Golden Mukenai (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  Like waves crashing against stony cliffs, the Assúwans rushed ahead only to be driven back from the earthen walls by Ak'áyan archers. All about the beleaguered Ak'áyan camp, Qántili drove his chariot, slashing with his heavy sword at the stragglers who remained outside the walls, looking for an opening. The prince directed his cart twice around the encampment, his horses trampling the dead and their battered shields along the way. The wheel rims splashed through dark liquid, flinging drops upward to stain the driver and the rider above. The horses' legs were soon painted black with blood from their hooves to their shoulders.

  aaa

  Ak'illéyu climbed to the thickly thatched roof of his hut to watch the nearing army. Out of the crowd of warriors on the northern edge of the encampment, three men came slowly toward the T'eshalíyan section. The man in the middle of the trio sagged between the other two, each of whom took an arm to help him walk. Ak'illéyu watched until they reached a tent in the Attikan section and disappeared inside. The T'eshalíyan prince called down, "Patróklo!"

  His qasiléyu came from the hut below, a dagger in his hands. "What do you want, wánaks?"

  Ak'illéyu told him, "Things are looking grim for the Ak'áyans. They will soon come to embrace my knees and beg me to rejoin them."

  Patróklo stared up, anguish written on his face. "And will you fight?"

  The prince ignored the question. "I saw three men enter Mak'áwon's tent just now. Go and see who they are. I think Néstor was one, but I am not sure. I did not get a good look."

  Patróklo sighed, but did as his commander wished, trotting along the paths among the huts and tents. Around him T'eshalíyans nervously fingered their weapons, donning what little armor they owned, and milling about their section of camp, watching the men of other nations come and go. Seeing Patróklo go by, they assumed that their commander’s mind had changed. They began to prepare in earnest, collecting their best gear for war.

  But the qasiléyu passed his countrymen without speaking, much less giving any orders and jogged on toward Mak'áwon's tent, not far away. Inside the Attikan surgeon's shelter, he discovered that the Mesheníyan king was indeed one of the three that Ak'illéyu had seen. The old man stood leaning on the center post of the tent, his armor and kilt darkly stained. Beside him knelt the northern surgeon, Mak'áwon. The last of the trio lay on his side on a pallet of sheepskins, sweat-drenched and groaning, as Mak'áwon examined his foot.

  "Here, Diwoméde," the Attikan told him. "Have a drink to restore your strength." He gestured to his youthful captive woman. "Lift his head, Dáuniya, and let him have a sip from the poppy jar."

  "You cannot leave us for the Stuks yet, boy," Néstor wheezed to the young qasiléyu. "We need you."

  "Ai, this is not such a bad wound," Diwoméde responded, managing a wan smile. "Just wrap it in linen, give me a poppy juglet, and I will be ready to fight again." But the gash in his foot bled freely and his uninjured limbs trembled. Sweat ran down his face and body, washing pale swaths in the dirt.

  Mak'áwon turned again to the young woman. "Pour us all some wine, Dáuniya. Put in a little poppy essence to strengthen all our hearts."

  "Yes, qasiléyu," Dáuniya responded, a little breathless, and she turned to a small row of jugs beside the tent-flap. As she mixed the water, wine, and viscous opium in a large bowl, she cast sidelong glances at the wounded man.

  "Where did you get the woman?" Patróklo asked. His voice startled the others, who, intent on their own situation, had not noticed the T'eshalíyan. "She is too dark-headed to be an Assúwan."

  Mak'áwon looked up from his patient with veiled eyes. "T'érsite gave her to me."

  Patróklo stared at the Attikan in disbelief. "But you are a lawagéta and T'érsite is only a foot-soldier. How can a man of low rank give such a valuable thing to an officer not of his own nation?"

  A short, bitter laugh burst from Néstor's dry lips. "Agamémnon did not know about it until she was in Mak'áwon's hands. If the overlord had made an issue of it then, all the P'ilístas would have fallen away."

  Patróklo shook his head. "It is too bad Agamémnon did not show such self-control in dealing with Ak'illéyu."

  The wounded qasiléyu moaned as Mak'áwon began washing blood from Diwoméde's foot in a bowl of freshly drawn sea water. Néstor sat heavily and accepted the double-handled cup that Dáuniya held out to him. The young woman set a cup of heavy bronze in Mak'áwon's filthy hands and offered Patróklo another. But Néstor jerked the drinking vessel from the captive's hand before the T'eshalíyan could take it. The Mesheníyan wánaks drank deeply from both vessels, nervously looking back toward the tent flap.

  Boldly, Dáuniya stared at the gray-haired king, not bothering to hide her contempt. Only at Mak'áwon's grunt and gesture did she go to her master's side to assist with Diwoméde's wound and bring the young man more to drink.

  Patróklo shuffled his feet, uncomfortable. "I cannot stay. Ak'illéyu sent me to find out who was injured. Now I see it is Diwoméde."

  Néstor shouted angrily, "Why should Ak'illéyu want to know who was hurt? He obviously cares nothing for the fate of the Ak'áyan arm!. Most of our best men are wounded and out of action, not just this hero. On our way to Mak'áwon's tent we passed Odushéyu, with blood running from his side. Agamémnon himself may lose his arm. Meneláwo has been fighting again, today, in spite of the wound he took in single combat. He will probably die before the month is over. And I do not even know whether my own son still lives. I have not seen Antílok'o for some time. Ai gar, Ak'illéyu has no concern for any of Diwiyána's people!"

  "Néstor," Patróklo began, turning to leave. "I do not want to be discourteous to an older man. But I cannot listen to this. Ak'illéyu is my foster brother and my commander."

  The wánaks of Mesheníya was flushed with wine and the aftermath of fear. His tongue would not be stopped. "Then, tell us about him. Why is Ak'illéyu waiting here?" the aging king demanded. "To see our longboats burning in the harbor, no doubt, and to watch us die, one by one. Ai, if only I were young again, I myself would turn the tide of battle. When the men of Enwáli raided our pasture lands, I killed their champion with a single spear thrust. Not only did we recover our own stolen cattle, but we also took the best of their cows, many flocks of sheep, droves of swine, and, best of all, horses! We came back to Púlo with over a hundred mares that day. That was my first act of war. Ai, I remember it as if it were only yesterday!"

  Mak'áwon rolled his eyes and Patróklo shifted his weight impatiently from one foot to the other. "Wánaks," the T'eshalíyan said. "I must go."

  Néstor ignored the words. He waved his arm, spilling wine as he continued, "That is how a true warrior behaves. But Ak'illéyu is not the same kind of man I was. He fights only for his own glory, not for a just cause."

  "Néstor!" Patróklo cried, distressed. "I do not want to hear any more."

  The tumult beyond Mak'áwon's tent flap rose in volume. Stirred by the sound and fortified by the poppy-tinged wine, the old man's voice rose higher. "Ak'illéyu is a more powerful fighter than you and higher in rank. But you are older and wiser, Patróklo. Your first duty is to give your prince good counsel, to command him if you must. It may not be too late. Go now to Ak'illéyu. Convince him to rejoin us. If anyone can make him listen, it is you."

  Patróklo clapped his hands to his head. "I cannot tell Ak'illéyu what to do, my lord! He says that Diwiyána herself gripped him by the hair and whispered in his ear, the day he quarreled with Agamémnon. The goddess would turn against him if he fought now."

  A groan burst from Néstor's lips. He threw down both wine cups and struck his thighs with his bloodied hands. "Idé! What does that young pup know of gods?"

  As Dáuniya bandaged the wounded man's foot, Diwoméde raised himself on his elbow. "Patróklo, listen to me. Tell Ak'illéyu to keep his oath, if he must, and stay in his hut. But let him send you with his troops to aid us. I saw the T'eshalíyans arming. They are ready. You and your fresh warriors could easily drive the Assú
wans back to the citadel. They are as tired as we are."

  The frown that had creased Patróklo's forehead since the day of the quarrel now lifted. "I will go at once!"

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  PATROKLO

  As Mak'áwon tended the wounded qasiléyu, the Ak'áyans at the wall fought desperately to turn back yet another Assúwan assault. Qántili called upon his men with a voice grown hoarse from shouting, "Charge forward, Wilúsiyans! Breach that wall!"

  At the prince's side, his driver gripped his arm. "Qántili!" Powolúdama cried, "we must pull back. There is no room to fight between those stakes, much less to drive a chariot. The Ak'áyans had time to regroup while we were crossing the river. Their wall is well defended. We will be slaughtered like lambs." As if they shared Powolúdama's thoughts, the Assúwan horses shied and most of the men hesitated before the rows of sharpened stakes.

  His eyes wild, Qántili shook off his charioteer. "Horsemen, line up your carts, here, where the spears cannot reach you," the prince commanded, as if Powolúdama had not spoken. "Archers, take the place of your officers in the chariots. Shoot over the heads of our spearmen and thin the ranks of the Ak'áyans on that wall. Foot soldiers, follow me. Forward, men, to the rampart!" With these words, Qántili leaped from his chariot to lead the men on foot, his shield up to ward off the incoming arrows that Argive archers were even then sending from the top of the rampart wall. Sharpaduwánna, oblivious of his wound, soon led his Lúkiyans close behind the prince.

  Fighting blazed all along the northern perimeter of the Ak'áyan encampment. Spears thrust down from the heights of the rampart to pierce leather helmets and crack heads. Qántili's men halted, unable to press forward against the steady rain of missiles, their shields riddled with arrows. Yet again, the Assúwans had to pull back. In the brief lull that followed, Powolúdama pulled at Qántili's arm a second time.

  "My prince," the charioteer said urgently. "I know you do not like to listen to me, even in assembly. But I must speak my mind. The eagle we saw this morning came from our left. That was an evil sign. Wilúsiya is in great danger. Any seer would tell you the same thing."

  Qántili frowned beneath his dented helmet. Turning flashing eyes on his driver, he shouted, "You are right, Powolúdama! I do not like to hear what you have to say. The maináds have caught you, dog. You expect me to put my faith in birds? I do not care whether they fly to the right or the left. I have no need for omens. The Ak'áyans are almost beaten. Now, defend your homeland!" He placed the point of his spear at the charioteer's neck. "And if you make one soldier hesitate with this kind of talk, you are a dead man."

  With a hoarse shout, the prince turned and pressed forward with ever greater vigor. Others followed. Those in the front ranks held their shields over their heads and those behind crouched beneath. Under this cover, they set their bronze blades against the Ak'áyans' wall, digging at the hardened earth with their spear points. Before long, they knew they would open a gap.

  aaa

  "What is happening?" asked the aging king of Mesheníya, as he and Patróklo left the surgeon's tent.

  The sounds of battle were very close, men shouting in anger and in fear, curses and prayers rising all around them. Chaos met their eyes, men running in every direction, captive women screaming hysterically. Néstor told the younger man beside him, "They must have breached the rampart. Go quickly!" Hurriedly the Mesheníyan took up a spear and shield from beside the Attikan tent, practically dancing in place in his anxiety, uncertain where to turn. As Patróklo ran toward his prince's dwelling, the old king spotted Agamémnon and Odushéyu trudging toward Mak'áwon's tent. Both kings walked painfully, leaning on the butt-ends of their spears.

  As they came near, Néstor heard Agamémnon lament, "All the Ak'áyans have betrayed me, all of them, not just Ak'illéyu."

  Néstor ignored the outburst and demanded, "Is the rampart holding? Where is it hardest hit? How can we tell where to send our best men?"

  Agamémnon pressed his painful arm close to his side. "Qántili is either digging under the wall or prying out an opening with his spear. For all I know, he has sent for axes from the fortress so that he can chop through our gate. Our situation is hopeless."

  "If we can just hold out until nightfall, we can carry our boats down to the water and board our ships," Néstor responded, sweating. "We can row past the headland there and drop anchor off the coast. That should not be too dangerous. We can wait there for sunrise, before setting sail for home. There is no shame in retreating when the gods are against you. There is no glory in being captured."

  Diwoméde, feeling the effects of the poppy returning, staggered from the Attikan tent. "Leave?" he demanded. "After all this time and so many lives lost? Wánaks, no man lives forever. You are contemptible! The Tróyans may be winning but such a retreat would give them even greater glory."

  Odushéyu added, "We are ruined anyway, Néstor. We cannot possibly hold out that long. And if by some miracle we did, the Wilúsiyans would not back off when darkness fell. Not this time. Neither would the Lúkiyans. I would bet an ingot of copper on it. No, what we need is a plan. What do we have to negotiate with?"

  Agamémnon shook his shaggy head. "Ai, Odushéyu, so even you accept defeat now. But I do not think the Wilúsiyans will accept any kind of bargaining at this point. They are too close to victory. No, Néstor makes good sense to me. What else can we do but run?"

  Diwoméde spoke, his voice strong. "Agamémnon, I may be the youngest lawagéta here, but do not ignore me. I have a plan. And it is very simple. I say, we may be wounded but we are not dead. So let us return to the battle. As Néstor says, there is no glory in captivity. I saw the Lúkiyan king fighting in spite of a wound, earlier. Ak'áyans can do the same thing. I say, give the order that every man fights to the death!"

  Néstor was shocked. "It is against the laws of Diwiyána for the injured to do battle. I have heard many men condemn Meneláwo for that very impropriety. The foot soldiers will not be pleased to see us fighting, against every custom, and the gods will be even less impressed."

  The high wánaks looked at his bloodied arm and groaned. "Néstor, I am not concerned with propriety. Our survival is at stake! I hate to admit it, but Diwoméde is right. Night is still a long way off. Those ships in the harbor might as well be burning for all the good they do us in this situation! As long as we can hold our spears, we should fight. And if we cannot do that, at least we can stand at the back and keep up the spirits of those in front. It is true that no one lives forever, as true of Assúwans as it is of Ak'áyans." The stirring words encouraged his companions and they turned toward the embattled walls, stopping only to accept the poppy jars that Mak'áwon and Dáuniya offered them.

  Coming up behind his belabored troops, the overlord called out encouragement. "Hang on, men! Do not let Qántili take the camp. Any man is fresh and has a light shield, give it to a man who is tired and take his heavy shield. If you cannot fight any harder, give your gear to someone who can." The wounded lawagétas roamed up and down, giving commands, pointing out weak spots, encouraging the men to continue. Interspersing orders with sips from their poppy juglets, Diwoméde, Odushéyu, Néstor, and Agamémnon begged the strong to remain in the fight, and threatened the fearful with worse violence if they turned away.

  As the Wilúsiyans worked at undermining the rampart, Sharpaduwánna led a wave of Lúkiyans in an attempt to scale it. These southern warriors forced their way to the earthen wall, trampling the corpses of their enemies and allies. The first to reach it bent down on their hands and knees so that their brothers could climb on their backs.

  On the top of the wall, seeing those fierce warriors coming, Idómeneyu shivered with fright. A Lúkiyan stood on the back of one of his companions, startling the Kep'túriyan as his felt-capped head rose above the wall. Idómeneyu had no time to draw his sword and there was no room to wield his long spear. Dropping his weapons, he pulled up a loose brick from the top of the wall and beat in the Lúkiyan's skull with it. Th
e dead man fell backward, knocking two of his countrymen to the ground as he went.

  Beside Idómeneyu, T'érsite took up the spear that the Kep'túriyan had dropped and beat back a second Lúkiyan with blows of the shaft. A string of arrows soon followed from a bow in Idómeneyu's hands, driving more Assúwan bodies down to the earth, and their souls to the Stuks. The Lúkiyan leader himself now mounted the wall and, instead of trying to climb over it, tore away the stones lining the top. Aíwaks struck with his spear at Sharpaduwánna's bronze-rimmed shield but did not penetrate the metal and leather. The felt-capped king fell back, unhurt but for bruises and the injury to his honor.

  "My fellow Lúkiyans!" the furious king shouted to his men. "Where are you? I cannot do it alone. Fight like the storm god. Tarqún!" Men in conical hats gathered around him with renewed fervor. The Ak'áyans battled feverishly, barely able to stem the flow of enemies gaining the top of the rampart wall. Díwo's celestial chariot poured unwelcome heat on many sweating backs as the men toiled, but no commander moved to call for a truce.