by Diana Gainer
Odushéyu whispered a relieved prayer of thanksgiving that it had been his subordinate and not himself who had just expired. "Owái," the exile gasped, "Lady At'ána, spare me from such a fate and I will never kill another man who begs me for mercy, I swear!"
When done with this act of war, Mirniptáha let his bloodied weapon fall to the hard ground, his gnarled hands trembling. The mace clattered to the courtyard pavement, scattering crimson drops. Siptáha caught the heavy implement of war and handed it to the shorter but stronger governor, Amun-musís. His forehead furrowed with concern, the tall Siptáha moved closer to the king, his hand at the aged monarch's elbow.
The Great House now lifted a gleaming sword, with some difficulty, preparing to dispatch the second foreign leader, a kinsman of Ainyáh's from Kanaqán. "Salám, Great King," the prisoner called out in desperation, "peace! My men and I are not your enemies. We are mercenaries only. We bear no malice toward Mízriya. Surely the wondrous and divine offspring of the sun's disk, the Great House of the Two Lands, may long life, endless prosperity, and health be yours forever and ever through all eternity, surely you will pay more for our services than these wretched, miserable, slavish Ak'áyans."
Mirniptáha stood on unsteady feet, holding the bronze weapon over his shoulder. His toothless mouth opened and closed, but only the sound of rapid panting came from his bloodless lips. Siptáha silently moved behind the monarch to help support the sacrificial weapon as Mirniptáha hesitated.
At the other side of the Great House, Amun-musís encouraged Mirniptáha to accept the Kanaqániyan's offer. "Libúwans from the west and these eastern sea traders are familiar enemies to us. That is to say, their kinsmen are nearly as common in your own army as Káushans. We know how to deal with them."
Mirniptáha nodded.
"Release the Kanaqániyan and place him and his kinsmen in the army," Amun-musís called out. Bikurnár hastened to carry out the order. The prisoner threw himself at the Mízriyan monarch's feet, loudly swearing his loyalty to the Black Land.
Bikurnár dragged the captive to his wobbly feet and Mirniptáha passed on to the next captive officer. Tushrátta raised his head at the monarch's step, saying, "Great King Mirniptáha, are you not bound to my overlord by treaty?"
The aged, southern emperor stumbled backward and Siptáha had to support the monarch's bony arms to keep him from falling. Mirniptáha's face remained as pale as death, his limbs shuddering. Despite the heat, he no longer perspired. "Treaty?" the Mízriyan sovereign repeated, without comprehension. He coughed weakly, putting a hand to his sunken chest.
"His overlord is your brother Great King, Tudqáliya of Náshiya," Siptáha explained quietly. "Your divine father, may he rest in Ra's horizon, signed a treaty with Náshiya, long ago, agreeing to exchange any prisoners taken on land or sea. You cannot kill this man, O golden Harú, life, prosperity, and health be yours for millions of years."
But Amun-musís disagreed vehemently. "Náshiyan men openly fought against us in the delta," he pointed out. "They were the ones who violated the old treaty, not us. It is clearly no longer in force or else Tudqáliya himself is a treaty-breaker."
"Release the prisoner," Siptáha called out, nevertheless, and the aging sovereign nodded his assent. "Let the Tróyan go, as well. Have their countrymen rounded up and imprisoned in the store-houses for now. We will deport them later, after we have negotiated with Tudqáliya for a payment to make up for our losses."
Bikurnár scowled as he obeyed the tall official's order. As he half-led, half-dragged the Lúkiyan and Tróyan from the courtyard, he warned them, "You have only delayed your fate, not escaped it. Emperor Tudqáliya will have your household goods confiscated when you return to him. Your wives and children will be sold into slavery, your parents killed. You two will face a dreadful penalty for making war without your Great King's approval. Your eyes may be burned out with red hot pokers. Or your hands and feet may be cut off, so that you will die slow and agonizing deaths from the rotting wounds. If you survive, you will live the rest of your days in poverty and misery, as beggars." As the chastened Assúwans were dragged away to be held in a separate camp, they groaned. Bikurnár was probably right, they knew. They could expect nothing better, in those evil days.
The Mízriyan king stepped forward once more, urged on by Amun-musís, who now presented a spear to the monarch. Mirniptáha drew back the lance to deal the death blow to the final captive. Idómeneyu shouted in desperation, "Great King, I am not an Ak'áyan. I lied before. I am a Lúkiyan, a Náshiyan, I swear by Tarqún!"
The Kep'túriyan's son, prevented from going to his father's side by other captives, shed copious tears, repeating Idómeneyu's words. "We are Lúkiyans."
Mirniptáha had not hesitated in his pronouncements for the others, though he repeatedly pressed a hand over his heart, his eyes rolling back in his head. Now, leaning heavily on Siptáha, the Great House was silent, staring in bewilderment at the frightened man before him. Mirniptáha did not know what to make of this barbarian. "Our ancestors never used such a northerly people as mercenaries, Siptáha," the old man said quietly. "Advise me, my son. What can it mean, that Mízriya has added a new name to the traditional list of enemies? Is this a sign of disfavor from the gods, to their own son?"
Unnerved, Siptáha suggested in a whisper, "Leave this captive bound and staked until the high priests can attend you in a consultation with Ptáha and Amún. The gods themselves should be consulted on this matter."
Mirniptáha closed his eyes a moment, deep in thought. Opening them, he said weakly, "Have the prisoner…"
But Amun-musís interrupted impatiently. "O Great King – life, prosperity, and health – let me point out that Ptáha promised his imperial son victory in the battle, and, in fact, the god kept his vow. There can be no question, therefore, of divine support for the Great House." With a respectful bow, he continued, "I suggest that this leader of the sea people be enlisted in my regiment, as a test of his fighting abilities." The ailing sovereign listened gravely and nodded ever so slightly.
But the taller Mízriyan prince, Siptáha, poured contempt on such a notion. "Our army's strength has always been in its archers and charioteers," he argued. "Most of these sea people are only spearmen. We have no need for more of those! The Sharudín are quite sufficient."
"What do you say to that, Bikurnár?" Amun-musís asked, seeing that the mercenary commander frowned. "Are your numbers so plentiful and your enemies so few that you have no need of reinforcements, even in these unsettled times?"
Bikurnár bowed respectfully to each of the imperial officials and to the feeble Great House. "I suggest that the Ak'áyans be shipped to Assúwa along with their allies, the Lúkiyans and Tróyans. Tudqáliya can probably be induced to pay for the whole lot, especially if not informed too precisely of its makeup. In any case, no one will suspect anything until the whole shipment lands in Náshiya. After all, these pale foreigners all look alike. If Tudqáliya does object, when he discovers this flock among his returned subjects," he shrugged and smiled, "well, he has far too many problems inside his own borders to come across the sea, later, to trouble Mízriya about such a petty issue."
Mirniptáha solemnly considered this argument and began to waver. "Have the captive…"
But now Amun-musís objected, "Mízriya's Great House is not bound by treaty to any ruler in this Akiwashi place, which I never heard of before, in any case. Nor does he owe the Náshiyan emperor any special favors, not since that rulers’ underlings are starting to show up here, among our enemies! If my great imperial father does not want to kill this last, vanquished chief, and will not make him a mercenary, the illustrious Great House should follow custom and bestow this man as a slave for his most loyal son, who led the victorious army in the last battle, as a demonstration of his esteem for that royal son. I am sure I can find him a place for the captive in my private army. Was this not your noble father's practice, and your esteemed grandfather's? Here is a suggestion with precedent in our surpassingly
glorious past." He spoke the last words confidently and turned gloating eyes on his taller brother. Their imperial father could not fail to be influenced by the final argument.
"Your…private army?" the ailing king whispered, pressing a hand to his sunken chest. Without further ado, Mirniptáha thrust his spear into the remaining captive's abdomen. The allotted prisoners cried out in anguish at the sight, while the assembled nobles cheered and clapped their hands over their heads, drowning out Idómeneyu's dying screams and those of his captive son.
At this final act of war, Bikurnár could hold his tongue no longer. "I object to this disposition, O King! I received no slaves, but it was my men who suffered the brunt of the Ak'áyans' swords and spears. This is hardly fair! Weapons are an adequate payment for a foot-soldier, but the metal I myself received scarcely equals what I will pay you in taxes this year. Give me a barbarian for my household," he boldly demanded of his overlord.
Siptáha glared with furious eyes at the foreign-born prince. "Bikurnár," said the official, "you are not a Mízriyan. You are not a true citizen of our land. You are only a visitor in my illustrious father's realm, with no more rank than a slave yourself. But he is the son of a god who shines on the throne of the Two Lands forever! You are not his equal or mine. No, the Great King Mirniptáha allows you to command your brothers in his service, out of the greatness of his heart. He owes you nothing at all."
Bikurnár darkened with sudden anger.
But Mirniptáha was roused himself and the color returned to his face. "For your insolence, you will return the presents I allotted to you earlier, Bikurnár!" cried the Great House, wheezing noisily, the whites of his angry eyes showing all around the dark irises. "What is more, Amun-musís will see that you are beaten until the skin is removed from your back. Do not presume to speak to me again, either, or I will have you executed, and your corpse will be torn to pieces by horses, to be scattered over the whole length of my country!"
Káushans eagerly rushed forward to carry the Sharudín commander away, kicking and shouting curses upon all of Mízriya's gods. The surviving captives were led away to their new owners, to toil in rich men's fields, or to labor unceasingly in the ram god's desert mines.
In the quarters of the soldiers, there was angry talk until Amun-musís called a secret assembly of the mercenary officers. "Bikurnár will not be beaten," the governor reassured them. "I know that command was really Siptáha's and not the Great King's. Bikurnár will go south at the head of the caravan of captives. He will remain in Kaush until I send for him. Until that time, you must all keep in your hearts the matter we discussed before, concerning the Great House. In these unsettled times, no land can survive with a weakling on the throne. When the time is right, I will call for all of you. We will then take action, for the good of all Mízriya."
aaa
In the royal stables of T'eshalíya, the slave, Érinu, sat upon a bed of dry grass, overlain by matted and filthy sheepskins. His naked body was striped with bruises and raw lash marks. He jumped and cursed as Andrómak'e gently washed dirt and blood from the wounds with a scrap of old cloth. From time to time she rinsed the rag in a bowl of water. The liquid grew darker and cloudier till it was the color of old wine, before she finished.
When the woman finally rose to empty the bowl, Érinu asked, "Did you have any trouble slipping out of the palace?"
She smiled, smoothing her only garment, an ankle-length skirt, and sat beside him. "No. Now wánaks Péleyu is so taken with 'Iqodámeya, he comes to lie with her nearly every night, as soon as the queen is asleep. It pleases him to find her alone, so he never questions her about me. But she would never betray me, in any case. She is a good friend." Lightly, she caressed the young man's chin, feeling the short stubble.
He frowned, ignoring her touch. "'Iqodámeya is not your friend," he said harshly, drawing his eyebrows down over his dark and angry eyes. "If she holds her tongue about you, it is only because you could betray her to queen T'éti. Ai, the woman is a traitor to Wilúsiya. You should have nothing to do with her."
Andrómak'e dropped her hand to her lap, the smile gone from her face. With downcast eyes, she sighed, "Érinu, why must you be so harsh with us? 'Iqodámeya has suffered a great deal, first the loss of her husband and her city, then being passed from one warrior to another, forced to watch the destruction of her king's family." She began to cry quietly. "Owái, Érinu, if she has found a brief moment of happiness here, why must you condemn her for it?"
"Because she is wrong," the former priest cried, gripping Andrómak'e's shoulders. "She dishonors Muné's memory by lying with the kinsmen of his murderers. Has she so completely forgotten him? I cannot understand why you still defend her."
Andrómak'e began through her tears, "A widow is the most helpless of people…"
"I do not want to hear that tired excuse," Érinu spat, shoving her away from him. "My sister had no one to protect her, either. She fought Agamémnon's embrace every night, with all her strength. No doubt she suffered many blows for it, too. But Kashánda never forgot that she was a Tróyan and that Ak'áiwiya was her enemy. Areté was always foremost in her mind. She was as helpless as any widow was. Still, she managed to extract a terrible vengeance from the T'rákiyan chieftain. Remember her, Andrómak'e. Pattern your own behavior after Kashánda's and forget that treacherous 'Iqodámeya."
Andrómak'e stood sobbing, wringing her hands. "I cannot bear to hear any more about Kashánda. You do not understand. 'Iqodámeya and I are not just widows, but mothers. We must think of our children. My little Sqamándriyo will always come before areté."
"But what about Qántili?" Érinu demanded, catching at the young woman's skirt to keep her from leaving. "What about my brother's honor?"
Andrómak'e shrieked at the mention of her dead husband's name. She jerked her skirt free of Érinu's grasp. When he rose to block her exit, she slapped at him frantically, wailing. "How dare you! How dare you!" the captive widow screamed.
Her brother-in-law threw his arms around her, pressing her arms tightly between her bare torso and his. "I am sorry, Andrómak'e, I am sorry," he said over and over again, until she quieted, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Forget everything I said. I will not say anything more against 'Iqodámeya or you," he promised, with a sigh.
"Ai, Érinu," she whispered, wiping her damp cheeks. "Do you realize what the Ak'áyans would have done if they were as filled with hatred and areté as you and Kashánda are? They would have thrown my little boy from the towers of Tróya, for the sake of vengeance. Would that have pleased you?"
"No," he groaned, "of course not." He pulled her down to his bed, caressing her hair. "I care as much for Sqamándriyo as his father did." He lay on his side beside the young woman, resting his head on her shoulder, fingering her full, bare breasts.
Andrómak'e sniffed away the last of her tears and clasped Érinu's rough hand. "And Paqúr's little ones, do you care for them, too?" she asked, putting all her soul into the question.
"Of course, I love the children of both of my brothers." He raised his head with a suspicious frown. "Why do you ask such a thing?"
"Érinu," she sighed, begging with her eyes, "if you do love your nephews, you must stop telling them that they are Tróyans. Or, at least, you must say less about it," she quickly added, as he was about to object. Laying a finger on his lips, Andrómak'e went on, "Prince Púrwo is still a danger to the children, even if king Péleyu is not. Púrwo is angry with the world because everyone remembers his father and he is afraid he cannot live up to Ak'illéyu's example. He picks a fight over every little thing and treats all of his subordinates harshly. If the children anger him with talk of Wilúsiya, 'Iqodámeya and I would be helpless to protect them. Do you want to see your nephews live to be men? Or do you want to see them sacrificed on the altar of areté?"
Érinu frowned but he laid his head down again. "Very well, but you must promise me one thing, Andrómak'e. Swear to me that you will never lie with Púrwo. Make me a vow. I could not be
ar to see that."
"Ai, beloved," Andrómak'e whispered unhappily, "if he comes to me, I cannot refuse him. A slave has no choice in such matters."
He knew it was true, knew, too, that the thought made her as miserable as he. "At least," Érinu began, "you will not…look at him…the way a woman does…that you will not encourage…"
With a weary sigh, Andrómak'e said, "If you get me pregnant, beloved, I will have to go to him, so that everyone will think that the child is his. Otherwise, they will have me beaten until I reveal the father's name or, perhaps, even until I lose the baby. I will have no choice. Can you not understand? I did not choose this fate, my love. I did not make the world the way it is. And I am powerless to change it."
Érinu groaned and drew her tightly to him. "Then do not get pregnant, Andrómak'e."
"I do not have any say over that, either," the young woman whispered. "You know it is up to Mother Dáwan. But she does not listen to my prayers."
aaa
Diwoméde was on the throne of Tíruns when a naked workman rushed into the mégaron with the cry, "Ships are coming!"
"How many?" the qasiléyu demanded, rising to his feet.
