A wedding is the worst day in every man's life, especially when you haven't seen the bride yet but know for sure she's very skilled at making fabrics and embroidery.
This virtue, in addition to good family and a sturdy rear end, was considered fundamental when choosing a wife for a future son, so father looked at me in bewilderment, and a silent question froze in his eyes: what the hell else do you need?
Look how I tried for you.
I really had nothing to object to that. Anchises had fulfilled his duty as customs prescribed.
Here, in this society, everything obeyed rules going back into the mists of time. And if an action conformed to customs, it was good, and vice versa.
For example, stealing other people's women on the shore, raping them and then selling them—that was good. Grandfathers and great-grandfathers did that, which meant we shouldn't lag behind them.
From our side came two dozen chariots with close relatives and a small herd of horses, which represented the bride price.
Quite a lot! You could outfit five teams.
My father-in-law was clever, understanding that the world had started moving and there'd be lots of fighting.
For some reason I thought Troy's residents would greet us with flowers, lining the road, but reality was cruel to us.
Nobody gave a crap about our solemn procession. They just followed us with long looks and turned away, forgetting immediately.
This wasn't backwater Dardanus where there'd be enough talk about this for a year.
That same hall where I'd already been was packed today.
The king's daughter's wedding, just think!
That's what I thought at first, but then I learned the bitter truth. The thing was, Priam's total number of children had well exceeded fifty, so today's feast didn't qualify as the event of the century.
Just another excuse to drink, eat and chat with respectable people.
There was no TV here, no newspapers, but you needed to know the news. And when your conversation partner was drunk, he'd talk more.
A long U-shaped table was loaded with wine jugs, dishes of meat and poultry, piled with fresh flatbreads and fruit.
Servants in fancy clothes lined the walls, motionless as stone statues. Bronze lamps as tall as a man stood every five paces, all filled with oil and cheerfully smoking, illuminating our feast.
There was no haute cuisine here.
Yeah, Troy was rich, but it was just one of dozens of principalities into which the realm of the king of kings Suppiluliuma was divided.
They didn't eat flamingo tongues here, moray livers fattened on slaves, and dormice in honey. Here if a flamingo was unlucky enough to fly through our parts, it was served separately, and honey separately.
We disdained rodents, and threw bird heads to dogs and slaves along with tongues.
That's why roast lamb and pork sprinkled with local herbs and crushed garlic was considered food of the gods here.
In the Lower City that sprawled at the foot of the royal citadel, people dreamed of stale flatbread.
The invited stuffed their bellies, and the servants standing along the walls swallowed gathering saliva and dreamed of that sweet moment when the guests would finally leave and they could finish what was on the table.
In the corner sat musicians. They tormented something stringed made from a turtle shell and ox sinews, extracting drawn-out sounds. Next to them were flutists extracting sounds no less mournful.
Without a conductor or sheet music, all this slightly resembled a cat concert.
But I liked even this. Wandering musicians who moonlighted in petty trade and theft when the opportunity presented itself were no small outlet in this life.
My bride sat nearby, covered with a veil, under which I couldn't make out anything even if you killed me.
The size of her main asset, her rear end, also remained unclear, because I saw the same thing as everyone else: an embroidered floor-length dress, a dense veil protecting the young woman from the evil eye, and a substantial amount of jewelry on her head, neck and ears.
"Creusa!" I whispered and lightly squeezed the thin icy fingers. "Can you hear me?"
She barely noticeably shook her head, jingling the gold of massive earrings.
She heard.
"Are you hungry?"
"I am," I heard her whisper. "Very! But I can't."
So, two more facts were added to the piggy bank of knowledge about my own wife.
She wasn't deaf and could talk. Not bad, though silent wives were valued more here.
I broke off a piece of flatbread and discreetly stuck it in her hand.
She shook her head: can't.
Well, can't means can't. I dipped the flatbread in meat juice and ate it with pleasure.
Customs didn't prescribe suffering for me.
A stocky fat man with a bushy pitch-black beard and massive nose stood and raised a cup.
Over a snow-white tunic he wore a second cloak, so garish my eyes started to hurt. I'd seen something similar once infinitely long ago at Charles de Gaulle airport. That's when they were checking in a flight to Mali.
Here too, insanely bright colors weren't considered a sure sign of a pleb, but incredible beauty.
That refined luxury of clothing that once existed in Minoan Crete was completely gone. Morals had become coarser, and tastes simpler.
This guest had a dozen bracelets on his arms and a gold chain around his neck capable of holding a maddened mastiff.
It wasn't customary to be modest here—on the contrary, wealth was displayed, worn on oneself.
The East...
"...Happiness to the beautiful bride and brave groom!" the guest finished his toast and presented as a gift a box of ebony wood filled with silver rings.
However! Though this was a gift from the entire merchant class, not from him personally.
After that I lost interest in what was happening, just responded to toasts, accepted gifts and gave gifts in return, counting the minutes until this day would end.
"You and your wife can leave," father leaned toward me when the light tipsy animation in the hall had turned into drunken debauchery.
King Priam, who was sober as glass, wasn't wasting time. He listened to one guest, then another, then a third, graciously nodding his towering tiara.
He didn't give a crap about me or his own daughter. He was solving serious issues while people had softened up after pouring a jug of wine into themselves.
I stood, and after me stood Creusa, who accompanied by slave women went down a long corridor whose stone walls were plastered with lime.
There were no paintings here, and why would there be? Strangers never came here, so there was nobody to impress.
An old slave woman with a bow opened the door before us, and I entered the chambers where I'd spend my first wedding night.
The slave women lit lamps that illuminated a room decorated with garlands of flowers. They covered the bed standing by the wall with an embroidered blanket, and on the table nearby placed a jug of wine and two silver cups.
Then they brought in several trays laden with food, and only after that everyone left with bows, tightly closing the carved doors behind them.