Гарри Тертлдав - The First Heroes

The king worked soothing old men's ruffled feathers,

But who'd soothe his? His issue was, despite

Their civic efforts, one of duty: whether

As subjects they'd obey him, king by right.

They didn't hear his orders—no, not quite;

They listened, but then didn't seem to heed him.

It was as if they didn't really need him.

They did it well—'twas several days, at least,

Until he noticed he had been deflected

To planning the next sacrificial feast

And not the new defense to be erected—

A skill that came from practice: they'd protected

Drones' fragile egos from all things that vex

To keep them trained on their sole purpose—sex.

That's not to say they didn't value

It— Indeed, with drones reserved for royal thirst,

They prized it more because 'twas illegit.

The habits of hands-off were kept at first,

Confusing many men, when they conversed—

They didn't understand that going nude

Says nothing for how easily you're screwed.

But then an ant tried it, and soon all learned

That every woman is a queen to men—

Once homage has been horizontally earned.

They took to having sex like sailors when

On shore leave, if you credit that—but then,

According to the deeply held male credo,

There's nothing, nowhere, stronger than libido:

Sex drives our species: for our procreation,

We do all that we do that is outstanding;

Sex drives our drive for wealth: it marks our station,

And nothing's sexier than social standing;

Sex drives the arts—not just love songs' demanding,

For all the Muses are invoked to aid

Success for artists hoping to get laid;

Sex drives our social structures: "Marry me";

Sex drives our mores: in our mating dance,

Without rules for the steps of he and she

The rituals turn discordant, askance,

As partners lurch about and don't advance—

As soon our sex-mad ingenues found out

When their stumbling turned the ball into a rout.

The girls' miscues were bad enough—their chase

Also tripped on sexual disparity: T

hey had replaced one third the populace

(Those dead or fled), so men were one in three;

While two on one might seem a fantasy,

When the two women both are too voracious

And squabble over you—now that's hellacious.

Their own behavior shocked each myrmidon—

Were not they all from the same city/nest?

Hadn't they worked together, fed the young,

Dug tunnels, gossiped, eaten as a mess,

Defended colony, and all the rest?

As sisters, they were sickened by their fighting,

But shock alone won't make you do the right thing.

Without a queen or history to guide them,

They quarreled—when provoked or just because.

The ones who could have helped now evil-eyed them:

Surviving wives and widows, their angry buzz

Provoked by these replacement thieves of husbands,

widowers, and bachelors—worse, the bitches

Had focused most on those with well-filled britches.

Through all this, reconstruction still proceeded—

The unrest wasn't civil, but erotic—

And yet, the more that Aeacus softly pleaded

For moral self-restraint, the more quixotic

His toothless campaign seemed—and life, chaotic.

He persevered, for he was not a quitter,

But still, at times, he almost could feel bitter.

The worst part was his saviors—all those good,

Hard-working girls—brought this domestic flu,

Infecting subjects with their attitude

Like some new plague—which told him what to do:

The first was cured by gods, so this one too.

But prayers sent to Zeus would here depart amiss—

For these unmarried women, go to Artemis.

The temple of Aphaea on the hill

Was sacred to a nymph who, by that name

Or as Dictynna or another still,

Attended the wild goddess who they claimed

Was that great huntress giving Delos fame—

As Artemis, or also Hecate, Aeginetans revered her specially.

For Greeks, you understand, were not so anal

As all those tidy myths make them appear,

Which turn religion into something banal.

Cults of Olympians were not so dear

As local shrines, or graves that gave them fear—

There is more power in a nearby ghost

Then all the gods of heaven's distant host.

Her temple offered rites of incubation—

That is, a vigil overnight to pray

The goddess helps you with your situation.

The king climbed up the mountain, sans valet,

And after ritual cleansing, groped his way

Into the darkened sanctuary where

He lay upon a deer-hide, solitaire.

He listened in the quiet for her veiled

Small voice—but silent night was too well heard—

The crickets cricked—the nightingales engaled—

The itch was out of reach—at times he stirred

To ease his joints—his focus always blurred.

At last, he found the still point and could keep

Composed enough to hear . . . and fell asleep.

He had no dreams, but, waking—there—a sense

Of what to do, that seemed to linger on.

He left the temple with some confidence

And, slipping past his keepers in the dawn,

He hailed the first new girl he came upon,

The leader of some hunters: "Come with me."

She waved her troop on with alacrity.

Her deference came from, the king inferred,

His air of firm command. But while he'd sought

Some goddess aid, a myrmidon had heard

A townsman call him "Queenie" with a pout.

The word ignited, like a spark in drought,

The tindered consciences of myrmidons:

"A queen? Not drone? He'll know where we've gone wrong!"

He passed throughout the city, picking here

A trainer in the new palaestra, yonder

A wife directing husband-fetching, there

A building foreman, on a harbor wander

A female stevedore, and when he found her

His new ant steward—he pulled this human tide

Up to the temple and locked them all inside.

These leaders made by local acclamation

Were not allowed to leave till they created

An answer for the domestic situation. Thus:

New girls and survivors were equated,

And every man of age to would be mated

To one of each, with this constraint: all three

Must live in mutual fidelity.

Because the tripling method must be fair

To all, before anyone else could try,

The girls had organized a system where

A weighted choice of mate could modify

That first informal rule of thumb, whereby

A husband, if all three of them connived,

Could have two town-or oak-born as his wives.

The news was greeted with relief—for here

Were rules for their sex ratio that seemed

Both equally (un)fair and not austere.

The plan was more complex than the king had dreamed,

But Aeacus could grasp this fact: the scheme

Required king and castle to be listed

Among potential grooms—the girls insisted.

Alas for Aeacus! He'd gotten heirs,

And duty done, he wanted his delayed ease

In arms of—well, in casual affairs;

And now both he and his were given ladies

He'd rather not have—that is—he—oh, Hades!

I see I'll have to tell you all the sordid

Specifics of the household, clearly worded.

I'd hoped to gloss this over, but such is fate.

By now, the chance I'll get a PG-rating

Is slimmer than a draw for inside straight,

What with the girls promiscuously mating,

So there's no point in prudish hesitating—

Besides, a poet who won't tell what's true

Not only lies, but is a scoundrel too.

The king liked boys—or young men, I should say.