by Diana Gainer
But the navigators were untouched by Odushéyu's arguments. They had been as eager as he to spend the winter in Lakedaimón, as it would have been madness to tempt the gods of sky and sea in that season. But there had been no storms, no rain at all, there in the southeast that winter. After all, had they not crossed the whole of the Inner Sea the previous autumn without incident? They were impatient and homesick, and confident that the Divine Horse, Poseidáon was not against them. The sails were raised and they crossed the Mesheníyan gulf in the first day, taking again to the open sea on the second.
Out of sight of land, they were caught by the sudden storm that Odushéyu had feared all along. Clouds rapidly piled up over them, darkening the sky. The It'ákan king shouted to those in his own longboat to take down the sail and they obediently complied. But the other navigators did not follow his example, in their rush toward land. The rowers bent over their oars with all their strength in an attempt to reach the shore before the rain fell. But they were not quick enough. The waves rose, as the wind picked up. The vessels rode low in the water even at the best of times and two of the ten quickly swamped. A third capsized before the rain even came. The rising blast whipped the square sails with a frenzy, and the men feared for the masts. The wind snapped the supporting ropes on one vessel and the mast crashed down upon the head of the navigator, killing him instantly. Oarsmen were tossed overboard into the heaving waters, to disappear in the sea, dark as wine. Captives beneath the rowing benches called upon the god of earthquake to have mercy on them. But Poseidáon was not listening to his dispossessed people.
Lines gave way on a second ship. When the mast fell, it cracked the hull, letting Tróya's treasures sink into the waves. Water poured from the sky as if from a broken wine bowl. Thunder clamored overhead, the wind shrieked, and the waves crashed against the slender hulls. Odushéyu called to his men to throw their belongings over the sides, to lighten their loads. But, in the surging water, it was all they could do to hang onto the benches. Two longboats came together on the crest of a wave and both shattered upon impact, spilling their contents into the sea, both human and bronze.
As suddenly as it had risen, the wind and rain died down. Odushéyu limped into Zákunt'o's southernmost port with only four ships left, the bulk of his meager loot lost on the way, along with most of his men.
On the shore of Odushéyu's kingdom, as he had feared, he was not met by welcoming throngs waving boughs of sacred laurel. Instead, feather-capped warriors, foreigners from the north, came, dressed for battle, to meet him and his men. The P'ilístas collected the half-drowned travelers and marched them to the center of the port town as if Odushéyu's followers were prisoners of war and not conquering heroes. As they went, the people of the surrounding villages spat on the returning travelers, calling curses down on their heads.
Their destination was less than a mile from the shore, an unfortified town. The commoners' flat-roofed houses were of plaster and wood, white and gleaming in the sunlight. Small courtyards separated the larger dwellings from the narrow streets. On a low hill, a slightly taller wall protected the largest house from the curious eyes of the low born. The town shared none of the massive architecture so common in mainland Ak'áiwiya. Here, the largest stones in the highest walls were hardly larger than a man's head, and the walls rose only to a tall man's shoulder. Within the enclosure on the low hill lay a villa, a mere two stories high. Although it was the largest structure on the island, it was far less grand than the palaces of most of the Ak'áyan kings, whether from the north or the south.
In the sunny courtyard of this villa, queen Penelópa awaited her mariner king and husband. Like her kinfolk on the Lakedaimóniyan and Argive thrones, she wore a colorful, flounced skirt and a bodice that was tight at the waist, leaving her breasts bare. Her long, dark hair, entwined with strings of beads, fell past her thick waist. Sandals protected her feet from the rocky ground. Her manner, too, was as commanding as her appearance. The land she ruled might not be the most prosperous, but here she was as much a wánasha as her cousins on the thrones of wealthy Argo and pious Lakedaimón.
"Penelópa!" Odushéyu cried when he caught sight of her. "What is the meaning of this, my queen? My men and I have been treated like Assúwan captives by our own people. What have you done here?"
Her eyes were large and heavy-lidded but they narrowed at the sight of the weather-beaten wánaks and his men. "You are no longer my husband, Odushéyu," she announced with a glare. "I divorce you." She turned to face each of the four cardinal directions in turn, raising her hands to the sky and repeating three more times, "I divorce you." Then she turned again to face Odushéyu, her eyes as malevolent as before. "There. I have said it four times. Gods and men are my witnesses. It is done. Because of this, you are no longer wánaks of the western islands. He who marries It'áka's queen will have that title and that honor."
"What?" Odushéyu roared, red with fury. "You cannot divorce me or depose me, you foreign witch!" He advanced on the woman, only to be stopped by blows from the spear butts of the feathered warriors.
"I can do it," Penelópa retorted firmly. "I am wánasha of Zákunt'o, Dolik'íyon, Ek'íno, and holy It'áka, by the will of the gods. And I have done it. You are a commoner now, Odushéyu. Your life is in my hands."
"But what are you saying, my lady?" Odushéyu waved his arms wildly as he spoke, trying to fend off the fate that was so close. "My mother was the wánasha when I left home."
Coldly Penelópa told him, "She died while you were away in Assúwa and thus your father lost his claim to the throne. Then I became the sole legitimate wánasha."
The former wánaks clapped his hands to his head, his eyes wide, disbelieving. "Dead? Mother? Owái, that cannot be true."
Penelópa rolled her dark eyes. "Ai, do not act so wounded. I know you better than that. You had little enough use for the woman when she was alive. Do not pretend to be surprised, either. She had been sick for several years. The true surprise is that she lasted as long as she did."
"But…but…It'áka will never accept you," Odushéyu spluttered. "You are a foreigner, a Lakedaimóniyan by birth. But I have always lived on It'áka. It is I who rule the western islands, not you."
Penelópa smiled, her thin lips little more than a gash in her smooth face. "Ai, but Odushéyu, the people do accept me. I have taken Antikléya's place in the festivals for years. The common people never disapproved of me in this role, any more than they mourned to see me rule in your absence. And why should they not accept me? Even the gods are on my side. Surely you have heard of the drought ravaging Ak'áiwiya. But here, rain has been as plentiful as it ever was. What better proof could there be of my legitimacy?"
The former wánaks glanced around at the P'ilístas with their spears and round, leather shields with their central, bronze bosses. He recognized the gear but not the men, as these warriors had not gone to Tróya the previous year. The pirate king shuddered. But he continued to argue with the queen. "Ai gar, woman, you have not considered the consequences of your actions. Without a strong king on the throne, It'áka will soon find itself preyed upon by more powerful kingdoms. There is Mesheníya to the southeast, with that rapacious, old Néstor just waiting to gobble up the islands. Besides him, only my alliance with the small kingdoms of Enwáli and Arkadíya has provided us with a buffer from Agamémnon's unquenchable lust for territory. Obviously some northern land supports you. But you cannot think the north will stand against both Lakedaimón and Argo, for our sake."
Penelópa laughed. "Ai, Odushéyu, you always were an arrogant fool. What do you think has happened in Mesheníya while you and Néstor were away in Assúwa? Do you know, eh? Well, I will tell you. Néstor's people grew tired of his unwelcome rule. They invited me to be their wánasha instead of Néstor's childish wife. So it has come to pass. I allow Néstor's family to remain in the palace at Púlo out of respect for my kinswoman, Eyurudíka. But the rest of Mesheníya answers to me. Do you hear me? As for the rest of the south, well, I have no fear of
Argo. My cousin is wánasha there and she is more than a match for your precious Agamémnon's unquenchable lust."
Odushéyu clapped his hands to his thighs, his eyes hard and his jaw set, thoroughly angry now. "By the gods, woman! I suspected a little trouble from you when I returned from Tróya, but not this, not open rebellion! Ai, Penelópa, I cannot believe what I see and hear. You were always obedient, deferring to my judgment in all things, as a wife should be. Now, I know there were times when you did not approve of my actions. I could see it in your eyes. But you never spoke against me in public. In private, when I was firm, you always backed down. I hardly ever had to beat you to get my way. You do not have the will to openly oppose me. A fawn has a stronger heart than you. No, some man is behind this. Your new lover must be a northerner, by the looks of these men." He gestured toward the surrounding P'ilístas with contempt.
"You swine!" Penelópa spat. "We were married for over ten years and still you do not truly know me. If I gave in to you before, it was because a woman without brothers nearby has no choice but to bend to her husband's will. But you have forgotten Diwiyána's ancient law. Kingship resides in a woman's body."
Odushéyu shook his head. "By the gods, that custom is archaic and outdated. It has not really been the practice for more than a generation in southern Ak'áiwiya. That is because evil always follows when a woman rules. You should remember that, Penelópa. It is still a man who should wield the king's power, as it always has been."
The queen's eyes flashed. "Kingship does pass through the female line, by Diwiyána's decree, and her divine laws cannot be changed by mortals. Ai, you are right that the wicked kings of the south have circumvented that law. That must end, this evil practice of killing daughters at birth. Never again must a holy woman from another land be imported as wánasha to the son of the ruling wánaks. No, if a king has no daughters, the kingship should pass to the nearest female kin of his wife. Then it will be the king who comes from elsewhere and who has no kinsmen nearby. In that way, even a wánaks of the highest rank will be forced to respect the customs of the people."
"You are either living in the past or with the maináds," growled It'áka's former king. "All this talk of heredity and custom is beside the point. These are harsh times we live in. It may not be pleasant to kill baby daughters, but it is a practical expedient. Only a man can rule with the strong hand needed in these difficult times. Think, woman. How many wars have I fought since you and I married? Five, I tell you. Just how many do you think you can fight?"
The wánasha scoffed. "To hear you talk, I would think you waged war all by yourself, Odushéyu. But that is not so. A wánaks need not ever hold either a sword or spear in his hand, even to fight. Look at old Erékt'eyu, up north in Attika. Did he go to Tróya with you? No, he sent an army under one of his qasiléyus. I can do the same. And as for the rest, it is you who are behind the times, old man. Governing in these difficult days, as you call them, is mainly a matter of keeping accounts. Nothing happens in an Ak'áyan country without the appropriate record being filed in the palace archives. I should know. I kept your accounts, when you were home as well as when you sailed away on your raids. And here I have the advantage over a man. I can read what is written on all those strips of leather and those wooden planks.
"Besides," she added, smiling seductively, "what king would attack my realm when he might carry it more easily through marriage? I need fear no invading army for some time. The kings and princes will all be busy courting me for who knows how long. And then, when I have finally chosen my husband, the land will have a wánaks again, that strong hand you believe so necessary. Ai, but it will be a proper king who rules here then, not a blasphemous, arrogant dog like you or Agamémnon. Diwiyána's laws will be followed in holy It'áka. I will see to it!"
Odushéyu was stung by the queen's words. "Do not blame me for Agamémnon's faults," he flung back. "It was not my idea to stay at Tróya so long or to take so many with us."
"No, these were not your ideas, but Agamémnon's," Penelópa agreed. "But you did not resist him. Mother Diwiyána! You might as well declare yourself the man's qasiléyu or pay him tribute as a vassal."
"Idé, so I am Agamémnon's vassal, am I? It seems to me that you have taken a P'ilísta for your overlord. Is that your idea of an improvement?"
Penelópa glanced at the feather-capped warriors guarding her ex-husband and his men. "Perhaps," she said slowly. "We will see, in time. It is certainly true that I have been in contact with wánaks Erékt'eyu and his daughter for some time. They warned me that you would be coming soon. They also sent their kinsman, Eyurumák'o, to assist me in dealing with you. These are Eyurumák'o's men and they are indeed P'ilístas."
"Ai, no, wife, not an Attikan! But the western islands have always allied themselves with the south," Odushéyu cried. "You are a fine one to talk of custom when you forget that."
Penelópa was untouched. "It is time for a change in that particular tradition. It would be for the good of all Ak'áiwiya. Argo has grown too large and powerful, endangering all its neighbors. It was already the richest kingdom in the days of our grandmothers and it had the largest army. With Meneláwo sitting beside Ariyádna, Lakedaimón is hardly better than Argo's vassal now. And Néstor does not have the sense to oppose Agamémnon. But I do. I have taken control of the whole western coast of Ak'áiwiya, now. If I should marry an Attikan, half the north will ally itself with me as well. Argo will not be the center of an Ak'áyan empire, not as long as I draw breath and can oppose it."
Odushéyu's shoulders drooped. "Ai, woman, what do you intend to do with me, then? Kill me? After I saved your own kinswoman from Tróyan slavery? You could at least let me see my son again, first."
"No," the queen answered, her voice softer than before. "I will not have you killed. You are the father of my child, after all. Besides, the commoners would not accept me as wánasha if I polluted my soul with such a crime. You may stay here in your homeland for nine days, a holy number. I will grant your request to see Qelémak'o during that time and you may visit your father, too, if you choose. But that is all. On the tenth day you must sail away, taking with you any men who are still your followers. Never set foot again on this or any other western island. For if my people catch you a second time, I will not spare you again."
"Ai, my father often told me that women were the cause of all men's troubles," Odushéyu moaned. "Who is left to go with me? I lost so many soldiers at Tróya and more on the way home. My remaining loyal men, are they to be exiled forever? Owái, my ships, my last four longboats are battered from the storm, needing repair. One is not even sea-worthy. Owái, where in the world can I go?"
"Go to your beloved overlord," Penelópa suggested coldly. "Go to Argo."
"Owái, what kind of advice is that? Agamémnon will not welcome a broken exile with only three ships. What have you done to me?" the mariner wailed.
"Then go to Lakedaimón," the wánasha snapped. "My cousin may be grateful for your services."
Odushéyu clapped his hands to his head and groaned more loudly. "Owái, this is no better advice than the first. Meneláwo has lost his edge. He knows nothing but how to run for cover."
Penelópa lost patience. "Then go to 'Aidé!" she cried and waved to the P'ilístas to take her former husband away.
aaa
As Odushéyu gazed out at the sea from the villa on Zákunt'o, the wánaks Erékt'eyu stared into the embers of his hearth in his gloomy mégaron. There, in Attika, he sat upon a wooden throne, wrapped in his heavy, winter cloak despite the warmth of the advancing season. Deep in thought, he stroked a beard long since turned white by passing time. Beside him stood a middle-aged woman with hard, black eyes and grim frown-lines at the corners of her mouth. She held a wooden tablet, its two halves bound together with hinges of leather. The indented inner surfaces of the tablet were coated with a layer of beeswax, colored a pale yellow with orpiment to make the markings on it clear. With a small, pointed stick, the princess carefully inscribed the wax.<
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"Write the names of the Argive prisoners and number their wounds, Kt'oníya," the king told her, wheezing painfully between words. "Write it all down, daughter. Wipíno and Diwoméde, each with two wounds; Poludóro, struck by one arrow; Mégist'o, hit with four; and Dáiqonta, who has six wounds."
The Attikan princess was unhappy. "Father, Klutaimnéstra already made it clear that she would not ransom any Argive who attacked us. Dáiqonta will most likely be dead before this message leaves the palace, in any case. Besides, I happen to know that Klutaimnéstra bears a special hatred for this Diwoméde. We would be doing her a favor to put them all to death right now."
"That may be. But Klutaimnéstra will have married since we last heard from her," the old king reminded his daughter, shaking a withered hand at her. "That Aígist'iye is wánaks now, or whatever his name is. He may have ideas of his own. Argo lost many warriors in the Tróyan war. A wise king would not throw away the lives of those soldiers who survived. They are battle-hardened and might prove to be of use to him in the future. It could even be that a powerful god is on their side."
