People of the Inner Sea (The Age of Bronze) (32 page)

"Lúkiyan pirates are on the horizon!" cried another.

"No, no, not Lúkiyans!" wailed a third.  "The ships are high at the prow and the stern, too.  They are barbarians from the far west, Ak'áyan dogs!"

White-faced and perspiring, Danúl pushed past the frightened elders and hurried down the corridor, the unbaked tablet in his hand.

CHAPTER TEN

MIZRIYA

As summer passed into autumn, Mízriya's northern shore saw the approaching vessels of the various allied peoples of the Inner Sea.  The Aigúpto River was in full flood, communications between north and south essentially cut off by the rising waters.  The invading marauders were no more able to sail their ships against the river's torrent than the natives and they beached their vessels near the mouth of the Aigúpto.  Marching overland, they found themselves welcomed by the native pastoralists and fishermen of the marshlands.  Even the mayors of the smaller towns came to the invaders' night camps, bowing deeply, bearing fine gifts of gold and silver, bronze, and precious stones.

"We submit ourselves to you with joyful hearts," said one hefty overseer of a local town.  He knelt before the troop leaders, Odushéyu, Idómeneyu, Tushrátta, and Mirurí, and bowed low.  So close to the earth did his forehead come that the chin-length wig fell from his shaved head.  Rising again, he clasped the muddy hairpiece unconcernedly, gesturing toward a line of followers with identical wigs and white, linen kilts.  Each carried in his arms a gift of great value – a set of golden earrings inlaid with lapis and opal, finely carved chairs of ebony, bronze thumb-rings with inset designs of ivory and agate, cedar chests plated with electrum, or alabaster jars filled with costly, scented oil.

"We present these humble presents as this year's tribute," the mayor suggested, "symbols of our never-ending gratitude for freeing us from the Great House, Mirniptáha's evil yoke.  And may I suggest that, next month, you visit the neighboring province, further south.  There you will find gifts truly worthy of the new divine rulers of Mízriya's northern kingdom.  For we are poor and miserable compared to those who live south of here."

"This is true," Mirurí exclaimed happily.  "Have you not seen how our booty increased this summer, each time we sailed further south, as we neared this land?  So our plunder will continue to increase, in number of items and in their richness, as we proceed still further south into the very heart of Mízriya.  Mirniptáha's capital city in the far south contains a very forest of mountains, each made of metal of a different kind, gold, silver, electrum, bronze, tin, malachite, ah, I cannot even name them all!"

As the Libúwan had known it would, his words drew the pirates ever further south, as the Aigúpto's waters reached their peak and began to subside.  Through the winter, desert nomads marched through the western half of the delta, the northern men of the sea mirroring their advance in the east.  In this land that never saw snow, the two invading armies proceeded almost unopposed toward the city of the sun near the point where the Aigúpto's branches first left the great mother stream.  They neared the border of Mízriya's northern and southern kingdoms as the season of the growing of grain began and spring once more warmed their homelands on the northern shore of the Great Green Sea.

aaa

The winter was a desperate one in southern Ak'áiwiya.  With king Néstor still paralyzed by grief for his oldest son, despite the years that had passed since the great war in Assúwa, queen Eyurudíka prepared to send her second child to It'áka as soon as the season would permit.  "You are young, T'rasuméde," the wánasha told her son.  "But your brothers are only boys.  So, I cannot send them.  And something must be done to bring about peace between Mesheníya and the western islands.  Your age may even prove to be an asset.  Perhaps queen Penelópa wants a new husband whom she believes she can dominate.  Present yourself as a suitor, then, and try to win her heart with exhibitions of your speed in running and your strength.  Let her think that you adore her and have no desires of your own, but only exist to please her.

"If she still will not have you, do not declare yourself her enemy, even so.  Instead, suggest a marriage between her son and your little sister.  Our Polukásta is quite a bit younger than Penelópa's boy.  But, if her son, Qelémak'o, will wait for her to grow up a little, she will make a good wife and an excellent scribe.  Even if the It'ákan wánasha changes her mind about the match later, a betrothal now will give us time to reclaim our countryside."

aaa

In neighboring Lakedaimón, Meneláwo made his own plans for the spring.  "St'énelo," he told his head charioteer, as they sat beside the hearth of the king's mégaron, "you must make another sea journey, as soon as the harvest is in."

"Yes, wánaks," the chariot master sighed.  "It does not look as though it will rain any more, not this year either.  The barley crop will be no better than before."  The two sat in silence for a long while, drinking wine that had been so thinned with water, the painted designs at the bottom of their cups were visible through the liquid.  "Where do we go this time?  Back to Alásiya?  Or should we try Wórdo again?"

Meneláwo shook his head, running a hand through his thinning, graying hair.  "No, we no longer have sufficient bronze to trade for Alásiya's grain.  As for Wórdo, it is overrun with Assúwans.  We cannot go north, either.  Attika and T'ráki are still hostile to my brother's kinsmen.  The messages I send to Mízriya go unanswered, so the south may be starving, too, for all I know.  This time, you will sail west.  I know it is dangerous.  But I am afraid the bull country that is called the ítalo land is our last hope."

St'énelo shuddered.  "I have heard terrible stories about the bull country.  Odushéyu says that it is peopled by giants, monsters with only a single eye in their foreheads."

A slight smile softened the king's somber face.  "Ai, do not worry about what Odushéyu has said.  You saw Diwoméde's captive woman at Tróya, did you not?  She is from the ítalo country.  She looks ordinary enough, does she not?  As for Odushéyu's one-eyed men, ai gar, years ago, he swore that the T'rákiyans had dogs' heads.  Now all of Ak'áiwiya knows that was a lie.  Do you remember what he said when the Mízriyan army came to Tróya?  The men with black skins were dáimons from 'Aidé and we were all doomed unless we fought Odushéyu's way."

The chariot master chuckled.  "Yes, and when the dark men's blood was spilled, snakes would supposedly come from their wounds.  But, when they were stuck with our spears or arrows, they only bled and died, just like us."  As he and the king stared at the glowing embers on the hearth, the smiles faded from their lips.  "If we have so little bronze, what can we use in the ítalo country?  Should we raid them and take their grain by force?"

Meneláwo could not meet his horse trainer's eyes.  Rubbing the rim of his wine cup with his thumb, he muttered, "I will provide you with metal."

"But where will you get it?" St'énelo persisted.  "Your brother is dead and your sister's wife has remarried.  Klutaimnéstra will not lend you any bronze.  As for our storehouses, they are empty.  No, my wánaks, we possess nothing else that the western barbarians value.  Weaving women and embroidered clothes mean nothing to them."

"I will provide you with trade goods," the wánaks repeated wearily.  "If there is no metal in my fortresses, then I will open the graves of my wife's kinsmen.  We buried many treasures with the old king and queen, and the cenotaphs of Ariyádna's brothers are nearly as rich."

The chariot master was shocked and the wine cup dropped from his hand.  The ceramic shattered, unnoticed, on the paving stones of the big, empty chamber.  Whispering in awe and dread, he began, "But the spirits of the dead…."  Choking on the thought of the angry shades rising from their graves, he could not go on.

"They will understand," the king sighed, tears welling in his dark-rimmed eyes.  "Kástor and his brother were good men.  They must have greeted many of their people in 'Aidé these past two years.  I cannot believe that pleased them."

aaa

As Lakedaimón's wánaks prepared to take the wealth of the dead, Argo's king contemplated the same move in his own throne room.  "We would not touch the sacred grave circle in Mukénai, of course," Aígist'o reassured his wife.  "My illustrious ancestors would never forgive me for that."

Klutaimnéstra clapped her hands to her elaborately styled hair.  With a keening wail, she frightened the servants toiling at the hearth.  "You godless dog!" she shrieked.  "How can you even consider such impiety?  You are worse than Agamémnon."  And she slapped her second husband's cheek, calling out more angry epithets.

"Hear me out, woman," Aígist'o shouted at her, catching her hands in his, digging his nails into her soft flesh.  "Listen to me and stop this unseemly behavior.  You are a queen, not a wild mainád.  Ai, your temper is as violent as Artémito's!" he bellowed.

Klutaimnéstra did not answer, but pulled her hands from the king's grasp, still furious.  Breathing hard, the wánaks growled, "I realize that my suggestion is shocking.  But, think about it for a moment.  We show our respect for the dead by placing gifts in their graves.  But it is not our custom to leave such presents underground forever.  No, the next time a kinsman dies and the family tomb is opened, the living carry away the old riches.  No one admits to doing this, but how could it be otherwise?  If no dead man's possessions were ever removed, the graves would soon be filled to overflowing."

"But that is different," the queen objected bitterly.  "You are not proposing that we wait until there is a funeral.  You suggest that we open the graves before there is a need for the tomb.  Ai, may Agamémnon's whole clan be cursed, they are so blasphemous!"

"Speaking of my cousin," Aígist'o said through clenched teeth, "you cannot object to robbing Agamémnon's grave, at the very least.  He flaunted the laws of Mother Diwiyána all his life.  I am amazed that you provided his tomb with as many riches as you did."

The wánasha glared at the slender king.  "I had good reason for my actions.  Agamémnon's memory means nothing to me, personally.  But he was the father of my children, after all.  You should know, as a priest, that the dead torment their surviving kinsmen when their spirits are dishonored.  I do not want to see my son or my daughters suffer."

Aígist'o frowned at his heavy-set wife.  "Very well," he agreed at last, though it filled him with disgust to say the words.  "Have it your way.  The dead will keep their wealth."

aaa

Unaware of the quarrels of his king and queen, Diwoméde dozed on his throne in Tíruns, wrapped in a warm cloak, his feet resting in Dáuniya's lap.  The serving woman smiled fondly at the sleeper, stroking his feet.  "He will be walking alone by the time of the harvest," she announced quietly to a nearby laborer.

The man, draped in a bulky, patched cloak, smiled back.  "Good," he said, rubbing his back.  "He is getting fatter by the day.  And I am getting too old and stiff to carry such a weight."

Dáuniya chuckled.  "Ai, you are not old, just lazy, T'érsite.  You are as strong as an ox."

The laborer's grin broadened, showing a toothless gap across the front of his mouth.  "Just the same, it will be good to see him walking again."

The serving woman gazed at him with genial suspicion.  "Why should a common laborer care whether his qasiléyu walks or not?"

T'érsite shrugged, cheerfully explaining, "He is more than my qasiléyu.  He is a kinsman.  We bastards must stand up for each other."

Dáuniya laughed out loud at that and Diwoméde started awake.  For a brief moment, he stared without seeing, his eyes wide and fearful.  But, as gentle hands caressed his feet and his sight focused on two friendly faces, he relaxed.  "Help me to my bed-chamber," the young man said, raising his arms to be lifted to T'érsite's broad shoulder.

aaa

Further north, in T'eshalíya, wánaks and wánasha unconcernedly talked of importing a little T'rákiyan grain the next year.  As the aging rulers of the northern kingdom lay in bed, sandwiched between warm fleeces, Péleyu suddenly raised himself on an elbow.  Facing his wife, the king said, "I have been thinking about the fate of T'eshalíya.  As it is, we have only the one heir, our grandson Púrwo."

"Yes," T'éti agreed, rolling her eyes.  "What an uncivilized prince he is, too.  A couple of summers in the mountain pastures with the sheep will do him good."

"But there is also our granddaughter to think of," the wánaks went on, touching a hand to his wife's lips to silence her complaint.

The gray-haired woman smiled.  "I am so pleased that the little thing has survived her first year.  Ai, what a sweet child she is, at that.  She looks just like her father when he was that age."  Her eyes misted at the thought.  "Ai, Ak'illéyu," she whispered.  "My poor boy…."