People of the Inner Sea (The Age of Bronze) (21 page)

The exiles from It'áka, Mesheníya, and distant Libúwa sailed south, the following day.  The men agreed with Odushéyu's assessment of the situation in Ak'áiwiya's southern kingdoms.  They turned their high-prowed vessels toward the rich, island kingdom, Ak'áyans eagerly and Libúwans resignedly.  Passing the forbidding cliffs on the western end of the long island, skirting the steep northern coast, they drew up before Kep'túr's capital city, late in the day.  In Knósho's port, the party was met by only a single watchman.

"That is a good sign," Odushéyu noted to Mirurí.  "Perhaps this last winter ended the drought here.  It will be good to rest our bones in a settled, prosperous land for a change."

The Libúwan's critical eye fell on the white houses of the port town, taking in the cracked plaster, the mangy dogs prowling the streets, their ribs showing, hungry noses to the ground.  He was less certain that the sole warrior was a sign of good fortune ahead.  But he kept his doubts to himself as the armed Kep'túriyan led them to the palace, which commanded a view of the sea.

Even so, the exiled wánaks noted disturbing signs himself, as the visitors proceeded toward the king's house, more a small city in itself that sprawled over the hillside.  Odushéyu first observed the sullen mood of the common people.  It seemed to the It'ákan leader that there were more quarrels in the city streets than was normal, more shouting between women about the ownership of geese, more fist fights between men over the condition of fishing nets.  Through the open doors of the smaller houses, the pirate also spied many a commoner in his bed.  The sounds of the cries that came from the huts reminded him of the neighing of horses.  His flesh prickled as he recalled hearing similar wails in the army's camp before Tróya.  Agamémnon had called it battle-ground fever.  The seer had named it plague, insisting that it was a sure sign of divine anger.

Odushéyu said no more of these things than Mirurí did.  Instead, the It'ákan leader regaled his followers with stories of monsters who had lived in Kep'túr's labyrinthine palace in ancient times.  "The ancient king of this island was Díwo's own son, but, unlike his divine father, he was evil at heart.  Instead of sacrificing a bull to honor the god, he sacrificed a man to the bull.  He did it here in this very house, in the great courtyard.  All the island's high-born men and women gathered to watch that unspeakable rite, once a year.  Can you believe the Kep'túriyans remember that ancient king fondly and actually preferred him to us civilized, Ak'áyan rulers?"

When the visitors of high rank came to the throne room, king Idómeneyu's welcome was lukewarm.  The wine that the wánaks served his guests was stale, the barley cakes few, the mutton tough and stringy.  "There was hardly any rain last winter," the king told his visitors, "and meat is in short supply, not to mention grain.  What is more, Artémito's invisible arrows rained over the eastern end of the island, an area never wholly under my control.  Between refugees from the drought and those trying to escape the pestilence, all my towns are overrun with villagers.  My own subjects were already hungry and the numberless farmers who came in, crowding us, do not make my position any easier.  There were few enough true Ak'áyans here to begin with," Idómeneyu reminded them, "and so many refugees, all natives, are bound to make our difficult situation worse."

"Ai, it cannot be as bad as all that," Odushéyu said encouragingly as they ate their sparse meal.  "Your non-Ak'áyan soldiers fought loyally enough in Wilúsiya.  You brought home your share of plunder and glory, too.  These things must count for something, Idómeneyu.  Even barbarians are impressed by bronze, if not by areté."

The Kep'túriyan king was morose.  "They should be impressed, as you say.  But they are not, especially when there has hardly been a single cloud overhead for a year and more.  My soldiers of every language and blood were loyal to me in Assúwa, that is true.  But we soldered no unbreakable bond at Tróya.  Once everyone was at home and they all saw the condition of their kinsmen, ai, it was easy to forget that loyalty.  As Néstor found out, men are quick to turn against their king, especially when he is not of the same blood as them.  Instead of supporting me, my men began to spread evil rumors."

Odushéyu was surprised and let his bread fall from his hand.  "Rumors?  About you?  By the gods, Idómeneyu, I heard of many evil deeds in Tróya but none were laid at your threshold!"

Idómeneyu rubbed his aching forehead and sighed.  He seemed years older to Odushéyu than when they had parted company just six months before.  The Kep'túriyan king's face was more lined than ever.  More gray had appeared in his beard.  And his forehead seemed to have lengthened, rising much further into his hairline than before.  "My men recalled a promise I made to the ancient goddess while I was at Tróya," the Kep'túriyan told his guests with a moan.  "You remember that terrible day when Qántili had us backed against our ships?  We thought all was lost.  I swore to lady Dánwa that I would sacrifice my youngest son to her, if she would save my life."  He ran his scarred hands through his thinning hair and shuddered.

"Ai gar," Odushéyu grumbled, "if every warrior who made such a promise kept his word, Díwo would have nothing to do.  A man will make any vow in a tight spot.  But a rash promise like that is intended to be broken.  Díwo's punishment will be light, my friend."

Idómeneyu groaned.  "I know, I know.  But my men tell this story every chance they get.  They point out that my youngest son was the first to greet me when I came home, too, as if that were a sign from the goddess herself!  Idé, I certainly did not slaughter Peirít'owo when he met me on the shore.  Now the people are talking against me, saying that the drought is my fault for angering Mother Dánwa."

"Préswa take them all to 'Aidé!" Odushéyu cursed.  "If anyone is to blame for angering the gods, it must be these wánashas.  Now, do not defend your wife, Idómeneyu.  Do not forget the message we intercepted at Tróya.  When your back was turned and you were suffering endless hardships overseas, she was conspiring with Klutaimnéstra and Penelópa.  These mad queens want to take over all Ak'áiwiya."

Idómeneyu nodded and leaned back against his throne, pressed down by the same utter weariness of spirit that afflicted Néstor.  "I found it hard to believe the message spoke of Médeya.  Until the day I entered the harbor here, I wanted to think it was Agamémnon’s daughter, Ip'emédeya's name, that I had read.  I kept telling myself I did not know all the symbols and I could not be sure.  But then I sailed to Knósho and my queen did not welcome me home.  I had to march my warriors into the palace here, armed as if for war, to regain my place on the throne of Kep'túr.  It was just as you said.  She had been plotting my overthrow."  He threw up his hands, then let them fall, limp, to his lap.  "Now the woman is banned from the capital, but I cannot divorce her and send her away without losing my claim to kingship.  So she goes from village to village, talking against me.  She blames my association with Agamémnon for all the problems here."

Odushéyu sighed sympathetically.  "It is an all too familiar tale, Idómeneyu.  I had thought you and I might sit out Agamémnon's new campaign this year, my friend.  I thought we might be too busy gaining territory in southern Ak'áiwiya.  But now I am beginning to think we should sail north to Aúli, after all.  Maybe we should do just as we swore we would last autumn.  The more I think about it, the more I like the idea.  I would love to carve a new kingdom for myself in Assúwa, where women spend their lives weaving and spinning."

Mirurí quietly frowned, shaking his head.  But Idómeneyu listened thoughtfully.  "That might not be a bad idea, Odushéyu.  But I cannot go just yet.  It was obvious the harvest was going to be meager.  So, as soon as the winter passed, I sent most of my ships far to the east.  They have gone to the island of Alásiya to buy grain.  Let us wait until they return.  I may be able to appease the people with food.  After all, even though a kingdom overseas is tempting, still it may not be destined for us.  It would be good to know that I could come back here and rule again, if things did not work out in Assúwa."

Odushéyu thought about that briefly.  "Very well, I believe I can afford to wait until the festival of threshing.  But no longer, my friend.  Remember, Agamémnon said to meet in Qoyotíya at the beginning of summer and that time is very close."

aaa

As Kep'túr awaited grain from Alásiya, Aígist'o received an At'énayan letter, as he ruled in Argo.  He handed the wooden tablet to his wánasha and dismissed the messenger from Mukénai's mégaron.  "What does it say?" Aígist'o asked, looking up from his seat on the throne.

Klutaimnéstra stood smiling beside him, as she broke the wax seal and unwrapped the bonds.  Opening the leather-hinged tablet, she read the words aloud, tracing the signs with a plump finger.  "From Erékt'eyu, wánaks of Attika, to his brother king, Aígist'o of Argo, greetings.  Idé," she exclaimed, not entirely pleased, "word of our marriage traveled very fast."

"Read on," Aígist'o told her impatiently, with a wave of his long-fingered hand.  Then he listened, fingering his newly grown mustache.

His new wife returned to the neat rows of signs inscribed in the yellow wax.  "At'énai was attacked…."

"At'énai!"  Argo's new priest-king was surprised.  "Ai, Agamémnon was ambitious.  I assumed he would burn a few villages near the wall between our two lands."

"Idé, the dog attacked a citadel with only two shiploads of men," Klutaimnéstra scoffed.  "That is not ambition.  It is idiocy.  I am amazed the fool brought as many warriors back from Assúwa as he did."

"Yes, yes, continue," the long-haired wánaks continued impatiently.  "Were there any survivors?"

Klutaimnéstra's eyes widened in surprise.  "Ai, it was not just a loss, it was a massacre!  Only five are still live, all of them wounded.  Erékt'eyu wants to know whether we will ransom them.  By the goddess, that man is senile.  I already wrote that I would pay nothing for captives."

"My dear wife," Aígist'o said through his teeth.  "He is writing now to me, do you understand, to me.  And I am not so rash as you."  He raised a hand to silence the objections she would have voiced.  "Agamémnon's losses at Tróya were extremely heavy, as we had expected, or I should say, as we planned.  Now, that suited our purposes when we faced the problem of deposing him.  Sending him a Tróyan seer was a brilliant idea.  You must grant me that.  There can be no doubt that Qálki helped increase the Ak'áyan losses.  Because of that, Agamémnon's death pleased every Argive who lost kinsmen in Assúwa, as we knew it would.  Even the drought worked to our advantage, giving the people additional reason to turn against their former king.

"But now we face a different challenge.  Agamémnon's death will not bring us rain until next winter.  Have you considered how we are to survive until then?  We have already had to trade far more of our treasures for Qoyotíyan grain than we could really afford.  There are not enough valuables left in Argo, now, to buy the services of a mercenary army, if we should need one.  Unfortunately, there are a great many lands that still consider us an enemy, despite the change in sovereignty.  Even our allies might be planning to attack us, now that we are weakened.  We need every trained warrior we can muster.  If we have some in Attika…"

Klutaimnéstra had turned back to the tablet, no longer listening to her new husband.  "By all the gods and goddesses!" she suddenly cried, furious.  "Diwoméde is listed as one of the survivors!  I will never ransom Agamémnon's bastard son!  You listen to me, Aígist'o.  You are wánaks here, by my design.  I can divorce you and I will, believe me.  No bronze will come from my storerooms to buy the freedom of that swine of a qasiléyu.  His very existence is an affront to my dignity as a queen.  He will not be ransomed.  I will not stand for it!"

"Do not excite yourself, Klutaimnéstra," Aígist'o soothed, patting her plump arm.  "Do I not always listen to your counsel?  There is no need to talk of divorce, my love.  You are right, of course.  We will send no bronze from the palace for these survivors, neither Diwoméde, nor any other.  If we send treasures out, it will be to buy something better than a handful of wounded soldiers.  Still, we should consider what else might be done to obtain their freedom and their services.  It is for the sake of Argo, my sweet, for golden Mukénai."

Mollified, the wánasha listened.  "What else might be done?  Whatever do you mean by that?"

"Let me send word to the prisoners' kinsmen," Aígist'o went on, choosing his words with studied care.  "It may be that their families will pay for their lives.  That would serve our purposes just as well.  The men would come home to Argo, no doubt bearing eternal hatred for Agamémnon's memory, since he was the cause of their dishonor and discomfort.  We would have their loyalty, afterward, plus the use of their arms without losing any of our own bronze to obtain them.  Remember, dear wife, Diwoméde's parents are both dead now and he has only sisters.  In such difficult times as these, a man may choose to trade his wealth for his own brother's sake, but no man will pay for the kinsman of his wife.  If Diwoméde's own family will not pay for his freedom, then it is quite simply the will of the gods that he remain captive."