Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze) (44 page)

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Ariyádna, locked away in Dapashánda’s bed chamber, crouched by the wall and wailed until her long hair was damp with her tears.  She called on the named of her brothers, fallen in the raid that had stolen her away from her native land so long before.  She wept for her little daughter, as good as orphaned, if even she were still alive.  Imaged flitted through her mind, scenes of her parents, gone to ‘Aide years ago, and of the many who had fought for so long and at such great cost over her.  “Owái, great lady,” she prayed through her tears,” Mother Diwiyána, let me die!”

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Vast quantities of river water came to the city of Tróya and to the Ak’áyan camp, carried in tall jars on the women’s heads.  Wilúsiyans and Ak’áyans washed their bodies, their clothing, and their eating utensils, for the first time in many months.  Jars of perfumed oil soothed weather-worn skin and gave sun-bleached garments a cheerful sheen.

Messengers went out from citadel and camp, bearing the news of the truce to the homelands of Tróya’s former allies, to distant Ak’áiwiya, and to the Náshiyan emperor.  With each message went an urgent request.  Food was needed, barley most of all.  The islands of the Inner Sea could not supply enough and another harvest had been compromised.  The specter of famine lurked behind the happy festivities.

In the Ak’áyan camp, Odushéyu directed the carpenters as they built a wooden image of a horse.  It was a crudely shaped thing when finished, low and squat.  It had none of the curves of the true animal’s body, but was as angular as a cart.  Nevertheless, when placed on a donkey-cart at dusk, decked with ribbons of many colors, it seemed a glorious thing to the Wilúsiyans.

“Poseidáon is with us again!” the people of Tróya called to each other.  Throughout that day and into the next, Wilúsiyans of lesser rank poured wine as a farewell gesture to the obelisks before the main gate.  In family groups, clan by clan, they headed back to their homes beyond the walls of the fortress.  The villages of the coastal plain, abandoned for so long, soon rang again with the sounds of voices and footsteps.

At nightfall of the second day of the celebrations, the citadel’s heavy gates were closed, the Tróyans safely inside, the Ak’áyans rested in their huts and tents.  Odushéyu and Aíwaks went together by moonlight across the quiet plain.  They waded across the Sqámandro, hardly more than a stream by that time.  In the dim light, they traversed the rolling hills where so many of their companions and their enemies had fought and died.  On the northwestern side of the fortress stood the narrow passageway, the Horse’s Leg.  With the hair standing up on the back of their necks, the two Ak’áyans crept into the dark corridor.  They held their shields up and glanced nervously at the battlements on the top of the walls, expecting to hear the whistling of arrows at any moment.  The It’ákan wánaks called out in a loud whisper, “The Horse is coming!”

To their immense relief, Ainyáh appeared out of the deep gloom between the close walls.  “Tomorrow night is the real thing,” he told them quietly.  “Only my Kanaqániyans will be here, just as you see now.  You will pass through this entrance unharmed.  I swear it by Astárt, queen of the gods.”

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At dawn, the wooden horse came to Tróya on its donkey cart, adorned with all its ornaments.  Ainyáh’s Kanaqániyans floated the little wagon over the low river on inflated goatskins, so that it would not get stuck in the mud, and pulled it to the main gate of the citadel.  The high-born men and women of Tróya poured from the city to meet the advancing image.  With songs of praise for Poseidáon, they drew their new talisman into the fortress.  Their bare-skinned children danced about their feet.  And they all sang songs of thanksgiving and of welcome to the symbol of the god who shakes the islands.

By mid-morning, the troop leaders from both sides were sitting in Alakshándu’s mégaron, dining on lentils, figs, and bread baked from the last wheat in Wilúsiya.  When the sun was high in the sky, their bellies full, the officers gathered before Tróya’s six shattered columns.  They ceremoniously washed their hands, purifying their spirits, and poured as an offering to the deities.  Recalling the hearths of their homes, each wánaks and qasiléyu, each prince and commander swore an oath of friendship, with the gods and goddesses of Assúwa and Ak’áiwiya as witnesses.

By late afternoon, the Ak’áyan encampment was burning, dilapidated huts disappearing in flames, the longboats in the harbor newly water-proofed with bitumen.  One by one, the ships’ oars were fastened in the oarlocks by thole-pins of oak and strips of leather.  As the helmsmen called out the cadence from the platform at each stern, the men rowed their black ships out of the harbor and into the Inner Sea.

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Once at sea, Agamémnon formally took possession of Néstor’s captive woman, ‘Ékamede.  With a fierce look that chilled the old Mesheníyan, the overlord said that the woman had done him a great service in Wilúsiya.  In gratitude, the high wánaks had sworn that he would return her to her father and her island home.  Thoroughly disheartened, the white-haired Néstor did not dare question the action or object.

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Alakshándu ordered Tróya’s remaining warriors to stand watch on the towers until the last Ak’áyan vessel disappeared beyond the headland.  When the message came to the king that all were gone, the sun had begun its descent into the western sea.  Relaxing at last, the watchmen returned to their houses to take off their armor and put away their spears.

Andrómak’e lulled her baby to sleep, keeping the little boy beside her in a bed now too big, too empty for comfort.  She clasped the sheepskins beside her where Qántili used to lie beside her and pressed the wool to her face to smell his disappearing scent.  As on previous nights, she cried herself to sleep, whispering to her sweetly slumbering baby, “I have no one in this world now, but you, Sqamándriyo.  Owái, my Qántili, Antánor should have died instead of you!  I would rather die now, too, than share that councilor’s bed.”

Worn out from the long months of war, heavy mourning, and now from feasting and dancing, the Tróyans slept, dreaming of peace.  After dark, when the others could not see, Antánor and Ainyáh painted the doorposts of their houses with blood.  And, just in case, they kept their women and children, and their weapons, close at hand.  They alone continued to wear their armor and to keep watch when others disrobed and went to bed.

Dapashánda lay with his unresisting concubine before dozing off beside her.  Ariyádna lay awake on his bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling with empty eyes.  “I will not eat,” she whispered to herself.  “I will not drink.  And I will have my share of peace at last.”

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Into the dark night, Antánor waited by the shore of the Inner Sea.  “Should I do this?” he asked himself, as he gathered wood.  “Can I actually go through with it?”  In his hand he held a torch, staring into the flame.  In the quiet night, he thought of his wife.  How Laqíqepa would mourn when she found her parents dead, he knew.  Could he do this to her?  She was the mother of his children, of his daughters and his sons.

More than one of the councilor’s sons had come close to Préswa’s nether realm in the long war.  When Ak’illéyu had killed prince Lupákki, the T’eshalíyan had chased Antánor’s sons into the Sqámandro River.  The councilor shuddered at the memory, his hands cold and trembling.  Old Alakshándu had mourned his own sons, but had been perfectly willing to see his grandsons die.  And for what?  For ‘Elléniya, because the king desired revenge for the abduction of his sister, so many years ago.

Antánor thought of Paqúr’s knife at his throat, by the will of king Alakshándu.  The councilor placed a shuddering hand at his neck, swallowing hard at the memory.  That fright had been followed by another, by long hours in a storeroom, without light.  He had not known, when the door was finally opened, whether it was to free him or to send him across the Stuks to Préswa’s arms.

“Ai gar, there is more than one king in this world who wants revenge,” Antánor said to the dying torch in his hand, and lit the pile of dry wood before him.  The flames quickly caught the arid tinder.  The fire spread first to the smaller branches, then flared up to catch the bigger logs.  Higher and higher the flames rose, as Antánor added ever more fuel.

Beyond the western headland, Ak’áyan lookouts clung to the masts of their ships with their hands, their legs wrapped around the rough wood.  “The signal!” they called down to their companions on the decks.  “They have given the signal!”  The rowers dipped their wooden oars into the water, taking the longboats back to Tróya.

Late into the night, Ainyáh watched the bonfire from the tower overlooking the northwestern gate at the Horse’s Leg.  From the battlements on either side of this narrow passageway, his countrymen awaited the return of the Ak’áyans.  One by one, Ainyáh had them collect their wives and children, guiding them to his ever-more-crowded home by the northern circuit wall of the fortress.  “Tróya is lost, but we Kanaqániyans look after our own,” he told them.

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The sons of Diwiyána pulled their boats up on Wilúsiya’s shore by moonlight.  By Antánor’s bonfire, they gathered, sipping from poppy-shaped juglets to strengthen their hearts and limbs.  Agamémnon ordered them to wear no metal armor, so as to move more quietly.  He commanded that they carry few weapons, so as to travel more quickly, too.  Clad only in linen kilts, the warriors carried ox-hide shields on their left arms, bearing only their swords or daggers in their right hands.

“This is how wars should always be fought,” Odushéyu rejoiced.  “Carry only what you really need, strike fast and hard, when fighting will be minimal, and use your strength to bear your prizes to your ships.”  Anticipating a final victory, the hearts of those around him beat faster.

Agamémnon scratched a crude graph in the ground to depict the layout of the citadel.  “Meneláwo,” the overlord said, “take your Lakedaimónians straight to the hilltop.  Aíwaks and Púrwo, lead the P’ilístas to the palace behind my brother.  No doubt there will be guards posted, at the very least a few in front of the mégaron, and glory is still to be gained in hard fighting there.

“Diwoméde, you will help me lead the Argives.  We will divide our forces among the gates.  No Tróyans will escape the citadel tonight.  And no Ak’áyans are to carry any booty past us Argives to the ships.  Everything taken will be gathered at the gates and distributed later.  Any man who tries to hide what he takes is a traitor and forfeits his life.

“Odushéyu, you will lead the rest of the Ak’áyans in a quick circuit of the lower terraces.  These are the homes of the merchants and royal retainers.  You should encounter little resistance here, but plenty of wealth.  After you kill all the men, and collect all the women worth having, pull up the floors before you set fire to the buildings.  I am convinced that you will find still more treasure hidden away, despite what Antánor claimed about the people’s poverty.

“Idómeneyu, your Kep’túriyans will stand watch on the shore.  The truce emptied the city of commoners and that should make our job easier inside the walls.  But it leaves us more vulnerable on the beach.  See to it that no Wilúsiyan villagers come to take vengeance on us by burning our boats while we are in the fortress.  Be on your guard against attack from the sea, too.  I do not trust that Kanaqániyan mercenary.  He may have planned some treachery.  Even if he has not, the fire and smoke may attract pirates from the islands nearby.