Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze) (40 page)

Lying among the women of the expedition, Ainyáh called weakly for ‘Iqodámeya to come to his side. When she did so, he took her hand in his, saying, “It was my wish for a long time that you would become my concubine. This illness will pass, if you will only join yourself to me. I promise that I will show you every kindness and provide for you and your children a safe home, if you consent now.”

But the woman pulled her hand from his grasp. Without meeting his hopeful gaze, she answered, “I have already received the same offer from another man.”

A touch of color returned to Ainyáh’s pale face. Clearly displeased, in a stronger voice, he demanded, “Who asked you? Was it Odushéyu? By Il and Astárt….”

She shook her head and her dark eyes rose to meet his, calmly. “No, Ainyáh, it was Tushrátta. He has already won my favor, too.”

But he was no more pleased with this information than at his earlier suspicion. With some difficulty, he raised himself on one elbow. “What? That pirate? He is hardly better than the It’ákan!”

‘Iqodámeya pursed her lips in growing irritation with the old Kanaqániyan. “If he is a pirate, then so are you, Ainyáh. Everywhere he sailed was in your company! Besides, he offered to make me his official wife, not just his concubine. And you have a wife already, anyway. Why should you need two?”

“Have a wife!” the sick man repeated, astonished. “My wife is dead, has been for over fifteen years!”

“Then, how do you explain Ilishabát’s presence in your household? Is that not your child on her lap?” the Assúwan woman asked, indicating the Kanaqániyan woman and her baby boy.

Ainyáh groaned and lay back, pressing his hand to his painful chest. His cheeks alone retained their color as the pallor returned to his face. “No, no, ‘Iqodámeya, you do not understand. Her deceased husband was my brother. When he died, he had no heirs. It was my duty to take his wife into my household, but that was only to give her and my brother the son that he was unable to provide for himself. That is my brother’s heir she is holding there, not mine. It will still be my duty to see to the boy’s well-being, and to hers, and her daughter Hányah’s. Eventually, I will see that the boy is dedicated to the god, too. But Ilishabát is not my wife or my concubine. She is still my brother’s widow.”

“I have never heard of any such practice as this!” ‘Iqodámeya exclaimed, rising and backing away from the bed. “Whatever you may call it and however you describe it, Ilishabát is your woman and I will go to Tushrátta. This is not a matter for negotiation. You are no kinsman of mine and you have no say in the matter. I will not listen to any arguments!”

At the conclusion of the night’s assembly, T’éti approached Odushéyu about a second marriage rite. To the It’ákan’s astonishment and dismay, he found that he himself was her intended husband, and she had no intention of being dissuaded. “But you are old enough to be my mother!” the new leader of the exiles complained.

“That is completely irrelevant,” T’éti told him firmly, unruffled by his manner. “I do not have any interest in your charms or your bed, and I am sure the feeling is mutual. This is to be a marriage of convenience only. You are precisely the right man to be the leader of this little nation and when we reach our new home, you will be our new king. But every king must have a queen of the same rank. We are both high born, both experienced in ruling. My authority among the women can only compliment yours. So, you see, nothing could be more natural than a wedding between us. There is still a problem of dissension in the ranks, you see. Several in our little party are not altogether pleased with how you came to power. They are secretly hoping that you will fail, and we must ensure that you do not.”

Odusheyu cast about for an argument, anything that he could use against this woman’s proposal. “But I have already asked ‘Iqodámeya. How can I take back my oath of fidelity to her?”

The queen shook a wrinkled finger at him and spoke sternly. “Nonsense, man! Do not waste your breath telling lies to me! You have not asked that good lady any such thing. Even if you had been so foolish, she would not accept you. She has already given her word to Tushrátta. And a very good thing it was, too.”

“What? That Lúkiyan pirate?” Odushéyu asked in astonishment and disbelief. “I thought he preferred boys!”

“Nonsense!” T’éti snapped again. “Now, that is quite enough arguing out of you. Tomorrow, at sunrise, we will hold a double ceremony. Tushrátta and ‘Iqodámeya are already married, for all practical purposes. They must have lain together a dozen times, at least, while we were in Párpara. She may even be pregnant.”

“What is this about holding a rite at dawn?” Odushéyu asked, pretending to be scandalized. He was conceding the main point, but hoped, at least, to put it off awhile longer. “Marriages have always been celebrated through a whole day or two and consummated by the light of torches, at night.”

“
Ai
, do not be so difficult, you with the ox-hoof for a head!” she cried, completely out of patience. “What does that matter? We are hardly young ducklings anymore, are we? You and I getting married early in the day will give the travelers a good sign to begin tomorrow’s journey, or was that not absolutely, completely obvious? We are in rather dire need of an excellent omen, at this point, are we not? How else do you propose that we obtain one, eh? With Ainyáh’s illness, he is probably going to die at the most inopportune time and if St’énelo does not do the same, he will certainly moan and groan and weep and sob and announce to all and sundry that to be the worst of all omens for our setting out on such a momentous voyage! Everyone will believe him, too. We cannot have that, can we? Do you want everybody wailing and carrying on and pulling their hair out and slobbering all over the stern platforms while you try to steer, my great oaf of a leader? Or had you not thought of that?
Ai
, obviously you had not! Yes, indeed, you do need a wife and a proper queen, all right! You have not thought this through properly at all, have you? No, just like my first husband, you are! Just leap forth, start throwing things around, giving orders, and expect everything to work! No, no, it does not work that way, my good man. You must coax, cajole, and sweet talk the people, my dear. They have to believe that the future is all milk and honey and wheat cakes, or they will not do what you want them to. Trust me, I know what I am doing, I have done this before, I could do it in my sleep!

Odusheyu made a wry face, listening to the old
wánasha
rattling on, but he nodded his acquiescence. It was all too familiar. “I suppose you and I could make a good alliance, at that,” he admitted. “You are a queen of the old ways, a high priestess, after all. Ainyáh’s illness and his tale about the dwarf god and Fire Island did not start us out auspiciously, and the commoners do like their signs and omens. I must begin my kingship with better conditions than that or they are likely to jump overboard and drown themselves, or let themselves be killed in the first battle with the barbarians. Still, you must understand, I am a young man yet. I have needs.”

T’éti cackled her high, dry laugh and slapped her thighs in derision.
“Ai
, hush, old man, I never said you could not take a concubine, did I?”

The following dawn saw the briefest of wedding ceremonies, and certainly the strangest. Separated while the night was still upon them, the two brides and two grooms were ritually purified by bathing in the chilly waters off shore. There were no fine robes for either party, but they did what little they could with the local greenery. At first light, wearing crowns of intertwined myrtle leaves – there being no laurel close at hand – the couples came together before the only ‘priest’ the party had, the ailing St’énelo. The sickly Lakedaimóniyan was scarcely able to stand, even with T’érsite’s help, and his voice, when he spoke, rose barely above a whisper. Even so, he smiled warmly at them and called for an old fishing net to be brought from the ship’s hold, with which to join together each bride and groom.

This, at least, they had. Peirít’owo bound one around each couple. As he did so, the young man intoned solemnly, “You are tied together with as sacred a bond as this knot that binds you. As salt dissolves in water, so may all enmity be dissipated on this day.”

St’énelo nodded. “Exchange gifts now,” he managed to gasp, before collapsing in a bout of coughing.

The brides had no dowry but their native charms with which to present their husbands. The bride price each husband paid went directly to the woman at his side, not her kinsmen, as neither had any living relatives. Tushrátta ostentatiously removed his thumb ring of black bronze. Hanging it on a thong at ‘Iqodámeya’s neck, he promised her another, smaller one that would fit her own hand when they settled on Fire Island. Not to be outdone, Odushéyu gave his new wife a Párpariyan amulet that he had recently acquired. It was a rude thing of wood, carved in the shape of a very round woman – but with the beak of a bird at the head.

“A good omen,” T’éti pronounced confidently. “Spit three times for luck, now, my husband. Then we must be off. The sky is entirely too red for my liking.”

“Wait,” ‘Iqodámeya protested. “A new husband must also give his new bride a pomegranate. We are not truly wedded until we have eaten the first bite together.” From his seat on the ground, St’énelo again nodded in agreement.

“We do not have any pomegranates,” Peirít’owo shrugged irritably, “or apples either, for that matter. The only fruits we have are dried figs.”

“
Ai
, no, those will never do!” both brides exclaimed at once. “Figs are unlucky!”

Tushrátta spat to his right and to his left. “That is that,” he announced. “Now, come on.”

“Once more, once more!” ‘Iqodámeya insisted, spitting between her phrases. She spat one more time herself, to emphasize its importance. Her new husband sighed and followed suit.

The party moved toward the shore, with the exception of Odushéyu. “Ainyáh has his own fetish,” the It’ákan loudly announced. “He slept with Ilishabát when he encountered her on Aláshiya last year. He told me so himself. That is his boy in the woman’s arms. What is the baby now, about four months old? I say it is high time that their coupling was made legitimate. Where is Ainyáh, anyway? I do not see him here on the shore.”

Askán came forward, biting his trembling lip, and wiping a tear from his downy cheek. When he came within reach of Odushéyu, the new leader clapped the youth on the shoulder, asking him, “What is wrong with you, boy? Do you not like your new, little mother?” He roared with laughter at his own, rude comment, as did many of the men with him.

T’éti and ‘Iqodámeya scolded their assorted traveling companions for what they recognized as a most inappropriate moment for mirth. “What is wrong, son? Is it your father? Is his ailment worse than before?”

The crowd fell silent quickly, as each looked around for the Kanaqániyan. Askán only gulped, “There is something wrong.” He led the way to where his father had spent the night. The women gathered closely around the stricken man. He lay flat on his back, his left arm pressed against his body with unnatural tension. His left leg twitched from time to time. “He cannot move one of his arms or either of his legs,” his son exclaimed, wiping away more tears, “and he cannot speak. Only one hand and his eyes are still alive. What is wrong? Where can we find a cure for him?”

Dáuniya shook her head ruefully. “I have never seen this before,” she sighed. “I know how to cure a burning fever or a rotting wound, but not this.”

“If only we had not left Párpara so quickly,” Sqamándriyo ventured, “my uncle has an affliction that appears something like this. The spirit of the god enters him at times. He twitches and shakes a lot more than this, though. Then he sleeps like the dead for a long time. He is as weak as a baby afterward, for a day or so. But after that, he returns to the living, much as he was before. He is rather irritable, but that does not…”

Odushéyu broke in suddenly, clapping a head to his head, “Yes, yes, of course, I saw that at Tróya! He had a spell like that right before the city f…” He hesitated to finish the sentence, with the eyes of Askán and Sqamándriyo upon him. Their fathers had once fought against him beneath the walls of that fabled city. It seemed a poor moment to speak of the misfortunes of the doomed citadel.

Diwoméde entered the silence with a quiet directive of his own. “Come on, then, let us carry Ainyáh to the ship with us. We must be off. As T’éti says, the sky is inauspiciously red, so we cannot delay any longer. We can name Ilishabát’s baby on some other day, when we are not so pressed for time.”

“When the day comes with better omens,” St’énelo added, in a whisper.

As it happened, the naming ceremony for Ilishabát’s baby was performed the following night, the second of their westward journey. Further north along the coast they had sailed, where Párpariyans were fewer, and still less familiar tribesmen more numerous. When the evening meal had been eaten, Tushrátta simply stood and announced that it was time for the rite.