Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze) (45 page)

Seeing their poor condition, Túrem sent one of his men to summon the Lárez. The headman was probably out with the cattle, he told the travelers when Odushéyu pressed him. The women of the village were no doubt with their chieftain, too, he explained somewhat sheepishly, so the refugees would just have to finish cooking the morning meal for themselves. Alarmed by the sight of the ships’ arrival earlier, the local people had sent their leader to hide with the women and children in the forest with their greatest valuables, their livestock, while the younger men went out to fight off what they assumed would be an attacking force of pirates. Mélisha happily, even eagerly, organized the women among her own band to accomplish the preparation of breakfast. But, in reality, there was little to do besides wait for the cooking to finish. The meat was already on stakes, hung over the great fire in the empty square before the big house. The grain had already been ground, sifted, mixed with milk and the eggs of water birds, and fashioned into flat cakes. These were heating on stones facing the fire, when the travelers arrived, baking quickly in the radiating heat. Túrem sent men to fetch pots of dried apple segments and goatskin bags filled with beer, from the larger dwellings. In the meantime, he urged the others to sit around the fire and speak of pleasant things.

In the quiet that followed that first round of activity, it seemed that peace might not be established as easily as that, after all. There were practical difficulties to be surmounted before the newcomers could expect a lasting settlement with the natives of this
ítalo
country. Askán was among the last of the Assúwans to reach the village, accompanying the still and silent form of his father on its padded board, a damp cloth laid over the face of the corpse to protect it from damage by the sun. Túrem insisted that the body be left outside the fortifications of the village, for fear of contamination by the evil spirits that are attracted by the presence of the dead. When the bereaved son objected to such dishonor being shown to his illustrious, fallen father, the Italian archer reminded them all sternly that he was the Lúkum, the war leader, and was accustomed to being obeyed without argument.

Peirít’owo cuffed the youth on the ear. “What is wrong with you, little brother? Accept this man’s hospitality like a proper guest, or you will bring disaster on all of us! Do as he tells you. Your father is hardly going to complain.”

Askán had actually been prepared to obey, but the rebuke set his mind on an unhappy path. As quickly as the half-cooked meat and bread could be gathered in, the visitors gulped the food down. They devoured everything offered them, too ravenous to think of offering thanks or preparing a decent ceremony. Though the dead man’s son was convinced to join his fellow travelers by the welcoming fire, he was too heartsick to do anything more than drink two cups of beer – and that with unfitting speed, and in silence. Abruptly, he then rose and interrupted the happy chatter between Dáuniya and her younger brother. “I demand my due!” the angry youth cried. “I demand compensation for Ainyáh’s death on these shores! Where is my
qoiná
?”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Túrem asked, annoyed. “There is no blood payment due you, boy. No man of the Rásna tribe had anything to do with your father’s unfortunate passing. Dáuniya has told me that he was sick before you ever got here!”

“He died in your tribal waters,” Askán insisted. “I require the blood price or the black blood itself! Justice will not be denied.”

T’érsite threw up his hands, cursing, “May Préswa force your cursed father to ferry the dead across the Stuks himself for all time and then some! And may she put all his miserable kinsmen to work digging a new bed for that stinking river after that! Here the gods have given us a miracle, an absolute miracle, and that is not enough for this little cur! No, no, it was not good enough that the Divine Horse preserved us from drowning in the sea, in spite of all the evil omens! No, no, that means nothing at all to him! Nor is the fact that the goddess of glory held back her blood thirsty husband and did not take a single human sacrifice for Arét on these shores! Why does that not impress him?
Ai gar
, he cannot spend a single moment thanking Divine Areté even for that, the stinking, little goat! Instead, he has to start foaming at the mouth, like a mad dog, making insane accusations about blood guilt!
Ai
, to ‘Aidé with all of Kanaqán and Ainyáh’s whole house! May Préswa’s three-headed dog hunt down every last one of them and eat them for supper!”

That was the last straw for Ainyáh’s son. He fell on the lowborn Argive with his dagger drawn. The other men tried to stop Askán’s advance, but they were not quick enough. He soon had the blood he had desired, too, though it was Ak’áyan, not Italian. The hot liquid streamed over T’érsite’s upraised arm in a bright, red stream. The aging Argive did not move, seemingly unchanged by the great slit opened in his wrist and hand. As if frozen, he remained seated as before, not even breathing. Only a slight tremor and the spurting blood showed that he was still a living man and not turned to stone.

Dáuniya leaped to her feet, crying out in alarm. In another moment, she had managed to restore a semblance of order with her trilled war cry. At this sound, the Italians backed away from their visitors, their once friendly faces now hard and wooden. Quickly encircling the newcomers, they awaited only a word from their Lúkum to slaughter the lot of them. Túrem still hesitated, though, watching his sister with falcon’s eyes.

The woman herself then lost control, beating Askán’s downy face with her hands, screaming at him incoherently. “How could you ruin this day for me? I have suffered so much over the years, waited so long, how could you? How could you! You beast, you dog, you jackal! I hate you and I hate your father! I hate all of you!”

The children among the refugees had begun screaming the minute Askán had started shouting, climbing into their mothers’ arms. But Flóra avoided the transformed Dáuniya, now clinging to her father’s leg. “Papa! Papa!” she wailed. He felt the whole of her small, now emaciated body shuddering against him. But Diwoméde could only wrap his arms around his distraught wife, begging her through his own tears to free herself from the clutches of the
maináds
. “Do not leave us, Dáuniya, do not leave us! We need you, we need you!”

Peirít’owo and Tushrátta tackled the youth together. They dragged Askán away from the victim of his unthinking rage. “Ilishabát!” the older of the two called. ”Talk some sense into this mad dog, before he gets us all killed.”

But Ilishabát, with Hányah and Yúlu both sobbing in her embrace, shared her only friend’s distress. Instead of attempting to reason with her kinsman, she cursed her nephew in turn. “Astárt herself blights everything you touch, Ainyáh, even when you are dead! May the netherworld refuse your spirit entry! May your son die and join you in the void! To the sea I consign you, Askán! May an evil fate be written for you, a pox on your flesh, a cough in your throat, a knot upon your spine!”

With trembling hands, T’éti tended to the injured man.
“Ai, ai!
What a dreadful mess we have here. What a bunch of fools we all are. I should have seen it coming, too.
Owái
, gods, why did you withhold the vision of this from me?” Under her dry, wrinkled fingers, T’érsite’s blood continued to flow steadily.
“Ai
, such a deep wound!” the old woman exclaimed. “He has cut you to the bone on this side, quite to the bone! It will have to be burned to stop the bleeding.”

That announcement roused T’érsite from his trance.
“Owái
, Dáuniya!” the Argive called out, his face pale with shock, “where are you, girl? Did you not learn the healing arts from your master at Tróya? Save me from this evil-tempered witch!” But his preferred nurse was unable to come to his aid, wailing wordlessly in her husband’s arms. For her part, T’éti moved quickly, knowing that her patient would resist her if he could. She drew a brand from the fire and, gripping his injured arm under one of hers, pressed the glowing tip of the branch to the deepest part of the long wound. T’érsite made no other sound. He simply collapsed, apparently lifeless.

Assuming that life would return, given sufficient time and coaxing, the other women scurried forward to lay the man out flat on the ground. T’éti was able to finish her work, washing the cauterized injury with beer, filling the wound with ashes, and wrapping it with a bit of Mélisha’s filthy skirt. Mélisha herself bathed her husband’s ashen face, whimpering and trembling as she worked, fearing that each of her husband’s breaths would be his last.
“Owái, owái,”
she kept repeating helplessly.

Still the Italians waited, glancing at their Lúkum from time to time. But Túrem did not speak. Nor did he move. His dark eyes followed the self-described king of the group. Odushéyu wandered to the edge of the crowd, his eyes and mouth agape, shaking his head. He did not have a clue to what the uproar was about and could not seem to gather his thoughts. This low-ranked Argive meant nothing to him. He would not have given the man’s death a second thought. Wandering aimlessly about the deserted village, he eventually caught sight through an open doorway of a bowl full of bread crumbs. Green mold dusted them lightly. But he sat in the dusty alley and tasted the dry food anyway. It did not kill him instantly, so he concluded it was edible, though it tasted foul. Stuffing handful after handful into his mouth greedily, he devoured the old bread, until his belly was finally full. Belching loudly, he lay down in the doorway of the little hut and promptly fell asleep, encouraged by the large amount of beer he had earlier consumed.

Meanwhile, a fearful silence began to settle over the crowd of refugees, overcoming them little by little. “You,” Túrem snapped brusquely, at long last, “my sister’s husband. You will represent your people, since your chieftain has abandoned you.” Thus, Diwoméde found himself thrust into the role of leader by default. “The Lárez will confirm what I am about to offer you just now. I do not recognize any need for a blood payment. I want you to know that. However, because you are returning my sister to her people, I will present you with a gift, to show my thanks. You are barbarians, so you may not know the laws of civilized men. This being the most auspicious object I own, this establishes my tribe, the Rásna, as your host. Remember that. You people, whatever you easterners call yourselves, are now our guests. That is a formal relationship, with all the proper responsibilities and rights involved, so be prepared to play the proper role. Let there be peace between our two peoples. I present you now this gift of with black bronze, as it fell from the sky. That is sacred. So is the bond between us. This gift by its nature obligates the guest to the host for the foreseeable future. It is the same as kinship. I may call upon you for aid in a war, you see. Or, you will make me a gift of equal value when you are settled in your winter village. However the details are worked out, we are brothers now, you and I. Do you understand?”

Diwoméde nodded solemnly. Dáuniya’s weeping was quiet, now, and she wiped her face, trying to regain her usual composure. But Flóra still resisted her mother’s beckoning hands, maintaining her tight embrace on Diwoméde’s thigh. “I understand, Túrem,” the
qasiléyu
responded, trying to suppress his own deepening anxiety. “We have basically the same law in our own country. You and I are kinsmen and allies now. I apologize with all my heart for the unseemly behavior of this boy. He is out of his mind with grief and suffering. Our journey has been very long and hard. You are not seeing us at our best…”

“You have no right to speak for me!” Askán responded hotly, before Peirít’owo struck him again, harder than before.

“Take the man’s offer, you ox hoof!” Tushrátta insisted belligerently. “This is what your father led us all this way for, can you not see? He wanted a home away from your people and mine and away from the Ak’áyans as well, a place where our wives would have a chance to grow old, with their breasts intact, instead of slit to show some petty ruler’s dominance over us! He wanted a new settlement where our little children would not have their throats cut, like so many sacrificial lambs…” In the midst of his angry speech, the graying Lúkiyan burst into tears. He pressed his craggy features to the young man’s hair. Weeping unrestrainedly, he told Askán, “I had two boys, I did, twins. They were fine boys, the same age as you. Or they would be, if the king had not…that jackal…if he had not….” But he could not go on.

‘Iqodámeya came to her new husband’s side and told him to release the young man’s arms. “Yes, Askán,” she continued in her gentler tone. “You must take this offer of friendship and kinship, instead of speaking of blood. Listen to me a moment yourself, Diwoméde. Please hear me, too, Lúkum, even though I am only a woman. Tushrátta would tell you this himself. He meant to, but he could not. He can give back the bride-price that he paid me, you see. Yes, I said bride-price and not blood-payment. You are right about that. You owe us nothing. This boy is mad with sorrow at the loss of his father, as our leader, Diwoméde said. My husband can provide the purchase price for the family bond that is established between the bride’s kin and the groom’s family, you see. We do not have to wait until we are settled to speak of this. My Tushrátta has the rarest of gifts, you see. He knows how to work the black bronze. He will teach anyone that you choose, Lúkum, be he Ak’áyan, Assúwan, or Italian, adopting him as his own son, in order to be taught this rare skill. Askán, you must not reject this offer and ruin your father’s life work. Yes, my boy, this was what Ainyáh worked for, all his life, just this, to bring you to this place. This is what he lived for. This is what he died for. You must not spoil it. Be reasonable, my dear, young man. Think of your poor mother, too. She did not live to see you grow to be a man. And such a fine young man you are, too, the pride and joy of your father’s poor heart!