Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze) (11 page)

"Ak'illéyu," Aíwaks gently chided.  "That is no way to talk.  Patróklo is dead, but you may still return home safely.  If you care nothing for your men, at least think of your own fate.  Do not offend the river god.  Keep your hair.  Ai, king Péleyu will not be pleased to see that you broke his vow."

Ak'illéyu was unmoved.  "I do not care to see my father or his land again."  He pressed the cold hands of the corpse over the locks of his hair, to keep the wind from taking it away.  His warm hands remained on Patróklo's chest and tears fell from his swollen eyes.  "I make you a vow, Patróklo," the prince said, choking at every word.  "You were the best of men and I will make Assúwa give you the best of sacrificial offerings.  Dogs and horses are not enough, my brother.  Tróya itself will bleed for you, until it is white.  Every woman in Tróya will lament and tear her face with grief before I am done.  All Ak'áiwiya will lament because of you.  Men will remember your name until the end of the world."

Beyond the stacked wood, many of the troop leaders muttered unhappily to each other at the T'eshalíyan’s speech.  They would be there all night, if things did not begin moving along.  To head off a confrontation, Agamémnon called out, "Ak'illéyu, it is time for the funeral feast.  Let me dismiss the foot-soldiers.  The lawagétas alone will finish here."

Ak'illéyu nodded, without moving.

The overlord shouted for the low-ranked men to go.  They left the pyre only too happily, leaving wánaktes and qasiléyus behind.  Odushéyu brought three geese and held them while Agamémnon wrung their necks and slit open their bellies.  The army's thin seer examined the water birds' entrails and intoned a long prayer, reciting the dead man's famous deeds, extolling his virtues, and calling upon every known god and goddess of Ak'áiwiya and Assúwa to bless the departed soul.  Agamémnon impatiently shifted his weight from one foot to the other and rolled his eyes at every new phrase, looking back over his shoulder from time to time at the sun sinking toward the sea.  But he did not interrupt.

When Qálki had finished speaking at last, Ak'illéyu laid the geese alongside his foster brother's body.  Néstor stepped forward, speaking with oily insincerity.  "See here, what Mesheníya graciously gives up for your kinsman.  It is a finely woven garment I acquired on the isle of Lázpa.  Do you see?  There are gold threads woven into the hem."

With less grace, Idómeneyu presented Ak'illéyu with wine in a goatskin bag.  "Here.  Wórdoyan wine for Patróklo," the southern king said gruffly.

The kings of the various northern kingdoms laid weapons or armor beside the body, spears of ash wood and bronze, shields and chest protectors of stiff leather or unworked ox-hide.  Meneláwo donated his last jug of honey for an offering and Aíwaks brought stirrup jars filled with perfumed oil to pour over the body.  "Ak'illéyu, look what I have brought from Agamémnon," the big qasiléyu announced, as he emptied the sweet-smelling liquid over the pale, still limbs, wrapped in linen.  "It is said that a man's soul takes the form of a bird.  If so, Patróklo's nest is finer than any other.  This is truly a splendid funeral."

"Yes, it is better than the one we gave the fallen kings of Enwáli and Wórdo,” Idómeneyu agreed, loudly and impatiently.  "And this man was no wánaks.  This is a fine enough offering for a qasiléyu.  Now, light the pyre and be done with it."

"We stay here until Ak'illéyu says it is enough," Agamémnon warned, giving the Kep'túriyan king a thunderous glare.  He added in a fierce whisper, "After all we have been through, I do not intend to anger this man again."

The T'eshalíyan prince stood and stared petulantly at the surrounding troop leaders.  "I consider these offerings to be neither sufficient nor splendid.  Patróklo requires a horse," he told them.

Néstor's son looked at his father in astonishment, his mouth hanging open.  "Wánaks, I must object," the graying king of Mesheníya responded firmly in his dry voice.  "We have almost no cavalry as it is and the war is not over, Agamémnon.  We may yet be able to build more chariots.  But there will be no time to train any horses, even if we can get more in time.  Speak to this mad T'eshalíyan.  Make him see reason.  You see, even Panaléyo agrees with me."

Feathers waving on his head, Panaléyo bridled at the remark.  "I most certainly do not agree with you, Néstor.  We came to honor Patróklo, a hero who fell in combat.  He saved all of us Ak'áyans from certain death almost single-handedly.  King Tlepólemo tripped while running away from the Tróyans' wrath and cracked his head on a stone.  The Wórdoyan died a coward's death.  So did Enwáli's wánaks.  He was shot in the back by an archer.  Neither one of those men deserved more than a goose's blood, despite his rank.  But Patróklo was a true champion.  I do not know about you southern sheep, but in the north it is our custom to slaughter a hero's horses at his grave!"

A brief but furious argument ensued, the northern kings favoring the sacrifice of a horse, while several of the southern lawagétas opposed it.  But, to Néstor's chagrin, Meneláwo sided with the northern kings and Agamémnon ended the dispute by agreeing with his brother.

"Never mind," Odushéyu whispered in Néstor's ear.  "We may have no more horses after this funeral.  But neither do our enemies."

Beyond the circle of high-born men, two unclad warriors stood waiting with torches to light Patróklo's pyre.  They shook their heads at the lengthy proceedings, talking to each other in low voices.  "Ai gar, St'énelo, I do not see why the lawagétas think so highly of horses," T'érsite groused.  "Chariots are the first and best targets on the battlefield.  Every Wilúsiyan of low rank tries his best to knock over a cart and steal the horses.  And the Lúkiyans kill both the men in the chariots and the horses pulling them to gain what they regard as honor.  If we were in those carts, we would be dead men.  I say we are better off without them."

St'énelo sighed.  "You are right, T'érsite.  In peacetime, I was happy to be a charioteer.  I lived next to the palace, dined with my king, and talked about gaining glory whenever I could find someone to listen.  But in wartime, it is no advantage to be a driver, just as you say.  I wish I had just remained a shepherd like my father.  Then I would be home now, standing over the sheep and goats, with nothing more dangerous facing me than wolves.  But no, I had to think of areté and here I am in a foreign land, at the mercy of barbarian arrows."

T'érsite grunted in response.  "Such high flown ideals meant nothing to me and I have not changed my mind.  But I had no choice in the matter.  Agamémnon made every able-bodied man come, no matter what his profession was."

Loudly Agamémnon ended the dispute and commanded, "Aíwaks, go fetch Diwoméde's white mare."  Quietly he admitted to Néstor, "She is lame, anyway." 

Ak'illéyu slit the throats of the last of the Ak'áyans' warhorses, his own team and the Argive qasiléyu's war prize.  Still the T'eshalíyan was not satisfied.  "Dogs!" he called next.

Idómeneyu groaned and rolled his eyes.  Néstor began arguing anew with Qoyotíya's king Panaléyo.  "Wait and kill the man's own hunting dogs for him when you get home," insisted the older king.

But Odushéyu complied with the T'eshalíyan's demand.  With bow and arrows, the It'ákan managed to down three of the scavenging mongrels that hung about the camp, animals that had grown fat and slow, dining on the war's many victims.  When the bodies of the dogs lay at the edge of the wood pile, Ak'illéyu stood and a ferocious glint came to his eyes.  "Men," he demanded, his voice scarcely above a whisper.  "Dogs and horses are not enough for my kinsman.  I swore I would slit the throats of twelve Tróyans for Patróklo's soul.  One will die for every month of the year, to serve as my brother's slaves in the next world."

"What?!" Néstor complained.  "The only captives we have are women and they are more valuable to us alive.  Agamémnon, declare these offerings sufficient and light the pyre."

Odushéyu agreed, "I am no more anxious to revive an old quarrel than you are, Agamémnon.  But this is outrageous!  To sacrifice humans is practically unheard of, except in times of dire emergency."  The order even brought an argument from Ak'illéyu's usual, northern supporters.  Nevertheless, Aíwaks loyally went among the T'eshalíyan shelters and led out two women, 'Iqodámeya and Wíp'iya, both with wide, frightened eyes.

"By the gods!" Diwoméde cried, seated by the pile and nursing his wounded foot.  "What about the laws of Diwiyána?  And to promise so many!  Ai, that will surely attract the unwelcome attention of Díwo's Evil Eye!  He will bring the wrath of the gods down on all our heads."

"I swore I would kill a Tróyan for every month of the year," Ak'illéyu croaked, reaching for his dagger.  "And T'eshalíyans keep their vows."

"Ak'illéyu," Meneláwo pleaded, as Agamémnon turned the matter over in his mind, "consider the future.  There will be more battles after today and many men have lost their weapons.  You may have no desire for ransom, but others do.  Give these captives as prizes to the men who lack bronze, if you do not want them.  Killing them would be a waste of valuable resources."

The T'eshalíyan prince darkened with rage once more.  Agamémnon stepped forward and took his arm before the prince could draw his dagger.  "If you swore to Patróklo that men would die for him, let men die," the overlord said.  "But sacrifice three only.  That is a sacred number, as all men know."

Meneláwo took the T'eshalíyan's other arm.  "Three only," he repeated.  "That is a holy number.  Go beyond that and you anger the gods."

Ak'illéyu shook himself free.  "I swore…" he began.

Meneláwo added grimly, "I know what it is to lose a good man.  My two brothers-in-law died at sea, trying to save my wife from Paqúr.  There never were any men better than Kástor and Poludéyuke.  Now they are gone and I cannot even see them buried or burned on a pyre.  Though they were the most honorable of men, their souls will wander the earth forever, always thirsting and never sated, because I could not send them to 'Aidé properly."  His voice broke as he talked of his wife's brothers.  He dropped his head, a hand to his eyes.  "Kill three men only, Ak'illéyu, but kill them in combat.  Take them alive on the battlefield, if you prefer, men of valor whose blood will honor Patróklo.  But remember, more than three and you disturb the rest of the dead."

Ak'illéyu stared at the Lakedaimóniyan wánaks, stricken by the thought that his dead kinsman might still suffer from the deeds of the living.  "Very well," the T'eshalíyan said in quiet anguish.  "Three it will be, a holy number, and in battle."  Wordlessly the prince went to T'érsite and St'énelo and took their torches.  He threw both lighted torches on the pyre and watched it burn.  "Patróklo," Ak'illéyu whispered to the flames, "I have done what I promised.   Peace be with you.  Fire will consume your body and free your soul to cross the Stuks.  But Qántili's body will be eaten by dogs.  Let that thought comfort you in death, my brother.  Your killer's soul will never find rest, never."

CHAPTER THREE

QANTILI

As the Ak'áyan troop leaders watched Patróklo's pyre begin to burn, Wíp'iya and 'Iqodámeya returned to Ak'illéyu's hut, relieved to find themselves still alive.  They knelt again at their stone grinding trays, crushing hard grains of barley into floor with pestles of smooth stone.  As they worked, they kept a surreptitious vigil over Qántili's corpse nearby.  The Tróyan's body, though torn by the rough soil, and still unwashed, was not food for dogs or carrion birds circling overhead.  The Assúwan captive women took turns throwing rocks and hot coals.  They chased away the scavenging mongrels and fowl, despite Ak'illéyu's vow.

The pyre was soon consumed with flame and the lawagétas held their own brief ceremonies, tossing the bodies of their dead onto the wood, adding logs as needed, cutting locks of their hair to burn in remembrance, and calling prayers to the souls of the deceased and the gods.  It was not until after well after dark that they all scattered to their huts and tents, calling to their women to prepare the funeral feast.  Ak'illéyu allowed 'Iqodámeya to remove the war gear he had worn, but shunned the cup of watered wine that she offered him.  He refused her suggestion to bathe in the sea, too.

"It will make you feel better," 'Iqodámeya suggested timorously.

He shot her a furious look.  "I do not want to feel better," he growled.  "Leave me, woman.  This disaster is your fault."

'Iqodámeya's eyes widened in fright and she scurried inside the hut.

Ak'illéyu ate little when his captive woman brought him food, later.  He cursed 'Iqodámeya angrily when she begged him to eat more.  "Bring me wine," he told her.  She brought it quickly, mixed with water.  But this only roused him further and he threw the cup down, spilling the contents.  "I said 'wine'," he roared, "not water."  This time she brought it undiluted, in trembling hands.

The rest of the Ak'áyans, northerners and southerners alike, gave themselves over to sleep when their hunger and thirst was satisfied.  But Ak'illéyu would not lie with 'Iqodámeya.  He tossed and turned on his pallet of fleeces until the moon rose.  The ground was too hard beneath him, the air too humid.  He felt every bedbug and flea that left the filthy sheepskins to walk across his bare flesh.  From one side to the other he turned, but his limbs would not relax.  His arms and legs ached and there was heaviness in the center of his chest that made his every breath a struggle.  Finally, cursing the sky and the earth, he walked to the nearby shore and sat where the gentle waves broke against the rocky shore.

Ak'illéyu's charioteer awoke at the sound of his prince passing and went to see the captive women, cowering in the open air outside the prince's hut.  "Do you see what has become of our wánaks?" the driver asked 'Iqodámeya.  "We have burned hundreds of Ak'áyan corpses in this campaign and we sent nothing more with each one than a lock or two of his kinsmen's hair.  Patróklo had a better funeral than any other man here.  Still, Ak'illéyu will not stop this wild grieving.  Speak to him about that corpse, now, 'Iqodámeya.  He loves you.  He would not leave Assúwa without you, before.  He must listen to you.  Tell him that he has gone too far.  Make him get rid of Qántili's body."

"I can do nothing, Automédon," the woman whispered, and, beside her, Wíp'iya nodded at every phrase.  "He once said that he loved me, that is true.  But he has forgotten that now."  She laid her hands regretfully on her abdomen, barely swelling with its new burden.  "You will have to speak to him yourself."

But Automédon dared not approach his commander.  He shook his head.  "Owái, T'eshalíya has lost two good men, one to death and the other to the madness of the maináds."

When the qasiléyu returned to his own shelter, Wíp'iya told her fellow captive, "Something must be done about Ak'illéyu.  The T'eshalíyans may be too timid to take action.  But the other kings will not.  Agamémnon will have to send him away.  Or kill him."

"No," 'Iqodámeya gasped, "the Ak'áyans would never kill him!"

            "No," Wíp'iya sneered contemptuously, "of course not.  You are right.  They are all afraid of madmen and they will follow whatever wild command he gives, as if the words came from a god's lips.  Ai, it is a fine dáimon who fathered that child in your belly, 'Iqodámeya.  And you thought you had things so fine!  Let him take you back to his land and make you his wánasha.  You will be the wife of an insane man and a queen of cowardly barbarians.  What a fate!"

'Iqodámeya's mouth fell open.  "How can you say such things to me?" she cried.  "Ai, Wíp'i Wíp'iya, how dare you!  Was it not you who advised all of us that a captive's only hope is to please her master?  And were you not the one who told 'Ékamede to accept her fate and forget her desire for vengeance?"

"Never mind what I said," Wíp'iya snapped.  "Honor comes from action.  I tried to escape during the last battle, did I not?  'Ékamede was with me, too, and not you.  Ai, if the T'eshalíyans had stayed out of it, I would be in an Assúwan's household again, not here, facing exile from my native land."

The younger woman ran from the T'eshalíyan huts, unable to listen to more.  She went to her would-be husband's side on the beach.  "Ak'illéyu," she begged, kneeling beside him.  "Come to your bed and rest, please, I beg you."

"I have seen him, 'Iqodámeya," the prince told her, his deep-set eyes gleaming feverishly.  "I have seen Patróklo.  He came to me as a spirit, here on the shore.  The thing I saw was as black as pitch, but it was him.  I know it was.  I saw Patróklo with my own eyes."

"Yes, Ak'illéyu," 'Iqodámeya said, coaxing him toward the hut as she listened.  "Come to your bed and tell me about this vision."

He stopped in his tracks, suddenly angry.  "This was no imagined vision," he insisted.  "Patróklo was standing before me, just as you are now."

"I believe you," she responded, grasping Ak'illéyu's hands in hers and pressing them over her pounding heart.  "I do.  I must hear more."

Ak'illéyu began to walk with her again, leaving the shore behind.  "Patróklo is not completely dead.  His essence remains and this is what spoke to me."  At the door of the hut he stopped again, his lips quivering.  "He is angry with me."

"Ai, surely not," the woman said soothingly.  "How could he be angry after all that you did for him?"

"He was angry," Ak'illéyu repeated, trembling.  In a sudden fury, he entered the hut and began throwing empty pots and jugs out the open doorway.  Wringing her hands and biting her lip in fearful indecision, 'Iqodámeya decided to throw her arms around the prince.  He shuddered at her touch as a fish does when a man's hands first grip its slick sides.  The prince let the last of the crockery fall from his fingers and began to cry.  "He told me we should leave this shore," Ak'illéyu moaned.  "Ai, his blood is on my soul.  He must have known he would die if we stayed.  Owái, why did I not listen to him when he wanted to leave?"

"No, beloved," 'Iqodámeya said softly, rocking.  "If he is suffering, it is because you grieve too much.  You burned his body on the funeral pyre and released his spirit.  You and all your men held a feast in his honor and sent his shade on its way to 'Aidé.  Now, there is only one more thing to do and then you and he both will find peace.  Give up the corpse of his killer.  Let the Tróyans ransom Qántili."

"You do not understand," Ak'illéyu protested, but he did not pull away from her soft, encircling arms.

"I do," she sighed.  "I have mourned until my eyes were red and my throat parched with weeping."

The prince grimaced at the painful realization that she spoke the truth.  And he had played the main part in causing her tears, he knew.  He let the woman coax him to the sheepskins where he lay beside her, on his back.  With sleepless eyes he stared up at the stars twinkling through the gaps in the thatched roof of the hut.  "I went to the beach, to see if Poseidáon's maináds would carry me away," Ak'illéyu told her, with a humorless laugh.  "That is what my mother used to say would happen to children who went to the water alone.  But there were no maináds, no Divine Horse, just dark saltwater.  I thought about walking out into the waves and swimming toward T'eshalíya, going on and on until the sea had to take me."

Beside him, 'Iqodámeya's hand went to her mouth in dread.  But she said nothing.

Ak'illéyu continued in a hoarse whisper.  "And then I saw Patróklo, standing right in front of me with empty, unseeing eyes.  He was dressed in a clean kilt, just as he was when we first left for Assúwa.  His face was as dark as charcoal and his voice was thin and weak, filled with pain.  He said, 'How can you sleep when I am suffering, my brother?'  I tried to answer but I could not make a sound.  I tried to reach out to him, but I could not move my arms.

"He went on talking.  'You cared for me when I was alive, but you have abandoned me, now that I am dead.  The river Stuks is at my feet but it will not let me cross.  The land of 'Aidé is waiting for me, but I cannot enter it.   The gates of Préswa's citadel will not open for me, until I am buried.'  I tried to speak to him, I really did.  I wanted to embrace him.  But I had no strength to lift my arms."  Tears dripped down from the corners of his eyes, filling his ears with their salt.  Ak'illéyu covered his eyes with his arm.  "Owái, 'Iqodámeya, I should not have burned his body.  That is not an Ak'áyan custom.  I should have insisted that the men dig him a good tomb, lined with stone, and covered it over with a mound of earth.  I should have sacrificed lambs at the entrance, to sate my brother's thirst.  I should have sailed to the island of Lámno to get sheep, or even north to T'ráki."  A small, inarticulate cry forced its way from his lungs and he turned his back to the woman, drawing up his knees at the pain in his heart.

His concubine caressed the hard muscles of his shoulder.  "My wánaks," 'Iqodámeya said, her voice quavering.  "You did what you could for Patróklo.  He is not the one suffering now.  You are.  But you cannot feed on grief and anger forever.  Make love with me, Ak'illéyu, and take some comfort in my arms."  Gingerly, she coaxed him to turn toward her again and took him in a soft embrace.

Ak'illéyu's bleary eyes searched hers as if he could not make out who she was.  He pulled her arms from his neck, sitting abruptly.  'Iqodámeya raised herself beside him, putting a cool hand to his burning face.  He shivered at her touch and pushed her away.  "Where is my chariot?  I know what will ease Patróklo's pain.  I will drag his killer's corpse around the camp…"

"The gods will be angry with you if you keep on this way," the woman said more urgently, trying to hold him back.  "It is Mother Dáwan's law that the dead be sent on their way in a funeral pyre.  It makes no difference to her whether the dead are loved or hated.  All must be burned to set their souls free.  You must not keep Qántili any longer.  Give the body back to the Tróyans."

He looked long and hard at her, surprised at her strength of will.  "I am not ready," Ak'illéyu told her gruffly.  "I have not gotten my fill of revenge.  I prayed to the gods for Patróklo's safety and they betrayed my trust.  If they do not like what I am doing, then, to 'Aidé with them!"