by Diana Gainer
Agamémnon nodded solemnly. "I have sent people to count the dead and the number of chariots still whole. They will be back soon."
The Mesheníyan wánaks frowned. "These things are of secondary importance. There can be no more war for now. At dawn all Ak'áyans must set themselves to dealing with the dead or the plague will return and this time it will carry all of us away."
"I have thought of that too," Agamémnon said lightly. "In the morning, I will send Odushéyu to the fortress to negotiate a truce for that very purpose. As soon as I have the number of the dead, Diwoméde and Aíwaks will organize work parties to gather the corpses. We have enough wagons, I think, thanks to our raids on the island villages. We took a fair number of them from the Pálayans today. I have decided to make the navigators and carpenters drive the wagons to the field."
Néstor frowned, but before he could voice his objections, the overlord went on. "You see, I intend to make the most of this truce. My warriors must take this opportunity to rest and recover from this battle. When our dead are dealt with, I will give the noncombatants more work to do. If they expect to stay in camp while the soldiers risk life and limb, they must earn their keep. The carpenters will begin repairing our chariots as soon as possible. We need every cart we can get for the next battle, even if it means breaking up the wagons for the wood."
"You have thought of many things, Agamémnon," Néstor admitted grudgingly. "But one thing still troubles me. Truces tend to be brief, you know. There is no time to dig good Ak'áyan tombs, lined with rock."
"That is so," Agamémnon answered smugly. "It would be a waste of valuable time even to try. We will send the souls to the underworld the new Wilúsiyan way."
"With pyres?" Néstor was skeptical.
Agamémnon nodded. "We can build one large mound near the camp, and burn the dead all in one great fire."
Smoothing his white moustache, the Mesheníyan asked skeptically, "Do you think the troops will accept this?"
Agamémnon shrugged. "Why not? The dead will be taken care of all at once, with very little work. Men of low rank should like that. There will be no threat of disease from souls still roaming the earth. Everyone should be pleased at that. The mound itself will be a monument to the glorious dead. That is entirely fitting, too."
Néstor had begun shaking his head before the Argive was half finished. "I am afraid this will not do. You may get the men to agree to pyres, as long as you give them time for a proper funeral feast, as well. After all, we must be practical. But it will not end there. Each man's kinsmen will want his remains taken back to Ak'áiwiya. If they are not carried back and buried properly, the souls will be unable to cross the Stuks in the world below. They will return to the earth, bringing suffering to their descendants. It is a most difficult matter. When you negotiate for the truce, ask for nine months at least. That will give us time to return to Ak'áiwiya for the sowing, to bury the dead properly, and to rearm the warriors. We can return again in the spring, after the grain harvest, and finish the war properly in the dead season."
Agamémnon snorted. "We will finish the war sooner than that and without returning to Ak'áiwiya. You surprise me, Néstor. I had thought you were smarter than that. Have you never listened to what Meneláwo says? What do you think the Assúwans would do with a year? They would get fresh reinforcements from Qáttushli, that is what! No, no, I admit I considered a long truce myself, but I had to reject the idea. We stay here until Tróya falls. The men will accept funeral pyres because there is no other choice. As for the bones, they can be dealt with here, too. When the flesh is all burned away, pick the bones out of the ashes and pack them in jars. Wrap them in fat, if you like. Spirits seem to like that. In any case, stored in our tents, the remains will be safe until we are ready to take them home. We must plan for the next battle, at the same time."
But the older king was not prepared to discuss battle plans yet. "I am not concerned about storage of the remains. The problem is how to determine whose bones are whose. If you burn all the dead in a single pyre, we will never be able to sort them out."
With a humorless laugh, Agamémnon said, "That sounds like a job for a seer. It is time that bag of wine did something useful. If any man doubts the identification of his kinsman's remains, let him complain to Qálki, not to me."
"Very well, then," the white-bearded man said, pursing his lips with distaste. "But, in the meantime, we must complete the rampart. The gate is nearly done. While the pyres are burning, we can put the foot-soldiers to work digging the moat we discussed earlier."
Agamémnon shook his head. "I will have the carpenters finish the gate, as you say. But that is all. We have pointed stakes surrounding our wall. That is enough to hold off the Assúwans. Do not forget, old man, I had a dream. Díwo has promised. Tróya will be mine."
aaa
As the sons of Diwiyána sat behind their wall of earth, the sons of Dáwan met in assembly with Alakshándu on the hill of Tróya. The king of Lúkiya, Sharpaduwánna, limped into the mégaron at the head of the allied troop commanders. His wounded leg was wrapped with linen and he supported himself with a wooden staff. "Alakshándu, what do you mean by holding audience without your allies?" he demanded.
The Tróyan king raised both hands, palms up, towards the Lúkiyan. "Peace, Sharpaduwánna. I did not expect to see you here. Wounded men are excused from both battle and council."
"That may be your custom, but it is not ours. Lúkiyans do not shirk their duties because of minor wounds," Sharpaduwánna snapped, his short, black beard shuddering with passion. "This is war we are engaged in, not a child's game. A true man fights until he can fight no more."
Alakshándu smiled indulgently. "A fine sentiment. But you are not in Lúkiya. Here in Wilúsiya, men of high rank always bathe before eating. If you will look around, you will see that none of my officers are here at the moment, for that very reason. Accept our customs while you stay here, at least. My women will lead you to our bath chambers. Let them scrub the dirt and blood from your body, Sharpaduwánna. I think you will find it pleasant." The assembled elders chuckled lightly. "Then let my servants rub your skin with oil, and dress you in clean garments. Afterward, by all means, come to the mégaron and seat yourself by my hearth to eat and drink your fill. I want to hear all about the battle, of the great deeds you have done and seen, of vital spots pierced by bronze, of prized armor taken. I can hardly wait."
Cursing the softness of the Wilúsiyans under his breath, Sharpaduwánna limped from the throne room, followed by his unwashed officers. They acceded to the local king's wishes. In their absence the Tróyan elders and their king held their council.
From his seat of painted stone, cushioned with embroidered pillows, Alakshándu nodded to his oldest son-in-law. "Antánor, tell us what we and our allies accomplished today. How did the single combat go this morning? Who broke their oaths first?"
The graying councilor stood. "I am afraid the news is not good, my lord. Your oldest son survived the combat this morning, as I am sure you have already heard. Unfortunately, so did Meneláwo. Qántili has reported that it was one of our own archers who started the general battle, though no man seems able to name him. The fight that followed was as inconclusive as the single combat. This afternoon, the Ak'áyans chose a new champion, a giant with ill-omened, pale eyes. He faced your second son, fighting until the sun set, forcing them to stop. A third time, the gods prevented either side from claiming victory. This is a most evil omen. It cannot be meaningless. Clearly the gods are not on our side. Again, I must urge the return of the plunder from Lakedaimón."
Alakshándu pursed his lips in distaste. "This lack of divine approval is worrisome, I will admit, especially the threefold repetition of it. However, my youngest son has sent encouraging word from T'ráki. Let us not forget that. Pitqána's messenger said that the paramount chieftain would be here soon with his fellow tribesmen. Perhaps the gods are only delaying our victory so that chief Hrósa will have his opportunity to earn glory."
&n
bsp; "It is possible," Antánor admitted. "Still, Pitqána's message came at midsummer and still Hrósa is not here. For T'ráki, winter is the dead season, if you will recall. So it is conceivable that the barbarians are waiting for the first snows. We cannot depend upon them arriving in time to save us." The assembly turned silent eyes on the stocky king.
Alakshándu sighed. "Yes, I suppose you could be right about that. Very well, then. I have made my decision. My son, Dapashánda, will go to the Ak'áyan camp at dawn to negotiate a peaceful end to this war. We will not surrender all that Paqúr has taken. We must keep a portion of the booty, to show our strength. But we will return the other part as a peace offering. Dapashánda will offer the Lakedaimóniyan treasure and the serving women. But we will keep the 'Elléniyan queen as a token of our greater status."
Murmurs and nods of approval echoed through the stone-walled chamber. Antánor rose, a smile on his face, to address the elders once more.
But Alakshándu had not finished. "I have instructed Dapashánda to suggest a short truce, in the event that the Ak'áyans refuse our generous offer," the king went on. "We need time to burn our dead, at the very least. The Ak'áyans have the same need. Two phases of the moon should be more than enough time for all the funerals. If the gods are with us, Hrósa will reach our shores by that time. But hear me, Antánor. If we have only the short truce when Dapashánda returns, you must not spread dissatisfaction with talk of giving up. My officers must tell the troops not to weep when they collect the dead from the battlefield. We cannot afford to seem weak, lamenting like women."
CHAPTER TWELVE
DOLON
Odushéyu led Dapashánda to Agamémnon's tent just after sunrise. Both men rode in the Tróyan's chariot, under the branches of laurel that guaranteed divine protection to the prince's mission. At the overlord's fireside, the lawagétas gathered to hear the envoy's message, their spirits much relieved to see the holy boughs. No one was eager for another battle just then.
The young prince Dapashánda stood tall before the Ak'áyan officers and announced loudly, "Agamémnon and men of Ak'áiwiya, my lord Alakshándu and the royal family of Wilúsiya send you this message. It was our prince Paqúr who began this quarrel because of what he brought to Tróya in his longboats. Now he offers to give back all the Lakedaimóniyan bronze. Take this generous peace offering, Ak'áyans, and go home."
The troop leaders looked at each other, most with delight, a few dismayed. One by one, they turned to Meneláwo, sitting hunched beside the overlord's fire. "What about Ariyádna?" the Lakedaimóniyan wánaks asked, looking up at the envoy with darkly circled eyes. "Will your prince give back my wánasha?" His voice was low, tinged with pain, and with weariness from little sleep. But there was a hard edge to it.
Taking in the scene at the hearth, the pale faces and marked limbs, Dapashánda answered with an arrogant smirk, "No. He refuses."
"Then I will send him down the Stuks!" Meneláwo growled, stepping forward with unexpected energy to attack the messenger. Wide-eyed, Dapashánda stumbled backward. Nervously, he held out the laurel boughs, warding off the angry king's blows. Odushéyu and Aíwaks came forward and caught the Lakedaimóniyan wánaks by the arms to keep him from the Tróyan.
"It is sacrilege to attack a man carrying the god's symbol," Aíwaks hissed in Meneláwo's ear.
Odushéyu added, "Remember what happened when your brother offended the island priest."
"What is your answer, wánaks Agamémnon?" Dapashánda asked, his lips and voice quivering.
Néstor stepped between the nervous prince and the Ak'áyan overlord. "This is a reasonable offer the Tróyans are making," said the older king with measured words. "We should not refuse without first discussing the matter. I will give you my own opinion immediately. Yesterday's battle was not decisive and time is running out for us. I say we accept this resolution and go home in peace."
Though Meneláwo's face darkened and he cursed the ancestors of all Mesheníyans, Néstor's lips curled in a confident smile. No one else had stepped forward to voice approval, but it was clear from their faces that a large number of troop leaders agreed with the older king. Dapashánda began to breathe more easily. All sat hushed and still, waiting on Agamémnon as he stroked his heavy beard, looking the messenger up and down.
Diwoméde had fidgeted at the back of the assembled men, with difficulty suppressing his urge to speak. The faces of the kings were as easily read by his eyes as by Dapashánda's. Finally, he jumped up, unable to contain himself, as the overlord delayed his decision. "No honorable man would accept treasure from the Tróyans now!" the qasiléyu cried. "Assúwa must be on the verge of defeat, or this messenger would not have come." He pointed excitedly at the young prince, who again stepped back with anxious eyes.
Néstor frowned and several northern kings rebuked this breach of etiquette. But Odushéyu agreed loudly. "Diwoméde is right." Tall Aíwaks, still basking in the glow of the men's admiration, trilled the war cry to show his own support for the younger qasiléyu. Despite his earlier reservations, Idómeneyu joined his Lakedaimóniyan friend, taking a stand silently at the southern king’s side. After a moment's hesitation, the northern lawagétas stood with Aíwaks, taking Meneláwo's side as a body. In a brief moment, Néstor stood alone.
The overlord rose and stepped forward, closer to the fire, eyes gleaming. "Tróyan, you have your answer," Agamémnon said, menacingly close to the trembling prince. Staring into Dapashánda's eyes without blinking, the high wánaks plucked the dried branches from the young man's hands and dropped them on the ground. The young envoy gasped and shakily made the sign of the Evil Eye.
Agamémnon laughed, knowing that the hearts of his troop leaders were in their mouths at his bold gesture. "But we will not harm you." The mirth disappeared almost instantly at the powerful king’s tone. Grim again, the high wánaks added, "Not today. Tell your king that Ak'áiwiya remains his enemy. We are ready to do battle again as soon as he is. Since the dead must be dealt with, we grant him a truce. But for two days only! On the morning of the third day, we will be back on the plain with our spears and swords. Now go!" He gave the shaken prince a push in the right direction. Pale and shivering, Dapashánda went quickly, without another word.
Agamémnon began giving orders even before the envoy's chariot began to move. "Diwoméde and Aíwaks, divide the men into two work parties. Diwoméde, you will take the carpenters to the hills to collect wood for the funeral pyres. Aíwaks, have the navigators drive the wagons to the plain to bring the dead. Keep the P'ilístas and Zeugelátes separated, men. I will tolerate no fighting among Ak'áyans. Our unity must be demonstrated in everything we do. Do not allow the men to make any loud lamentations, either. We do not want the enemy to think us a bunch of women."
aaa
At dawn, Ak'illéyu walked slowly to the shoreline, between the two headlands that cradled Tróya. His long hair was matted, his kilt dirty. The sea was dull and quiet, the air already unpleasantly warm. The young wánaks frowned up at the sky, his back to the eastern dawn. He made no salute to the rising sun that morning.
Behind him came the sound of heavy wheels, solid circles of wood, crushing the dry grass. Lazily, he turned to see what was going on. Wagons pulled by teams of four donkeys had begun to leave the camp. With a satisfied grunt, he turned back to the sea, and thought about walking out a little further into the water to bathe. But he decided against it. It had pleased 'Iqodámeya when he washed. Without her, he had little incentive. Ak'illéyu remained on the shore, staring at the sea, his thoughts as dark as the water far out at sea.
Patróklo came to find him before long. "Ak'illéyu, come and eat."
"I am not hungry," spat the young wánaks. He shrugged impatiently.
Patróklo squatted beside his leader, ignoring the ill humor in his voice. "There will be no fighting today. I spoke with Meneláwo's charioteer. St'énelo says that there will be a truce to take care of the dead. There are many of them."
Ak'illéyu did not reply.
"Will we head for home today?" asked his qasiléyu, scratching in the sand, not daring to look Ak'illéyu in the eye.
The T'eshalíyan prince answered irritably, "I have not decided. Home does not tempt me. What is there in T'eshalíya but border skirmishes with Párpariyans and T'rákiyans?"
Patróklo shrugged. "Your father would like to see you married."
He thought of that, briefly. "I had a wife, once, remember? She was fourteen when I married her, you know. Fifteen when she died, giving birth to Púrwo. She was a thin, little thing, not at all good looking. Not like 'Iqodámeya…." Ak'illéyu's face grew hard, his teeth clenched.
Hastily, the qasiléyu changed the subject. "What about your son? How old is Púrwo now?"
"Ai, about fifteen." With a shock, Ak'illéyu realized the child was now as old as the mother had been when she died. The thought was oddly disturbing.
Patróklo suggested, "We could go to Sqúro, and begin to train the boy in the arts of war. I am sure your father-in-law would still welcome you, even after all these years. He must be getting a little old for teaching a grandson to be a warrior."
