People of the Inner Sea (The Age of Bronze) (11 page)

"Dead," came the answer from scattered individuals in the assembly.  "Qálki is dead."

"He is fallen on the field of battle," Agamémnon repeated, adding with a melodramatic shake of his head, "like so many of our brothers.  No, I must go home to Argo to deal with this.  There I will consult with those who can divine the name of the murderer in the entrails of the sacrificial sheep."

The army rumbled its approval.  The bare-headed foot-soldiers of north and south assented, and the helmeted southern leaders added their own voices.  Despite the popularity of the dead man, the disgruntled, northern officers had little support.

More quietly, Agamémnon growled at the beardless P'ilísta prince and his Attikan companion.  "Do not forget who is the overlord here, you northerners.  I can burn the halls of every one of you kings, next summer, if I have to.  In fact, it will give my men a healthy bit of practice before we cross the Inner Sea to take on the Náshiyans.  Now, go to your places and do not challenge me again."

"I am not afraid of you," Púrwo began, his voice high and especially child-like in excitement.  "Do not forget that I am the son of Ak'illéyu, the greatest warrior in Ak'áiwiya!  He was the one who saved all of you when the Tróyans had your backs against your ships.  We T'eshalíyans followed you here only because you were elected to lead this campaign, Agamémnon.  But the war is over now and we are going home.  Once we get there, we will not be your vassals any longer, but our own masters.  Menést'eyu will answer only to wánaks Erékt'eyu of Attika, not to Agamémnon of Argo.  Panaléyo of Qoyotíya…"

From the cluster of feather-capped leaders, a short and stocky man pushed his way to the front.  "Prince Púrwo," he said gruffly, taking hold of the young man's unmarked arm.  "You go too far.  You do not speak for me.  Qoyotíya is loyal to the alliance.  The overlord has given his word that he will avenge Aíwaks.  That is good enough.  We Qoyotíyans now give our word in turn.  We will follow the overlord Agamémnon to Assúwa in the next season of war."

Púrwo struggled to free himself.  "I am a wánaks, not any man's qasiléyu, whatever you are, Panaléyo," he cried shrilly.

"Then do not behave like a spoiled child," Panaléyo responded heatedly.  With a shove, he released the young lawagéta.  Púrwo fell backward onto the rocky beach, his spindly legs in the air.  His kilt rose and revealed a bare, pale behind.  Panaléyo kicked the white target, as laughter rose from the assembled troops.

Menést'eyu turned on the Qoyotíyan, his hand on his sword-hilt.  "That was dishonorable, Panaléyo!  Púrwo is a boy, but he is also a wánaks, son of a greater one.  Treat him with respect for his father's sake, at least."

Panaléyo reached for his own bronze blade, facing the Attikan without fear.  "His despicable father brought about the deaths of a good many Ak'áyans, northerners as well as southerners.  Ak'illéyu was a traitor to our cause."

Behind the two men, Púrwo stood, his smooth face scarlet with humiliation and fury.  In a moment, both the grown P'ilístas fell upon each other with curses, fists, and weapons.  The young prince quickly jumped into the fight himself with a shout.  Within moments, the followers of each leader rushed forward to join them.

Beyond the sudden fray, Agamémnon smiled with satisfaction and caught Diwoméde's glance with a knowing eye.  But the overlord raised his staff and roared to his troops to separate the battling factions.  His southern warriors, with their leather and bronze helmets decked with ox horns and horse tails, prevailed on their less numerous brethren from northern Ak'áiwiya.

"Now, drag your boats to the shore!" Agamémnon shouted, when the disturbance was quelled.  "Load your longboats with your new spoils of war.  And set sail for home.  But remember, we reassemble next year after the harvest.  Bring your vessels to the bay at Aúli in Qoyotíya by my command."

Some grumbling, some rejoicing, the men of Ak'áiwiya turned from the assembly and toward their pitch-lined vessels on the beach.  They stripped for the heavy work, fastening their oars backward in the oar-locks to push the vessels out into the shallow water.  There they loaded the boats and ferried their shares of the war's plunder to the longboats anchored farther out in the deeper water of the bay.  They piled their weapons and armor deep in the ships’ hulls, on beds of thistles, collected far out on the windy plains.  Weeping captives crowded in on top of the bronze, half-naked Tróyan women with their little children.  Most numerous of all were the urns of baked clay containing the bones of those who had died on the field during the long months of the siege and the battling.  The bare-skinned warriors grew sweaty as they labored, despite the cool wind, pushing the ferries as long as their feet could touch solid ground, then clambering aboard to bend their backs over the oars.

Once out to sea, they soon rowed in a long procession, those black-hulled, Ak'áyan ships.  To the sounds of captives wailing beneath the rowing benches, the victorious warriors made their way past the two headlands that cradled the fire-blackened city on the ever-windy, barren plain of Tróya.

aaa

Behind them, on the shore, the small camp of Tróya's survivors watched without fanfare.  One man alone stood in silence below the citadel's limestone walls, to see the vessels set sail.  His woolen cloak, dyed purplish blue and embroidered with shell designs, was his only emblem of rank.  The tunic he wore beneath it was as threadbare and worn as the kilts of the conquering Ak'áyans had been, his feet as bare as his subjects' were.

A wiry soldier came to stand beside the purple-swathed man on Tróya's hilly ground.  This second man watched the departing ships with as grim a visage as the first.  "We cannot stand here all day," the warrior finally said, thumping the butt end of his spear on the earth for emphasis.  "Listen, Antánor, we must start work immediately or we will not survive the coming winter."

The graying man in the embroidered robes did not respond for awhile, mesmerized by the sight of the longboats growing smaller on the western horizon.  "When I was young, there was no more stirring sight to my eyes than a fleet setting out to sea," Antánor sighed.  "How many do you suppose there are?"

Ainyáh squinted.  "I would guess about four hundred, perhaps fewer.  Think of that.  Of the thousand or so Ak'áyan ships that came to Tróya in the spring, less than half remain.  Of course, some of the kings departed earlier.  The Wórdoyans parted company with the rest quite some time ago.  They brought nine or ten ships, if I recall correctly.  Odushéyu and Meneláwo set sail the morning after…."

"Yes," Antánor interposed quickly, interrupting the warrior.  "Half the Ak'áyan army fell at our hands.  But that is little comfort.  We suffered worse from them.  I swear this, Ainyáh, one day I will have my revenge on Agamémnon."

Ainyáh was impatient.  "This is no time to talk of vengeance, Antánor.  That is for the future.  And it is in the hands of the gods, in any case.  Keep your thoughts on the present.  You rule Tróya for now, as Agamémnon's vassal, sworn along with your descendants, to be loyal to Ak'áiwiya, and especially to the kingdom of Argo, forever."

"I have not forgotten that oath," Antánor replied testily.  "But it does not concern me over much.  A vassal whose overlord mistreats him too much is released from the vow of loyalty, or should be, according to the goddess who loves justice.  Knowing the Ak'áyans as I do, especially their high king, I have no doubt that Agamémnon will free me from my obligations in that way, soon enough.  At that point," the new ruler whispered, a harsh gleam in his eye, "I intend to take my revenge."

Ainyáh broke in, his voice sharp.  "Enough talk of oaths and revenge.  The first thing you must do, right now, is to send messages north, to our allies beyond the straits, the Mar-Yandún.  We should tell them what has happened here, that Tróya was sacked and that king Alakshándu is dead, with all his sons and daughters killed or taken captive but one.  Point out to them that your wife, princess Laqíqepa, is the only free member of Alakshándu's family to survive, and that you now rule the kingdom of Wilúsiya.  Renew your trading agreements with their chieftains, as the first order of business.  Warn them of possible raids from Ak'áyan pirates, as the second.  Explain why we will not be able to stop outsiders from coming any longer.  If we delay, the Ak'áyans will pass the straits and set up their own alliances, ruining the tin trade for us.  Promise the Mar-Yandún chiefs whatever you have or expect to get in the immediate future.  But they must provide us grain and send it immediately.  As for us, we should start rebuilding Tróya, with homes for all the starving villagers who are beginning to gather here.  Have them put storage jars under every floor and concentrate all their efforts on filling them."

Antánor turned hooded eyes toward the warrior.  With enormous disdain, he ran his dark eyes over the other man's battle-scarred limbs and close-cropped, black hair, the prominent nose and heavy-lidded eyes.  "I will send what messages I please, and at my convenience," said Tróya's new ruler.  "Do not presume to tell me what to do, Ainyáh.  You were and are my chief ally.  You command the Wilúsiyan army, what is left of it, along with your men of Kanaqán.  But I am the one who rules Wilúsiya.  I am the king now.  It is my place to give orders, yours to take them."

Ainyáh spat to show his contempt.  "Indeed, you are Wilúsiya's king.  And I am nothing but a foreign mercenary.  But look around you, Antánor.  Your land is destitute.  It has lost two harvests in a row, one to drought and the other to war.  A third is already doomed.  It is too late to sow the seed grain, now, and you have no stores of wheat to keep your people fed until the next harvest, after that siege.  Your capital city is still burning.  There is nothing to separate your head from the sky but a scrap of linen.  That makes you as wealthy and powerful as my four-year-old son."  He lifted a curved blade from the worn leather scabbard at his hip.  "In fact, I could slit your throat right here if I chose to, and no one in all of Assúwa would even try to do anything about it."

Antánor laughed bitterly.  "You would be doing me a favor, brother-in-law.  I have seen all my wealth dispersed to foreigners, first to buy the support of allies, and what remained to appease conquering enemies.  My father should have ruled, when I was a boy, and I after him, not Alakshándu.  If only my family had ruled, how many Assúwans would still be alive whose ashes lie scattered across this continent!"

Ainyáh rolled his dark eyes.  "Do not waste your breath telling me your sorrows.  I have no room in my heart for sympathy.  I have lost my own wife to our treacherous allies, while you still have yours.  No, Antánor, you have no special claim on suffering.  You betrayed Tróya in the end, just as I did.  We made our choice and now we must do what we can with the results.  At least, send a few boats to your island vassals.  There may still be a few goats on Lámno or Lázpa that the Ak'áyans have not yet eaten."

aaa

Past the narrow straits of Dáwan's people the Ak'áyan oarsmen worked, following the long coastlands of the barbarian tribesmen, T'rákiyans who lived along the northern rim of the world.  Agamémnon's troops sailed or rowed by day, beaching their vessels on the shore each night, well before dark.  Their progress toward the west was slow.  Fear of the unpredictable storms of late autumn kept them from the open sea and the quick route home.

The need for wheat and barley made them keep their weapons and armor close at hand throughout the slow journey.  Near the Assúwan side of the Inner Sea, the T'rákiyan villages were strong, with the rows of thatched cottages protected by a wooden palisade.  By night, the Ak'áyan oarsmen brought captured Tróyan bronze from their ships' holds.  At these hill forts, they traded their prized metal for wheat, still plentiful in the cold and rainy northern lands.  But as the longboats made their way west, small, unfortified villages lay near the Ak'áyans' night camps.  In these places, the warriors’ weapons came from the hulls of the ships and the Ak'áyans took what they wanted by force.  The few T'rákiyan fighters in these villages, with their fox-skin headdresses and simple, wicker shields, were no match for Agamémnon's men.  From these isolated settlements, the Ak'áyans carried off goats and sheep, stores of grain and of wine, undamaged weapons, strong, little horses, and barbarian women.

As the last month of autumn passed, the Ak'áyans rounded the northwestern end of the Inner Sea and headed south, skirting the three narrow peninsulas where rumor had it that dog-headed men lived.  Just west of the third finger-like projection of land was the winter camp of the paramount T'rákiyan chief.  As the Ak'áyan longboats drew up on the chieftain's shore, the first light snows heralded the beginning of winter.  Seeing that the season had overtaken him, Agamémnon made the decision to remain in T'rákiyan territory until the weather cleared in the spring.  His troops pulled their large contingent of ships high up on the T'rákiyan shore and built huts of wood and mud, with thatched roofs, to protect the vessels from the ravages of the cold weather.