Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze) (18 page)

“
Ai
, silly girl,” the woman cooed. “You are such a silly baby.” But she was obviously pleased with the way things had worked out.

Diwoméde felt awkward and out of place, witnessing the pair. They were so at ease with one another, just as a real mother and child should be. He took a step backward. “I should leave…you should go…”

“Nonsense,” Dáuniya smiled back at him. With her free hand, she grasped his. “We are together now. That is as it should be. After all, you are her papa.”

Diwoméde’s head was swimming. So much had happened, so quickly. He half-believed that it had all been a dream. Any moment, he expected to wake up and find himself on the roof of a Mízriyan house. Mirurí would be kicking him with a heavy foot, calling him a “lame donkey.” Náfriti would turn her enigmatic smile on him, contemplating some new form of ridicule or torment. Confused, lost, he let Dáuniya lead him back down the shoreline toward the other refugees.

In the days that followed, the travelers turned their longboats to the west, along the southern coasts of Lakedaimón and the remnants of the Mesheníyan kingdom, to the west. The three ships passed cove and inlet, mountain ridge and once-fertile valley. Signs of death and destruction were everywhere. The second night of their journey saw them rounding Ak’áiwiya’s southern extremity, where a great, unwalled city lay abandoned. Through countless ages, cities had burned in wartime, or been shaken down by the tremors of Divine Poseidáon’s fearsome hooves. In earlier times, the fortresses had always been rebuilt quickly. But now, ruins studded the hilltops, both large and small. The countryside was cloaked with the dry, yellow stalks of summer, that is, where they were not as black and barren as the towns that had been sacked by raiders. Only too often, the slopes of the hills and mountains, where flocks of sheep had formerly roamed, were now covered only by fire-darkened stones. Scattered here and there were the singed relics of oak and olive trees, laurels and figs. Sea birds still flew over the traveling ships, but there was little sign of life on land. Herds and flocks might have been hiding somewhere among the green growth that still survived at high altitudes. But the travelers could not be sure. Only rarely did they spy a thin trail of smoke. If there were people about, they were surely few.

By day, the men toiled at the oars as long as their strength lasted. By night, they anchored the vessels close to land, but remained aboard, despite their discomfort. Bandits roamed the countryside, unchecked by the worldly power of any king or
qasiléyu
. Though this land had received sufficient rain, no crops grew because of the danger to the farmers. The people lived like wolves, it was said, taking their food from the wild…or the unwary. The refugees came ashore only to refill their water jars and cook a bit of flat bread. Even then, the adults took turns keeping watch. As they sailed along the troubled shores, the grim scenery oppressed the refugees’ spirits. With each passing day, the oarsmen worked with less enthusiasm than the day before.

“It seems as if this wearisome journey will never end,” Mélisha complained, as she and Dáuniya sat, wakeful, beneath the stars. “We do not inspire the rowers with our singing anymore. Each of our songs tells of heartache and loss.”

“They are the inevitable companions of
areté
, the glory of war,” Dáuniya sighed.

Mélisha frowned. “I know that. But so do the men. It seems pointless to me to keep reminding them of the evils of this world when everyone sees the signs already. It only makes all us feel worse.”

The younger woman looked down on Flóra, sleeping in her arms. “Some of us cannot think of anything else, now,” she murmured.

“Hmph,” Mélisha snorted irritably, turning to look out over the water. “Here we are, finally agreeing on something, heading toward a clear-cut destination, and still everyone goes from merely unhappy to absolutely miserable! Have you not noticed the change? St’énelo was always a bit overly conscientious in his piety, if you ask me. But now, he is completely mad about rite and ritual. He begins each morning with a prayer that is longer than the previous day’s. He invokes more deities with every passing day, begging them for more mercy and pity with ever greater fervor, imploring aid from both the great divinities and others that are so obscure I sometimes wonder if he dreamed their names in some fever!
Ai
, if he continues this way, before long, we will be sitting about, listening to his bleating, until the sun is straight overhead, before the men can even start rowing! The summer will end and we will still not be in Qoyotíya. Even my T’érsite has been affected by this grim attitude. I thought nothing could change him, at least. But his good humor has deserted him. Have you noticed?
Ai
, he has begun to make offerings of feathers to the Divine Dove whenever he finds them, or whenever Askán is able to knock a bird from the sky with his sling. He never used to bother, leaving all the religion to others. I do not like this one bit, Dáuniya. We must do something!”

Flóra whimpered, pulling at her ear, and Dáuniya shifted the child in her lap. “I know what you mean, Mélisha. I have noticed it, too. I thought that we had the worst behind us, once we left Kep’túr. But I am more worried about Diwoméde than before. He is becoming quieter all the time. He eats little and speaks less, guiding his ship as if he were the boatman of ‘Aidé himself, ferrying the spirits of the dead.”

The older Argive woman nodded. Shaking a finger, she added, “It is not just the Ak’áyans, either, you know. The other commanders rarely called on the gods before. Now, they do so nearly as often as old St’énelo. Tushrátta has changed the most. He used to be the calmest of anyone but he is always nervous now, as vigilant as if he were at war. In the night, he only sleeps in snatches, waking at every little creak of the mast, and every bird’s call. I heard some of the Assúwan women talking about him. Each bird that passes the ships catches his attention. It is the same with the movement of the animals on land. Everything has become an omen in his eyes.”

“That is a real problem,” Dáuniya agreed. “When we first turned to the north, Tushrátta invited Odushéyu to join him. I was glad to be rid of that old man, to begin with. But I have been hearing his name much too often since then. What kind of lies can he be spreading now?”

“I worry about the same thing,” Mélisha admitted, lowering her voice as she noticed someone stirring beneath the rowing benches. “That It’ákan is far too eager to pretend that he can interpret omens and foretell the future, it seems to me. Tushrátta thinks he sees evil signs in every bird’s flight and in every sound of distant thunder, anyway. Odushéyu only encourages this grim outlook. It is not healthy. I cannot understand why anyone would trust that miserable pirate.”

Flóra gave a small cry in her sleep, kicking her chubby feet. The Italian woman pressed the little girl’s mouth to her breast to calm her. As the toddler suckled, Dáuniya rocked her slowly from side to side, gazing down at the little, round face.
“Ai,”
she sighed, smiling slightly, “Odushéyu has certainly worn out his welcome with Tushrátta by now. Lúkiyans are not normally very trusting, especially when it comes to Ak’áyans. I am sure that Odushéyu does not know this, but Tushrátta described all those same omens to me, checking my interpretation against the pirate’s. I have convinced Tushrátta that Odushéyu is a charlatan. And Ainyáh refuses to allow Odushéyu near him under any circumstances. So, perhaps that is one problem we may have solved before it really developed.”

“Perhaps,” Mélisha began, unconvinced. “But, speaking of Ainyáh, have you been watching him? He was always fairly grim. Still, as harsh as he used to be, Ainyáh’s face has grown absolutely taut with unrelenting tension these last few days. Thirty times a day, he puts his hand to that strange amulet at his neck. His temper is worsening too, and he is becoming more violent all the time. His poor son has the worst of it. The old goat has no self-control and Askán has to take far too much abuse as a result. It is no wonder the poor boy is always fighting with Peirít’owo. At least, Tushrátta has Peirít’owo with him most of the time. They seem to share a kind of unhappy kinship of having no living relatives. That is not much, but every bond among us is more valuable than bronze.”

“That is true,” Dáuniya agreed with a sigh. “That is what we must work on, too. If everyone continues to brood on the evils of the past, our little group will certainly fall apart. We must encourage everyone to work together. Help me talk to the women. We should each work every small bit of magic that we know, to shore up the threatened luck of this expedition. Odushéyu will be rejoining us, I believe, so we may as well enlist his help, too, such as it is. Diwoméde told me that during the Tróyan war, Odushéyu was able to keep the men fighting even when they thought that their situation was hopeless, by pretending to give them magic spells. The old man is certainly a pirate, but he really may have learned a few magical rites in his many travels.”

The following days saw men and women of every nation practicing rites and praying at intervals throughout their waking hours. Odushéyu eagerly undertook to share his knowledge of the occult world. “I have dealt with the inhabitants of every land,” he told the refugees, “from those that all men know, to those that border the River Okéyano which rims the world. At Tróya, we were attacked by evil
dáimons
that were part man, part beast. But we prevailed over every danger, human and supernatural, and why? It was because of my knowledge of secret spells that melted the enemy’s strength and hardened ours! Listen to me, do my bidding, and you will have nothing to fear.” This boast and the It’ákan’s tutoring in secret songs and magic foot stomping bolstered the flagging spirits of those around him, repeating his former success.

However, before long, Dáuniya had become troubled by the growing influence that Odushéyu had developed over the Ak’áyans, men and women alike. When they went ashore to collect water, she spoke to her husband about the matter. Still, she could not convince Diwoméde to speak up for his own authority or honor. “But you and I know that Odushéyu is lying about such creatures being at Tróya,” she argued, as she and the
qasiléyu
sat on the stern platform of their ship, one night. “There were none but men fighting at that city and we both know it. He is a pirate and an opportunist. You should warn everyone about him. Tell them to listen to you and not to trust Odushéyu.”

Diwoméde only shrugged and said quietly, ”I do not know, anymore, what I saw at Tróya. I only know that I drank enough poppy-tinged wine to feel no pain.”

His wife put a work-worn hand on his arm. “But, beloved, can you not see? Odushéyu is only telling these stories because he wants to usurp your position. He obviously intends to take over this ship. You must fight him. Your future depends on it.”

The former slave stared out over the restless sea, the mirrored stars dancing in the dark waves. “The people know Odushéyu as well as I do. They know me, too. Let them choose which one of us they want to lead them.” His voice was heavy with bitterness. St’énelo and T’érsite had been at Tróya with him. They, at least, knew the old It’ákan pirate and they knew Diwoméde, he reflected, and they should tell the others. He felt a dull pain in his chest as he thought about that. Perhaps the problem was that they remembered him all too well…

“
Ai
, beloved,” Dáuniya sighed, “you are like the old hero of the legends, ‘Erakléwe, trying to bear the weight of the whole world on your shoulders. But that is a task for a god, not a man. You must shake off this ancient burden you are carrying. You cannot carry it to our new home.”

For the first time that evening, Diwoméde met her eyes. Tears spilled from hers, but his were dry. “How?” he asked frankly. “How can I put this down? I do not want to hear men screaming in my dreams, or see them dying. But this vision comes to me every night, just the same. I would willingly sacrifice my other foot, or my other arm, to be free of this vision. Take this burden from me, Dáuniya. Free me of it, please. I am helpless to take it off my own shoulders. It clings to me with claws of ice and stone.”

CHAPTER SIX

PUT’O

When the summer’s heat reached its peak, Ainyáh’s ships crossed the narrow sea separating southern Ak’áiwiya from its northern neighbor. The travelers pressed on toward holy Put’ó, taking heart at the sight of the northeastern hills, with their evergreen highlands. Here, rain had fallen in abundance throughout the years. Grainfields were not only sown, but their harvests had also been reaped. No doubt, the lambing seasons had seen a great increase in the size of the flocks grazing along these shores, the travelers told one another. Spending the night on land, at long last, the band of refugees gathered around campfires for long evenings of talk that was more spirited than it had been in many long phases of the moon.

T’érsite led them in hopeful speculation. “Do I detect in the breeze the odor of fresh milk?” the Argive asked no one in particular, raising his crooked nose to sniff the humid air. “Yes, yes, I would know that strong, animal scent anywhere! It has been a long time since I swallowed goat nectar!”

“
Idé
, I can almost taste the goat cheese, sour and soft!” Peirít’owo exclaimed, enthusiastically. “It makes my mouth water!”