by Diana Gainer
"Do not ask so many questions," Diwoméde growled, with grunts of pain as the laborer pulled on the leader's scarred arm.
T'érsite obediently kept silent. He carried the qasiléyu down the long staircase and through the fortress corridors to the mégaron. Huffing and puffing with effort, the laborer moved slowly. As he went, serving women and unoccupied laborers stood and gawked at the sight of him.
In the mégaron, T'érsite straightened his back and released the qasiléyu's arms. Diwoméde wobbled on his feet and collapsed backward onto his throne, breathing as hard as if he and not the laborer had been working. "Dáuniya," Diwoméde snapped, irritated that the woman was not already there. "Get Dáuniya in here. Tell her to bring me more wine."
T'érsite went quickly to find the serving woman still in her bed, nursing her tiny infant. "Diwoméde is calling for you," he told her. "You must bring him more wine. Here, I will take the baby to my wife." He leaned over her, hands out for the child.
Dáuniya made a face and did not disturb the fuzzy-haired girl contentedly suckling. "Have your wife bring the wine to Diwoméde. I am busy."
"Dáuniya!" T'érsite cried, clapping his hands to his thighs with anxiety. "Ai, you are as stubborn as a donkey. Let me take the baby to Mélisha and you go to Diwoméde. He is in a bad mood. We do not want to make it worse."
"Some of us do not care what kind of mood he is in," Dáuniya retorted calmly. The baby's eyes closed and she slept peacefully, rousing to suck a few times as her mother talked, but then drifting off again. The serving woman caressed the little, round cheek. "Let your wife bring him his wine. I need to feed the baby. Mélisha cannot do that."
Seeing that she would not be persuaded, T'érsite left her. He sought out his wife, a gray-haired woman of narrow shoulders and wide hips. With her help, he convinced Dáuniya that she must leave her baby and go to the qasiléyu, for the sake of the other servants and laborers, if not for herself.
Dáuniya came with T'érsite slowly, the two whispering as they went. The laborer told her what had happened on the stairs and he shook his balding head. "He is not the same Diwoméde who left here a year ago," T'érsite worried. "He is in bad shape."
"And the poppy is to blame," Dáuniya said, shaking her head with evident disapproval. "It is just as I said, T'érsite. We will have to cure him."
T'érsite groaned. "No, no, I told you before. I want nothing to do with that. Get him to lie with you. That will calm him down, make him sleep. He may be in a better mood when he wakes. Forget this idea of breaking him from the poppy. We would have to tie him up as if he were a wild beast."
"Yes, exactly," Dáuniya agreed. "But is that difficult? You were a soldier at Tróya. Did you never tie a captive's hands?"
T'érsite shuffled his feet and ducked to avoid her harsh stare. "Ai gar, woman, you know I tied your own hands." He pointed to a white line on his thumb. "You see, I still have the scar where you bit me. But that was a different matter altogether. We are talking about our qasiléyu here. Even if we succeed in tying him up, even if we succeed in freeing Diwoméde from this flower's hold, what will he do to us when we let him go?"
Dáuniya stopped as they were about to enter the small room fronting the mégaron. With her hands on her hips, she spoke firmly. "So he is our qasiléyu, today, is he? I seem to remember a time, not so long ago, when you claimed him as a kinsman. Was that a lie, T'érsite? Is he not your nephew after all?"
T'érsite squirmed, his eyes still facing the floor. He spread his hands, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Ai, he is my nephew, he is, but…"
"Then," Dáuniya stopped him, "if he is your kinsman, you must do what is right, even if it is unpleasant. You owe it to him. After all, does he have brothers or a father he can rely on? Where are Meneláwo and Orésta? Will they help free him from the evil maináds of this blossom?"
Clapping his hands to his head, T'érsite answered in a small wail, "Dáuniya…"
At the same time, the qasiléyu bellowed angrily from the great hall beyond, "Dáuniya! Where are you?"
Dáuniya glowered furiously at T'érsite, but obeyed the qasiléyu's summons. Left alone in the corridor, the laborer groaned again and leaned his forehead against the peeling frescoes on the wall. Shaking his head, he moaned quietly, "Ai gar, Dáuniya, you will get us both killed."
The serving woman did not hear as she walked, unhurried, across the mégaron to the qasiléyu slumped on his throne. Diwoméde's head was down and he still breathed heavily, perspiration trickling over his bare torso and dripping from his forehead and chin. His face was hidden from her behind long, tangled curls that hung past his shoulders. His skin was lighter than Dáuniya remembered, as he had spent the winter and most of the spring thereafter indoors. He was thinner, too, though not as wasted as Meneláwo had become in the same time. Dáuniya crossed her arms over her breasts, wrinkling her forehead and shaking her head in disgust.
"Do you want to bathe before you eat?" she asked, her stern voice implying strongly that he should.
"I did not say anything about bathing. Or about eating, for that matter," Diwoméde retorted angrily, glaring up at her through his eyebrows. "Bring me wine. And hurry up about it or I will have you beaten, you stubborn ass."
Dáuniya turned to the row of wine jars lined up on the bench by the wall. Her pace was as deliberate as before, as she poured wine into a wide-rimmed bowl, added water, and stirred with a flat, wooden spoon. Still unhurried, she dipped a cup in the liquid and carried it to her qasiléyu.
He took it without a word and placed it to his lips. "To 'Aidé with you," he cursed, spitting out the liquid and hurling the cup to the floor, where it shattered. "Not plain wine! I want the poppy in it." He rose and struck at the serving woman. She moved backward, easily outpacing him. Diwoméde nearly lost his balance as his hand swung harmlessly through the empty air. He glanced around the room and saw that no one else was there. "T'érsite," he called, "get in here."
As the laborer hesitated in the little antechamber, Dáuniya countered coolly, "He is busy right now."
"Préswa take him," spat Diwoméde, returning to his seat with a groan. "Woman, bring my poppy jars in here," he commanded hoarsely, trying unsuccessfully to rearrange the sheepskins while sitting on them.
"No, Diwoméde," Dáuniya argued, "I will not do that."
The qasiléyu's anger flared and he stood again, advancing unsteadily, with clenched fists. "By all the gods, woman, I will shove your teeth down your throat for your insolence."
She scurried backward, calling out to him. "Diwoméde, what are you doing? Listen to yourself. What has become of you? Ai, you stink like a pig in a pen! Your people are whispering behind your back. Do we have a madman for a qasiléyu, or a slave?"
He continued to advance, but his movements were slow and painful. His mangled foot could hardly bear his weight, even for a moment, and he could not keep his scarred right arm raised. When he reached the hearth, he leaned against one of the pillars supporting the roof. His breath came in gasps and went in moans, his face bathed in sweat. Closing his dark-rimmed eyes, he sat heavily on the edge of the hearth. "Damn you all to 'Aidé," he breathed, wiping his forehead with the back of his head. "Bring my poppy jars, you evil mainád or I will have you sent to the fields this very morning."
Dáuniya knelt before him, just beyond his reach. "Diwoméde," she said again, her voice now soft and pleading. "Listen to me, beloved. You do not want to end up like Meneláwo. Look at what has become of him, because of the poppy. He bursts into tears like a little child, always bemoaning what is past and cannot be changed. He is utterly useless to his family and to his kingdom. Have you not heard the whispers? The people say he is a weakling, a coward. Ai, even Odushéyu agrees with them, a man who should be his friend. Is this what you want for yourself?"
"Shut your muzzle, bitch," Diwoméde growled at her. He pressed his aching arm to his ribs and bent low over it, his hair dangling over his knees. "Get my poppy jars."
Dáuniya stood,
looking toward the mégaron's open doorway, where T'érsite stood, wringing his hands. "If you do not help him, no one will," she pointed out to the laborer.
Diwoméde raised his head to see who she was talking to and blinked his eyes several times, trying unsuccessfully to clear the fog. "Woman, if you do not obey me this very minute, I will run you through with my spear and feed your corpse to my hunting dogs," he threatened.
She laughed mockingly. "Owái, I am so frightened! Ai, Meneláwo is bad enough, but you are worse, Diwoméde. He eats breakfast, at least, and does not call for the poppy jars until evening. But, you, Diwoméde, you would be happy to starve to death, existing on nothing but poppy and wine until you shrivel into nothing. You should be ashamed of yourself, Diwoméde, ashamed!" Her voice thick with contempt, she cried, "Ai, you will not spill my blood! You cannot even find your own spear without T'érsite's help. And even if he brought it here, you could not lift it."
Cursing furiously under his breath, Diwoméde fumbled with his belt, trying to get his dagger out of the scabbard. He could not move his stiff, right arm into position and was forced to use his clumsy left. His fingers trembled and it was some time before he held the small blade in his hand. Pointing it at the serving woman, he muttered, "I should have slit your throat at Tróya years ago."
Dáuniya stood her ground, her hands on her hips and burning with fury. Unafraid, she waited for him to push himself up from the edge of the hearth with his left arm, steady himself against the pillar, and come toward her.
Alarmed, T'érsite rushed forward at last. He caught the qasiléyu from behind and wrapped his burly arms around Diwoméde's chest. "Dáuniya, get out of here while you can," the laborer cried. "I do not know how long I can hold him."
But the woman had no intention of leaving. As Diwoméde struggled against the other man's encircling grip, cursing, Dáuniya only moved closer. "Diwoméde," she scolded, shaking her index finger at him as if he were a small boy, "this is for your own good!" Lifting her skirt, she raised one foot and brought it down with all her strength on the qasiléyu's old injury, pressing his toeless stump hard against the stone floor. Diwoméde screamed with pain and his knife fell to the ground with a clatter. The qasiléyu would have fallen himself, as well, if T'érsite had not maintained his grip.
Dáuniya scooped up the dagger quickly and urged T'érsite to take their qasiléyu up on his shoulder. The laborer had already acted against Diwoméde and could not back out now. T'érsite did as the woman demanded, carrying Diwoméde, still howling, out of the mégaron, and through the smoke-darkened halls, to his bed-chamber.
But there the qasiléyu's strength returned, fueled by anger, pain, and desperation. He fought like a maddened beast, flailing with all four limbs and roaring like a wounded bull. The laborer and serving woman were unable to hold him. Driven back into the corridor, they were barely able to close the chamber door and hang on with all their strength as the caged man strove to open it from the other side. T'érsite braced a foot against the wall on either side of the narrow doorway and pulled backward for all he was worth against the latch of wood and leather. Dáuniya threw her arms around his broad waist and pulled back herself, adding her weight to his. Still, the qasiléyu had the strength of a dáimon and the door moved away from the frame a finger's width or more.
Just when the two in the hall thought their master would tear the door from its hinges, he gave a great bellow of frustration and released the door's inner clasp. The hard, wooden structure hit the stone facing with a clack, jolting the laborer. Dáuniya lost her hold and fell backward to the floor. T'érsite nervously eased one foot down, though the other remained pressed against the wall and his fingers were still wrapped around the latch. Panting from the effort, and wide-eyed, T'érsite and Dáuniya listened for sounds from the chamber.
Diwoméde was cursing, they could tell from the tone of his voice. But they could not make out the words.
"He is angry," T'érsite breathed, dread in his face and heart.
"He will get over it," Dáuniya snapped in a whisper, moving closer to the door, slowly and gingerly placing her ear against it. She listened in silence for a long, tense moment, then turned to T'érsite. Excitedly, she whispered, "He has moved away from the door. I heard rustling and bumping. He is probably looking for poppy jars."
"In his bed-chamber?" T'érsite asked in disbelief, letting his other foot down to the ground. He bent toward the latch, trying to peer through a crack in the wood alongside it. "That is what he is doing, all right," the laborer whispered. "He must have hidden one under the bed."
Beside him Dáuniya gasped. "We must go in there immediately and stop him."
T'érsite put a hand on her shoulder to stop her, keeping his other hand upon the latch. "Maybe we should wait until the juice relaxes him."
She frowned and slapped his upper arm lightly with the back of her hand. "Certainly not! He will do himself harm drinking it undiluted. It might even kill him."
T'érsite jumped, hearing that warning. "Then we must stop him before he gets the stopper out of the flask. Come, I will throw myself on him and hold his arms. You take my belt and tie him." He threw open the door.
Diwoméde was on his knees beside the bed, a poppy juglet in his hands, still fumbling with the dried fig stopping the slender neck. The sudden movement at the door startled him and he almost dropped the little jug. As he scrambled to catch it, T'érsite lunged across the room, throwing himself on the younger man and pinning him against the bed. Dáuniya was right behind the laborer, but again Diwoméde fought with surprising strength. The woman was unable to remove the laborer's belt, as Diwoméde struggled for his freedom. The flask still gripped in his hand, the qasiléyu writhed and kicked, spitting and cursing his servants to 'Aidé.
Despite T'érsite's greater weight, the younger man managed to get an arm free and struck his opponent in the head with the juglet. T'érsite yelped but did not ease his grip on Diwoméde's other arm. "Get the jug! Get the jug!" the laborer called out through gritted teeth.
Dáuniya fell upon the qasiléyu's free hand and bit down on his wrist. The juglet slipped from the man's numb fingers and he roared as blood sprang from the wound. Momentarily overcome by the pain in his right arm, Diwoméde could not hold T'érsite off his left and the laborer managed to turn his leader on his side and bend the man's left arm behind his back. Their bodies on the bed, legs hanging off the side, they lay one upon the other, servant forcing his overlord's face into the sheepskins. T'érsite thrust one burly arm around Diwoméde's neck and gripped the qasiléyu's scarred shoulder, keeping the other arm firmly pressed into the leader's back.
"I will have you executed for this," Diwoméde gasped, kicking helplessly. "I will kill you both, I swear!"
Spitting blood from her mouth, Dáuniya deftly unknotted Diwoméde's belt and pulled hard. But the man's weight held it under him. T'érsite rolled to his back on the bed, pulling Diwoméde on top of him. Although the qasiléyu spat at the woman and tried to kick her, she was able to remove his belt and tie it securely around his bleeding wrist. The other end she pulled down over the edge of the bed and fastened to the frame.
"You sacks of wine," Diwoméde raged, kicking the empty air. "You heartless sheep!" In his struggling, he caught the poppy juglet with his foot and knocked it to the floor where it shattered, spilling the viscous, black liquid. Though he could not see what had happened, he understood from the sound and hurled another series of curses.
"Now roll him on his stomach," Dáuniya gasped, "and I will use your belt to tie his other hand." She wiped at her bloody mouth, smearing her cheek with crimson.
T'érsite followed her directions, and pressed his knee hard into Diwoméde's back to hold him down while he moved the free arm up over the qasiléyu's head. Diwoméde made a small, gurgling cry as T'érsite's knee threatened to crack his ribs. "I cannot breathe," he managed to complain, choking.
But T'érsite did not release his leader until Dáuniya had securely bound the man's left arm to
the frame of the bed. Diwoméde made no other sound as the woman worked, and his struggling stopped. His whole body shuddered violently and as soon as T'érsite stepped back, the qasiléyu's stomach rebelled. Diwoméde vomited, drawing his knees up as spasms knotted his insides. He turned to his side, moaning weakly, his eyes only half opened. His long hair trailed over his face, damp with perspiration, resting in the pool of vomit. T'érsite stood beside the bed, hands to his knees as he panted from the effort of the struggle.
With his hands tied, Diwoméde was unable to get clear of the regurgitated wine on the bed. Drawing his legs up under himself, he raised up on elbows and knees, groaning. "Owái, goddess," he gulped.
Dáuniya had slid off the side of the bed opposite T'érsite. There she rested for a moment, gasping and wiping sweat from her face. But as Diwoméde spoke, she stood, ready to continue. She moved to the foot of the bed and opened a heavy chest standing there, where bronze swords and daggers rested in their scabbards, wrapped in fleeces. She dug through the spoils, carelessly flinging unwanted leather and metal to the floor on either side of the chest.
T'érsite straightened slightly, though he still gripped his side and breathed heavily. He glanced from the sweat-washed man moving slowly toward the head of the bed, to the disheveled woman by its foot. "Hurry up, Dáuniya," T'érsite gasped, as the younger man began to tear at his bonds with his teeth. The laborer took hold of Diwoméde's ankle and jerked him back down against the bed.
The qasiléyu cried out as his chin struck the pool of vomit, "Owái, Diwiyána, help me!"
"We are helping you," Dáuniya explained breathlessly, as she rose from the chest with another leather belt. As T'érsite held the qasiléyu down, the woman bound both of Diwoméde's ankles together and tied them, like his hands, to the bed frame. Then both the low ranked man and the captive woman sank down on the bed, on either side of their leader's feet, and rested. Dáuniya sighed with relief, letting her arms hang limp at her sides.
