Conspiracy of the Islands (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  The woman did not know him immediately, blinded by her fear. She backed away on the tabletop, her eyes like those of an animal cornered in the hunt. "Do not touch me," 'Ermiyóna gasped, staggering back to the very edge of the table. Another rush of blood slid down the inside of her legs. "May your mother curse your name forever."

  Orésta raised his arms toward her, and called her name again, more quietly this time, and gently. "'Ermiyóna, it is your cousin. It is me, Orésta. 'Ermiyóna, it is all right."

  She silently mouthed, "Orésta," trying to remember where she had heard the name before. Lights danced before her eyes and she could not breathe. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she fell forward, banging her forehead against the table's surface. Orésta caught her and kept her from slipping off to the stone floor. Gathering her in his arms, he called to the silently watching soldiers, "Bring me a cloak for her."

  It was Meneláwo's hand that gently placed the length of wool over his daughter's crumpled form. His scarred hands carefully removed the knotted shawl from her neck. "Ai, t'ugátriyon, what is this?" he asked. "What were you thinking, little daughter?"

  'Ermiyóna's eyes fluttered and she whimpered, her hands rising as if to ward off blows. Orésta pressed her to him, nuzzling her hair. "It is all right, 'Ermiyóna, it is all right. It is Orésta. I have come to take you home. You are all right, beloved."

  She knew him now. With a piercing cry she threw her arms around the young man. She clung to him with all her strength, her knuckles white where she caught his hair or flesh with her fingers, and she wept with unrestrained passion. Animal-like cries were torn from her chest until she choked on them and vomited over Orésta's shoulder.

  Meneláwo alternately wiped at his daughter's face with a bit of fleece taken from her bed and dabbed at his own eyes. As he knelt beside the young couple, he whispered to himself, "Owái, Ariyádna, what have I done to your little ones?"

  Diwoméde came to interrupt the reunion of father and child. "King Meneláwo," he demanded, "come to the mégaron. We have the T'eshalíyan royal family gathered there. As the highest ranked among us, you must decide what is to be done with them."

  The Lakedaimóniyan wánaks was reluctant to leave his daughter. But Orésta stared up at him and said firmly, "I will take care of her. Go. It is your duty."

  Sighing deeply, Meneláwo followed the Argive qasiléyu to the central room of the palace. Diwoméde could not help noticing that the older man limped more heavily than before and appeared more haggard. The king's face grew dull and hard as he approached the throne room.

  There T'éti and Péleyu stood arm in arm before the circular stone hearth. Their faces were drawn and grim, their long, white hair disheveled. But they were calm. Trembling at their feet knelt the Wilúsiyan captive women with their children. Paqúr's half-grown sons knelt with them. As Meneláwo entered the room, Péleyu drew himself up in regal displeasure.

  "What have you done, Meneláwo?" demanded the aging T'eshalíyan wánaks. "Could you find no honorable path? Are a fearful child's tears worth declaring war on an old friend?"

  The Lakedaimóniyan avoided the northern king's eyes. "Péleyu," Meneláwo told him quietly, "when your grandson married my daughter, all that I possessed became his and all that he owned became mine."

  The Tróyans huddled more closely together, quaking with fear. Andrómak'e pulled her children closer to her, and kissed Sqamándriyo's head. The boy began to cry, hiding his face in his mother's long hair. Her baby burst into loud wails, too, and the contagion spread to the other children. Soon only Mármaro, the oldest youth, was not weeping.

  Even Péleyu's chin trembled and T'éti shook her head, her face lined with bitterness and grief. His wife's hands clasped in his, the old wánaks asked, "What are you going to do?"

  "Andrómak'e," Meneláwo said wearily. "Come here."

  She kissed her children once more and handed the crying baby to 'Iqodámeya. Andrómak'e rose with silent tears of despair, pushing at her son's hands. But Sqamándriyo would not let go of her hair. "No, Mamma, no," he sobbed, holding her back with all his childish strength.

  Meneláwo sighed deeply, resignation in his face. "Bring the boy, too," he ordered. His hand went to the sword at his side.

  This brought another, louder round of wails from those kneeling about the T'eshalíyan royal couple. T'éti and Péleyu wept themselves and 'Iqodámeya could not get her arms around all the crying children. Mármaro began to rise, close to tears himself. "Sqamándriyo is just a boy," he protested, shaking with mixed fear and anger.

  But his brothers pulled him back down to their level. "Be quiet or he will kill us, too," urged Kurawátta through his own sobs.

  Sqamándriyo wrapped his arms and legs around his mother's body, trying to keep her back. She lifted him, despite his size, and staggered toward Meneláwo, her cheek pressed to his. "Be brave, my son," she whispered through her tears. "We must show courage to honor your brave father." At the feet of Lakedaimón's wánaks she knelt with her oldest child clasped in her shuddering arms.

  Meneláwo drew his sword and looked around, at the Argives and Lakedaimóniyans ringing the mégaron with their spears and shields, and at the cluster of miserable souls near the dying hearth. Without passion, he spoke. "My daughter asked me to destroy Andrómak'e and her children. I swore an oath that I would kill 'Ermiyóna's rival." He looked down at the woman. "It is said that the souls of a man's dead kinsmen torment him if he breaks his oath."

  King Péleyu moaned, clutching his chest, and swayed on his feet. T'éti could not hold him up. They sank, side by side, to join the Wilúsiyan captives on the floor.

  Meneláwo continued, his voice falling still further. "My heart is already in torment. No soul can do anything worse to me. But my daughter's safety must be ensured."

  He laid his empty hand on Andrómak'e's hair. She shuddered at his touch and a small wail escaped her lips. Sqamándriyo continued crying with hiccupping sobs in her arms. Meneláwo stared at the two for a long time, lost in melancholy reverie.

  At length he sighed, "Péleyu, your grandson is dead." The T'eshalíyan royal couple gasped with one voice. At the Lakedaimóniyan's feet, Andrómak'e raised her head in surprise and looked up. Meneláwo spoke quickly, tossing the words out carelessly. "Púrwo committed a great crime in Qoyotíya, sacking that land's most holy city. For that evil, he paid with his life and with the lives of most of his men."

  "Owái, no!" Péleyu cried out, his voice lacking its usual strength. "This must be a lie."

  Meneláwo shook his head, looking down at Andrómak'e again, meeting her wide and now tearless, wondering eyes. "As my daughter is now a widow," the Lakedaimóniyan king went on, "I am going to take her back to my house, to be given to my nephew Orésta as I originally promised. I have no grain with which to repay the groom's gifts. Nor do I owe you any, since a widow returns automatically to her father's house. But my army took the field against your grandson, Péleyu, so I bear the guilt for his death. And you were always my friend. So I return to you something more valuable than barley. I give you the lives of those I promised to destroy." He gestured for Andrómak'e to rise. Then he turned to go. In silence, the warriors of Argo and Lakedaimón followed him from the mégaron, taking no booty with them on their walk back to the sea.

  Andrómak'e stood, her son still gasping and gripping her tightly. As the tears dried on her scarred cheeks, Qántili's widow whispered, "May the goddess go with you, Meneláwo."

  CHAPTER NINE

  IP'EMEDEYA

  Once out to sea, Meneláwo withdrew to the shed on the stern platform of the largest ship. Orésta directed Odushéyu to point the vessel toward the southeast and the island kingdom of Éyuqoya, and joined his kinsman in the small shelter. "Uncle," the younger man said, "you must not hide yourself away all day. It makes the men nervous. Drink a little poppy juice to lift your spirits and show yourself on deck."

  But the Lakedaimóniyan king was past caring for his image. His eyes were clouded, brooding on the
past. "My brother is dead at the hand of my sister-in-law," he murmured, not really aware that his brother's son was listening. "And I could do nothing to save or avenge him. Any direction I turned, any act I might have taken, I would only bring dishonor on myself and my family. Owái, Ariyádna, what crimes I have committed for your sake!"

  "Uncle," Orésta groaned, pressing a fist to his forehead. "I do not care to hear this kind of talk…"

  Meneláwo looked up at his nephew, without recognition. "Kástor," the king sighed, "do you remember how Ariyádna looked when she was young? Ai, when I married her she was so fat she waddled like a duck! Agamémnon burned with desire for her. She smiled often then, such a warm smile. I told her I would go to the ends of the earth to please her." He moaned and closed his eyes. "I won her back from Assúwa and avenged myself on her Tróyan husband. But what do I have now? She is only the dried husk of a woman, her soul flown away to some other place. What little remains of her has grown so thin. Owái, Ariyádna, my beloved, you are only a shadow."

  "By the gods," Orésta cried, shaking his uncle's shoulders. "Stop this! Your wife is in Lakedaimón. You are on the sea, making for Mukénai…"

  "Not Mukénai," Meneláwo mused, removing himself from the younger man's grasp. With a grunt of pain, he lay on his side on the damp platform, and rubbed the great scar that dug into his hip. "No, no, Kástor, not to the south. We are going north and east, past Tróya, through the straits of Dáwan. In Mar-Yandún more wheat grows than anywhere else in the world, the forests are thicker, the trees taller…they have amber…and tin…." His voice trailed away.

  Orésta was alarmed. He backed quickly out of the little hut and beckoned to Odushéyu. "Give someone else the steering oar and come inside. Listen to what my uncle is saying. He wants to pass the straits of Dáwan. No Ak'áyan has ever returned alive from there."

  The It'ákan frowned, since that route would take them far from his desired destination. But he was intrigued and made no complaint. Cramped together in the thatched shelter, he and Orésta tried to rouse Meneláwo from the stupor into which the wánaks had fallen. "Ai gar, he must have gotten into the poppy jars," Odushéyu decided with disgust.

  "No, it must have been the T'eshalíyan wine," Orésta argued.

  "He is completely drunk either way. But never mind. What did he say about the straits?" asked the exile. "Did he mention clashing rocks? Or whirlpools?"

  "No, only some strange land, Mar-Yandún," answered the young Argive. "Do you know of it?"

  Odushéyu frowned and scratched his head. "When I was in Assúwa years ago, Ainyáh mentioned creatures of Mar-Yandún. They were half man, half horse, I believe. Or was that the Kentáuros? It is said that they do everything backward, worship cattle and drink mare's milk, instead of making cheese from the milk of cattle and worshipping the Divine Horse, like reasonable men. If they live beyond the straits, we will find them on the banks of the river that surrounds the world, on the shores of the Okéyano." He laughed. "If this had come from anyone but Meneláwo, I would have thought it a sailor's yarn, like the Kuklóq."

  Orésta blinked. "The Round-Eyes? I seem to remember Diwoméde mentioning them. Did he hear this sailor's yarn from you? Are your stories of Mízriya also fables?"

  Odushéyu laughed more loudly than before. In a hearty voice, he said, "Ai, did I say the Kuklóqes were a yarn? Idé, that is not what I meant, my boy. No, no, I meant to say the Anóqes, men with no eyes at all. Yes, it is said that these terrible creatures have no heads at all. Their eyes are embedded in their shoulders and they live in the Libúwan desert, west of Mízriya. They are only men in cloaks, though. I know, because I have seen them. But the Kuklóqes, now, they are as real and you and I. Say, Meneláwo, wake up! We want to talk to you." He jostled the Lakedaimóniyan.

  Meneláwo's heavy eyelids fluttered. "I will save you, Ip'emédeya," he moaned, waving a hand. "Do not be frightened, little daughter."

  "Ip'emédeya!" cried Orésta. "My sister is dead and has been for ten years. Ai, by the gods, Odushéyu, the maináds have certainly caught him this time. He is completely mad. We must go straight to Mukénai. We will leave Meneláwo in Tíruns and I will take over the expedition." He began to rise, ready to leave the shelter.

  "Ai gar," Odushéyu whispered, stopping the young Argive with a hand on the wrist as a thought struck him. "Diwoméde mentioned your sister to me, earlier. He told me of rumors that she was spared and is still alive somewhere. I thought nothing of it at the time, since he could not guess where the girl could be hiding."

  Orésta trembled violently. "What? Can it be?" he whispered.

  The exiled king mused, "It is possible that Agamémnon and Meneláwo only made a show of putting Ip'emédeya on the altar. Ai, Agamémnon even shed real tears on that day. In the morning, he did, at least. He was surprisingly cheerful that evening, though, come to think of it." He began to laugh. "But it was a deer's heart he showed, as proof the girl was dead. That is what the rumor suggests. No doubt he engineered the snake omen as well, to distract us all while his brother whisked the girl off the altar and out of sight. Ai, now we can guess where the princess went. The Tróyans have guarded the northern straits for generations. No Ak'áyan has ever been through them, not and lived to tell about it. That is where Ip'emédeya hid herself, I am sure of it now. Yes, she must be living in this Mar-Yandún place. "Ai, Agamémnon, you sly dog!" He roared with laughter now, slapping his thigh with delight. How he would have liked to call the Argive wánaks that epithet to his face. Odushéyu's mirth subsided as he thought of the dead man, picturing how pleased Agamémnon would have been to hear it, and how pressed to pretend he was insulted.

  Orésta breathed, "I knew it! I knew it!"

  Odushéyu clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Your father may have done foolish or dishonorable things, from time to time, boy," he crowed. "But he would not kill his own daughter, not even to possess the whole continent of Assúwa."

  aaa

  In Yólko, king Péleyu was laid upon his bed, gasping for breath, the blood gone from his face. One hand clutched weakly at his chest, where it seemed to him that a great weight was lying, one that would crush him at any moment. "Ai, ai," was all that he could manage to say, in a very small voice, as invisible claws spread their vise-like grip to his arm and jaw.

  'Iqodámeya longed to sit beside him and hold his hand, but that was queen T'éti's place. The Wilúsiyan woman dutifully said nothing of her desire, but did her best to calm the overwrought children and restore a semblance of order to the household. She put the older boys to work, moving furniture that had been tossed aside by the entering Argives. The girls she set to sweeping with clusters of small twigs and branches. Andrómak'e directed them and kept an eye on the babies, seated beside the great hearth in the throne room, as her knees still trembled whenever she tried to stand. 'Iqodámeya sent for Érinu to come from the stables, to help her carry away the bodies of the servants who had died defending the surprised citadel. Others were dispatched to the T'eshalíyan countryside, to contact the kinsmen of the slain and to bring in warriors from the frontiers to guard Yólko's shattered gates.

  As the sun's chariot dipped below the western mountains, T'éti coaxed her husband to drink a little wine, heavily mixed with the essence of the poppy. Péleyu managed only a sip with his wife supporting his head. Exhausted by the effort, the old man lay back on his sheepskins with a quiet moan. He would attempt no more.

  T'éti quietly bathed the perspiration from his face. "Owái, my husband," she whispered, more to herself than to the dying wánaks, "we have been together nearly fifty years. What will I do without you?"

  Only the whites of Péleyu's eyes were visible beneath half-closed lids. He turned his face away from his wife. His breath came and went in quick, shallow gasps, through dry and colorless lips. "Ak'illéyu," he wheezed. Several times he called his son's name and lifted his hand from his chest, reaching with trembling fingers.

  Tears sprang to T'éti's eyes and trickled among the wrinkles o
f her cheeks. Gently, she took the old man's hand in her own and pressed it to her hollow breast. "Idé, beloved," she whispered, "you will see Ak'illéyu soon enough, if you do not already."

  "Owái, my son, my son, must you go to Tróya?" Péleyu sighed, turning his head feebly from side to side. "Ai, Patróklo, can you not hold him back?"

  "Hush," T'éti wept, patting the gnarled hand that was growing cold in hers, "do not scold our foster-son. He did his best, I am sure. Say a kind word to his soul, when you see him."

  As blue lids closed over sunken eyes, the dying king was silent for a long while. His breathing slowed, the air hardly moving to and from his lungs. The hand in his wife's grasp hung completely limp, and all his body lay perfectly still, as if embedded in the sweat-soaked fleeces of the bed. T'éti turned his face toward her, with a gentle hand on his chin. The old man's eyes half opened. Dully he gazed on her. As he did so, the dark pupils of his eyes slowly dilated.

  "Péleyu, must you go without me?" the queen whispered tremulously and touched his cheek. She kissed his forehead, grown cold and clammy, and slowly stroked the thinning hair at his temples. "Can you not wait just a little longer?"

  The drowsy eyes focused for a moment on the woman's face. "Owái, Ait'ré," Péleyu whispered, his voice so airless that his wife could not hear his words. "Ai, t'ugátriyon, I miss you. A father is proud of his sons, but his daughters' caresses are sweeter." The dark brown irises of his eyes disappeared as his pupils relaxed, fully open. T'éti quietly placed the king's hand on his chest, resting hers upon it in silence.

  'Iqodámeya came to the open doorway of the bed chamber and stood in silence with welling tears. At last, she crept into the room and knelt beside the wánasha. "Lady," whispered the Wilúsiyan woman. T'éti did not respond and 'Iqodámeya touched her shoulder lightly. "Wánasha, you are tired. Let me keep watch awhile."

  The queen took a deep breath and sat up straight, red-rimmed eyes still on her husband's face. "No," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "No, I am his wife. I will hold the vigil for the sake of his soul."