Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze) (16 page)

"All right, all right," Automédon noisily agreed, knowing that such a thing was impossible.  "I see what you are getting at.  I will do as you suggest."  But, when she had gone, he gave his task to a T'eshalíyan of lower rank.  "I suppose it makes no difference whose bones they really are, so long as you bring back the right number," the qasiléyu said in disgust.  "Wánaks Ak'illéyu knows nothing of the other bodies on the pyre.  He is too lost among the maináds to suspect that what we bring to him may not be Patróklo's remains.  As for the souls of the dead men, well, they have had their offerings and have gone on their way across the Stuks.  They have no reason to trouble us, either."

When the southern troop leaders could hold Ak'illéyu's interest no longer, 'Iqodámeya joined him in his hut.  She spoke soothingly as he paced inside the little shelter.  She could feel in her heart that Patróklo's soul was at peace, she told the grieving prince.  He had gone to his fate, as all must do.  If he had never been destined to have long life, still, the time that he had lived was filled with glory.  And was it not true that, to a warrior, areté meant more than the length of his days?  But the prince seemed caught in a cloud, unable to see or hear her clearly.  In the doorway of his hut he stopped his pacing, swaying on his feet.  With sudden fervor he told her, "If I am killed here, have them put my bones in the same jar as Patróklo's.  Make them build an Ak'áyan tomb, then, a proper death chamber lined with stones.  Lay a spear and a sword beside each of us and bury it all beneath a mound of earth.  Swear that you will see this done."

She wanted to protest, to say that he surely would not die on these shores, and that the war must surely end very soon.  But his glazed eyes frightened her and she only nodded, her hands resting protectively upon her abdomen.

The sun was well past its zenith, nearing the watery end of its daily journey, when the bones had all been gathered into jars.  The men of lesser rank were hot and tired and complained to each other of their unreasonable commanders.  The whole campaign had been nothing but a series of preposterous and horrific events.  Inaugurated with a human sacrifice, followed by a few brief battles but many long days of inactivity, it had seemed an expedition doomed from the start.  Only the foot soldiers seemed to see that reality, though.  The troop leaders were like men possessed by otherworldly dáimons, incapable of reason, no matter how monstrous the signs were for the future.  Perhaps the lawagétas had all been overlooked by Díwo's Evil Eye.  Some dreadful curse seemed to hover over the whole Ak'áyan army.

"When I saw Qántili fall to Ak'illéyu's spear, I was sure that was the end of the war," St'énelo sighed, rubbing the tracery of half-healed scratches, minor cuts, and bruises on his arms.  "All this slaughter should be enough for even the most blood-thirsty wánaks."

"Agamémnon has had his fill.  I know that.  So have Idómeneyu and Néstor.  I just hope Ak'illéyu is satisfied now," T'érsite remarked, taking a ceramic jar in each arm.

"By the gods," his companion exclaimed.  "He has already offended everyone in Assúwa, mortal or divine.  What more could he possibly want?"

But 'Iqodámeya came from the prince's hut before the sun set with yet another order from the T'eshalíyan wánaks.  "Ask Agamémnon to assemble the Ak'áyans," the captive woman told Automédon with a sigh.  "Ak'illéyu has ordered that all his treasures be brought out.  It is time for the funeral games."

"Games!  Here?" Automédon groaned.  He could scarcely believe his ears.  But he dared not try to talk his prince out of the idea.

The overlord, for his part, was both astounded and furious to hear of the new demand.  The lesser kings were no more pleased when Agamémnon called them to an assembly around his hearth.  "We have many more important things to worry about than one man's funeral," Idómeneyu complained, crossing his arms on his chest.  "We have already shown Patróklo more honor than he was due.  If Ak'illéyu wants games he should go home and have them in T'eshalíya, where he will not bother sensible men!"

But Meneláwo prevailed on his brother and his friend.  "It is absurd, of course," the Lakedaimóniyan king admitted, beseeching them all with shadowed eyes.  "But humor the T'eshalíyan a little longer.  Soon, we will all have Tróyan treasures to repay us for our troubles.  We have come so far and toiled for so long.  The end is near.  Let us finish what we came to do."

So it was that, yet again, Agamémnon's order was given and every wánaks had to obey.  "Do as Ak'illéyu wishes," the overlord demanded.  "Gather outside the rampart for the funeral games.  But be quick about it.  I want this funeral finished before dark this night."

Ak'áiwiya's diminished manhood again assembled, as reluctant as before, if not more so.  To the flat ground south of the walled camp, the remaining soldiers wandered without formality.  They left their war gear in their tents and huts this time.  Men of lesser rank did not bother to shave off their mustaches before appearing, either.  Nor did anyone bathe or comb his hair.  Barefoot and dressed only in kilts or wearing nothing at all, they sat in a rough circle.  Despite his wound, Diwoméde was among the first to arrive, riding on T'érsite's back.  The young man's swollen foot was wrapped in stained linen.  But his eyes were bright, no longer dimmed with fever.  The smaller wound on his shoulder was also healing well.

The noncombatants came to watch, too.  The carpenters and navigators stood or squatted apart from the warriors, in no particular order.  Even the captive women looked on from the shade of the camp's earthen rampart.  Ak'illéyu sat atop the wall, overseeing the ceremony.  His shoulders were hunched and his eyes listless.  He acknowledged none of those who hailed him, wánaktes or qasiléyus, P'ilístas or Zeugelátes.  In a voice hoarse from lamenting, he simply announced the first competition with a single word.  "Wrestling."

Automédon set a tall three-legged stand on the ground beneath his prince's feet.  Wíp'iya came forward at his gesture.  Her eyes downcast, the woman knelt beside the bronze stand.  "The tripod is bronze.  The captive is a good weaver.  Both are worth four oxen," Automédon explained.  "Now, who will compete?"

Many men, especially those from the southern Ak'áyan kingdoms, dropped their gaze to the ground or turned their faces away, toward the sea.  They did not intend to do this T'eshalíyan any more honor than what the overlord required of them.  But, without hesitation, Aíwaks came forward, pulling off his kilt.  Odushéyu followed just behind, stripping as he came and he winked at the stolid woman he expected to win.  Wearing only their belts, the two men faced each other.  Each gripped the other's elbows with beefy hands, and pushed and strained to throw the other down.  Joints creaked and the men grunted with the effort, their faces reddening, their bodies pouring sweat.  Though Aíwaks was head and shoulders taller, Odushéyu was broader.  Neither man could budge the other.  Sinews stood out against their toughened skin.  Red welts came up on their ribs and shoulders where each man's fingers took hold.  But neither man moved.

The watching soldiers began to lose interest.  Disgruntled lawagétas talked of earlier matches they had seen across the Inner Sea in Ak'áiwiya.  T'érsite regaled the men of lower ranks with recollections of a fine meal of rabbit meat he had eaten earlier in the summer.

Between clenched teeth, Odushéyu muttered, "Come on, Aíwaks, we are both losing, this way.  Either you lift me or I will lift you, by Díwo's will."  With his last strength, the tall man hoisted Odushéyu into the air.  But the It'ákan caught the big man behind the knee with his dangling feet, and Aíwaks fell over on his back.  Odushéyu landed on top of his opponent, the two lying chest to chest.

The observing warriors stood, their eyes back on the fight, shouting to their favorites.  Northern men called the name of the blue-eyed giant.  Southerners cheered the pirate, king of the small, western isles.  The wrestlers got back to their feet and almost immediately, Odushéyu again wrapped one leg around Aíwaks.  Both men went down a second time, this time with Odushéyu on the bottom and Aíwaks on top.  Coated in dust, they rose once more and faced each other, their fingers spread, panting like bulls.

But Ak'illéyu raised both his hands, saying, "Peace.  That is enough.  It is an equal contest."  The watching kings looked at one another in surprise.  It was the first sign that the T'eshalíyan had control of his senses.  They looked to Agamémnon with new respect.  So the big man had known what he was doing all along, they whispered to one another.

Automédon came forward and pushed the wrestlers apart.  "You both win," the charioteer announced, as the two contestants continued to glare at each other.  "Aíwaks, take the woman.  Odushéyu, take the tripod.  The prizes are equal.  Let us get on with the next game."

The wrestlers left the ring, cursing each other, each believing himself cheated of the better prize.  They brushed the dust from their bodies and wrapped their kilts once more about their waists.  "I will get you next time," Aíwaks growled, gripping Wíp'iya's wrist and dragging the unhappy woman close to his side.

Odushéyu gave a short, contemptuous laugh and spat in the dirt.

Wíp'iya would not meet the It'ákan's gaze and, from their place by the rampart wall, 'Iqodámeya sighed to the other women, "Poor Wíp'iya, will the goddess never give her good fortune?"  Beside her, another captive shook her head sympathetically.

            But a third, the youngest of them, did not share the others' pity.  "It is better for her to have a miserable master in a rich country like Argo than to serve a champion in impoverished T'eshalíya."

"Chariot racing," Ak'illéyu announced next.  Automédon pretended he had not heard and closely inspected a scab on his arm.  Like snakes speaking to each other, whispers hissed all around the gathered crowd.  "Hardly a horse remains in all Wilúsiya," Néstor complained, rolling his eyes, "and the only carts left are for donkeys!"

Idómeneyu grunted in equal disgust.  "Nor would we be so foolish as to risk something as valuable and fragile as a chariot in such a funereal display, with the war still not over.  Ai, for a moment there, I thought he had found his reason again.  But now I see Ak'illéyu is as insane as ever."

From his seat on the ground, Diwoméde grumbled, "If the maináds had to do something with him, why could they not carry him off to the mountains and dance him to death in the forest?"

"Watch your tongues," Meneláwo urged them, from his place beside Diwoméde.  "I think he heard you."

The T'eshalíyan prince shivered, despite the heat, and put a hand to his forehead.  But his temper did not flare.  He only shook his head.  "The foot race," he said quickly, "I meant the foot race.  First prize is a bowl."

His qasiléyu and charioteer forgot the old wound on his arm and held up a painted, ceramic vessel.  Automédon turned it in his hands so that all could see the fine workmanship.  "It holds enough to quench the thirst of twenty men," the driver told the assembled warriors.  "Men of Kanaqán made it and traded it to the T'rákiyan king of Skúro.  Patróklo took it as ransom for Lupákki, the Tróyan prince we captured on Lámno, last summer.  Now, my lord Ak'illéyu offers it as first prize for the fastest runner at Patróklo's funeral."  He set the bowl down, and Ak'illéyu gazed at it somberly for a long, silent moment.

Agamémnon had not quarreled with any of the northern prince's actions.  But as the quiet waiting continued, the overlord shifted his feet, his hands on his hips, and cleared his throat several times, trying to jog Ak'illéyu out of his reverie.  "We will be here all night at this rate," he muttered to Néstor.