Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze) (20 page)

The other two followed him in silence. Little Flóra saw them off with loud weeping, making it all the more difficult for Dáuniya to leave her behind. The woman glanced back over her shoulder several times as she walked, until she could no longer hear the child’s protests.

Diwoméde observed his fellow ambassadors with a feeling of gloomy detachment. Ainyáh and his mysterious employer had freed the slave from his captivity in distant Mízriya. But even Dáuniya could not free his troubled mind. She still called him ‘beloved’ as she always had. It was this sound that he had most longed to hear during his years of exile. But now that the sound was actually in his ears, it gave him no pleasure to hear it. Dáuniya’s thoughts, all too often, were on the child that he could not believe was his. If Flóra were truly Dáuniya’s, he thought miserably, then some other man must have been her father. Diwoméde had been gone for four years and Flóra was obviously younger than that. The child’s father must have been a T’rákiyan, too, to have produced a child with such pale eyes.

But the
maináds
had taken her baby, Dáuniya had told him, and kept her for some time, preventing her from growing normally. Diwoméde had heard tales of children stolen by those goddesses of forest and stream. People kidnapped by these wild deities were said to age no more than a day per year. Perhaps it was true, he mused, as he struggled up the steep mountain slope. Perhaps such a babe, if really kept by the
maináds
, might even take on such other-wordly features as sky-colored eyes, along with this unusual preservation of extreme youth. Who but a prophet or a seeress could truly know such things?

Still, even if Flóra really were his own flesh, what did her mother need from him now? Dáuniya had clearly established for herself a higher standing among the refugees than he had ever accorded her while they lived together in Argo. He knew he could not provide her a home now, either. If the group did find a refuge somewhere, what would he do there? He had proved himself a poor slave, across the Great Green Sea, after all. He could not work in the fields as a farmer, or follow the flocks to the high, summer pastures, lame as he was, and with his half-crippled arm. Nor could he sell his services as a mercenary, as the young men such as Peirít’owo might dream of doing. In the years that he had commanded a fortress, he had been able to direct his men from his throne room, from the
mégaron
. On a battlefield, however, he would be cut down immediately, unable to move quickly enough to get out of the way of the slashing swords and flying arrows.

He even doubted his ability to give Dáuniya more children, as she dearly wanted. All of her previous infants had died. Each time, she had blamed the drought. But she might have been wrong about that. Agamémnon and Meneláwo, his father and uncle, had both died without honor. Their father had reputedly murdered his own nieces. Orésta now seemed to be rising in stature, if what Diwoméde had heard was true. But the
qasiléyu
well knew how quickly that could change. Mélisha had once suggested that this whole clan was cursed, that some primeval wickedness, in who knew what land, had blighted its every generation throughout time. ‘Am I to be the curse of this one?’ he asked himself. This thought had gnawed at him from the outset of the journey. If he was the cause of even a portion of Ak’áiwiya’s misfortunes, Dáuniya and the rest would be better off without him. He was not even fit to carry the water on this short trip up the mountain, he reminded himself, in despair. T’érsite, his best friend in the world, had been right to give that burden to the younger, stronger Qérayan.

But there was yet one thing that Diwoméde could not understand. The Great Goddess obviously had no love for him, or she would not have allowed him to be taken captive and held as a slave for so long in Mízriya. But still, if Diwiyána truly despised him, on the other hand, she would not have restored him to Ak’áiwiya, either. What did it all mean? Confused, heartsick, he forced himself to concentrate simply on walking. He would be able to ask his questions of the seeress soon enough, at the shrine. It had not been easy to convince Ainyáh to ensure that he would be one of the emissaries. He had had to make the Kanaqániyan an oath of personal loyalty, in exchange for that. Such a vow was a heavy burden to carry for the future, a sharp blade that might well fall and cut him to the quick, without warning. But, whatever the oracle might tell him, it would be worth that price to know the truth, at last.

As the ambassadors crossed the narrow plain toward the mountain foothills, the Qérayan kept up a steady chatter. “Put’ó is where Diwiyána stopped her wandering, you know. It was here that she gave birth to the Divine Twins. You can see the two white cliffs ahead, up there, the peaks that she left to commemorate them. The people here call them the Shining Rocks. They are so steep that they cannot be climbed by any mortal. It would be a sacrilege even to try. Between them is the sanctuary of the goddess, where the water flows down into the gorge. Streams like that, where the water rises straight from the underworld, are always holy. But this one is special, because this is where the gods danced, when they celebrated the birth of Diwonúso.

“When we came before, my mother and I, we brought cakes for Diwiyána. We made them ourselves, using a special recipe. There was wheat flour, of course, the finest grain. We mixed it with water and honey and olive oil. Or, maybe it was milk instead of water. I do not remember. I was very young. But, it does not matter, because we do not have anything like that to give the lady.
Maináds
like the same kinds of things, I understand, especially the honey and the goats’ milk. Maybe when we reach the fortress up there, we can buy a little of that for the
Pótniya
. We do not have much to trade, but I do have my knife. It is bronze, at least, so it is worth something in this world.”

The way began to grow quite steep and the Qérayan’s active tongue slowed. Through a hot afternoon, the three pilgrims trudged up the nearest escarpment. Slowly, they ascended a narrow path that wound high above the longboats in the harbor. Vegetation was sparse and brown, for the most part, bare rock protruding at sharp angles from the rising earth. Cracks opened in the parched soil, reminding the travelers of the dark realm beneath the earth where Diwiyána’s grim daughter reigned in perpetuity over the souls of the dead.

“You do not think that the ground will open up and swallow us, do you?” the Qérayan asked anxiously, over his shoulder. “I hear that is how the Divine Maiden first introduced death to the world.”

Dáuniya pursed her lips, frowning and shaking her head. “No, these cracks are just the result of the drought. They are not the same kind of fissure that swallowed Préswa. Do not tell me that you have never seen such things before. They are everywhere, in Kep’túr, in Argo, in Lakedaimón, everywhere.”

Onward they pressed into an increasingly harsh landscape. No bird song was to be heard any longer. The buzzing of cicadas was the only sign of animal life. The trees along their route remained green through the burning days of late summer, an oak or olive standing here or there in lone splendor, its leaves drooping. Heat radiated from the ground, making the desolate scene shimmer before the pilgrims’ eyes. It was easy to believe that each tree, magically dancing in place, had a divine, feminine soul.

“These are surely the daughters of Díwo and Diwiyána,” the Qérayan gasped, panting, “standing guard over the road to the Divine Mother’s sacred grove. It would not surprise me at all to see a
mainád
peek out from the boughs. We must be very careful here.” As the young man spoke, he made the gesture to repel the Evil Eye, repeating it at every tree that he passed, glancing fearfully to the right and left. Before long, his nervousness communicated itself to his companions. Dáuniya began repeating the sign and Diwoméde even found himself doing the same, although he believed in his heart that their situation was well-nigh hopeless.

The three climbers perspired freely as they progressed, speaking little, their eyes fixed on the top of the nearest ridge and hillock. Periodically, they rested and drank from the goatskin bag. Their limbs soon ached from the strenuous march. Their breathing grew ever louder and more labored, as they approached the cloud line. Still, the mountain went on rising before them. It often happened that a hillock in the foreground temporarily blocked their view of the peak, giving them hope that the end of their road was near. But, with every rise that the pilgrims surmounted, they found that there were still more slopes to climb.

“This place has a strange power,” the Qérayan told Dáuniya in a low voice, at one point, as they paused to let Diwoméde catch up. “I swear, this water sack is getting heavier all the time, not lighter, even though we have nearly emptied it.”

“It only seems heavier because you are getting tired,” the woman told him irritably, rubbing the soles of her feet.

The young man shook his shaggy head, tossing his long, dark curls. “No, it really is heavier. I swear it by my very hearth.” He swallowed hard, looking around anxiously. “You do not suppose that my father…I mean, Odushéyu…do you think that he might be right? I mean, about us offending Di…
ai
, that is, you know, I do not want to draw the attention of the great one by calling her name, not just yet, anyway.”

Taking his seat a short distance away, Diwoméde turned his face, hoping that the youth would not see how breathless he was. With his brows drawn together, the
qasiléyu
stared down at the dusty earth. He did not join the conversation. But he was feeling especially troubled, himself.

“Why should the goddess be upset?” Dáuniya demanded, more annoyed than ever, although she had wondered the same thing. “Did she not choose us, herself?” She glanced in Diwoméde’s direction for support, but he was not looking. “Is that not what St’énelo said? Is he not our authority on religious matters?”

The youth scratched his downy chin uncertainly.
“Ai
, yes, but…”

Interrupting them, Diwoméde stood. “Let us go now,” he snapped angrily. “We will have all the answers we need, soon enough.” Taking the nearly empty bag, he slung it over his unmarked shoulder and set out again. The others soon overtook him. Each, in turn, tried to take the water. But the
qasiléyu
refused to give it up. “I am not a weakling,” he growled. “I do not need your help.” Shaking their heads, the Qérayan and Dáuniya left him alone with his burden.

Mounting the western ridge of the Parnashó Mountains, they were heartened at the sudden sight of the twin cliffs. With the sun on their faces, the Shining Rocks lived up to their famous name, gleaming brightly, and the travelers saluted them with reverent awe. Without speaking any further, they pressed on, toward the town and the sanctuary in a high recess beneath the white limestone cliff. Their steps quickened as they crossed the last scrubby fields. Rocks tore at their bare feet, in that arid plateau that had never supported crops. If they had not been breathless from the climb, they would have shouted with delight, nevertheless.

Almost immediately, it became evident that something was terribly wrong. The great gate in the citadel’s circuit wall stood open – what was left of it. Charred, smoke-blackened, it had been in flames shortly before. The highest towers were heavily damaged. Much of the superstructure of sun-baked brick had clearly been thrown down, despite the massive effort it would have taken to get up to this height and destroy the structure. Piles of shattered bricks and singed pottery lay about the stone foundations of the wall. This place, like so many others all around the Inner Sea and the Great Green, had been sacked and burned.

“I cannot believe that anyone would be so blasphemous as to do such a thing in this holy place,” the Qérayan whispered. They stood outside the wide entrance to the fortress, somber and filled with dread, hesitating to enter the silent city. “It is a sacrilege! What barbarian chieftain would dare to offend the gods in this way?”

His voice grim and low, Diwoméde said, “Why should it be a barbarian? It was an Assúwan who defiled the altars of ‘Elléniya. It was an Ak’áyan who destroyed the great dams further north and ruined Lady Diwiyána’s favored croplands. So, why would a pirate of any nation hesitate to attack the oracle of the firs?” Neither of the other two had an answer. “Even so,” the
qasiléyu
continued, “we cannot simply turn around and go back.”

The young islander frowned, turning to look down toward their journey’s beginning. “I am tired,” he complained, “and my feet hurt.”

Dáuniya felt tears gathering. “We must not leave this place without an omen. There are questions that must be answered, questions that only a seer can answer. But where can we go?”

Diwoméde’s gaze was on the rise before them. “There is another sacred place, older than Put’ó itself, a cave still higher up. We will follow the dry streambed among the fir trees.” Not waiting for discussion or agreement, he began walking again, heading around the massive stone walls of the empty citadel.

“I never heard of any such cave,” the Qérayan protested, craning his neck. “And that is almost straight up, back there. It would be worse than trying to climb the walls of this fortress! Besides, the goddess is sure to punish us if we try to scale her cliffs.”