by Diana Gainer
Beside Klóniyo, a man of considerable girth gloomily observed, "If wánasha Penelópa was going to send aid, she would have done so by now. And the men below our walls are from Argo. Erékt'eyu's secret alliance has proved to be nothing but symbols scratched on leaves and wax."
Klóniyo agreed. "Penelópa should have married your brother Eyurumák'o long before now," he said. "But with her, it is one excuse after another. We waited for her to mourn for Odushéyu, as if he were dead. We even helped her dig him a rock-lined tomb, fill it with rich gifts, and heap a mound of earth over it. We put off the wedding next because her boy was sick, and again while Eyurumák'o came home for our wánasha's funeral. Then Penelópa had to make a new wedding dress, and she insisted on weaving it herself. But she has taken more than three times as long to weave the flounces than any normal woman should, and still she claims she has not finished. It is time we faced the truth. She never intended to marry your brother, only to use him."
Kt'oníya was not pleased, but she held her tongue. "There is still hope that Argo will help," she said. "The land is divided. The men at our walls are probably rebels or bandits. But with king Aígist'o's assistance, we could still crush our attackers."
As she spoke, a kilted man appeared in the doorway of the mégaron. His body was nearly black with layer upon layer of dirt, his hair and beard matted. He was panting hard and leaned against the door frame, his head down, trying to catch his breath.
Impatiently the princess called out to him. "You there, come forward. Do you have a message for me? Speak. Is it from Argo?"
The man stumbled forward on bare feet and knelt before Kt'oníya. "Wánasha," he gasped. "I am not a messenger. I am a qasiléyu." As alarmed elders rose to their feet, talking excitedly among themselves, the dirty visitor said, "I am Menést'eyu."
CHAPTER EIGHT
PROTOGENEYA
Menést'eyu addressed the assembled elders and his dying king, still kneeling on the painted, plastered floor. "I bring you disastrous news," he gulped, gasping for air between words.
The old men about the hearth groaned. Even the old wánaks on his pallet released a wail from his withered lips. Kt'oníya only pressed the lips of her wide mouth together more tightly and narrowed her eyes. "What is it?" she demanded, stiffening as she prepared to hear the worst.
Looking up at her uneasily, Menést'eyu sighed, "At'énai is lost. Our soldiers are scattered across Qoyotíya. Most have been taken captive...by our enemies."
"What?" cried the heavy-set princess, hands on her hips. "Panaléyo's farmlands may be better than ours, but his army is quite inferior. What has happened to the T'eshalíyans? Where is prince Púrwo? Speak up, man, what is wrong with you?"
The qasiléyu on the floor bent his shaggy head and pressed his hands to his chest. Still breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his brow, he went on, "It is not Panaléyo's men you are facing, lady. Did you not see the horns on their leader's helmet? The army beyond our walls is Argive, sent by wánaks Aígist'o."
"Liar!" shouted the princess, throwing her plump arms wide. "I will have you beaten for telling such a falsehood. Argo is our ally."
Menést'eyu bent down until his forehead nearly touched the floor. "I was taken captive by these men, myself," he groaned.
"Look at his back!" Klóniyo cried, horrified, walking toward the qasiléyu with the small, aching steps of advanced age. The old man pointed. Kt'oníya had to acknowledge that the man before her had already been severely beaten. "You should not threaten him with punishment," the white-haired councilor continued, addressing the princess. "Give him some wine. Bring him robes. Make him comfortable on a chair."
Though her eyes betrayed her fury, Kt'oníya crossed the mégaron to the open doorway, where she commanded her serving women to do as Klóniyo suggested. When Menést'eyu was wrapped in a clean, woolen robe and seated on a fleece-draped chair, a cup of mulled wine in his hands, the princess addressed him again. Her voice was as hard and commanding as before, as she demanded, "How can Argo be against us? Our wánaks sealed a treaty with Aígist'o over the blood of an ox, many years ago."
Menést'eyu shook his head unhappily, avoiding the woman's piercing gaze. "I have not spoken with Argo's wánaks, so I cannot say what is in his heart. But I know the man who leads the men camped at the foot of our walls. Ai, lady Kt'oníya, I speak the truth when I say it is the army of Diwoméde of Tíruns. All of Attika has been plundered by these men's hands."
"No!" cried the princess over the groans and murmurs of the elders. "It cannot be!"
Nodding, the battered qasiléyu repeated, "I speak the truth. Diwoméde, the man who was once our prisoner, is now leading our enemies." As he said it, he raised his head to meet Kt'oníya's eyes, accusation in his own. 'It is your own fault, great lady,' he wanted to say. 'It was your order that Diwoméde and his companions starve in their Attikan prison,' he wanted to remind her. It was she who had planted undying hatred in the Argive qasiléyu's heart, years before. But he dared not say those words aloud.
"By all the gods," the princess cried, "I warned queen Klutaimnéstra long ago not to put that man in charge of Tíruns. Ai, she would not listen and now it is we who must pay the price for her folly." Her eyes glanced wildly over the room, as she sought an answer to her dilemma. At last, the princess's gaze fell on the filthy man in the chair before her. Menést'eyu's attention had turned to his wine-cup. Grim and suspicious, Kt'oníya caught the former captive's wrist in a vise-like grip. "Tell me, qasiléyu," she demanded of the startled man, "what has become of the T'eshalíyans? Where is Púrwo?" Her voice was venomous.
"Púrwo is dead," Menést'eyu gasped, spilling his wine. "He suffered at the hands of the maináds, just as his father did. In his battle-fury, Púrwo went to Put'ó, cut down the sacred groves, and burned them." He could hardly keep from choking on the words. "I overheard my guards speaking of this and that is how I know. The Qoyotíyans were roused to such fury by Púrwo's atrocity that they slaughtered him with all his men."
The princess released the qasiléyu's arm. To cries of outrage, and wails of despair from the elders, Kt'oníya backed away from Menést'eyu. "Is this true?" she asked in shock, her voice quieted. "Have we allied ourselves with sacrilegious criminals?"
Klóniyo's hefty neighbor suddenly stood. In a gravelly voice, he complained, "We tried to warn king Erékt'eyu against the alliance with T'eshalíya. We told our king that no good could come of siding with mad Ak'illéyu's son."
"But your father would not listen," Klóniyo himself added, shaking his head in dismay. "If the wánaks must die with a troubled soul because of this, he has only himself to blame."
"No," Kt'oníya announced firmly, recovering her composure. "I do not accept despair. We are not sheep, to be led meekly to slaughter. We can still act. If we have no allies, then we must defend At'énai ourselves, without the goddess beside us. Have the soldiers prepare for battle. Arm every man who is willing to fight for his life and liberty, young or old, high-born or commoner."
Her bold words encouraged some of the councilors. There were scattered nods and determined looks. "We will fight to the last man, if we have to," some agreed. "If we die, our deeds and honor will live forever."
"But the gods are against us," Klóniyo objected, addressing the assembly with quaking knees. "Do not let your hearts be led by this woman. Brave talk is no match for a well-equipped army, much less for divine anger."
The lady Kt'oníya had an answer for that as well. "I will lead the women in our part as well," she called out. "I am wánaks Erékt'eyu's oldest daughter, heiress to Attika's kingship. I am a priestess, dedicated to the goddess who supplied our city with water at the foundation of the world. I serve the lady At'ána who guards our gates and walled terraces with her spear. Hear me, Attikans. The angriest god is appeased by the smell of smoking meat. For our divine wánasha I will make the ultimate sacrifice. As At'énai's men go out to war, At'énai's women will slaughter one of their own daughters for At'ána, a maiden chosen by the goddess he
rself. With the great lady on our side, we cannot fail."
The city was filled with noise and activity, as At'énai's menfolk took up their weapons and put on what armor they could find. Every able-bodied male vowed to defend the fortress to the best of his ability. The remnant of Attika's army, stationed on the walls of the fortress, came down with bows and arrows at the ready. Shepherd boys, whose voices had not yet changed, vowed to fight with their slings. Aging fishermen carried tridents as if they were spears. Every baker and bronze-smith found himself a dagger or a stout length of wood to use as a club.
At the same time, At'énai's womenfolk gathered in the main courtyard of the palace. With charcoal and oil, they mixed pots of ink and made brushes by chewing the ends of thin branches. Every high-born woman painted her name and her daughters' on shards of broken pottery, dropping the fragments of baked clay into a large basket.
Everywhere there was brave talk. Men swore oaths upon their hearths that they would fight to the death. Women swore by the goatskin shield of At'ána herself that they would throw themselves and their children from the citadel's walls rather than be taken captive.
Menést'eyu found himself suddenly alone in the palace mégaron, with only the half-conscious wánaks beside him. Glancing about anxiously, the qasiléyu hurried out of the royal residence. He avoided the other men of the city with their makeshift arms and inadequate or nonexistent armor. He made his way to the western end of the town, to where his own family had taken shelter, close by the outer wall. Here, near the old, walled-up, postern gate, he gathered his clan. His father, feeble with age, came on the shoulders of his married brothers, followed by their wives and little ones, his own wife, their sons and daughters taking up the rear of the little procession.
Brushing aside their worried questions, he cried, "Everything will be all right if you will just listen to me!" Frantic with fear, he told them, "We must get out of At'énai as quickly as we can. The Argives will be here at any moment. Come with me immediately. Do not waste time trying to collect your possessions. Leave everything."
He led them in a body to the bricked-up exit and began prying at the wall with the point of the spear that his son had carried along. "Diwoméde and Orésta have joined forces to depose Aígist'o," he explained to his family, still working feverishly. "I heard them discussing it last night, before I made my escape. All of Argo is on its way to join them."
A brooding silence fell upon all the streets and houses, as the princess Kt'oníya entered the crowded courtyard in her ceremonial best, her skirt flounced, her breasts bare above a tight bodice, her graying hair flowing loosely around her shoulders. "Hear me, gods and goddesses!" Kt'oníya called to the sky, her heavy arms raised. "Listen to our prayers, lady At'ána! Hear our cries, Father Díwo! Look down from your mountain peak homes and choose your sacrifice." She held up the basket of pottery shards and the women cried out, prayers for the city on their lips, pleas for their children's lives in their hearts. The gray-haired priestess poured the pottery fragments onto a stiff goat's hide. Women all around gripped the edges, shaking the thing so that the tokens hopped and jumped. One shard fell to the dusty earth. Kt'oníya called out, "At'ána has made her choice." She looked closely at the scrap of pottery, squinting her failing eyes.
For a moment, the princess said nothing, reading the name to herself again and again, in disbelief. Her face paled and she shook from head to toe. Kt'oníya stepped back, her knees threatening to give way beneath her. But with a deep, shuddering breath, she regained her composure. "Protogenéya!" she announced in a shaky voice.
The silence was deeper than before as a young woman stepped forward, dressed like the king's daughter, in a bright, flounced skirt and blue bodice, her long, black hair entwined with strings of beads. She trembled even more violently than the older woman, but in a determined voice, she said, "Here I am, Mother."
As Menést'eyu tore out bricks and small stones, casting them aside, a grizzled warrior watched him from atop the nearby tower. Left alone on that height, the graying archer scratched his head with an arrow, bewildered by the frantic activity below. "You there," he bellowed down at the little clump of people. "What are you doing? Get away from that wall."
Menést'eyu ignored the shouts, working steadily, directing his brothers, sons, and nephews to join him. An arrow whizzed past the qasiléyu's ear, forcing him to take notice. Menést'eyu handed his wife the spear he had been using as a tool. As the archer descended from the tower, Menést'eyu readied himself for a fight. The former prisoner took a brick in each hand and pounced upon the warrior, as soon as the man appeared in the tower's entrance. Before the others realized what he was about, Menést'eyu had beaten the archer's head in with the bricks. Leaving the bloodied corpse to lie in the deserted street, Menést'eyu returned to the damaged wall.
"Work quickly, my brothers," he exhorted his family. "There is no time to loose. The Argives found a secret cave entrance that leads right to the palace. They have already sent men in this way to poison the well. I heard them boasting about it last night."
"Owái, I knew it was poisoned," his wife wailed, clapping her hands to her long, gray hair. "We heard the rumor, but the lady Kt'oníya denied it."
"Thanks be to the goddess, I was able to escape this morning," Menést'eyu cried fervently. "Pray to At'ána that we are out of the fortress in time."
Kt'oníya led the way down the hillside from the palace to the main gate, fighting tears that never quite spilled over her cheeks. Protogenéya followed, her head high and her face composed, her movements as sure as if it were a wedding she was going to attend rather than her death. The city’s women came too, some with baskets of grain and jars of wine on their heads, an empty bowl in the arms of another. The armed men making their own way toward the main gate fell silent, seeing them pass, and joined the solemn procession.
Before the bronze-plated oak door that led outside, on the smooth paving stones of the entrance courtyard, Kt'oníya halted. She raised her arms to the heavens for a second time and called upon all the deities she could name, gods and goddesses of the Ak'áyans, deities of the Párparos who had preceded them in that land, the unnamed maináds whose spirits gave life to nature, dáimons of unseen forces, of the winds and of dread diseases, and the restless spirits of the unburied dead whose number was too great to count.
Beside the broad-hipped princess, a white-haired woman stepped forward with her basket. Lowering it from her head to her hip, she tossed grain over Protogenéya's slender body. On the other side, a second elderly woman sprinkled the young victim with wine. A third stepped forward with an empty bowl. The aging Klóniyo, beside her, held out a bronze knife. Protogenéya stood silent and unmoving through it all, her eyes staring sightlessly, straight ahead. Her thoughts were already on the next world. She did not see the desperate people standing there, or hear her mother's prayers, or feel the touch of barley and wine on her skin.
Kt'oníya took the dagger from her oldest councilor's hand, blinking away tears. She placed a gentle hand on her daughter's shoulder and the young woman shivered and blinked. Protogenéya turned her head to look at her mother for a brief moment. Kt'oníya's chin trembled as she fought for self-control and her daughter closed her eyes. Bowing her ungrayed head, Protogenéya knelt.
"Have her lie down," Klóniyo blurted out nervously. "Lie on your back, princess Protogenéya. It will be quicker."
Kt'oníya shuddered so violently that she dropped the blade. It clattered loudly in the quiet arena. "I cannot do it," the graying princess wept, her control cracking. Tears poured over her face. "Owái, my t'ugátriyon," she wailed, clawing her cheeks with her nails. "My poor little daughter!"
Breaking through the soft brick, Menést'eyu and his kinsmen came upon a thin, stone facing. They were almost through to the outside and that knowledge renewed their flagging energy. With their combined strength, the younger men pressed their shoulders against the now-unsupported masonry. Shoving until their bodies ran with sweat and their faces were bloa
ted with blood, they strained against the mortar-less stones. A section collapsed suddenly, Menést'eyu and his sons scrambling back out of the way just in time to avoid being crushed. With nothing but the garments they were wearing, the qasiléyu's family scrambled over fallen debris, through the ragged opening in the wall. Menést'eyu stopped for a moment, looking for enemy warriors massed below. Not seeing any, Menést'eyu beckoned and led the way down the narrow, stepped path of the hillside. "This way! Hurry! The main army must be in front of the main gate."
Orésta and Diwoméde watched from the foot of the hill, squatting behind shields decked with leafy tree limbs for cover. As the stone facing of the postern gate gave way and sent rock and brick tumbling down the cliff, Orésta pointed and shouted triumphantly, "There he is! I told you it would work!"
Diwoméde clapped Orésta on the shoulder appreciatively. Waving his spear over his head, he beckoned for his men to follow. The gesture was repeated by a watchman posted nearly out of sight, and the bulk of Argo's armed men came forward. As quietly as an army can travel, they marched around the foot of the steep hill to the old postern gate and clambered up the hillside. Appearing seemingly from nowhere, they pushed Menést'eyu and his frightened, bewildered clansmen aside and entered the citadel.
Still on her knees in the entrance courtyard, Protogenéya raised an impassive face to her mother's. "It is all right," the young woman told the queen. "I die willingly, for the sake of my country."
