People of the Inner Sea (The Age of Bronze) (17 page)

Without taking her eyes from the distant ships, the captive woman replied, "Now you know."

"Yes," the foot soldier answered ruefully.  "Ai, why could Agamémnon not wait a year or so, before testing his qasiléyu?  Why must he be so reckless?" he asked, not expecting an answer.

"Your king discards men as easily as others throw away sour wine," Dáuniya observed.  "But Diwoméde is blind to his faults."

T'érsite nodded, laying a hand on the woman's shoulder to turn her from the seaside.  "My qasiléyu is a better man than the wánaks," he agreed.  "But loyalty goes to those with power, not to men of honor."

aaa

In the early spring, the men of Argo drew their ships up on the shores of Attika, below the inland city of At'énai.  The streets of the small port town were nearly deserted, as Argo’s king had predicted.  The country people were far from the town, toiling in the fields to bring in the ripened wheat and it was early in the season for traders to arrive.  Few merchants had yet come from their winter quarters in the capital to greet the arriving ships.  Bakers and potters, alone, remained close to their houses, with their wives and children.  In the waters close to shore, fishermen idly watched the newcomers from their small boats, pausing briefly before thrusting their tridents beneath the waves.

A single spearman wandered lazily from his post at the town walls.  His head was bare, as were his feet, and he wore no armor, no sheathed sword at his side.  Using his spear shaft as a walking stick, he sauntered down to the beach to greet the Argive warriors dragging their ferry boats onto the land.

"Is it not a little early to be making ready for the next war?" he asked, leaning lazily on his spear, a fig in his hand.  Taking a bite of the sweet fruit, he said, "I thought Agamémnon told us to assemble at the start of the summer, not the spring."

Diwoméde glanced briefly at the watchman and up toward the quiet town.  But he gave no response, returning to directing his men.  The other southern warriors also ignored the low-ranked Attikan, straining their muscles to rest the prows of their little vessels high up out of the water.  With practiced ease, they drew their arms and armor from beneath the rowing benches.  A leather corselet soon covered each man's torso, greaves protected their shins, and an unadorned, leather helmet was on each head.

The watchman laughed when he saw some donning T'rákiyan deerskin boots.  "Ai gar, I see what the problem is," he chortled, spewing bits of half-chewed fig that stuck in his beard.  "You are not setting out early, are you?  No, you are late getting home.  What happened?  Did you poor, ignorant Zeugelátes get lost?  Spend the winter with the dog-headed barbarians, up north?"  He threw his head back with a loud guffaw, his throat exposed beneath a bushy, black beard.

Diwoméde leaped forward with his dagger drawn and sliced deep into the unprotected neck.  The spearman fell, clutching at the gaping wound, blood pouring over his tunic.  The Argive qasiléyu did not stay to watch the dying man's limbs jerking spasmodically.  "Come on!" the young troop leader shouted, waving the blood-darkened dagger over his head.  Behind him, his men took up their spears and swords and trotted toward the open gate of the port town.

Sleepy potters were surprised at their work, their feet still turning their wheels from habit, even as their eyes widened in surprise.  The Argive warriors fell upon them in a frenzy of bronze blades, sending children screaming to all corners of the town.  Bakers stopped at their work, their hands and faces whitened with flour, the dough in their baked clay bowls soon dyed bright red.  Women died over their stone mortars, at their perennial task of grinding grain.  Those not killed in the first rush ran shrieking from the surprised town, their babies in their arms, older children running alongside them in terrified tears.  They were pursued into the surrounding countryside by Argive warriors, avenging Attika's slight to Agamémnon's honor.

Few of the Attikans tried to fight.  Some fishermen hurried to shore with their tridents, and a handful of bakers took up the wooden paddles with which they removed bread from their conical ovens of sun-baked clay.  But these few soon died, as the battle-hardened Argives easily overpowered them, and the northerners fell by the doors of their houses.  Some of the younger women, the warriors drove back from the fields to the town as war booty.

"Kill every adult, man and woman alike," Diwoméde told the would-be captors as their women knelt, sobbing and reaching for the knees of the warriors.  "We cannot spare the time to take them back to the ships or the men to guard them there.  If Erékt'eyu suspects we are coming, he may have time to assemble troops to oppose us.  Surprise is our best weapon, since our numbers are few.  All these Attikans must die so that no one can run ahead and warn At'énai that we are coming.  And do not burn the port for the same reason.  The smoke would give us away.  Take only what horses and donkeys you find.  These will speed us on our way and help us carry our treasures back to the ships from At'énai."  When some of the men were reluctant to finish their wailing captives, Diwoméde himself waded among them, slashing at the defenseless necks until all were dead.

When the town was quiet, the warriors, denied women as rewards for their service, entered the houses.  Seeking valuables, they knocked over clay urns and threw open wooden chests.  But again, Diwoméde stopped his men.  He would not allow them time to pillage the little port.  "By Díwo, there will be treasures enough and time to gather them in At'énai!  The citadel is as wealthy as any northern place can be.  Think of it, a fortress with only terrace walls and unsuspecting princes to protect it.  There you will find storerooms filled with a king's treasures, enough to make each one of you a rich man."

Still, his soldiers were reluctant to follow the young leader.  The largest man among them protested, "You go too far, qasiléyu.  We received little enough for all our troubles in Assúwa.  Payment is overdue for our services."  Around him, other warriors nodded.  "Yes, Mégist'o is right."

Their qasiléyu was implacable and threatened them with his powerful sword-arm.  "Any man who stops now will lie beside these Attikans, food for northern dogs!  I swore to Agamémnon that I would burn At'énai.  I will do so or die trying.  And you will do the same."

Then onward the troops went, marching toward the capital city with their hearts still pounding.  The evil omens that had threatened throughout the previous winter now were driven from their minds.  No doubt At'énai itself would fall with the same ridiculous ease as the port, the men told each other.  After all, they were the vanguard of the most powerful army in the world, the founders of a new age and a new Ak'áyan order.  Ululating the war-cry and calling upon the god of thunder, they hastened toward the northwest.

Their way was easy, over a well-made road with deep ruts cut by countless chariot wheels.  Even the many muddy patches did not slow their advance.  Until the sun was high in the sky, the warriors marched vigorously.  Mégist'o, forgetting his earlier complaint, pushed his way to the front of the troops, impatient to take on the northern fortress.

But, almost within sight of their goal, the big warrior suddenly fell back with a cry, his arms wide to stop the men in their tracks.

"What is it?" those closest asked the ashen-faced spearman.

"A weasel crossed my path," Mégist'o managed to croak, over the lump in his throat.

Around him, the soldiers fell silent with dread.  Their calls and cries of "Alalá!" and "Díwo!" died on their lips.  Swords returned to scabbards.  Their spear butts rested despondently on the ground, as they whispered to each other, "An omen."  In dread, they looked to sky, earth, and each other for further guidance.

In the quiet, they heard a low bird call.  "On the left," Mégist'o groaned, dropping his spear.  "The dove calls from the left."  He clapped his hands to his head in anguish.  "The lady 'Éra is against us."

"We are doomed," moaned a second soldier, dropping both his shield and spear.

"There is nothing more to be done today," agreed another with less disappointment.  "We will have to turn back."

The rest did not argue.  "The gods are against us."

Despite the agreement on all sides, Diwoméde shook his head at that pronouncement.  "No, we cannot go back," he told them forcefully.  "We would make Agamémnon our enemy if we did that.  If he were here, he would not allow us to return to Argo without sacking At'énai.  You know how wánaktes are when they are disobeyed.  He may have our hands cut off, our eyes gouged out, or our faces branded.  Think of your kinsmen, too.  If you are disloyal, the wánaks can take possession of all your families’ lands and enslave your wives and daughters."

The men tried to reason with their leader.  "No wánaks can expect a victory when the gods themselves decree defeat," Mégist'o cried, his hands in the air.  "What else can it mean but disaster when a weasel crosses your path?  That is the worst of omens.  The bird call on the left, on the evil side, confirms that."  Again the troops were in agreement.  Still, none dared return to the port without their commanding qasiléyu.

And still, Diwoméde shook his head, his spear lowered and at the ready.  "Agamémnon would not turn back.  You know I am right."

They knew.  But they were not happy.  From the back of the ranks, one man muttered, "Agamémnon is a godless man.  Qálki was right…"

Diwoméde's dark and angry eyes sought the face of the one who had spoken, his white-knuckled hand gripping the shaft of his spear.  No man could meet his gaze.  "Wánaks Agamémnon returned from Tróya victorious," Diwoméde reminded them heatedly.  "That was despite all of Qálki's evil forecasts."  Glancing around at the uncertain faces, he took a deep breath.  Shaking his spear at the pale sky, he shouted, "I will do the same here in Ak'áiwiya as Agamémnon did in Assúwa.  I defy you, 'Éra of the white wings!"  Turning to the wooded hills toward which the weasel had run, he called, "Run back to the forest, Artémito, or you will taste my bronze blade!"

The men nervously made the gesture of the Evil Eye and glanced longingly back the way they had come.  "A man cannot fight the gods," Mégist'o whispered, aghast.

Diwoméde struck the speaker with the butt end of his spear.  "Go back to the port then, you weak woman!" the qasiléyu cried angrily, "but only to get laurel boughs.  We will each find a bit of laurel to put on our tongues for luck.  Then it is on to At'énai.  By the will of the great bull, Díwo, the city will fall before the sun goes down.  I have sworn it!"

Eagerly, the troops hurried back to the little port.  There they surprised a few hardy townsfolk, already returning from their hiding places to check on their belongings.  The renewed slaughter restored a little of the men's confidence.  With newly budding laurel boughs decorating each doorpost, symbols of the spring season, the soldiers quickly found the desired good luck charms.

Diwoméde urged them on their way once more toward the northwest and the capital.  "What are you afraid of?" he demanded of his troops as they marched.  "You have faced barbarians before.  We killed T'rákiyans by the hundreds at Tróya and in T'ráki itself.  We slaughtered Assúwans by the thousand last summer.  Wilúsiya is a trampled field because of our feet.  Lúkiya has no king because of our spears.  Now do you tremble at the thought of a few cowardly P'ilístas?  I thought Agamémnon gave me men, not sheep."

The angered troops began to shout the name of the storm god once more, raising their spears toward the sky.  "Díwo!"

aaa

But At'énai was ready when the Argive contingent ascended the hill toward the northern palace.  The terrace walls were manned with watchmen, bows in their hands and quivers of arrows resting on their backs.  In the numberless months since Agamémnon had seen the citadel, the Attikan wánaks had also decided to have a tower built before the main gate.  As the Argives marched up the ramp to the southern entrance, they found themselves in a paved courtyard surrounded on three sides by massive walls of stone that were several feet thick.  Bearing their shields in their left hands, their spears in the other, their undefended right sides faced the bowmen atop the walls.

"Do not worry," Diwoméde quietly told his men, although beads of sweat began to appear on his forehead.  "They do not know that Agamémnon is their enemy.  They think they are still our allies.  They will assume we are only bearing a message from the overlord.  Wánaks Erékt'eyu suspects nothing."

No sooner had the Argive qasiléyu spoken than Menést'eyu drove up to meet them in a chariot, its bright blue paint as new as the spring season.  "Owlé, qasiléyu Diwoméde," he called out dramatically, his voice unnecessarily loud, reining in his horses before the wide-open gate.  "I see your overlord has not forgotten the P'ilístas' areté."