by Diana Gainer
Orésta sighed and shook his head. "In the end, other men will have to be practical," he said, "even if I cannot, now."
Meneláwo put a heavy arm over the younger man's shoulder. "Do not be so gloomy. On the night of the tenth day, you will go with your torch to the oil merchant's house and marry 'Ermiyóna. I never had much of a mind for government and now I am old and tired. So, in the morning, go with your new wife back to Lakedaimón and rule for awhile. The men of Argo will be watching you, to see how you do. At the same time, they will be watching Puláda, here in Mukénai."
"Watching Puláda?" his nephew repeated in surprise. "But you are wánaks here. The elders elected you."
The Lakedaimóniyan king shook his head. "I am only for show right now, in Argo as well as in Lakedaimón. The assembly that chose me knows that I cannot rule this land in the future. My time is coming to an end and they can see that. The elders have only postponed the real decision by placing me on the throne. But, as long as you have a chance to be chosen king, they know that you will not attack Argo. They know that Puláda will not attack them, either, as long as he thinks he may become the next wánaks. So, go to Lakedaimón and rule well. Do so, and Argo may yet come to you, one day."
Orésta burst out laughing. "You sound like my father now."
The aging king smiled broadly and he shrugged. "Idé, my boy, do not forget that I am his kinsman too."
CHAPTER TWELVE
ASTART
On midsummer's day, Diwoméde was back in his citadel at Tíruns. "At least, I am still qasiléyu," he announced to his serving men and women as they gathered at the main entrance, to greet him on his return. But T'érsite and Dáuniya looked at each other without smiles, for the man's disappointment was written in his every word and gesture. Diwoméde had clearly expected more. The laborer and serving woman knew that he would turn to the poppy for solace.
"We are all a bit disappointed," his younger half-brother told him, as the low-ranked denizens of Tíruns raised their hands to their foreheads and the sky, showing their respect for their qasiléyu. "I thought I would be a full-fledged wánaks, ruling two kingdoms by now. Instead, I will have one only and that without the full title. Puláda and Lawodíka have Argo in fact, but they, too, lack the official titles of king and queen. Of course, there is poor, old Odushéyu, also, who cannot seem to get along with anyone. Still he does not have a kingdom. He keeps outsmarting himself and driving away his allies."
Diwoméde grunted. "At this rate, he will never get that expedition to Mízriya that he talks about all the time."
The prince laughed. "You see, Diwoméde, you are no worse off than the rest of us. So, stop moping. Have your servants prepare a feast. Celebrate my wedding to 'Ermiyóna. As a loyal Argive, you should give your people a festival in honor of the princess Lawodíka and her new husband, Puláda."
Diwoméde took his kinsman's advice. But, as the servants scurried away to do his bidding, he told Orésta, "I still have no heart for celebrations. I should be bringing home my own royal bride."
His younger kinsman glanced over his shoulder at 'Ermiyóna, walking hand in hand with her father, behind them. Smiling at her warmly, Orésta turned back to the qasiléyu. "Yes, I am sorry about that. But you heard what Puláda said. His sister hates all Zeyugelátes." He shrugged and clapped Diwoméde on the shoulder sympathetically. "She refused to take you. There was nothing he could do about it."
Diwoméde pushed the younger man's hand away with some irritation, picking up the pace as they neared the central mégaron. "Yes, I know. It is still the custom for northern women to have a say in their marriages. Ai gar, but the woman took a Lókriyan. What kind of king will he make? Lókri is a small place without good pastures. Its soil is as infertile as It'áka's rockiest island. There are no pilgrimage sites, either. Idé, the only warrior of any distinction from that miserable country was Aíwaks. Most southerners blame him for this decade-long drought because he raped a Tróyan priestess on her own altar. Ai, T'érsite, where are you going with those jugs?"
Orésta let the qasiléyu go ahead alone. Falling back to take 'Ermiyóna's hand, the prince told her, "I know how bitterly disappointed Diwoméde is. But I have no power in Argo. There is nothing I can do for him."
His new wife smiled back warmly. "I suppose you are disappointed about that, yourself, dear husband. But I am not. I am happy, truly happy now. You and I are going home. I will have all of my family around me, at last, my father and mother, my brother, and now my cousin and husband." She laid her head against Orésta's shoulder, beaming up at him, rosy-cheeked. "Everything is as it should be."
Meneláwo felt a sudden pain in his chest, watching his daughter and son-in-law. He thought of how like Ariyádna the girl was, how his own wife had once so smiled at him and laid her own dark head against his shoulder. The arms with which he had embraced her then were smooth and brown, unmarked by age and violence. He put a hand to his heart and released his daughter's hand, letting the young couple walk ahead of him into the mégaron. Grateful for the dim light in the fortress, he blinked away the tears that came to his eyes.
Odushéyu and Ainyáh eyed the father of the bride with mild curiosity, as they followed the party into the throne room. But neither troop leader spoke to the old king of Lakedaimón. The commander of Tróya's army announced his departure as the feast was prepared. "I must go immediately," Ainyáh told the other men of rank. "The autumn planting is always a time of danger and uncertainty in Wilúsiya. If I leave now, I will have just enough time to return there before the sowing."
Orésta graciously gave the Kanaqániyan permission to go, despite the fact that it was Diwoméde's place to give the word. The unhappy qasiléyu was too preoccupied with his own affairs to take offense, or even to notice. He did not challenge his half-brother's right to speak. But the servants, toiling in the great chamber, noted the little scene with renewed anxiety. Something was very wrong, they told each other.
Seated around Diwoméde's main hearth, the guests relaxed over a meal of waterfowl and bread, washed down with many cupfuls of watered wine. Orésta laughingly reminded them of how quickly his uncle had excused himself from Argo's battered capital. "Puláda and Lawodíka could not have been happier to see us off so quickly. I almost expected to see my sister break into a dance when Uncle Meneláwo announced we were going. You know, I think the elders who voted for my uncle were as happy for us to leave as anyone. That is quite a change from what I remember of Mukénai. Years ago, people would have condemned us for not mourning the queen louder and longer. They would have insisted that we stay for a month, at least."
Meneláwo squirmed uncomfortably, thinking of how Ariyádna would ask after her sister. "I just want to see my daughter safely back to Lakedaimón," he explained to the assembled company, as he had in Mukénai. "Lawodíka and her new husband understood that."
Orésta laughed more loudly, his eyes dancing with bitter mirth. "Yes, they made no complaint at all about that, did they? My sister was most understanding. 'Go right ahead, Uncle, take 'Ermiyóna and her husband straight home. As long as you are going, why not take your old friends, Odushéyu and Ainyáh, with you?' The ungrateful bitch."
Meneláwo frowned. "Orésta, she is your sister. Do not talk about her that way."
'Ermiyóna sprang to her husband's defence. "Ai, father, how should he talk, when his sister publicly called him a matricide?"
Meneláwo said no more, staring gloomily into his wine. When it was still early, he excused himself from the feast. "I am getting old and tired," he told his host. "I will have a little of the poppy mixed with wine and then I must go to bed. We will set out early tomorrow. I have been away from Lakedaimón too long already." As the wine reddened the cheeks of the young couple, Orésta made a similar excuse for his wife and himself.
Odushéyu was soon left alone with Diwoméde. Late into the night, the two remained wakeful, drinking ever more poppy-tinged wine, commiserating with each other over the unkind fates that the three goddesses had spun f
or them.
"I think I understand, now, how you feel," Diwoméde told the older man. "When I came back here in the spring and found that Aígist'o would not let me in, I thought of you and how Penelópa would not let you return to It'áka. I should be angry with you after the way you betrayed Orésta but…"
"No, no, I betrayed no one," Odushéyu argued, downing one of many cups of wine. "I spoke against him to be sure, but that was just a ploy. What I was really doing was getting people to look at the available alternatives, none of which had much to recommend them. Ai, but no matter, Agamémnon never appreciated my efforts on his behalf. Why should his son be any different? Owái, Diwoméde, to be an exile is a bitter thing! It'áka was always a poor country, you know. The soil is not good enough to grow a proper crop of barley. There are not enough flat pasture lands among the rocks and hills to fatten many cattle or to breed decent-sized horses. It never rained much there that I remember. In fact, my grandfather felt so badly for my mother, when she went there to live, that he insisted on naming me after the bitterness he knew she must feel.
"Still, it was always my home. And there is nothing quite like going back to a place you know well, a place you remember from your childhood, after a long, miserable campaign. Just a few days of relaxing in the company of your children make it all worthwhile, lying with serving women who know not to put up a fuss, or with a wife who actually welcomes you. .Ai, then you know what happiness is and all your miseries are forgotten."
Diwoméde sighed, looking around at the gloomy mégaron. "Men say that the goddess gives good fortune and then turns it to bad luck whenever she pleases. Is Diwiyána really nothing more than this, a changeable woman like any mortal?"
Odushéyu shrugged. "I am no priest. I cannot pretend to understand the great lady. There may be some plan behind Diwiyána's actions, as the seers claim. But, if there is, I cannot follow all its twists and turns, even though I am renowned for my cleverness."
"But there must be some way to find out what the gods have in store for us," Diwoméde argued, though he was not really sure of that.
The It'ákan threw his hands wide. "Are you sure? Perhaps Agamémnon was right when he said that prophets were all liars and manipulators."
"He was right about Qálki in any case," Diwoméde admitted. "Otherwise, we would have lost the war at Tróya after Ip'emédeya escaped the sacrifice. But, Odushéyu," the younger man began, asking the question that had tormented his soul for some time, "if we cannot find out what the gods have in store for us, how can a man know whether he is doing the right thing?"
"That is just the point," answered the pirate with uncharacteristic patience, staring down ruefully into his emptied wine cup. "You do not know whether a deed is the right one until you have done it."
The qasiléyu rubbed his forehead, still unable to comprehend. "But that cannot be right, Odushéyu. If you did not know whether the gods were smiling on your journey, would you ever leave home? If you did not know whether the gods approved of a war, would you ever start one?"
The exile laughed bitterly. "Of course I would," he chuckled. "Men act all the time without knowing what the end result will be. Think about it and you will realize this is true. Say you begin a war with your neighbor. Before you set out, you will sacrifice a goat to earn the favor of the gods, will you not?"
"Yes, and I would have a priest or priestess interpret the omens for me, too." Diwoméde refilled his cup from the wine-bowl on the table beside him. "My men would not follow me without a good sign."
Odushéyu nodded, pointing his cup at the qasiléyu. "Naturally. But now, what do you suppose your neighbor will be doing, while you are making these preparations? He will be sacrificing his own animal, and taking his own omens, because his men will not follow him without a good sign, either."
Diwoméde nodded woodenly, stirring his wine with a finger.
Odushéyu rose and came to the qasiléyu's side. Bending close to the younger man's ear, the pirate said, "You receive a good omen, so your army marches forward. Your opponent finds an equally auspicious sign, so his troops march out to meet you. But how can this be? Only one side can win, after all. Then, if the gods are so faithful, and if the seers read their intentions truthfully, how is it that two armies ever meet on the battlefield?"
Diwoméde was thunderstruck. "I never thought of it that way. I assumed my opponents went out to fight, knowing that they were going to die. Or I marched forward, knowing I would lose, but going anyway for the sake of honor."
The It'ákan laughed, merrily now. He raised his arms out to his sides, shoulder height, and began to dance beside the qasiléyu's seat. "The immortals do not reveal their thoughts to men. Seers are all liars and cheats. Men only think they know their destinies. But such confidence is only dancing with maináds."
"I do not find that a reason to celebrate," the younger Argive complained, quickly downing his wine. "Odushéyu, can you mean to say that all the world of men is only a great game of knuckle bones? Are the gods only playing with our lives? If I believed that, I might just as well slit my own throat right now and save myself years of suffering."
"A game, yes, the gods are gambling," Odushéyu crowed merrily. He pulled the younger man to his feet. Throwing an arm over the qasiléyu's shoulders, Odushéyu hopped and skipped. "Join me, Diwoméde, dance with me, drink with me! Enjoy this night. It may be our last. Tomorrow the gods will throw the knuckle bones again. Maybe the throw will be bad. Meneláwo's ships may be caught in a storm. I may drown within sight of It'áka's shore. Ainyáh may change his mind again and return to slaughter us in our sleep tonight. Or it may be your fate to slip on a bit of oil spilled from a lamp and break your neck on the stairs of your own fortress tower." He laughed heartily, throwing his head back and shaking the sparse locks growing from the lower rim of his otherwise bare head.
"Let go of me, Odushéyu," Diwoméde complained, pushing the other man away. "Your arm hurts my shoulder. I have not danced since the arrow pierced my foot at Tróya."
The exile made his way to the wine-bowl and scooped up another cupful, still dancing. "If you feel pain, drink until your foot and arm no longer trouble you," he called out. "Then wake your serving man and have him play the lúra and sing. Dance and celebrate life, Diwoméde. We have no choice but to go where the game of the gods leads us. All we can do is continue playing until Lady Fortune turns our way. And she will, my boy, she will favor us some day. She is a woman, after all, and a woman does not stay angry forever."
The pirate's merriment was contagious. Diwoméde had to drink until the big wine-bowl was nearly empty before his foot no longer ached, but when he did, he danced with his exiled companion until both were exhausted. It was dawn when he and Odushéyu sank wearily into their seats.
Orésta came into the mégaron almost immediately afterward, to collect the old pirate for the homeward journey. Diwoméde pleaded with each man in turn to stay, to prolong his visit at least a few more days. But Meneláwo's thoughts were on his wife in Lakedaimón. And Orésta was eager to see his adopted homeland again, with his bride, 'Ermiyóna, finally at his side.
"Odushéyu, you at least can stay awhile," the qasiléyu begged, "what do you have in Lakedaimón? That land is not your home."
Sobered by the long night of dancing, his thoughts cleared of wine and the essence of the poppy by his profuse sweating, Odushéyu shook his head firmly. "No, my son came looking for me once. It has been almost a year. I must not put off my destiny any longer. If lady At'ána's whim allows it, I may yet find a way to return to It'áka as wánaks. If not, at least I may see Qelémak'o once more before I die."
Diwoméde could not delay his guests, so he fed them and supplied their ships from his newly replenished storerooms, in the old tradition of Ak'áyan hospitality. In a sudden rush of generosity, the qasiléyu threw in a pair of bronze caldrons for the married couple. To Odushéyu he gave three manned ships from his own fleet. "If Puláda complains, I will say that I lost them, on the way back from T'ráki. Take these
longboats. Go west. Find your son and reconquer your kingdom if you can."
aaa
Before the sun was well up, Diwoméde was watching the disappearing ships of his former companions from the highest tower of his citadel. His shoulders sagged as he leaned on the battlements. Fatigue bowed his back. Pain returned to his battered limbs.
Beside the qasiléyu stood T'érsite, ill at ease in his overseer's kilt, and uncharacteristically closed-mouthed. When only the tips of the far-off masts could be seen above the waters in the distance, the laborer spoke. "Diwoméde, you should come and see how work has progressed on the eastern tower. We kept on building, while you were gone, just as you had planned. I think that you will be pleased."
Diwoméde grunted, untouched. Tearing his eyes from the distant ships, he avoided T'érsite's troubled gaze. The qasiléyu turned away from the sea and headed toward the staircase, limping heavily and rubbing the old wound on his shoulder. "Help me down to the mégaron," he commanded curtly. The laborer sighed, but obeyed, lifting his leader's good arm to rest it on his broad shoulders.
After but a few steps taken this way, Diwoméde stopped and pulled his arm from T'érsite's back. "Go in front," the qasiléyu demanded through clenched teeth.
T'érsite stepped down to the next stair, with a worried glance back over his shoulder at his commander. "What have I done to anger you?" asked the laborer.
"Stop there," Diwoméde snapped, ignoring the question. When T'érsite held his position on the stairs, the qasiléyu leaned forward, pressing his weight against the laborer's back, and groaned heavily. "I am tired. Carry me."
T'érsite was surprised. He leaned forward and took the qasiléyu's weight, pulling the younger man's arms forward over his own hairy shoulders. "Are you sick?" the laborer asked.
