Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze) (42 page)

“After all, she was the high priestess of T’eshalíya for most of our lives,” Mélisha pointed out to those who were considering a protest. At that, those few who still had doubts wisely kept them to themselves. There was still the matter of an offering to the gods, which had to precede the omen-taking and crossing, in any case. This topic revived the quarreling that had been quiescent for several days. It was some time before a suitable sacrifice could be settled upon. Peirít’owo astonished the entire company by finally bringing the fractious council to an end, volunteering to hunt for a deer for this most vital ceremony. He promptly set out with the best wishes of everyone present. Askán and Sqamándriyo hurried to gather their own bows and arrows to join him. The three young men were as anxious to be away from the grumbling and shouting as they were to obtain the object of their search – if not more so.

Once the council broke up, T’érsite muttered to Diwoméde, “I hope you know what you are doing. I do not care for that old nag, T’éti, any more than I do for Odushéyu, that lying pirate!”

“Let the high born have their day for now,” the
qasiléyu
quietly urged. “Just wait until we are on Italian soil. Then Dáuniya and I will be able to assert ourselves.”

“And in the meantime?” the older Argive asked unhappily.

“If we are lucky, Odushéyu will make his usual blunders, push his good fortune too far, and make himself so unpopular that everyone will be happy to see the back of him when we reach the
ítalo
land,” Diwoméde answered calmly. “Look, no one has objected to T’éti aloud, not so far. But the Assúwans already have less confidence in her abilities than the Ak’áyans do. You can see it in their eyes whenever she starts talking. A few more remarks about uncivilized barbarians in the east and they will be up in arms. Half of the Ak’áyans are already weary of her complaints about their uncivilized behavior, too. Just be patient.”

Not far from the shore where the refugees had camped stood a grove of oak trees. It was there that T’éti headed, making her way slowly on legs that were stiff from arthritis and from sitting so long in the cramped quarters in which the women crouched all day beneath the rowing benches. She washed her hands and face with water from the local spring and knelt on the soft bank, her hands outstretched, her palms facing upward, prepared to receive the ‘armful’ that the gods might send. Quietly, she called the names of the deities, ending with Poseidáon, lord of the sea,
wánaks
of the gods according to her upbringing. Through the night, from moonrise to moonset, she remained among the trees, alternately chanting and dozing. Exhaustion seemed sure to take her if the god did not.

Well before the sky lightened, when the night was at its darkness, her wide eyes caught the first glimpse of the realm beyond that of mortals. Her voice took on a throaty rumble. She suddenly rose to her feet without a trace of stiffness. Dancing in a spiral, winding around and around, she passed among the oaks on her aged limbs with the grace and freedom of a maiden not yet married. In a rough, hoarse croak, she proclaimed the visions that appeared from beyond the veil. “I see, I see the Divine Horse with his subjects around him. There are the fishes and dolphins, sea-monsters and deceptive
dáimons
of the deep. I hear, I hear the Divine Mare with her subjects around her. They are swimming at her side, half-fish and half-goddess. Yes, I see you, sirens with your deceptive singing, you evil creatures who lure men to certain death! But you will not catch our people on the rocks and shoals that you hide in the midst of your father’s waters. We trespass on your realm, Tet’úwa, but forgive us, Great Lady. Let us pass unharmed, I beg you. Horses we will dedicate to you, I swear it, and chariot races we will hold in your honor, once we reach our new home. The fastest team will be sacrificed in your name.

“
Ai, ai
, the goddess comes, she comes to me, rising from the waves, driving the foam before her. I see, I see Ainyáh’s spirit! He has been journeyeing far from us. He must cross the river beneath the earth, to visit the great lady of the circle and the spiral. There, he will learn the omen that will let us know when we have reached our new home. Is it far? My brother, is it filled with dangers? I cannot hear what the goddess whispers to him.
Owái
, rocks, I see rocks that rise in the heart of the
ítalo
sea! Ships without number have crashed against those wicked altars.
Ai
, monsters with gaping mouths, harpies with human heads and the bodies of carrion birds are flying about.
Ai
, but it is not carrion that they dine on now, but living human flesh!
Owái!

“Goddess, lady, Astárt, if that be your name, let us pass unharmed, I beseech you, I beg you, I implore you! Hear our prayers. We will sacrifice to you whatever you desire, I swear it. I swear it by the very head of Díwo, by the wings of ‘Éra the Divine Dove.
Ai
, what is that sound I hear?
Owái, owái
, the decree of the sea goddess, prophetess of despair, what are these dangers that I see, so many dangers? I see predatory men upon the seas and angry winds, hostile shores where strange peoples slit the throats, not of lambs and kids, but of men, of living Ak’áyans!
Owái, owái
, that is the food of the harpy! No, no, let it not be so! O goddess, send us another fate, spin us a better thread than this, a smooth one without knots or impurities, one nicely made, with slenderness, with easy passage through the needle of life.

“What? What is this that I hear? What strange language is this? Yes, yes, I hear, I hear! Tet’ú, I hear you, Kirkáya, Astárt, I hear your decrees, which are perfect. Your precepts cannot be turned, cannot be doubted. We failed to honor you when we set out on our journey.
Owái, owái
, we have wronged you! Orésta made an offering to your Divine Horse, but he did not pronounce your own exalted name. We will not wall in our city, nor fence in our village until hunger has exacted of us the blood-price that the Divine Lady Sea demands as payment for that crime. If we are not to perish in the waves, then famine will overtake us on the land. We will devour the very dishes that our food rests upon before we settle where the land is green.

“
Owái, owái
, then will nothing sway your angry heart? Is it the end of the world, the end of an age, as the prophetess foretold? The day of gold has gone, the time of silver has gone, the age of copper and tin has passed away. I see a new dawn rising from the salt waters, its metal shield hard and bright, shining and rough, never to be fully tamed. It is Black Bronze, the hard and cruel metal that cannot be melted that lies before us, a sword cast from its length, a shield hammered out from its width. Strength and glory are yours, O Great Sea, with this weapon on your hand!
Owái, owái
, but the sword blade cuts both ways, my Lady, O
Pótniya
. With strength goes cruelty, with glory comes atrocity upon atrocity…I am sinking…”

Just as the women were carrying T’éti’s limp body back to the camp, dawn’s first glorious streaks appeared above the eastern mountains. As the adults were saluting the light, Peirit’owo and his little band appeared out of the trees. A doe lay draped over the oldest youth’s shoulder, an arrow still in its heart. “I got it with my first shot!” he exulted breathlessly. “Praise Artémito! What an incredible omen!”

Voices erupted at once into loud, passionate argument. T’éti’s omen had seemed clear and grim enough to delay the crossing. But the deer’s death was equally obvious and the number now pressing for them to sail immediately was large and growing. Odushéyu strode through the crowd, shoving men and women aside with his strong arms, bellowing demands for silence. When the hubbub began to die down, he stood with his barrel chest thrust forward and his hands on his hips. “Our situation and these signs are perfectly clear to me. The reason for our former leader’s illness is the anger of the sea goddess. She demanded a human sacrifice.” Out-shouting the first horrified, angry objections, he went on, “But the untamed goddess offered her doe as a substitute, do you not see? T’éti is temporarily incapacitated, so, as her husband, I will take her place and complete the offerings and prayers, and so on and so forth. Make yourself useful there, T’érsite, and stir up those embers! We need a good, roaring fire right away to burn the doe’s fat, sending it to the spirit world, in the smoke. You there, Qérayan, as my son, you will act as my first
qasiléyu
. Get your knife and skin the dead beast, that is to say, I mean this noble, sacrificial beast. You women, stop your mindless gawking and get this meat cooking as soon as my son gives it to you. Rejoice, everyone, we will have a decent meal instead of porridge, this morning!”

As they set sail, still fearful but hopeful as well, every man and woman, every child old enough to recite a prayer, made what promises to a god and goddess that he or she could think of, suggesting that they would eventually fulfill these once they reached the other side of the waters and had the wherewithal to do so – there had been no time to make much of an offering beyond the deer’s meager kidney fat on shore ahead of time. Setting off with full bellies heartened the men at the oars and they rowed more vigorously than they had in some time, as the ships’ prows pointed once more toward the west. Crouching in the holds of the ships, the minds of the women, the children and the men who were too old to row were filled with foreboding, however. The threat of human sacrifice earlier in the day had chilled them to the very marrow. Children were usually the first to lose their lives when such dire remedies were called for. If a child did not die and only an adult would do, young women were most at risk. It was impossible not to brood on what had almost happened – what might yet happen if the day turned out badly.

In Tushrátta’s ship, Ilishabát’s composure crumbled. That day, she kept her children closer than usual, refusing ‘Iqodámeya’s offers to help her with little Yúlu. Her daughter, Hányah, had wandered about in a daze after the traumatic events in Kanaqán and Aláshiyah. Ilishabát, lost in her own grief at the time, had been content to let the child continue in that state. But now, mother and daughter clung to each other with desperate strength. As Ainyáh lay deathly ill, they had only the youthful Askán to turn to for protection, should the Ak’áyans turn again them and he seemed a poor balwark against harm among that unruly mob. “Do not worry, Hányah,” the frightened woman whispered every so often to her older child. “Askán is your cousin. He will marry you in this
ítalo
country we are going to. He will support me in my old age, if Il wills it.”

“Inshiláh,” Hányah mouthed in response, “If Il wills it.”

In the cramped hull of Diwoméde’s ship, St’énelo had lain seriously ill throughout the journey. His eyes seldom opened more than halfway. Even then he saw nothing except during brief moments. Passing in and out of awareness, he seemed always confused. He mistook Dáuniya for his wife, dead for many years. He called her little daughter ‘Ermiyóna, the name of the child of his deceased king, a girl who had grown up several years ago and had since born children herself. More often, his voice failed him completely. Even his breath struggled, rumbling as it came from his lungs as if there were many obstacles in its pathway. He coughed almost constantly and lay curled up on his side in pain. Like Ainyáh, he could consume only the thinnest porridge, and little enough of that.

Odushéyu now took over the steering oar of the lead ship with the
qasiléyu
so that both men would have time to rest. As they crossed the last waters to the new Zeyugeláya’s coast, the former charioteer awoke from the dim nether region where he had been dreaming, through most of the preceding days. Coming down to sit beside his old charioteer, Diwoméde retold St’énelo of the events in Párpara and of the other vessels – and their passengers – now accompanying their party. It gave the
qasiléyu
some comfort to imagine that this news pleased the sick man.

In a rare moment of lucidity, St’énelo responded, “It seems that a good many Ak’áyans must have refused to forswear the code of vengeance. Or perhaps they just could not bring themselves to ally themselves to a Tróyan, even after all these years. I had hoped it would be otherwise, for Orésta’s sake. It would have pleased his uncle’s spirit to know that his nephew’s rule was as strong as it was just.”

“If that is how you felt,” Mélisha told him, mightily annoyed, “why did you not stay with your king, in Lakedaimón? You would not be as sick as this, now, if you had not left home!”

The skeletal man gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “No, no, when I gave my oath to Meneláwo, it was for my lifelong fidelity, you see.” He glanced up at the woman’s face, half hidden in shadow. “Do not try to tell me that he is dead, either. I know in my heart that my
wánaks
is only sleeping. The gods will wake him when the time is right. Until then, I will not swear my loyalty to any other king, not in Ak’áiwiya, not anywhere.”

Dáuniya sighed, resting her cheek on Flóra’s drowsy head.
“Ai
, St’énelo, we would all like to believe that the good king and his noble wife, the ‘Elléniyan priestess, will return to us some day. But where could they be, if they have not gone down to Préswa’s realm?”