People of the Inner Sea (The Age of Bronze) (12 page)

The other southern wánaktes joined Agamémnon in the largest T'rákiyan village.  Resigned to finishing their long journey in the spring, Néstor wintered with his Mesheníyans, Idómeneyu with his Kep'túriyans.  Camping alongside the overlord, too, were the feather-capped Qoyotíyans, showing their loyalty to the greater Ak'áyan alliance.

The paramount chieftain of T'ráki, Lukúrgu, hurriedly sent messengers to call the local tribal chiefs to an assembly in his village.  They met secretly by night, squatting around the earthen hearth of Lukúrgu's cabin.  There, the chieftain announced the dismal news of the unwelcome visitors, adding, "I am none too pleased to entertain such a large company in my winter camp.  It will mean watching our every word and deed carefully.  We do not want these piratical foreigners to know about the precious metals in our mountains or they will overrun our lands.  We will have to guard our food stores even more vigilantly, also, or these unwelcome guests will deplete our supplies to the point that our children will starve while waiting for the next crop to ripen.  For these reasons, I need as many warriors here in my camp as possible, this winter."

His fellow chiefs listened gravely, betraying no emotion on their tattooed faces.  "But Lukúrgu," objected one of the youngest of them, "our men are famous throughout the world for our chariotry and skill with the bow.  I say we do not have to accept this foreign presence at all.  Call up the warriors of all the tribes against these outsiders and we will drive them away now."

Lukúrgu looked about the fire and counted their small number aloud – fewer than twenty leaders.  The elder chiefs nodded when he concluded by saying, "My peoples' villages are too scattered, and communications among our bands too uncertain in this season.  I could not assemble an army large enough to throw the Ak'áyans out.  Agamémnon, on the other hand, has men from all over Ak'áiwiya with him."

The youthful horseman reminded him, "We may be scattered, but we are not few.  Our kinsmen also populate all the northern islands, from Sámo and Lámno in the east, to the northern half of Éyuqoya in the west.  If T'ráki's hinterland cannot be summoned to your aid, send word to the isles."

The oldest chief, his white hair peeking out from under his fox skin cap, curtly responded, "Those are brave words, little brother.  But it would be suicide to send messengers by boat to summon help, this time of year."

All eyes turned to Lukúrgu as he silently fed the flames around which they squatted or sat.  "Before I sent for all of you, I had my seer visit the sacred dolmens in the foothills.  He sang to Mother Dodóna and sacrificed two calves.  The omen was evil.  He told me that the animals' livers foretold our defeat if we should fight the Ak'áyans."

Even the youthful chief had to accept that.  "It is the will of gods," he sighed reluctantly.

But Lukúrgu had not assembled them just for talk.  "We have no choice but to make the best of the situation.  First, I will have my people assist our guests with building houses.  We will construct the cottages in rows, just like those of our own people, and place them inside the fort with us, so that the visitors will feel trusted and welcome.  The women will help with the wattle and daub of the walls, according to our custom.  But then I will begin sending my women and children away to your villages, for safety.  Thatching is the work of men, anyway, so the Ak'áyans cannot object if I call in extra warriors to roof the houses.

"We must do all we can to lull Agamémnon's people into believing that they are secure here, while we build up our forces.  I will have my own stables enlarged to make room for the Ak'áyans' horses at the western end of the village.  That, too, will mean calling in men to extend the thatched roofs on stilts.  At the same time, as the building progresses, I will secretly send word to every village in the hinterland that I can reach, to send more warriors, too."

The blue stripes on the chiefs' faces rumpled as they broke into fierce smiles at Lukúrgu's plan.  "It may be," the paramount chieftain went on, "that before spring we will have enough men here to deal with these intruders.  If enough of our brothers respond to my call, we may even be able to slaughter them and possess all their women and the bronze that they have stored in their ships."

The men around the fire laughed, all but the youthful chief.  "But what about the omens?  Did you not just tell us that Dodóna is opposed to us?"

Lukúrgu's smile did not fade.  "That is what the seer read today.  But gods, like men, change their minds.  Let us gather our strength, watching constantly for Ak'áyan treachery.  When we are strong, the prophet will make another sacrifice.  The gods may then stand with us."

"It is a good plan," each of the tattooed chiefs announced in turn.

Construction began as Lukúrgu directed and, as he had expected, the Ak'áyan leaders made no objections as the number of T'rákiyan warriors in the hill fort steadily increased.  Lukúrgu was generous with his food stores as well, and insisted on dining with the wánaktes every evening.  At these meals, over many a goblet of undiluted wine, he made speeches to Agamémnon about his loyalty in the war just ended, although both leaders knew perfectly well that T'ráki had originally sent most of her tribesmen as Wilúsiya's ally.

However, as rain and snow remained aloft in sparse, unthreatening clouds, the Ak'áyan ranks became divided.  Small collections of ships began to go their separate ways.  Having come so close to home, the feather-capped men of northern Ak'áiwiya could not accept stopping short.  The P'ilístas of T'eshalíya, Attika, Lókri, and Éyuqoya sailed on to the south into the feared months of storms.  As the winter solstice approached, Agamémnon's army was significantly smaller than when he had first arrived.  And Lukúrgu's tattooed face sported a constant grin.

aaa

Of the warriors who wore feathered headgear, Púrwo's T'eshalíyans saw their homeland first.  When his thirty-odd ships sailed up to the bay below the fortress of Yólko, the youthful prince leaped from his vessel's stern and swam to shore.  The men he led viewed the cold water and shook their heads, whispering darkly of mad Ak'illéyu's wilder son.  Púrwo did not stay at the beach to direct his followers as they strove to unload their heavy longboats and drag them up on the land.  Instead, the prince raced up the hillside from the water's edge, directly toward the citadel nearby.  At the same time, T'eshalíyans from the surrounding countryside came thronging to the beach, seeking their long-absent loved ones.  From the fortress itself came the royal family, Ak'áyan embroidered cloaks over their kilts and skirts, T'rákiyan boots on their feet.

The aging wánasha threw her arms wide at the sight of the young man running toward her on the hillside path.  A small, gray-haired woman, she wrapped her cloak around the prince, scolding him furiously.  "Ai, Púrwo, you have no sense at all.  Why did you not wait until the ships were closer to shore?  You might have drowned!  You might have frozen to death."

"T'éti, T'éti, stop your fretting," urged the lanky, balding king at her side.  He smiled broadly, showing a full set of teeth, despite his advancing age.  With full vigor, he clapped the young man on the back.  "Púrwo, you are my true grandson, as reckless and brave as your father."

"And where is Ak'illéyu?" T'éti asked breathlessly, her eyes nearly hidden in the wrinkles of her smile.  "Where is our sweet boy?"

"He died at Tróya," Púrwo blurted out.  "Patróklo too.  Owái, I am nearly frozen stiff.  Let us go in the fortress.  I will tell you all about it when I have changed into a dry cloak by the fire."  Pulling away from his stunned grandparents, the prince trotted to the crest of the steep hill and disappeared into the open gate.

On the path, T'éti and the wánaks stared at each other with wide eyes, chilled by sudden dread.  "Péleyu," whispered the old woman.  "What did he say?"

The king shook himself, the color draining from his face.  "Come, let us ask the men.  See, there is Automédon, directing them.  He is Ak'illéyu's chariot master.  I will talk to him.  We must have heard wrong."

But those on the shore hung their heads as their king and queen came near, confirming the royal couple's fears.  Automédon groaned and knelt before the royal couple with moist eyes.  Pulling off his feathered crown, he told them, "Prince Ak'illéyu died in battle."

"How?  How is this possible?" Péleyu asked in anguished disbelief.  "Were you not with him, driving his chariot?  Could you not save his life?"

"Ai, how can I answer you?" Automédon responded, as anguished as the aging parents, clapping his hands to his head.  "Ak'illéyu was insane with grief and followed the Tróyans into their city just as they were closing the gates.  The maináds had him.  It was their doing.  Do not blame the men.  We tried to follow but the doors were closed with the prince inside.  We could do nothing."

"The maináds had him for certain if he entered the city alone," Péleyu cried.  "Stand up, Automédon.  You are a qasiléyu, not a slave.  Get on your feet.  What caused this madness?  Explain this to me.  Why should the daughters of Díwo hold my son?"

The chariot master shook in all his limbs and did not rise.  "He was mourning the death of Patróklo, wánaks.  That was what drove him out of his mind."

T'éti burst into loud wails, dragging her nails over her lined cheeks.  "Owái, my children!  My poor children!  All gone, now, all!"

Péleyu took her in his arms, staring at the kneeling man without comprehension.  "But then how did my foster son die?  Why did Ak'illéyu not protect him?  Or was Patróklo defending my son?"

Automédon could not bring himself to tell the tale.  He threw himself face down on the earth and wrapped an arm around the king's ankles.  The troop commander could only beg for mercy.  "Do not blame the men, my king.  There was nothing we could do, nothing, I swear it, wánaks."  Warriors had come from the beached ferryboats by then, somberly gathering around the wánaks and his lamenting queen.

The captives came with the soldiers, a young man first, rudely shoved over the side of a ferry.  He stood, glancing around fearfully, shaking with the cold, and brushing the sand and gravel from his skin.  With gentle hands, he helped two bedraggled women wade to the beach, one with the slightly swelling abdomen of early pregnancy, the other with a crying baby in her arms.  Three little boys came last, carried to dry ground where they clung to each other's long, tangled topknots.

The older of the two women knelt beside Automédon, one work-roughened hand at the T'eshalíyan queen's knees, the other raised to her face.  "Great lady, please show us pity."

T'éti, still sobbing, stared down at the captive.  Biting her cloak to regain her composure, the queen blinked away the ever-welling tears.  "Who is this?" she asked through her gasps.

"Ak'illéyu's woman, 'Iqodámeya," Automédon answered.  He began to breathe more quickly and looked from the captive beside him to the grieving couple and back again.  "This is Ak'illéyu's captive woman," he repeated.  "She was his allotted booty in the first battle.  She can tell you everything."  And he stood, still trembling, but calmer.

Her dark eyes wide with fear, 'Iqodámeya told the royal couple how their loved ones had died.  "Your son quarreled with the high wánaks over who would possess me.  Agamémnon took me for himself and then Ak'illéyu refused to fight.  The army suffered loss after loss, until their enemies threatened to burn the ships.  Ak'illéyu's anger relented then, but only enough to send Patróklo into battle with his men.  The prince himself remained out of the fight.  And so, wánasha, so it was, wánaks, your foster son died in battle."

'Iqodámeya hesitated, her lips trembling.  Automédon nodded to her, still tense but not as fearful as before.  The woman continued, encouraged.  "Ak'illéyu was insane with grief, then, at his kinsman’s death.  He rejoined the fight, avenging Patróklo with unparalleled deeds, before falling himself as Automédon told you.  Agamémnon had returned me to my first master and Púrwo took possession of me in his turn.  This is Ak'illéyu's child I carry," she added quickly, laying a hand softly over her swelling abdomen.  "For the sake of your son's baby, I beg you to show these captives mercy."

Through their tears, T'éti and Péleyu looked at the prisoners, the frightened eyes, the thin limbs and gaunt faces.  "Ai, yes, yes," spluttered T'éti, wiping her nose on her cloak.  "You have nothing more to fear.  By the wánaks of gods, Father Poseidáon, I can swear to that.  It would be uncivilized for the well-born to add to the sufferings of the downtrodden."

As the Assúwans looked at each other in astonishment, Péleyu released his wife and clapped his hands to his head.  "No, I cannot believe anything I hear!  Who can tell me the truth about my son?"