by Diana Gainer
"I do not see the hand of gods at work here," insisted the woman, pausing once more in her writing. "If lockjaw does not kill the prisoners, gangrene will. It would be a waste of good bronze to buy their freedom now. In fact, Father, I say it is a waste of our barley to keep feeding these men. Why did you not simply have Menést'eyu kill them all in front of the tower? I do not understand."
The old man lifted his head with its thin fringe of pale hair. "Idé," he scolded her bitterly, "there are many things I do that you cannot understand, daughter. But you do not need to know why I do what I do. Practical government is an affair for men, not women. Klutaimnéstra must be relearning that at the hands of Aígist'o, just as Penelópa will soon discover from Eyurumák'o. Be a good scribe now, as a high-born woman should. Just write the names as I told you, Kt'oníya, and close the tablet."
Pressing her lips together in displeasure, the graying princess did as her royal father directed. When the tablet was closed, its waxy sides together, the woman tied leather bands tightly around the two planks. She laid a small dish of beeswax on the coals of the fireplace and when the wax had melted, she poured a few drops over the ends of the leather bands to seal them.
The wánaks waited a moment, stroking his sparse beard, before pressing the large ring on his thumb into the soft wax. "Now, find a messenger to carry it to Mukénai," the aging king ordered, waving the princess from the room.
She left obediently. But, in the hall outside, Kt'oníya spoke with Menést'eyu, quietly so that the old man in the throne room would not hear. "Qasiléyu, this is a letter for wánaks Aígist'o in Argo," she explained. "My father insists that it be sent and so it will be. But I have my own commands as well. Take it as slowly as you can without arousing the king's suspicion. Give orders to your men to deal properly with the captives while you are gone. The prisoners are to receive no oil or bandages for their wounds. I would just as soon deny them food and water as well, but that cannot be. Feed them, since my father demands it, but make it a slave woman's rations, and only every other day, no meat, and no wine. Give them water to drink but not enough to wash with. If I have anything to do with it, they will all be dead by the time Aígist'o's answer comes back through At'énai's gates, whether for ransom or for execution."
aaa
In the dark, airless, and crowded storeroom where the Argive captives lay pressed against one another, Diwoméde urged his men, "Do not give up hope. Agamémnon will ransom us. We will not die in Attika. You will see."
CHAPTER SEVEN
IDOMENEYU
Three hastily repaired ships left Zákunt'o's southern coast, departing just ten days after their arrival. Odushéyu directed them toward the east, to the coast of Mesheníya, no further away than an easy afternoon's rowing. He was in no hurry to go far, undecided on his final destination, he told his remaining loyal followers. Those men were fewer than the ones who had washed up on Zákunt'o's shores ten days before. All had faced equally grim welcomes from their wives and kinsmen, people who blamed Agamémnon's misdeeds and his ill-timed Tróyan war for the misfortunes of Ak'áiwiya.
To bolster the spirits of his reluctant followers, Odushéyu talked confidently of the future. "We will only have to stay away from the western islands a little while," he told them over their first night camp. "Penelópa may consider herself a match for every warlike king, but surely there are wiser heads in my kingdom. When these more practical minds rise up and drive the wánasha from the throne, I want to be close by."
But Mesheníya's coast was hostile to the exiles. Marauding bands of shepherds came down to their camp while they slept and made off with what provisions It'áka's queen had provided for their journey. For sustenance, the It'ákans had to depend on the small villages nearby, taking advantage of the tradition of hospitality when they could, more often using force to resupply their ships. Everywhere they anchored their longboats, they heard the same news. Rain had fallen the previous winter, blessing the fertile, southwestern land of Mesheníya. But, the less fortunate Arkadíyans, Lakedaimóniyans, and Argives had braved the mountain passes, determined to share in the resulting harvest. The influx of desperate, hungry people destabilized a countryside that was already restive beneath the rule of a family with northern roots. Even the 'erms, those sacred heaps of stone that were placed every so often along the well-traveled pathways, were bare. No longer did well-off travelers make offerings to the god 'Érme at the rock-piles, as they passed by. The deity of journeys himself went hungry in those unsettled times.
Returning to their ships and the open sea, the exiled It'ákans sailed south to Mesheníya's capital city, to unfortified Púlo, where Odushéyu intended to consult with the old wánaks whose wisdom has once been legendary, Néstor. In the port below the hilltop palace the travelers were met by many armed guards. It took some quick talking by Odushéyu to convince the bronze-capped warriors to conduct them to their king's mégaron instead of to the airless storerooms where slaves and criminals were sometimes kept.
Surrounded by painted flowers and unearthly creatures on his walls, Néstor resignedly described his homecoming, slumping on his ivory throne. "Since the death of my oldest son at Tróya, I seem to have fallen into the grip of an evil dáimon. For here I am, a victorious conqueror and wealthy sacker of cities, and yet a virtual prisoner in my own capital city!" he exclaimed to his visitors in despair. "My wife did not plot against me during my absence, as I have heard that so many queens did. Ai, Eyurudíka no longer has the mind for such things, even if she were so inclined. But my Further Province has broken from my kingdom and aligned itself with the western isles. The Nearer Province is on the verge of doing the same."
Shaking his white head, Néstor fixed his bleary eyes on Odushéyu. "I always feared that you would burn Púlo some day when I was away at war. But never did I imagine that your meek, little wife would take control of my country. Your Penelópa has done me more harm than any pirate ever did."
Odushéyu was uncomfortable under the old king's gaze but shrugged off the insult. "I have more complaints against Penelópa than you do, Néstor. But the important issue is what we are going to do about this. Now, listen. My men and I have seen the countryside and my wife does not control it, despite her claims. She cannot make the roads secure, either, not from my capital on It'áka, or from any other of the isles. Your task is clear, Néstor. Assemble your warriors and retake your provinces. Just give the word, wánaks, and my men and I will fight alongside you, for the sake of our honor as well as yours."
The old Mesheníyan dropped his eyes and quietly cursed the great goddess who had chosen an evil fate for him. Without addressing Odushéyu's proposal, Néstor turned the subject to his long ago campaigns against his neighbors to the north in Enwáli. He could not be persuaded to return his talk to the present, after that. He gave his visitors fine gifts, bronze daggers with inlaid hilts from Tróya, drinking vessels of Mízriyan faience in the shape of sacred animals, brought from across the Great Green Sea to the south. But then he sent them on their way.
On the road back to the port and their waiting ships, Odushéyu and his men tried to recruit the warriors still about Néstor's unwalled capital. The It'ákan exiles spoke with any men who would listen of Agamémnon's new Assúwan campaign. "Never mind the paltry metals and weaving women you were promised in the Tróyan war," Odushéyu told these restless, discontented Mesheníyans. "What Agamémnon is after this time is territory. Fight with him this summer and stay in Assúwa as kings of the east. We killed two kings last year and we finish off the rest the next time around!" Although some remained loyal to their aged wánaks, more of them joined with the islanders, eagerly leaving their troubled land.
Among Odushéyu's new followers was a foreigner from the distant south, a mariner from the frontiers of the fabled land of Mízriya. This dark-skinned navigator was known as Mirurí, a native of the western desert land of Libúwa, bordering the rich southern empire. He and his men had been driven north, across the Great Green Sea and away from their homeland
, by the great king of Mízriya. Mirurí's people were exiles, too, searching for a new home, and happily joined the It'ákans.
Four ships had dropped their stone anchors in Mesheníyan waters. Fifteen left the beleaguered shores and sailed east, past the drought-shriveled fields of Lakedaimón. The Libúwan helmsman shook his head at the sight of ever more bony villagers, their bellies swollen and eyes glazed from hunger. "Mízriya goes years between rains but I have never seen it as bad as this," Mirurí told Odushéyu. "There, south of the Great Green Sea, they have the divine river, the Kuptú. When it floods and spills over its banks each summer, there is water enough to cover all the fields. Your Ak'áyan rivers are hardly more than streams, in comparison. No wonder this is such an impoverished place!"
Odushéyu was annoyed by his new steersman's arrogance. "Ai, but you are seeing Ak'áiwiya at a bad time, Mirurí. Lakedaimón is hardly our richest kingdom, either, in spite of its famous grain lands. Mesheníya was always better off than its neighbors. Even it has fallen on hard times, now that Néstor is too old to rule properly. But wait until you see Argo's countryside, Mirurí. Just wait until we reach golden Mukénai. Now that is a city to behold."
The Libúwan laughed as he manned his long, steering oar. "When you have seen Mízriya's city of the sun at Una, even the wealthiest Ak'áyan palace seems to be only a village next to it."
It was Odushéyu's turn to laugh. "I have heard the same said of the Náshiyan capital, Qattúsha. Why, when I was a boy, people even that said of Tróya."
Mirurí smiled, his healthy teeth presenting a vivid contrast to the darkness of his skin. "I, too, have heard tales. Some men say that the incense country lies on an island at the southern end of Mízriya's divine Kuptú. It is said that the aromatic isle is ruled by a snake of enormous size. His scales are silver and gold, so they say, metals that are as common as pebbles on that island. Even more plentiful is the incense and spice, worth more than any metal, even tin. Such things are as worthless as sand to him. Now, I have not been to the incense country. I have not seen that snake king and I cannot say whether these things are true. Nor have I seen this golden Mukénai you speak of, so I cannot judge whether you have told the truth or a sailor's lie.
"But I have seen Mízriya. Just let me tell you what riches are given to the great king there on each New Year's Day and you will begin to understand. When the floodwaters of the Aigúpto River have passed their peak and begin to subside at the end of summer, then the Mízriyans hold a great celebration. Every household in the southern empire sends presents to the Great House, as they call their overlord. The wealthy bring chariots of all kinds, the sides carved with scenes of war and inlaid with gold and silver, lapis lazuli and ivory. The Great House receives statues of Mízriya's countless gods and of himself, carved in ebony and stone and sweet-smelling cedar. He is given jewelry, too. The wealthy merchants offer him collars of solid gold, and earrings fashioned to resemble birds of prey and carrion, falcons and vultures. He receives rings and arm-bands, necklaces and amulets, adornments and perfumes of every kind.
"The men of his armies also bring gifts, every type of weapon in great quantity, axes, whips, clubs, and swords. They present him with innumerable shields made of the hides of animals seldom seen in the civilized world, some spotted, some striped. The commoners from up-river bring the fruits of their fields, endless sacks of grain, jars of beer and wine, geese, and dried fish. From the provinces of the delta come the largest, fattest cattle in the world. The gifts to the Great House for a single New Year's Day could not be stored in all the rooms of the palace of Tróya."
The It'ákan was more amused than ever, quite unconvinced by the Libúwan's assertions. "If Mízriya is so rich and we are so poor, why did you come to Ak'áiwiya? Why not sail to Alásiya or the trading ports of Kanaqán?"
"There is more to life than gaining wealth," Mirurí answered easily. "Riches are good, but power is better." He made a fist and shook it in front of Odushéyu's prominent nose. "Ramusís is the Great House of Mízriya today. But he is old. He has reigned for over forty years already. So long has he been emperor that twelve of his sons have died, some of disease or old age, some at his own hand because they wanted to depose him. Soon, he too will die and become a god. Then, only his weakest, youngest son will remain to rule as Great House. And the hair on that son's head is already white with time.
"When that day comes, my brother will march from the western desert and enter the rich northern lands of Mízriya. On that day, I will join him with my loyal followers together with all the mercenaries I can assemble. Then, I swear by the Divine Jackal and Lioness, we will take the northern cattle country away from the Great House of Mízriya." Mirurí's teeth shone brightly once more as he basked in the thought. "And I will have both wealth and power, Odushéyu. If you are wise, if you want what is good in life, you will join with me. When we are successful, I will grant you a fortress of your own in Mízriya."
Odushéyu was tempted to believe the Libúwan. But he had heard and told too many tales in his years as a pirate and mariner. He remained doubtful. "Let us suppose that what you say about Mízriya is true. Still, how could a band of desert nomads take land from a world power? No, I think that in the end you will have neither wealth nor power. If you are not eaten by vultures, the Great House of Mízriya will make a slave of you. If you go south, Mirurí, you sail alone. No sane Ak'áyan will join with you."
The Libúwan frowned, clearly disappointed. He did not argue his case, concentrating on the voyage ahead. Odushéyu was left wondering whether he had heard another sailors' yarn. Or might it all actually be true? Mirurí kept his attention on his steering for quite some time, watching the coastline of Lakedaimón's blighted shores. "Well, then," the helmsman asked, "do you intend to attack this miserable kingdom we are passing?"
Odushéyu shook his head. "I considered the idea, early on, but I have now decided against it. Do you see that island up ahead on our right?" He pointed toward the horizon and Mirurí nodded. "That is 'Elléniya, the kingdom's southeastern outpost and a place of pilgrimage. We will spend the night in the main city there, in peace. Tonight we are traders, not pirates. King Meneláwo has lost his fighting spirit and his days are numbered, anyway. On the way home from Tróya, I tried to get his people to desert him and follow my lead. They were not ready for me then. But now, they have had a difficult winter and another poor harvest. They are facing a year of famine, something that always leaves the commoners restless and hostile to their wánaks. If lady At'ána is with me, there will be no need for us to seek lands all the way across the Inner Sea in Assúwa, or in far-off Mízriya, for that matter. Lakedaimón will probably fall to me without a fight before the summer is over.
"I have made my decision, Mirurí. We will remain in the south of Ak'áiwiya, out of Penelópa's reach and outside Meneláwo's territory. Let them rule as best they can or do their worst. Either way, we will be close enough to come to Lakedaimón or even to Mesheníya, when the country people rise up against their rulers. After the night on 'Elléniya, we will turn south and make for the big island, Kep'túr. My good friend, Idómeneyu, is king there. He will surely feast us in Knósho city. If he sets out to join Agamémnon this summer, as he vowed he would do, we will go with him. If he chooses to stay at home, we will prolong our visit until events provide us a new home."
The exiles from It'áka, Mesheníya, and distant Libúwa sailed south, the following day. The men agreed with Odushéyu's assessment of the situation in Ak'áiwiya's southern kingdoms. They turned their high-prowed vessels toward the rich, island kingdom, Ak'áyans eagerly and Libúwans resignedly. Passing the forbidding cliffs on the western end of the long island, skirting the steep northern coast, they drew up before Kep'túr's capital city, late in the day. In Knósho's port, the party was met by only a single watchman.
"That is a good sign," Odushéyu noted to Mirurí. "Perhaps this last winter ended the drought here. It will be good to rest our bones in a settled, prosperous land for a change."
The Libúwan's critical eye fell on the white houses of the port town, taking in the cracked plaster, the mangy dogs prowling the streets, their ribs showing, hungry noses to the ground. He was less certain that the sole warrior was a sign of good fortune ahead. But he kept his doubts to himself as the armed Kep'túriyan led them to the palace, which commanded a view of the sea.
Even so, the exiled wánaks noted disturbing signs himself, as the visitors proceeded toward the king's house, more a small city in itself that sprawled over the hillside. Odushéyu first observed the sullen mood of the common people. It seemed to the It'ákan leader that there were more quarrels in the city streets than was normal, more shouting between women about the ownership of geese, more fist fights between men over the condition of fishing nets. Through the open doors of the smaller houses, the pirate also spied many a commoner in his bed. The sounds of the cries that came from the huts reminded him of the neighing of horses. His flesh prickled as he recalled hearing similar wails in the army's camp before Tróya. Agamémnon had called it battle-ground fever. The seer had named it plague, insisting that it was a sure sign of divine anger.
