Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze) (45 page)

“All of you, remember, take your places in Tróya in silence.  Wait for my signal.  Once Diwoméde has given the eagle’s cry, slaughter every man you find.  We will take no male slaves home with us and wait for no ransom.  Any horses you find, you are to spare, if there are really are any left.  And the women I want collected at the gates, along with the rest of the booty, as long as they are worth having – you know what I mean.  By Díwo, my heart is swelling in my chest!  I can hardly believe we will have Tróya at last!”  The warriors raised their weapons, but suppressed their war cry, with some effort.  Their hardened feet quickly devoured the barren field as they sped toward their prey.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

NIKE

By the northwestern entrance, Odushéyu called out, “The Horse is coming!” and Ainyáh once more appeared in the passage.  The Kanaqániyan waved his spear and the Ak’áyans scurried in, two abreast.  They glanced up in half-belief at the unmanned battlements above them, raising their shields partway, out of habit.  But no archers sent volleys of arrows down from the heights.  Meneláwo and Púrwo were the first through the narrow passage and they led their contingents up the terraced hillside toward the palace and the homes of the Tróyans of highest rank.

As the Ak’áyans were filing through the gateway, Qántili’s former charioteer wandered through the streets, which were newly cleared of shacks and commoners squatting and lying about.  Overtired and overexcited, he had been unable to sleep.  So, Powolúdama had walked through the quiet city, savoring the unusual calm.  He began to shout when he saw the lines of running men.  “Idé, Ainyáh!” he called.  “Come quickly!  What is this?”

Just inside the fortress, Agamémnon clapped his hands to his head in consternation.  “Not yet!” he cried.  “By ‘Aidé, why could this man not sleep tonight?”

“What should we do?” Diwoméde asked the overlord, in an agony of indecision.

”Kill him, men!” the Ak’áyan high king shouted to those around him.  “Kill that Tróyan, quickly!  Diwoméde, climb to the top of the wall.  Quickly, make the eagle’s cry!  Give the signal to attack!  There is no time to lose!”

“But the men are not yet in their assigned places!” the young qasiléyu objected, although he turned to the steep wooden staircase at the wall beside him, ready to do his king’s bidding.  Agamémnon only repeated his order more urgently than before, and Diwoméde made the predatory bird’s cry from his perch.

At that sound, the Ak’áyans drew their swords wherever they were, rushing into the quiet houses, or hurrying into the city to begin the slaughter.  The warriors killed the surprised occupants wherever they found them, whether men, women, or children, whoever woke and cried out.  Ainyáh himself thrust his spear into Powolúdama’s abdomen, downing him quickly and silencing the first alarm.  But the Kanaqániyan fought no more.  Hefting his bloodied spear, he hurried back toward his own quarters, where his people waited in hiding.

“I do not trust these Ak’áyans,” he muttered to himself as he went.  “They may have decided on treachery.”  He ran through the wide streets, heading toward the northeast.  Rather than skirt the perimeter of the city, as he usually did, he hurried straight uphill, cutting across the terraces of the well-to-do.  On his way, he came across the queen and her youngest daughter.  Eqépa was only half-clothed, wearing nothing but her under-tunic, her white hair loose about her shoulders.  Behind her, princess Piyaséma whimpered, clinging to her mother’s arm.

“Owái, Dáwan Anna!” the queen wailed when she saw the blackened spear in Ainyáh’s hands.  “My dream was true.  Our own people have turned against us!”

Ainyáh shoved the older woman aside and took the younger one’s hand.  “Come with me, princess,” he whispered urgently.  “I can protect you alone.”

The daughter tearfully resisted, reaching for her mother’s hand.  “Go with him, Piyaséma,” Eqépa insisted, waving her away.  “I am prepared to die, if that is my fate.  I will follow my sons to the netherworld.  Dear goddess, great lady, just keep my daughters safe.”  The white-haired woman stood still, letting her youngest child disappear into the gloom, and did not attempt to follow.  When the darkness had enveloped Piyaséma and her brother-in-law, the queen went to the pillared shrine in the southern tower of the city.  The gate’s great doors were still closed and bolted, she saw.  But in the street, she could hear the pounding of many heavy feet, coming her way.  Inside the holy area, she sank down before the twin columns, as Argive swordsmen rushed in, their blades gleaming in the moonlight.

Meneláwo’s men had not yet reached the hilltop when they heard Diwoméde’s signal.  At the sound of the eagle’s voice, Púrwo cried out in frustration and raced ahead of the other soldiers.  He was afraid he was about to miss his one chance at glory.  With Aíwaks and his T’eshalíyans close behind, the youthful prince bypassed the lower levels of the terraced city, making directly for the house of the king.  The contingent from Lakedaimón went just as quickly as their northern allies, to slake their thirst for vengeance at long last.

Tróyan guards stood ready at the gate of the palace courtyard, alerted by the sounds of violence from below.  But they were too few to hold off Púrwo, Meneláwo, and their men.  The guards were quickly surrounded and dispatched, the inner rooms of the palace flung open.  The Ak’áyans forced their way into one chamber after another.  But the royal family had fled at the first alarm.  Púrwo left his men to their systematic searching and ran directly to the mégaron, striking at the screaming servants he encountered on the way.  Through the great chambers of the palace, leaving behind both T’eshalíyans and Lakedaimóniyans, Púrwo charged furiously, seeking out Alakshándu and his kinsmen.  By the north wall of the palace, the king had taken refuge in an alcove.  The young T’eshalíyan found the old man embracing the graceful ivory horns that rose from the altar of Poseidáon, there in the king’s personal shrine.

“Do not touch me!” the white-haired king shrieked shrilly, naked and unarmed.  “This is consecrated ground.  I claim sanctuary!”

Púrwo’s eyes were wild and his breathing rough.  “By ‘Aidé!” he cursed.  “Fortune is against me!  I was too young to come sooner.  I missed all the best battles.  I have killed only foot soldiers without armor and defenseless women!  I must make at least one glorious kill!”  With strong, youthful hands he grasped the Tróyan king’s white beard.

His arms still around the altar horns, Alakshándu threatened, “The Divine Horse will curse you forever if you do violence here!”

Púrwo laughed.  “Let him!  My name will live for a hundred generations.”  And he thrust his sword into the king’s back.  With a cry of rage and pain, Alakshándu collapsed on the cold paving stones.  As he felt his life draining away, he gasped, “You are no son of Ak’illéyu.  Even he respected my age.”

“Then go and visit my father,” Púrwo scoffed.  “Complain to him of his son’s deed, if you like.”  As he spoke, the young prince severed the king’s head from his body, ululating the war cry, “Alalá!”

aaa

At the other end of the palace, Kashánda and Andrómak’e crouched with the children of the royal family.  They huddled in the shadows of another altar, this one littered with small terra cotta doves.  Little Sqamándriyo bawled in his mother’s shuddering arms and Paqúr’s three small boys clung sobbing to their aunts’ skirts.  It was not hard for Aíwaks to find them, following the sound of their wails.

The women and children screamed when the feathered warriors burst in on them.  As the king had, his daughter cried, “We claim sanctuary!”  But the big qasiléyu paid no more attention to the priestess’s cry than Púrwo had her father’s.  Aíwaks pulled the little boys from Kashánda’s side with his broad hands, grasping them by their long topknots.  “Take them to the gates,” he commanded the T’eshalíyans who followed him.  He did the same with Andrómak’e, shoving her toward the troops gathered behind him.  When Kashánda was alone, trembling so violently that her teeth chattered, Aíwaks pulled off his kilt with one hand, and bore down on her.  He threw her on her back before the limestone altar and raised her skirt to cover her screaming mouth.

“This is a sacred place!” Kashánda wailed, her eyes wide in horror at the mangled face before her, the nose half gone, the teeth bared in a fierce grin.  Flailing with impotent rage at the giant’s shoulders, she cried, “Do not touch me, you filthy dog!”

“This one is mine,” Aíwaks shouted to his men, “Leave us!”

“Agamemnon will have your island for this,” Automédon warned.  “Or your head.  You will be no man’s qasiléyu if you rape her here.”  But, fearful of the big man’s violence, the feathered warriors back away from the shrine with their living, sobbing booty.  Kashánda’s screams followed them, echoing through the dim corridors, rising rhythmically to a crescendo of agony and helpless fury.

aaa

Dapashánda awoke to shrieks and the clash of bronze filling the palace halls.  The Tróyan rose and hastily armed himself, kicking his concubine into a corner to keep her from running from his chamber.

Ariyádna began to scream her husband’s name repeatedly, hoping that he was near and would hear her.  At the same time, she feared that he would come and strike her down with his sword.  She did not dare make for the door.  Even so, she could not remain where she was, still and silent.  “Meneláwo!  Meneláwo!”

“Shut your muzzle, you bitch!” Dapashánda shouted at her and struck her with his uninjured hand.

The Lakedaimóniayn wánaks broke open the chamber’s door with his broad shoulders, just as the prince knocked Ariyádna to the floor.  His sword drawn, Meneláwo leaped up on the bed, to confront Dapashánda with an inarticulate roar.  Behind the Tróyan, Ariyádna rose to her knees, unclothed, her face bruised and bleeding, her hands outstretched.  “Meneláwo!” she wailed once more, and raised her hand to her heart, her head, and the sky in prayer.

All the suppressed fury of the past year rose in Meneláwo’s shaggy chest.  It was a dáimon that pounced on Dapashánda, a creature stronger than a lion or a wild boar, as malevolent as a storm in winter.  Filled with the power of the poppy, the Lakedaimóniyan slashed madly with his sword.  The young Tróyan tried to defend himself, but Meneláwo was heavier, stronger, and thirsting for blood.  One great blow severed the prince’s injured sword arm and he fell, bleeding profusely and howling.  But Meneláwo did not finish him quickly.  He grasped the dying man’s nose between his thumb and forefinger and sliced it off.  Blood flowed down into Dapashánda’s open mouth as he continued to cry out, his cries rising in pitch.

Ariyádna added her screams to the Tróyan’s, frightened by the ferocity of the wild beast that her Meneláwo had become.  The wánaks of Lakedaimón slashed his rival’s outstretched legs and remaining arm, leaving Dapashánda still half-living on the floor, to die slowly from loss of blood, and from shock.  With his bloodied left hand, Meneláwo grasped Ariyádna’s arm, drawing her toward him.  She was too frightened to speak, too shocked to cry out.  Cold as ice, barely able to stand, she looked up into the Ak’áyan’s black eyes.  His eyes met hers with a burning, beast-like glare.

She did not look away in spite of her dread.  Trembling violently, she moved lips that were numb with terror.  In a whisper, she murmured, “Warriors do battle...by the will of the Bull...”

Meneláwo’s eyes softened.  With bloody fingers, he stroked her dark, tangled hair.  While Tróyans died in the streets and houses below, Meneláwo and Ariyádna feasted on each other’s eyes, saying nothing to one another.  In the dim light of a saucer-shaped lamp, Meneláwo at last broke from his woman’s gaze and held her out at arm’s length.  He touched lightly at the dark bruises on her arms and face, brushed his fingers over her breasts.