by Diana Gainer
Mounds of captured Ak'áyan bronze had grown by Tróya's gates. Another had risen on the bank of the Sqamándro, taken from Assúwans and ferried across to the encampment, a boat load at a time. Foot-soldiers of various nations sat in armed clusters, fighting only when forced to do so by higher ranked warriors more eager than they for areté.
Agamémnon had withdrawn in his chariot to the river where he held an informal assembly of his qasiléyus and the other southern wánaktes. "Ai, this prince Qántili is a commander to be reckoned with," the high wánaks announced, shaking his head. "He has managed to pull together an army from all the kingdoms of Assúwa, a force as great as mine. I did not think it could be done so quickly! Did you see how he kept them together? He rallied them every time we forced them to retreat. Ai gar, every time!"
Néstor stroked his age-lightened beard and squinted at the Argive king. "It does seem that the two sides are evenly matched. I have never seen a battle take so long, with each side completely unable to rout the other. It is enough to make a man begin to doubt the gods." His gaze fell coldly on Agamémnon. "Or doubt their messenger."
Diwoméde and Aíwaks stepped forward quickly with drawn blades, but Agamémnon waved them back. "A man may say what he pleases in the assembly," the wánaks growled. "So, Néstor, are you accusing me of lying? Or of blasphemy?"
Idómeneyu spoke quickly. "We are wasting time here. Qántili is clearly our worst enemy on the field. Paqúr left the battle right at the start and the Assúwans hardly missed him, did they? What can we do about this Qántili, then? Can we call for a single combat between our champion and him?"
Odushéyu gave a short, bitter laugh and spat in the dust. "If we made such a demand, they would think us weak and ready to give up. They would never agree."
To the It'ákan's surprise, Néstor agreed. "Odushéyu is right. Why should the Wilúsiyans risk their best man? No, we must begin thinking of a new strategy. Perhaps we could persuade Meneláwo to forgo a portion of his stolen property while we bargain for the rest. Where is he? One of us should ask him."
"He would not agree to it," Idómeneyu argued. "I know him."
"He is still out there, raging like a madman," Odushéyu answered, with a gesture toward the battlefield, ignoring the other islander’s remark. "But even if he agreed with your proposal, what makes you think the Wilúsiyans would negotiate now? They held us off today and they will be receiving reinforcements from the east any time now." He shook his head, making a wry face. "We should not have taken the field today. The gods are clearly divided, despite the omens and dreams."
Qántili and Paqúr hesitated in the gateway, their nostrils filling with the smell of blood, their minds filling with thoughts of death and destruction. "Poseidáon!" Paqúr roared and dashed into the nearest pocket of fighting men. Quickly, he cut down weary Ak'áyans, slashing necks where helmets did not protect them, slicing into exposed shoulders, tripping men too weary to flee and finishing them with a quick stab.
Qántili looked up at the battlements and took a deep breath. "Poseidáon, give my arm strength," he whispered.
"Qántili," called a woman's voice behind the hesitating prince. He turned to see a slender woman approaching him, draped in heavy, black robes devoid of adornment.
"Kashánda," Qántili said in surprise. "What are you doing here, sister? The battleground is no place for a woman. As a priestess, you should be making offerings to the gods and praying for their support."
"Brother, I had to come," the royal priestess explained. "Look how our people are dying. Still there is no end in sight! We must lift this siege before it is too late. Stop the men. Make them recall the oaths they took this morning. Then you must fight a single combat."
"We have already tried that," Qántili pointed out, impatiently.
But Kashánda took his wrist in a vice-like grip, with both her strong hands, and would not let him leave her side. "No, Qántili, you must be our champion, not Paqúr. Let the Ak'áyans choose a warrior and you fight him to the death. You are the best warrior in Wilúsiya, my brother, you. And you are rested now. You are fresh. You cannot lose. Dáwan Anna is with you, I know it. I have seen it."
Qántili felt the heaviness on his heart lifting. He raised his eyes to the tower's heights, thinking of Andrómak'e. "Kashánda, I believe you are right. This is the solution," he agreed. "Bring laurel branches and we will call a truce. But hurry. It will take some time to get the attention of all the men. And the sun is already near the horizon."
"I have brought the god's emblem with me," Kashánda said, with a slight smile that left her eyes as mournful as ever. From inside her robes she drew out a leafy branch decked with strips of undyed wool.
With this symbol of the sacred raised above his head, Qántili fearlessly marched out and roamed the field, calling upon the men of every army to stop fighting. The priestess did the same. Agamémnon spotted the movement from the river and the assembled kings sent Antílok'o to find out what was happening. When he returned with the news of a proposed truce, Agamémnon held up his spear mid-haft and shouted to the Ak'áyans to halt. At his overlord's command, Diwoméde raised a conch shell, which his king had carried through the day, to his lips and blew on it, to draw the attention of those still fighting.
The exhausted warriors of both armies were only too happy to accept the truce, and they followed the Tróyan prince close to the walls of the city. Torn shields and battered helmets dropped to the ground, blood-darkened blades resting as well as soldiers' aching limbs. The wind turned and drove in from the sea, cooling the soldiers’ sweating limbs. It seemed a good omen.
Waving the laurel branch, Qántili called out, "Listen to me, sons of Dáwan and of Diwiyána! Remember, just this morning all present swore to honor a single combat. That fight ended without a clear winner. Now we can all see that the gods will not choose a victor in this battle because we broke our word. I propose a new combat of honor. Let the best man of the Ak'áyans come forward to fight me, to fight with Qántili. I swear an oath by every god on earth, and by every dáimon above and below, Assúwan and Ak'áyan alike. I will stand my ground. I will not leave this field until I have taken areté or given it. And I repeat the conditions of the combat. If I kill Ak'áiwiya's champion, I will take his helmet and shield for an offering to Poseidáon, highest of the gods. But I will restore his body to his people. You may build a mound for him on our shore, for all generations to see. His honor will live forever.
"If he wins, he may have my gear to take back to Ak'áiwiya in his ships. But he must give my body back to my kinsmen to be burned on the pyre. In either case, the victor takes the Lakedaimóniyan spoils and the war is ended. There is no need for anyone else to take an oath on this, but for the Ak'áyan champion." He was finished and stood, his legs wide, one hand on his hip and the other holding his spear upright beside him, waiting for a fighter to approach.
Agamémnon almost burst out laughing in surprise and delight at the announcement. But, for a long, tense moment, only silence followed the challenge, as the men of Ak'áiwiya looked at one another. The war-like ardor of the morning had long since cooled in many hearts. Warriors pointed out to each other the wounds they had taken.
With the effect of the poppy now worn away, Diwoméde found he could hardly lift his right arm. He inspected the long, shallow tear across his bare shoulder, black blood dried and thick on his arm and corselet. Noticing that Odushéyu was beside him, pointedly looking at the ground, the young qasiléyu recalled the pirate's earlier taunts. "Why do you not step forward?" the Argive asked, a sharp challenge in his voice.
The island king had removed his boars' tusk helmet, cradling it under one arm. He did not meet the younger man's gaze as he scratched at the thinning hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Quietly, he growled, "Qántili is a professional warrior. A pirate is no match for him. Let Meneláwo risk his life. It is not my honor that is at stake here."
Diwoméde almost laughed aloud. He stared open-mouthed at the It'ákan. "I never thought
I would hear you admit to being a pirate."
"You have a lot to learn, boy," Odushéyu said, without rancor. "There is a time for boasting and there is a time for honesty."
As if he had heard the It'ákan mariner, Meneláwo made his way toward the Tróyan prince, cursing in disgust. The Lakedaimóniyan limped, leaning on his spear, and he moved slowly. A thin trickle of blood spilled from the wound in his side at each step, further darkening the kilt already stained black and stuck to his thigh. But a fierce light burned in the Lakedaimóniyan king's eyes. "Ak'áyans, you are nothing but women," he shouted, his words slurred. "Préswa take every man of you. Cowards! May you rot in your safety, all of you! I will face Qántili myself. The gods decide today whose cause is just." He looked about, moving stiffly, unable to focus his eyes properly. "St'énelo, where are you? Get me a good shield, one that is not torn. And I need another sword. Mine is broken."
St'énelo dutifully stood to offer his king the shield nearest at hand, but as Meneláwo reached for the blood-spattered hide, Agamémnon and his young qasiléyu came forward, to hold the wounded man back. The high wánaks caught his brother's arm, while Diwoméde took the shield. "No, Meneláwo," Agamémnon said quietly. "Either the maináds have caught you or the lady of the poppy has. You are a brave man. No one doubts that. But Qántili would down you in a moment. He is clearly the best fighter in Assúwa."
Meneláwo shook off his brother's hand and turned to the lesser-ranked men behind him. "Give me a shield, you miserable sheep. This is a matter of areté."
But again the overlord kept him from the ox-hides offered. "Brother, listen to me. You are wounded. Look at you. You can hardly walk. You should have gone back to the ships this morning."
Diwoméde grasped the wounded king's other arm. "Your honor was satisfied when you faced Paqúr. If you fight now, you will be throwing your life away. Sit down, wánaks. We will find another champion."
Meneláwo hesitated, looking about at the eyes of the watching men. "All right," he said gruffly, his knees giving way with a shudder. "If I were not wounded I would never let you talk me out of this fight. But you are right. With this pain in my side, I am no match for Qántili." Gloomily he sat, and allowed Diwoméde to remove his bloody corselet, no easy job with the throbbing pain of his own wounded arm.
Néstor stood, his pale beard quivering with passion. "This is a disgrace! If only I were young again, I would stand up for Ak'áiwiya myself! In my youth I could take any man alive!" Stung by the Mesheníyan king's words, Antílok'o stood, only to be pushed down again, immediately, by his father's firm hand.
Ignoring the older king, Agamémnon announced loudly, "It is my turn this time." Two of his qasiléyus came forward as well, at that signal, the tall Aíwaks and youthful Diwoméde, the second despite his aching arm, each loudly proclaiming that he would gladly die to save his wánaks.
Idómeneyu stood, briefly resting a supportive hand on Meneláwo's shoulder as he passed. Kep'túr's king joined the other would-be champions. "I will fight for Ak'áiwiya's honor."
Néstor nodded with satisfaction, as one after the other rose. "Draw lots, now," the gray-haired king told them. "Each of you, put your token in my helmet." He took off his headgear, the horsetail crest raggedly severed during the fighting, the metal splashed with blood and sporting several new dents.
Diwoméde cut a bronze plate free from his battered chest armor and started with surprise when his overlord took it from him. With a sharp stone, Agamémnon scratched a crude lion into the grimy metal surface and tossed it into his own still-shining helmet. "Here, Néstor, we will use mine. Yours is in bad shape." Surprised and a little bewildered by his king's action, Diwoméde chose a pebble from the ground for his marker, as a substitute.
Idómeneyu took an amulet from a leather cord, hanging at his neck. He rubbed the small stone cylinder between his hands and ran his fingers over the mysterious, wedge-shaped signs carved into its surface. With a quick salute to the sun, now nearing the western horizon, he dropped the amulet into the overlord's helmet.
Aíwaks removed a plate from his own armor. Idómeneyu stopped the big man from putting the token in the helmet. "Write your name on it," the Kep'túriyan wánaks told him, "so we will know yours from Agamémnon's."
"Writing is women's work," Aíwaks growled. Instead, he put the plate in his mouth and bit it. Ak'áyans from north and south laughed and the Kep'túriyan put his hand to his dagger hilt at the implied insult.
"Just put it in," Agamémnon impatiently commanded. The big qasiléyu obeyed. Idómeneyu's knife remained in its scabbard.
Néstor gripped the rim of the overlord's horned helmet, meeting Agamémnon's imperious glare with an equally regal stare. "Let me shake the helmet," said the older king. "The gods would not be pleased if one of the contenders controlled the champion's token." When the high wánaks still resisted, Néstor added, with quiet venom, "And the men would be suspicious of the outcome." Agamémnon released the bronze gear after a momentary hesitation, and the Mesheníyan held it up high so that he could not see the tokens. Calling on Díwo and Diwiyána, he gave it a rolling shake. While the men of southern Ak'áiwiya called the names of their favorites, northerners raised their spears over their feathered crowns, calling upon Díwo to choose Aíwaks.
A metal token leaped from the helmet and the lawagétas quickly gathered around, to see the mark on it. Néstor announced, "It has no mark but that of teeth. Ak'áiwiya's champion is Aíwaks, the qasiléyu from Sálami."
Each man who had volunteered had to see the plate before he would believe the gods' choice. The blue-eyed champion, his light brown hair spilling over his massive shoulders as yet untouched by any blade, stood back, casually allowing each soldier to be convinced. "Qántili dies today," he predicted, piously adding, "by the will of Díwo."
As men of lesser rank prayed for the honor and victory of Aíwaks, the tall man tightened the strap of his horned headgear. Drawing his sword from its scabbard, he checked the blade. He ran his hands over the surface of his tower shield, fingering several small tears left by Assúwan arrows.
"Take Diwoméde's shield," Agamémnon told him, taking the younger man's smaller, rectangular ox-hide. "It will not weigh your arm down."
Aíwaks shook his head. "My grandfather used a shield such as this, as did his grandfather before him. It was good enough for the men of old and it is still good enough for me." He drew the heavy thing on, laying its thick strap across his broad back and over one shoulder. His face contorted in a ferocious grin and, calling upon Díwo, he gripped a blood-stained spear. With eager steps, he waded among the seated men, making for Qántili, lusting for the Tróyan's blood.
Wilúsiyans, too, prayed for their champion, shouting to Poseidáon. Qántili watched with anxiety, his heart beginning to pound in his chest as Aíwaks approached. The pale-eyed man of Sálami striding toward him stood a head taller than any other on the field. The Tróyan prince touched his hand to his forehead in adoration of the unseen. "Poseidáon, be with me," he whispered, his dark eyes fixed on the approaching challenger. Aloud he said boldly, "I will gain honor or give it today."
A second time, Néstor shook the overlord's helmet, to decide which champion would strike the first blow. As soon as the gods made their choice, Qántili thrust his spear at the bigger man's tower shield, which rose to the big man’s forehead and stretched as far as his knees. Aíwaks dodged, warding off the bronze point. He shoved his own lance clear through Qántili's smaller, round shield, slicing into the man’s breastplates behind it. The point scraped the Tróyan's ribs. Qántili cursed in surprise at the sudden pain and released his torn shield. Beside him, Ainyáh quickly stood to hold out a replacement shield. In an instant, the two champions fell upon each other. Again, Qántili failed to pierce his opponent's stout shield. Aíwaks brought blood a second time, this time from below the Tróyan's ear.
Enraged, Qántili leapt forward with his heavy spear. The tall Ak'áyan fell back as the Tróyan rammed his big shield. With the butt of his l
ance, Aíwaks struck beneath the prince's shield. Wood collided with the Tróyan's knees and Qántili tumbled to the ground. Assúwans all around scrambled to their feet in alarm. Ak'áyans rose in response, threatening to begin the battle anew. Weapons bristled on both sides and curses flew. But Qántili struggled to his feet in time to meet the giant's charging sword with his own. Each army kept its place.
The men's shadows were long as the bronze blades met and the sky glowed orange and yellow over the western sea. Kashánda watched the proceedings with bated breath, glancing repeatedly toward the west. As the sun's upper rim dipped below the watery horizon, the priestess trilled the wavering cry that normally accompanied the shedding of blood. Néstor and his son moved to part the fighters with their spear shafts. From the Wilúsiyan side, Paqúr and Ainyáh did the same. "Night has fallen," Paqúr told his enraged brother. "The gods frown on those who fight after the sun has set."
