Steep Wilusiya (Age of Bronze) Read Free Page A

a kinsman.  "Just look at you, walking about naked as if you were a low-born foot soldier.  That is no way for the king of Lakedaimón and 'Elléniya to behave.  We are Ak'áyans, civilized men, not barbarians.  What would your brothers-in-law think if they could see you this way?  Ai, they would be sorry they let you marry their sister and take their country's throne."
     
    Meneláwo shuddered.  "Owái," he moaned.  "I would give back all of Lakedaimón's cities and my 'Elléniyan island as well, if only I could see Kástor and Poludéyuke again!  Ai gar, I would gladly give up my kingdom if I could just retrieve their bones from the sea and bury them properly in Ak'áyan soil!"
     
    "Ai, you are completely drunk," Agamémnon growled in disgust.
     
    "No," his brother whispered, "not completely.  I can drink enough to forget this pain in my side.  But I can never get so drunk that I forget how the loss of those good men stings my heart."
     
    The bigger man stood, dragging the other to his feet.  "Go to your tent, Meneláwo.  In a moment you will be crying like a woman and I do not want the men to see that.  Listen to your older brother.  Go."
     
    This time, Meneláwo went, but not before retrieving his bag of wine and the flask in the shape of a poppy.
     
     
    Many more such juglets littered the crowded streets of the city on the hill.  Across the river from the Ak'áyan camp and its earthen walls, Tróya held its own share of wounded men.  In the palace on the crest of the hill, a royal prince found the solace of opium-tinged wine, as well.  Dapashánda's right, sword-bearing arm was thickly wrapped in blood-stained linen.  With his left hand he clumsily dipped his wine-cup, again and again, in a wide-brimmed bowl.  When the bowl was empty, he called on his serving women to fill it again, mixing water and wine and the bitter essence of poppies.
     
    In a large room centered on a massive, stone hearth, the prince sat in a wooden chair, listening as his father held a council.  The king slumped on his throne, his white hair disheveled, his long robes torn and dirty.  With tear-dimmed eyes, the old monarch watched as younger men argued around him, debating the future of Tróya.  Along the walls sat the men of high rank, Tróyan elders and princes, and troop commanders from allied kingdoms.  They dressed in long-sleeved tunics that fell to their knees or ankles, their feet covered with soft, leather shoes with upturned toes.  Bearded and wearing their hair long, they sat on plaster benches or wooden chairs, draped with sheepkskins, or cushioned with linen pillows, for comfort.
     
    The first speaker was graying, and as ragged as the king on his stone seat.  But his voice was strong and confident as he raised his heavy staff.  "You all know me.  I am Antánor, our lord's oldest son-in-law.  My wife and I mourn the death of her brother, Qántili, as does the whole land of Wilúsiya.  Naturally, we too would prefer to see his death avenged.  No one wants those godless Ak'áyans driven out of the country any more than Laqíqepa and I.  But we must do what is best for the land of Wilúsiya as a whole, not just what the city of Tróya desires."  Angry murmurs began to rise from the men on the benches that lined the walls of the big room.
     
    "My brother Assúwans, listen!  That is not all I have to say," Antánor went on, raising his voice to drown out the others.  Gesturing toward the white-haired man on the throne, he continued, "King Alakshándu assembled a mighty army here, this summer.  The whole continent of Assúwa sided with us against the Ak'áyans.  It was a wondrous thing to see men of every nation, Wilúsiyans, Mírans, Kuwalíyans, Pálayans, and Lúkiyans all fighting as one.  We are grateful to the gods for that.  But let us be realistic.  Despite the size of our combined armies, the battles we fought were inconclusive.  There is no denying that.  Our enemies are just too many