by Diana Gainer
As the T'rákiyan women did, Kashánda wore a large, woolen shawl draped around her body. Beneath it was a simple blouse made of two rectangles of fabric, held at each shoulder by a long, straight pin. Like the other Ak'áyans, the captive protected her feet from the cold with the barbarians' leather boots. But, unlike the barbarian women of that far northern land, she would not cover her hair. Her curly locks, cut short in mourning, were not long enough to bind into a braid. The winter winds whipped them into tangles that took considerable time each night to comb out.
The Argive reclined on his fleeces, admiring the woman he possessed, as she fought the tangles. Kashánda's hair was her sole adornment and her voice was seldom heard those days, unlike the queenly wife Agamémnon had left at home. No longer were his concubine's brown eyes swollen and red from weeping, although she still would not meet her captor's gaze. The overlord knew that beneath her heavy clothing her hips and stomach bore few pale striations, either, those inevitable marks of childbearing. She had borne a child a two, he knew, but she had lost them while they were still young. He considered that a good sign. A fertile captive was more valuable than a barren one, for one thing. And she would want babies, in time, he was sure. If she begged him meekly enough, Agamémnon thought to himself, he might let her keep a son or two. Any daughters, though, he would insist on exposing in the mountains, of course. But a wánaks had uses for illegitimate sons. Diwoméde had turned out to be one of his better warriors, had he not? He smiled at the thought and she, catching a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, turned away.
"When will the child be born?" he asked, immensely pleased as shock drained the blood from her face. When she did not answer immediately, he laughed and stroked his full beard with its growing patches of gray. "Come now, Kashánda, I fathered ten children, five of them by my own wife. You did not think you could keep such a secret from me, did you?"
Kashánda bit her lip and bowed her head, dropping the ivory comb to her lap. "Who told you?" she asked in a low voice, staring at the hard-packed, earthen floor of the cottage.
The overlord laughed again. "No one has said a word. You have not had the woman's bleeding since the first night I lay with you. You urinate every time I look at you. Your breasts are bigger all the time. You vomit every morning, two or three times between breakfast and noon. I ask you again, Kashánda, when will the child come?"
The former princess sighed heavily. "Summer," she said quietly. "Late summer."
Pleased with the news, Agamémnon reached for the captive's arm. When his fingers brushed her elbow, she jerked it away from him. "Ai gar, woman," he groaned, "now tell me when you will accept me as your new husband."
"Never!" she cried, with sudden passion, backing away as he rose from his pallet and approached her. "The blood of my dear, little sister is on your hands, Agamémnon! You are to blame for the deaths of my beloved parents and four of my noble brothers! I will never accept you as anything but my worst enemy!"
Angrily, the wánaks strode forward and caught her by the hair on her forehead. Dragging her to her feet, he bent her head back and pressed his lips forcefully against hers. She stiffened under his touch and squeezed her eyes tightly closed, not returning his kiss, pushing against his broad chest. Agamémnon frowned and released her abruptly. "I believe you mean that."
Kashánda stood with her face averted, breathing shakily, her nostrils flaring and battling tears. "I cannot stop you from taking me by force, but I will never willingly share your bed or do any service for you. Not if you beat me, not if you threaten me with death! Nothing will ever convince me to accept a life as the concubine of my sister's murderer."
Agamémnon scratched his mustache, untouched by her speech. "I know something that will make you change your mind, Kashánda. I have been talking with Lukúrgu."
"That T'rákiyan dog has nothing I value," the captive responded quickly.
"He knows something about a certain prince of Tróya," the overlord argued quietly, carefully watching her reaction. "This prince was young when he died, no more than fourteen or so."
Kashánda pressed her hands over her heart. "Died! That is a lie," she gasped.
Agamémnon shook his head, though the woman's averted eyes did not see. "Your father sent his youngest son here, knowing we would come to Tróya for our queen. He sent prince Pitqána to T'ráki with a shipload of treasures, tin ingots mostly, but a few less valuable items, too, gold ornaments and so on. Your brother was supposed to buy T'ráki's support in the coming war and stay here for safekeeping. Lukúrgu told me this some time ago."
Kashánda trembled from head to toe but did not speak.
The Ak'áyan wánaks continued. "But, T'rákiyans being what they are, they did not side with Wilúsiya over long. Hrósa was paramount chieftain then. He led one small group of warriors to join the king of Tróya. Every last one of those frightened deer went over to my side when Hrósa died prematurely – of fright, it seems." He laughed at the thought and added, "They were as troubled by the loss of their chieftain's white horses as they were by the man's death. Ai, but the fawns did not stay long with me, either. A battle or two and away they all sailed. When they came home, they made Lukúrgu chieftain. When he got back, he killed your brother to avenge Hrósa and divided the Tróyan riches among his supporters."
The captive woman gave a long, keening wail and sank to her knees, scratching her cheeks with her fingernails until the blood ran. But Agamémnon caught her by the wrists and forced her to stop, shouting, "Enough of these laments, woman! I am sick to death of them. You can mourn the boy later. I have business to discuss with you."
The Tróyan woman struggled to free herself from the overlord's strong grip. "What business can you have with a priestess forsaken by the god she serves? Or did you think telling me this would make me love you?" she spat between tears. "Did you think I would be so pleased to hear of my brother's death that I would fall at your feet and worship you?"
"Hold still!" the wánaks bellowed, shaking her. "What I thought was that you would want to avenge Pitqána's murder."
Kashánda stopped struggling. With sudden, icy calm, she turned her eyes toward Agamémnon's, meeting his gaze for the first time. "Do you mean to say that you will kill Lukúrgu in return for my love?"
The wánaks released her hands. "No. That is, I will not kill him myself. If I did that, all T'ráki would be honor bound to oppose me and my descendants forever. And I may yet need a few T'rákiyan mercenaries. No, I cannot do that. But I will not interfere if you should decide to take your revenge. This I swear, Kashánda. In fact, I will put my best qasiléyu at your disposal for this very purpose. Diwoméde will do your bidding."
The former princess considered briefly. "And in return…?"
Agamémnon gave her a calculating, humorless smile. "In return, you will act the dutiful wife. I am no fool, Kashánda. I do not expect you to love me. But you will act as if you do, serving me in every way that a wife should. Bathe me. Rub my limbs with oil. Most important, share my bed with enthusiasm. Ai gar, when you are stiff and silent this way, it is like lying with a corpse."
Kashánda was torn. "That is a lot to ask, Agamémnon. It was your hand that slit my little sister's throat."
The overlord's eyes burned and the words set his teeth on edge. Bitterly, he told her, "That brings us to a second matter. I, too, must have my revenge, for another child lost."
"You mean your own daughter, the princess Ip'emédeya, I believe," the captive responded, choosing her words carefully, as she stared at the overlord's face, her eyes baleful and unblinking. "I have heard your men speak of her."
Agamémnon spat in disgust. "No doubt they said it was my own fault she died. My impiety angered the gods, is that what they told you? The army seer examined a sheep's entrails and concluded that my daughter had to be sacrificed."
"Yes, that is what they say." Kashánda's eyes brimmed with quiet hatred. "Was that why my sister died on your altar? Was Piyaséma's life the blood payment for Ip'em
édeya?"
"No!" Agamémnon roared, overcome with emotion. "The army would have demanded the death of a second maiden at Tróya to ensure our safe return, no matter what I did or said. That was the custom in the old days, or do you Assúwans not know that? Sacrifice one girl at the beginning and another at the end of a military campaign, the first to ensure good fortune, the second to expiate the soldiers’ blood-guilt. There was nothing I could do about that. No lawagéta commands an army without obeying custom. The warriors are so superstitious they would rather face execution than anger the gods. Ai, you are a priestess. You should know all about such things. Tróyans are no different from Ak'áyans."
"We are different," Kashánda argued forcefully, raising her chin. "We offer blood to the gods, too, but only that of animals, such as sheep and cattle. We have not sacrificed a human being for more than a generation!"
Agamémnon shouted back, grasping the woman's shoulders, "We had not done that for just as many years until this campaign! But my own wife sent me that evil prophet. It was he who revived the ancient custom. It was Qálki who blamed the army's troubles on me, the lack of a favorable wind and disease among the men waiting to set sail. It was the seer who demanded my daughter's blood. And because the first sacrifice took place at the outset of the campaign, the army required a second at the end. Qálki is as guilty of your sister's misfortune as of my own dear child's." He stepped back, dropping his hands, breathing hard. With a shaking hand, he wiped sweat from his forehead.
Kashánda was silent, looking at the king with new eyes.
"Idé, I have avenged myself on Qálki, now," Agamémnon said in a low voice, grinding his teeth. "That blood-sucker is dead. Ak'illéyu, that northern carrion-eater, was the seer's main supporter among my men, and he, too, is dead, now. So I am avenged on the T'eshalíyan, as well. Most of my troop leaders joined together to force me into sacrificing little Ip'emédeya. Each of them has paid for that, one way or another. But my heart is not content. Before all those others, even before that dáimon of a prophet, Klutaimnéstra bears the blame, my own wife. It was she who sent Qálki to me in the first place, ai, may that prophetic jackal's bones be carried off and gnawed by wild dogs! Only when my wife is dead will my heart be sated."
With increasing interest, Kashánda listened to the great king's passionate anger as much as to his words. "What do you want me to do?" she asked coldly, when he finally fell silent.
"Can you not guess? I want you to kill my wife," Agamémnon muttered, with an exasperated growl. "She is plotting against me, anyway, I am sure. I doubt that she will let me near enough to slit her throat myself. Kill her for me, Kashánda, I do not care how. When she is dead I will make you my wánasha in her place." He pointed to her abdomen, not yet swelling under the dark wool. "I will even honor your children as my legitimate heirs."
The former princess hesitated no longer. "I agree to this bargain, Agamémnon. Now, have your qasiléyu bring a sheep for the sacrifice. We must swear oaths over its blood."
The king of Argo nodded with grim satisfaction.
aaa
Diwoméde lay that night with his own captive woman in his arms. Between layers of sheepskins, he lay with her head on his good arm. With a warm smile, he asked, "So, Dáuniya, is a warrior a better master than a physician?"
Her dark eyes twinkled as she answered, "Much better."
"And a young man is better than a gray-beard?" he asked, pressing his forehead against hers.
"Yes, better," she smiled back. "Best of all is the young man whose lips do not taste of bitter poppies."
He chuckled. "If you say so."
"I do," she responded forcefully, though her smile remained. Tenderly she stroked the smooth skin of his cheek above his beard. "Next time, if you like, go on top. I think your arm is strong enough now."
He lifted his right arm enough to see the scar below the shoulder, still pink with newness. Rubbing the mark, he frowned. "Yes, but my foot still bothers me. Why is it taking so long to heal?"
"Because you walk on it every day and never let it rest," Dáuniya answered with authority. She raised herself on her elbows and looked at him sternly. Shaking a finger, she scolded him fondly, "If you want it to get well, you must lie about and let others do the work."
Diwoméde's smile was rueful. "That is not up to me, Dáuniya. When Agamémnon gives me an order, I must do whatever he says."
"But why?" the woman demanded, not convinced. "I see Agamémnon give commands to other men, high-born wánaktes and qasiléyus. These others turn around and make their subordinates do the actual work. Why can you not do this? Have T'érsite oversee the work on the palisade…"
"Be still," Diwoméde snapped. "I am not just a qasiléyu. Agamémnon is more than just my overlord. But I do not expect you to understand such things."
Dáuniya frowned. "I know that your king is also your father," she began hesitantly. He stared hard at her as she spoke, surprised that she knew. But he said nothing. Encouraged, she continued, "I also understand that, because you are not his legitimate son, you have no royal rank. This may have meant that your status was insecure at one time. But surely after all that you accomplished at Tróya, Agamémnon must trust you."
"It is not so much a matter of trust," Diwoméde said, rubbing the scar on his arm. "It is just that my father never…I mean to say that Tudéyu did not…"
As the qasiléyu groped for words, Dáuniya listened intently, perplexed. Suddenly it came to her. Sitting up abruptly, she announced with astonishment, "You want Agamémnon's approval. You want your true father to be proud of you."
Diwoméde felt his face grow hot. He was not sure he wanted this captive woman to understand him so well. "It is not that. King Agamémnon knows that I am wounded. I am sure that he would not give me a task to perform if it were something another could do just as well."
"Ai, then, I hope that you are right," Dáuniya sighed, not believing him for an instant. "At least all the building is done. Perhaps the high wánaks will let you rest now."
He turned his eyes from hers, solemn and grim. "Listen, Dáuniya. There is something I must do. I know you do not like it, but I must have one more poppy jug at the midwinter feast. Afterward I will do as you ask and give it up."
"Why one more?" Dáuniya asked, frowning suspiciously. "What must you do?"
He returned his eyes to her face with some irritation. "Do not ask so many questions, woman. I am a qasiléyu, a man of high rank. You are nothing but a captive. You do not need to know what I do or why I do it."
The young woman laid her head on his chest with another, deeper sigh. "I am sorry, my lord."
He stroked her hair, thinking deeply. "There is something else, Dáuniya. You must stay indoors, here in my hut, during the festival."
She lifted her head, her mouth open to protest. But the harshness that she saw in his face stopped the words before they left her lips. Icy fingers gripped her soul and she did not dare ask the question on her mind. Putting her head down again, she said only the obedient phrase, "Yes, qasiléyu."
"Ai, you do not have to call me that now, when we are alone," he told her, irritated still, but softening.
She raised her head again, a mischievous grin on her face. "Yes, beloved," she said, emphasizing the second word.
Diwoméde laughed. "Ai, woman, you are incorrigible. You cannot fool me with endearing words. You do not love me. Captives have to say things like that because they have no choice of husbands."
"Idé, is that so? I had as much choice as you did when you picked me," she countered, in mock indignation.
"Ai gar, sit up and tend to my foot," he growled, waving her away. But he smiled as she rose obediently, wrapping herself in a woolen cloak against the northern chill. As she took his injured foot in her lap and began to unwind the bandage, the qasiléyu continued to speak, to distract himself from the pain that he knew was coming. "I should not have listened to T'érsite when he told me about you. Odushéyu gave me good advice. He said I should buy myself
a girl who was still a child, so I could raise her myself. Then I could make her into the kind of woman I really wanted. Obedience, now that is what makes a good concubine."
Dáuniya cleansed the qasiléyu's wound with gentle fingers, dipping a bit of sheep's wool in a bowl of mixed water and wine. He winced when she scrubbed away the surface granulation where the arrow had once pierced his foot. But he did not pull his foot away. As she worked, Dáuniya cheerfully scoffed at what he told her. "Yes, raise a little girl and make a woman of your choosing. That would be good for you when you are young and strong. But what would happen when you grew old and feeble? Your concubine would still be in her prime, then. And she would make you regret all the terrible things you did to her. She would pay you back, blow for blow, shame for shame."
Diwoméde stared at her in disbelief. "Have I shamed you? When?"
She looked up at him in surprise. "No, no. I was not talking about myself, beloved. I chose you for my husband, do you not remember?" With a slight frown, she turned back to his foot.
