dáimons as well as men."

  Paqúr squinted at the speaker, considering that boast. But he did not address it. "You say your wánaks hopes the goddess will choose an inferior man to win this race. Why? Does he not realize that the harvest would then be poor?"

  "Meneláwo is not my wánaks but my equal," Odushéyu hastened to say. Then he gave Paqúr a condescending smile. "In civilized countries, the goddess chooses a champion, a Yákk'o, before the autumn sowing. Yákk'o lies with Diwiyána's priestess in the field and if he gives her a child, the harvest will be good. That is the custom and its meaning. But this wánaks is more concerned with his wife's heart than with the grain. Meneláwo is afraid that his wánasha will get a taste of something new tonight, something he cannot give her." Odushéyu laughed heartily at the thought.

  Paqúr forced his lips into a grin, despite the implied insult in Odushéyu's explanation. "So this king Meneláwo cannot give his woman a son?"

  Grinning fiercely, the broad-shouldered island king raised his whip. "That is the fact of the matter, stranger. So keep out of my way in the race and content yourself with second place. I intend to sleep with Lakedaimón's queen tonight!"

  The Assúwan prince's smile broadened. "The goddess chooses her champion and she favors no one more highly than I." As if to agree, his big horses champed at their hinged bronze bits, flicking their long tails and tossing their heads.

  The young qasiléyu, Diwoméde, chewed his lip with anxiety, listening to the exchange. With envious eyes he examined the other carts and horses, comparing them with his own unimpressive team. His cart was old, the wheels repaired many times, while all but the stranger had built their chariots just for this race. Even Diwoméde's blue-striped kilt, though it was tasseled and brushed with oil to brighten its color, seemed poor beside the embroidered garments of the others. "Wánaks Idómeneyu," he called, trying to get the attention of the second driver. "What kind of cheek pieces do you use to control your horses?" But the king of the great southern island ignored Diwoméde, speaking to his nervous team in a low, calm voice.

  At the third chariot, the graying king stepped down, leaving the young prince alone in the cart. "Antílok'o, " said the old man, "remember all that I have taught you."

  "Father, I have been driving horses since I was a boy, hardly big enough to stand in the cart," the royal son complained. "I know what I am doing. But do not expect too much from me. These are slow horses, no longer at their best after their long journey here. Ai, if only we had not pastured so many in the Further Province! I am sure that Odushéyu was the pirate who raided our fields."

  Néstor shot his son a thunderous
look. "Enough of that! You invite bad luck with that kind of talk. Forget Odushéyu and listen to me, Antílok'o. Men praise courage and strength, but good thinking can outdo both." He raised a gnarled hand and shook his index finger at the youth. "If you use strategy, the first prize can still be yours."

  Antílok'o sighed, pressing his lips together in distaste. But he listened.

  "Keep tight control of your horses," warned the Mesheníyan king, "especially in the turn. That is the critical point of the race. The post marking the halfway point is out there, easy to see, a stump as tall as a man. I have checked the turf around it and the ground is smooth. Hug it close to your cart when you come near and lean to the left to aid the turn. At the same time, lash your right-hand horse and let out her rein, keeping the left-hand horse pulled close, so that she grazes the post with her flank. If the hub of your wheel scrapes the edge, you have done it right. But do not get any closer than that or you will collide with the post, hurt your horses, and ruin your cart."

  "Bring the prizes!" Meneláwo roared from his little mound. St'énelo left his side, trotting to a group of servants approaching from the fortress on the hill.