Golden Mukenai (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  aaa

  At the campfire of the high wánaks, Agamémnon took up the speaker's staff. "Now that that little matter is settled, we can return to the real reason for this assembly. I choose the master mariner and island wánaks to act as my temporary qasiléyu. I entrust the most important part of my task to Odushéyu," he announced, swaggering in his delight at the way the confrontation had turned out.

  Idómeneyu had begun to step forward at the introduction. Reddening at the unexpected name, he stepped back. "Master pirate, you mean," he growsed.

  "Shut your muzzle, Kep'túriyan," Odushéyu snapped.

  "Ai gar, Idómeneyu," the tallest of the lesser lawagétas laughed, not bothering to keep his voice low. "Odushéyu has cheated you again, the filthy swine."

  The overlord pointed his staff threateningly toward the disapproving underlings. "Idómeneyu, Aíwaks, say no more. I am the overlord and I have made my choice." He lowered the stick and continued. "Odushéyu will take Wastunóme back to her father. Meneláwo, you are to be my second qasiléyu. Gather the appropriate gifts and see that they are loaded on Odushéyu's ship at dawn tomorrow. Bring him three sheep, two gold cups and a bronze tripod. Take the girl now. Keep her in your tent tonight, brother. I cannot stand to look at her any longer."

  aaa

  In the early morning, while the rest of the lawagétas were still lying on their sheepskins, Meneláwo directed his men to bear Agamémnon's selected treasures to the It'ákan section of the camp. At first light, Odushéyu's men pushed their boats out to the water until they were wading knee-deep. They loaded the small vessels with Agamémnon's offerings and paddled them to where the island king's largest ship lay at anchor. The It'ákan wánaks went with the first group, clambering aboard the sleek longboat with its three rows of oarsmen's benches. From the platform at the stern, he directed his men in their preparations to sail.

  It was not until the last ferry boat crossed the harbor that Meneláwo came with Wastunóme. Her head was no longer bowed in fear and shame, and the young woman walked with regal leisure to the seaside. She had combed her long hair that morning, releasing it from the practical braids of a slave. As carefully as if the garment were a costly import from Kanaqán, she lifted her faded skirt and waded into the shallows. She allowed Meneláwo to lift her into the ferry boat and later into Odushéyu's vessel, giving the kings no more notice than she would her slaves. When she stood on the platform at the stern of the ship, she brushed herself where the polluting hands of the Ak'áyans had touched her. Looking no man in the eye, she took her seat at Odushéyu's feet, beneath a rotting awning of linen.

  "We will only need twenty rowers, this time," Odushéyu announced to his men, by the young woman's side. "Fill two rows only." Calling their names, he pointed out the oarsmen he wanted. "The rest of you men, guard my things on shore while I am gone. You will answer for it with your hides if any of my possessions are missing when I get back."

  As the unneeded It'ákans paddled their small craft back toward the beach, those on board the ship fastened their oars to the wooden pins and pushed the cracking paddles out into the salt water. Then, as Odushéyu took the long steering oar and called out the cadence, the men bent their backs and rowed out of the sheltered bay and into the dark sea to the west. The wind was with them soon after they passed beyond Tróya's twin headlands and they raised the mast and the big, square sail. Wastunóme kept her eyes on the gentle waves throughout the day's journey, as they headed toward K'rusé's island. Never once did her gaze fall upon the men sailing with her. She would take no dry bread or mixed water and wine as the day wore on, either, refusing even to acknowledge Odushéyu when he offered them.

  The other women of the camp, as they began their daily tasks, stole envious looks at the departing ship, even glancing after the dark longboat long after it disappeared from view. "What does it all mean?" 'Iqodámeya whispered to Wíp'iya. "Can we hope to be ransomed, too?"

  The older woman's face remained impassive. "Perhaps, if any of your kinsmen are still living. If they are rich. But Dáwan is not often so kind."

  Joining them with several new bruises discoloring her face, 'Ékamede trembled with hope. "My father's island is no farther from here than K'rusé's and as fertile. I may be the next to buy my freedom."

  This time, Dáuniya listened in wistful silence. Her native ítalo country lay across two seas from Assúwa's shore. No kinsman of hers would brave such a long journey for her sake.

  aaa

  When the sun was well up and the encampment bustling with talk and activity, Agamémnon called Diwoméde to his fireside. The young man was clearly unhappy, though he made no complaint. "Do not look so sad, boy," the wánaks said cheerfully, putting a hand on Diwoméde's shoulder. "I did not choose you for these first tasks because I have another in mind for you. You are young, but you have served me well enough so far. I trust you. Bring 'Iqodámeya to my tent."

  Diwoméde swallowed hard and his eyes widened. "But, wánaks, how can I face Ak'illéyu?" he spluttered, horrified with the task. "I am no coward, but he is older and stronger. I have only been in one battle and he is the best fighter in Ak'áiwiya!"

  Agamémnon smoothed his gray mustache. "That does not worry me. If Ak'illéyu resists, I will send more soldiers." He turned away, pulling back the flap of his big tent.

  "But, wánaks," Diwoméde gulped at his overlord's back. "If he resists, it will mean my death." The overlord did not answer but ducked into his tent, closing the flap behind. The young qasiléyu looked up at the gray clouds and whispered, "Díwo, be with me." Taking a deep breath, he headed toward the shore.

  Watching the young man go, two unclad underlings shook their heads. "Ai gar, T'érsite," St'énelo exclaimed. "I would not trade places with that qasiléyu now for a night with my own 'Elléniyan queen!"

  "Agamémnon has the wisdom of an ox hoof," the other answered. "I was none too pleased to see old Tudéyu's post go to an untried boy, but I tell you, after the way the high wánaks treated Ak'illéyu, I would rather follow Diwoméde to the banks of the Stuks than stay with Agamémnon at Tróya. What kind of overlord is he? He throws away his warriors as if they had less value than hunting dogs."

  The young qasiléyu found the T'eshalíyan prince seated before his hut. Ak'illéyu's head was down, his knees drawn up and his elbows resting on them. "He seems relaxed," Diwoméde said to himself. "Maybe he will ignore me." He stepped forward gingerly, trying to catch Patróklo's eyes, as the T'eshalíyan qasiléyu idly poked at the prince's campfire.

  Ak'illéyu did not move as the Argive came near, but his eyes stared up through his eyebrows and stringy hair, burning with malevolence. Diwoméde halted when he saw the prince looking at him. The youth stood, sweating, afraid to announce his reason for coming. Diwoméde glanced again at his T'eshalíyan counterpart, but Patróklo continued to ignore him, pretending interest in the fire. Ak'illéyu rose to his feet, the suddenness of his movement startling the Argive qasiléyu. Diwoméde stepped back and away from the T'eshalíyan prince, arms up to defend himself.

  Ak'illéyu looked the younger man up and down, contempt in his shadowed eyes. But the prince raised his hands, palms forward, to show that he held no weapon. "Peace, Diwoméde," he said gruffly, "I have no quarrel with you. I know it was that dog, Agamémnon, who sent you here. Patróklo," he barked over his shoulder. "Bring the woman."

  Patróklo did as his wánaks bid, leading 'Iqodámeya from the cluster of captives that had gathered at the edge of camp for the morning's bread-making. She followed, glancing back fearfully toward the other women. Wíp'iya sighed to see her go and bowed her head, returning to her grinding. When 'Iqodámeya saw the young Argive waiting to take her, she turned wide, tearful eyes to Ak'illéyu. "Wánaks?" she asked in disbelief.

  He turned his face away with a scowl. Diwoméde hesitantly took the woman by the wrist. She tried to pull away. "Ak'illéyu," the woman wailed, "you promised!" Stiffly, clenched fists at his sides, the prince began to walk toward the sea, his back to 'Iqodámeya
. Diwoméde took the woman's arm in both his hands and dragged her, sobbing, away from the T'eshalíyan section of the camp.

  A shudder ran through Ak'illéyu's body at his captive's cries and, as he approached the captives gathered beside the opening in the rampart, he spun round on his heel. "Remember this, southern ox-driver!" Ak'illéyu called after the departing pair, "I owe nothing more to your wánaks and I will never fight for his cause again!" He strode quickly past the cowering women, kicking dirt into their grinding trays and mixing bowls. Out the rampart he passed, advancing to the nearby shore, cursing the Ak'áyan overlord at every step, calling upon every god and dáimon to strike down his new enemy. Far along the coastline he went, until he was out of sight of the camp. There he threw himself into the salty water, letting tears of impotent rage flow and crying out with all his strength in anger and frustration. "Préswa take you, Agamémnon!" he shouted to the sea and sky. "Lady Diwiyána, if ever you listen to men's prayers, hear me now. Let Wilúsiya destroy the Zeyugelátes. Send every P'ilísta traitor to 'Aidé. Give Paqúr the power to slaughter them all to the last man. Make Agamémnon pay for what he has done to me this day!"

  aaa

  Shepherds on Lázpa's hillsides spotted Odushéyu's longboat coming and ran to the sacred grove to warn K'rusé. The priest was not frightened, but elated at the news. He raised both arms to the sky in gratitude. "The god heard my prayers. All praises to Apúluno!"

  A welcoming procession soon left the sanctified ground to meet the boats at the shore, the serving men with their shaved heads and long robes, the women with their finger cymbals, as before. Wastunóme's regal composure shattered as the sea beneath the ship changed from dark blue to a pale shade verging on green. She jumped from the boat as soon as it came to the shallow waters of the main bay. As if she were a mainád of the sea, sister of the dolphin or half fish herself, the newly released captive swam to the shore. Her tattered skirt dripping, gathered above her knees with as little concern for modesty as if she were still a little girl, she splashed through the shallows shrieking happily.

  K'rusé embraced his daughter and she knelt to embrace and kiss his knees, laughing until tears ran down her face. "Bring a goat for slaughter," the old man called out with unusual energy, pulling his child back to her feet. "We must celebrate and thank Apúluno." Dancing and singing, the island's people obediently thronged to the hilltop where K'rusé had been before. It did not occur to anyone to fear these men whose presence had meant death and destruction not so long before.

  The older women brought jugs of wine and of water on their heads, their younger sisters bearing meal in baskets. The shepherd boys selected a healthy goat from their diminished herds and led the chosen animal to the peak of the hill, to the stone altar in the midst of the grove. Gathered behind the altar with its bull's horns rising from each end, the surviving men of the island stood in reverent silence. Clad in robes of black wool, the priests led the way, as the elders awaited the rest of the procession. When all were gathered, the women mixed water and wine in a stone trough and the bearded men poured libations over the rectangular stone.

  At her father's joyful nod, Wastunóme dropped handfuls of barley meal on the altar, calling upon the gods. "We call upon you, Tíwo, god of the storm, you who dwell above. We bring offerings to you who dwell on earth, Apúluno, guardian of the gates and all beginnings. Hear our prayers, Poseidáon, god of the wine-dark sea. Join us now, Dáwan, mother of all."

  K'rusé came forward in heavy robes dyed blood red. He raised a double-edged axe over his head. To the surrounding women's ululating cry, the oldest shepherd boy led the goat three times around the horned altar. The women's trilling rose to a scream and K'rusé dropped his ceremonial axe upon the animal's neck. Its legs collapsed and the women rushed to catch the flowing blood in copper bowls.

  The island's priest-king distributed the meat and skin of the sacrificial animal to the islanders, giving the goat's thigh to his daughter. She wrapped it in fat to be burned for the gods' portion, a dance in her every step. While the sacred fire blazed on its pedestal of stone, Wastunóme sang of the deeds of Apúluno, her clear voice ringing out across the parched countryside.

  Singing songs of thanksgiving, the Lázpayans trooped down to their homes in the valley for a feast of celebration. Sheep were slaughtered, their meat boiled and roasted. Happily the Lázpayans shared their bounty with Odushéyu and his It'ákan oarsmen, as if they had never been enemies. Assúwan and Ak'áyan alike ate their fill of meat, barley cakes, figs, olives, and leeks, drinking watered wine. The young women danced, their long hair loose and flying in the wind, their doubled skirts a whirling mass of colors. The shepherd boys danced with them, the elders adding the sound of flutes and drums, tambourines and cymbals.

  K'rusé seated Odushéyu at his side during the festivities, cheerfully promising loyalty to the Ak'áyan cause. "To show my gratitude for this gift," the old priest said, "I will continue the tribute of wine and grain your leader originally demanded, for as long as his troops remain on Assúwan shores."

  "Tribute!" Odushéyu began, pleased at the sound.

  "I will also accept only a token amount of bronze in exchange," K'rusé went on, his head bobbing merrily. "I am generous, too, you see, as generous as I am forgiving. Now your warriors will not have to forage all over the countryside for provisions. You need only buy them from me."

  Odushéyu drank wine with the priest, spilling a few drops to the unseen deities. "Is it tribute if you take payment?" he complained.

  K'rusé shrugged his shoulders. "Ai, do not spoil the happiness of this occasion by quibbling over a bit of bronze. When you have sacked Tróya, you will have more tin and horses than your ships can carry. You will all be as rich as the emperor Qáttushli himself. Drink your wine, now, Ak'áyan. Fill your belly while you can. Stay with us for a few days, a month perhaps. Enjoy the dancing," K'rusé offered expansively, throwing a withered arm over the mariner's shoulders. "Perhaps we can discuss trade routes…"

  "We must be going soon," the It'ákan wánaks protested, intending to rise.

  The old priest put a gnarled hand on the mariner's arm. "It is nearly nightfall," K'rusé argued. "Even an experienced sailor does not take to the sea in the dark, not if he can help it. Wait until dawn at least."

  Odushéyu cast longing eyes toward the north, but agreed to remain on Lázpa that night. Though he and his men ate and drank freely, they did not dance. "This is an evil omen for the campaign ahead," the lesser wánaks of It'áka told his men. "We lost the first skirmish. Now, returning Agamémnon's booty is a second defeat for us and another victory for our enemy. If we suffer a third setback, we might as well go home, all of us, with nothing but a handful of copper utensils to show for all our suffering."

  Gloomily, his rowers agreed. They had no reason to celebrate and separated themselves from the Lázpayans as darkness fell. Wrapped in their cloaks on the shore, they slept fitfully, feeling the harsh eyes of the stars on their exposed flesh. At first light, the Ak'áyans returned to their longboat and pushed out their oars. By the time the sun was high in the sky, they were well on their way back toward the Tróyan shore.

  aaa

  As his temporary qasiléyu awaited dawn on Lázpa, Agamémnon, too, slept little. He had 'Iqodámeya remove her skirt so he could look her over. She stood before him with downcast eyes, sick with dread at what would come next, repeatedly clasping and unclasping her hands. But he gazed on her pale legs without passion, his eyes taking in the pale, pink stretch marks on her abdomen, the row of white scars on her thighs from Muné's beatings in years gone by. "Are you a priestess?" he asked.

  "No, wánaks," 'Iqodámeya answered, her voice barely audible.

  The big king sighed and rubbed his eyes. "No," he repeated. "I thought not. Sleep in the back of the tent," he told her. "I am going to speak with Meneláwo." He left the tent and sought his brother.

  Relieved, 'Iqodámeya put her hand to her heart and forehead. "Thank you, Mother Dáwan," she whispered. "Tha
nk you."

  "Brother, I cannot sleep," Agamémnon said in Meneláwo's hut, finding the younger king wakeful and sharpening his sword with a whetstone. "This new woman is no use to me, Meneláwo. She is not a priestess, so she is no substitute for the one I lost."

  "Perhaps you were too hasty in taking her from Ak'illéyu," his brother suggested with a frown. "Have you considered giving her back? It is not too late to make a gesture of generosity."

  Agamémnon groaned and pressed his palm to his aching head. "Ai, Meneláwo, you do not understand what is going on here. My quarrel with Ak'illéyu was not about this woman. He challenged my authority. I cannot allow that. I had to put him in his place. You can see that, can you not? Ai, but now it seems that my whole alliance is cracking. No man will confront me directly, but I hear them whispering behind my back. Talk to Ak'illéyu. Tell him if he will renew his loyalty oath in front of the assembly, I will return the woman to him."

  "Give her back anyway, Agamémnon," Meneláwo urged. "It is not too late to patch up this quarrel. Idómeneyu reports that more troops are on the way to join Tróya. We will need every man we can get when it finally comes to a battle."