Golden Mukenai (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  As if to answer, Sharpaduwánna's eyes fluttered. He moaned, "Great Lady…Kubába…"

  aaa

  At the back of the Argive troops, Agamémnon rode back and forth in his chariot, shouting at those who carried captured arms and armor, "Leave the booty with the dead for now. There will be time to gather that later. Now is the time to fight. Kill the Assúwans now and strip them when the battle is done." It took several blows with the flat of his sword to convince the men nearest him that he meant what he said. Those soldiers further away did not hear, nor did any long obey.

  But, those few who responded, brief though their efforts were, made enough of a difference. It was blocked the Assúwans’ advance. Again, the sons of Dáwan began to turn and flee toward safety. Once more, Qántili and his companions were forced to leap into the opening that appeared in their lines, stopping the Ak'áyan advance, giving heart to their weary men. Dust filled all the air and clung to sweating flesh. Thirst plagued the warriors, as they tasted only blood and dirt. Fatigue sapped the strength of men and animals. Blows came more slowly, landing with lessened force. The very sky seemed tired and aching, the wind too exhausted to blow. Only the sun remained at full strength, well past its zenith in the sky, baking the ground and all who stood upon it. Soldiers gasped for breath, thinking less of booty, more of mere survival.

  Passing to the back of his troops, Qántili sought out Ainyáh. "You continue here, pushing the men to fight," the prince ordered. "I am going back to the city to have the women pray to the gods. I will speak to my father about a truce, too. I have never seen such an indecisive battle."

  Ainyáh agreed. "Courage is not enough here. I, too, have never seen such lengthy fighting between two armies that were as closely matched as these are."

  aaa

  At Tróya's main gate, Ariyádna had stood with her serving woman as Meneláwo and Paqúr fought for her. The wánasha's head hung to the side and her eyes were blank, as she twisted a long curl around and around fingers that were never still. "By the will of the Bull," she whispered, "Díwo's chosen does battle…."

  Kluména waited, wide-eyed, for the victor in the single combat to come and claim them. When the Assúwans rose to protect Paqúr, she could see nothing more, though she raised herself on her tip-toes and craned her neck in the attempt. She trembled, waiting for the result, gripping Ariyádna by the arm. Paqúr stumbled from the back of the Wilúsiyan lines and Kluména's eyes filled with tears.

  "Meneláwo?" she was barely able to whisper.

  Paqúr threw his arms around the captive queen, leaning his aching head on her shoulder, breathing hard. "Let us go, woman."

  Kluména began to wail, striking her forehead with her hands. "Owái!"

  Paqúr raised his head and struck the nursemaid's cheek with the back of his hand. "Be still, you great sow!" Pale as bleached linen, he leaned on Ariyádna and directed her up the hill to their bed chamber in the palace. Behind them followed the weeping servant.

  Paqúr collapsed on the bed, his eyes half-closed, his torn and bruised arm clasped in his other hand. "Bring wine," he commanded, his voice husky with pain. "Wash the blood from my wound. And prepare a bath for me."

  Kluména did as the prince ordered, filling and refilling his bronze cup, cleaning his arm and wrapping it in linen. In bitter silence, the captive serving woman prepared a bath for the prince. As the fighting escalated outside the citadel's walls, the nursemaid carried water from the city well to the palace, enlisting the aid of other captives. She heated the water in caldrons set over the chamber's small hearth, carrying bowls of the hot liquid to the bath chamber, one by one, until the tub was full.

  When at last Paqúr sat relaxing in his bath, Kluména whispered toward the closed door of the bath chamber, "You should have died, Tróyan dog, not Meneláwo. Or the wánasha should have died, rather than warm your bed." Tears spilled over her cheeks. She wrapped her arms about herself, rocking slowly back and forth. "Owái, owái!"

  She had only a short time to mourn. At a sound from the bath chamber, Kluména hastily brushed away her tears. Opening an oak chest at the foot of the bed, she brought out strips of bleached linen and laid them on the bed. From a small storage room beside the bed chamber she brought a jug filled with aromatic oil and set it on the lid of the wooden chest.

  Paqúr came dripping from the bath, his face still pale and his eyes glazed, his head throbbing. With a frozen heart and cold hands, the servant dried her master's body with the cloths. But before she could rub his limbs with perfumed oil, the prince took the jug from her hands and gave her a shove. "Leave me," he told her.

  He lay down on the bed again and pulled Ariyádna down on the fleeces beside him. "Lie with me, wife," he said. "By the gods, my head aches." Paqúr rested, his 'Elléniyan woman absently twisting her hair at his side, beneath painted Tróyans in silent chariots, while his countrymen's blood spilled beyond the fortress walls.

  aaa

  In Tróya, crowds of women gathered about Qántili as he entered the main gate, late in the afternoon. A small, thin woman with white hair clutched at the warrior's elbow, a frenzied light in her eyes. "Have you seen Qándaro? He is my only surviving son, prince Qántili. Tell me, have you seen him?"

  The troop commander could not bring himself to grieve her with the truth. "Pray to the gods," he answered, pulling free of the woman's fingers.

  A younger woman, her hair just beginning to gray, now blocked the prince's path, a naked child on her hip. "Is Ainyáh all right?" the mother demanded, her eyes seeking his. "Brother, did you see my husband?"

  Avoiding her gaze, Qántili pushed past her. "Pray, Kréyusa," he told her, afraid that death might take Ainyáh before his sister would meet her husband again. The prince pushed through the rest of the anxious women who crowded around him, struggling against their clinging hands. Behind him wails broke out, a last request wounding his ears with its urgency, "Tell me about Powolúdama. Please, I must know."

  But Qántili did not answer or turn back. He pressed on, up the steep hillside, picking his way through clusters of naked children spinning tops in the dusty streets, past older boys boxing and girls carrying younger siblings on their slender hips. At every turn, a woman caught sight of him and called to him for news of a loved one.

  "Have you seen my brother?"

  "Is my husband still living?"

  Skeletal, old men leaned against the plaster walls of the houses, talking of the harvest. They, too, accosted the prince. "When will this war end? The summer season of war is over and it is past time for the autumn sowing. If we delay too long, there will be another famine."

  "Pray," he urged the elders, as he had the women. Higher he climbed, through the crowded alleyways and toward the stone-walled palace of Tróya's king.

  At the entrance to the palace courtyard, Dapashánda hailed him. "Qántili, how goes the battle?" Even the prince's younger brother received no answer. Qántili only ducked his head and passed on. Into the dark corridors of the massive building he hurried, toward the chambers of his brothers and their wives. In the shadowy halls, Kluména was startled at the sight of the blood-spattered warrior and dropped her lamp. The ceramic saucer shattered on the tile floor, spilling burning oil.

  As if he saw nothing, Qántili hurried on. "Paqúr!" he called loudly. "Are you in here?" Kluména nodded to him in silent answer and pointed to the older prince's door.

  Before Qántili could enter his brother's chamber, his mother and Laqíqepa appeared out of the torch-lit gloom. The queen, short and round, her hair thin and white, took his hands in hers and pressed them to the pendulous breasts beneath her woolen robes. "Why are you here, son?" Eqépa asked. "Have those lamíyas of Diwiyána exhausted you? Come, sit with me, my child. We will drink honeyed wine and pray to Poseidáon with the first drops. You will feel better then."

  But Qántili pulled his blood-stained hands from his mother's. He shook his head. Dust flew from the crest of his helmet. "No, mother, no wine for me. A warrior has to be alert. Poseid
áon would not accept an offering from these unwashed hands anyway." He looked down at his blackened fingers, thinking of the lives his hands had taken.

  Eqépa's age-spotted hands fluttered anxiously and she looked the warrior up and down. "Are you hurt, my son?" she asked. "What is wrong?"

  Qántili took a deep breath, dropping his hands. "No, Mother, I came to ask you for help. Gather the women and the elders. Take your finest robes to the shrine as offerings. Ask the gods to keep the Ak'áyans out of Tróya. Promise them any sacrifice. These foreigners fight like dáimons from 'Aidé itself."

  "I will, son," Eqépa promised. She took his filthy hand again when he turned to leave her. "But where are you going?"

  "To get Paqúr," he answered harshly, "if I can. He is a curse and a disease on our house. I would rather light his pyre than raise my spear again for his pointless cause."

  Eqépa put her hands to her head, stricken to hear the denunciation. Beside her mother, graying Laqíqepa gasped. But Qántili did not notice. He threw open the door to his brother's chamber, leaving his mother and sister in the corridor. "Paqúr!" he shouted once more and slammed the door behind him.

  Eqépa stood in silence a moment, gazing anxiously at her oldest daughter. "Come, Laqíqepa, let us pray," the queen said, after a moment’s hesitation. They walked quickly, summoning other women as they proceeded toward the tower guarding the southern gate. From the large homes below the hilltop, high-born women soon joined them, their offerings of embroidered cloth on their arms. Entering the great tower, they assembled in solemn silence before two rectangular columns. Kashánda, princess and priestess, officiated, draping the women's rich offerings about the tall, unadorned pillars. The obelisks rested upon a stone paving. On the paving, Kashánda strewed leaves of sacred laurel. The women formed a circle about the idols. Raising their hands to their heads and to the sky, they called to the goddesses with tears on their cheeks.

  "Mother Dáwan and Maiden Préswa, show us mercy!" Kashánda cried. "Pity Tróya, your most loyal city! Smash the enemy's spears. Break their swords. Preserve our menfolk. We will bring you goats and cattle, sheep and horses, every month of the year. Do not turn away from us. Lift this siege and we will burn rich thigh meat for you to savor!"

  Kréyusa came forward to set a clay model of a man on the hard base before the idol on the right. The offering was roughly formed, the clay still soft. "Sweet lady," she wept, "remember your own young husband, slaughtered like a young bull. Remember your sorrow and save my husband for me, save me from that grief. Let no harm come to Ainyáh."

  Beside the woman's figurine, more soon gathered, each fashioned by anxious hands, accompanied by fervent prayers. "Keep Agánor safe," whispered Laqíqepa. "He is my dearest son."

  Beside her a poorly dressed woman murmured, "Protect my husband, great Dáwan. Let no harm come to Paqúr."

  "Wóinone," Laqíqepa said in surprise. "After what my brother has done to you, do you still call him your husband?"

  Fine lines about Wóinone's large eyes deepened. "He will come back to me," she sighed. "You will see."

  aaa

  As Tróya's womenfolk prayed, Qántili had harsh words for Paqúr. In the older prince's bed chamber, Paqúr's shield and chest-armor lay on the chest at the foot of the bed, the metal cleaned and polished. Ariyádna sat on a plaster bench that ran the length of the far wall. Her head was bent over her quiet work, her fingers once more winding the endless thread. She gasped at the sight of the warrior in the doorway and shivered, dropping her spindle.

  Prince Paqúr himself reclined on the bed, idly scratching his bearded chin. He looked up at Qántili's shout. The younger brother was blood-spattered and dirty, his armor dented, his kilt torn. "You could use a bath, brother."

  "What is wrong with you, Paqúr?" Qántili cried in fury. "Can you not hear the shouting and the clash of weapons? Our troops are dying before our gate. And it is all because of you. Get up before these Ak'áyan wolves devour Tróya!"

  Paqúr did not move. Glowering, he complained, "You have no pity. Since when do the wounded fight?"

  "Wounded!" Qántili exclaimed. "You were hardly scratched. Ai, if the Ak'áyans sack Tróya, do you think they will spare you just because your arm hurts?"

  "Idé, you have a cruel tongue. But have it your way. I will come just the same," Paqúr said with rising anger. "I have rested and my head has cleared. Go back to the field. I will put on my gear and follow you." He stood and began to dress. Ariyádna quietly laid aside her work and came to his side, her hands trembling, eyes darting nervously from one prince to the other. Paqúr brushed her away. "I do not need your help, 'Elléniya. See to my brother."

  Ariyádna obediently went to Qántili's side. She laid a cold hand on his arm. "My brother, you are tired. Let me get you a little wine, Kástor…."

  Qántili backed away from her. "I do not have time for that. Just urge your lover to fight." He turned away quickly, to enter his own chamber.

  Ariyadná's eyes lost their focus and her hands began to move, gripping an unseen distaff, spinning an invisible thread.

  aaa

  In the room beside his brother's, Qántili sought in vain for his wife and child. Only the domestic weasel peeked out from under the bed, a mouse in its jaws. "Andrómak'e," Qántili called from the threshold. In the hall, Kluména knelt with a scrap of cloth, mopping up spilled oil and gathering the shards of her lamp. She directed the warrior to the western tower with its single monolith, imparting mortal and immortal protection for Tróya from the sea. The answer did not please Qántili and the servant cringed before an expected blow.

  "Why has she gone there?" cried the prince, but he did not strike the woman. "I do not have time to chase her all over the city. I have been away from the field too long already." Just the same, he returned down the hill, through more streets broad and narrow, and climbed the stairs of the lesser tower. Upon the heights his young wife stood, watching the opposed armies from the battlements. Beside her, a serving woman bounced from side to side with their fretting baby in her arms.

  "Andrómak'e!" Qántili called out.

  She whirled about and ran to greet him, laughing in surprise. Long, black curls flew behind her, intertwined with strings of shining beads. Her sandaled feet kicked up the hem of her many-colored skirt.

  Qántili smiled and spread his arms to take her in a tight embrace. He pressed his face into her hair and she covered his neck with kisses. Over his wife's head, Qántili waved to the naked baby in the nursemaid's arms. "Iye, Sqamándriyo," he called out to the child. The little boy put a finger in his mouth, staring wide-eyed at the grimy warrior. Laughing at Sqamándriyo's reaction, the servant patted the small, shaved head.

  Andrómak'e pulled herself from Qántili's arms and took his filthy hands in hers. "Ai, you are so bold, beloved," she exclaimed. "Too brave." Tears threatened in her brown eyes. "I am so afraid for you. These Ak'áyans will turn on you all at once and cut you down. Owái, it would break my heart to see that. I would rather lie down on the funeral pyre right now. I could not bear to lose you."

  Qántili grimaced. He released his wife's hands and turned away from her, raising his arms as if to ward off her words. "Do not talk like that. You should not be thinking of funerals."

  Andrómak'e put her arms around her husband once more. Tears poured over her cheeks, washing streaks in the dirty plates of his armor. "Qántili, please, I am begging you. Do not go out to fight again. I have no one in this world but you. Do not widow me. Stay with me, beloved, please. Promise me that you will not fight anymore."

  Qántili shut his eyes. Between clenched teeth, he pointed out, "A man's first duty in this world is to fight bravely and gain honor, Andrómak'e. I cannot possibly stay out of the battle."

  "I pray to the goddess to keep us safe," his wife wailed. "But you pray for areté. Do you not know what that means? You risk death. You tempt the spears of other men. One day it will be your enemy who earns glory by spilling your blood. Owái, I hate this thing called ho
nor! You love it more than me." With her fists she struck her husband's blood-spattered breastplates.

  The accusation wounded him deeply. He turned to face her again and caught her soft hands. Pressing them to his lips, he told her fervently, "That is not true. Andrómak'e, I love you more than anything in the world. But I am responsible for the safety of all Tróya's people, not just my own family. I cannot stay with you, safe behind these walls, while other men are fighting and dying. Or do you expect me to just hand over the city to the Ak'áyans?"

  "But you are not fighting to protect the people of Wilúsiya," Andrómak'e wept. "You are fighting to keep a foreign woman in Paqúr's bed. He already has a wife. He does not need another. Send the 'Elléniyan back to her own husband, I beg you."

  "Ai, by the gods," Qántili groaned. "I would like nothing better. If I did, no man of high birth or low would blame me in all of Assúwa, either. But I am not the king. My father is, by the will of emperor Qáttushli himself. But he does not listen to me. I have no choice, Andrómak'e. I must fight for my brother's cause, whether I like it or not."