by Diana Gainer
"What?" Diwoméde had time to say, nervously bewildered.
At Menést'eyu's signal, the archers on the walls let loose their arrows, sending volley after volley into the surprised Argives. Diwoméde quickly raised his round shield, but others beside him were slow to do the same. Within moments, half the men who had accompanied the Argive qasiléyu were dead or mortally wounded. Still the arrows poured down on the shouting, milling warriors. A few men managed to run from the entrance court, back down the ramp. But they, too, were cut down as they passed beneath the rows of unrelenting archers, arrows pounding into their backs.
Diwoméde crouched against the tower wall beneath a hide shield peppered with arrows, helplessly cursing the destruction of his troops. "By the gods, this is no way for a man to die!" he cried. Catching sight of Menést'eyu just beyond arrow range, Diwoméde rushed toward the Attikan with his spear at the ready. Menést'eyu's horses reared at the sudden movement and backed into the cart. The Attikan qasiléyu lost his balance and toppled backward onto the ground. Diwoméde was swiftly upon him. Menést'eyu's burly arms rose over his face to ward off the Argive's blows.
But the action was not necessary. As Diwoméde stood over the fallen man, an arrow caught the shoulder of the young leader's upraised spear-arm. Diwoméde lurched forward, driven by the force of the blow, screaming in sudden pain. Stumbling without direction, Diwoméde dropped his weapon as his hand fell numb. His other hand released his shield as he reached for the shaft in his shoulder, howling in agony and frustration.
Menést'eyu rolled away from the sharp hooves of his frightened horses and from the fury of the wounded Argive. He caught sight of Diwoméde's foot, incompletely healed from the previous campaign and still wrapped in linen. It was the perfect target. The Attikan drew his dagger from the scabbard at his hip and rammed it down into the bandaged foot. As the wounded man cried out and bent toward the sudden pain, Menést'eyu grasped Diwoméde's ankle and pulled his foot out from under him, throwing the qasiléyu to the pavement. Diwoméde's wounded arm was slammed against the ground, his breath knocked out. Stunned, he lay shuddering and gasping, hugging his knees, unable even to raise his arms against the final blow.
"Stop your shooting!" Menést'eyu bellowed to the men on the walls, rising to his feet. He shook the dirt out of his cloak and approached the horses still nervously pawing the courtyard with their hooves. With quiet speech he calmed the animals and led them away from the scene of carnage. As he did so, Attika's victorious spearmen came forward to count the slain. Only five survived the attack, all wounded, the P'ilístas told their commander when he returned from the stables.
"Strip them," Menést'eyu commanded. "Pull the arrows out of their bodies and tie their hands. If that does not kill them, lead them to the mégaron and show them to wánaks Erékt'eyu. He will decide whether to execute them or hold them for ransom."
As the men moved to do Menést'eyu's bidding, the Attikan qasiléyu turned to Diwoméde. The northern troop leader himself tore the arrow from his southern counterpart's arm, exulting in the cries of agony that followed the blade. "There will be no second Ak'áyan campaign for Agamémnon," Menést'eyu told his prisoner, tossing the leather helmet from the younger man's head, roughly dragging the corselet from his unresisting shoulders. "The only P'ilístas at Aúli this summer will be the native Qoyotíyans." Laughing triumphantly, Menést'eyu pulled off Diwoméde's kilt and tied the prisoner's hands with his own belt.
aaa
As his qasiléyu cowered, naked and bleeding, before the king of Attika, Agamémnon marched ponderously at the head of his troops into his coastal fortress at Tíruns. Behind the wánaks, who was decked in his heavy, banded armor, the warriors carried leather bags of T'rákiyan wheat on their shoulders. At the triumphant king's side walked the Tróyan priestess, Kashánda. She wore only the dark robe of a priestess, her cropped hair barely reaching her shoulders. But she walked with regal dignity, her head high, unlike the other captives cringing before Argo's people. The gathering crowd cheered the procession without fervor, listlessly waving boughs of laurel, craning their necks for a glimpse of kinsmen among the returning soldiers.
Aígist'o stood at the main entrance to the coastal citadel, draped in long, priestly robes. "Owlé, wánaks Agamémnon," he cried with forced cheer, raising his hands to the sky when the king came near. "Thank Díwo and Diwiyána for your safe return. Come to the mégaron for a welcoming feast worthy of a high wánaks." The priest gestured toward the wide gateway.
Agamémnon hesitated in the entrance, glaring at the tall seer. "Where is my wife?"
Dropping his eyes, Aígist'o answered, "The wánasha Klutaimnéstra awaits you at Mukénai. She is preparing a feast of celebration truly worthy of a great king."
The wánaks snorted. "Preparing a feast, you say!"
"Yes, of celebration," Aígist'o repeated nervously. "The capital is the only citadel with any meat left after the dry winter, you see. I am afraid all we have to welcome you with, here, is a bit of fish and roast goose."
Agamémnon roared angrily, "What?! Fish and goose! What kind of feast is that? By 'Aidé, I ate better than that in T'ráki."
Aígist'o raised his long-fingered hands before his face, in the gesture of peace. "Forgive us, wánaks. But the past year has been hard on Argo. We are in the midst of a drought. The flocks have been decimated and wheat is as scarce as meat."
Agamémnon glanced beyond the thin man, at the assembled people of Tíruns. Their faces and limbs were gaunt. There was little joy in the ceremonial welcoming waves, no enthusiasm in the cheers. The king pressed on, past the holy man, into the walled fortress of Tíruns. Without further discussion with Aígist'o, Agamémnon led the way to the mégaron of the palace, followed by his troop leaders.
"T'érsite," the wánaks commanded, "remove my armor. Kashánda, sit by the throne." As the Tróyan captive took her chair and the low-ranked soldier moved to obey his overlord, the king continued to issue orders to his accompanying qasiléyus and to the serving women of the palace.
By the returning king’s command, the local servants were to distribute the food that Aígist'o had prepared to the townspeople of Tíruns, as a gesture of sympathy for their sufferings. The troop leaders were to assign men to carry the T'rákiyan grain and lentils from the ships to the fortress storerooms, along with the bags of wine and jars of oil, and the treasures looted from Tróya. All was to be done immediately, in the sight of the common people.
"I want it known what I have accomplished for the sake of the kingdom of Argo, both in war and on the journey home," Agamémnon told his officers. "There may have been no meat in the kingdom before I arrived. But we carried a good many sheep from the north, in our ships. Bring some of these to be slaughtered for today's meal. And have the servants bake fresh bread of T'rákiyan wheat. I do not care for barley cakes."
While the local servants set about this work, Agamémnon directed his Wilúsiyan captives to act as bath-pourers. To these women was given the back-breaking task of fetching water from the hillside spring below the city walls. They carried it in tall jars on their heads, to be heated over the mégaron fire in wide-mouthed bronze bowls. When it was hot, they wrapped the rims of the bowls in cloth to protect their hands and carried the water to the bath-chamber to be poured into the bathtub, formed of baked clay, and painted in cheerful designs. Kashánda alone was given no tasks to perform.
When the tub was full, Agamémnon left the mégaron for the bath-chamber, his Tróyan priestess beside him. He tested the water in the various bowls and directed the mixing of hot and cold until the temperature suited him. Then he sent the captives and serving-women away. It was Kashánda who undressed and washed him, she who cleaned his hair and beard and combed the tangles out, she who dried him with clean linens afterward and rubbed scented oil into his skin.
Kashánda bathed herself in the water when Agamémnon was through and the wánaks ordered fine clothing brought for her to wear. She dressed in a long skirt of many colors, a tight bodice th
at left her breasts bare in the Ak'áyan style, an embroidered cloak over her shoulders. Only her short, unadorned hair distinguished her from an Argive royal woman. Together they returned to the mégaron just as the mutton was being removed from the caldrons.
T'érsite and other men of low rank carried in heavy, wooden chairs and many small tables. The serving women covered the seats with soft fleeces, and the tables with food, slices of mutton laid upon wooden trays, along with freshly baked bread, figs and olives. Wine and water, mixed in large bowls in each corner of the room, flowed freely. The captive women were kept busy throughout the meal, carrying empty cups to dip in these bowls again and again. Aígist'o personally inspected each one, adding drops of a viscous, black liquid from a small jug hidden in the folds of his cloak. To the foreign women who saw him, he explained that this was a special honey, taken from the beehives of sacred Aígina Mountain.
Agamémnon and his troop leaders ate and drank their fill, regaling Aígist'o and the servants with tales of their great deeds in Wilúsiya. The priest listened with intense interest, moving his chair closer and closer to Agamémnon's seat through the long meal, asking for ever more detail. Who had each warrior killed? Where had the bronze blades pierced the victim? What booty had each man gained on the field of battle? And, most important of all, what had happened to each member of the Tróyan royal family?
Kashánda ate little, clutching the inlaid arms of her chair and staring at the dishes before her. She could barely force herself to swallow. She kept a stony silence, her back straight and head unbowed, shedding no tears for her conquerors to relish. She did not notice as the local serving women quietly removed the swords and daggers that the officers had brought with them to the mégaron. And it escaped her eyes when, one by one, the native women disappeared themselves, until only captives remained to serve the feasting conquerors.
By the time the last crumbs were drying on the tables, Agamémnon and his lawagétas were sprawled in their seats, quite drunk and very relaxed. "I will organize my own victory celebration when I reach Mukénai," the wánaks told Aígist'o. "You do not know Klutaimnéstra as I do, cousin. She cannot even arrange a simple visit to the ancestral graves without making it into a religious festival. Ai gar, if I leave it to her, there will be nothing but omens and sacrifices everywhere." He rolled his eyes, tipping the cup in his hand so that he spilled half his wine on the floor.
"No," said the king with a sloppy smile, "a great victory such as I have won requires a proper celebration. We must begin with a procession. We will keep the superstitious happy, of course," he added, winking at Aígist'o, "so the priests will begin the parade, carrying the idols from the mountain caves, and the priestesses can sing their religious songs behind it. It is best to get that business out of the way at the start. Then," he leaned back in his seat with a faraway look in his eyes, "then I will lead the rest in a chariot. The horses' manes will be tied with brightly colored ribbons, I will wear my best armor, the dents hammered out and the whole of it polished until it shines like the sun. Of course, the cart must be freshly painted, red as blood. Ai, it is a shame Diwoméde's horses did not survive. You should have seen them, Aígist'o, white as bleached linen they were, from nose to tail."
"Yes, I would like to have seen them," agreed the priest beside the king. He glanced around the room at the troop leaders beginning to doze in their chairs. His eyes fell upon Kashánda as well and she met his harsh gaze with a grim smile. "Tell me more, cousin," Aígist'o urged. "Would the lawagétas march behind you or would the captives come next?"
"The troop leaders," answered Agamémnon, indicating the quiet room with a wave of his arm that tossed the last of his wine to the floor. "All on foot, decked with as much bronze as we can arrange. The commoners will line both sides of the road as we march. They will strew us with fruit and flowers and cheer our passing with waving laurel boughs. And the women may rush forward to shower us with kisses, if they wish.
"Behind us, the captives will come with their hands bound, unwashed, the lot of them, barefoot and dressed in the rags they wore at Tróya. That will give the populace a chance to vent its anger and grief, cursing and spitting on the foreigners, pelting them with stones, throwing dung at them or even rubbing it in their faces, as they please. I will need a few foot soldiers to guard the prisoners, I suppose. They can urge on the kinfolk of those who died in Wilúsiya. That will help change this foul mood I see in the people."
He stopped and looked into his cup. Seeing it empty, he frowned and held it out to Kashánda. "Get me more wine," he told her, smiling to see her eyes narrow and nostrils flare. He grinned still more broadly when she rose obediently. As the Tróyan priestess moved away from the king, Agamémnon leaned close to Aígist'o. In a loud whisper, the wánaks said, "I will have a surprise for Klutaimnéstra at the end of the celebration." He began to laugh.
An icy smile on his lips, Aígist'o whispered back, "Tell me more, cousin."
"It is a secret," Agamémnon chuckled. He covered his mouth with his hand to keep the words in.
"Ai, you can trust me," Aígist'o said smoothly. "Did we not always play together as boys? Did I not find a way for you to lie with Tudéyu's wife, when even Meneláwo would not help you?"
The king nodded. "Yes, of course, you are right. Well," he looked to each side, chortling, and leaned toward his kinsman until his beard brushed Aígist'o's cheek. Agamémnon whispered, "I plan to divorce Klutaimnéstra and put Kashánda on the throne beside me." With a great guffaw, he leaned back, clapping his hands to his thighs.
Aígist'o was caught by surprise and put a hand to his mouth. Kashánda returned with the king's wine cup, at that moment, ignoring the priest with a haughty air. Hiding his feelings as best he could, Aígist'o managed to choke out, "How clever of you."
But Agamémnon was not listening. The wánaks pointed to T'érsite, still busily serving wine to the higher ranks. "Ai, you there," the king called out. "Sing us a good fighting song, that one about the frogs and mice." He laughed at the thought and raised his wine cup to his lips.
T'érsite happily left his work and took up his stringed lúra from where it stood by the wall. Seating himself on the edge of the great hearth, he bawled out the words of his song. "Here me maids and maináds…"
The song had scarcely begun when Aígist'o rose suddenly from his seat and sprang upon Agamémnon, dagger in hand. The priest stabbed the surprised king in the chest, three times in quick succession. Agamémnon was scarcely able to raise his arms before he collapsed. The wánaks slipped from the throne and his limbs jerked their final movements on the painted floor.
Kashánda stood and screamed. She turned to run but tripped over her cloak. Aígist'o fell upon her, grasping her by the hair. "Be still, woman, or you die," he growled in her ear. She continued to shriek, tearing at the priest with her hands, trying to free herself from his grip.
"I curse you, Argive, I curse you and all your land!" she cried. "May all the punishments meted out to Tróya fall back upon Argo threefold! In the name of the great goddess, may Ak'áiwiya's fate be four times worse than Assúwa's!"
The lawagétas staggered to their feet, looking for their weapons. No bronze was to be found at their sides, none upon the tables or benches, either, but for their cups. Suddenly, a dozen warriors entered the mégaron, fully armed and armored. They were older men, with gray hair and lined faces, bearing the marks of wounds healed long ago. But, with the fury of young bulls, they fell upon the drunk and unarmed troop leaders, slaughtering the younger men as easily as they would sheep.
In the pandemonium, T'érsite threw down his stringed instrument and sought cover in the shadows beneath a plaster bench that ran the length of one wall. There he lay, shivering in silent terror, watching until the painted floor ran with the blood of high-ranked lawagétas. Tróyan captive women cowered together about him, wailing, trying to find refuge for themselves. After what seemed a long age, T'érsite heard one last shriek as Aígist'o drove his blade into Kashánda's breast. The
n there was only the sound of lesser ranked captives keening.
The priest spoke in a low voice. "I thank you, aged warriors of Argo. And your holy wánasha thanks you. You have saved Argo from an evil wánaks. Klutaimnéstra will reward your courage with bronze and the gods will reward the land with rain at long last.
"Stay with me awhile longer now, men. I will announce the news of Agamémnon's death to the troops outside the palace. You must protect me until I have time to ask if they think it just. Then the serving-women are to release the doves from their cages. Timing is essential. The birds must fly immediately after I ask for the men's judgment. And the direction of the birds' flight is equally crucial. The doves must be on the soldiers' right-hand side. Even the most ignorant men will know to interpret that as a good omen. Then I must have a sheep for sacrifice. Have it ready for me as soon as the birds have flown. After the sacrifice, I will examine the animal's entrails to verify the omen. But you need have no fear. Agamémnon's crimes were too many. I know that the gods are with us."
aaa
As Agamémnon's mass of ships drew up on the shores of Argo, Odushéyu set sail from Lakedaimón's southernmost port at Aúgeyai. He had wintered with Meneláwo, fearing death in a storm. But it was spring at last and he could delay his followers no longer. They were anxious to be reunited with their families, even if their leader was not. It was time to finish the homeward journey. Ten small ships sailed west, past the rich kingdom of Mesheníya, before heading north for the western islands centered on holy It'áka. Odushéyu urged his navigators to keep to the coast in their journey, and to spend the nights in Néstor's Mesheníya. He wanted to cross the western sea to the southernmost of the islands, Zákunt'o, on the fifth day. It was still very early in the season, he reminded his men, and the danger of bad weather was still present.
