People of the Inner Sea (The Age of Bronze) Read Free

night in Tróya," T'érsite ventured to say.  "But others did.  I hear that Púrwo killed the king on Poseidáon's own altar.  That is bound to make the god angry with all Ak'áyans, guilty or not."
     
    "Yes," said Diwoméde, "and Agamémnon is not offering any goat or sheep, not even a bull.  He is going to make this another Great Sacrifice.  A Tróyan princess is to die.  Stay.  Piyaséma's death will gain us the favor of the gods.  Then we can still hope for a fair wind, despite the season."
     
    "And a good harvest next spring, maybe," T'érsite sighed, frowning at the sky.  "If our people delayed planting, waiting for us, the wheat will be up too late.  But if they went ahead with the sowing, they are praying for rain now.  And if the gods listen to them, our ships are sunk.  Only the gods can save us from disaster."
     
    Meneláwo, too, looked at the grim sky.  "By the goddess, I wish I had a man who could prophesy the weather for me!" he cried.  But even as he said it, he shook his head at the others' pleas.  "Still, clouds or no, I cannot wait.  We should reach the island Ténedo before the sun is past its summit.  If the sky is as threatening then, we will pull our ships up on the beach and spend the night there.  But if the clouds pass, we will go on for Lámno.  I believe we can reach it before dark if we row steadily.  That is where Odushéyu will be.  He is the best mariner in Ak'áiwiya.  He will get us home safely if any man can."
     
    Diwoméde let go of T'érsite's shoulder and took Meneláwo's arm.  "Think of your men, wánaks," the young man begged.  "Many of them are wounded, some badly hurt.  Some have old injuries that have not healed, that are festering.  They will not row equally.  The helmsmen will not be able to keep a straight course."
     
    Meneláwo brushed the hand away and turned toward his lead ship.  "I am going," he repeated.  "Tell Agamémnon."
     
    As he moved away, Diwoméde called out once more, "But the Great Sacrifice…"
     
    The king shuddered.  At the prow of the last small boat, a huddled form began to sway from side to side.  With a furtive glance at the cloaked figure, Meneláwo urged him, "Keep your voice down, boy.  I do not want my wife to hear you.  She does not know yet about the first one."  He waved away any further objections before the younger man could voice them.  "I must go."
     
    T'érsite quietly took hold of Diwoméde.  "Let him go.  Each king will decide for himself what is best for his people."
     
    Diwoméde nodded and sighed.  Meneláwo climbed aboard his little vessel, aided by his men.  As the king boarded, the oarsmen bent to their task, moving the boat through the shallow water toward the lead ship.  When all had boarded the long, black vessel, Meneláwo stood on the stern platform and raised both his arms.  At that signal, the crewmen pulled up their stone anchors and twenty longboats and more rowed out of the harbor.  Diwoméde sat down to watch them go, his thoughts on their destination, the lands to the west across the Inner Sea.
     
    aaa
     
    On that distant, western shore, the people who had not sailed to Tróya toiled at their own labors.  A long procession of men, four rows abreast, lined an unpaved road running north and south.  The columns of men pulled at ropes of twisted flax, leaning until their heads nearly touched the ground.  Their ropes were tied to massive blocks of limestone, each roughly the height of a man.  The stones rested on wooden sledges, fifty men hauling each one to the foreman's chanted rhythm.  All but the chanter were naked, their dark, curly hair and beards clipped short and drenched with sweat from the hard work.
     
    Atop each sledge knelt a half-grown boy, pouring water over the front of the construction of logs as it was dragged over the road.  Wetting both the sledge and the wooden planks embedded in the earth beneath, the salty liquid reduced the friction, making the hard