by Diana Gainer
T'érsite put an arm around her shuddering shoulders. "Ai, woman, do not talk that way," he told her gently. "He lives. I am sure of it. Go to the wánasha. Ask her to send a ransom to Mízriya. Diwoméde is a qasiléyu, a man of rank. Argo needs him. King Aígist'o once listened to that argument. This queen will too."
aaa
Mízriya's prisoners from Ak'áiwiya were marched to the ancient capital, the very Manufrí they had once hoped to sack. Through the hot, daylight hours they plodded toward the south, bearing sacks of plunder on their backs. Though the road was long and the sun scorching, at least their burdens were light. A few metal drinking vessels had come from the Ak'áyan ships' holds. There were the bronze spearheads and swords surrendered by the Ak'áyan soldiers, too. But beyond that, there was little of value to the Mízriyans. Much of the Ak'áyans' weaponry had fallen into the river when the ships capsized or sank. Leather armor was not prized in the southern empire of the Black Land. No horses or chariots had come south of the Great Green Sea. Nor were the sacks of bloody tokens very heavy. The Mízriyans had been able to collect the hands of only some of the slain, with many of the fallen disappearing in the river.
It was a disappointing haul, the Mízriyan officers told each other. King Ramusís would not be pleased. Nor would he be happy to hear that so many of the enemy's corpses had been swallowed by the Aigúpto. "It is good that Ainyáh and Peirít'owo turned against these northern seamen," Bikurnár observed to his subordinate officers. "These allies know the original number of enemies arrayed against us. At least my officers who are trained in the scribal arts can calculate the number of the dead. Those of you who can write, hear me. You will take the original total and subtract the number of prisoners." The graying commander smiled at his men's surprise. "If a few Ak'áyans actually escaped the slaughter," Bikurnár went on, "they are too few and too disheartened to show themselves in Mízriya again. No one will ever contest the figures that we will give to the emperor Ramusís, may he have life, prosperity, and health and so on."
On sheets of beaten papyrus, the officers prepared written reports as Bikurnár ordered. To fill in the details, they had each prisoner interrogated, asking for the name of his tribe and his rank. After giving his answers, each captive was beaten with the limber rods wielded by the local farmers upon the backs of their oxen and donkeys. As blows rained down on each pinioned captive, he was questioned again, to see whether he would change his tale. If he did, the bewigged officers had him run through with a spear for lying. Even if he kept to his story, Ainyáh or Peirít'owo might dispute him. That, too, would mean his death.
Diwoméde loyally named Puláda as his king, calling himself one of the Zeyugelátes. The qasiléyu endured the blows that followed with stoic fatalism. The goddess had never loved him well, he reflected miserably. As Dáuniya had said, he had cheated the grim lady Préswa once too often. It was evidently his destiny to suffer the fate he had helped mete out to Tróya. Ip'emédeya's curse had flown to Diwiyána's ears, if perhaps the goddess Dáwan had not heard the Tróyan priestesses' earlier. But, when Diwoméde saw Ainyáh standing among the Mízriyan officers, and Odushéyu alongside them, his acceptance faded. The qasiléyu cursed them both fervently, "Préswa take both you and your sons and torment you forever in 'Aidé!"
The Kanaqániyan laughed bitterly as a low-ranked Mízriyan flogged the prisoner into silence. "Your 'Aidé holds no terror for me, Ak'áyan," Ainyáh spat. "Your people deserve every evil for what you did at Tróya. You swore you would not touch any member of my household. Against your oaths, you killed my wife. And you stole her royal sister from my side. Your own storm god, Díwo, is rejoicing to see justice done at last."
But Odushéyu was stung by the Argive's curse. Tears sprang into his eyes. "Owái, Diwoméde, I had to do it. Ainyáh would have fed my son to the fishes if I refused."
It was on the outskirts of Manufrí that the army's overlord learned the fates of the Ak'áyan leaders and their forces. "O supreme commander, Sitmusís, we have completed the lists," Bikurnár reported with a perfunctory bow. "Many thousands of sea people were killed. My officers can give you the number, but we do not have the severed hands to prove it correct. Too many of the enemy drowned and sank in the river, or their bodies were devoured by the sacred crocodiles." He shrugged apologetically and, to his delight, Sitmusís nodded his wig-crowned head.
"As for the defeated kings," Bikurnár continued, "I have learned that a certain Puláda was overlord of the sea people. I regret to inform you that he escaped, with a very small portion of his men. The lesser king of Lakedaimón died in the battle, as did the chiefs of the lands called Attika, Qoyotíya, and T'eshalíya. A number of subordinate officers are among the captives. But T'rasuméde is the only royal prisoner from among the Zeyugelátes, Kullabáro from among the P'ilístas."
The Mízriyan commander nodded somberly at the accounting. "Separate the two rulers from the rest and we will present them to our Great House Ramusís for sacrifice," Sitmusís ordered. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "No man is to mention that any chief or king escaped. What the imperial Ramusís, health and prosperity to him, does not know will not harm us."
aaa
In the chamber of the Argive queen, where king Puláda lay half dead with fever, Lawodíka was in no mood to hear talk of ransom. "Bathe the wánaks," the wánasha commanded of the serving women. "Bring water here in basins and wash him. He stinks." She looked about at the servants scurrying to do as they were told. Not seeing the woman she wanted, Lawodíka frowned. "And tell Dáuniya to come to me in the mégaron."
Diwoméde's concubine appeared in the doorway of the bed-chamber just as the queen spoke. "I am here, wánasha," Dáuniya said in a low voice, her eyes rimmed with red. "What do you want me to do?"
Lawodíka glared at the serving woman. "Ai, it seems your little plans have come to nothing, woman. Diwoméde is dead. You are still a captive and a slave, as you will always be, not a qasiléyu's wife. I knew it would be this way. I prayed to Diwiyána. Her geese foretold a lawagéta's death. Ai, you may have seduced Diwoméde with your evil, foreign ways, and no doubt that was not hard. He was as simple as a shepherd boy. But you never fooled me. I know you for the slut you are, nothing but a villager from the ítalo country, a land peopled only by barbarians. Now you will see what it is like to be the slave of a true Ak'áyan."
Dáuniya began to cry again and sank to her knees on the floor. "Please, pity the child in my womb," Diwoméde's concubine pleaded, reaching for the wánasha's knees. The other servants cringed as they worked, making as little sound as possible. With fearful backward glances, they watched the queen and the slave, fearing that the royal anger would turn against them next.
"Never!" Lawodíka cried, kicking away the other woman's work-worn hands. "My poor mother suffered endless shame and degradation because of the charms of captive women like you. My father brought a continual stream of such whores into the palace. He slept with each one, openly flouting my mother's honor. Idé, now I will have my revenge and hers. Out of the palace with you! From this day on, no slave may live in any fortress in Argo. You will go to the fields to work the flax, all of you foreigners. There, you will learn the meaning of Ak'áyan justice."
Wails rose from the toiling women, and, with a shriek of despair, Dáuniya stood and ran from the room. Her bare feet pounded wildly through the dim corridors of the fortress as she sought the open air. She shoved aside the laborers who would have stopped her, though several asked what was wrong. Toward the highest tower she rushed, crying wordlessly as she went.
But on the platform of the tower, the captive woman was stopped by the guard on duty. "You cannot come up here," the gray-bearded warrior insisted. He shoved her back toward the stairs, despite her pleas. Behind her, a heavy-set man came struggling upward, breathing heavily. With a beefy hand, he caught her striped skirt, gasping, "Dáuniya, wait."
Still weeping, the captive woman tried to pull her garment from his hand. "Let me go, T'érsite. Lawodíka is sending
me to the fields. Owái, I have lost everything but this child in my belly. And Diwiyána will have it before the winter is over, just as she has taken all my babies before. Let me go. I want to throw myself from the tower and put an end to this. I cannot go on any longer."
But T'érsite did not release the slave's skirt. He stumbled up the last steps to her side and threw his arms around her. "It will be all right, Dáuniya," he panted. "I will take care of you. We will go to Lakedaimón and Orésta will give us sanctuary. I swear by 'Estiwáya."
She let him press her head to his woolly shoulder and in his embrace she wept again for Diwoméde.
aaa
Outside the walls of Manufrí, the Mízriyans staked their prisoners for the night and prepared for the victory celebration that would begin at dawn. With their arms pinioned behind them, by the elbows, the Ak'áyans were forced to kneel, tied to heavy, wooden posts. Deprived of food or water, in agonizing pain, they waited for the morning, to learn whether they would die or live as slaves.
Diwoméde found himself beside the young prince Kurawátta, as darkness fell. The youth was still sobbing wearily, his head hanging as close to the ground as his bonds would allow, tears dripping from his face. "Mármaro," he called, again and again.
"Be quiet," Diwoméde told the boy, in a low voice. "We have all lost kinsmen." A groan escaped his lips despite his efforts to hold it back, as he thought of Meneláwo with regret.
"But I am afraid," the twice-captured prince cried. "I do not want to die."
"We are all afraid," Diwoméde whispered to him. Another moan fought its way out as the ropes bit into his battered arms. "But if you cry, our captors will rejoice. Try to be brave, Kurawátta. Think of your areté." The words gave the younger man no comfort and they fell flat, even in the qasiléyu's ears.
As the countryside fell into slumber around the prisoners, Peirít'owo wandered through the field. His heart filled with gloating pleasure to see these men suffer, these Ak'áyans who had abandoned his father more than a decade before. His revenge had been a long time coming and he wanted to savor it.
The sound of talking attracted Peirít'owo's attention and he made his way to Diwoméde's side. Gripping the Argive's mud-encrusted hair, the Kep'túriyan jerked Diwoméde's head up. The qasiléyu shut his eyes and cried out with pain at the movement. Peirít'owo took a fierce delight in that reaction. "Now you know what degradation my father and I suffered," the Kep'túriyan exulted. He released the Argive's hair and pushed down on the prisoner's scarred shoulder. Diwoméde screamed in helpless agony. "Men once said that Ak'illéyu's vengeance for Patróklo was the worst that could be imagined. Later, they said that Púrwo's was still worse in Qoyotíya. But now, those feeble acts and the P'ilístas who committed them will be forgotten. For all time, men will remember Kep'túr's king Idómeneyu and the revenge of his son. I have destroyed every nation in Ak'áiwiya for letting my father die."
"But Peirít'owo," the Argive qasiléyu gulped between moans. "We did not kill Idómeneyu. The Mízriyans did. If only you had not betrayed us, we might have avenged your father on them."
The Kep'túriyan fell upon Diwoméde in sudden anger, pounding his furious fists against the qasiléyu's head and shoulders. Diwoméde yelped at each blow and shouted pleas for mercy, but Peirít'owo did not hear. Overwhelmed by exhaustion and excruciating pain, the Argive lost consciousness. When Peirít'owo could raise no further cries or moans from the captive, he wandered on through the field, cursing and kicking the men staked there.
Beside Diwoméde's silent form, Kurawátta quietly continued to cry for his lost brother.
aaa
Ainyáh sailed north to T'esprotíya at first light, with Odushéyu bound like a slave in the hold of his ship. Before autumn gave the lands of the Inner Sea a respite from the heat of the dead season, king Érinu and queen Andrómak'e learned of Mízriya's victory. "Tróya is avenged at last," Ainyáh reported, as the three sat in wooden Ak'áyan chairs around a Párpariyan earthen hearth. "Our plan was successful. The army that left Ak'áiwiya was as great as could be raised, with contingents from every kingdom and all their allies. But with my help, and Peirít'owo's, Mízriya was able to deal them a crushing defeat. Every Ak'áyan nation has lost the greater part of its warrior class to death, or to captivity and exile."
T'esprotíya's new rulers, freed from T'eshalíyan slavery themselves only recently, nodded with solemn satisfaction to hear the news. Andrómak'e glanced down on her older son, as he sat cross-legged on the floor beside the hearth. Sqamándriyo listened, somber and intent. Even the little one on the queen's lap seemed to understand the importance of the proceedings. He, too, was quiet, chewing the edge of his mother's cloak.
His report given, the Kanaqániyan mercenary fell silent for a long moment, watching the flickering coals in the fireplace. The wooden walls and clay-tiled roof were barely visible in the gloom. Shades of the past seemed to rise all around them. "Mesheníya and Lakedaimón will see no homecomings," Ainyáh went on. "All of their ships were lost. The contingents from Qoyotíya and Éyuqoya were slaughtered to the last man. Some of Attika's longboats got past me, but now they have no king. Lókri and Aitolíya suffered just as badly. Today there is no central authority anywhere in the north, but here. The south is little better. Argo will receive the greatest number back. But king Puláda is seriously wounded and will probably die this winter, if he is not dead already. I doubt that queen Lawodíka will be able to hold the throne, after that. Orésta will surely march north from Lakedaimón against her…if he still has men enough to raise an army. He may not. Kep'túr and the other islands sent only a few longboats, but those that sailed away will not return. It is lesson never to be forgotten. No island wánaks or chieftain will follow Argo to war ever again."
Érinu sighed. "I cannot tell you how pleased I am to hear this," he said, though his face and voice were solemn. "Now, I will be able to sleep without the spirits of the dead disturbing my dreams. My father and mother, my sisters and brothers can at last rest easy in 'Aidé." His head fell to his hands at the bitter thought of those he had lost.
"I know that loyalty to family means seeking revenge," Andrómak'e sighed, speaking hesitantly. "But somehow I cannot rejoice. I remember so clearly the pain I felt when my sweet Qántili died. It may be justice that his killers are suffering now, but it does not ease my heart. Ai, if only we could just put the past behind us! If it were up to me, I would not decree my bitter fate for anyone."
Érinu watched her with fond eyes. Lightly, he clasped her hand in his. "You are too soft to make a warrior," he told her with a smile. "But that same quality makes you the best mother and the finest wife."
"What about T'eshalíya?" Sqamándriyo asked, leaving his seat at the hearth and coming close to his mother's knees. "What do you know about Mármaro and Kurawátta?" he asked Ainyáh.
The Kanaqániyan ignored the boy, staring at the dying fire. "When your sister Kashánda was about to die, she cursed the whole of Ak'áiwiya," the commander recalled, turning back to Érinu. "We not only avenged the priestess's memory, but we have made her curse a prophecy that has finally come true. The defeat of the Ak'áyans in Mízriya will be remembered throughout the ages, even when the sack of Tróya has been forgotten."
Andrómak'e took her older son's hand as he stood, waiting impatiently, for news of his cousins. "I cannot help thinking of Meneláwo's act of mercy toward Sqamándriyo and me," the woman whispered softly. "The king of Lakedaimón spared our lives, even though it was his own daughter who begged him to kill us. He had even taken a sacred oath, promising to do as she bid him. Owái, what a fate has befallen his 'Elléniya, twice widowed at Tróya, now truly alone." The child on her lap gurgled, distracting his mother from her unhappy thoughts. Smiling warmly, she told the toddler, "Now I can show you who your true father is without fear. Ai, my little one, where is your pappa?"
The child pointed at Érinu, repeating, "Pappa."
Érinu smiled and extended a finger for the little boy to grasp. Watchi
ng them, Ainyáh sighed deeply. "My son lost his mother when he was not much older than your youngest," the Kanaqániyan muttered in a low voice, more to himself than to the others. He could not suppress a grimace and he ran a leathery hand over his face, trying to push the memory aside. "Andrómak'e, I know that you do not like talk of revenge. But the Ak'áyans' behavior at the sack of Tróya could not be ignored. What I did, what Érinu asked me to do was simply justice."
The woman let her brown eyes fall on the grizzled mercenary in quiet rebuke. "Ainyáh, if we thought of nothing but vengeance, we would never have let you come here. You, too, had a hand in Wilúsiya's defeat."
Ainyáh was unable to meet her gaze. Looking down at his scarred hands, he cursed quietly. "It was Antánor's idea, may Astárt destroy his children! He wanted to be king. The only way he could achieve that rank was to arrange the deaths of all of Alakshándu's kinsmen. I went along with him only to protect my own people. We were too few to fight Ak'áyans and Wilúsiyans both."
Érinu frowned at his wife and put a sympathetic hand on the Kanaqániyan's shoulder. "Yes, we understand that. We know, too, that you regretted your treachery when you saw the ferocity of the Ak'áyans. You began your blood-payment for your crime by bringing us the Qalladiyón. You have now completed your qoiná by engineering the Mízriyan ambush. With your help, the gods have leveled the same destruction on Ak'áiwiya's cities that they once visited on Wilúsiya's. We will always be grateful for that."
Sqamándriyo could not wait any longer. "But, what about my foster-brothers from T'eshalíya?" he blurted.
Ainyáh was as reluctant to answer as before. But Érinu now demanded the truth. "Even if it is evil news," insisted T'esprotíya's new king, "we must know their fates. They were once our kinsmen."
