Golden Mukenai (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  Though separated, the champions glared at each other, still menacing one another with their blades. Meneláwo rose clumsily to protest, "Ak'áyans fight until they cannot see the heads of their own spears. That is our custom. Kill the Tróyan now, Aíwaks. Run him through."

  Aíwaks was eager to do as the Lakedaimóniyan suggested. The big qasiléyu stamped from side to side, fuming. "I am not ready to call off the combat."

  "The gods have not yet chosen," Qántili agreed. "No man has gained honor. It is not finished."

  But Néstor announced with authority, "It is clear that the gods care for you equally. Both are honorable warriors. No purpose is served by angering the immortals. You must lay down your weapons." To the surprise and distress of both his qasiléyu and his brother, Agamémnon did not argue with Néstor. The high wánaks nodded, his arms folded across the heavy, banded armor on his chest.

  Aíwaks hesitated. "What does Qántili say? He started this with his challenge. If he is ready to quit, I will too."

  "Give it up," Ainyáh quietly urged, resting his hand on Qántili's shoulder. "The gods are not with us today."

  Qántili could feel the weariness seeping back into his bones. He nodded, the matted crest of his helmet waving. "We will meet again another day and the gods will have to choose between us then. But let us exchange gifts now. The people should see that we fought without mercy but parted friends." He held out his silver-studded sword by the blade, offering Aíwaks the hilt.

  Taken by surprise, Aíwaks did not respond for a moment, staring at the finely crafted weapon. Gingerly, he reached for the sword. Hefting it in one hand, and then the other, he admired its workmanship. "This is a fine gift." He looked down at his own weapons. The head of his spear was bent, as was his sword blade. His chest-armor was missing several plates, and, somewhere in the field, lay his ruined dagger. He pulled off his helmet, untouched because of his great height.

  "It is a generous present," Qántili announced, though he looked regretfully at the tower shield.

  Gathering up weapons and armor, the Ak'áyans trudged back toward their encampment across the river, to eat and drink, and to sleep. As they walked, they gathered around their champions, Aíwaks and Meneláwo, joyful to see them still alive, calling out their thanks to the unseen deities of sky and sea for sustaining their heroes.

  Qántili and Ainyáh walked together, using the shafts of their spears for support as they dragged themselves up the steep ramp leading to Tróya's main gate. The Tróyan prince breathed heavily and his ribs and knees ached where the Ak'áyan spear had made contact. He pulled off his heavy helmet and lightly touched a dark knot rising above his brow. His short hair clung to his scalp, drenched with sweat, and the fresh wound on his jaw throbbed.

  Ainyáh surveyed the ragged troops about them and observed, "It will mean cramped quarters again in the citadel, but, at least it is safe there. We should have listened to Paqúr and waited another day or two, at least."

  Qántili shook his head and rubbed his aching head. "Ainyáh, this is no time for us to hide ourselves and our allies behind walls. All the warriors will camp out in the field tonight. In the morning, we will finish the invaders and drive them into the sea."

  Ainyáh was aghast. "No, Qántili, you cannot give such an order!" he insisted. "It goes against reason. Why should we expose ourselves to danger when it is not necessary? We suffered heavy losses today, including the deaths of the kings of Kuwalíya and Pála. I do not think we will have any warriors from those nations left in the morning if we camp outside. They will take advantage of the cover of darkness to slip away. And there is no telling what those godless Ak'áyans may do at night. Three times we failed to achieve victory over them, today. That means something, brother-in-law. I am afraid it may be Wilúsiya that is finished tomorrow."

  Qántili sneered. "Do not tell me you are one of those who sees omens in numbers. If we did not prevail three times today, the Ak'áyans failed just as often. Next, I suppose you will claim you heard the war god, Arét, screaming in the cries of the multitudes on the field."

  Ainyáh gripped a circular amulet at his throat. "No," he argued angrily. "I am no simple-minded shepherd who can count no higher than four. But I know who we faced today and these are no ordinary enemies. That was no raiding party out there, like the little band that 'Erakléwe led, twenty years ago. That is an organized army, one that sacked the cities of our island vassals'. Agamémnon may not be the son of a god, as 'Erakléwe is said to have been. But he is clearly a force to be reckoned with, a man who persists in the face of difficulties. His feathered allies showed themselves to be as wild as their northern neighbors, the T'rákiyans. They are barbarian warriors who fill themselves with battle fury until they feel no fear or pain! I tell you, these Ak'áyans will not even think about sailing away until they have burned Tróya and captured our women. Believe me, I know what I am talking about. I have dealt with many an Ak'áyan pirate in my time. They go where plunder is easily obtained and back down at the first sign of resistance. But that is not what we are facing here, no matter how rough and uncultured their kings may appear to be. Your brother, Paqúr, attacked one of their sanctuaries, too, not a mere trading post. He carried off a priestess and a queen, not just a few shepherds’ wives or the daughters of bakers and potters. That raid was a blow to Ak'áyan honor and you can be sure that Agamémnon will not let it go without avenging it. Only behind the city walls are we safe."

  Qántili stopped walking and glared at the mercenary's prominent nose, the narrowed, dark eyes. "I told you I did not want to hear this, Ainyáh. We are all tired of being cramped in the citadel, pressed together like sheep in a pen. By the gods, it makes a man sick at heart to see what Tróya has become. This used to be a wealthy fortress, filled with tin and gold, the glorious capital of a kingdom spoken of in distant lands. Now look at us. All our treasures have gone to buy our allies' support. We have lost many of our best warriors, already, leaving more widows and orphans than I can count."

  "I am aware of these losses," Ainyáh snapped wearily. "My Kanaqániyans are considerably fewer tonight, too. That is just my point. I believe we are too few to vanquish the Ak'áyans now, especially since we are running low on metal incentives for our side, while their fighting spirits are kept alive by inexhaustible, righteous anger. A seasoned warrior does not have to see his last man fall before he knows he is beaten. No, Qántili, you can take my word on this. The fact that we did not win the war today shows that we cannot win. Things will only get worse and not better if we persist. Our only hope is to negotiate for peace. You and I must return to the citadel tonight and add our voices to Antánor's in the assembly. We must make your father listen."

  Qántili waved his hand, dismissing Ainyáh's argument. "I do not have your experience with war or with pirates. I admit that. But I am no fool. We may not have crushed the Ak'áyans today, but we fought them to a standstill. If we take refuge behind our gates and walls now, they will think that we are worse off than we really are."

  "But, Qántili, think of the men," Ainyáh pleaded.

  "I am thinking of them," Qántili countered angrily, halting once more to face his brother-in-law. "What do you think holds them together in the face of this determined siege? Paqúr's talk of areté? The thought of duty? These things may call up an honorable man from his home, but neither sustains him for long. A soldier sees a few of his brothers die and forgets both his duty and his honor.

  "Or do you think the men stay together from fear of defeat? No, I tell you, brother-in-law, fear makes a man run, not fight. What holds them together is faith in their leaders. It is faith in us, Ainyáh! That burden lies heaviest on me, since I am the commander of the armies. If I turn back to the citadel now, the men will take that as a sign of weakness. They will be afraid behind the walls, do you understand? In the morning they will fight like defeated men, turning tail as soon as the Ak'áyans lift their spears. But, I tell you, we are on the verge of victory. That is why we must act like victors, camping unafra
id in the open, ready to complete our work in the morning."

  Ainyáh pressed his blackened hands to his head. "We cannot go on this way, Qántili."

  Qántili threw down his helmet. "Préswa take you, Ainyáh! I have made my decision. We are staying here tonight, in the field. That is the end of it." He strode away quickly, shouting to the men, "Make camp beyond the rise out there, where we burned the Ak'áyans' tents last year. The bodies are not too numerous, over there."

  Ainyáh could do nothing more but kick in impotent rage at the still bodies in his path. As the darkness thickened, the Wilúsiyans and their allies ate their evening meal in the open, bringing out of Tróya's storerooms their bread and wine, and the essence of poppies.

  Agamémnon walked by the side of his tall qasiléyu, exulting in his near victory. Feeling magnanimous, he told the big man, "You will come to my tent to eat tonight, Aíwaks. I will sacrifice an ox to thank Díwo for your life."

  Diwoméde dragged wearily behind his overlord, with T'érsite's help now carrying the high king's banded armor. "An ox!" the young man marveled, burning with envy. His wounded shoulder throbbed and he kept his right arm close to his ribs. "Diwiyána, when will your favor turn to me?"

  Beside him, T'érsite plodded silently, watching the young man with new-found respect in his eyes.

  aaa

  The sacrificial beast was skinned and quartered by the high wánaks himself that night. The prized marrow was Agamémnon's offering to his champion, once the meat had been roasted over the fire. Qálki received the priest's share, scraps of meat from the animal's legs, wrapped in fat, to be burned for the sky god's honor. But the seer himself was not invited to eat with the overlord. To the prophet's chagrin, Agamémnon bellowed his own brief prayer over the offering and encouraged Qálki to visit the injured, to boost their morale.

  Beside the stone-circled hearths of the Ak'áyans, wounded men groaned on their sheepskin pallets. Their kinsmen gloomily examined the injuries, washing away the blood and covering the torn flesh with scraps of linen cloth. Qálki dutifully offered healing prayers beside the campfires. But it was the nectar of the bitter poppy that the wounded most often called for. The surgeon Mak'áwon, previously despised, was suddenly every man's friend. His detailed knowledge of healing herbs now earned him respect instead of the more customary derision. The northerner was invited to every fireside and offered the best wine, for the sake of his skilled hands and the little vessels that filled his tent, juglets in the shape of dried poppy heads. The P'ilísta laid down his feathered headgear and his spear to minister to the wounded. Saying nothing of the earlier treatment he had been accorded, he visited the hearths of every nation.

  He directed his youthful captive woman in the proper method of washing an injury, first with water to remove the excess blood, a second time with wine to please the spirits, and once more with oil to remove any residue of the weapon that had inflicted the wound. "Be sure to wash every wound these three ways," Mak'áwon told Dáuniya with a severe shake of the index finger. "The number three is sacred to Diwiyána. No healing can occur against her will."

  "Yes, wánaks," said the young woman, uncowed by the sight of mangled flesh. She, too, found herself accorded a certain amount of respect, and followed the surgeon's orders with strong, sure hands, despite her youth. Even T'érsite received an appreciative word or two, other men of low rank thanking him for his foresight in capturing such a stout-hearted woman and in handing her over to Mak'áwon.

  Warriors filled their empty bellies and slaked their thirst with K'rusé's 'tribute' of wine and grain. The camp women served barley cakes and boiled lentils in rough, clay vessels and brought water from the river to wash the tired limbs of those lucky enough to escape Assúwan bronze. While the men ate and drank, relaxing about their fires, they told each other of their battle prowess, enumerating the Assúwans they had slain, telling where their bronze had pierced the foreigners' bodies, and of the gear they had collected from the dead.

  Slighted by the overlord, the prophet stole away to the tents of the P'ilístas to complain. There he was received with greater sympathy. As Qálki made the rounds of the campfires, he reminded the feathered warriors that many of their kinsmen had fallen, as well as their enemies. "Harsh Préswa has touched every hearth," the small man noted to Panaléyo. "Despite what Agamémnon says of his dream, Díwo clearly has not yet taken sides in this conflict. Diwiyána would not have let so many Ak'áyan souls go to her daughter's realm below the earth if the gods were truly with the overlord."

  The Qoyotíyan wánaks nodded unhappily. "I have come to the same conclusion myself. It must be Agamémnon's quarrel with Ak'illéyu that has angered some god. Perhaps 'Iqodámeya cursed the Ak'áyans for taking her away from Ak'illéyu. Or it may be that the prince himself cursed us because we did not take his side in the dispute. I have no love for T'eshalíyans myself, but Ak'illéyu's mother is said to be a priestess of Poseidáon. We all know that the sea god has always favored the city of Tróya. These things cannot bode well for Ak'áiwiya's cause. Speak to the prince, Qálki. See if he can be persuaded to make peace with the overlord." The other northern lawagétas shared similar concerns with the seer.

  Nor were the southern kings unaffected by the day's events. When Qálki came to the Mesheníyan section of camp, he quietly warned the graying wánaks, "I feel Préswa's dreaded presence at every hearth. I hear her stalking footsteps in the moans of the wounded."

  Far from sending the prophet away, Néstor nodded in grim agreement. "Who has ever seen such losses before, and in a single campaign? After what I have seen today, I do not care to take the field against Tróya a second time. The gods clearly favor Qántili and Paqúr over the kings of Lakedaimón and Argo. I am afraid Agamémnon is leading us all to disaster." The old king's premonition made the eyes of the still older seer gleam with an unearthly light.

  aaa

  At Agamémnon's fire, the mood grew somber once Aíwaks had eaten his victory meal. The Argive qasiléyus had little chance to rest. Agamémnon gave them just enough time to eat and drink their fill before he began issuing new commands. "Mak'áwon," the high wánaks ordered the medical P'ilísta. "Have your woman dress Diwoméde's wound, quickly now. I have work for him and Aíwaks."

  When Dáuniya had come to the overlord's hearth and dealt with his young qasiléyu, Agamémnon gave further orders. "Diwoméde, you will go from fire to fire, interrogating the men of each nation. Find out how many warriors died today and how many were wounded. Woman, go with Diwoméde to the river and make clay tablets. You will act as his scribe. Record the numbers that he gives to you."

  The young woman's eyes widened. "But wánaks," she protested, twisting her hands with anxiety. "I do not know how to write!"

  "T'érsite," Agamémnon bellowed, ignoring the woman. "Find St'énelo, my brother's master of horse. Together you two must count the number of chariots left that can take the field. Consult with the carpenters too. See if they can use some of the broken carts to repair others. Bring these numbers to me before the moon sets tonight."

  With his arm wrapped in clean linen and his spirit fortified by poppy-tinged wine, Diwoméde beckoned to Dáuniya to follow him. She opened her mouth to protest again, but he stopped her. "You do not need to know any symbols," he told her. "Just listen when I speak to the lawagétas. Make a mark in the clay for each man's name you hear. When we have been to every hearth, then we will count all the marks."

  "Ai," Dáuniya said with a short laugh of surprise. "I did not think of that." She fell in behind the qasiléyu as he headed for the opening in the rampart walls. "And tablets. How do I make writing tablets? I am not a potter any more than I am a scribe."

  Diwoméde stopped in his tracks a moment, staring back over his shoulder at the young woman in bewilderment. "The ones I have seen look something like flat barley cakes. Do you know how to make those?"

  She nodded, smiling, and they began to walk again. As they passed through the open gateway, Dáuniya spoke again. "Why did the high
wánaks give this work to me? Why did he not have his own woman do it? She married an Assúwan, but 'Iqodámeya is an Ak'áyan name. She might actually know how to write."

  Diwoméde scowled. "If she came to every campfire, that would set the men to thinking about Ak'illéyu and how Agamémnon angered him. Now hold your tongue. Captives should not ask so many questions."

  The overlord even sent his champion to organize a work party, once the big man had dined. "Aíwaks, have the men scour the battlefield for bronze," Agamémnon ordered. "Every spear and arrow you can find must come back to camp. The Wilúsiyans have their smiths behind Tróya's walls. They can make more weapons when they have used up the old. But we cannot. Salvage everything you possibly can." When the tall man had gone from the hearth, Agamémnon called, "Odushéyu, where are you, pirate? I have work for that worthless archer." On into the evening the high wánaks called out orders, giving his lawagétas little rest.

  aaa

  Néstor came at moonrise to present his views to the overlord. "We lost a great number today."