Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze) (37 page)

“I have no doubt of it,” Orésta told him, rather too heartily, clapping him on the back. “One day, your grandchildren will sing of the third Tróya, a city built by the Divine Horse himself, an impregnable fortress that will stand forever.” The two entered the log building, closing the door behind them.

Diwoméde and Ainyáh stared at each other in disbelief for a long, silent moment. The older man opened his mouth, but had no time to speak. Dáuniya suddenly emerged from Andrómak’e’s chamber with Flóra on her hip. In a whisper, she spoke to Sqamándriyo, who followed her closely. “Do not worry about your mother,” the woman told the youth. “She will be all right in time. Now, you must find a place to hide until we can sail away from here.” Not seeing the two men sitting beside the door, the teenager and the Italian woman headed toward the main gate of the village.

Ainyáh noted Diwoméde’s gaze following the departing pair. When the two refugees were alone again, in the narrow passageway between the village buildings, the Kanaqániyan spoke. His voice was low as if he wanted no one else to hear, though his glance had already assured him that no one else was around. “She was his nursemaid for awhile,” he told Diwoméde, indicating Sqamándriyo with a motion of his head. “Did you know?”

The
qasiléyu’s
dark eyes widened with surprise. “No, I did not. When was that? Before the Tróyan war? The boy was only a baby when the city fell, was he not?”

The older man nodded, taking up a pebble from the earth and idly rubbing the dirt from it with his thumb. “Your woman was called Kareshátta then. Every captive from the
ítalo
land makes up a name, I understand. They consider it unlucky for an enemy to know their true name.
Ai
, they are superstitious barbarians, all of them. But they raise good cattle. The women are strong, too.”

He began tossing the pebble and catching it with the same hand. “Andrómak’e was always fond of that girl. She made her husband promise to make Kareshátta their child’s nursemaid. He was none too pleased at the notion. Qántili never trusted foreign slaves. But he did whatever Andrómak’e asked. Eh, almost anything. She asked him not to fight…” He fell silent, brooding on the memory of his dead kinsman.

Diwoméde bit his lip, uncertain whether to ask the question that was on his mind, hesitant to rouse Ainyáh from his somber reverie. He caught bits of dirt between his finger and thumb, spreading them about the hard ground, mulling various possibilities in his mind. “Did she,” he began, after a moment, “I mean, did you…or Qántili…”

With a humorless laugh, Ainyáh turned to face the
qasiléyu
directly. “No, I did not sleep with her. Neither did Qántili. Unlike other men, we loved our wives. A rare quality, that.” Seeing the other man’s face darken with embarrassment, the Kanaqániyan went on, “Your Kareshátta had only one real love in Tróya. She was raped by several of Paqúr’s men when we first took her from the
ítalo
country, of course, even though she was just a small girl then. That goes without saying. But, as far as I know, the only Tróyan she willingly lay with was one of the king’s nephews. Kareshátta could never pronounce his name properly. She called him Tróylu. She said it meant ‘dear, young Tróyan.’ Slave or no, she could wind that boy around her little finger. He was taken captive when your champion offended the river god and caused him to overflow his banks.”

“I remember,” Diwoméde whispered, shutting his eyes. “That champion as you call him was Ak’illéyu. He was a madman, by the gods! We lost hundreds of men in that war and none got more than a token funeral. But when Ak’illéyu’s kinsman died, we had to hold a ceremony fit for a great
wánaks
! Or, perhaps it was a ritual fit for a
dáimon
, I should say. That T’eshalíyan insisted on sacrificing not just dogs and horses, but men, living men! If king Meneláwo had not stopped him, he would have slit the throat of one man for every month of the year, a full twelve Wilúsiyans!”

Ainyáh grunted. “I know the story. St’énelo never tires of repeating it. But I was speaking of Kareshátta. T’érsite was the Ak’áyan who took her captive. He did not even rape her once, she says. He gave her to another of those feather-headed
P’ilístas
, a less disreputable character than your Ak’illéyu.”

“He was not
my
Ak’illéyu,” Diwoméde hastened to say, quite irritated at the implications of the phrase. “He was no Argive. Nor was he a kinsman of mine. I advised Agamémnon to forget about him, many times, even when all the other kings and
qasiléyus
were begging for his help.”

The Kanaqániyan made a sour face. “It is too bad that your king did not listen to you. But I have noticed that Argive commanders rarely listen to reason.
Ai
, do not bother arguing with me. I have had my fill of dead warriors, regardless of their nationality. I only meant to tell you about your concubine. Kareshátta knew that her lover was due to be sacrificed. She says that she tried to save his life, praising her Tróylu’s good looks to her new master, hoping to inflame his lust. Evidently the man liked what she had to say and wanted the boy for a bed mate, all right. He even spoke to Ak’illéyu, offering to trade a hefty pile of bronze armaments for him. But it proved futile. The boy died just the same. So, that is the extent of your woman’s experiences with other men. I do not believe that she cared especially for her so-called Tróylu, despite the pet name. Still, to hear her tell it, his death is what convinced her to think about a child to ensure her own future. It reaffirmed her desire to leave Wilúsiya, too, though I fail to see why.”

Diwoméde stared at the ground between his feet, unsure what to think of what Ainyáh had told him. He felt certain that the aging mercenary was implying that Dáuniya was only using him, now, a tool for obtaining that child and a means of transport to her home. But her words and actions told him otherwise. Was it just Ainyáh’s bitterness that made him so suspicious of the Italian woman’s motives? Or had the Kanaqániyan learned something more, something he still kept to himself, that Diwoméde did not know about Dáuniya?

After a long pause, Ainyáh added, “She also claims that she chose you out of all the Ak’áyans for her new master.” He laughed dryly, finding it hard to believe. “Did you know that? She tells everyone that you were the best man in the whole Ak’áyan army. A bit arrogant for a mere concubine, I would say, especially considering the fact that she was not a virgin when she came to you.”

The
qasiléyu
shrugged, making a big show of it so that the older man would think that he was unaffected by the new information. “She is an unusual woman, I admit, but I would not say arrogant. As for virginity, I have learned what slavery is like. I do not hold that against her.”

The Kanaqániyan again laughed briefly in disbelief. “You do not mean to say that your Mízriyan master took you to his bed!”

“No!” Diwoméde snapped, frowning at the earth. “But in Libúwa my master’s daughter…”

The Kanaqániyan’s harsh laughter stopped him. “You! A hairy beast like you, with that Libuwan beauty?” Only the sudden reappearance of the two kings kept Diwoméde from going for his throat.

“By all the gods and goddesses!” Érinu cried, flinging the door open and unwittingly cracking Ainyáh in the face with it. “I can divine the will of any deity, find lost sheep in the mountains without looking for them, discover the shape of past and future in the entrails of a sacrificial lamb, but nothing can reveal to me the depths of a mortal woman’s soul! First, she was raving about my plans for the future war. Now that all those plans have changed, she is wailing like a mad woman about peace! There is no pleasing her.”

Orésta put his strong arm over the older man’s shoulders, shaking his own graying locks. “That is just the way women are, I suppose. Perhaps they were not meant to be calm and reasonable, like we are.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ZEYUGELAYA

The last days of summer were busier than usual for the gathered folk in and about Érinu’s hilltop fort. There were countless brawls, between the Ak’áyans and the Párpariyans, and between the Assúwans against both the other groups. Within each ethnic group there were other quarrels, some between the young and their elders, and others between those who had been warriors at one time versus those who had merely been farmers or herdsmen. As the first month of autumn approached, the Párpariyan shepherds brought their flocks down from the steep, green mountainsides to the narrow valley floor. Each arrival received the news of the unprecedented peace treaty along with an immediate demand for his opinion of it. The mood of the public changed day by day, sometimes suspicious, opposed to the new peace plan, at other times more hopeful, supporting the new initiative as the best hope for a good future.

Early on, it became clear that the womenfolk approved, by and large, of the kings’ bargain, regardless of their nationality or social standing. However, encumbered as they were by the incessant demands of childcare, spinning, and grinding dried grain into flour, they were usually outnumbered in any confrontation. In practical terms, it meant that they were easily shouted down when the treaty was discussed. This deficit was soon remedied, however, as only a few of the refugees opposed peace, even among the men. T’érsite and Tushrátta quickly made that clear with their bellowing voices. Lacking the distraction of daily duties, they spent their time going busily from one place to another as various groups of men collected day to day. Still, their task was not simple. The two men found themselves strongly opposed by a large faction of Ak’áyans under Odushéyu’s leadership. The exiled king was not widely admired, by any means. His former status nevertheless gave him the respect of the few surviving veterans of the Tróyan war, and they, in turn, commanded the respect of others.

T’érsite pointed out to all and sundry that he, too, had fought in that famous campaign. Other veterans occasionally recalled that he had been there, but they also remembered his low rank as a mere foot soldier – and not a particularly good one at that. Odushéyu, on the other hand, had been a notable leader. He had gone to Assúwa as a
wánaks
, admittedly ruling only a small, impoverished, nation of islands. But he had returned home covered in glory, as commander of the smaller kingdoms of the
Zeyugeláyan
mainland as well. He had even drawn the loyalties of a few Lakedaimóniyans and Mesheníyans.

T’érsite called on Diwoméde to join ranks with him and with Tushrátta, to remedy this difficulty. But the
qasiléyu
proved a reluctant supporter. “I have no quarrel with Orésta’s plan,” the younger man told his adopted uncle quietly. “But we will need every strong arm that we can recruit when we set sail, next summer. If I speak against any veterans now, I will only alienate them. They will probably nurse a grudge all winter and refuse to join us next year, when we need them.”

“
Ai gar,”
T’érsite groaned, gripping hanks of his sparse hair, “do you not see? If too many turn against peace now, we will not be able to leave here at all! Tushrátta fought at Tróya too, but we can hardly point him out, can we? He was a Tróyan ally! If we fail here on this hilltop, what will become of our group? We are Argives, you and I, and that makes us Érinu’s enemies, if he and Orésta end up going to war.”

Diwoméde only stared at the ground, running his fingers through his own growing locks, trying to think of another alternative. “What about St’énelo? He was Meneláwo’s master of horses. That is a good rank.”

The older man only groaned more loudly, shaking his head. “He is much too sick to do any speech-making now. He is nearly bent double with pains and cannot even stand up. Besides, there is not a bit of meat left on his bones. He will need a long rest with plenty to eat and drink if he is even to survive to next summer. I do not think that is likely.”

The
qasiléyu
started in surprise at that description.
“Idé
, I did not realize it was that bad.” He frowned, rubbing his black beard. “How about Dáuniya?”

Again, T’érsite was adamantly opposed. “No, it cannot be a woman now. The women were the drivers of our expedition until we got here. That has changed now. Their very solidarity is hurting the whole idea of peace as far as the men are concerned. The veterans are making it an issue of dominance. The tribesmen have to stand up to their wives. It is a matter of manhood, they say. In fact, just yesterday, I was urging Dáuniya to get the women to stay out of the public discussion entirely.”

Diwoméde was troubled, but, argue as he might, T’érsite could not convince the
qasiléyu
to speak up. Nor did Tushrátta succeed in enlisting Ainyáh’s active support. Dáuniya, however, did listen. As asked, she encouraged the other women to hold their tongues and keep to their daily tasks, trusting in the goddess to turn the hearts of their men in the proper direction. So they did, returning to their endless routine of grinding and sifting the grain to make bread. The refugees toiled alongside their Párpariyan sisters in the small, fertile lowlands, as well. With bronze hoes and many prayers, they tilled the earth for the annual sowing of barley. Only in private did they whisper to their husbands and brothers a few heart-felt words about the treaty.