Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze) (14 page)

The assembled travelers glanced at one another, only a few nodding in agreement. “The ‘Elléniya’s spirit?” Diwoméde whispered, more troubled than ever. “I knew Meneláwo was gone, but the queen? Is Ariyádna dead too?”

St’énelo’s sunken eyes widened in alarm. “You must not pronounce that name!” he gasped, making the gesture to ward off the Evil Eye. “She may have been one of those
maináds
who takes a mortal husband from time to time. If so, one of her sisters might still be lingering about this place. We do not want to risk offending a goddess!”

“
Ai
, never mind the queen’s shade or her dead kinfolks,” T’érsite growled. “The living islanders are the ones we need to worry about. They may not approve of us worshipping at their shrine, you know. The danger of angering them is what we had better consider, first of all.”

Ainyáh’s hand went to the amulet at his neck. “Let us forget about ghosts and commoners both. It is the immortal gods who matter. I knew your ‘Elléniya at Tróya, St’énelo. She was nothing but an ordinary woman. It is not fitting that she should be treated with the honor of a goddess.”

“Besides,” Peirít’owo added testily, “she was the cause of Tróya’s war with Ak’áiwiya. Lakedaimón’s dead queen deserves no offering at all. Her adultery is what angered the gods and brought all the disasters that followed.”

“Blasphemy!” St’énelo cried, growing red in the face.

In a moment the group erupted into furious shouting. Fists flew. Knives of yellow metal leapt from men’s scabbards. But, just as quickly, the women fell back from the rest of the group and gathered to one side around Dáuniya. Diwoméde was astounded to see his concubine throw back her head and trill the cry of war and sacrifice, her tongue running rapidly from side to side in a high-pitched, ululating call. To his greater astonishment, the cries and blows subsided instantly.

“Shame on all of you!” Dáuniya shouted angrily. “Have none of you any sense of
aréte
? Have you no honor whatsoever? What about the fine oaths of friendship you swore to one another? Have you forgotten them already? You called upon your own deceased ancestors to witness and enforce those vows, as I recall.
Ai
, what must your poor, dead fathers and grandfathers be thinking of you now, seeing you fighting among yourselves in this way? For what reason have you broken your sacred vows? You are fighting about a war that has been over for a decade, of all ridiculous things!” The men hung their heads, digging their bare toes into the dirt. Many of the women added to their acute discomfort with additional scolding.

“Yes, I told you not to bring that up again!”

“Your father must be groaning and beating his head against the walls of his tomb, the poor man!”

“
Ai,
what a miserable ox-hoof of a son you turned out to be!”

But Dáuniya was not finished. “We came to this island to seek an omen that will govern our whole future,” she reminded them. “Beginnings are vitally important, or did your mothers never tell you that? Signs from the gods are especially significant at such a time. We must do all that we can to ensure ourselves a good fate by behaving properly, by showing ourselves to the gods in a good light. Do you actually
want
them to condemn us? Is that your fondest desire? If that is what you really wish for all of us, then by all means, continue your screaming and fighting! No? Then, keep still, and give St’énelo your attention. He is the closest to a holy man that we have among us. So we must continue to do as he tells us, in all matters of religion. Now, St’énelo, please tell us again. What must we do here?”

Nodding his thanks to the woman, the former charioteer took a deep breath before speaking. “I did not realize how little our Assúwan companions knew of Ak’áiwiya’s history. I will explain everything. It was the ‘Elléniyan queen’s abduction that set the stage for the great conflict that has pitted gods and men against each other these many years. This was foretold by the ancient prophets and everything has come to pass, just as they said it would. We can agree on that, at least. We can also agree that Lakedaimón’s current
wánaks
, Orésta, is as good and just a king as was his uncle, Meneláwo, before him. King Orésta gave many of our company refuge at one time or another, in the last few years. In gratitude, we must show our respect to the sanctity of this place, as this island is still part of Orésta’s domain.”

Askán began to mutter that he, at least, owed nothing to any king of Lakedaimón.

Patiently, St’énelo went on, interrupting the youth. “But there is more here to recognize than past holiness and more to give than just a thank offering. Queen ‘Ermiyóna is no priestess, despite her royal bloodline. I do not mean this as a criticism, so be still, you Lakedaimóniyans. After all, it is only to be expected. Her mother was the greatest and most illustrious in a long line of famous seeresses. That is how Lakedaimón came to have its reputation for sanctity. So, you must wonder why we Lakedaimóniyans, the most religious of people, accepted ‘Ermiyóna as our
wánasha
. It is true that in our parents’ day, my people would have risen up against any king who tried to rule us without a proper priestess at his side.”

“Some of us are not the least bit interested in that sort of thing,” Tushrátta declared with a grunt, sitting cross-legged on the dry earth and crossing his arms on his chest, to demonstrate his thorough disgust with the way things were going.

T’érsite added his agreement. “Some of us are a good deal more interested in whether we are going to have anything to eat tonight.”

The thin, pseudo-priest raised a disapproving eyebrow but insisted on continuing his lengthy speech. “But you see, we Lakedaimóniyans believe that our ‘Elléniya is not really dead. That is the explanation. In fact, most of us believe that both the ‘Elléniya and king Meneláwo are still alive. They just sailed away to the isles of the blessed, in the far west. At the destined completion of time, they will return to Ak’áiwiya and rule us again, once more. When that day comes, it will be a new, golden age. There will finally be enough food for all the people. Rain will fall in abundance in the winter and grain will grow with hardly any effort on our part in the fields. Every ewe will give birth to twin lambs in the spring and the cattle and horses will grow as tall as men! May the gods grant the good king and queen a pleasant existence while they wait! And may the deities permit us a few humbles pleasures in the meantime!”

Ainyáh rolled his eyes and spat. “Superstition!”

St’énelo shook an indignant finger at him. “Watch what you say, mercenary! The ‘Elléniya herself may hear you, or one of Díwo’s other daughters.
Maináds
have been known to take the occasional human husband in the east, too, I happen to know!”

Before Ainyáh could dispute this, Tushrátta stood up and elbowed his way past the other man to grunt, “Very well, all right. No need to take chances when it comes to divinities. Here you go.” He pulled a dark ring from his index finger, tossing it lightly into the air and catching it again with the same hand. “I would prefer to leave this sad, little island immediately. It is probably cursed, just as ‘Ermiyóna claims. But an offering might give us good luck. It cannot harm anyone but the one who makes the offering. I am ready to take my chance at being that one.”

Ainyáh glared at the Lúkiyan for a moment, uncertain whether to argue with him or accuse him of deviousness. Instead, he took off his helmet and turned it upside down. Taking the amulet of blue faience from his neck, he called out to the crowd, “Let us get on with it, then. Choose your tokens.” Touching his amulet briefly to his lips, he dropped it into the head piece. A severe look at Askán kept the boy from doing the same immediately afterward. Each man in the party then began casting about for a small object to symbolize himself. Peirít’owo ostentatiously tossed in a golden thumb-ring. Those who still owned minor ornaments added theirs. The rest were forced to pick up pebbles or bits of broken pottery from the ground, scratching a mark into them to distinguish them with a knife or sharp stick. Once all the tokens were in the helmet, Ainyáh raised it above his head and called out, “Lady of Fortune, make your choice!” He shook the container violently, while the others watched, holding their breaths. Rattling loudly, the markers swirled around and around in the old helmet. A shining ring suddenly tumbled out and the refugees pounced on it in a mass, to see whose it was.

Tushrátta roughly shoved the rest aside and, raising the token high, announced cheerfully, “It is Peirít’owo’s. Bad luck, puppy!”

The Assúwan’s cheer, and especially the roar of laughter that followed, reddened the ears of the lanky Kep’túriyan. “That is not my ring!” he shouted angrily. “It is yours, you lying pirate!”

Tushrátta threw himself on the younger man, his hands at Peirít’owo’s throat. Around the two, other ethnic slurs and general insults erupted. But the women gathered again behind Dáuniya. Once more, her ululating call averted bloodshed. In the volatile atmosphere, Flóra began to cry lustily.

Diwoméde, alone among the men, had taken no part in the fighting. He had not placed a token in the helmet either, as he had not cared where the oracle might bid them sail. But the sound of the child’s crying disturbed him, pulling him out of the dream-like state into which he had earlier retreated. He shook his head slightly, as if he had just woken from a deep sleep. In the brief silence that followed his concubine’s call, he said, on a sudden impulse, “It is my token. I will go to the altar.”

“No!” the young woman gasped, putting her hand to her mouth.

But T’érsite’s eyes twinkled and he beamed proudly at his former commander.
“Ai
, the goddess made a good choice!” he announced in a loud voice.

St’énelo touched his hand to his heart, his forehead, and the sky in a respectful salute.
“Owlé
, Diwoméde. Hail to you,
qasiléyu
. The great
pótniya
has, indeed, chosen well.”

Unnerved by such respectful responses, Diwoméde shuffled his feet, ducking his head and looking down at the ground. Quietly, he asked, “What should I give to the great lady?”

The people had been concerned with the question of whether or not to make an offering at all, and with the choice of a messenger. They had no quick answer to that important question. St’énelo spoke uncertainly. “We have none of the traditional gifts for
maináds
.”

Mélisha somberly agreed. “There is no milk or honey to be had, these days.”

Fretting at the edge of the group, Peirít’owo now pointed out, “We do not have any wheat bread or a suckling pig, either, which is what we usually consecrate to Diwiyána and her maidens. You see, St’énelo, we Kep’túriyans know a thing or two about goddesses, too.”

But the Lakedaimóniyan was too preoccupied to be concerned with the religious competition.
“Owái
, this is not a good sign at all! What will we do?”

T’érsite shrugged irritably. “It seems to me that a handful of barley and a little dried fish is what we have, so that is what we will give. The divinities will just have to understand.”

Askán nodded and, at his father’s gesture, returned to the boats that had carried them ashore for these provisions. Beside the upturned vessels on the beach lay the small pile of trade goods and supplies. The youth opened a grain sack and took a fistful of barley. Dumping it in a small basket, he closed the sack again and rummaged through smaller bags of goatskin for a few dried strips of fish.

“Will that be enough to please the great goddess?” Mélisha wondered aloud, when she saw what Askán brought back to the group.

Dáuniya had stood speechless, looking open-mouthed from Diwoméde to the little girl, who still sobbed in her arms. “I should take the gift to the goddess in his place,” she whispered, half to herself.

But Mélisha hissed back at her, “Do not be foolish. You have Flóra to think about. Have you not yet buried enough children? How can you risk exposing this one to such baleful influences when you lost all those others before her?”

“Wait,” Dáuniya managed to gasp as Diwoméde took the basket from the youth. “I have something more, a bronze mirror, a gift fit for a queen.” Although Mélisha clapped her hands to her head in alarm, the others expressed surprise and pleasure. From its hiding place in the folds of her skirt, Dáuniya brought out her small bundle. Without meeting the older woman’s horrified gaze, she put the thing in Diwoméde’s basket. “Do not look in the mirror, beloved,” she whispered to him, her voice quavering with anxiety. “It would be very bad luck.”

The former
qasiléyu
nodded absently. Without further comment, he headed up the steep path from the water’s edge to the citadel’s main gate.

The heavy oak door still bore signs of scorching from the attack, long ago, when a Tróyan prince had carried off the
wánasha
of the kingdom of Lakedaimón and the holy isle of ‘Elléniya. Diwoméde averted his eyes as he passed the gate, remembering how he had followed Meneláwo up this very hill and through this very gate, the day after that raid. The king had run as if possessed by
dáimons
, shouting his wife’s name. His anguished cries of “Ariyádna!” still seemed to echo in the grim silence, as Diwoméde struggled to climb the hill. He was sure that he could hear the queen’s name in the wind that whistled through the collapsed buildings on every side. The mangled bodies that had once lain about the streets had long since been removed and buried. The dark blood had been washed away by the meager rains of many long winters. But otherwise, the fortress was much as Diwoméde remembered, shattered storage jars strewn about narrow alleyways amid piles of charred wood, just as they had been over a decade earlier. Roofs had fallen in and doors had burned away since that time. But the scorched stone and fire-hardened brick had changed very little with the passing years. A new rain of bits of plaster had fallen from the ceilings and walls of every abandoned room in that period and stayed, lying like a poisonous snow that would never melt upon the ruined benches, the shattered tables, the cold hearths. An air of death was stalking the ruins, a ghostly wolf with fiercely hot breath.