by Diana Gainer
Odushéyu said no more of these things than Mirurí did. Instead, the It'ákan leader regaled his followers with stories of monsters who had lived in Kep'túr's labyrinthine palace in ancient times. "The ancient king of this island was Díwo's own son, but, unlike his divine father, he was evil at heart. Instead of sacrificing a bull to honor the god, he sacrificed a man to the bull. He did it here in this very house, in the great courtyard. All the island's high-born men and women gathered to watch that unspeakable rite, once a year. Can you believe the Kep'túriyans remember that ancient king fondly and actually preferred him to us civilized, Ak'áyan rulers?"
When the visitors of high rank came to the throne room, king Idómeneyu's welcome was lukewarm. The wine that the wánaks served his guests was stale, the barley cakes few, the mutton tough and stringy. "There was hardly any rain last winter," the king told his visitors, "and meat is in short supply, not to mention grain. What is more, Artémito's invisible arrows rained over the eastern end of the island, an area never wholly under my control. Between refugees from the drought and those trying to escape the pestilence, all my towns are overrun with villagers. My own subjects were already hungry and the numberless farmers who came in, crowding us, do not make my position any easier. There were few enough true Ak'áyans here to begin with," Idómeneyu reminded them, "and so many refugees, all natives, are bound to make our difficult situation worse."
"Ai, it cannot be as bad as all that," Odushéyu said encouragingly as they ate their sparse meal. "Your non-Ak'áyan soldiers fought loyally enough in Wilúsiya. You brought home your share of plunder and glory, too. These things must count for something, Idómeneyu. Even barbarians are impressed by bronze, if not by areté."
The Kep'túriyan king was morose. "They should be impressed, as you say. But they are not, especially when there has hardly been a single cloud overhead for a year and more. My soldiers of every language and blood were loyal to me in Assúwa, that is true. But we soldered no unbreakable bond at Tróya. Once everyone was at home and they all saw the condition of their kinsmen, ai, it was easy to forget that loyalty. As Néstor found out, men are quick to turn against their king, especially when he is not of the same blood as them. Instead of supporting me, my men began to spread evil rumors."
Odushéyu was surprised and let his bread fall from his hand. "Rumors? About you? By the gods, Idómeneyu, I heard of many evil deeds in Tróya but none were laid at your threshold!"
Idómeneyu rubbed his aching forehead and sighed. He seemed years older to Odushéyu than when they had parted company just six months before. The Kep'túriyan king's face was more lined than ever. More gray had appeared in his beard. And his forehead seemed to have lengthened, rising much further into his hairline than before. "My men recalled a promise I made to the ancient goddess while I was at Tróya," the Kep'túriyan told his guests with a moan. "You remember that terrible day when Qántili had us backed against our ships? We thought all was lost. I swore to lady Dánwa that I would sacrifice my youngest son to her, if she would save my life." He ran his scarred hands through his thinning hair and shuddered.
"Ai gar," Odushéyu grumbled, "if every warrior who made such a promise kept his word, Díwo would have nothing to do. A man will make any vow in a tight spot. But a rash promise like that is intended to be broken. Díwo's punishment will be light, my friend."
Idómeneyu groaned. "I know, I know. But my men tell this story every chance they get. They point out that my youngest son was the first to greet me when I came home, too, as if that were a sign from the goddess herself! Idé, I certainly did not slaughter Peirít'owo when he met me on the shore. Now the people are talking against me, saying that the drought is my fault for angering Mother Dánwa."
"Préswa take them all to 'Aidé!" Odushéyu cursed. "If anyone is to blame for angering the gods, it must be these wánashas. Now, do not defend your wife, Idómeneyu. Do not forget the message we intercepted at Tróya. When your back was turned and you were suffering endless hardships overseas, she was conspiring with Klutaimnéstra and Penelópa. These mad queens want to take over all Ak'áiwiya."
Idómeneyu nodded and leaned back against his throne, pressed down by the same utter weariness of spirit that afflicted Néstor. "I found it hard to believe the message spoke of Médeya. Until the day I entered the harbor here, I wanted to think it was Agamémnon’s daughter, Ip'emédeya's name, that I had read. I kept telling myself I did not know all the symbols and I could not be sure. But then I sailed to Knósho and my queen did not welcome me home. I had to march my warriors into the palace here, armed as if for war, to regain my place on the throne of Kep'túr. It was just as you said. She had been plotting my overthrow." He threw up his hands, then let them fall, limp, to his lap. "Now the woman is banned from the capital, but I cannot divorce her and send her away without losing my claim to kingship. So she goes from village to village, talking against me. She blames my association with Agamémnon for all the problems here."
Odushéyu sighed sympathetically. "It is an all too familiar tale, Idómeneyu. I had thought you and I might sit out Agamémnon's new campaign this year, my friend. I thought we might be too busy gaining territory in southern Ak'áiwiya. But now I am beginning to think we should sail north to Aúli, after all. Maybe we should do just as we swore we would last autumn. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. I would love to carve a new kingdom for myself in Assúwa, where women spend their lives weaving and spinning."
Mirurí quietly frowned, shaking his head. But Idómeneyu listened thoughtfully. "That might not be a bad idea, Odushéyu. But I cannot go just yet. It was obvious the harvest was going to be meager. So, as soon as the winter passed, I sent most of my ships far to the east. They have gone to the island of Alásiya to buy grain. Let us wait until they return. I may be able to appease the people with food. After all, even though a kingdom overseas is tempting, still it may not be destined for us. It would be good to know that I could come back here and rule again, if things did not work out in Assúwa."
Odushéyu thought about that briefly. "Very well, I believe I can afford to wait until the festival of threshing. But no longer, my friend. Remember, Agamémnon said to meet in Qoyotíya at the beginning of summer and that time is very close."
aaa
As Kep'túr awaited grain from Alásiya, Aígist'o received an At'énayan letter, as he ruled in Argo. He handed the wooden tablet to his wánasha and dismissed the messenger from Mukénai's mégaron. "What does it say?" Aígist'o asked, looking up from his seat on the throne.
Klutaimnéstra stood smiling beside him, as she broke the wax seal and unwrapped the bonds. Opening the leather-hinged tablet, she read the words aloud, tracing the signs with a plump finger. "From Erékt'eyu, wánaks of Attika, to his brother king, Aígist'o of Argo, greetings. Idé," she exclaimed, not entirely pleased, "word of our marriage traveled very fast."
"Read on," Aígist'o told her impatiently, with a wave of his long-fingered hand. Then he listened, fingering his newly grown mustache.
His new wife returned to the neat rows of signs inscribed in the yellow wax. "At'énai was attacked…."
"At'énai!" Argo's new priest-king was surprised. "Ai, Agamémnon was ambitious. I assumed he would burn a few villages near the wall between our two lands."
"Idé, the dog attacked a citadel with only two shiploads of men," Klutaimnéstra scoffed. "That is not ambition. It is idiocy. I am amazed the fool brought as many warriors back from Assúwa as he did."
"Yes, yes, continue," the long-haired wánaks continued impatiently. "Were there any survivors?"
Klutaimnéstra's eyes widened in surprise. "Ai, it was not just a loss, it was a massacre! Only five are still live, all of them wounded. Erékt'eyu wants to know whether we will ransom them. By the goddess, that man is senile. I already wrote that I would pay nothing for captives."
"My dear wife," Aígist'o said through his teeth. "He is writing now to me, do you understand, to me. And I am not so rash as you." He raised a hand to sile
nce the objections she would have voiced. "Agamémnon's losses at Tróya were extremely heavy, as we had expected, or I should say, as we planned. Now, that suited our purposes when we faced the problem of deposing him. Sending him a Tróyan seer was a brilliant idea. You must grant me that. There can be no doubt that Qálki helped increase the Ak'áyan losses. Because of that, Agamémnon's death pleased every Argive who lost kinsmen in Assúwa, as we knew it would. Even the drought worked to our advantage, giving the people additional reason to turn against their former king.
"But now we face a different challenge. Agamémnon's death will not bring us rain until next winter. Have you considered how we are to survive until then? We have already had to trade far more of our treasures for Qoyotíyan grain than we could really afford. There are not enough valuables left in Argo, now, to buy the services of a mercenary army, if we should need one. Unfortunately, there are a great many lands that still consider us an enemy, despite the change in sovereignty. Even our allies might be planning to attack us, now that we are weakened. We need every trained warrior we can muster. If we have some in Attika…"
Klutaimnéstra had turned back to the tablet, no longer listening to her new husband. "By all the gods and goddesses!" she suddenly cried, furious. "Diwoméde is listed as one of the survivors! I will never ransom Agamémnon's bastard son! You listen to me, Aígist'o. You are wánaks here, by my design. I can divorce you and I will, believe me. No bronze will come from my storerooms to buy the freedom of that swine of a qasiléyu. His very existence is an affront to my dignity as a queen. He will not be ransomed. I will not stand for it!"
"Do not excite yourself, Klutaimnéstra," Aígist'o soothed, patting her plump arm. "Do I not always listen to your counsel? There is no need to talk of divorce, my love. You are right, of course. We will send no bronze from the palace for these survivors, neither Diwoméde, nor any other. If we send treasures out, it will be to buy something better than a handful of wounded soldiers. Still, we should consider what else might be done to obtain their freedom and their services. It is for the sake of Argo, my sweet, for golden Mukénai."
Mollified, the wánasha listened. "What else might be done? Whatever do you mean by that?"
"Let me send word to the prisoners' kinsmen," Aígist'o went on, choosing his words with studied care. "It may be that their families will pay for their lives. That would serve our purposes just as well. The men would come home to Argo, no doubt bearing eternal hatred for Agamémnon's memory, since he was the cause of their dishonor and discomfort. We would have their loyalty, afterward, plus the use of their arms without losing any of our own bronze to obtain them. Remember, dear wife, Diwoméde's parents are both dead now and he has only sisters. In such difficult times as these, a man may choose to trade his wealth for his own brother's sake, but no man will pay for the kinsman of his wife. If Diwoméde's own family will not pay for his freedom, then it is quite simply the will of the gods that he remain captive."
"Ai, you are right," Klutaimnéstra sighed, looking fondly at the tall and slender king. "You must forgive my temper. I am so used to Agamémnon's thoughtlessness that I forget myself. Yes, esteemed husband, by all means, send word to the families of the captives. That is, I would not bother with Poluqónta's people. With six wounds, he has surely died by now. But, certainly, write to the other mothers and sisters."
aaa
No word came from the distant island of Alásiya before Kep'túr's festival of Kalamáya, the feast of threshing. Growing more nervous as the holy day approached, Odushéyu ordered the bulk of his ships out into the waters of the Inner Sea, though they were to remain close to shore. He and a few of his helmsmen of rank stayed ashore with Idómeneyu for the festival itself. But then the exiles would be gone, with or without the company of any high-born Kep'túriyans. He and his men were anxious to be on their way, now that the month of sailing was coming to an end.
While the residents of the palace waited in Knósho for the return of their longboats, the people of the surrounding countryside prepared to thresh what little barley had grown the past winter. Singing to the dying Kórwa, the women carried flails and wide, flat shovels to the threshing floors, while the men bore the harvested sheaves. Shepherd boys prepared to lead their flocks up to the mountain pastures, and, before they left, they drew lots to select a lamb for sacrifice.
The dethroned queen of Kep'túr slit the throat of the young animal upon the broad, stone-paved, threshing site that served Knósho's surrounding fields. Around Médeya, the country women ululated the cry that aroused the attention of the gods, running their tongues rapidly from side to side. A young woman, old enough to marry but still in her mother's house, held the bowl that caught the lamb's blood. The old men strewed the animal's carcass with stalks from the first sheaf of grain. The first kernels of barley were crushed between stones and mixed with the sacrificial blood. In a procession through every farm village in a circuit around the capital city, queen Médeya blessed the threshold of each dwelling with a few drops of the holy concoction.
Dancing and singing around the threshing floor, the people reenacted the legend of Kórwa's descent to the world beneath the earth. The older, unmarried girls danced and collected flowers, as Kórwa had done in times so long past that no numbers could count the years. Shepherd boys watched, their flocks grazing in the fields close by. Young and old, male and female, they sang of the god beneath the earth who had shaken the ground and opened a great chasm. The young goddess had fallen into the depths of the earth, hidden from the sight of her mother, the great goddess Dánwa.
Singing laments for the dying goddess, weeping for their own misfortunes, the people threshed the grain, trampling the sheaves on the hard floors until the kernels were knocked loose from the dry stalks. Next, they winnowed, tossing the sheaves into the air with their broad paddles, letting the wind catch the chaff and carry it away. They worked at this until only the edible kernels of barley remained on the threshing floors. Then they gathered up the grain into sacks of linen, and carried these to the vast storerooms of the palace at Knósho. In the many storerooms of the labyrinthine dwelling, they poured the symbol of the divine Maiden into storage jars beneath the floor. Into great urns, large enough to hold two grown men, they laid their meager bounty. The country people thronged back through the winding corridors of the citadel, singing sadly of Kórwa, the spirit of the grain, and her descent beneath the earth. As if mourning one of their own dead, the women scratched their cheeks and beat their unclothed breasts, their long hair falling unbound about their shoulders.
The rest of the ceremony followed when darkness fell. The women carried torches while the men donned masks of animals and dáimons, goat horns on their heads. With wineskins and baskets of fruit, the celebrants made the circuit of all the homes in the lower town of Knósho. Waving green branches everywhere they went, the celebrants strewed on each threshold a handful of the newly threshed grain. The inhabitants of each house sipped the sour wine carried by the masked revelers. While they drank, the torch-bearers sang, "Take the good fortune that we bring from the goddess. Take the good health that we bear from Mother Dánwa." Their funereal gloom began to lift as the wine worked its magic.
When the first hint of dawn lightened the eastern horizon, the revelers ascended the hillside to the palace of Knósho for the last stop and the final ceremony. Wánaks Idómeneyu himself greeted them at the main entrance and gathered all the participants into the largest courtyard for a feast. The native Kep'túriyans ate their fill for the first time in several months and drank the last of the imported stores of wine from their king's treasury. As their bellies filled, the crowd in the courtyard grew rowdy and loud. Those who had fought in the Tróyan war began recalling the glory they had won in battle. Those whose hair was white with age were reminded of the still greater glory of Kep'túr in past centuries, when the island had been ruled by the half-divine Bull king, the Raya, the Shining One.
Quietly, Peirít'owo complained to his royal father that the guests kep
t sneaking into the rooms of the palace. "No doubt they are looking for some bits of treasure to steal," the young prince said bitterly.
King Idómeneyu ground his teeth with suppressed anger, but he counseled patience. "While the commoners are here, we Ak'áyans are outnumbered. We cannot take any action against them now, my son. But take note of who the thieves are. When they are back in their homes, we can visit them one at a time and take back what is ours." The royal father and son were soon interrupted by one such Kep'túriyan returning from a foray into the king's apartments.
"Now it is time to choose the p'ármako," announced the tallest of the revelers from behind a griffin mask, its great curved beak hiding his face too well for the royal family to guess his identity. "Who will take on the evils of this land tonight? Who will be driven into the sea when the sun comes up?"
Just as the question was being asked, Odushéyu caught a bear-masked man entering the courtyard from a palace corridor, something hidden under the shepherd's tunic. The It'ákan angrily tore the clothing from the Kep'túriyan and a painted vase fell from the folds, shattering on the paving stones. The throng fell silent and all eyes focused on the It'ákan leader. Odushéyu felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He sensed himself about to be designated the p'ármako, the scapegoat who was to be chased to the sea to rid the countryside of evil.
