Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze) (17 page)

“
Owái
, no, no, you are mistaken,” Odushéyu answered quickly, forgetting his wound. Cringing before T’érsite, he wailed, “No, I only resemble that godlike man! Such a misfortune, not to be him! My name is Ak’aiméne and I am a wandering minstrel, a singer of tales.”

“No, you are Odushéyu, as sure as I am standing here,” T’érsite guffawed. “You have lost a few teeth since I saw you last. But I would know that ugly face anywhere. Look here, St’énelo, is this not Odushéyu?”

“Ak’aiméne, I tell you, I am Ak’aiméne. I swear it by the very head of Díwo himself,
wánaks
among the gods!” the old pirate insisted, raising both of his hands to the sky. Around him, the refugees moved in closer, looking him up and down.

Tushrátta squinted into his face, muttering to himself, “It certainly sounds like that old pirate and looks like his bald head…”

“Odushéyu he certainly is,” St’énelo announced more loudly, pronouncing the name with conspicuous distaste.

“He looks like something the domestic weasel would drag in, half eaten,” Mélisha decided, bringing a round of laughs from the group. “But he is none other than Odushéyu.”

Dáuniya also nodded, agreeing, “Of that I am sure.”

“It is Odushéyu in truth and I am going to kill him before the sun sets!” Ainyáh declared, wiping at the blood that still dripped from his newly broken nose. Still somewhat unsteady on his feet, he lunged toward the former king a second time.

But T’érsite caught him and wrested the dagger from his hand. “No vengeance on this island. We all took oaths.” Other men moved in to help him separate the adversaries.

“I agree to no more revenge, just as soon as I slit the throat of this particular coward!” Ainyáh growled between clenched teeth, still wrestling with T’érsite.

“Let him do it,” Diwoméde urged quietly. Stepping forward he repeated more loudly, “Let Ainyáh kill the It’ákan dog.”

“No!” cried a chorus of women’s voices, Dáuniya’s most prominent among them.

“You did not know about this, Diwoméde,” T’érsite explained apologetically,” but we all took oaths before we went to Kep’túr, that we would put aside every call for revenge. We agreed that we had to join forces in order to find a new home for ourselves. No one can survive alone in these uncertain times. The only way we could get this large a group together, joining the fates of such a variety of nations, was to renounce every claim for vengeance. Otherwise, we would have been so busy killing one another, we would have wiped out our whole group just fighting among ourselves!”

Ainyáh shook himself free of the restraining hands. “When I swore myself to peace, I did not know that I would see this particular piece of filth again. He is the one Ak’áyan who is most responsible for the fall of Tróya and the death of my wife. My oath does not apply to him.”

“In that case, the oath I took does not apply to you, mercenary,” said a tall youth at the Kanaqániyan’s elbow. “You know me only as the Qérayan. But I am Telepínu, Odushéyu’s son. I am not proud of that connection. But if you kill my father, I will have to kill you, Ainyáh. My blood and my honor will require it.”

“You! Kill me?” Ainyáh scoffed. “You could not do that, if I fought you with both of my hands tied behind my back! I would kick your foolish head in before you could even draw your knife.”

“If you do that, I will cut your throat, you arrogant mule!” Peirít’owo cried. “Qérayan is my kinsman. My oldest brother married his sister.”

Dáuniya interrupted before Ainyáh could respond. “There, do you see?” she demanded. “That is exactly why we all took that oath. Everyone here has a complaint against someone! But, if one man kills another, then the dead man’s relatives must have the blood of the murderer. Then the dead killer’s family will have to respond, in turn. So it goes, on and on, without end. The only way to stop the cycle of revenge is simply to stop! Not one last killing will be allowed, not one. Just stop!” She glared around at the men. At her side, the women loudly called out their assent.

“Very well, I will honor my oath,” groused Ainyáh, retaking his dagger and shoving it back into the ragged scabbard at his hip. “But Diwoméde must swear as well now.”

Besides his father, Askán frowned. “What good is that? He already owes both his life and his liberty to us.”

“No, Askán, your father is right,” St’énelo quickly agreed. “Swear,
qasiléyu
. Vow that you renounce revenge.”

Diwoméde averted his eyes, hesitating.

“Please,” said Dáuniya, her voice softer than before. “Do it for me, beloved. Do it for Flóra.”

He could not meet her gaze. Still, he could bring himself to go against her, either. Quietly, resignedly, he said, “I renounce vengeance. I swear it by the hearth of my…”

“Not that,” Ainyáh snapped curtly. “You have no hearth or home now. You cannot swear by that.”

“And no calling on Díwo’s head, either,” Askán chimed in, standing on tiptoe to make himself appear taller and more formidable. “We Assúwans do not recognize foreign gods.”

Diwoméde bit his lip, remaining silent. His skin crawled as he felt all their eyes on him. What was left to invoke? Only the most solemn oath of all, the foul waters of the Stuks, the river that the dead must cross to enter the land of ‘Aidé. He knew that was what they were waiting to hear, but he did not care to pronounce that name.

“Swear by the souls of your ancestors,” Dáuniya told him gently. “That is the one oath that men of all nations agree on.”

Diwoméde’s spirits shrank at the thought of his dead kinsmen. He closed his eyes, trying to block the images that came, unbidden, to his mind. He pictured Tudéyu, the man who had raised him as his son, his mother’s husband. His eyes bleary with undiluted wine, as in life, the grizzled apparition demanded roughly, ‘What do want of me, bastard?’ The Stuks would not have pierced him to the heart as this vision did. Agamémnon’s ruddy features quickly replaced Tudéyu’s, in Diwoméde’s troubled mind. His eyes heavy with care, the former king had once called him ‘son’ and entrusted him with a dangerous mission, while the army had remained stalled before Tróya. That dark night, Diwoméde had earned his heart’s desire, his true father’s respect and gratitude. But all that had slipped through his fingers before the year had ended. Imprisoned in Attika, Diwoméde had not been at his father’s side when Agamémnon had most needed him. ‘I needed your sword to protect me and all I got was my cousin’s dagger in my heart,’ the apparition seemed to say, staring through his soul with accusing eyes.

A decade later, Meneláwo had followed his older brother to ‘Aidé and in that, too, Diwoméde felt that he had failed a kinsman, his uncle. The muddy water of Mízriya’s great river had closed over his uncle, whom he had come to know better than either man whom he could call ‘father.’ Why had that most honorable of kings drowned, when lesser men survived? Diwoméde could not understand why the goddess who spun men’s fates like a woolen thread would make such a dishonorable choice for such a good man. Nor could he imagine why he himself, a bastard and a mere
qasiléyu
, had been fished from the water to survive and become a slave, when greater kings had died. The thought of Meneláwo’s soul roaming forever in torment, unburied and unwept, stung his heart most of all. “By all the gods,” he whispered, fighting back tears.

Misunderstanding, Ainyáh growled, “Not by the gods! Did you not hear? We Assúwans do not trust your gods! Or are you too stupid to understand that?”

Dáuniya came to Diwoméde’s side and laid a hand on his arm with as great care as when he was first wounded, long years before. “Swear by the souls of your ancestors, beloved.”

“I swear it,” he gasped, his lips trembling. Without another glance at anyone, he brushed past the woman, leaving the group for the deserted shoreline farther down. Dáuniya gave Flóra a little push in the direction of Mélisha and scurried after him.

Ignoring their departure, St’énelo called out, highly annoyed, “Odushéyu will have to take the oath, too, if he is going to join us.”

“Join us! That pirate? Never!” Ainyáh was so furious he was spitting.

But the former king was only to happy to respond.
“Ai
, yes, certainly, I do swear to renounce any and all calls for vengeance against any man, by the souls of every last one of my great and illustrious ancestors. Yes, that is my vow. They all had much kinder fates than mine! But now, what is this about a Qérayan who claims to be my son? Qéra is scarcely an island.
Ai
, it is a mere rock! I have been there once or twice, I will admit. But it is much closer to Kep’túr than to my poor, little islands, far in the west. If the boy is any king’s bastard, he is probably Idomenéyu’s.”

Peirít’owo was instantly incensed. “That is a lie! You may have bedded gullible women all around the Inner Sea, but my father was a good man and he always honored my mother!”

“Gullible women!” the Qérayan cried, his face darkening. “Are you insulting my mother?” Furious shouts erupted from all sides of the crowd.

Although it seemed to drive sharp pins through his bad foot to go so quickly, Diwoméde moved as fast as he could down the coastline, away from the assembled travelers. Dáuniya was unable to overtake her lover until he was well down the beach. “Wait, beloved, wait,” his concubine urged breathlessly, as she caught up with him. When he still did not slacken his pace, she threw her arms around him, gripping him tightly. He stopped his flight at that, but did not return her embrace. “I understand how you feel,” she whispered. “The oath pained you. You are mourning your lost kinsmen.” She pressed him closer to her. “But you are not alone, beloved. We have all suffered. We all have someone to mourn.”

Overcome by a wave of anguish, Diwoméde groaned and dropped to the rocky ground.
“Ai
, by the mother of all the gods!” he wept. “While I was in captivity, all I wanted was to be free, and to have you and T’érsite beside me. But, now that I have that, all I feel is grief. What is wrong with me?”

Dáuniya knelt beside him, the bright tears brimming in her own eyes. “It will get better,” she murmured, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his chin, and finally his lips. “It will not always hurt this way.” He laid his head on her shoulder and let her rock him in her arms. It was little comfort.

In silence, the two sat side by side for a time, until Flóra came toddling up the shoreline, squawking all the way. As the girl neared them, Dáuniya gestured toward the band of travelers still milling about down the beach. “Go back, Flóra. Go to Auntie Mélisha. Go on, now.”

“No,” Flóra answered firmly, halting just out of Dáuniya’s reach. “Mama.”

“Mama’s busy,” Dáuniya told her, reaching for the child’s chubby arm.

“No,” Flóra repeated, hopping away. Her pale eyes fell on Diwoméde’s face and he looked away. The little girl put a finger in her mouth, staring solemnly at him for a moment. “Cry,” she announced sagely, addressing her mother.

“Yes, Papa is crying. Now, go to Auntie Mélisha.”

Flóra did not even bother to refuse, this time. She padded around to Diwoméde’s side, carefully staying just out of Dáuniya’s reach. The little girl bent and kissed Diwoméde’s knotted shoulder. “Kiss,” the child told him, squatting so that she could look directly in his surprised face. “All better?”

Dáuniya began to laugh, in spite of her annoyance at her daughter’s disobedience. “Come here, you silly girl. Papa’s shoulder is not hurting.”

As the woman reached for her, Flóra tucked her plump arms behind her back so that she would not be picked up. “Kiss. Hurt. All better.”

“All right, you win,” her mother agreed, still smiling. “You kissed your papa’s hurt and it is all better now.”

“All better,” Flóra repeated for emphasis. “Hurt. Kiss.”

Diwoméde watched as Dáuniya picked up the little girl. A few days ago he had not known of Flóra’s existence. Even now, he could not believe that she was his. But, whether it was true or not, it felt quite odd to be referred to as ‘papa.’

“Papa hurt. Fofo kiss,” the child told her mother, looking down at the man seated on the stony beach.

When he did not speak, Dáuniya repeated, “Yes, Papa was hurt and Flóra kissed him.”

But this was not what the child wanted. “No!” said Flóra loudly. “Papa!”

“She wants you to say it, beloved,” the woman explained, with a hopeful smile. “I am afraid that she can be very headstrong about that sort of thing.”

Uncertainly, Diwoméde stood. Meeting the determined little eyes, he muttered self-consciously, “I was hurt. Flora kissed me.” When he uttered the second phrase, Flóra puckered her rosy lips, leaning toward him. It seemed expected, so he put his lips to hers. She smacked loudly, then pulled back, sticking her finger in her mouth, and turned around to hide her face in Dáuniya’s shoulder.