by Diana Gainer
The older wánaks shook his head. "No, I have spoken and I cannot change a decision without losing the respect of the men. If Ak'illéyu wants the woman back, he must do something, say something, to show himself my loyal vassal. By the Stuks, Meneláwo, I wish I could start over again! None of this has gone as I planned. Ai, all this sitting about has muddled my thinking. Come. Walk with me. Let us leave these dirt walls for some place we can breathe."
Together the brothers crossed the quiet encampment, passing through the half-finished gate in the rampart. From the top of a low hill nearby they looked across the moonlit plain at the citadel. Tróya's fortifications were massive, built of large blocks of limestone fitted neatly together in irregular courses. They rose at a smooth angle, over two times the height of a man. Above the courses of stone, the wall rose still further, as tall as any house, row after row of baked brick. Still higher stood Tróya's towers, overlooking the five entrances. Smoothly dressed, the stones provided little in the way of toeholds for climbing. With their angle, they gave no protection to attackers from the archers stationed at the top. Bowmen on the ground would find it difficult to hit their enemies, though, as rounded battlements on the heights protected the citadel's defenders. In the gloom, the Ak'áyan kings could see watch fires flickering on the high platforms.
"When I first saw that city," Agamémnon said to his younger brother, "I told myself, 'This will be mine one day.' Millewánda to the south pays me tribute already. This city, too, will acknowledge my overlordship one day. Think of it, Meneláwo. Tróya's ships have always kept us from the straits. The commoners believe the stories of man-eating dáimons in that narrow sea. But you and I know better. It is Wilúsiya's fleet that controls the route, protecting Tróya's wealth, the trade in tin. If any Ak'áyans ever made it past the Wilúsiyans to the source of white metal, none returned. But one day these straits will be Ak'áyan, Meneláwo, I feel it in my bones. Think of it. Alakshándu is one among many vassals of a greater king and his country is no larger than Argo. But he is richer than any Ak'áyan wánaks, even so. Tin is what makes him so wealthy and wealth is power, Meneláwo. When will Ak'áiwiya realize that? You would not hear Alakshándu making foolhardy claims over the overlordship of the Náshiyan empire, the way my underlings do. He knows areté is just a pretty trinket, bought and sold like any other commodity. Tin is not all that Alakshándu has, either. The finest horses in the world are bred here in Wilúsiya, big animals that make ours look like deer." The wonderment left his voice and he groaned. "You are not the only one who is restless. All this should have been mine by now."
Meneláwo peered into his brother's face. He was uneasy. "I do not know about horse-breeding and I do not care about tin," he said in measured tones. "A Wilúsiyan sacked one of my fortresses and raped my women. I want what is mine restored to me and I want revenge. That is all. I do not know what you are leading up to, with all this talk of Alakshándu and Wilúsiya's wealth. But you had better not be looking for excuses to drop this campaign. You swore you would help me, brother. Never forget that. Remember, too, what I did for you at Aúli."
Agamémnon seemed not to hear. "Do you remember when I sent you to the city of Qattúsha with my old qasiléyu, Tudéyu? You carried a tablet to the Náshiyan emperor for me." With a sudden, mischievous gleam in his eye, he nudged Meneláwo's ribs. "That was about ten months before Diwoméde was born." He laughed. But the mirth quickly subsided and he sighed. "Klutaimnéstra found out, of course. Ai gar, I could not eat or sleep for three days, for all her raving about the infidelity of Tudéyu's wife. I finally had to knock a few of her teeth loose to get some peace." He groaned again, more deeply than before. "I had plans for Wastunóme. She is hardly more than a girl, but she is a priestess, you know. I was going to put her in Klutaimnéstra's place when I returned to Argo."
"That is madness," Meneláwo snapped. He was angry now and no longer trying to hide the fact. "You are not some poor farmer who can divorce his wife and take back the bride-price. I know you blame Klutaimnéstra for what happened at Aúli. That is a heavy weight on my own heart. But you will have to make peace with your wánasha or lose your kingship. You were only fooling yourself about Wastunóme."
Agamémnon looked away. "I do not care to hear about Aúli," he growled. "Tróya is the place on my mind. Look at those walls, Meneláwo. Spears and arrows cannot bring them down. The hillside is too steep for us to tunnel beneath the wall and undermine its foundation. The archers would finish my men before they could carry out the first basket of dirt. Then there are those gates, and those great doors of oak. I am no woodsman, but even I know how hard oak is. It would take too long for our axes to chop through the wood. The archers on the walls would slaughter any who tried, without even exerting themselves. The one entrance without a door is so narrow, scarcely two men can march abreast in it and it turns one way and then the other. If I send my spearmen in, their undefended right sides will be exposed to the arrows of the Wilúsiyans on the walls. Ai, Meneláwo, I am as impatient at heart as any of the P'ilístas. Nothing would please me more than a quick battle. But so long as the Wilúsiyans stay inside that fortress, all I can do is maintain a siege."
"I understand all that," the Lakedaimóniyan king sighed, putting his hands to his hips. "But if we try to stay here through the winter, we will be the ones to starve, not the Tróyans. All the villagers and shepherds from the countryside hereabouts have taken refuge in the citadel, taking their supplies of grain and their flocks with them. Tróya's storerooms are full, while we have nothing to sustain us but the tribute from the islands. The Lázpayans and Lámnayans will not continue to send their boats once the season of storms begins, if they keep it up that long. Even Odushéyu will not be able to go and take the islands' grain for us, either. It has been a full year since 'Elléniya was burned. Our time has run out, Agamémnon. We must act now."
The bigger man shook his head. "I realize it is getting late in the season. I can see the leaves changing color as well as you. But what can I do? I thought when the equinox came around, the Tróyans would come out and fight, so they could plant their next crop. Instead, they continue to wait it out. We cannot patrol the coast closely enough to prevent all food supplies from getting in to them, either. I knew that much at the start, but I assumed they would run short of water. Still they show no sign of weakening. They must have a well inside the walls."
"A well!" said Meneláwo with disdain. "You are still thinking about food and water when a fifth army is about to join forces with our enemy? Agamémnon, I can see what you are trying to do. You do not fool me. You are trying to convince me to leave. But I will not release you from your oath to me. No Ak'áyan leaves Assúwa until Ariyádna is either returned to me or I die in the attempt to regain her. We must have a battle and conclude this war. We must have that battle now."
"Yes, but how can I bring that about?" his brother asked, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "The men will not fight unless they have a sign from the gods that they will win. Qálki inspects the intestines of every animal I slaughter. But he never finds a good omen. It is his fault that our rivals have grown so numerous. He is to blame for delaying us so long. Argue with him, not with me."
Meneláwo grunted. "You are the overlord, Agamémnon, not Qálki. The responsibility as well as the power to end this war is yours, not his. The answer is simple. I have already said that I would challenge Paqúr to single combat." Shouting down the objections he knew his brother wanted to raise, the Lakedaimóniyan warned, "Remember what Tudéyu and I once told you of Qattúsha. The walls there are thicker even than those at Mukénai, over twice a man's height. Ak'áyan fortresses encompass a single hill. But Qattúsha's walls encircle a whole valley. There is more tin and copper in the Náshiyan realm than in all the mountains of Ak'áiwiya. They even mine black bronze and, what is more, they know how to work that divine metal. Emperor Qáttushli has more vassal kings beneath him than I do herdsmen. The whole Assúwan continent is his and half of Kanaqán as well. Alásiya is the wealthi
est of all the islands of the Great Green Sea and it sends him tribute every year, in addition to all the rest. If you go home now and return next spring, all that wealth and all that power will be arrayed against you, when you return. There are three armies siding with Alakshándu, but there will be still more armies camped on this plain a year from now. Another winter of waiting at home and we will see troops from the bigger dependencies, from Kizzuwátna, Mitánni, and ships from Ugarít, as well as these from Assúwa's coast. There will be longboats from Alásiya guarding this harbor then, and three-man chariots with unbreakable axles from the Náshiyan heartland. If we wait for that, with or without a cooperative seer, with or without Ak'illéyu and his T'eshalíyans, we will surely lose the war. We will be slaughtered to the last man!" The younger king spoke with passion, shuddering with the effort to control himself. He wanted nothing more than to leap on his brother and pound sense into that arrogant head.
Agamémnon was silent a moment, brooding. "That is not what I wanted to hear from you, brother," he whispered, surprising Meneláwo with the mildness of his reply. "I understand all that you have said. I do not disagree, either. But single combat is just too risky. I cannot allow it. There must be another solution, but Préswa take me if I know what it is."
His anger defused, Meneláwo felt his strength draining away. His head bowed, he dug at the turf with his toe for awhile. The two men stood in silence, neither looking at the other, until the moon's crescent rose high in the sky. When Meneláwo spoke, his voice was changed, as quiet and emotionless as it had been passionate before. "Have you ever listened to your wife when she talks of gods and dáimons? Ariyádna always used to say that dreams were the daughters of Díwo. 'If anything happens to your seer during a campaign,' she would say, 'remember your dreams and follow their guidance.' Has Klutaimnéstra ever said that to you?"
"What if she did?" Agamémnon asked impatiently. "Nothing has happened to Qálki. Are you suggesting I kill him? Or have one of my qasiléyus do it? Ai, the men would know I was to blame. They would all rise up against me before the body was cold."
"No," the younger king said, still more quietly. "That is not what I am suggesting." Leaning close to the overlord, he whispered, "I am saying, pay attention to your dreams, Agamémnon. I see spears and blood every time I sleep. Are you not a warrior at heart? Do you not see the same? That is as good an omen as any seer could find inside a goat or in the flight of a bird."
In speechless astonishment, Agamémnon stared at his brother for a long, still moment. The two kings remained on the rise only a little longer, looking at Tróya's towers in silence, and at the six stone pillars before the southern gate, divine sentinels lined up before the main entrance. They turned back to the camp without another word.
aaa
Darkness fell upon the T'eshalíyans as it fell elsewhere, and Ak'illéyu remained by the sea. Patróklo paced from his own hut to Ak'illéyu's, trying to decide whether to look for his leader. "Automédon," he called out to one of his fellow qasiléyus. "Have the men look over our ships. If any timbers have rotted, we will have to replace them before we can set sail. I do not know why I did not think of this earlier, but we can send a few boats out with torches. The men should bring the sails back to shore, too. We can unroll them on the ground and check for damage."
"It is too dark. We should wait until morning," Automédon said, raising bushy eyebrows. "The wánaks may change his mind."
Patróklo struck the other with an impatient fist. "Do as I say."
Automédon's hand went to his face and then to his dagger. "You do not outrank me, Patróklo," he cried. "You may live in the prince's household, but you are not his kinsman. Ai, by birth you are not even a T'eshalíyan."
Patróklo swiftly drew his own knife. But he did not advance. "To 'Aidé with you," he cursed and stalked away toward the shore, calling Ak'illéyu as he went.
Far down the beach, the T'eshalíyan prince stood in quiet gloom. He did not answer his qasiléyu's call or turn at the sound of Patróklo's advancing footsteps. The lesser ranked man stopped beside his prince, saying nothing. "I could have taken him, Patróklo," Ak'illéyu said, his voice breaking. "I could have killed Agamémnon today."
"I know, Ak'illéyu," Patróklo said quietly. "Every man in the camp knows that." He put an arm around the other man's shoulders. "We were with you."
The wánaks moved away and clapped his hands to his head. "You were, Patróklo. But where were the others?"
"All your T'eshalíyans were with you," Patróklo answered firmly. "Part of the north took your side, at least. The other P'ilístas are cowards. Think no more about them. Come back to your hearth. I have sent the men to inspect the longboats and…"
"Who told you to do that?" Ak'illéyu roared with sudden fury, shoving his friend down on the pebbles of the beach. "Do you plan to sail without me in the morning? Are the T'eshalíyans planning to betray me like the rest of Ak'áiwiya did?" Alarmed, the qasiléyu scrambled backward. Still on the ground, he raised his hands in the gesture of peace. "No, wánaks, no! I thought this was what you wanted. You told Agamémnon that we would sail away."
"We leave when I am ready and not before!" the prince raged.
"Yes, wánaks," Patróklo said, his brows drawn together over his dark eyes. Cautiously, he stood. When the other did not attack, he said reproachfully, "Ai, Ak'illéyu, I have always been like an older brother to you, have I not? We are foster brothers, closer than any but blood kin. So listen to me. The men should look over the ships tonight. They expect to leave in the morning because that is what you said you would do. You cannot change your word or you will seem foolish and weak." Expecting an angry response, he stiffened and clenched his fists.
Ak'illéyu shot a look of disbelief at Patróklo. Slowly he sank down to the sand. "You are right," he said in anguish, hugging his knees to his chest.
The qasiléyu dropped his hands and stood over the other man. "Come back to your hearth. Give the order. Make it clear that you are still our wánaks. Tell the men we sail in the morning."
But the prince remained where he was. His head drooped. "I cannot."
Patróklo knelt beside his commander. "I know you are thinking of the woman. But she is gone. Forget about her. Agamémnon has her now."
Stung by the words, Ak'illéyu flung sand at his qasiléyu, and knocked him down with heavy fists. "We will not leave until I have had revenge! Do you hear? Any T'eshalíyan who sets sail before I give the command is food for crows."
Patróklo backed away from the prince a second time, his arms before his face, trying to avoid the other's fury. "I hear you, wánaks, I hear you," he cried, spitting sand. "I will tell the men. We are with you."
Ak'illéyu stopped, breathing hard, staring at his companion as if in sudden recognition. "By the gods, Patróklo," he moaned, "what I am going to do?"
Uncertain now, the qasiléyu hesitated a moment before speaking. "Southern Assúwa is undefended. All the neighboring kingdoms have sent their troops here. We could sail south."
Sighing deeply, the T'eshalíyan prince sank again to the sand and cradled his head in his arms. "The legends say that our ancestors came from this land in the time of 'Erakléwe. Assúwans are as much our brothers as Ak'áyans."
"What kind of talk is that?" Patróklo asked in disgust. "These are thoughts worthy of priestesses, of women, not men!"
Ak'illéyu raised his head. His deep-set eyes burned and the qasiléyu could not meet that stare.
"I understand your anger at Ak'áiwiya," Patróklo said, averting his gaze, "but we cannot change sides and fight for Assúwa, if that is what you are thinking. Wilúsiya's king would be happy enough to have us as allies. But your father's kingdom is in Ak'áiwiya. You cannot afford to make all Ak'áyans his enemies." He threw up his hands. "Do not attack Míra or Kuwalíya, if that does not please you. We will fight in T'ráki or the Kukláde islands, wherever you command."
Ak'illéyu rose and walked to the edge of the water. "I am tired of being a warrior, Patróklo
. That is the problem. I am sick of the sight of blood. I do not want to fight anywhere."
The qasiléyu came to stand beside him. "That is because this war has taken so long. A siege always saps a warrior's strength. But this feeling will pass. War is the only fit occupation of true men. It is the only source of areté."
The other wearily shook his head. "Ai, by Diwiyána and Poseidáon, I wish I had never come here."
aaa
Back in his own tent, Agamémnon looked down at the sleeping captive woman, curled up on a sheepskin pallet. Moving quietly, the king lifted his robe from the larger bed by the tent flap. He started to pull the woolen cloth round his shoulders, his eyes still on 'Iqodámeya. In the dark, another face seemed to appear, an unlined face at peace in the world of dreams. Ip'emédeya's smooth cheeks and large eyes were before him. His fingers touched lightly at his chin, as he remembered the dimpled hands of his oldest child pulling his beard years before. When he had pulled the little fists away, a few hairs came away with them, he recalled. What surprising strength there had been in those soft, chubby fingers!
His head ached and he hardly knew where he was. Gently, he laid his robe over the sleeping woman and returned to his own fleeces. 'Iqodámeya stirred and moaned softly, opening her eyes without comprehension, still mired in the fog of dream. Her large eyes closed again and she drifted back into slumber, lulling the king to sleep with the soft rhythm of her breathing. In his sleep-dulled mind, he was in his bed in Mukénai, his young wife on the other side and their slumbering babe between them.
