Golden Mukenai (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  But the overlord still said nothing. It was Qálki who next addressed the men. He had been frantically hopping from one foot to the other, unable to make himself heard. Now he mounted the rampart wall, wresting the staff from Odushéyu's surprised grip. "Díwo is not a faithless god," the prophet cried. "Remember the omen at Aúli after the great sacrifice."

  A deadly silence blanketed the field. No one spoke. No one moved. All eyes were on the overlord. Agamémnon had remained impassive through the debate, content to leave things to fate. Now his hands fell to his sides. His face darkened at the mention of Qoyotíya's now infamous port city.

  But Qálki pressed on, encouraged by the tense quiet. "A snake came from behind that fateful altar, a serpent as long as a man's leg. Every soldier still alive today must remember that sight. And what is a snake but the son of Díwo? That was a sign, a most powerful omen. It can only mean that Díwo's mighty axe will strike down the Assúwans. We must prevail. The gods are with us."

  A great shout rose among the troops, stirred by the seer's words. Saluting the sky, the men gave the battle-cry, "Alalá!"

  Agamémnon at last took back his gold-plated scepter and addressed the troops. His voice was loud and confident. "If we have had problems, these things are the fault of the gods. Artémito's untamed nature makes her quick to anger. Like any father, Díwo takes his daughter's side. My quarrel with Ak'illéyu is the fault of the gods. It was the wánasha of maináds who drove the two of us to this confrontation over nothing but a girl. Yes, I admit it. Díwo's daughter caught me. But now Artémito has released me and my mind is clear. Only if we all work together can we take Tróya."

  Qálki sputtered angrily, "Men always blame the gods for their own stupidity." But no one listened to the little man now. Their homes and sorrows temporarily forgotten, the men repeated the ululating war-cry, "Alalá!"

  With less excitement, Agamémnon continued, "Eat now. Prepare for battle. Sharpen your swords and spears. Make sure the straps on your shields are not torn. Charioteers, water your horses. Check the carts, especially the wheels and axles. Put your minds on war, the true occupation of men of areté. We will fight for as long as it takes today, until sundown if we must. But let no man turn back, or he is food for Tróyan crows and dogs."

  Again the troops roared their approval and turned back toward their shelters. They replaced the fallen props for the tents, shouting to the confused captive women to rebuild the campfires and cook their morning meal. Men from the eastern islands carried the ferry boats to the banks of the Sqámandro River, preparing to transport the warriors and their chariots to the Tróyan side of the river.

  Left alone outside the encampment, Néstor spoke quietly to Agamémnon. "Wánaks, I assume you have reason to believe the Tróyans will oblige us this time and leave the safety of their walls. But you will need a strategy in the coming fight. The easterners from Wórdo are not battle-hardened, since they joined us too late to see action on the Assúwan islands. After such a long siege, too many others have grown soft. Untried soldiers run at the first sign of trouble and you know what that means. Even a brave man will turn and run when he sees himself abandoned."

  "I have thought of that," the high wánaks responded. "I intend to put all the archers at the back, bowmen of every nation. The chariots will line up together at the front. First, we soften the enemy army with arrows. When the Assúwans begin to scatter, I will order the chariots forward to divide the enemy into smaller groups. The foot soldiers will attack last, surrounding each group of Assúwans in turn and finishing them off. Once the enemy is routed, even the weakest men will have no trouble finding victims. My only problem is what you assume is decided. Now, how can I coax the Wilúsiyans out to the battlefield?"

  Néstor shook his head vigorously. "I have never heard of such a thing, Agamémnon. It cannot be done. We have too many divisions among us. No Kep'túriyan will fight beside a Mesheníyan or an Argive. No self-respecting southerner wants to be among P'ilístas. And the northerners consider Zeyugelátes their enemies. No, put this insane strategy out of your mind. You must have been feverish when you thought of it. There is only one thing to do. We must follow tradition and have the men fight with their kinsmen. No man will shame himself before his brothers. Every man will fight his best, and the fortress will be ours by sundown."

  Agamémnon made a wry face. "You are right, Néstor, of course." His voice heavy with sarcasm, he added, "How could I expect the men to break with tradition for practical reasons?"

  The older man glanced up sharply at the overlord. "The traditional method is as practical as it is customary. Once two sides meet in combat, it is no longer clear which side a particular man is on. Some of the Assúwans wear feathered crowns like our own P'ilístas and the Wilúsiyans have horse-tail crests like our Zeyugelátes. Our men would be killing each other in no time at all. But a man knows his kinsmen by sight. No, the old way is the only way."

  Bronze knives and swords, long spears, bows and countless arrows appeared by the campfires, drawn from their storage places in the tents and huts. Those who had bronze armor laid it out. Lower ranked foot-soldiers polished the breastplates and greaves of the lawagétas. Charioteers rounded up the horses grazing on the low hills roundabout. At the banks of the Sqámandro, drivers watered the mares beside the ferry boats before leading the animals back to the camp for harnessing. The Ak'áyans' women had their work as well. They carried water from the river in painted jars balanced on their heads, cooked flat bread on hot stones, and stirred the lentils and chick-peas heating in bronze caldrons set over the hearth fires.

  St'énelo ran his hands over each wheel of every Lakedaimóniyan and Argive chariot. "How does it feel to work, for a change?" he called to his friend.

  Near the fire of the high wánaks, T'érsite crouched, dipping a scrap of wool in olive oil, rubbing his overlord's metal armor until it gleamed. "I would ask you the same thing, but you would not know the answer," he grunted. "What are you doing there anyway? Rubbing the dirt off the cartwheels to look busy, so your wánaks will not give you any real work to do?"

  St'énelo was offended. "Chariot wheels are very fragile. They break easily where the ground is rough. The axle is even more vulnerable. If a wheel cracks against a stone, the axle may go as well and throw driver and warrior to the ground."

  "Why not make the wheels solid, like on an ox-cart? They will not crack easily then," T'érsite suggested, gingerly feeling his bruised ribs.

  "Solid!" St'énelo cried. "Ai, you sack of wine. Odushéyu must have knocked your senses loose. It would take an ox to pull a cart with heavy, solid wheels. You cannot go as slow as that in a battle."

  The Argive only grunted in response, uninterested. "Ai, it makes no difference to me. I will not be riding any chariots. So, tell me. What are you going to do for luck?" he asked the charioteer. "These are Agamémnon's lucky greaves I am polishing. Maybe a little of their good fortune will rub off on my hands. What do you think?"

  St'énelo, still irritated, snapped, "I think you must have hit your head when you fell off the wall."

  "Have you seen Odushéyu's old helmet?" T'érsite asked, ignoring the other man's response. "He says one of the boar's tusks fell off just before the Tróyans attacked, last autumn. That is why the Wilúsiyans won that first battle." He chuckled. "Maybe I should go see him and offer my services. I will leave the bronze polishing to you, St'énelo, while I sew pig teeth to Odushéyu's head."

  Diwoméde, eating barley cakes at Agamémnon's campfire, pricked up his ears at T'érsite's remark. ‘Was that really why the fight went so badly?’ he wondered and found that his hands were shaking. He broke off a few crumbs from his bread and tossed them into the fire, an offering to the gods. "Give me life," he whispered to the unseen spirit of the hearth. "'Estiwáya, keep death away from me today. Give me courage, too. If death is to be my fate, at least let me go bravely."

  The camp buzzed with activity, Agamémnon striding through it, his heart pounding in his chest. Anything seemed possi
ble at that moment. Tróya was almost in his grasp. He might yet rule an Ak'áyan empire as great as Qáttushli's. Qálki followed the overlord, hesitant to speak, nervously dancing from one foot to the other whenever the high wánaks paused. But the seer could not rouse the courage to address the great king. Back at his own tent, Agamémnon turned upon the little man with sudden ferocity. "What do you want from me, lamíya?"

  "A sacrifice," the prophet coughed, his voice small and choked.

  Beside Agamémnon, as the overlord grew hot with anger, Diwoméde repeated, "A sacrifice, wánaks. Is it not the custom for the commander to make an offering to Díwo before a battle?"

  Agamémnon's fist had grasped his sword hilt, but he did no violence. "Ai, yes, of course," he growled, taking a deep breath to calm himself. "It is traditional. The men will demand it. Very well, Qálki, find a sheep if you can. Diwoméde, round up only my most valuable allies. I do not care to waste any more time on this matter than is absolutely necessary. Bring me Néstor, Idómeneyu, and Odushéyu. Call each man by his title. Show him respect," the high wánaks ordered. "But do not ask. Command them to come."

  "Yes, wánaks," Diwoméde responded obediently. "But what about Meneláwo? Surely you want him as well."

  "I will fetch him myself," Agamémnon said curtly. "Go."

  When the lawagétas reached the overlord's tent, Meneláwo stood beside the high wánaks, holding a bowl for the victim's blood. The prophet had already called upon the deities and was leading the sacrificial lamb in a circle round the fire. The kings poured libations of mixed water and wine, brought from their own hearths in painted jars. The overlord's new woman tossed a handful of barley grains into the hearth. Trilling, "Alalá!", 'Iqodámeya raised her arms to the sky. Meneláwo held the sheep still and Agamémnon slit its throat with his dagger. Catching the blood in his bowl, the Lakedaimóniyan wánaks called on the god of the storm. "Díwo," the other lawagétas repeated.

  Qálki raised his thin arms and solemnly intoned, "O Díwo of the thundercloud, Divine Bull of the mountain streams, do not let the sun go down on this day until we have blackened Tróya with fire."

  Agamémnon turned the lamb on its back and slit it open. With regal contempt for the prophet, he tore out the animal's entrails and tossed them in Qálki's direction. "Do not bother to look for omens," the overlord told the small man. "Every Ak'áyan knows now that I am Díwo's chosen."

  'Iqodámeya cooked the lamb's meat and laid it before the southern kings. With the overlord, they feasted on roast mutton, washing it down with diluted wine. P'ilísta wánaktes, meanwhile, muttered angrily to each other that Agamémnon treated them no better than Argive commoners. But they dared not take issue with the overlord. He had had a portentous dream. He was indeed Díwo's chosen leader.

  aaa

  The assembly took up much of the morning. The meal delayed them still longer. It was nearly midday by the time all were sated. At last, wiping his greasy hands on his beard, Agamémnon sent Diwoméde to signal the men to move out. The qasiléyu blew a single prolonged note on a large conch shell. At the sound, the warriors were on their feet. With St'énelo beside him, driving his chariot, Meneláwo led the way to the river, shouting the war-cry. Decked in pristine armor, the army marched forward, the bronze helmets and shield rims of the high-ranked Zeyugelátes blazing in the sun.

  Ak'illéyu and his men came from their tents to watch. Behind his leader, Patróklo was barely able to keep from joining the throng. Battle-cries rang out, along with shouts of "Díwo!" as groups of soldiers in native garb strove to outdo each other in ferocity.

  Patróklo nodded to the passing warriors in feathered crowns. "Owlé, men of Qoyotíya and Attika!" he called out. "Hail to you, Aitolíyans and Lókriyans!" These bearded northern men had bound up their long hair, hiding it beneath their head-gear, and they wore stiff leather tunics to protect their chests. In a steady rhythm they struck their round shields with the shafts of their spears, making a booming sound that stirred their hearts as they marched. None of leaders wore any more bronze than the men, aside from Panaléyo, their status signaled by the tassels hanging from their linen kilts.

  "We call these northerners P'ilístas, which means 'Feathered Ones' in the dialect of the Párpariyans," Néstor told his son as they waited their turn to march out. "They are hardly more civilized than the barbarians of T'ráki, as you can see. But they are sons of Diwiyána just the same. To us they seem backward and ignorant, but they are feared in all the ports of the Inner Sea for their daring attacks. You did not join me until the army was camped on the plain here, so you did not see them in battle. That is truly something to see.

  "Are these men barbarians?" Antílok'o asked, as bare-headed, bare-footed warriors strode by, their short hair stiffened with mud so that it stood straight up from their heads. Few had any bronze armor and even their stocky king lacked a metal helmet. At every third step, they raised their lances and shouted the name of the thunder god.

  "No, my son, you should know better than that," Néstor answered with some irritation. He spat as the wánaks passed, a boar's-tusk helmet on his head. "Ai, it is my own fault for keeping you so well protected in my palace all these years. These are Odushéyu's men of the western islands, the warriors of Dowolikíyon, It'áka, and Zákunt'o. A small contingent, they are without fame, mere pirates and archers. This business of stiffening their hair is a throwback to the days of my own father, a ridiculous ploy to make unprotected heads seem imbued with unearthly power."

  Beside his father, Antílok'o spat as well. "Odushéyu brought only a dozen ships, a small number beside ours and Agamémnon's. I do not understand why we have not conquered his miserable islands. Enwáli is the only kingdom to send fewer men."

  "You are forgetting the eastern islands, my son," Néstor said, shaking his index finger. "Only three longboats came from Wórdo's realm, and not a decent warrior among them. That is why I suggested to Agamémnon that he have them man the boats that will take us across the river."

  Antílok'o stroked his downy beard. "Owlé, wánaks Aíwaks," he called out, his arm raised, as the tallest Ak'áyan marched forward with his men.

  The Mesheníyan raised his fist as if to strike his son. "Ai gar, Antílok'o, you have a mind like an ox hoof or you are blind. That man is only the qasiléyu of the small island of Sálami. He is no king. The giant is subject to Argo."

  "I forgot," Antílok'o gulped. "It is not my fault. Aíwaks looks so strange, with his hair as red as a horse's hide and those pale eyes. It makes me shudder and I hardly know my own rank when he looks at me. Is it true that blue eyes have the power to overlook a person, like Díwo's eye?" He made the gesture of the Evil Eye as he asked.

  Néstor laughed dryly. "No doubt. The giant's mother came from the far north, from among the T'rákiyan barbarians. There, it is said, the little children have hair as gray as mine. Despite his name and rank, Aíwaks is no son of Diwiyána. He is a bastard, and only holds his post by the will of Agamémnon. Forget those eyes for a moment and just look at the barbarian's tower shield."

  Antílok'o's jaw dropped. "It is as tall as I am, father! I have never seen such a thing before, except in the paintings on our walls. I did not know that men used them anymore."

  "True Ak'áyans do not. We discovered as far back as my grandfather's day that they are too cumbersome. A smaller shield protects less flesh but can be carried most of the day without wearing a man down. But Aíwaks believes that this tower shield will bring him luck. And there is no arguing with any man, even a barbarian, when he thinks he has found the key to good fortune." He once more interrupted himself to shout, "Owlé, wánaks Agamémnon," as the overlord's men approached.

  This contingent wore bronze or leather helmets, according to rank, made distinctive by the addition of bull's horns. Their shields were unique as well, rounded at the top, but cut straight and flat across the bottom. Leather greaves protected every man's shins, and the leather corselets of the officers shone with their rows of small bronze plates. Even the men of l
owest rank had not only spears, but both daggers and swords as well. The Argives were not only the most numerous, but the best armed and armored of the Ak'áyan armies.

  "Why are their shields not round, like ours?" Antílok'o asked.

  "So that men on the march can sit and rest, without removing their shields from their backs," Néstor sighed, shaking his head. "That was Agamémnon's idea. Never mind the fact that the circle was ordained by the gods. Ai, my leather-workers would never agree to such a blasphemous shape."

  The young man nodded. "Our perfect circles win us the favor of Diwiyána."

  "Exactly," agreed the aging wánaks, raising his spear, and he led forth his own large contingent, from the wealthy cities of Mesheníya. The bronze helmets of his officers matched those of the other southern Ak'áyans, protecting the necks of their wearers, a horse's tail fastened to the top. "I may have fewer men than Agamémnon," Néstor told the young prince beside him in the chariot, "but I have more carts, and, what is more important, skilled men to drive them."