by Diana Gainer
"All our eyes turned to the prophet at that point. The men all stood up, in their excitement. When the seer declared that the sign was a good one, just as Meneláwo had said, we danced and shouted and beat our spears against our shields! Do you remember? Of course you do! How could you forget? Agamémnon came forward then and roused us further with brave talk of war and the richness of Tróya. Remember how he led us back to the camp for a feast, before we prepared to sail?"
The younger man nodded at each phrase, recalling the same events.
T'érsite began to chuckle. "But think, Diwoméde. Where was Meneláwo all that time?"
The qasiléyu scratched his head, in an effort to remember. "I suppose he was in his tent, lamenting his niece's fate…." His voice trailed away and he laughed, too. "I had not thought about that before. But it is very strange that the father celebrated while the uncle grieved."
T'érsite nodded enthusiastically. "And does it not seem very odd that the father drenched his beard with tears before killing his daughter, but as soon as she was dead, he forgot her completely and danced with his lawagétas?"
Diwoméde listened with his mouth agape. At length, he closed his mouth and swallowed hard. "Ai, but the maináds have most certainly caught you, T'érsite. This whole story is absurd. If Agamémnon did not kill his child, where is she? Where could she possibly be, in this whole world, that no one who was at Tróya would have seen her and recognized her and told the rest of the world about it?"
The laborer sat flat upon the hard, dry earth, scratching his curly beard. "I have not figured that part out. That is the one weakness in my story, I admit it. But if you remember, Meneláwo had a sudden urge to consult the oracle at Put'ó, just at that time. So he did not sail on to Wilúsiya with the rest of the army. He must have taken the princess to safety, I suppose. Agamémnon would have sent Ip'emédeya away, somewhere, of course. He could not allow her to be seen by any Ak'áyan or his secret would be out."
"Yes, but still, where could Ip'emédeya sail, where no Ak'áyan would ever see her? All the continent of Assúwa was united against us. She would not have been welcomed there. If the Assúwans would have allowed her passage, she might have sailed southeast to Kanaqán. But there are Ak'áyan merchants living in the cities of that country. We sent envoys to several of those cities near the end of the Tróyan war and none had anything to say about an Ak'áyan woman passing through. We heard nothing when we were up north in T'ráki the winter after the war ended, either. That leaves only the south. But Mízriya has never been a friendly place for Ak'áyans, and it was allied to Assúwa in the war. Even if the princess could have gone that far south without being detected, she would have ended up a slave. Would Agamémnon have saved his daughter from death only to send her to his enemies and a life as a slave?"
"Ai," the laborer began uncertainly, "there is the far west…"
Diwoméde dismissed that with a wave of his hand. "That is no more likely than the rest. To reach the bull country, Ip'emédeya would have had to pass Ak'áiwiya first. How could she have done that without anyone seeing her? No, T'érsite, you may tell your lies about the one-eyed Kuklóqes and the magical hind that spared a little princess. But do not expect me to believe them."
T'érsite waited a short while before peeking at Diwoméde with another question on his lips. "All your talk about unfriendly places makes me nervous. Who do you think is going to attack us, after all this building and digging? Will king Meneláwo finally come here to avenge his brother’s death?"
"No, I have communicated often enough with Meneláwo," the qasiléyu shook his head confidently, glad to change the subject. "He knew there would be trouble between Agamémnon and Klutaimnéstra, ten years ago, before he ever went home after the war. It was a difficult position for Meneláwo then, and it is no better today. To avenge his brother he would still have to attack his wife's sister. No, he made his decision long ago." He shook his head sympathetically.
"What about the Mesheníyans?" T'érsite asked. "They must be the most powerful nation in the south today, after us."
Again, Diwoméde shook his head. "Old Néstor is too preoccupied with hanging onto his own lands. If he sails anywhere, it will be to the It'ákan islands, to put an end to their raids. But I am not so sure about the other Ak'áyans. Idómeneyu and Odushéyu were uncertain allies of the land of Argo, ten years ago. With those kings gone from their thrones, who can say what their subjects will do."
T'érsite nodded. "Ai, so we are preparing for these islanders to attack?"
"Perhaps," Diwoméde answered, chewing thoughtfully on a small branch. "But I think it is more likely that our enemy will come from the north."
T'érsite raised himself on an elbow and pointed at the qasiléyu. "Yes, Attika never avenged your expedition against them…"
"I was only following king Agamémnon's orders," Diwoméde hastened to point out. "He wanted me to teach the north a lesson."
The laborer threw his head back and laughed uproariously. "What a lesson that turned out to be! Never trust a P’ilísta!"
Stung by the laughter, Diwoméde rose to his feet, shouting. "Erékt'eyu had fortified his capital without our knowing it. The city was ready for us when we came. The defeat was not my fault."
"Ai, qasiléyu, do not be angry with me," T'érsite said, sobering instantly, his voice low. "I do not blame you for the disaster at At'énai. No man does. I tell you, it is the same with all the other evils since the Tróyan war. The blame lies with poor, old, dead Agamémnon. Whether he angered the gods or not, the wánaks Agamémnon certainly made enough enemies for Argo among mortals! He led us to Tróya for the sake of ambition and now all of Assúwa is our enemy. The T'rákiyan barbarians are against us because he allowed their king to be disfigured, in the name of vengeance. Even among his fellow Ak'áyans, he made enemies right and left. First he insulted Ak'illéyu and then Púrwo and so he angered most of the P'ilístas. Next, he refused to let them avenge the death of their favorite champion, Aíwaks, even though that giant was his own qasiléyu! Ai gar, we cannot travel safely to the frontiers of our own land because of the hatred of the commoners of Argo itself."
Diwoméde groaned and seated himself, his head in his hands. "Where is Qálki now? Ai, we need a seer like him more than ever today. Agamémnon did not believe in prophets, you know. He thought they were all fakers and he hated Qálki especially. Perhaps the death of the wánaks was ordained by the sky god for that lack of faith. Owái, all I know is that I do not know anything! It is as pointless for men to discuss questions about the reason why as it is to argue about which is the most painful wound in war."
T'érsite put a hand on the qasiléyu's shoulder. "No man knows the heart of a god. Agamémnon was right about that, at least. But we can still think."
"And we can dream," Diwoméde moaned. "Every night, I see the faces of the men I killed at Tróya and the pale eyes of that T'rákiyan dáimon child. That boy should not have been killed, no matter what my king commanded! I feel myself drowning in a river of blood, the pale hands of the dead pulling me under. Owái, no amount of wine gives me peace! Sometimes I even see myself holding the dagger that killed Agamémnon himself. I should have been there…"
T'érsite shook the knotted shoulder of the younger man. "Ai gar, Diwoméde, you cannot pay attention to dreams! Half the time I do not even remember mine." Seeing that this gave the qasiléyu no comfort, the workman talked on more quickly and in a more cheerful tone. "There is one that I recall, though. I saw myself sitting in the mégaron of the palace at Mukénai." His eyes took on a glassy hue, as he thought of it. "The fire in the hearth was hot and there were ninety bronze caldrons standing on their tripod feet over it. Every pot was filled with meat and not stringy, old ram's meat or dried out gooseflesh, either. No, it was beef in those pots, cooked to perfection, swimming in fat! I was sitting on the throne of the wánaks, with painted tribute on the walls beside me and embroidered robes around my shoulders. Klutaimnéstra herself sat on my lap, those wondrously fat legs of he
rs between mine and that henna-reddened hair in my face. She was feeding me the meat from those caldrons all night long, putting each juicy morsel in my mouth with her own fingers. Ai, it was a magnificent feast!" T'érsite sighed. He glanced over at Diwoméde, whose shoulders now shook with laughter.
"Yes, yes," the qasiléyu interrupted, chuckling. "I have heard this before. You made a pig of yourself with the meat and slept with the wánasha. But you woke in the morning as hungry as ever and nothing more in bed with you than an old, filthy sheepskin full of bugs."
T'érsite shrugged, smiling toothlessly. "But Qálki used to say that dreams are the daughters of Díwo. So, this one, too, must be true. One day, you will see me, and not king Aígist'o, eating beef until I am sick and fondling Agamémnon's widow. And you will have bow to me and say, 'Yes wánaks,' and go and fetch my sandals for me." He guffawed loudly at the thought. As Diwoméde wiped tears of laughter from his dark-rimmed eyes, the laborer suddenly grew solemn. "Such a future is as real as your guilt for Agamémnon's death, qasiléyu."
Diwoméde's mirth was instantly gone and he stared hard at the older man.
T'érsite shook a calloused hand at his leader. "You were in Attika, shielding your body from northern arrows when your wánaks died. But I was here in Argo and I saw what happened. Aígist'o held the knife that killed your father." He shivered, recalling it. "Aígist'o was the same man who murdered the captive Tróyan priestess. I remember Kashánda's scream, a very high sound it was, very terrible to hear. He took us all by surprise, took your father by surprise, too, acting so friendly and inviting him to talk and plying him with wine until he was weak and drunk and sleepy and...." He paused and shuddered.
Diwoméde would have spoken, but the workman broke in, staring at the sky, the events replayed before his eyes. "I hid under a bench and lay still, until Aígist'o and his men had stabbed everyone who was loyal to Agamémnon. Blood covered the floor. They made the slave women drag the dead out, one by one, pulling them by the feet. I let them drag me into the courtyard, too, and I lay among the corpses, without moving, until they tossed me over the wall and onto the earth outside. Very late, when the darkness was thick, I got up and stole away. I only came back to the fortress when Aígist'o and his men had gone and I lived in constant fear until you came home.
"Diwoméde, I cannot interpret dreams. I am no seer. I do not know why the rain does not fall or why men act the way they do. But I do know one thing. I know that you did not kill your wánaks."
The qasiléyu rose to his feet abruptly, pointing to the eastern horizon. "Look out there, T'érsite!" he cried, his heart pounding. "Ships! They are coming this way!"
The laborer was instantly beside him, craning his neck for a better look at the dark vessels out on the water. "Are they pirates? Can you see?" he asked. Similar shouts rose from the heights of the citadel.
The excited voices and quick movements roused the other laborers. The workmen clustered about their leader, asking questions all at once. "What is it? Are we being attacked? What should we do?"
Diwoméde raised both of his well-muscled arms to quiet them and shouted over the tumult, "I need a runner to go to the harbor!" Without hesitation, three of the younger workers stepped forward, each with a fist pressed respectfully to his chest, raised to his forehead and then to the sky. Diwoméde pointed to the tallest, the one with the longest legs. "Run to the beach and find out who these newcomers are and hurry back with the news. In the meantime, we will prepare for attack, just in case."
With a nod, the young man was off, dashing down the hilly countryside, his long hair flying behind him. The rest did not wait to watch him go, but followed the qasiléyu up to the nearest gate of the limestone fortress. T'érsite supported Diwoméde's arm so that he could walk more quickly. As they all made for the hilltop, their leader issued rapid orders. Messengers went out to the villages on the surrounding plain to beckon the country people to the safety of the palace walls, accompanied by their livestock. Another runner went further inland to Mukénai, to warn the capital city of possible danger, in case a siege made later messages impossible.
"Open the western storerooms," Diwoméde commanded, as those still beside him entered the citadel's narrow, northern entrance. Pointing as he spoke, the leader selected a handful of men to perform the task. "Carry weapons to the towers, first to the eastern entrance, next, to each of the other gates. Bring bows and arrows first. They will give us the best chance of keeping any invaders outside the walls. Only when all the towers are supplied with arrows should you bring out the spears and swords. Bring the armor last of all. If we can keep the enemy outside the walls, and ourselves inside, we may not need chest-armor or greaves at all."
"What about shields?" breathlessly asked one laborer, his rough hands plucking nervously at his beard.
Diwoméde answered curtly, "Shields and armor last. Go!"
"By the gods," T'érsite groaned, still beside the leader. "I hope it is only traders. My wife is at the seaside today, drying fish."
"I hope it is traders, too," Diwoméde muttered. "But I should prepare letters for our allies, in case it is not. Help me to the mégaron. Now, where is my woman? Dáuniya, come here! Ai, never mind, a foreign captive cannot write. I need a scribe."
With T'érsite at his elbow, the qasiléyu limped through labyrinthine corridors and open courtyards to the large, central room of the palace. There, on a fleece-draped chair of stone, he chewed anxiously on his lip as workmen, soldiers, and serving women scurried about, following his commands, reporting their deeds, and asking for further direction.
The watchers on the fortress walls stacked up supplies of arrows and donned leather helmets decked with horse-tail crests and bulls' horns. Soon they were sending word down to their leader that the gates were secure, that the bigger gates with doors had now closed them, and that the smaller gates without doors had increased the number of soldiers manning the walls overlooking them. Winded laborers came to report that weapons had been dispensed and asked about armor. Serving women brought clay in baskets and prepared tablets, making smooth patties between their trembling hands. Other women brought word of the number of villagers beginning to assemble, with their bony pigs and sheep, their ducks and geese. The people of countryside began to stream into the great northern courtyard of the fortress.
"Put the commoners to work," Diwoméde ordered the scurrying messengers. "Have them go in small parties to the well outside the western gate. Station twenty extra bowmen on the top of that tower, to protect them. Have the people draw all the water they can from the well, while there is time, men and women both. If they have grain or other food with them, have them add it to the supplies already in the southern storerooms. Now, find me a scribe. By 'Aidé, I cannot send tablets to Lakedaimón and Qoyotíya until I have a woman to write the message!"
In the turmoil, the runner returning from the harbor had to tug on his leader's arm to get his attention. "Qasiléyu! Diwoméde! They are traders, only merchants. It is not an attack."
As the young man's cries caught the ears of those around him, the room gradually quieted. All eyes turned to Diwoméde. "Traders, you say," their commander began, considering the word. "Where are they from?"
"Kanaqán," was the messenger's answer. "They have slaves for sale, brought from Mízriya. They want grain, wine, and oil."
Diwoméde gave a short, bitter laugh. "Idé! We have plenty of slaves and need the grain and oil ourselves. Ai, but I suppose we must obey the law of hospitality. I will accept them into the palace and feed them. Even so, I want you all to maintain your readiness, in case this is a trick. Watchers, stay at your posts. T'érsite, have the villagers continue bringing their flocks inside the walls, and keep the women busy drawing more water from the well. The only thing that separates the pirate from the trader, these days, is the strength of his host." The wide room erupted again in excited talk and movement.
aaa
It was with utter astonishment that Diwoméde rose to greet his foreign guests,
when the shadows grew long that evening. A broad-chested man, curly patches of graying hair covering the front and back of his torso, entered the mégaron first. His hair and beard were quite short, shot through with gray, the top of his head completely bare. In a booming voice, he called from the doorway, "Owlé, qasiléyu Diwoméde! Hail to you!" His broad face broke into a grin and, instead of raising his hand to his heart, head, and sky in respect, he threw his arms wide.
The qasiléyu knew him at once. "Odushéyu!" Diwoméde responded, leaping to his feet and hobbling quickly toward the visitor. The It'ákan exile was thinner than when Diwoméde had last seen him, his face more deeply lined, his limbs and body more heavily scarred. The qasiléyu burst into laughter and caught the newcomer in a fierce embrace, pounding the hairy back. "I thought you were in Mízriya."
Laughing and clapping his host's shoulders in return, Odushéyu answered, "So I was. So I was. Just look who rescued me." He half turned, an arm out to the side.
A beardless man with a prominent nose stepped forward at that cue. His heavy-lidded eyes quickly scanned the room, lighting briefly on the armed men in the shadows. "Hail to you, Diwoméde," he said without enthusiasm.
Close behind him came another man, the youngest and thinnest of the three, his bushy beard as black as Diwoméde's. "Owlé, qasiléyu."
"By the gods," the surprised host cried, more astonished than ever. "It is Ainyáh. And you are Idómeneyu's son, are you not? Welcome, prince Peirít'owo. I have not seen any of you in years. What are you doing here?" Seeing Ainyáh's guarded glances, Diwoméde hastily explained, "We saw ships and thought they might be pirates. We have been attacked before."
Ainyáh frowned, deepening the creases in his leathery cheeks. "Surely you sent a messenger to the shore to find out who we were."
"Of course," Diwoméde replied, one arm still on Odushéyu's shoulders. "But he only said you were traders from Kanaqán. A good leader does not let down his guard with so little information as that."
