Golden Mukenai (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  The balding king smiled broadly. "Yes, your mother told me before we entered the mégaron. Your wife went into labor just after the morning meal. The child should be born before nightfall."

  Without waiting for the royal nod, Qántili ran from the room. His older brother and his father laughed at his disappearing back. "He will find out soon enough that a woman can give birth every third year," Paqúr chuckled. "But I was just the same when my first was born. I thought it was the best day of my life."

  Alakshándu sighed happily, remembering past days. "Yes, I was the same when you were born, my son. Laqíqepa was my first. Then Kréyusa and Kashánda came, all well loved. But, naturally, I was anxious to have a boy. Ai, it was a fine day when you saw the light, Paqúr. I was afraid that you would die before you had seen the first three unlucky days. I saw water birds flying on my left the evening before your birth, an evil omen. Your poor mother dreamed of fire consuming the city that night, too. But you lived, just the same. No man was ever prouder than I on that fourth day when I paraded you in my arms around this very hearth. I pronounced you one of the family and named you Paqúr, the Náshiyan word for fire. Now I have more sons than I need, but none is better loved than you.

  "You have always made me proud, my son. Do not take these assemblies so seriously. I like to make each of my sons and sons-in-law think I value his opinion. It makes them more loyal. But you should know that always it is your thoughts that matter most to me." He put a hand on his tall son's shoulder. "Now, do not be so quick to fight with Qántili. It is true that he has not had the experience that you have with fighting. But he is strong and reliable. You should try harder to gain his good will, instead of making an enemy of him. When I am gone, you will guard the throne as well as I have done, I am sure. Even so, you will need your brother at your side, to command your army."

  Paqúr frowned. "If you have already decided that I am to be your heir, then why all this talk about choosing between us? You say you value my opinion, so I will give it to you. This talk of choosing Qántili for your successor only creates antagonism between us."

  The old man shook his head. "No, Qántili would be thinking these things, competing with you, in any case. It is better to have it out in the open. When the time comes, Qántili will realize that he is not to be king for good reason. Another man might take offense at that. But Qántili is too concerned with rules and with honor. He will accept you as king precisely because I have pointed out his flaws. Then, with your cleverness and Qántili's loyalty, Wilúsiya will control the good, northern sea for another generation. Your grandchildren will see more wealth here in Wilúsiya than anywhere else in the world. I believe this with all my heart."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  OYONO

  Nine ships lay at anchor in Wilúsiya's main harbor when falling leaves signaled the end of the sailing season. Along the shore nearest the ships were tents of leather and linen, hastily set up to shelter the visitors against Wilúsiya's constant winds. The Sqámandro River bisected the plain before the high-walled capital city of Tróya. By the banks of the Sqámandro, Meneláwo's followers labored. Bare-skinned men toiled halfheartedly around the cluster of tents, setting up a wooden palisade to protect the encampment. As yet, less than half the shelters lay behind the flimsy, wooden fence. The pace of the laborers convinced the watchers on Tróya's walls that the palisade would never be finished. Workers ambled over the rolling countryside in a long, slow line to and from the nearby foothills. Toward the forested slopes the men carried bronze axes with double blades to fell the trees that were now losing their leaves. Back across the grassy fields, the Ak'áyans bore saplings on drooping shoulders.

  At the peak of a low rise stood a young man, dressed, unlike the others, in a striped kilt. His back was to the workers lazily carting lumber here and there on the riverbank. His mind, like his gaze, was focused on the well-built citadel with its gleaming, limestone walls.

  "Qasiléyu!" cried a low-ranked worker from below. "Diwoméde!"

  The young man turned toward the speaker only at the second call. "What is wrong now, St'énelo?" Diwoméde called back, annoyed. He began to descend the hill toward the encampment.

  "Are they coming? Do you see them?" Meneláwo's chariot-master called back, ignoring the qasiléyu's queries.

  "No, I do not see them," Diwoméde answered and returned to his post to watch. But as he spoke, the main gate opened in the southern wall and he could see small figures heading across the intervening plain toward the camp. In great excitement the young man shouted the news to the workers behind and below, "They are coming! I see them!" Behind him, the men came running, tools of yellow metal still in their hands.

  The two small groups, those leaving the city and the laborers now hurrying toward it, met on the plain. Within sight of Wilúsiyan shepherd boys with their flocks of sheep and goats, the Ak'áyans from the encampment greeted the emissaries from the citadel.

  "Meneláwo," cried Diwoméde as the wánaks came within shouting distance. "How did it go? Will they return your queen? Are we going to fight?"

  Meneláwo did not answer. His movements quickened by suppressed rage, his head down, he crossed the fields of dry grass with long strides.

  "Odushéyu," Diwoméde greeted Meneláwo's companion, following behind. "What did they say?"

  "Tróyan dogs have no sense of honor," Odushéyu responded, his voice ringing out so that shepherds turned to look from nearby hillocks. "We offered to take back the treasures and women they stole from 'Elléniya and forgive everything," the It'ákan bellowed in righteous anger. "We even agreed to return their king's sister, though she was taken from here over twenty years ago, when we were hardly more than children. Still they refused to meet our demands. We will fight, men. Praise At'ána!"

  "Praise Díwo!" Diwoméde agreed, his heart pounding. "We fight!"

  Talking excitedly among themselves, the men hurried after the aggrieved wánaks of Lakedaimón to hear the details. But Meneláwo was in no mood to discuss his affairs. Silently, he pushed his way through the thronging men and disappeared in the leather-cloaked darkness of his tent.

  Odushéyu was quick to fill the breach in command. "Finish the palisade," he ordered. "We may need it tomorrow." Back to their work the men turned, with vigor now and with purpose. The nearby slopes soon thundered with the sound of bronze against wood and the shore-side camp became a beehive of activity. Throughout the afternoon, Odushéyu patrolled the encampment, bellowing directions to the men, cursing the slow and urging on the quick. By nightfall, wooden stakes completely surrounded the cluster of tents and the six upturned boats that would ferry them back to the ships in the harbor.

  Late in the afternoon, Odushéyu organized a small party for a raid on the closest village. Before their tents, the men began to light fires, bringing their stores of food out of the tents, bronze cooking pots and three-legged stands, linen sacks of barley and chick-peas, and goatskin bags of dark wine. To the delight of those left in camp, the It'ákan's foraging group brought back several sheep for the meal. After roasting the mutton over their open fires, each man took his portion, tossing a small piece into the flames with a muttered prayer to Díwo, god of thunder, and to Arét, god of war, embodiment of areté. In large ceramic bowls they mixed their wine with fresh water from the Sqámandro River, dipping cups of metal or baked clay until they had drunk their fill. At St'énelo's insistence, Meneláwo eventually emerged from his tent to eat and drink. But little passed between his lips.

  While they ate, Diwoméde told Odushéyu, "This will be my first battle. I expect to take an armload of bronze gear from my enemy."

  Odushéyu burst into loud guffaws, while all around, men made the sign of the Evil Eye, pointing thumb, index finger, and small finger toward Diwoméde.

  The qasiléyu was indignant. With reddening cheeks, he asked, "Do you doubt my courage? I faced many wolves and wild boars while guarding my father's flocks."

  "Never talk of what you will take, the night before a battle, boy," Me
neláwo growled from his position before his tent. "It is bad luck. The Evil Eye of Díwo can as easily fall on you as on your enemy. Wild animals are not the same as men."

  "Ai gar, no animal can compare to men with spears," Odushéyu crowed. "Wait until you see these Tróyan warriors. They are not like the ordinary folk in the villages we have seen. No, the soldiers are so tall, their heads would scrape the top of the lion gate at Mukénai. They have huge eyes that burn real fire. Smoke comes from their mouths when they shout the battle cry. They are half beast, too, with the legs of wild horses beneath their kilts. When you get your first glimpse of them tomorrow, you will wet your garment, throw down your shield, and run for the tents." The It'ákan roared with laughter again and several other men joined in.

  Diwoméde sprang to his feet, drawing his dagger from the scabbard at his side. "Stand and fight, you lying dog! I will not let these words go unchallenged."

  Odushéyu made gestures of mock fear, kneeling before the young man and raising a hand toward Diwoméde's chin. "Owái, spare me," the pirate king squealed between peals of laughter. Diwoméde raised his dagger threateningly.

  But Meneláwo rose and put a heavy hand on the qasiléyu's wrist. "Check your gear," the Lakedaimóniyan wánaks barked. Odushéyu forgot his mirth and quickly joined the other men, bringing weapons and armor from beneath the upturned boats and the back of their tents.

  "That means you, too, Diwoméde," Meneláwo growled, when the qasiléyu hesitated.

  The young man sheathed his dagger. "We will settle this later," Diwoméde called after Odushéyu.

  "Owái, I am so frightened," the It'ákan pirate answered in the same mocking tone as before.

  The men unwrapped the sheepskin bundles they had carried in their black ships. By the fires, they lined up spears of ash wood and examined the bronze points before standing the weapons upright, butt ends driven into the ground. Each man laid out his round, ox-hide shield, inspecting the stiff leather for holes, checking to see whether the grips were torn or the wooden rim cracked. Those who had them laid out corselets and greaves to protect their shins, and cap-helmets, all of leather.

  The superior status of the wánaktes and the qasiléyu showed in their gear. The king's shields were rimmed with bronze and their greaves were metal also. With scraps of sheepskin and a little olive oil, they polished the yellow metal until it gleamed. Odushéyu took delight in this activity, taking much longer than necessary. He reflected the firelight on the shield's rim to every side of the camp, demonstrating his wealth to all. But Meneláwo's gear was richer, as he had brought his bronze corselet, rows of small, overlapping plates sewn to the underlying leather.

  Diwoméde brought out a similar garment, but it was aged and worn. The metal plates were dark, many of them dented, some broken, others missing entirely. The armor was heavy when he tried it on, and it was big on him. He wondered whether he would be able to move quickly in battle, bearing that weight. But he did not put his doubts into words. He and Meneláwo put their bronze helmets on the ground alongside the rest of their gear. In shape much like their men's leather caps, the helmets of the high-born had a horse's tail fastened atop them. Diwoméde's also sported a pair of bull's horns, the end of one chipped off.

  "Fine gear," Odushéyu said admiringly as he wandered past, decked in his own armor. "But you must have a smith hammer out some of the dents in that helmet, boy."

  Again, Diwoméde bridled at the islander's speech. "My father wore these horns into battle many times!" the young man fired back. "He…"

  "Do not listen to him," Meneláwo interrupted. "He would be happy to have such gear himself."

  St'énelo, tending his monarch's fire, agreed. "Just look at Odushéyu's head-gear. I have not seen a boar's tusk helmet since I was a child."

  Odushéyu spat, disappointed in the Lakedaimóniyans' reactions, and spent the rest of the evening by his own fireside. There he meticulously cleaned his helmet of boars' teeth. "Forty wild pigs died for this," he announced to the camp. "I personally hunted and killed each one and made this helmet with my own hands. The lady At'ána accompanied me in every expedition. If any man is afraid of death, he should fight alongside me for luck. The goddess will be with me tomorrow in the battle, just as she has always been." When a few men made the sign of the Evil Eye, Odushéyu held up the helmet and added, "That is no boast. Here is the proof."

  Through the evening he spun a tale of monstrous boars with bristles of tin, animals hunted in the deadly fields of 'Aidé itself, in the land of the dead. The men scarcely listened, checking their arms and armor again and again, mouthing prayers to the unseen deities. Few slept that night, in the encampment or in the fortress across the plain, thinking of the morning's battle.

  aaa

  Dawn came at last, hot and dusty. Behind their palisade, the Ak'áyans breakfasted on barley porridge and lentil soup, spilling a few drops for the gods, at each drink of watered wine. Diwoméde's hands shook as he donned his heavy breast-cover, and he could hardly tie the cords of his helmet beneath his chin. Anxiously, he returned time and again to the little rise to watch Tróya's five gates, the largest one facing the south, two lesser openings on the eastern side, the narrow ones on the west. Heat radiated from the ground so that the citadel seemed to dance in the distance. He thought of Odushéyu's description of half-divine warriors, hoping it was only another outrageous lie. Each visit to the low hilltop increased the young man's thirst. It seemed he could not get his fill of watered wine.

  "Odushéyu," the qasiléyu asked, "when will they come out? The sun is up. What are they waiting for, an omen?"

  Odushéyu laughed, a short and harsh sound. "You are so anxious to die?" he muttered, as he once more inspected the leather hand-strap of his shield.

  Diwoméde glanced down at the sword hanging from his belt. He thought of raising it but, despite the insult implied by the It'ákan's remark, did not feel angry enough to act. All the men seemed on edge, even the experienced warriors. It unnerved him. "Meneláwo says that we will not eat or drink again until the battle is over and I am already thirsty," Diwoméde remarked, pretending he had not heard the It'ákan's question.

  "Take off your helmet," Meneláwo grunted from behind him. "The metal makes you sweat. Do not put it on until we line up for the fight."

  The young man did as he was told, his face pale and damp. "What if I need a drink before the fight is over?"

  Odushéyu laughed loud and long at that, to the qasiléyu's discomfort. "If that is all you can think about, you are not ready to be a warrior. You were better off guarding your pappa's sheep. We are about to face swords and spears, boy, or did you not realize that? When the Tróyan soldiers come running at you, yelling their battle cry and thirsting for your blood, wine will be the furthest thing from your thoughts."

  Diwoméde swallowed hard, picturing that in his mind. "You are right, Odushéyu," he said humbly. "But my father said that men always take omens before a battle, waiting for a sign from the gods that victory is assured. I just wish we had a seer with us."

  "Idé," Odushéyu snorted. "The sailing season is over and we fight now or go home empty-handed. That is omen enough."

  Diwoméde was shaken. "I did not know that It'ákans were so godless."

  "And I had no idea Argives were such women," the island wánaks retorted.

  The young qasiléyu let his hand fall to his sword hilt. But Odushéyu was older, more experienced, and broader in the chest. Diwoméde was painfully aware that the It'ákan could easily outfight him. Abruptly, the young man turned away and sought his low peak. There he saw bright sunlight glinting on the shields of their enemies in the distance. He found himself trembling, remembering the men returning from war to his father's fortress, in the past, half-dead men with mangled or missing limbs.

  Meneláwo quietly came up the hill to stand beside the young man. "You are not the only one who is afraid this morning," the wánaks told him quietly. "It is your first battle, so it is natural that you are more anxious than most.
But no man knows whether he will come back from a battle with his soul in his body. Still, you are well trained with the spear. Agamémnon would not have made you his new qasiléyu if he did not have full confidence in you."

  Gratefully, Diwoméde looked at the Lakedaimóniyan wánaks. "I keep trying to imagine what the Tróyans will be like," the qasiléyu said. "Are they men like us? Or are they creatures of the underworld, as Odushéyu says, half man, half beast?"

  "Ai gar, that pirate is a good one for stories," Meneláwo spat. "Men are men. And one battle is like another. Two sides line up, facing each other. They shout insults back and forth until some hot-head loses his temper and rushes forward with his spear. Then the fight begins. Men die. One side loses heart and turns. As they run away, the victors slaughter them without resistance."

  Diwoméde listened with horrified fascination. He had heard battles described before, usually with a good many references to glory, to areté. But that had been when he was safely away from the action. Meneláwo was silent a moment. He raised a hand to shield his eyes and squinted into the distance. "One thing worries me," he said suddenly, without taking his eyes from the hilltop fortress across the fields. "I have heard that the Náshiyans have a new weapon, a strategy we cannot duplicate. Ak'áyan chariots carry two men, a driver and a spearman. But the Náshiyans are said to have three-man chariots, substituting a bowman for the spear, and adding a shield-bearer. Worse still, they may have mastered the techniques for working black bronze, a metal harder even than the wood of an oak tree. With this metal, they might make unbreakable axles for their chariots. If we face these, our battle-carts will soon be shattered, while theirs are still whole."