Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze) (35 page)

Meneláwo shoved Idómeneyu aside to be the first to place his marker in Agamémnon's horned helmet.  With a hot look, the wánaks of Kep'túr cast his in, second.  As the Lakedaimóniyan king backed up, to allow the next man to move in, the overlord removed his brother's token, dropping it to the ground with a hard look at his brother.  Frowning silently, Meneláwo turned away.  Odushéyu stepped up then, studiously avoiding the overlord's eyes, but nodding to the bigger man ever so slightly.

Aíwaks and Ak'illéyu came forward together, both in feathered headdresses, the T'eshalíyan prince limping.  But the taller man put his beefy hand on Ak'illéyu's shoulder.  "No, my friend," said Aíwaks.  "Stay out of this one.  You should not even be on the field today."

Ak'illéyu pushed the other's hand away, growing angry.  "'Iqodámeya bound my wound.  I am ready to fight."  He dropped his pebble into the helmet.

The high wánaks tossed it out again just as quickly.  Meeting the T'eshalíyan's burning gaze, Agamémnon explained irritably, "With that white cloth wrapped around your leg, you present too good a target for a quick sword.  While I might not shed any tears over your death, I will not risk Ak'áiwiya's honor on a defective champion.  You will stay out of this one, Ak'illéyu."

The feathered warrior drew his sword, cursing his overlord, but Aíwaks and Idómeneyu moved quickly to hold him back.  "Listen to me.  I am your friend," said Aíwaks, quietly speaking into the prince's ear.  "Meneláwo is wounded, too.  Agamémnon will keep his own brother out of the fight for that same reason.  A wánaks should not play favorites.  That is not honorable.  If he allows you to fight today, he slights Meneláwo and every man here who is too badly injured to face Amusís."

Seeing that the overlord watched them with contemptuous, half-closed eyes, Ak'illéyu spat at Agamémnon's feet.  "What does that bag of wine know about honor?" the T'eshalíyan demanded.  But, surrounded by hostile Argives, Ak'illéyu returned to sit with his men.

Ignoring the P'ilísta's outburst, Agamémnon raised the helmet above his head and swirled it.  Beside him, Idómeneyu picked up the first pebble that flew out and examined it.  "It is Aíwaks," he announced with disgust.  Odushéyu stared at the overlord in surprise and displeasure.  But the assembled troops roared their approval of fortune's choice.

Amusís and Aíwaks faced each other between two armed lines that had been greatly thinned since Meneláwo and Paqúr had fought in the war's first single combat.  Gone were the tossing horsetail crests on the bronze helmets, hacked away by enemy blades.  Gone, too, were the rows of painted chariots and the paired horses that had borne the men of higher ranks into the first bloody battles.  National and ethnic divisions had been largely erased on the Ak'áyan side, in the course of the campaign, although the northerners still preferred their traditional feathers to metal- or leather-helmets.  Every man wore and carried gear of taken from the dead of many nations.  Ak'áyans wielded curved Assúwan swords as often as their own double-sided blades.  And the Wilúsiyans sported as much Ak'áyan spoil as their own native arms and armor.  Only the Mízriyans stood out from the rest, their eyes not yet dimmed by hunger and battle-fatigue, or clouded by bowls and flasks filled with wine and opium.

Aíwaks made a fine showing as a champion, selecting weapons from those offered by fellow warriors, swaggering forth to meet the Mízriyan's challenge.  The blue-eyed qasiléyu towered over the dark-skinned southerner, impressing the warriors on both sides with his bulk.  But Amusís darted so quickly around his opponent that the Ak'áyan's tall shield served little purpose.  The Mízriyan's sword removed half of the big qasiléyu's nose with moments, opened a gash in his wrist shortly after, and soon slit another the whole length of his thigh.  The giant roared with pain and rage at each impertinent blow, unable to draw a single drop of blood from his opponent.  More quickly still, Amusís slipped beneath his opponent's shield and cut the big man's belt, drawing another trickle of blood from his side, and a burst of laughter from the assembled troops as the garment dropped.  The smaller man was clearly playing with his enemy.  His troops and allies roared their approval.

Infuriated and shamed, Aíwaks thrust his spear into the center of the Mízriyan's shield, piercing it.  With all his weight behind the lance, Aíwaks drove his weapon on through the man's quilted armor, into the flesh behind it.  As Amusís staggered back, gasping and clutching at the air, his Káushans leaped forward with their bows drawn to keep Aíwaks from finishing him off.

"That is not fair!" the big man roared.  Behind him, the enraged T'eshalíyans leaped up under Ak'illéyu's leadership.  The P'ilísta commander threw his dagger over the top of Amusís's shield.  The sharp blade bit into the Mízriyan's throat and Tróya's southern ally fell dead.

In a moment, the battle was on.  But, after the first clash of bronze against bronze, Wilúsiya's war-weary soldiers quickly threw their shields over their backs and retreated to the citadel in disorder.  Once again, only the long bows of the Káushans prevented them from being massacred.  Outside the cracked fortification walls, the frustrated Ak'áyans could only blunt their spears on limestone and brick, and hurl insults and make obscene gestures.  When the Tróyans tired of the show, the archers stationed on the tops of the walls rained deadly barbs on their foes below.  Driven once more from the walls, the Ak'áyans regrouped on the field, collecting what little armor and weapons were worth obtaining, counted their dead and assisted the wounded back toward the camp.

By the riverbank, Néstor found Antílok'o, a small dagger with an ornate handle embedded in his chest.  The old man did not shed any tears, but sat slack-jawed, staring blankly at the body of his son.  With gnarled hands, he gently stroked the dead man's neatly combed hair.

On the opposite bank, 'Ékamede watched with a grim smile, as she filled a water jar beside the other captive women.

"I cannot believe you did that," Dáuniya whispered.  "Did Agamémnon offer you a reward for the boy’s death?"

"Shut your muzzle or I will ask the overlord for another dagger," 'Ékamede hissed to her younger companion.

Odushéyu tossed the young man's corpse over his broad shoulders.  "Any death in wartime is honorable," the It'ákan announced in a hearty voice.  "Take comfort in that, Néstor."  He dropped the body unceremoniously in the nearest ferry boat.  Taking the pole, the pirate pushed the little craft over the muddy river, leaving Néstor behind, to wade across the waters as best he could.

Agamémnon himself led the bereaved father back to camp, supporting the grief-weakened legs with a strong arm.  "Now you know the pain that a father's heart feels at the loss of his oldest child," the overlord whispered harshly in Néstor’s ear on the riverbank.  Aloud, by the gateway to the camp he boomed, "Be assured, old friend, I will provide your son many fine gifts at his funeral."

At the sight of the grieving Mesheníyan, Ak'illéyu was suddenly filled with passion.  He raced back across the plain to the fortress, shouting curses as he went.  His men followed, along with a sizeable group of avenging Mesheníyans.

But Agamémnon gave no command to the army and the bulk of the men remained by the river.  "Néstor," the overlord said, shaking the old man's drooping shoulders, "remember what you told me at Aúli.  No price is too high to pay when the reward is areté.  When it is the will of the gods that one should die, it must happen.  It is fate.  That is why the wise man sires many children.  And do not forget.  You are old.  You will see the boy again soon, in 'Aidé."

Néstor stumbled, held upright only by the strong arms of the high wánaks.  The old man said nothing, his eyes unseeing, his mouth still hanging open.  He allowed himself to be led to Agamémnon's tent where he sat without eating or drinking as the captive 'Ékamede washed his son's body beside the Argive hearth.  The captive woman worked with tearless eyes and, when none were watching, she spat on the still face.

aaa

As Antílok'o's corpse passed through the rampart gate of the Ak'áyan camp, Ak'illéyu and his small group of followers reached the walls of Tróya.  Not expecting any further fighting that day, a few hardy Wilúsiyans had reopened the main gates and were already dragging a few wagons onto the field, to gather up their dead and wounded.  Startled by ululating warriors rushing at them, the men bolted, knocking each other over in their hurry to return to the citadel.  Some, unable to turn back to the gates quickly enough, abandoned their carts and fled for the wooded hills to the east.  Confused soldiers within the city hurried to close the gates, while their countrymen were still pressing their way through the opening.  Ak'illéyu, leading his men, reached the great doors before they were shut all the way.  Charging recklessly onward, Ak'illéyu thrust his spear into the nearest bodies, felling surprised Tróyans and Mízriyans as he entered the fortress.  Behind him, the survivors succeeded in closing the gate, ignoring those of their kinsmen who were stranded outside, pounding on the impenetrable doors until the avenging Ak'áyans silenced them forever.

Unaware of his danger, and caring little in any case, the T'eshalíyan prince rushed toward the heights of Tróya with no more than a handful of Mesheníyans at his heels.  "Díwo!" Ak'illéyu shouted, striking down both men and women as they appeared before him.

From the southern tower, Paqúr had watched the T'eshalíyan coming.  He hurried down the winding stairs just as the Ak'áyan passed.  With his bow in one hand, and a single arrow in the other, the Tróyan chased after the foreign prince who had killed two of his brothers.  Ak'illéyu was forced to slow down where the streets were clogged with fallen debris.  There the Tróyan caught up with his enemy.  With his sole arrow, Paqúr shot the P'ilísta, striking the runner in the back of the leg.  The bronze point cut through the sinews and Ak'illéyu fell on his back, crying out in pain.

Like a pack of wolves descending on a sheep separated from the flock, the Wilúsiyans of the city turned on the fallen T'eshalíyan, stabbing him again and again with their spears and swords.  He cried out only once more.  But the frenzy of blades did not end until every warrior within striking distance had shed some of the Ak'áyan's blood.  Just as quickly, the other sons of Diwiyána who had entered the gate were surrounded and slaughtered.  Breathless with joy at this unexpected triumph, the Wilúsiyans formed a circle around Ak'illéyu's mutilated body, their arms on each others' shoulders, and they danced about the corpse.

"Qántili's killer is dead," Dapashánda cried, rushing into the mégaron of the hilltop palace.  There the king and queen raised their hands to the sky, praising the names of all the deities.  "Drag the body through the streets!" Eqépa commanded, recalling the mistreatment he had meted out to her own dear son.

All the royal family turned out to watch Paqúr who, having stripped the body naked, quickly spliced Ak'illéyu's legs to the axle of his new Mízriyan chariot.  As the Tróyan prince whipped up the southern horses, Wilúsiya's king and queen spit on the mangled corpse, its arms tossed up as the chariot leaped forward.  “Remember Qántili!” the royals shouted.

Kluména heard the news and, with bloodless fingers, drew Ariyádna out of the palace courtyard where they had been spinning.  While the rest of the populace celebrated their minor victory with dancing and singing, the two women from Lakedaimón's holy island shrank away to hide, crouching in the bath-chamber, trembling and expecting the worst.  Her head leaning to one side, Ariyádna moved her hands in the air, spinning thread that no one but she could see.  "The will of the Bull…" she whispered, as pale as death, "Díwo's chosen does battle for the queen of the fertile land…."