Golden Mukenai (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  A second feather-capped warrior rose to add his voice to the cause. "I am with Meneláwo. Attika wants action as much as Lakedaimón does. I agreed to the raids on the islands because I considered them good practice for the men. But my troops have proved their worth now. There is no glory to be gained in these endless construction projects. There is no areté in starving an enemy into submission. We should fight or go home. I do not speak only for Attika, either. All the P'ilístas agree with me."

  "No Menést'eyu, you do not speak for all the north," Panaléyo argued, taking the staff. "Qoyotíya is as concerned with honor as any land. We are aware of the season, too. The grain fields of Qoyotíya require my attention, as do the farms of any king. But we are pious men. No war can proceed against the will of the gods." He gestured toward the seer with his free hand. "If Qálki cannot find a good omen for us, then we dare not attack Tróya. It is that simple. So I suggest we divide our forces, Agamémnon. Leave a small contingent from each kingdom to winter here. But let the rest sail for home to help with the planting. I have said this before, but now time is critical. We must go before the winter storms begin."

  Qálki entered the ring of wánaktes and tried to speak. But Meneláwo was faster. "No man leaves until Tróya is vanquished," the Lakedaimóniyan king roared, jerking the staff from Panaléyo's hand and thumping it on the ground for emphasis. "Every wánaks and qasiléyu took an oath on this. You swore by the hearths of your homes that you would see what was mine restored to me." He glared at every leader in turn, forcing each to bow his head with shame.

  The Ak'áyans' seer grasped the staff and opened his withered lips to speak. But now it was Agamémnon who was too quick for Qálki. "No one has forgotten you, Meneláwo," the Argive king said, wresting the wooden shaft from the seer. "But it might be best to do as Panaléyo advises, brother. Leave things as they are until next year."

  "K'rusé is here to see you, wánaks," Qálki managed to announce, touching the overlord's arm. "He…"

  Agamémnon shook off the prophet's gnarled fingers. Impatiently, the Argive king gestured toward the waiting priest and the company of god's slaves. "Speak to my qasiléyus, Qálki. Have the visitors deliver their tribute to Aíwaks. No, I take that back. Aíwaks is out foraging. Find Diwoméde. He can handle the distribution of grain."

  Turning back to the assembled kings, Agamémnon continued, "There is no need for such long faces, men. We had several victories on the islands this summer. No man will be going home empty-handed. I, for one, am satisfied with that for now. Panaléyo's suggestion makes good sense. My only concern is that some may not return here next summer."

  Qálki fumed silently as the overlord spoke. Outside the ring of leaders, K'rusé wearily shook his head. But no lawagéta gave the seer or the priest any notice.

  The Attikan troop leader came forward for a second turn with the speaker's staff. "We will slaughter an ox as soon as Aíwaks and his men can find one for us. Then we will renew our oaths to you and to Meneláwo. Will that satisfy you?" There were murmurs of agreement from every side.

  The Lakedaimóniyan king clapped his hands to his thighs in distress at the direction the assembly was taking. "No, Menést'eyu! You cannot leave now. Do you not see what a mistake that would be? You have all seen the number of allies Wilúsiya drew together this summer. When I arrived, I saw Mírans and Kuwalíyans camped just outside the city walls. Now Odushéyu tells me that Lúkiyans have arrived. Ai gar, the whole coast of Assúwa is against us. But even this pales beside what the Náshiyan emperor could provide, given enough time. Ai, if we wait until next year to take action, we will face the army of the whole Náshiyan empire led by the great king Qáttushli himself."

  Agamémnon's frown deepened. "You are right about that, brother." He grimaced, smoothing his mustache as he thought. "We probably should finish the war this year." Glancing about the circle of men, he caught sight of the bony seer. "If Qálki cannot find a good omen, then let us get a prophet who can."

  Néstor was aghast, as was the seer himself. "That would be sacrilegious," the Mesheníyan wánaks protested.

  "You are a godless man," Qálki said with indignation.

  "And you are a charlatan," Agamémnon countered, furious. "You never have anything good to say about me. Everything I do is evil in your eyes. Ai, if it were not for the men's faith in you, I would wring your scrawny neck like a duck's."

  Qálki quailed and stepped backward. But the northern leaders rose as a group, protecting the small man. Panaléyo took the staff to say, "Stand back, Agamémnon. The seer cannot be blamed for the antipathy of the gods he serves. An evil message is not the fault of the messenger. Still, something must be done to ensure that the crops at home are not endangered. Last year's wheat crop was meager in many areas and the barley was even worse. We must take steps to see that the coming harvest is good or some lands will suffer famine."

  "I will challenge prince Paqúr to single combat," Meneláwo announced with an air of finality. "Let the gods give what signs they please. I will fight regardless. Paqúr cannot refuse. Let the two of us settle the issue. If he kills me, he may keep the bronze he took from 'Elléniya. If I kill him, I take it home with me. But, either way, my women must return to Lakedaimón."

  The P'ilístas looked at each other and nodded. "That is acceptable. It would be an honorable conclusion to the campaign," Panaléyo announced.

  But Agamémnon disagreed. Pouncing on the Qoyotíyan wánaks, Agamémnon forced the staff from Panaléyo's hands. "That is not acceptable to me!" the overlord cried. "Meneláwo, have the maináds caught you? The Wilúsiyans would never agree to such a thing. If you did not win the combat, they would never give up your women. It goes against reason to think otherwise. That is not the only flaw in your plan, either. We know almost nothing about this Paqúr. He may be an accomplished warrior, a veteran of many campaigns under Qáttushli's command. You would be risking your life, my brother."

  "What if Paqúr is an experienced soldier?" Meneláwo demanded, balling his fists. "I have fought often enough myself. If I risk my life, Paqúr does the same. I may be younger than you, Agamémnon, but I am no shepherd boy. I am a grown man with a child of my own, and I have my rank. I am a wánaks too. I will not leave these shores without Ariyádna. Neither will you. Do not forget your oath, brother. If you break it, you are no longer my kinsman and Lakedaimón is at war with Argo."

  The flap of Agamémnon's tent moved and a young woman peered out, clad only in a skirt of two flounces. At the sight of the robed priest and his retinue, she burst into tears. "Father," she called and rushed out of the tent, reaching for K'rusé with trembling hands.

  The old man clasped the laurel boughs in his left hand and reached with his right for his daughter. "Wastunóme," he sighed. "What has this evil man done to you? Your hands were once soft and pale, unused to hard work. Now look at them, so red and roughened!"

  Before Wastunóme could reach her father's side, the wánaks of Argo caught the young woman's arm and pulled her to his side. "What do you want, old man?" Agamémnon growled.

  The white-haired priest handed his laurel branches to the slave behind him, and knelt, slowly and stiffly, at Agamémnon's feet. He embraced the king's knees, looking up beseechingly, one hand raised to the bigger man's beard. His voice was thin and weak when he spoke. "Great wánaks, I am K'rusé, ruler of the island of Lázpa. I have come for my youngest child. You took her from the sanctuary of Lady Dáwan in your last battle. Be merciful and let me buy her freedom. Name any ransom and I will pay it. May you have success in your campaign here. Tear down Tróya's walls until no stone is standing. Destroy the croplands of Wilúsiya. Sack every city in Assúwa if you wish. Do all these things and still I will ask Apúluno's blessings for you. We islanders hate the Wilúsiyans as much as anyone. But give me back my Wastunóme, if you fear the god of gates. Look, I have brought many fine gifts to show my good will toward you."

  Still on his knees, K'rusé described them in glowing terms, and the slaves behind raised each it
em in turn, for the Ak'áyan overlord to see. "Here are cedar boxes plated with beaten gold, inlaid with lapis lazuli and pure white silver. I offer you carved ivories from Kanaqán. See, here is a figure of the twin lions attacking the son of the goddess. There is the Great Lady herself, standing between her sacred goats. There is no finer workmanship in all the world. And look, Agamémnon, there are two silver cups from distant Mízriya with spells written about the rim in magic symbols. Even you Ak'áyans have surely heard of the unearthly power in that writing! These drinking vessels will bring you ever increasing prosperity and health with every sip of wine you take from them. That is not all, either. I bring you ingots of the finest copper from Alásiya, golden jugs filled with perfumed olive oil from Kep'túr, and baskets of figs, apples, and grapes from the groves and vines of Apúluno's sacred fields. Most valuable of all, I give you white tin. Do you see? It is a whole quarter of an ingot."

  Ak'áiwiya's assembled leaders were impressed. Their seer nodded to the Argive wánaks,"You must grant his wish."

  Agamémnon saw Qálki's nod and heard the words. But he was not pleased. Abruptly, he cut off K'rusé's speech. "I will have better prizes when Tróya falls," the overlord said curtly. "Wastunóme is mine, old man. She stays with me." At Agamémnon's side, the young woman began a keening wail.

  Ak'illéyu and Patróklo had made the circuit of the whole encampment by this time, gathering the lesser lawagétas around the overlord's fire, qasiléyus as well as wánaktes, from small kingdoms as well as large. The latecomers were a rough lot, their kilts ragged, their hair uncombed and their bodies unwashed. With spears and swords, they menaced the visiting island folk. The slaves with K'rusé eyed the Ak'áyans nervously, clutching their god's treasures.

  Agamémnon glowered at the frightened visitors, standing half a head taller than any other man present. "This Apúluno means nothing to me, K'rusé. I have half a mind to slit your throat and take these toys by force."

  "He is taking a big chance," Patróklo whispered to Ak'illéyu. "He cannot order the gods about, as if they were only men."

  Ak'illéyu nodded. "Yes, but I do admire his courage. Not many men would have the strength of will to turn away a priest, even if the dáimon he worships is a foreigner."

  Patróklo stroked his whiskered chin, looking at the young woman cowering beside the Argive king. "I certainly could not do it. But I can understand Agamémnon's desire. Wastunóme is young and beautiful. She does not have the spirit to fight or to run away, either. Still, Klutaimnéstra would not be pleased if he brought this island woman home as a slave. He is better off sending her on her way in exchange for treasure."

  "Yes, it is not a good idea to bring discord into a household." Seeking confirmation, Ak'illéyu looked at the shorter, stockier lawagéta beside him.

  Odushéyu put his hand on Ak'illéyu's shoulder and leaned close, as if to whisper a secret. "I do not agree," the It'ákan said. "Captive women are the booty of the wánaks, just as much as horses and stores of gold and tin. Every soldier here hopes to take home the same prize. Klutaimnéstra has no right to deny her husband his due. The wives of high-born men should expect to see female slaves in their households." The island king's voice rose so that all would hear him. "I say that Agamémnon should keep what he has. He can sack Lázpa again on the way home to get the rest of K'rusé's treasure."

  "You Zeyugelátes have no sense of honor," Ak'illéyu said in disgust.

  Unperturbed, Odushéyu spat at the northerner's feet. "You P'ilístas have no bronze." Both men drew their swords and prepared to fight. But around them, men with cooler heads restrained the lesser kings.

  Qálki was now furious. "Take the ransom, Agamémnon!" he shouted. "Treat K'rusé with respect. He is under the protection of the god. Do you not see the sacred laurel branches? Or are you a barbarian, that you do not know what they mean?"

  Agamémnon did not look at the seer. He broke free of old K'rusé's arms. Dragging the sobbing Wastunóme behind him, the Argive wánaks strode past his fireside. The startled islanders shrank back at his approach, stumbling over the hems of their long robes. More than one bare-headed slave dropped his fine gift. Agamémnon glanced over the finery, still gripping his captive's wrist. As Wastunóme wept helplessly, the Argive king took a gilded bough from the first slave and turned to face the priest.

  K'rusé rose stiffly with Qálki's help. "Be generous," implored the old man.

  "Get out of here, priest," Agamémnon bellowed, waving the decorated branch. "Go home and take your measly loot with you before I change my mind and have you all slaughtered like sheep. The only Lázpayans I want to see are merchants and laborers supplying my army with grain and wine. If I see you again, K'rusé, these twigs will not help you." He threw the sacred branch into the fire, glaring at his own seer as much as at the island priest. "The girl stays with me. She will grow old in Mukénai, weaving my linen and warming my bed. I swear this by my own hearth and by 'Estiwáya who guards it. Go, K'rusé, go or taste my spear!"

  The old priest's mouth fell open, revealing few teeth. "But…but…"

  Qálki cursed the wánaks under his breath, but gave K'rusé a gentle shove. "Agamémnon is the highest ranking wánaks, my brother. He can do as he pleases today. But you and I know that the gods will not let this heresy go unpunished."

  K'rusé and the slaves of Apúluno hurried past the assembled warriors. The islanders were fearful now, their arms wrapped protectively around their treasures. The women did not dance and they clung to each other with cold, clammy hands. Their steps were quicker than the solemn pace of their approach. As they went, the hurrying slaves glanced backward, again and again, at the handful of warriors slowly following them. Ak'illéyu and Patróklo pursued them over the low hills to the mouth of the river bisecting the plain. Near where the Sqámandro emptied into the Inner Sea, two boats lay, pulled up on the shore. The slaves of Apúluno tossed their heavy cloaks into the small vessels and pushed the boats into the water. The women clambered aboard the light craft, unconcerned that their bright skirts trailed in the water. The bare-skinned men rowed toward the horizon, K'rusé crouching with the women, wailing for his daughter.

  The Ak'áyans watched in silence, until the little vessels were past the anchored ships. "Now let us get back to our own booty," Ak'illéyu said to his qasiléyu.

  Patróklo followed him back toward the encampment. "You frightened your woman this morning, wánaks," he said as they walked. "She must have thought you meant to kill her." He laughed. "Assúwan women have no spirit."

  "But they are good on the sheepskins," Ak'illéyu grinned. He draped an arm over his companion's shoulders. "I never thought I would say this, but I am tired of bloodshed. You and I have sacked enough island cities between Ak'áiwiya and Assúwa to last a lifetime. One more battle and Tróya should be ours. Then we can take our women and go home."

  "I am sick of waiting, too," Patróklo admitted. "I prefer the northern style of warfare. Make one or two good raids a season and go home. Sieges are not to my liking. A man earns no areté by starving his enemy."

  Ak'illéyu averted his eyes. "I think I would be content to lay down my spear this winter and never pick it up again," he said quietly.

  Astonished, Patróklo pulled away. Staring at Ak'illéyu, he said, "Not pick it up again? What is wrong with you, wánaks? War is the only fit occupation for the high-born!"

  Ak'illéyu forced a laugh. "Ai, do not listen to me. I do not know what I am saying. Let me have a good, rainy winter cooped up in a fortress and I will be eager to fight again."

  "That is more like it," Patróklo said. "You are just tired of waiting, like the rest of us."

  Their women sat before the door to Ak'illéyu's hut when the men returned. With a rough, stone mortar and pestle 'Iqodámeya ground barley into meal, while Wíp'iya patted dough into cakes to be cooked on the flat rocks that rimmed the campfire. "Wíp'iya," called Patróklo, reaching toward the plump woman. "Come to my tent. I am cold." His tone was imperious but his eyes twinkled war
mly.

  The woman dropped the dough she was kneading in the ceramic bowl and wiped her hands on her faded skirt. "Yes, qasiléyu," she answered with a forced smile.

  Ak'illéyu put his rough hand on 'Iqodámeya's shoulder. She jumped and stopped her grinding. Apprehensively, she looked up at him. "Let me show you how it is really done," Ak'illéyu said, pulling her to her feet. He took her in his arms, smiling. She relaxed and let him press his lips hard against hers. "'Iqodámeya," he murmured, "you should know by now that I would not kill you. I have other things in mind."

  In the welcome warmth of soft arms, Ak'illéyu told 'Iqodámeya of the morning's events. "I would not do what Agamémnon did," he told her. "No man knows how a campaign will turn out. Agamémnon may yet need a laurel branch himself to request a truce. It is unwise to disregard a god's symbol. But Agamémnon thinks of nothing but the moment and his own desires. He has no sense of honor."

  'Iqodámeya kissed his chin. "When I was a little girl, I was told that all Ak'áyans were without areté. But you are different, Ak'illéyu. You have treated me better than my own husband did."