Conspiracy of the Islands (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  CHAPTER ONE

  QELEMAK'O

  A middle-aged man with large, brown eyes stood in a courtyard, beneath the sun. He squinted up at the spring sky, stroking his mustache and beard, deep in thought. His body was bare to the waist, his arms and ribs laced with pale scars, and he continually leaned to one side, where an especially large scar pinched his waist. A light breeze pushed his graying hair from his shoulders and ruffled the fringe of his kilt.

  Sighing heavily, he left the courtyard for the dark halls of the palace. With one hand resting on his scarred side, he limped into the gloom, not glancing at the peeling frescoes on the walls. Past painted, white women and red gazelles, the man walked with his head down, muttering unhappily to himself, "Ai, lady Diwiyána, what else can I do?"

  At the end of the corridor, he stopped before twin doors of oak, and laid a heavy hand on the latch. "Supper is prepared, wánaks," said a heavy-set woman, standing at the door. She smoothed her skirt in a habitual, nervous gesture with wrinkled, work-worn hands and ducked her head to avoid meeting his gaze.

  The man noted with melancholy eyes that there was but a small remnant of dark hair at the back of her head beyond the rim of white. "Thank you, Kluména," he responded, but he did not open the heavy doors.

  Kluména looked up with some surprise. "Will you not dine with your guests?" she asked. "Lord Meneláwo, is something wrong?" One hand rose to her bare breast and her eyes widened with alarm. "Is there…are they…"

  Meneláwo lightly touched her arm and, when he felt her trembling, he embraced her warmly. "No, Kluména, nothing is wrong," he soothed and kissed her forehead. "Do not be afraid. I am not looking forward to this meal. That is all. Qelémak'o is the only son of Odushéyu, and that makes me think of…." He sighed. "Ai, no doubt the boy wants me to rescue his father. I suppose that I owe Odushéyu a great deal for his help in restoring my queen ten years ago."

  "No doubt," repeated Kluména, the lines deepening on her forehead. "But that should not trouble you, wánaks. You have other commitments and, when you explain this, Qelémak'o will have to accept it. After all, he has lived this long without his father close by. Most people probably assume that Odushéyu is dead by now."

  The wánaks groaned and turned away, releasing the serving woman. He clapped his hands to his head. "True enough. But I have not told Ariyádna of my plans yet. Qelémak'o will press me to help him until I explain my other obligations. But then, if I tell Odushéyu's son what I am about to do, my queen will have to hear it."

  "But you must tell her sometime, Meneláwo," Kluména pointed out gently, pressing her withered lips together in sympathy for his distress.

  "Yes, yes, but I did not want to trouble her with news of her daughter. I was only going to tell her that I was planning a visit. But Qelémak'o will not leave me in peace unless I explain fully. Then, Ariyádna will know that our child is in danger. Ai, you know how my wife is! Ariyádna will wail and scratch her cheeks as if 'Ermiyóna were already dead. For that matter, how can I expect Qelémak'o to understand my position? What can he possibly understand about conflicting demands? Ai, I am between the two horns of a dilemma. It would be dishonorable to ignore the request for help from the nation of Qoyotíya, after I made that solemn vow to maintain the alliance between that country and mine. But it is no better to make war on my own son-in-law. And that is what I would have to do if I am going to honor my commitments to Qoyotíya. But do you think that a hot-blooded young man would see this difficulty? Owái, I dread this supper as if it were a battle. I would rather face a wild bull's two horns than deal with this dilemma!"

  Sounds of muffled laughter came from the other side of the double doors. Her brow wrinkling with concern, Kluména hesitantly gestured toward the entrance. "Wánaks, they are waiting for you."

  Meneláwo sighed once more and nodded. "Ai, Diwiyána, help me, goddess," he muttered and pushed the doors wide open.

  Inside, four young men relaxed, in fleece-draped chairs that stood about a low, rectangular hearth, four pillars at its corners supporting the roof with its smoke-hole. The embroidered kilts and the sandals oiled to a sheen made the men in the great room seem to be creatures of a different world from that of the grizzled warrior at the entrance. Kluména shook her head at the contrast and suppressed a shudder, then brushed past the king to take her stand just inside the door. Her work-worn hands hovered expectantly about a small table, where a collection of two-handled cups had been stacked beside a wide-rimmed bowl.

  "Welcome to my mégaron and my table, friends and kinsmen," the wánaks called out, filling the room with his voice. Kluména lifted a cup, dipped wine from the bowl, and handed it to the king.

  The young men stood, two of them raising their hands to their foreheads and then upward toward the ceiling, to show their respect. "Hail to you, wánaks Meneláwo," said the tallest, the only one of the four with a full beard and mustache.

  "Welcome, Qelémak'o, son of wánaks Odushéyu," responded the king. He held up the wine cup and spilled a few drops on the painted floor. "Drink, gods and goddesses," he muttered, as he made the gesture, unthinking.

  The smaller youth, his whiskers still sparse, repeated the greeting more loudly, "Owlé, wánaks Meneláwo."

  The king nodded at the polite call. "Welcome, T'rasuméde, son of wánaks Néstor," he said and held his cup aloft a second time. "May the Great Lady grant blessings to this house and to those in it." So saying, he spilled more dark drops, before sipping the wine. Kluména dipped other cups into the deep bowl and distributed them to the young men. Each youth mimicked Meneláwo's actions, spilling a little before drinking.

  Once the little ceremony was over, the graying wánaks ignored the young men. The king walked heavily to his throne on the far side of the room, his dark eyes on the painted floor. The high-backed chair where he took his place was scarred from much use and darkened with soot. Only a few patches of blue, here and there, showed that the gypsum had once been painted. Meneláwo sat with a grunt of pain, his hand at his hip. Leaning back, he stretched his right leg stiffly, grunting again. He quickly drained the cup in his hand and held it out for Kluména to take.

  Before the aging serving woman could cross the room, a second woman rose from the shadows by the walls. Her long skirt was flounced, with six layers of cloth, each woven in a different pattern and color. Unlike the servant, she wore a bodice as well, its blue cloth tightly fastened beneath her flat, pendulous breasts. Crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes deepened in a warm smile as she grasped a handle of the king's cup.

  Looking up at her, Meneláwo did not smile. Nor did he release his hold on the cup's other bronze handle, but grasped her wrist with his free hand. "No, Ariyádna, let a servant do that. Sit beside me." He pulled her down, close to his knees, to rest on a carved wooden chair.

  Kluména took the cup and refilled it from a jar she had carried with her. "Wánasha," scolded the serving-woman, "it is not right for the queen to serve a man."

  "She is right," Meneláwo frowned, his wife's hand still clasped in both of his. His eyes rested unhappily on the woman's long hair, the short curls of gray framing her face, the black locks falling to her waist behind. In a whisper, he sighed, "Ai, Ariyádna…"

  "Father," began one of the young men, not as tall as the guests, but broader in the shoulders. His dark beard was beginning to fill in as he approached full adulthood, but he kept his upper lip shaved.

  "Megapént'e, wait," hissed his companion, the smallest of the four. And Kluména glanced at the youths, nervously smoothing her long skirt, shaking her head. The embarrassment on young Megapént'e's face turned to dread as the king's hostile eyes fell on him. As t
he small youth beside him urged, Megapént'e said no more. Brushing the front of her garment again, the serving woman carried a small table from the corner of the room and placed it before the wánaks.

  The tallest of the guests had watched the king and queen, a frown deepening on his unlined face. He ignored the message in the little scene he had witnessed and shot an angry look at Megapént'e. "What is this, wánaks Meneláwo?" Qelémak'o asked recklessly. "Do Lakedaimóniyans still parade their wives before guests?"

  The other youths were startled by the challenge implied by the question. Megapént'e muttered a quiet curse. Beyond the four youths, Kluména put a startled hand to her mouth.

  Between clenched teeth, the king growled, "It is the custom for a wánasha to appear with her wánaks. It is Diwiyána's law, Qelémak'o," he added, venom in his voice, "the same law that you It'ákans claim to obey."

  "In these dangerous times, we It'ákans obey the law of common sense," the tall guest shot back. "Parading one's wealth before strangers is an invitation to attack."

  Ariyádna's smile had faded when Qelémak'o first spoke. Now she shuddered. In an unsteady voice, she whispered, "Attack…." Whimpering, the queen slid from her chair and took refuge beside the throne, squatting on the floor.

  Meneláwo stood abruptly, knocking over Kluména's table. The serving-woman's hands fluttered anxiously and she backed away from the king. "Owái, Pótniya At’ána," she whispered, her hands repeatedly wiping at her skirt.

  "Are you threatening me?" roared the wánaks. He limped toward the young speaker, balling his fists.

  Broad-shouldered Megapént'e stood with his arms outstretched to stop the king's advance. "Father, he is a stranger. He does not know our ways. Say something, Orésta," the bearded prince urged the smallest youth.

  "Yes, uncle," Orésta agreed, pushing his way between the guests and the king. "Qelémak'o is a guest. If you harm him, you will offend the great goddess."

  Meneláwo stopped before the excited youths, his eyes falling without favor on the faces of kinsmen and visitors alike. "If he wants to remain our guest, he will show a little courtesy."

  Taken aback by the ferocity of the king's response, Qelémak'o swallowed hard. "Yes, I did not mean to offend," he said, his voice shaking. "My friend and I…T'rasuméde and I…we…"

  "We came to ask your help," T'rasuméde gulped quickly, his bushy chin trembling with anxiety. "My father said you would help. That is..."

  Qelémak'o nodded eagerly. "Yes, wánaks Néstor said that you were a friend of my father's and his. Néstor said that the three of you spent many months together during the Tróyan war and you forged a bond as strong as bronze among you."

  "Idé," Meneláwo answered gruffly. "Odushéyu and Néstor were my friends, or at least my allies. Both kings aided me in restoring my wife to her homeland. There is indeed a bond among us. Well, sit down and eat. The meat is getting cold." He returned to his throne, where he once more took his slender queen's hand, drawing her up again to her chair. "Everything is all right, beloved," Meneláwo told her quietly.

  Ariyádna took a deep, shuddering breath. With a fragile smile, she beckoned to the serving woman, still cowering at the wall. "Bring the dishes, Kluména. Our guests will think we have forgotten the laws of hospitality."

  As Kluména returned to her work, the young men sat, once more, solemn and subdued. The smallest of them, Orésta, quietly explained to the visitors. "My uncle Meneláwo keeps to the old ways to show his respect for his wife. Despite the danger, our wánaks cannot hide her away, or people will believe the evil rumors about her. Times have been hard everywhere, since the Tróyans abducted our queen. You know that. We Lakedaimóniyans understand that the drought and famine are punishment for the atrocities that the Ak'áyan kings committed when Tróya was sacked and the queen restored to her husband, ten years ago. But some people say that it is all our 'Elléniyan wánasha's fault and that she should die for committing adultery. My uncle is aware of these things but he cannot bear to hear his queen criticized. It was very foolish of you to challenge him on that point, Qelémak'o. Tell him, Megapént'e." He nodded at his larger kinsman.

  Megapént'e nodded vigorously, tossing his long curls. "Yes, my father must show his wánasha in public, to demonstrate his support for her. Besides, we are not at war with you, Qelémak'o. As an It'ákan, you are a kinsman, if not an ally. Your mother is our queen's cousin, is she not? So, why stir up trouble? Our king will never attack one of his wánasha's kinfolk. Unless queen Penelópa starts something, there will be no war between Lakedaimón and the island of It'áka."

  Orésta leaned forward, adding, "And T'rasuméde's mother is distantly related, also. The wánaks Néstor does not make war on his relatives, or on his wife's kinsmen, any more than my uncle does. No, Mesheníya and Lakedaimón are allies, as they have always been."

  "All these things may be true," Qelémak'o agreed, growing defensive. "But kinship is not enough to rely on, nowadays. My father has been gone for ten years now and people say he will never come back. My mother is constantly courted by princes wanting to marry her and rule her kingdom. That makes my position unstable, to say the least. It'áka has always been allied to the south, as you say. But the strongest of my mother's suitors is a northerner. If he marries my mother, the balance of power will shift and none of It'áka's former allies will be safe. You know those northern P'ilístas. No treachery is beyond them."

  The others nodded. "Still," pointed out Orésta, "you will hardly gain my uncle's favor by challenging him, Qelémak'o. Speaking of attack is especially unwise. He lost his queen to pirates once, already. He paid a very high price in men and bronze, to recover her. That was what the Tróyan war was about, you know. My uncle will not lightly join any military campaign that would leave his wife unprotected. Give him half of an excuse, and he will let your father remain a captive for the rest of his life. What you must do is get my uncle to talk about the old days, about Odushéyu, and the things they did together, at Tróya. That will soften his heart toward you, instead of making him angry. Then you can ask him for help with a chance of success."

  Troubled, Qelémak'o looked at the veteran warrior on the gypsum throne and the thin queen beside him. "Wánaks," the tall youth called out, respectful now. "Entertain us with talk, if you would be so kind. I would like to hear about my father. I hardly know him, he has been away so long."

  Meneláwo's eyes fell with an unfriendly coldness on the speaker. He did not respond for a long moment, while the visitors fretted under his cool gaze.

  Ariyádna stared uncomprehendingly at the young man who had spoken. "Who is his father?" she asked her husband.

  As though the name pained him to pronounce, Meneláwo answered, "Odushéyu."

  "Ai, Odushéyu married my cousin," the wánasha mused quietly. "My sister and I were so upset. We thought that Penelópa was going to live among barbarians, when she sailed away to the western isles."

  "It'ákans are Ak'áyans, just as you are!" Qelémak'o cried, stung by her remark.

  Ariyádna did not look at him, but stared vacantly at her hands. "Instead it was Klutaimnéstra who married poorly and it is Penelópa who has done well." Tears welled up in her eyes. "Owái, my sister, you lost your poor, dear child!" Her hands covered her face and she began to rock back and forth, crying softly.

  Behind the queen, Kluména alternately wrung her hands and smoothed her skirt, muttering, "Owái, owái!" In his chair, Orésta drew his arms close around his narrow chest, pained by his aunt's words. Megapént'e put his head in his hands, whispering fiercely to the bewildered guests, "Now look at what you have done!"

  "What? What is going on here?" Qelémak'o asked, thoroughly confused. But Megapént'e only shook his head, rolling his eyes at the distress that the visitor had aroused in the royal family. The outspoken guest prudently fell silent, picking at the food on the small table beside him.

  Meneláwo gave a great moan. He wrapped his arms around his wife and stroked her hair with a rough hand. "Do not cry,
Ariyádna, please do not cry. Everything will be all right. Trust me, everything will be all right." He nodded to Kluména.

  At the unspoken command, the serving woman hurried to a plaster bench running the length of the great room. She returned to the royal couple with a small jar shaped like the head of a dried poppy. Kluména poured several viscous drops from her jug into the wine-bowl and stirred with a long-handled spoon, as the youths quietly downed their meat and a few barley cakes. Dipping wine from the bowl, Kluména served the wánasha. "Drink and forget your troubles," urged the white-haired servant.

  Ariyádna obediently did as she was told. The tears slowly dried on her cheeks and a cloud gradually settled over her large, solemn eyes.

  Meneláwo, beside her, drank equally from the poppy-tinged wine, gradually relaxing on his battered throne. With his guests, he ate his fill of boiled goose meat, flat bread, and dried figs, washing it down with watered wine tinged with the bitter essence of the poppy. He began to talk more freely, recalling his marriage, long ago, to Ariyádna and his first impressions of Lakedaimón. "It was a small and poor kingdom I came to rule, compared to my native Argo," Meneláwo told the youths with a slight smile. "But it was my own, the first thing I had ever had that my brother did not try to take from me. Agamémnon was five years older than me, you know, and he was a bully, when we were growing up. When he took Argo's throne by marrying a Lakedaimóniyan holy woman, he was content for the first time in his life. At his wedding, he swore he would never break the ties of kinship with me. Just the same, I think he was glad to see me leave Argo for a smaller, less powerful kingdom. No doubt he thought that he got the better of the two Lakedaimóniyan princesses. Every Ak'áyan king wanted to marry Klutaimnéstra or give her to one of his sons. As her name means, she was indeed well courted. Ai, but I was just as pleased to say goodbye to Argo. Ai, what a prize I got in Ariyádna! In my eyes, she was every bit as beautiful as her more famous sister, so fat she waddled like a duck…."

  At length, Qelémak'o's impatience overcame his prudence. Again and again, the It'ákan prince bent the king's thoughts toward his father. "Is it true that Odushéyu helped your brother win out over Klutaimnéstra's other suitors? Was it gratitude for that aid that prompted Agamémnon to pressure the Lakedaimóniyans into sending another princess abroad, this time to It'áka? The sons of Atréyu owe a great deal to It'áka's exiled king. Is that not true?"