Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze) (32 page)

"A great ally," Powolúdama said sarcastically.  "We ought to kill you for letting yourself be taken alive like a woman."

Odushéyu fell to his knees and embraced the legs of the guard.  "Owái, please do not kill me," he begged, truly frightened.  "This is not the way I should die."  He raised one hand toward the guard's whiskered chin.  "My father is old and very rich.  He will pay any ransom you name."

"Not likely," the Tróyan charioteer laughed, kicking Odushéyu away.  "Get out of my sight before I change my mind."

Odushéyu gratefully scampered away from the gate, wiping blood from his nose, where the Tróyan's foot had struck him.  When at a safe distance, he stood upright and muttered a curse in Powolúdama's direction, swearing revenge when the citadel should fall.

As the light faded at the end of the day, he roamed the streets, marveling, as he had once before, at the well-laid limestone foundations and the painted brick façades of the rich men's homes.  Even in its overcrowded and disheveled condition, the fortress was finer than any city he ruled.  In his mind he could see it all in its pristine state, the way it had appeared the previous year when he had accompanied Meneláwo to the palace to bargain for Ariyádna's release.  Perhaps he had been too hasty in naming his reward, he thought.  When the palace had been sacked, he might ask Agamémnon to be made the overlord's vassal with Tróya itself his assigned fortress.

Gradually Odushéyu made his way higher up the hill, once again awestruck at the increasing elegance of the buildings, earthquake-damaged though they were.  Armed guards would not allow him into the courtyard before the hilltop palace and no sign of activity came from that quarter.  So he went back down through the streets, stopping his wandering before the southern tower with its shrine and double pillars.  He could hear women's voices from inside the building and he crouched by the wall, waiting, hoping for a glimpse of Ariyádna.

The women did not leave the sanctuary until darkness fell.  When they did come out, it was all at once.  Odushéyu saw immediately that he would have no chance to pull the 'Elléniyan queen aside, even if she appeared.  Low-ranked servants, dressed in long, undyed tunics, walked at the head and the back of the procession of ladies, carrying lighted torches for their mistresses.  In the order of their rank, the women of Tróya's royal family made their way back to the palace crowning the hill.  Queen Eqépa was the first, her white hair shorn about her ears.  Her wrinkled cheeks were marred with dark scratches, her robes, although sumptuously dyed, were unadorned with either previous metals or jewels.  And her steps were slow, as if she carried a heavy weight on her sloping shoulders.  She no longer seemed the queen of a wealthy land.  Behind her came her daughters in order of age, Laqíqepa, Kréyusa, Kashánda, and Piyaséma.  Their hair was long for the most part, loose about their shoulders, and as disheveled as their mother's.  Each had cut a lock for her fallen brothers, one for Qántili, another for Lupákki.  Behind them walked the royal daughters-in-law, Andrómak'e's hair as shorn as Eqépa's, her shoulders drooping.  Ariyádna came stumbling at the back, her head tilted to one side, twisting a lock of hair around and around her fingers.

Odushéyu stepped forward as the Ak'áyan woman passed, so that he entered the light of the torches.  Ariyádna glanced at him briefly, showing no sign of recognition at the sight of her cousin's husband, and walked on.  Behind her, a heavy-set servant looked the It'ákan up and down, her eyebrows raised.  The pirate waited until the serving woman turned away before falling in behind the group.  But he was unable to get the Lakedaimóniyan queen to look at him again.

Odushéyu silently cursed, watching the last serving woman disappear inside the walled courtyard of the palace.  He waited awhile, cloaked in the shadows of an abandoned house close by, hoping for a sign.  After what seemed an eternity, a man in a tunic came and spoke to the guardsmen at the courtyard gate.  Both disappeared into the palace shortly and no one came to stand in the guards' place.  Odushéyu crept forward hopefully.  He sat by the charred remains of a wooden column at the courtyard gate, his knees to his chest, his head in his hands.

"What have I gotten myself into?" he moaned softly, to himself.  He could enter the royal buildings now, he decided.  Still, he hesitated.  Did he dare go on?  Once inside, he would surely be discovered, he thought.  What excuse could he give for being there?  If Ariyádna had arranged to leave the courtyard unguarded, she might have cleared the way for him inside as well.  But he did not know where to go.  The previous year, he and Meneláwo had been forced to wait in the courtyard while their proposals were carried to the king within and his reply carried back out.  So he had no knowledge of the palace’s interior.

His stomach growled and he shivered as a cool breeze brushed his bare skin.  Odushéyu looked up at the stars, the baleful eyes of the night, as people said.  He was a mariner, accustomed to reading the stars.  They had always seemed welcome guides to him.  But now he remembered the stories people told of the madness that fell on men sometimes, when they had been overlooked by those dim lights.  "Help me, lady At'ána," he whispered.  "I forgot to pour wine to you as I left the tents.  But I did not mean to insult you.  Forgive me, goddess.  Help me now and I will burn a whole lamb wrapped in fat when I get back to the camp."  He struck his forehead with the open palms of his hands, cursing his own stupidity.

"Come with me," said a woman's low voice and Odushéyu started, hurrying to his feet.  He tripped in his haste and scraped his knee against the stone paving, cursed, and rose again.  A woman he thought he should recognize stood before him.

"My lady says you should come to see her."  The wide-hipped woman with graying hair turned and led the way without further explanation.

His heart pounding in his chest, Odushéyu followed.  He knew her now.  She was the servant who had given him such hard looks when the procession of women passed him.  "Can you be Ariyádna's serving-maid?" he asked, he hoped.  "But she did not recognize me.  Or did she?"

Kluména did not answer.

As they crossed the courtyard, Odushéyu talked on, thinking aloud.  "Perhaps she did know me but did not dare let on.  Yes, that must be it.  Tróyans were with her.  She could not give me a sign, for fear they would see."

Still the woman before him did not respond, leading the way in perfect silence.  Even her bare feet made no sound on the paving stones.  In through torch-lit passages they passed, moving ever closer to the heart of the Tróyan palace.

Odushéyu began to look around at the dark rooms beside and about him, growing afraid.  "Maybe she did know me and has now told prince Paqúr.  You may be leading me to my doom."  The It'ákan's mouth grew dry and beads of sweat formed on his flesh in spite of the cool night air.  His hand went to his hip, seeking his sword.  But he had no weapon, not even a belt to hold one.  It had seemed wisest to appear at the gates naked, so as to rouse no suspicions.  Now it seemed a foolhardy decision.

"I should have concealed a dagger somewhere, somehow," he whispered to himself.  "Ai, but I am surrounded and outnumbered by Tróyans, in any case.  Fighting would not save my life even if I had a weapon.  If nothing else, I suppose I can embrace Paqúr's knees and beg for my life…."

The serving woman led Odushéyu to Ariyádna's bed chamber, where two Tróyan men waited for the guest, their backs to the entrance.  The It'ákan trembled, acutely aware of his vulnerability in this foreign palace.  He wished fervently that he had not listened to his heart's lust for Agamémnon’s favor and rich rewards.  He prayed silently that At'ána would miraculously whisk him away from this place and back to his tent across the river.

Kluména gestured to an empty chair.  "Be seated, wánaks Odushéyu," she said in a smooth, emotionless voice.  Her face revealed no more feeling than her voice.  Seated on the edge of the bed, Ariyádna's unlined cheeks were as impassive as her servant's.  The women might be plaster figurines, or painted frescoes, for all that they showed of their thoughts.

Odushéyu went to the chair and was surprised to see that the waiting men were not Alakshándu's sons.  He was even more surprised when Kluména handed him a clean, linen kilt to wrap around his waist and a belt.  He tied the leather strap around the cloth, while Ariyádna herself brought large clay cups, polished until they resembled bronze.  The 'Elléniyan woman set a similarly burnished, ceramic bowl before the three men.  She poured water and wine into it for them to dip from.  Kluména carried in wooden trays of dried figs and freshly baked, flat bread, replenishing the food as the men ate and drank their fill.

Ariyádna herself did not eat, nor did she speak, as the men talked over their meal.  She returned to her seat, where her hands began moving through the air, dropping an invisible spindle whorl and setting it spinning, drawing out a thread that no eyes could see but hers.  At times she mouthed words, but Odushéyu could not make out what she was saying.  Her actions unnerved him.  He almost expected her eyes to roll back in her head as Penelópa's did when she was about to prophesy.

"What do you think of sacking island cities, Antánor?" asked Ainyáh.  "I prefer that form of warfare, myself.  The settlements are small, so you cannot take much booty at any one stop.  But, considering their size, they have a great deal of wealth.  And it is easily obtained.  A quick fight or two and your ships are loaded with trade goods and slaves.  A man could make a decent living doing nothing but feeding off of small islands."

Antánor nodded.  "I agree, Ainyáh.  It may not be the most glorious activity but it is a reliable means of obtaining treasure.  When we attacked Sidún, we got a good deal more treasure, but look at all the trouble that caused!  Qáttushli had been at odds with Mízriya for years, so we thought he would be delighted to hear we had struck a Mízriyan outpost.  Who knew the great kings were negotiating an exchange of royal wives?  What a mess that was!"

Ainyáh smiled slightly and shook his head.  "A sacker of cities may earn undying glory…" he began, philosophically.

"…but he who sacks island villages lives to enjoy his wealth," Antánor concluded with a hearty laugh.  Both raised their cups of wine and poured a few drops on the floor for the deities.

Odushéyu listened in silence, unsure of himself.  As the wánaks of an island nation, he was none too pleased with what he heard.  It would be far better for small kingdoms like his if the more powerful kings raided each other.  But, in the presence of a still undefeated enemy, he dared not speak up.  Alakshándu's sons-in-law evidently meant to do him no harm, since they had fed and clothed him.  But such a welcome was completely unexpected.  Odushéyu did not know what to make of it or how to speak to them.

When the last crumbs dried on the boards, uneaten, Ariyádna dropped her airy spinning and stood.  The Tróyan men and Kluména looked at the 'Elléniyan woman with some surprise.  Seeing all their heads turned toward the Lakedaimóniyan queen, Odushéyu took her action to be a sign. "Wánasha, I have come to see whether you support Ak'áiwiya or Wilúsiya, in this war," the It'ákan said.

Ariyádna's large eyes met the It'ákan's with a sudden flash of recognition.  "You married my cousin, Penelópa," she whispered, her voice barely audible.  She swayed on her feet and Odushéyu noted that she was thinner than when he had last seen her and her skin darker.  The Tróyans had given her work in the sun, evidently.  A good sign, he thought, showing that she was a slave and not a prince's royal wife.