People of the Inner Sea (The Age of Bronze) (14 page)

Then, as Púrwo fumed helplessly, Péleyu commanded again, "Kneel, Érinu!  Swear your oath."

Érinu had served the meal obediently enough earlier, when he was hungry.  But now his belly was full.  "Never," he spat.  "I will not do obeisance to any kinsman of those who killed my father and brothers."

Péleyu, enraged, beat the captive about the head with powerful fists, knocking Érinu to the floor.  His three little nephews ran, screaming, to Andrómak'e.  She tried again to include them all in her embrace, weeping, "Owái, Érinu!"  'Iqodámeya huddled with them, sick at heart.

T'éti stood and grasped her husband's arm.  "Péleyu, stop that.  Ai, such goings on for a holy time!  You are upsetting the children."

The king, breathing hard, stood over the cringing Tróyan with his fists clenching and unclenching.  "I must teach this captive submission," the wánaks growled to his wife.

"Idé," she scolded, "teach him, but in some other way.  It is not seemly to shed blood here.  This is a funeral feast.  You dishonor the noble dead."

That took the wind out of the old man's sails.  Érinu slowly regained his feet, quaking, but still defiant.  Péleyu abruptly tore the new kilt from the slave's body.  "Automédon," the king ordered, "take him to the stables.  Let him spend the night with the animals, since he insists on behaving like one."  The qasiléyu moved quickly to drag the former priest from the throne room.

Péleyu watched them disappear, Érinu shouting curses at every step of the way.  The wánaks turned to see the captive women and children now cowering beneath the bench, sobbing and clinging to each other.  "Ai, calm your hearts, Tróyai," the old man said ruefully.  "Dry your tears.  You are in a civilized land.  Men of honor do not make war on widows and orphans."

aaa

In the hilltop fort in T'ráki, Agamémnon spent the long, winter nights in his tent with his captured concubine, Kashánda.  Wrapped in woolen robes that had been woven in northern plaid, his feet protected by T'rákiyan fawn-skin boots, the overlord reclined on a pallet of sheepskins.  A contented smile on his bearded face, he watched the former princess comb her ragged hair as darkness fell.  It was a nightly ritual by the time of the mid-winter festival, one he had come to enjoy.

As the T'rákiyan women did, Kashánda wore a large, woolen shawl draped around her body.  Beneath it was a simple blouse made of two rectangles of fabric, held at each shoulder by a long, straight pin.  Like the other Ak'áyans, the captive protected her feet from the cold with the barbarians' leather boots.  But, unlike the barbarian women of that far northern land, she would not cover her hair.  Her curly locks, cut short in mourning, were not long enough to bind into a braid.  The winter winds whipped them into tangles that took considerable time each night to comb out.

The Argive reclined on his fleeces, admiring the woman he possessed, as she fought the tangles.  Kashánda's hair was her sole adornment and her voice was seldom heard those days, unlike the queenly wife Agamémnon had left at home.  No longer were his concubine's brown eyes swollen and red from weeping, although she still would not meet her captor's gaze.  The overlord knew that beneath her heavy clothing her hips and stomach bore few pale striations, either, those inevitable marks of childbearing.  She had borne a child a two, he knew, but she had lost them while they were still young.  He considered that a good sign.  A fertile captive was more valuable than a barren one, for one thing.  And she would want babies, in time, he was sure.  If she begged him meekly enough, Agamémnon thought to himself, he might let her keep a son or two.  Any daughters, though, he would insist on exposing in the mountains, of course.  But a wánaks had uses for illegitimate sons.  Diwoméde had turned out to be one of his better warriors, had he not?  He smiled at the thought and she, catching a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, turned away.

"When will the child be born?" he asked, immensely pleased as shock drained the blood from her face.  When she did not answer immediately, he laughed and stroked his full beard with its growing patches of gray.  "Come now, Kashánda, I fathered ten children, five of them by my own wife.  You did not think you could keep such a secret from me, did you?"

Kashánda bit her lip and bowed her head, dropping the ivory comb to her lap.  "Who told you?" she asked in a low voice, staring at the hard-packed, earthen floor of the cottage.

The overlord laughed again.  "No one has said a word.  You have not had the woman's bleeding since the first night I lay with you.  You urinate every time I look at you.  Your breasts are bigger all the time.  You vomit every morning, two or three times between breakfast and noon.  I ask you again, Kashánda, when will the child come?"

The former princess sighed heavily.  "Summer," she said quietly.  "Late summer."

Pleased with the news, Agamémnon reached for the captive's arm.  When his fingers brushed her elbow, she jerked it away from him.  "Ai gar, woman," he groaned, "now tell me when you will accept me as your new husband."

"Never!" she cried, with sudden passion, backing away as he rose from his pallet and approached her.  "The blood of my dear, little sister is on your hands, Agamémnon!  You are to blame for the deaths of my beloved parents and four of my noble brothers!  I will never accept you as anything but my worst enemy!"

Angrily, the wánaks strode forward and caught her by the hair on her forehead.  Dragging her to her feet, he bent her head back and pressed his lips forcefully against hers.  She stiffened under his touch and squeezed her eyes tightly closed, not returning his kiss, pushing against his broad chest.  Agamémnon frowned and released her abruptly.  "I believe you mean that."

Kashánda stood with her face averted, breathing shakily, her nostrils flaring and battling tears.  "I cannot stop you from taking me by force, but I will never willingly share your bed or do any service for you.  Not if you beat me, not if you threaten me with death!  Nothing will ever convince me to accept a life as the concubine of my sister's murderer."

Agamémnon scratched his mustache, untouched by her speech.  "I know something that will make you change your mind, Kashánda.  I have been talking with Lukúrgu."

"That T'rákiyan dog has nothing I value," the captive responded quickly.

"He knows something about a certain prince of Tróya," the overlord argued quietly, carefully watching her reaction.  "This prince was young when he died, no more than fourteen or so."

Kashánda pressed her hands over her heart.  "Died!  That is a lie," she gasped.

Agamémnon shook his head, though the woman's averted eyes did not see.  "Your father sent his youngest son here, knowing we would come to Tróya for our queen.  He sent prince Pitqána to T'ráki with a shipload of treasures, tin ingots mostly, but a few less valuable items, too, gold ornaments and so on.  Your brother was supposed to buy T'ráki's support in the coming war and stay here for safekeeping.  Lukúrgu told me this some time ago."

Kashánda trembled from head to toe but did not speak.

The Ak'áyan wánaks continued.  "But, T'rákiyans being what they are, they did not side with Wilúsiya over long.  Hrósa was paramount chieftain then.  He led one small group of warriors to join the king of Tróya.  Every last one of those frightened deer went over to my side when Hrósa died prematurely – of fright, it seems."  He laughed at the thought and added, "They were as troubled by the loss of their chieftain's white horses as they were by the man's death.  Ai, but the fawns did not stay long with me, either.  A battle or two and away they all sailed.  When they came home, they made Lukúrgu chieftain.  When he got back, he killed your brother to avenge Hrósa and divided the Tróyan riches among his supporters."

The captive woman gave a long, keening wail and sank to her knees, scratching her cheeks with her fingernails until the blood ran.  But Agamémnon caught her by the wrists and forced her to stop, shouting, "Enough of these laments, woman!  I am sick to death of them.  You can mourn the boy later.  I have business to discuss with you."

The Tróyan woman struggled to free herself from the overlord's strong grip.  "What business can you have with a priestess forsaken by the god she serves?  Or did you think telling me this would make me love you?" she spat between tears.  "Did you think I would be so pleased to hear of my brother's death that I would fall at your feet and worship you?"

"Hold still!" the wánaks bellowed, shaking her.  "What I thought was that you would want to avenge Pitqána's murder."

Kashánda stopped struggling.  With sudden, icy calm, she turned her eyes toward Agamémnon's, meeting his gaze for the first time.  "Do you mean to say that you will kill Lukúrgu in return for my love?"

The wánaks released her hands.  "No.  That is, I will not kill him myself.  If I did that, all T'ráki would be honor bound to oppose me and my descendants forever.  And I may yet need a few T'rákiyan mercenaries.  No, I cannot do that.  But I will not interfere if you should decide to take your revenge.  This I swear, Kashánda.  In fact, I will put my best qasiléyu at your disposal for this very purpose.  Diwoméde will do your bidding."

The former princess considered briefly.  "And in return…?"

Agamémnon gave her a calculating, humorless smile.  "In return, you will act the dutiful wife.  I am no fool, Kashánda.  I do not expect you to love me.  But you will act as if you do, serving me in every way that a wife should.  Bathe me.  Rub my limbs with oil.  Most important, share my bed with enthusiasm.  Ai gar, when you are stiff and silent this way, it is like lying with a corpse."

Kashánda was torn.  "That is a lot to ask, Agamémnon.  It was your hand that slit my little sister's throat."

The overlord's eyes burned and the words set his teeth on edge.  Bitterly, he told her, "That brings us to a second matter.  I, too, must have my revenge, for another child lost."

"You mean your own daughter, the princess Ip'emédeya, I believe," the captive responded, choosing her words carefully, as she stared at the overlord's face, her eyes baleful and unblinking.  "I have heard your men speak of her."

Agamémnon spat in disgust.  "No doubt they said it was my own fault she died.  My impiety angered the gods, is that what they told you?  The army seer examined a sheep's entrails and concluded that my daughter had to be sacrificed."

"Yes, that is what they say."  Kashánda's eyes brimmed with quiet hatred.  "Was that why my sister died on your altar?  Was Piyaséma's life the blood payment for Ip'emédeya?"

"No!" Agamémnon roared, overcome with emotion.  "The army would have demanded the death of a second maiden at Tróya to ensure our safe return, no matter what I did or said.  That was the custom in the old days, or do you Assúwans not know that?  Sacrifice one girl at the beginning and another at the end of a military campaign, the first to ensure good fortune, the second to expiate the soldiers’ blood-guilt.  There was nothing I could do about that.  No lawagéta commands an army without obeying custom.  The warriors are so superstitious they would rather face execution than anger the gods.  Ai, you are a priestess. You should know all about such things.  Tróyans are no different from Ak'áyans."

"We are different," Kashánda argued forcefully, raising her chin.  "We offer blood to the gods, too, but only that of animals, such as sheep and cattle.  We have not sacrificed a human being for more than a generation!"

Agamémnon shouted back, grasping the woman's shoulders, "We had not done that for just as many years until this campaign!  But my own wife sent me that evil prophet.  It was he who revived the ancient custom.  It was Qálki who blamed the army's troubles on me, the lack of a favorable wind and disease among the men waiting to set sail.  It was the seer who demanded my daughter's blood.  And because the first sacrifice took place at the outset of the campaign, the army required a second at the end.  Qálki is as guilty of your sister's misfortune as of my own dear child's."  He stepped back, dropping his hands, breathing hard.  With a shaking hand, he wiped sweat from his forehead.

Kashánda was silent, looking at the king with new eyes.

"Idé, I have avenged myself on Qálki, now," Agamémnon said in a low voice, grinding his teeth.  "That blood-sucker is dead.  Ak'illéyu, that northern carrion-eater, was the seer's main supporter among my men, and he, too, is dead, now.  So I am avenged on the T'eshalíyan, as well.  Most of my troop leaders joined together to force me into sacrificing little Ip'emédeya.  Each of them has paid for that, one way or another.  But my heart is not content.  Before all those others, even before that dáimon of a prophet, Klutaimnéstra bears the blame, my own wife.  It was she who sent Qálki to me in the first place, ai, may that prophetic jackal's bones be carried off and gnawed by wild dogs!  Only when my wife is dead will my heart be sated."