Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze) (35 page)

Dáuniya frowned especially harshly at the old Kanaqániyan’s final statement. “Did you have to say that?” she hissed. But Andrómak’e had only heard the beginning. Her swollen, reddened eyelids were closed by the time he made his final statement. Exhausted by her long ordeal, she fell into a fitful slumber. Nor did she awaken until late in the evening.

Through that long day, natives and travelers milled restlessly about the fort on the hilltop. A few stalwart herdsmen urged their kinfolk to go about their daily tasks, as if nothing had happened out of the ordinary. Few complied. Lively discussions began in every corner of the village complex. The younger men prepared for battle, dressing in their woolen and leather garments, arming themselves with arrows and javelins. Their elders continued to urge restraint, meanwhile, reminding their hot-headed kinsmen that everyone was still bound to observe the peace because of the presence of sacred laurel boughs. Under that symbol of truce, they would offend both the immortal gods and their own deceased ancestors, if they began a fight. Offended spirits could cause no end of trouble, they pointed out, bringing either too much rain or too little, disease, floods from swollen rivers in springtime, or invading warriors from any direction to pillage their lands. It would not do to upset the unseen realm, even if they had to betray their most powerful leader to keep the dead – and the gods – happy.

The Párpariyan women turned to the newly sown fields, breaking up clods of earth with their hoes, easing the entry of the first green shoots into the cool air. Unnerved by all the talk of war, they took their little children with them to do so, even the youngest of their babies who were still nursing. Readying themselves in this way to take up their little ones and run for the wooded hills, should it prove necessary, they kept an eye out for trouble. Trouble there soon was, both on the hilltops and down the slope by the shore. Shouting matches quickly erupted, one after another, several of them leading to kicks and blows, among the men of the disparate nations. Blades were drawn more than once. Each time, cooler heads prevailed. No blood was spilled. But it was a difficult task to maintain the peace, taking a great deal of effort.

Still, the refugees threw themselves into this task of peace-keeping, as they felt that they had the most to lose if hostilities broke out. They made a point of intervening to prevent violence whenever possible. They defused flaring tempers when they could. When blows were still struck, they separated the combatants quickly. Among the travelers, the women did what they could, no less than the men. The oldest women led anxious prayers to the immortals throughout the daylight hours, hoping against hope that the deities might yet show favor to their worshippers.

Tushrátta sought Diwoméde out of the crowd, close to midday. “I have spoken to several of your Argives, this morning,” the Lúkiyan informed the younger man, glancing from side to side, to ensure that no one would overhear. “It seems that your royal half-brother knew of Érinu’s planned invasion. One of the Ak’áyans or Assúwans staying here must have sent word south before we arrived. This visit from your king is intended to deal with precisely that threat. That is good news.”

The former
qasiléyu
was quite relieved to hear it. That was one problem solved for him. “What do you think the future holds for us?” he asked the older man. “Do you think we will go to war here?”

Tushrátta shrugged. “Érinu used to be fairly sensible, unlike some of his brothers, but that is not true anymore. I do not know this Orésta at all. I am afraid that the matter is up to the goddesses who spin the threads of fate. As for them, my experience has not been auspicious thus far.”

Diwoméde massaged his bad shoulder, throbbing from overwork and too little rest. “Sometimes I think I might as well have stayed in Libúwa. Whenever I begin to think there is reason for hope, the skies turn darker than ever for us. The fate of our group hangs in Díwo’s balance, I suppose. The god has placed strife and bloodshed on the other side of the scale, to weigh against us. One pan will sink, the other rise. Will
areté
prevail? Or is peace still possible?”

“There is no point in talking to me about it,” Tushrátta grunted. “I have no influence, either way. You sound like a singer of tales, with this balance business, anyway, starting an epic song. Maybe some day I will hear the whole sad story. Ainyáh told me that was what you did in Libúwa, sing tales. Was that the truth?”

Diwoméde hung his head, embarrassed at the thought.

The Lúkiyan stretched his arms, making his aging, aching joints pop and crack.
“Ai
, but I am stiff these days! I cannot even remember anymore why I am supposed to hate you Ak’áyans. Odushéyu is not an honorable man, but then, I am no better, I suppose.” He chuckled a little, shaking his head, although the
qasiléyu
saw nothing to laugh at in that remark. “I wish I had listened to your Dáuniya from the beginning. If I had, we would be on our way to the Bull County now, instead of sitting here in this cold place, wallowing in this predicament.”

The younger man nodded ruefully. “Maybe so, but it is too late for that now. All we can do now is try to prevent war from breaking out and wait for the kings to conclude their endless discussions.”

“The
wánaktes
in the longhouse are the ones who wield the real power,” Tushrátta agreed, sighing. “In a sense, you know, Érinu has already achieved his purpose. In effect, he has all of Ak’áiwiya by the throat. In doing that, he might as well say that he is the overlord of Ak’áiwiya. Assúwa too, for all the good it does anyone.”

Diwoméde squinted anxiously at a cluster of shouting Párpariyans higher on the hillside. “True enough,” he sighed. “If he gets his way and we all go to war, he could easily destroy the last cities that are still standing throughout both our lands,” the
qasiléyu
agreed gloomily.

The Lúkiyan kicked at the ground with dirt-encrusted feet. “Ainyáh and I did everything we could to change his mind. By the head of the Storm God himself, I swear his heart is like so much lead!” he complained. “We could not budge him! I just hope that Orésta is better at diplomacy than his father was.”

It was late evening when Érinu and Orésta came, at last, from the chieftain’s longhouse. The two leaders walked past their scattered subjects toward the shore, their peoples following. Divided by ethnic differences, the men and women seated themselves in groups on the sloped above the bank. The Párpariyans settled in one large group, the foreigners clustered in the other group. Everyone waited in fearful silence, anxious to hear what had been decided.

“To avoid bloodshed now and in the future,” Orésta called out in a melodious voice, warmed by the vast quantity of mead he had swallowed, “I, king of the
Zeyugelátes
, and Érinu, paramount chieftain of the Párpariyans and king of the
P’ilístas
, without regard to tribe or clan, have concluded a pact. Érinu’s father and mine fought each other in the great Tróyan war. My father’s army prevailed, bringing every kind of evil on Érinu’s kinsmen. But, in the years that followed, the gods saw fit to return those same evils on the heads of my kinsmen, in turn. We two
wánaktes
are orphans now. We have both suffered hunger, bitterness, and fear. No man can change the past. But we can choose our future path. From this day forward, we proclaim each other kinsmen. We are brothers through shared misfortune, no longer enemies. We renounce the code of vengeance for all time!”

“That cannot be done,” one Párpariyan shepherd objected blandly, pounding the earth with the butt end of his spear for emphasis. “The gods do not allow that sort of thing. They have decreed warfare as the business of men among all tribes and nations. That is the way it has always been and that is the way it will always be.”

“Swine!” Érinu shouted back at him in a voice grown hoarse from overuse. “The great and noble gods did not do this! The deities may withhold the rains or strike us down with plagues, they may shake our houses apart with earthquake or send floodwaters rushing across our fields, from time to time. But it is men, and men alone, who cause war.”

The stocky spearman who had objected before continued to shake his head vigorously. “But, what about our ancestors? Their blood still runs in our veins and it calls for the avenging feud. Blood spilled calls for more blood. That is the meaning of life!”

“Not so!” came a woman’s voice. With slow steps, the old grandmother walked down the low hillside to stand with the kings. “Párpara, you know me. Ak’áiwiya, you have heard of me. I am T’éti, once the queen of T’eshalíya, now only grandmother by adoption to Tróya’s last royal orphans. I am the end of my line, the only high priestess of the old tradition. That status gives me the right to speak in this assembly, even though you may object that I am a mere woman. Listen to me and to your
wánaks
, all of you. We are all children of the same mother, whether we are Ak’áyans, Assúwans, Párpariyans, or T’rákiyans, children of the very same mother, I tell you. Wise women of every nation address the Divine Mother of Waters, whether they call her Diwiyána, Dáwan, or Dodóna. There is only the one Great Lady behind all these names, the source of all the sweet waters, the Divine Milk Cow whose udder created every river at the beginning of the world. Her one daughter rules the land beneath the earth to which we all must go one day. The ancestors of every man, woman, and child are in that dark place, below, at this very moment. Who among you has never lost a mother or a father, a husband or a wife, or a small child? Who among you has no kinsman in the land of dust and shadows? I tell you truthfully, there are no separate tribes in ‘Aidé, no individual kingdoms. I know this from personal experience, for I am a true seeress and I have traveled the River Stuks in many a terrible vision. I tell you, the dead require no blood but that of the lamb and the kid, in the funeral offerings.”

Nodding his thanks, Orésta again addressed the now-buzzing, bustling crowd. “Érinu and I will establish a dual regency to govern our nations,” he announced, his melodious voice soaring bird-like above the hubbub. “In this, we follow the Párpariyan tradition begun long ago, before Ak’áyan or Assúwan ever left the banks of the Okéyano River on the rim of the world to the east, where the Mother Goddess formed them from the clay of the sacred river. The divine twins established this pattern of dual kingship in ancient times, even before the T’rákiyans first journeyed here from the land beyond the North Wind.”

There were murmurs of approval as well as surprise, in that listening crowd. Anything that derived from so venerable a tradition had to have the sanction of the immortal gods, the people told one another. The women, especially, expressed their pleasure. The primeval laws of the Great Lady had been trampled and forgotten for much too long, they noted. Men, for their part, reminded each other that it was said, “In war, the richest lands are made barren; but in peacetime, even the rocks bring forth abundantly.” They had seen the truth of the first half of that statement in abundance in the past decades. It would be good, indeed, to test the veracity of the second half, for a change.

Orésta waited patiently for the talk to die down before continuing. “After our deaths, the people of our lands will choose our successors, either by lot or by vote, as the elders of each nation so desire. However they be chosen, two men of differing parentage will always share the highest rank. One must be taken from among the
Zeyugelátes
of the south, the other from among either the
P’ilístas
or the Párpariyans of the north. These men must also exchange sisters in marriage, to establish a permanent bond of kinship between them.” The southern
wánaks
then fell silent, bowing slightly to Érinu.

The chieftain stepped forward in his turn. In his hoarse and raspy voice, he called out, “Such were the first rulers of our joint lands, Lord Flame and Chief Honor, both sons of Lady Dawn. You have heard the tale of these heroes ever since you were children. The Divine Twins are known in every village north of the Great Green Sea, both on this side of the Inner Sea and on the nobler, Assúwan side where horses grow as tall as a house. Following in this venerable tradition, king Orésta has vowed to turn his southern longboats only toward the far west. He will never raid my fields here in the north again. Nor will he attack any fortress in the east. That is where my ships alone will fare, and then for trading purposes only. I swear to him in return that I will never again attack his holdings in the south. Thus, the world is divided between us, as it was ordained for Lord Flame and Chief Honor, sons of our
Wánaks
of heaven, the great and noble Storm God, Lord Tarqúnt.”

Again, the people on the hillside began to speak all at once, some angrily, some fearfully, others more with delight and hope. “Centuries of enmity cannot be overcome so easily,” Qérayan complained in a loud voice. “The Islands in a Circle have suffered every kind of injury from Ak’áyans and Assúwans both, for innumerable generations. We cannot forgive and forget as easily as that and I cannot believe that Párpariyans will ever agree to live side by side with their traditional enemies, either.”

Peirít’owo came to stand beside the young islander. “You are right. When have Assúwans and Ak’áyans not made war? When the king of Kep’túr is an Assúwan, he oppresses his Ak’áyan subjects on that unhappy island. Then, when the Ak’áyans rule Kep’túr, the Assúwans on the island complain that they are mistreated. No one can please all of the commoners. No, this plan will never work.”