by Diana Gainer
"Who is that coming after us, Father?" Antílok'o asked, trying to see through the forest of raised spears.
"Idómeneyu, wánaks of the island of Kep'túr. He rules a non-Ak'áyan people, as we do, remember. Like us, his need for war is great. He must keep his qasiléyus well armed at all times, to hold his restive commoners. In years long past, the Ushásiyans ruled the Ak'áyans on that southern island, but now their sun has set and Agamémnon's has risen. Yes, you waste your time wondering when we will conquer It'áka. It is Idómeneyu's bigger fish that I am after and that will be no easy task. But, you see, skilled warrior though he and his men are, his warriors must be paid, and that is his weakness. Once we control the copper trade, our wealth will eclipse his, and I will be able to buy his officers out from under him."
But the Mesheníyans were passing the unarmed T'eshalíyan section, and Antílok'o's mind was not on islands or copper. He shouted, his voice quivering, "Little feathered boys and women, be glad you stay behind, as we men march out to war. Préswa take all T'eshalíyans to 'Aidé!"
aaa
Across the dry fields on the other side of the Sqámandro River, the wealthy city of Tróya stirred. The streets were crowded with temporary huts for the farm folk, barefoot men in linen tunics asking each other for news, and spreading the lies they had heard. "A thousand ships came here from Ak'áiwiya and next year a fleet twice as large will sail this way," was the day's story. "We cannot wait for the emperor's troops to arrive. We will have to leave our walls this year and fight after all."
When the country women heard this, they tore their long tunics and bared their breasts, pouring handfuls of dirt over their heads. "Lady Dáwan have mercy upon us," they wailed. "Our husbands and brothers are doomed."
Warriors of many lands made their way among the hastily erected shelters and the milling country folk. In colorful, knee-length tunics, curly-haired Lúkiyans strode about, cursing when native Wilúsiyans touched them. The sight of the foreigners' conical felt hats sent Tróya's naked children running to their mothers. Míran officers, in long cloaks of equally bright colors, also pushed through to the palace on the crest of Tróya's hill. Kuwalíyan troop leaders donned their feathered caps and Wilúsiyans sported leather or bronze helmets, as the men of rank gathered in the great mégaron and stood about Alakshándu's hearth. From inland Pála, war leaders came bearing wicker helmets and shields, long-sleeved tunics, and skin boots. A dozen different languages rang out in the crowded throne room.
On the massive, southern tower, beside the main gate, a watchman stood in his leather cap. "Powolúdama, I see movement in the camp," he shouted down to a small and wiry man in the street below. "They are coming this way. Tell the king."
Without a word, Powolúdama turned to trot up the steep path toward the crest of the hill. Past the great houses, rising two and three stories, he went, skirting women arguing over the possession of geese, tripping over unclothed children chasing each other. As Powolúdama ascended the hill toward the palace, the streets became less crowded, the houses larger and more decorative, on their concentric terraces. On the summit, he entered the palace courtyard between twin pillars of red-painted wood.
A young man in a purple tunic stepped forward quickly to bar the runner's way with a spear. "Where are you going?" he demanded.
Powolúdama fell to his knees and raised both his hands. "Prince Dapashánda," he gasped, breathless from the uphill run. "I have news for the king. The enemy camp is on the move."
"I will tell him," young Dapashánda said, nearly dancing with excitement. He ran on sandaled feet to the long room at the heart of the palace. In the mégaron a fire blazed on the rectangular, central hearth. On plaster benches lining the walls, sat Wilúsiyans of high rank, elbow to elbow with their allied troop leaders. The king upon his throne, alone by the far wall, dominated the chamber. "Tell me your news, Dapashánda," the plump ruler called from his seat. "Are the Ak'áyans leaving?"
"No, Father, the watchman says they are coming this way," Dapashánda answered, unable to stand still.
"Find out if they have crossed the river," said a heavy-set man in an ornately carved wooden chair, by the king's knees.
"Yes, Antánor," the young man responded and fled from the room.
Alakshándu smiled wanly. "Continue, son-in-law," he urged.
Antánor listed the kingdom's allies, ticking them off, one by one, on his fingers. "As I was saying, it seems that most of Assúwa is with us, so far. The Mírans and Kuwalíyans sent us the major portion of their armies, thank Dáwan and Poseidáon! They include archers and many charioteers, as well as foot-soldiers, all armed, if not armored. We have metal enough to give all of our own men spears, even the farmers, and all of our officers bronze-plate chest-protectors and metal helmets. But we can provide our allies little more than the skill of our bronze-smiths. We can spare them no metal, I am afraid. King Sharpaduwánna has come, himself, leading his best Lúkiyan troops, from the south. They not only have their own spears, but they have come with their own armor. The Pálayans are the most recent arrivals. But I am not sure how much we can rely on their onager carts. Donkeys, even wild ones, are more stubborn than horses, even if they are stronger. The Pálayan chariots may prove no more useful than so many oxcarts."
The Wilúsiyan king raised a disapproving eyebrow. "I asked for a report on our strengths, Antánor. Keep your worries to yourself. It is too late for negotiation. We are at war, like it or not."
Antánor bowed his head. "My personal preferences are not the issue, lord Alakshándu. I have just received word that your son, the prince Lupákki, has reached Wilúsiya's shores a day's travel from here, to the northeast. He was taken captive by the Ak'áyan king who calls himself Ak'illéyu. The ruler of the northwestern island of Skúro ransomed Lupákki from slavery, and just recently returned him to Wilúsiya."
Alakshándu was shaken. "Is the boy well? Has he told you why we have not heard from K'rusé?"
"He is badly bruised and quite exhausted, but he will live. Unfortunately, he can give us few details. Lupákki was evidently seized early in the season. He has sent word that the Ak'áyans raided your island vassals and now force them to pay tribute. Lámno, Lázpa, and even Ténedo suffered devastating attacks this summer."
Paqúr spoke from his seat beside the hearth. "Do not discount Lázpa too soon. K'rusé is a crafty, old priest. He may yet discover a way to aid us."
"Be still," Alakshándu scolded mildly. "You will have your chance to speak later."
A well-armored soldier rose to his feet beside the doorway. "I ask the king's permission to speak."
"Yes, Ainyáh," the king encourage him. "What have you to say, my warrior son-in-law?"
Ainyáh looked over the assembled soldiers. "You all know the advantages of a good military campaign. Love of glory and lust for bronze drew you here. But I must remind you of the dangers of a long siege. I have sacked a number of cities in my time. I know what happens behind the walls when people run low on food and water. It is an evil thing to behold, men murdering their wives and women their children, to eat the meat on their bones. The Ak'áyan army cannot breach our walls or gates, but this siege may leave us decimated by hunger and disease. We must leave the safety of the walls and attack, drive these pirates from our shores now, before it is too late to sow the crop."
"I agree," called a younger prince, leaping to his feet as the warrior at the door sat again. Qántili hurriedly noted, "We have men enough now to more than match the Ak'áyans. Antánor has only numbered the Assúwans already here. But more are on the way. My brothers have not all returned from their journeys. Érinu is still in Qattúsha. T'ráki will send reinforcements, too, when Pitqána comes back. We should fight now. There is no areté to be gained in dying of starvation."
"Qántili, my over-anxious son," Alakshándu frowned, "It takes more than courage to win a war. What do you say, Paqúr? Is it time for a battle?"
Qántili sat, chewing his lower lip angrily, suppressing the urge to speak fu
rther. He glared hard at his taller brother.
"What do I say?" answered Paqúr, flashing a broad smile. "What do I always say? I see no great danger in waiting a little while longer. Qáttushli will send us more reinforcements any time now, battle-hardened troops that are unmatched anywhere in the world. In fact, I would be willing to bet that his chariots are on the way now. What is there to worry about? We have grain and legumes in our storerooms. We have a reliable well in the northeast tower. A siege will do these Ak'áyan pirates more harm than it will us."
The king rubbed thoughtfully at his shaven chin. "Antánor, what have we heard from the Great Sun? Is Érinu on his way, do you know?"
Antánor looked at the painted floor. "We have heard nothing."
Alakshándu nodded his white head unemotionally. "So Ainyáh and Qántili urge us to fight, while Paqúr prefers to wait. What do you advise?"
Antánor took a deep breath, glancing anxiously at the two royal sons. "I say, get these Ak'áyans out of our country as soon as possible. But there is no need to spill the blood of any man. We can still negotiate a peaceful settlement. Return the booty and the 'Elléniyan women. The omens are against us. Your own daughter believes that the end of the world has come, just as the captive queen has been saying. Princess Kashánda has seen evil signs in the livers of the sacred geese."
"Kashánda's opinion does not count here. I do not consult my daughters on matters of warfare or trade. What about you, Dapashánda?" the king calmly asked, for the younger prince had returned to the mégaron.
The younger prince was quick to answer. "I side with Qántili. Attack now, while all the sons of lady Dáwan are with us. If we begin to lose the battle, as Kashánda fears, then that will be the time to talk of returning things."
Paqúr stood abruptly and shoved his smaller brother aside. "I will never relinquish the 'Elléniyan queen or her treasures," he announced angrily. "I took her by force of arms and only force of arms will take her from me. It is a matter of areté."
"I agree with Paqúr," Alakshándu decided, as calm as ever, before the others could object. "My sister was stolen away by the Ak'áyans and no Tróyan has seen her since. A royal 'Elléniyan has now been taken by a Tróyan. Let no Ak'áyan see her from this moment on. That is justice. With the might of the Náshiyan empire behind us, our allies and our own walls to protect us, Tróya cannot be taken. Only the crop is at risk. We will fight today, but for one reason only, to save the future harvest. That is my decision."
Dapashánda trotted breathlessly to Alakshándu's side as the king finished speaking. "The Ak'áyans have crossed the Sqámandro."
Qántili and Paqúr dashed from the room at the news, their younger brother close behind. Shouts rang out in the columned halls of the palace, calls for arms and armor, for trusted men, leaders of the troops. In the cluttered streets, horses whinnied and shied, fighting their harnesses. The bolt of Tróya's main gate was drawn. Heavy doors groaned against their pins as they swung open.
Ak'áyans approached the gleaming walls of Tróya from the south, marching over the gently rolling hills of Wilúsiya. They shouted to Díwo as they went, beating spear-shafts against ox-hide shields. Cries of "Poseidáon!" rose from the masses pouring out of the citadel to meet them.
CHAPTER NINE
QANDARO
Qántili led the charioteers of Wilúsiya onto the plain of battle in his painted cart. Beside him, Powolúdama drove the prince's two-horse team with a practiced hand. After the chariots came Ainyáh leading the more numerous foot soldiers with their heavy spears. At the back, Paqúr gathered the archers, quivers filled with cane arrows on their backs, composite bows of cornel wood and horn in their hands. The native Wilúsiyans dominated the field, the smaller armies of their allies arrayed on either side.
The assembled forces, both Assúwan and Ak'áyan, came within a hundred paces of each other and stopped, bronze-tipped spears gleaming on both sides. Cries of "Díwo!" continued to rise from the Ak'áyan side, "Poseidáon!" from the Wilúsiyans and the Mírans to their left. "Tarqún!" called the Lúkiyans, Pálayans, and Kuwalíyans, invoking the Náshiyan storm god. Shouting taunts and shaking their spears, the warriors remained in their places, the many voices echoing over the fields.
"Go back home, little boys," Odushéyu called toward the Assúwans, leaping to the front of the Ak'áyan line. "Hide behind your mothers' skirts while there is time." He shook his spear threateningly.
Ainyáh stepped forward as if to meet the It'ákan. He shouted in mock terror, "Ai, save us! A herd of lambs has come to fight us." About the Kanaqániyan, foot soldiers mimicked the bleating of sheep, "Me-e! Me-e!" Ak'áyans trilled, "Alalá!" and struck their shields with their lances, in response. Assúwans clashed their spears together and shouted the names of their deities. No one closed the gap between the armies.
Antílok'o trembled uncontrollably, calling "Díwo" with the Ak'áyans' answering cry. "What are we waiting for?" he said into his father's ear. "Why do we not attack?"
The old man shouted the answer over the din, never taking his eyes from the enemy ahead. "Fortune abandons the first man to draw blood. That man will gain areté but he will be the first of his kinsmen to die." Antílok'o shuddered again, his flesh pale and damp.
Paqúr entered the clear space between the armies, a handful of arrows in one hand, his curved bow in the other. A lion skin lay across his shoulders, the legs tied at his throat above the rows of overlapping bronze plates on his corselet. The horsetail crest on his helmet tossed in the constant wind as he swaggered out of the crowd of Assúwa's warriors. A long blade studded with silver rested in its scabbard at his hip, a quiver of arrows on his back. Slowly, menacingly, he paced back and forth between the armies, glaring at the Ak'áyans. With supreme confidence, the oldest prince of Tróya let his enemies fill their eyes with his image, his wealth and stature evident in the gleaming metal of his gear, his experience with war symbolized by the weaponry, his courage proclaimed by the skin of the fierce animal he had killed in the hunt. He beat against his breastplates with the carved bow in his fist. "Who will fight with me? What Ak'áyan dog will face Tróya's champion?"
Agamémnon raised himself on his toes, standing in his chariot, looking over his men. Sheathed from shoulder to knee in broad bands of yellow metal, he moved slowly under the heavy weight, turning with difficulty to survey the field. "Where is Aíwaks?" he asked his driver. "I will send him forward."
But before the high wánaks could point out his choice, Meneláwo leaped from his chariot at the head of the Lakedaimóniyans. "Paqúr," he roared, a wild grin gashing his face. "You took my woman, you thief!" Tossing down his circular shield, he raised his heavy spear above his head with his right hand. His sword flew from its scabbard, in his left hand, and he charged forward, heedless of the weight of his bronze gear. "I will cut you to pieces, dog!" As he charged, Lakedaimóniyans pushed forward behind him, knees bent, spears raised, ready for thrusting.
Paqúr stared a moment in wide-eyed disbelief as the wánaks he had robbed bore down on him. "Meneláwo! I thought he was dead." He stepped backward, calling, "Shield me," to his men, setting an arrow to his bow. Wilúsiyans closed around their prince, holding out shields and spears to meet the charge.
"You have him on the run, Meneláwo," Odushéyu crowed. "Cut him down." Derisive Ak'áyan laughter rang out from the still waiting mass of troops, though Agamémnon cursed, in his position at the back.
Qántili rushed toward his brother. "Paqúr, do not back up! Stay in the center. Where is your honor?" He caught the lion skin and tore it from the taller prince's shoulders. "Go forward and fight as a champion, not an archer, or be branded a coward."
Paqúr stopped with his arrow half-drawn. He turned, eyes darting from his angry brother's face to the only slightly more distant fury of the Lakedaimóniyan wánaks. Meneláwo had stopped before the Assúwan lines, he and his Lakedaimóniyans hesitating to fling themselves on their massed enemies. For their part, the Wilúsiyans were equally hesitant to begin the
combat after Paqúr's challenge. The aggrieved Ak'áyan wánaks paced up and down, shouting curses. "Tróyan dog! Assúwan pirate! Díwo send you to 'Aidé! Come out and face me alone, you blood-sucking lamíya. We will settle this today, just the two of us."
Paqúr pulled his arm from his brother's grasp. "Let me deal with the war my way, Qántili. I will shoot this blustering fool and the Ak'áyans will turn tail and run. That will be the end of this joke of a siege. Stand back." The prince drew back on his bow once more.
But Qántili once more stopped him, snatching the arrow from his brother's hand. "What did you think would happen when you stepped forward with your challenge? Did you think the Ak'áyans would run at the sight of you? Look how our troops are waiting on you. You cannot back away now. Go forward as our champion. Give honor or take it today."
Paqúr chewed his lower lip a moment before speaking. "But, brother, you do not understand. I am an archer and he is a spearman. We are not evenly matched. I am as eager to make a name for myself as any man, but not here, not like this, not with this blood-crazed animal. By the gods, I thought he was dead."
