by Diana Gainer
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On that distant, western shore, the people who had not sailed to Tróya toiled at their own labors. A long procession of men, four rows abreast, lined an unpaved road running north and south. The columns of men pulled at ropes of twisted flax, leaning until their heads nearly touched the ground. Their ropes were tied to massive blocks of limestone, each roughly the height of a man. The stones rested on wooden sledges, fifty men hauling each one to the foreman's chanted rhythm. All but the chanter were naked, their dark, curly hair and beards clipped short and drenched with sweat from the hard work.
Atop each sledge knelt a half-grown boy, pouring water over the front of the construction of logs as it was dragged over the road. Wetting both the sledge and the wooden planks embedded in the earth beneath, the salty liquid reduced the friction, making the hard work a little easier. As the crews progressed, the boys periodically exchanged empty water jars for full ones, borne on the heads of an accompanying line of women. A brisk wind tossed the women's ankle-length skirts and their long hair, braided to keep it out of their eyes. They had to use their hands to balance the jugs on their heads because of that wind. As each woman delivered her full jar and took up the empty one, she walked quickly back toward where the procession had begun at dawn. There, a small collection of two-wheeled carts waited, loaded down with filled jars. The oxen harnessed to these little wagons were thin, their ribs and backbones protruding. They hung their heads listlessly as they waited to be driven forward. Beneath the watchful eyes of two aging warriors, the women took up fresh burdens. Without pausing, the workers turned again toward the great stones being dragged up an earthen ramp.
The foreman of the work crew chanted in a loud sing-song from where he stood, alone, at the foot of the ramp that led from the road to the top of low wall. When the massive blocks reached the edge of the wall, the foreman directed the workers with a great deal of shouting and arm-waving, as they levered the stones from the sledge to the wall. He nodded in satisfaction at the progress of the workers, as each stone was added to the slowly rising wall that crossed the land. The lower courses of the great barrier completely crossed the narrow isthmus that kept the eastern sea from meeting the western. This day or the next would see the completion of a second course of stones. Barely visible in the distance, masons were at their work on top of the previous day's section of wall. There they smoothed the upper surface of the second row of blocks with chisels of bronze and flint. When one of the stone-workers seemed to turn in his direction, the foreman waved, beckoning them to come.
The foreman called for the rope-pullers to stop for a moment, as he waited for the masons to arrive. Gratefully, the men released the stout ropes and stood, panting, their hands on their knees. The foreman's long hair was repeatedly swept into his eyes by the breeze, as he stood waiting. His sole garment, a kilt of striped linen, was lifted again and again. In irritation, the man cursed, "To 'Aidé with this wind!" But even as he said the words, he glanced nervously to the east, over the nearby sea. The waters were calm and the sky above, clear. Still his forehead was furrowed with concern.
Two of the kilted masons walked toward the men, across the top of the completed section of the wall. With more shouts and gestures, they had the men lever the massive blocks still closer together, filling any gaps with smaller rocks. When completed, the wall would not allow even a flat knife blade to pass between the stones.
On the other side of the anxious foreman, additional women were at work, carrying baskets of earth, raising the ramp that would allow the men to work on the next section of the wall, closest to the sea. Following the slow and steady rhythm of their work songs, the women bent down in the surrounding empty fields. Barefoot, dressed only in linen skirts, they scraped dirt into wide-rimmed baskets, and bore them on their heads toward the shore. Others carried long, flat boards to press into the loose earth of the ramp.
The women had their own foreman, who stood at the foot of the new section of the growing ramp, urging on the slackers with shouts and an occasional blow from his walking staff. Like the men's overseer, he sported long hair and a patterned kilt. The wind troubled him as well and he struggled against it to keep a wool cloak around his shoulders.
As the day wore on, the work songs that had rung out from early morning fell into silence. The only sounds from men and women alike were grunts of effort and labored breathing. Blocks of stone inched up the ramp more slowly. Women bearing water jars and baskets of earth on their heads moved less quickly. The overseers' voices coarsened from shouting.
At last, the foremen gave the signal that all longed for, the call to rest. The men dropped their ropes and levers wherever they were and found places to sit or lie down. They sought flat areas below the wall, on the dry grass beyond the margins of the road. The women laid their baskets down on the unfinished ramp and made their way back to the supply wagons. From the sturdy carts, with their wicker sides and solid wheels, the women took up wineskins. Throwing these over their shoulders, they carried the refreshment to the workmen. Before the women, the men knelt in turn, their heads tilted back, to receive their wine portions in their open mouths. Each woman made a spout, untying the leather cord at one end of the bag. She controlled the flow of the liquid by pressing the leather between her thumb and forefinger. The women pressed the spouts closed and raised them many times, as the men's thirsty lips closed around the last, red drops. Only after all the men had been given their rations did the women sip their own. Under the ever-suspicious eyes of the overseers, the women tied the bags closed again and returned them to the carts. Then they, too, rested.
The women's foreman wandered over to join the men's overseer, calling, "Ai, Ark'esílawo, how long do you think it will be before we finish the wall?"
The men's foreman scratched his beard and fingered his clean-shaven upper lip before answering. "That depends on the weather, of course. If it does not rain, I expect we will finish before the winter solstice. What do you think, Poluqónta?"
Both men looked up at the sky, shading their dark eyes with their hands. Poluqónta growled in annoyance as the wind tore the black cloak from his body and tossed it to the ground behind him. He recovered the garment, shaking it to remove the clinging dried grass, and wrapped himself once again. "By Diwiyána, this wind has chilled me to my bones," he complained, shivering.
Ark'esílawo laughed. "You talk like an old man. It is not that cold."
The two foremen sat cross-legged on the yellowed grass beside the road, gazing over the eastern sea. The water was dark and restless, with many white-capped waves. "I have seen no hint of the ships," Poluqónta sighed. "Do you think that wánaks Agamémnon will be back in Argo before the winter storms begin?"
"Why ask me?" Ark'esílawo grunted with another anxious glance out over the empty sea. "I thought he would be home by the end of the summer and here it is the middle of autumn."
Poluqónta nodded gloomily. "Yes, no one expected him to be gone long, not with that great army. With so many soldiers and chariots, he should have been able to sack every city on the coast of Assúwa. Ai gar, perhaps that is why he is so late. He burned so many towns and took so much plunder, his warriors can hardly row the ships back across the Inner Sea."
Ark'esílawo put a dry blade of grass in his mouth and chewed, squinting again at the clear sky. "Or it may be that the Assúwans prevailed and burned his ships. It is just as likely that he is in bondage across the sea, held for ransom. After all, his was not the greatest army in the world. People say that the Náshiyan emperor has ten hundred chariots and ten times as many men."
Now it was Poluqónta who laughed. "People tell many unbelievable stories, my friend. I do not know what force Agamémnon met in Assúwa. But I saw how many he took with him and Ak'áiwiya has never fielded a greater army."
His companion nodded, but his face was grim. "Yes, it was large. But what does that mean? Half the men were not professional soldiers, just shepherds and carpenters, potters and farmers. Who can say how such men wil
l fight? What madness possessed him to take commoners? That was never our custom, whatever the Assúwans and Mízriyans may do across the seas. No, war is the occupation of the high born, the harvest that of the low born. Look what a heavy price the land has paid for that army. There were not enough able-bodied men left at home to bring in the full barley crop. Ai, if Agamémnon had to take so many, he should at least have waited until the end of spring."
Poluqónta shivered again, huddled in his cloak. "You are right about that. He should have returned in time for the autumn sowing, too. I am afraid this harvest will be no better than the last, even if it rains enough this winter. Owái, two harvests lost in a row! And the one before was meager enough. The storerooms of the citadels are nearly empty. Argo has fallen on hard times."
"Idé, what talk is this?" Ark'esílawo snapped, giving the other overseer an angry shove. "We have only sown this year's wheat and already you call the harvest lost. Are you trying to turn Díwo's Evil Eye against us?" He quickly pointed his thumb, forefinger, and small finger at his companion and shot nervous glances at the sky. "It may yet rain this winter, if Díwo so chooses."
"I am only saying what every man with any sense knows, Ark'esílawo," the women's foreman sighed. "I have seen the depleted storerooms with my own eyes. Ai, the wánasha has done what she could for the kingdom, taking her own slaves out of the flax fields, putting them to work alongside the country people. But captive women, even those used to hard work, cannot do as much as the men they are replacing. Queen Klutaimnéstra knows that Argo is in trouble, even if you do not."
Ark'esílawo regarded the other man with scorn. "It is the wánasha Klutaimnéstra herself who is in trouble. Argo will be fine, as long as Agamémnon comes home alive."
Poluqónta stared, perplexed. "Why should the wánasha be in trouble? Did she not send Díwo's priest to the sacred grove? Did he not spend nine days praying for rain on Aígina's holy mountain? Has the queen not given over her own serving women, her bath pourers, to carry water and wine for the men, here? No, the queen has done all she can. Just look at this wall. What is its purpose, if not to protect us Argives?"
Again, his companion was unimpressed. "Protect us from what? From the north? When Agamémnon sailed away, he had the support of troops from all of Ak'áiwiya, the north as well as the south. What could possibly happen all the way across the sea to fill the queen with fear of Attika? Ai gar, that is a weak country, backward and impoverished. Attika could never hope to threaten the most powerful kingdom in Ak'áiwiya. By the goddess, use some sense! Attika's old wánaks is Agamémnon's ally."
"Ai, but that is the way of the world, is it not?" Poluqónta asked, not expecting an answer. "When men go away to war, they leave their wives and children vulnerable to attack at home. A woman alone has as much to fear from her husband's ally as from his enemy. Wánaks Erékt'eyu would never lead Attika against us while Agamémnon was here. You are right about that. But, with Klutaimnéstra ruling in her husband's absence, there is no telling what he might do. After all, the other wánaktes themselves led their troops to Tróya. But Erékt'eyu only sent some of his men with one of his qasiléyus. Why else would he stay in Attika, if not to take advantage of Agamémnon's absence and make war on Argo?"
Ark'esílawo dismissed that with an impatient wave of his hand. "You have spent too much time among your serving women. You are starting to sound like one."
Poluqónta retorted testily, "But there is this wall as evidence! If there is no danger from our northern neighbor, why build this?"
His companion still shook his head. "The drought is Argo's real problem and the wánasha does not want to face what that means. But it is clear to every man and woman in the kingdom. The gods are angry."
Poluqónta agreed. "Yes, but who angered them, Klutaimnéstra or Agamémnon? I say it was the wánaks. He must have done some great evil across the sea."
"And I say it must be the wánasha," Ark'esílawo retorted heatedly. "Look at her behavior since Agamémnon left. She has taken her husband's cousin into her house. I tell you, if Diwiyána withholds rain this winter, it will be to punish Klutaimnéstra's adultery. Remember the dead season after the last harvest. Did you ever see a summer as hot as the last one? More babies died than ever before in a single season. It was not only the people who suffered, either, or perhaps you were not aware of this. The boys drove the flocks to the mountains early, but still there was not enough pasturage to keep them all healthy. Scarcely half the lambs born last spring survived the summer. What else could cause such deadly heat, if not the queen's sins? After all, we always prospered under Agamémnon. And under his father before him, for that matter. No, I tell you, if the king returns, Argo will flourish again. It will be just like when Divine Kórwa returns to her mother, and the earth blossoms again after the dead of summer."
"No, no, the wánasha is blameless," Poluqónta insisted stubbornly. "She took Aígist'o into the palace to help her govern. That is all. A woman needs a man's counsel. The queen is no adulteress, I am sure. As much as I long for Agamémnon's return, I cannot help blaming him for Argo's misfortunes. He was wrong to take so many commoners across the sea and wrong again to leave so early. That must be what angered the gods."
Ark'esílawo would have argued, but Poluqónta quickly went on, his voice rising to drown out the other's. "It is just as clear that Klutaimnéstra is the one to appease the gods, too. She will send Aígist'o to the holy mountain again this spring. He will pray at the sacred stream and dip an oak branch into the water, as custom demands. Then a mist will rise, clouds will form, and there will be rain once more, all over Argo. It cannot fail. Of course, there must be an auspicious sacrifice also. It will have to be better than last year's, too, something more valuable than a ram, to regain Díwo's good will."
"Idé, you are right about that. Whoever angered the gods, a good sacrifice will surely appease them. It will have to be an ox this time, no doubt, a bull for the Divine Bull." Ark'esílawo felt his spirits lift at the thought.
Poluqónta remained somber. "Perhaps another princess will have to die."
His companion quickly brushed that idea aside. "No, no, there is no need to go to extremes. Ip'emédeya's death was an extraordinary thing. A man does not see a human sacrifice more than once in a lifetime."
The other man pulled his cloak up about his ears. "I hope you are right." The two sat in silence for a time, watching the empty sea, as the male and female laborers slept, sprawled across the fields on both sides of the road. Poluqónta glanced at the wall, where the long-haired masons, too, were resting. "Tell me, though, Ark'esílawo," he began, uncertainly. "How do you explain this wall? If Attika is not our enemy, as you claim, and if Klutaimnéstra is to blame for our troubles, why are we building this? Why would the queen give up all her serving women for such a big, useless project?"
"To keep the people busy," Ark'esílawo answered easily, stretching out full length on the cracked ground. "Klutaimnéstra does not want people to sit about idle when they are hungry. They would begin to ask each other why times are so hard. They would have to answer that the queen is to blame. With her husband away and few soldiers remaining, she could easily be driven from the palace at Mukénai. So, rather than see her subjects turn against her, she puts them to work, making them dependents of the palace. She feeds them servants' rations to satisfy their bellies, and gives them walls to raise to keep their hands and minds busy. If we finish here and Agamémnon is still not home, she will set us to work on a fortress somewhere. We will enlarge the circuit walls, or add storerooms, or even rearrange the graves of the ancestors. It does not matter what the specific task is, so long as it keeps the people busy."
Poluqónta looked doubtful.
"Just think about last spring in Mukénai," Ark'esílawo continued. "Did you ever hear such lamenting at a harvest festival?"
Poluqónta frowned. "It is the custom to mourn the death of lady Kórwa in the spring."
Ark'esílawo gripped his companion's arm. "But did you ever
hear such dirges? Ai, the women lamented as wildly as T'rákiyan barbarians. And what a procession came through Mukénai afterward! That was part of no festival, no custom. Farmers and herdsmen poured into the capital city. These men were not latecomers, either, responding to Agamémnon's demand for more soldiers. No, they brought their families and all their possessions with them, and they came from every outlying region. Remember those wagons rattling, drawn by oxen that were hardly more than walking skeletons? Those were refugees, my friend, people ruined by drought. Many were from as far away as Enwáli and Arkadíya. What would these people have done if Klutaimnéstra had carried on her life as normal? Would those starving Ak'áyans have sat idly by, watching the queen's captive weavers growing fat on palace rations? Do you think the farmers would have allowed their remaining livestock to die of thirst, while the queen's serving women filed past with jar after jar of water for her bath? No, of course they would not!
"I tell you, Poluqónta, Attika is not our enemy. This drought is a sign of the gods' anger with the wánasha. And she knows it. She is serving her own interests by giving up her slaves. Just look at my workmen, here. Less than half are Argives. Klutaimnéstra wants these people, especially, to build this wall to keep them and the rest of her subjects from plotting her overthrow. Owái, if only Agamémnon would come back and restore order. Then we could go home again."
