Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze) (27 page)

“So,” Diwoméde chose his words carefully, “we finally took Tróya, with your help, and the ‘Elléniya returned to her rightful husband.”

“But then one of your people killed my wife, for no reason, no reason at all! The city was yours, the last survivors of the royal family were your captives, their wealth and lands were yours. But it was still not enough, was it? You had to have my Kréyusa’s blood, too.” He spat the last phrase, his jaw quivering with emotion, even after all those years.
“Ayá
, why, man, why? She was no longer young, no longer beautiful to anyone but me. Why did she have to die? As long as I live, I will never understand it!”

The younger man sighed deeply. “Ainyáh, I do not know how your wife died. I swear it on the head of Díwo himself. I did not see your woman on that day. Nor did I ever hear any man speak of her, either then or at any time afterward. Whoever the killer was, I know that he was not an Argive or a Lakedaimóniyan, or I would have heard the tale at some point. I know that for certain, because I fought beside those men. I spent the following winter among the Argives and most of the other southerners, in T’rákiya. Later, many of them visited me when I held the fortress of Tíruns. So, I do not believe any of the
Zeyugelátes
were to blame. As for the
P’ilístas
, the northern Ak’áyanas, I cannot say. It was a northerner who raped your wife’s sister, Kashánda, did it by the very horns of the sacred altar. That was an atrocity, I admit. It was another
P’ilísta
who killed your king, Alakshándu. That, too, was done in a place of sanctuary, another atrocity. So, if your wife was murdered, and did not simply die accidentally in the fire that took the city, then I think it must have been a
P’ilísta
who did it. If you ask me why, what can I say? They all seemed to be mad in those days, especially Ak’illéyu, and many of them were doing unspeakable things.”

“Atrocities are inevitable in a long war,” Ainyáh admitted, covering his face with his hands. “I know that much. I have seen many wars and many despicable acts. But none cut me to the heart like the loss of my Kréyusa. She should not have died, not then, not her, not like that.”

“I can understand that,” Diwoméde breathed, recalling how he had longed for Dáuniya during his captivity until the desire for her became a physical pain. “That was why you raided our islands after the war, was it not? The kingdoms of Argo and Wilúsiya were sworn to be allies, but you wanted revenge, so you attacked us.”

The other man’s graying head came up sharply. “I...what? You knew?”

“I knew.”

Ainyáh frowned so harshly that his features seemed about to disappear completely in the mass of wrinkles that his face had become. “What of the time when Odushéyu betrayed me, Argive? He took my ships and men gladly enough, and swore me a fine oath of loyalty. But then he used my longboats and my Tróyans to pillage my own homeland of Kanaqán, the mangy dog! I suppose you knew about that, too?”

Diwoméde shook his head. “I did not, not at first, anyway. I heard rumors after awhile that Odushéyu had been banished from his native It’áka. A good many men were banished in the aftermath of the Tróyan war, soldiers from every nation, just as he was. Others simply did not care to return home and go back to plowing fields,herding goats, or making pots. I knew that many of them had turned to piracy. A merchant came to Tíruns with news of cities destroyed all over the island of Alásiya and those in a Circle, as well as the land of Kanaqán, far to the east. Others brought word of the collapse of the Náshiyan empire. It was much later that I heard of the attack on the Mízriyans, across the Great Green Sea to the south. Other stories came with these, of course, less believable ones of living rocks that clapped their hands together to destroy ships, of people who ate magical flowers called lotuses, falling into dreams never to wake up, and of sailors lured to strange islands by foreign goddesses with peculiar names, who transformed them into beasts. I did not know for a long time, though, which tales were true. It did not seem credible that a goddess would want the company of a mortal, but it did not seem any more believable that a few miserable pirates could bring down a great empire like Nashiya. Still, that last story, at least, turned out to be true.”

Ainyáh stared at him for awhile, but finally nodded, satisfied. “I had joined with Odushéyu and others in raiding some of the coastal fortresses around the Inner Sea. Then word came that my son, Askán, was in danger. I did not know whether he was sick or…you see, my brother-in-law, Antánor, became the new king of Tróya after the war ended. But he and I had never gotten along that well, even before we betrayed the city for the sake of our wives and sons. Sometimes I even suspect that it was he who was responsible for Kréyusa’s death.”

“Mm,” Diwoméde mused, “I had not considered that possibility before. But what reason would he have? Would he kill his wife’s only surviving sister? It would not gain him anything, would it?”

Ainyáh only moaned again, rubbing his eyes. “I do not know, I do not know. It may even be that Kréyusa was simply overcome by the smoke or died in the fire, as you suggest. She came with us as far as Tróya’s gate, on that day. My son has told me more than once that he remembers that much. But she turned back for something, the gods alone know what…”

Diwoméde could not see the older man’s face as his voice trailed off. But he would not have been surprised to find tears on those craggy cheeks. “I suppose the plan to lead us all into a Mízriyan trap really was your idea, as Odushéyu claimed, then,” he said quietly. He closed his eyes against the sharpness of the pain that the memory still evoked in his soul. “More revenge, always more, never enough…”

“No,” Ainyáh whispered, running a rough hand over his face again, trying to compose himself. His voice shook.
“Ayá
, yes, vengeance suited me. I mean to say that it did not trouble my heart, but the original idea was Érinu’s, not mine. I only thought that I could restore my honor in his eyes by leading his enemies to destruction. As for Peirít’owo’s part in it, he wanted nothing more than to avenge his father’s death at the hands of Mízriya’s king, at the end of that earlier campaign. He believed that the Ak’áyans had failed his father somehow in allowing that to happen. Do not ask me to explain it. It makes no sense to me. He is just an angry boy. But he could not very well attack the Great House of Mízriya openly, so he turned against the only available enemy – his own people. Still, in the end, he and I both found that success in our plan changed our hearts very little. The bitterness was still there. We were still alone. The dead remained dead. I do not have my Kréyusa back any more than he has his Idómeneyu for a father again. What is worse, Érinu was not even satisfied, when all was said and done. By Il and Astárt, I do not know why I am telling you this! My troubles mean nothing to you!”

Diwoméde shrugged, unable to think of an argument. “Why did you buy my freedom, then? If you hated me so much, why turn around and help me?”

“That is simple,” Ainyáh answered with a humorless laugh. “Dáuniya and T’érsite paid me.”

The
qasiléyu
shook his head. “It is not simple at all, Ainyáh. You could have taken their bronze and left me in Libúwa. What could they have done about it?”

The old man laughed again, a short, bitter sound. “Even I have a few scruples.”

“You mean you rescued me out of a sense of honor?” Diwoméde was astonished. “But you were a mercenary! And what is that but a warrior who cares more for bronze than for glory!”

Ainyáh spat on the dry earth and cursed under his breath. “May the sun strike you blind!” But his brief anger spent itself with that quiet, half-hearted comment and he did not even bother to touch his dagger. “I took no bronze in exchange for my spear, at that time or any other. It was always something else I really wanted, something more than mere trade goods.
Ayá
, you Ak’áyans are quick to condemn us! But it is the gods who decreed for us the misfortune of being born in Kanaqán. If you were in our places, you would do exactly the same thing. It is easy for you Ak’áyans to talk of how your honor preserves the security of your shores. The real truth is that your cities have always provided slim pickings to the raider, and you have always lived on the outer margins of the civilized world. The raider only goes to the trouble of coming to your fortresses when he is too weak to strike at the richer citadels at the heart of the civilized lands to the east of you.

“But Kanaqán is in the center of the world and she is wealthy above most other nations. We have always had to face the powerful and greedy emperors of Assúwa, to the north, the equally strong and ravenous Great Houses of Mízriya, to the south, and, as if that were not enough, the ancient kingdoms of Ashúr and Akkád at our backs. If we live by trade, men accuse us of lacking honor. But if we are so foolish as to live by war, every great power of the world comes in greater numbers, slaughters our men, and carries off our women and little children as slaves.

“I was a Kanaqániyan like any other, when I was young. My grandfather had traveled to Mízriya, looking for safety and prosperity. He turned away from the Kanaqániyan gods and worshipped the one god of the heretic king of Mízriya, a deity which he identified as the sun disk, the Atúm. My grandfather served his master well and rose high in that king’s affections. In his turn, his son, my father, lived in safety and prosperity, as my grandfather had hoped. But in their jealousy. Il and Astárt would not allow that to last forever. When that wicked king of Mízriya died, there was disorder and suffering throughout the southern empire, so my father left that land and returned to Kanaqán. He was forced to become a mercenary. How else could he survive? He owned no land, no flocks, the overlord was dead, the commoners drove him out of Mízriya with nothing in his hands and nothing on his back but a single collar of faience and copper. He sold that to buy weapons. Do you know what my name means, what my father named me?” He laughed again, a dry cough of a sound. “One Yahúya, One God! Even after that disastrous turn of events, he still believed in the supremacy of the divine sun disk and that is who I am named for! What a fool!

“In my youth, I offered my spear to the highest bidder in turn, intending to gain the bronze that I would need to become a successful merchant. I did not want to die as my father did before me, a poor, broken down soldier, no longer able to lift his spear. My grandfather had died as a wealthy merchant, and that was what I wanted. Then I saw my chance for a little more. I married Kréyusa as much to gain a good home, as anything else. Her father’s kingdom was so far away from Kanaqán, and it guarded the northern route to the source of tin, I thought that nothing could be more secure. The old king there was satisfied with his position, too. He was Ak’áyan by birth, my wife told me, but he ruled a dependency of the Náshiyan empire. The old man was happy to sit still there and grow fat on the tin trade. That, I told myself, was the life for me!

“But I had not counted on her brothers, those arrogant princes. They thought that they could fail at nothing.
Ai
, Qántili was a good man, I suppose, leading the soldiers at home. But Paqúr, the oldest one, was the worst of the lot. Paqúr changed everything, may his soul be eaten by ravenous, jackal-headed
dáimons
in the netherworld! That was what I bargained with your king for, at Tróya, you understand, safety. It was for Kréyusa’s sake that I helped Agamémnon sack my new home. Dishonorable as that may sound to you, still, the gods have forced me to pay a heavy price for it. I would have preferred to die, myself, rather than raise our son alone. But I could not abandon the boy, could I?”

Diwoméde shook his head, unable to understand what spirit had so possessed Ainyáh to make him spill out his thoughts and feelings like this. It was as if his worst enemy had suddenly laid down his sword and spear in mid-combat, slit his own body from throat to groin, and reached into the cavity of his chest to present him with his own bleeding heart! The
qasiléyu
wished that the older man would say no more, but Ainyáh, having finally begun to talk, could no more halt the torrent of words than he could cease the rising and setting of the pitiless sun.

The aging mercenary rubbed his shins with a callused hand, drawing the younger man’s attention to the many scars there, large and small. “Then Antánor made our lives difficult after the war ended, as if he had played no part in the city’s destruction and only I was to blame for everything. Since then, I have had no rest. Every voyage, every raid I make, I have only one thought in mind. It is not vengeance, either, despite what you say. Always, I am searching for another home, a land where I can grow old in peace, where I can be reasonably certain that I will see my son grow to full manhood, where he can take a wife and give me grandchildren.”

“Are you saying that you betrayed the Ak’áyans in Mízriya so that Érinu would take you and Askán into his household?” Diwoméde demanded, more than a little confused. Never before had the old mercenary seemed so like himself, an ordinary man, a wounded soldier who wept over a woman’s grave and worried over a child.

Ainyáh swept bits of dried grass from between his bare toes, nodding wearily. “I had a brother, too, once, did you know? He died, along with all six of his sons, when Odushéyu attacked the city of Ugarít, in Kanaqán. His wife survived. My sister-in-law and her only daughter fled to the island of Aláshiya. I discovered them there, with a few other kinsmen. They did not care to try and return to Kanaqán, nor did I. Ashúr and Akkád, the bigger kingdoms inland, were quiet by then, but the drought and famine had caused that. The Náshiyan empire was no longer a threat, but war and famine were the reasons, again. People spoke hopefully of the dawn of a new age, one in which Kanaqán would rule the Great Green Sea. But I considered that just so much foolishness. Mízriya still held most of the coast and lowlands. The Great House was growing stronger every year. I knew it would only be a matter of time before his armies marched forth and took the rest of Kanaqán. There will never be a Golden Age for my people, I am afraid, only endless years of suffering.