by Diana Gainer
"But do you not know what your death would mean to me?" his wife sobbed. "Look at 'Elléniya, my husband, look at her empty eyes and her busy hands. That is my fate you see, warming the bed of a man who despises me, weaving and spinning until the end of my days."
Qántili backed away from the small woman and clapped his hands to his head. "By all the gods and goddesses, woman, your words sting like Ak'áyan arrows! Do you think I do not know what war does to people? I tell you, Andrómak'e, nothing pierces my heart more surely than to think of you taken captive. I would rather die than see an Ak'áyan gloating over your tears. These days I cannot sleep, thinking of you dragged off to slavery."
"Then do as I ask, beloved," Andrómak'e pleaded, throwing all her soul into the request. She wrapped her arms around her husband's neck, pressing her damp cheek to his grimy beard. "Please, for my sake, do not return to the battle. Let others fight in your place. Stay with me, beloved. If you love me, stay."
Qántili held her tightly for a moment, his face distorted with anguish. "I cannot do that. It would not be honorable. Why can you not understand? I cannot." He pulled her hands from his neck and turned to go.
Andrómak'e clung to his hands desperately. "If you will not stay for me, then think of our child," she gasped through her tears. "Do you want Sqamándriyo to suffer an orphan's fate? The sons of dead warriors go hungry. Their mothers cannot feed them. The children of the living kick them away from the tables, even on feast days, and make fun of them. Think of Sqamándriyo, Qántili. Stay with me for his sake."
The warrior whispered, "Stop," and put a hand to his wife's mouth. "I am thinking of Sqamándriyo, I am. If I hide from battle, men will despise me as a man of no honor. They will taunt Sqamándriyo for being the son of a coward. Without areté, a man is nothing and his family counts for nothing with him." Tears welled in his eyes and his voice was husky. He took her face between his hands. "Please say that you understand, Andrómak'e. It is hard enough to face death without fear. I can only do it if I know that you and the baby are all right."
She could see that she was only harming him, and that she could not have what she most wanted. Trying to stifle her crying, Andrómak'e bit her lip. Tears continued to force their way from her eyes, despite her efforts. "Owái, I feel so helpless. There is nothing I can do to save the man I love, my child, or even myself."
"By Poseidáon!" Qántili cried in anguish. "I should never have come here." He turned a second time to go.
Quickly wiping her cheeks, Andrómak'e took her husband's hand. Shivering in the hot sunshine, she managed a tremulous smile. "Ai, no, beloved, do not go just yet. You should not listen to the foolish worries of a woman. I know that you must go. I am all right. So is our son. Just take a moment more. Hold him a little before you go." If she could not keep him, she could at least delay the inevitable, she thought.
Qántili turned back and kissed the young woman, pressing his lips hard against hers. Then, holding out his arms, he turned to the baby. Sqamándriyo's eyes widened at the sight of the crested helmet, the horsetail tossing in Wilúsiya's constant wind. The child burst into tears and hid his little, red face in the nursemaid's shoulder. The serving woman laughed. "He does not know you in that helmet."
Andrómak'e took the little boy, laughing too, in spite of her tears. She kissed his round cheeks, cooing to him, "Ai, no, no, my son, do not cry. That is your pappa."
Smiling, Qántili took off his helmet. He set the frightening thing on the ground and held out his hands to the baby again. This time the little one accepted him and the father kissed his son. "That is my little prince of the river," Qántili chuckled. He swung the boy up into the air to make him laugh. "Lady Dáwan, let this child grow up to be a great king and a loyal vassal. Let people say of him, 'He is even stronger and braver than his father was.' Let him make his mother proud."
"His mother is already proud," Andrómak'e said, struggling to maintain her smile. "Let me give him his meal now."
Reluctantly, Qántili handed the baby back to his wife. "Do not worry, Andrómak'e," the prince said, stroking her soft hair. "Everything happens according to fate. Pray, and leave the rest to the gods. But do not spend your time up here, watching the bloodshed. It only grieves you. Go back to our rooms and keep yourself busy with your embroidery. I will take good care of all three of us. I promise." He bent to get his battered helmet.
As he did so, Andrómak'e turned away so that he would not see the fresh tears in her eyes. She hurried away, to do as he had told her, to wait for the three goddesses to spin the thread of Qántili's destiny.
Paqúr had been true to his word, as his brother visited with his wife. Now, his head high, Paqúr marched toward the western gate in his gleaming armor, the crest on his helmet waving. There he found Qántili standing in the shadow of the tower, looking up at where Andrómak'e had been.
"Have I kept you waiting?" Paqúr asked, surprised.
"No, no," Qántili answered, shuddering at the voice that returned his thoughts to war. With a sudden warmth of feeling, he put an arm over Paqúr's shoulder. "Brother, I know you are a good fighter. I should not have spoken to you so angrily. But the battle is close and we need every man. You have a strong arm and I was anxious for you to rejoin us. Now, let us drive these pirates out of Wilúsiya."
Paqúr smiled. "Yes, let us go. By this time tomorrow we will be pouring blood and wine to thank the gods for our victory."
aaa
Across the river and plain from the embattled fortress, the Ak'áyan camp was quiet. Captive women knelt at their stone grinding trays, talking quietly, as they bent to their endless work. Only a handful of men remained in the encampment, carpenters and the ships' navigators whose skills were too important for them to risk Wilúsiyan spears. Some worked the ferry boats across the Sqámandro's waters. Others carried armloads of bronze from the banks of the river, stacking it in a heap before the tent of the high wánaks. Between loads, they squatted on their haunches to whittle at the small piles of kindling by the fires, to talk of the battle beyond the river, and to drink from the wine stores and complain of the sour taste.
When the men wandered by them periodically, the women's talk died down and did not resume until they were alone again. 'Ékamede leaned close to 'Iqodámeya and snarled, "You were a fool to think you could be Ak'illéyu's bride. Ai, Agamémnon will make you queen of his flax growers now." Eyes flashing, she tossed her long braids back over her bare shoulders. "Now you see how Ak'áyans treat their captives. You will be no better off than the rest of us."
Beside her, 'Iqodámeya began to cry quietly.
"Hush, 'Ékamede," broad-hipped Wíp'iya scolded. "It will not soften your fate to make her feel worse."
The youngest captive spoke, casting a disapproving glance at 'Ékamede. "I tell you what. We should all go together to the river with our pots, to make the men think we are fetching water. When they are not watching, we should run to the hills and hide in the forest."
Wíp'iya shook her head. "That would not do, Dáuniya. You must give up thinking of escape and accept your lot in life, even though it is an unlucky one."
"But why would it not do?" Dáuniya demanded.
"Yes, why?" 'Ékamede echoed. She waved a floured hand, indicating the camp. "There are only a few men here and they are not interested in what we do. It would be easy to get away."
"If we all went to the river together, they would become interested," 'Iqodámeya snapped, wiping her tears with the back of her wrist. "They would follow us and they would catch us. You have surely heard what pirates do to runaways."
"No, what would they do?" 'Ékamede boldly demanded. "What could possibly be worse than what we have already suffered?"
Four unclad men strolled past the cluster of women and the captives held their tongues. Wíp'iya turned to watch the men as they passed, heading toward the river. "The battle is still going on," she announced matter-of-factly. "But they are not bringing in much bronze."
"There are too many foot sol
diers without armor," 'Ékamede said. "When they die they leave nothing behind but flesh and bone, food for Wilúsiyan dogs."
"You need not sound so pleased at that," Wíp'iya warned. "If an unhappy warrior takes out his anger on you, you will leave no more than that yourself."
'Iqodámeya's dark eyes widened. "They would not kill us, surely. We are too valuable."
Wíp'iya did not answer but stared out at the dark sea in the west.
"What is it, Wíp'iya?" asked 'Iqodámeya, suddenly filled with dread. She turned to follow the other's gaze and laughed in relief at the sight of a small ship being rowed toward the land. "It must be K'rusé's tribute."
Dáuniya agreed. "We will eat more than flat bread tonight."
A small group of men had been lounging by the overlord's tent. Seeing the longboat coming, they ambled toward the shore to greet the crew. Each bore with him a handful of damaged blades, daggers, swords, and the bronze heads of spears and arrows. In exchange for the metal, K'rusé's men delivered jugs of wine, linen sacks bulging with grain, and one sheep.
Dáuniya stood to watch the exchange. "K'rusé's so-called tribute has not cost him much," she announced. "He gained more in bronze than he lost in provisions."
Wíp'iya ignored the proceedings, concentrating on her grinding. "Yes, and no doubt he will gain still more bronze around the other side of the headlands, trading with the Wilúsiyans. As the merchants say, war is good for business. I am done here. Dáuniya, sit down, and let us make the cakes."
"Yes, sit," 'Iqodámeya agreed. "While the bread is cooking we will gather firewood and fetch water. Perhaps there will be time for the ritual of the grain before the men come back this evening."
"The grain ritual!" cried 'Ékamede, clapping dusty hands to her thighs. A cloud of dust rose from the thread-bare skirt. "It is long past time for that. It is too late to ask for Dáwan's blessing now."
Dáuniya sat and began mixing water with the newly ground flour. "How do you know it is too late? You are not a priestess. You cannot know the mind of the goddess," she argued.
Wíp'iya rebuked them both. "Dáuniya, 'Ékamede, be still. 'Iqodámeya has begun to think the right way. Accept captivity and make the best of it. You will only bring more suffering on yourself by thinking of escape or revenge."
"I have not forgotten about it," Dáuniya answered, growing heated. "I have only decided that now is not the time and perhaps I will have to go alone."
"Yes, go alone." Wíp'iya remained grimly matter-of-fact. "I submit to the will of the goddess. I intend to buy Dáwan's blessing on my new home, too. I saved a little wine from this morning's meal for the house snake."
'Ékamede's laugh was without humor. "No snake would grace these filthy huts with its presence. The goddess would never bless these rude houses."
Wíp'iya stared with solemn eyes at her companion. "Mother Dáwan may have sent no living snake. But I made one out of clay from the riverbank. Tonight I will set my offering before it and pray for her blessing, all the same. Such as he is, Patróklo is my husband now. His hut is my home, miserable though it may be. I intend to do what I can to give my hearth a good fate. You should do the same. Your masters are powerful men and they can grant you many favors, if it pleases them."
'Iqodámeya made a face. "Agamémnon wants nothing to do with me. At least Ak'illéyu had a sense of honor."
"You think your fate is hard," 'Ékamede complained bitterly. "But I must go from old man to boy every night. They do not make a decent husband between them."
Dáuniya smiled haughtily. "As far as that goes, perhaps I have the best fate, so far as that is concerned. Mak'áwon will not even touch me, since he prefers the company of boys. And I have decided that the situation suits me well, since I do not intend to stay in this camp much longer. What would I want with an Ak'áyan's child in Wilúsiya, anyway?"
'Ékamede sneered. "So now you consider it good to be owned by a surgeon, do you? A warrior's status gives his captives a little standing, at least."
Wíp'iya was not impressed either. "You may think you are lucky now. But when you are old, will you have children to care for you? Escape is a foolish dream, Dáuniya. If Mak'áwon will not lie with you, you will die alone, with no one left behind to put so much as a single lock of hair in your grave or on your pyre. And if you decide to bear another man's child, your master will know it is not his. He will have you beaten or perhaps even killed. No, you were right the other day. Your fate is worse than any of ours."
From the seashore the men now came, leading the sheep and carrying wine and lentils in jars. Alarmed, 'Iqodámeya threw handfuls of dough at her companions to get their attention. "Be still, sisters!"
"Even the women are fighting now," remarked one of the passing men.
His companion grunted unhappily. "Next it will be the gods."
Alone again, the women returned to their discussion. "I say, you are dreaming if you think you will force the gods to give you a better fate, Wíp'iya," 'Ékamede angrily told her companion. "If you are true to your family, you will think of vengeance, not favors from the deities."
Wíp'iya struck the younger woman on the cheek. "Listen to me, you foolish girl," she said with fiery eyes. "Suppose you and Dáuniya did make your escape and were not caught and beaten. Suppose you did go to Tróya's gates and ask to be taken in. The king would open the door to you readily enough. But he would provide you no better life than you have right here. Do you know what would happen in Tróya? I will tell you. The king would accuse you of treachery because you had slept with the enemy. Men do not care that it was against your will."
"Do you think I do not know that?" 'Ékamede asked bitterly. "I know I am marked for life. Even if the Tróyans took me in as one of their own, my life would be miserable. I am a helpless, childless widow, with no brothers to protect me now. Life would be as harsh here as across the sea. But it is not life that I am thinking about. It is vengeance! The dead call to me from 'Aidé. They will not be ignored. The only question is how I can achieve my revenge."
Dáuniya suggested helpfully, "I once heard of a woman who fed a man the boiled flesh of his own children."
"Enough!" Wíp'iya cried and boxed the ears of both the young women.
When Qálki came wandering by, he heard no sound from the captives but weeping. The seer stopped in his path. "Make a prayer to the great mother," he chided. "Bread is Diwiyána's gift. Show your gratitude with every cake."
"Bless this bread, Diwiyána," intoned the women, their heads bowed over the flour. Each dropped a bit of dough on the hard ground. Qálki nodded, staring deep into each captive's eyes. Finally he walked on toward K'rusé's boats, satisfied.
"That awful, little man frightens me," 'Iqodámeya whispered when he had gone. "Do you know what he demanded before the Ak'áyans sailed?"
"The Mesheníyans say that he made Agamémnon sacrifice his own daughter," 'Ékamede hissed. "How can you advise me to accept slavery when a our overlord is a murderer?"
"I have heard that same bloody tale," Wíp'iya shook her head. "But men tell lies as readily as the truth. I do not think Agamémnon killed his own child. He may be a godless man but he is not that evil. He substituted an animal at the last moment, I am sure."
The women were preoccupied with their talk, the men began to appear in camp with the provisions and the captured bronze. No one noticed that from beneath his cloak Qálki brought out a large piece of a broken water jar. Unseen, he handed the shard to one of K'rusé's boatmen. The islander glanced at the enigmatic signs painted on the ceramic. "To Argo again?" the laborer asked the priest. "Is it for Klutaimnéstra?"
"Yes," Qálki whispered. "See that it reaches her quickly. Things have not gone as we planned."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AIWAKS
Qántili and Paqúr ran through Tróya's narrow postern gate like a fresh wind, ready for battle. They stopped in their tracks at the sight before them. Wilúsiya's plain spread out in gory splendor. Bodies lay scattered over the ground, dark
with blood and stripped of anything of value. Not far from the gate, Ainyáh had left the hard fighting and sat with his back to the slanting stone wall, pounding listlessly with a flat stone on his sword. The bronze blade was dented and curled and resisted straightening even under the hard blows. He seemed oblivious to the carnage about him. He was not the only one. A few Assúwans and Ak'áyans remained locked in single combat, here and there. But, in the heat of the late afternoon, even the glory-hungry moved slowly, weighed down by weariness. Others of their countrymen stalked among the fallen, finishing off the wounded, searching for scraps of bronze missed in the excitement and confusion of battle. But most of the warriors from every nation sat or squatted in small groups, exhausted, resting.
Few chariots remained in service. Only a handful of kings had withdrawn to the outskirts of the embattled area with their carts intact. There the horses' heads drooped with fatigue and the drivers lay, spent, in the grass. Most of the carts of both sides lay shattered among the bodies. The Pálayans' onagers had all died or escaped the field. The horses had largely been spared serious injury because of their high value. Those animals had been cut loose from their ruined carts and led away from the plain to the riverside or back within the fortress. Where the fighting continued, it was on foot. Even the archers, their arrows spent, had quit the field for the camp and the city.
