by Diana Gainer
"Díwo!" the men shouted, more loudly than before.
Agamémnon raised his staff again. "Glory is ours!"
"Díwo!" the army responded with greater vigor.
"Ak'áiwiya is the greatest power in the world!" Agamémnon thundered, raising both his arms over his head.
Their fatigue was forgotten as the men exulted in the words of their leader. The calls of "Díwo!" were drowned out as the warriors pounded the wooden rims of their shields with their spear shafts.
When the tumult subsided, Agamémnon went on, his eyes burning with enthusiasm beneath his bronze helmet, its bull's horns and horsetail crest waving as he tossed his head vigorously, punctuating his comments. "Today we sail for home, my brothers! Next year, when the summer season comes, we will prepare for another war, even greater than this one. The Náshiyan emperor is now a weak, old man. He cannot stand against us. This year we took his prize city, here, in the north. Next year we will march south from Tróya, sacking Náshiyan towns all down the western coast of rich Assúwa. What Náshiya is too feeble to hold onto, Ak'áiwiya will take by force of arms!" Thumping the ground with his staff, Agamémnon smiled grimly as the soldiers cheered about him. He nodded with satisfaction at the troops' enthusiasm, the horse-tail on his helmet tossing.
Behind him, clothed in blood-stained, leather armor, a young man stirred uneasily. One foot was wrapped in dirty linen and he kept it off the ground. He leaned heavily on his spear, his head down so that the ragged crest of his dented helmet hung in his face. "Wánaks," he said quietly to the overlord, "do you really think that all these men will come back here next summer?"
Agamémnon laughed humorlessly. "Diwoméde," the king answered, without turning to look, "you are my best qasiléyu, but you still have many things to learn. I proved my strength and power by sacking Tróya against overwhelming odds. My prestige has increased immeasurably with this victory. No Ak'áyan lawagéta will dare take a stand against me, now. Whatever title he gives himself, whether he calls himself wánaks or qasiléyu, king or commander, each is my vassal now."
"But if they unite against you…" Diwoméde began, thoughtfully rubbing his shaved upper lip.
"They will not." Again the overlord laughed without humor. "Just watch and see, boy. The moment I relax my hold, each petty wánaks will be at odds with his neighbor. I am the only power that can hold them all together." As he spoke this time, he glanced around at the younger man. Diwoméde met the overlord's gaze with trusting eyes. The high king smiled and nodded. "Ai, Diwoméde, ten months ago you would have made the sign of the Evil Eye, hearing these words. But now you see that boasting does not anger the gods. I said that I would take Tróya and I have done so. By this time next year, I will have half the coast, from Tróya to Millewánda."
"Yes, wánaks," Diwoméde responded loyally. "But what will you do about the crops? The Argive people judge their king just as other Ak'áyans do. They blame their wánaks whenever there is a drought or famine. If the people at home go hungry in the coming year, they will say you angered the gods."
Agamémnon shrugged as best he could under the heavy bronze. "We sail home along the northern coast. The T'rákiyan barbarians have many rich grainfields. We will just take what we need, along the way. My Argives will be so happy to have wheat, they will praise me to the skies."
The Argive ruler was interrupted by a small group of warriors in feathered crowns marching forward from the assembled troops. At their head came the lawagéta from Attika, Menést'eyu. Like the others around him, Menést'eyu's limbs bore a tracery of minor wounds, old and new. One of his ears was half gone, too, and the injury was incompletely healed. He ground his teeth and took the speaker's staff from Agamémnon. "Wánaks, the P'ilístas demand justice! If we must follow you to Assúwa next year, we will. If we are to face Náshiyan armies next summer, we will do so bravely. Northern men are afraid of no power on earth. But first, you must avenge the death of our countryman, Aíwaks the giant."
Agamémnon's bushy eyebrows rose and anger began to darken his face. "Your countryman! What is this? Aíwaks led Sálami. That island is mine. Its qasiléyu answers to me."
"Sálami belonged to Attika in the days of our grandfathers," Menést'eyu shot back. "Furthermore, Aíwaks was a northerner by birth. His father was a Lókriyan. We P'ilístas are his closest living kin. We demand blood for blood. It is our right. Swear before the army that you will kill his murderer."
Diwoméde limped forward to take the speaker's staff, though the Attikan warrior was unwilling to yield it. Unable to wrest the shaft from the northerner's hand, the young Argive qasiléyu spoke forcefully nonetheless. "You still believe the rumors that Odushéyu killed Aíwaks," Diwoméde began, reasonably enough. "But this is not true. The wánaks of It'áka had no reason to do such an evil thing. Odushéyu won the Tróyan idol in the contest, did he not? It was Aíwaks who then threatened to kill Odushéyu, not the other way around."
From behind the bearded P'ilísta from Attika came another feathered warrior. This one was very young, barely fourteen and of slight build. There were only wisps of hair on his cheeks. But with the arrogance of high rank, he took the staff and had his say. "Do not try to save that fawn-hearted pirate!" the youthful soldier cried. "Aíwaks was your qasiléyu, Agamémnon, so it is your reputation that is at stake. If you let his death go unavenged, you prove yourself to be without honor, without areté, and not fit to lead those of us who are true Ak'áyans. Odushéyu is guilty so he must die."
"Shut your muzzle, Púrwo!" Agamémnon bellowed, not bothering to grasp the speaker's staff. "I do not need any half-grown child to tell me about honor. I fully intend to investigate the death of my vassal. If I find evidence that Aíwaks was killed, I will not rest until I have either the blood of his killer or a respectable blood-payment."
Menést'eyu spat, shoving the youthful and injured Argive qasiléyu aside. He shouldered the still younger P'ilísta away from the speaker's staff. In disgust, the bearded Attikan leader snapped, "Investigate! Evidence! What nonsense is this? We found Aíwaks dead on the beach with at least twenty arrows in his back. Surely you are not going to repeat that fable about him committing suicide!"
Agamémnon tore the shaft from the other man's hand, glaring so harshly that the feathered warrior turned away his eyes. The overlord raised the speaker's staff over his head for all to see. He roared out his response to the whole of the army. "I have said that I will investigate the death of my qasiléyu, Aíwaks! I swear this by the hearth of my home, by immortal 'Estiwáya. Every man here is witness to my oath. But how can I discover the murderer here? Where is my seer?" He spread his arms wide and turned from side to side, as if looking for the prophet.
"Dead," came the answer from scattered individuals in the assembly. "Qálki is dead."
"He is fallen on the field of battle," Agamémnon repeated, adding with a melodramatic shake of his head, "like so many of our brothers. No, I must go home to Argo to deal with this. There I will consult with those who can divine the name of the murderer in the entrails of the sacrificial sheep."
The army rumbled its approval. The bare-headed foot-soldiers of north and south assented, and the helmeted southern leaders added their own voices. Despite the popularity of the dead man, the disgruntled, northern officers had little support.
More quietly, Agamémnon growled at the beardless P'ilísta prince and his Attikan companion. "Do not forget who is the overlord here, you northerners. I can burn the halls of every one of you kings, next summer, if I have to. In fact, it will give my men a healthy bit of practice before we cross the Inner Sea to take on the Náshiyans. Now, go to your places and do not challenge me again."
"I am not afraid of you," Púrwo began, his voice high and especially child-like in excitement. "Do not forget that I am the son of Ak'illéyu, the greatest warrior in Ak'áiwiya! He was the one who saved all of you when the Tróyans had your backs against your ships. We T'eshalíyans followed you here only because you were elected to lead this campaign, Agamémnon. B
ut the war is over now and we are going home. Once we get there, we will not be your vassals any longer, but our own masters. Menést'eyu will answer only to wánaks Erékt'eyu of Attika, not to Agamémnon of Argo. Panaléyo of Qoyotíya…"
From the cluster of feather-capped leaders, a short and stocky man pushed his way to the front. "Prince Púrwo," he said gruffly, taking hold of the young man's unmarked arm. "You go too far. You do not speak for me. Qoyotíya is loyal to the alliance. The overlord has given his word that he will avenge Aíwaks. That is good enough. We Qoyotíyans now give our word in turn. We will follow the overlord Agamémnon to Assúwa in the next season of war."
Púrwo struggled to free himself. "I am a wánaks, not any man's qasiléyu, whatever you are, Panaléyo," he cried shrilly.
"Then do not behave like a spoiled child," Panaléyo responded heatedly. With a shove, he released the young lawagéta. Púrwo fell backward onto the rocky beach, his spindly legs in the air. His kilt rose and revealed a bare, pale behind. Panaléyo kicked the white target, as laughter rose from the assembled troops.
Menést'eyu turned on the Qoyotíyan, his hand on his sword-hilt. "That was dishonorable, Panaléyo! Púrwo is a boy, but he is also a wánaks, son of a greater one. Treat him with respect for his father's sake, at least."
Panaléyo reached for his own bronze blade, facing the Attikan without fear. "His despicable father brought about the deaths of a good many Ak'áyans, northerners as well as southerners. Ak'illéyu was a traitor to our cause."
Behind the two men, Púrwo stood, his smooth face scarlet with humiliation and fury. In a moment, both the grown P'ilístas fell upon each other with curses, fists, and weapons. The young prince quickly jumped into the fight himself with a shout. Within moments, the followers of each leader rushed forward to join them.
Beyond the sudden fray, Agamémnon smiled with satisfaction and caught Diwoméde's glance with a knowing eye. But the overlord raised his staff and roared to his troops to separate the battling factions. His southern warriors, with their leather and bronze helmets decked with ox horns and horse tails, prevailed on their less numerous brethren from northern Ak'áiwiya.
"Now, drag your boats to the shore!" Agamémnon shouted, when the disturbance was quelled. "Load your longboats with your new spoils of war. And set sail for home. But remember, we reassemble next year after the harvest. Bring your vessels to the bay at Aúli in Qoyotíya by my command."
Some grumbling, some rejoicing, the men of Ak'áiwiya turned from the assembly and toward their pitch-lined vessels on the beach. They stripped for the heavy work, fastening their oars backward in the oar-locks to push the vessels out into the shallow water. There they loaded the boats and ferried their shares of the war's plunder to the longboats anchored farther out in the deeper water of the bay. They piled their weapons and armor deep in the ships’ hulls, on beds of thistles, collected far out on the windy plains. Weeping captives crowded in on top of the bronze, half-naked Tróyan women with their little children. Most numerous of all were the urns of baked clay containing the bones of those who had died on the field during the long months of the siege and the battling. The bare-skinned warriors grew sweaty as they labored, despite the cool wind, pushing the ferries as long as their feet could touch solid ground, then clambering aboard to bend their backs over the oars.
Once out to sea, they soon rowed in a long procession, those black-hulled, Ak'áyan ships. To the sounds of captives wailing beneath the rowing benches, the victorious warriors made their way past the two headlands that cradled the fire-blackened city on the ever-windy, barren plain of Tróya.
aaa
Behind them, on the shore, the small camp of Tróya's survivors watched without fanfare. One man alone stood in silence below the citadel's limestone walls, to see the vessels set sail. His woolen cloak, dyed purplish blue and embroidered with shell designs, was his only emblem of rank. The tunic he wore beneath it was as threadbare and worn as the kilts of the conquering Ak'áyans had been, his feet as bare as his subjects' were.
A wiry soldier came to stand beside the purple-swathed man on Tróya's hilly ground. This second man watched the departing ships with as grim a visage as the first. "We cannot stand here all day," the warrior finally said, thumping the butt end of his spear on the earth for emphasis. "Listen, Antánor, we must start work immediately or we will not survive the coming winter."
The graying man in the embroidered robes did not respond for awhile, mesmerized by the sight of the longboats growing smaller on the western horizon. "When I was young, there was no more stirring sight to my eyes than a fleet setting out to sea," Antánor sighed. "How many do you suppose there are?"
Ainyáh squinted. "I would guess about four hundred, perhaps fewer. Think of that. Of the thousand or so Ak'áyan ships that came to Tróya in the spring, less than half remain. Of course, some of the kings departed earlier. The Wórdoyans parted company with the rest quite some time ago. They brought nine or ten ships, if I recall correctly. Odushéyu and Meneláwo set sail the morning after…."
"Yes," Antánor interposed quickly, interrupting the warrior. "Half the Ak'áyan army fell at our hands. But that is little comfort. We suffered worse from them. I swear this, Ainyáh, one day I will have my revenge on Agamémnon."
Ainyáh was impatient. "This is no time to talk of vengeance, Antánor. That is for the future. And it is in the hands of the gods, in any case. Keep your thoughts on the present. You rule Tróya for now, as Agamémnon's vassal, sworn along with your descendants, to be loyal to Ak'áiwiya, and especially to the kingdom of Argo, forever."
"I have not forgotten that oath," Antánor replied testily. "But it does not concern me over much. A vassal whose overlord mistreats him too much is released from the vow of loyalty, or should be, according to the goddess who loves justice. Knowing the Ak'áyans as I do, especially their high king, I have no doubt that Agamémnon will free me from my obligations in that way, soon enough. At that point," the new ruler whispered, a harsh gleam in his eye, "I intend to take my revenge."
Ainyáh broke in, his voice sharp. "Enough talk of oaths and revenge. The first thing you must do, right now, is to send messages north, to our allies beyond the straits, the Mar-Yandún. We should tell them what has happened here, that Tróya was sacked and that king Alakshándu is dead, with all his sons and daughters killed or taken captive but one. Point out to them that your wife, princess Laqíqepa, is the only free member of Alakshándu's family to survive, and that you now rule the kingdom of Wilúsiya. Renew your trading agreements with their chieftains, as the first order of business. Warn them of possible raids from Ak'áyan pirates, as the second. Explain why we will not be able to stop outsiders from coming any longer. If we delay, the Ak'áyans will pass the straits and set up their own alliances, ruining the tin trade for us. Promise the Mar-Yandún chiefs whatever you have or expect to get in the immediate future. But they must provide us grain and send it immediately. As for us, we should start rebuilding Tróya, with homes for all the starving villagers who are beginning to gather here. Have them put storage jars under every floor and concentrate all their efforts on filling them."
Antánor turned hooded eyes toward the warrior. With enormous disdain, he ran his dark eyes over the other man's battle-scarred limbs and close-cropped, black hair, the prominent nose and heavy-lidded eyes. "I will send what messages I please, and at my convenience," said Tróya's new ruler. "Do not presume to tell me what to do, Ainyáh. You were and are my chief ally. You command the Wilúsiyan army, what is left of it, along with your men of Kanaqán. But I am the one who rules Wilúsiya. I am the king now. It is my place to give orders, yours to take them."
Ainyáh spat to show his contempt. "Indeed, you are Wilúsiya's king. And I am nothing but a foreign mercenary. But look around you, Antánor. Your land is destitute. It has lost two harvests in a row, one to drought and the other to war. A third is already doomed. It is too late to sow the seed grain, now, and you have no stores of wheat to keep your people fed until the n
ext harvest, after that siege. Your capital city is still burning. There is nothing to separate your head from the sky but a scrap of linen. That makes you as wealthy and powerful as my four-year-old son." He lifted a curved blade from the worn leather scabbard at his hip. "In fact, I could slit your throat right here if I chose to, and no one in all of Assúwa would even try to do anything about it."
Antánor laughed bitterly. "You would be doing me a favor, brother-in-law. I have seen all my wealth dispersed to foreigners, first to buy the support of allies, and what remained to appease conquering enemies. My father should have ruled, when I was a boy, and I after him, not Alakshándu. If only my family had ruled, how many Assúwans would still be alive whose ashes lie scattered across this continent!"
Ainyáh rolled his dark eyes. "Do not waste your breath telling me your sorrows. I have no room in my heart for sympathy. I have lost my own wife to our treacherous allies, while you still have yours. No, Antánor, you have no special claim on suffering. You betrayed Tróya in the end, just as I did. We made our choice and now we must do what we can with the results. At least, send a few boats to your island vassals. There may still be a few goats on Lámno or Lázpa that the Ak'áyans have not yet eaten."
