Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze) (47 page)

But the rest of her speech was interrupted by shouting. “Do not try to claim divine right for that worthless pirate!” Askán burst out. “It was bad enough that he led us this far!”

Peirít’owo added, “We only elected him as our temporary overlord. Overlordship is not the same thing as kingship, not the same at all! We just voted to let him steer the oar of the ship in front, that is all. We did not make him king.”

“That is right,” Diwoméde agreed loudly, trying to quiet them with raised hands. “Odushéyu was our leader, for a little while, only because we elected him. Now that his abilities are in doubt, and we no longer need a mariner, I say we should hold another election.”

Peirít’owo and Askán spat at the same time. “What, and make you leader,
qasiléyu
?”

Tushrátta shoved both the younger men roughly, knocking them to the ground. He straddled the older of the two bellowing, “It is about time, I say! Let us have a man who understands practical matters. We have had more than enough of leaders whose minds were clouded by lust for glory or power or what not.” Shaken, neither of the young men rose from the earth. The angry Lúkiyan glanced around, his broad shoulders low over his knees, like a wrestler about to tackle his opponent. “All in favor of Diwoméde as our leader, raise your hands!” It was more of a command than a call for a vote. No man kept his hand at his side, including the two sitting sheepishly on the ground.
“Qasiléyu!”
several of the Ak’áyans shouted, saluting their new headman. Loudest among them were the conspirators of the earlier night, the illegitimate sons of both Odushéyu and of the long-deceased Agamémnon.

“Then if I am
qasiléyu
and commander,” Diwoméde said quickly, addressing them with a voice that was strong and full, “I say we accept the Lúkum’s offer of peace. I accept his gift of black bronze with gratitude. I extend in return the craft of our metalworker. And I accept the further, most generous offer of the services of the Rásna’s priestess to conduct the funerals.”

There were no objections voiced aloud. But Diwomede could see T’éti’s anger in her flaming eyes. Túrem saw it, too. Realizing the awkward position in which it placed his new brother-in-law, he suggested that the local
flámen
perform a brief ceremony, taking the omens before embarking on the far weightier matter of the funeral. “A person can never attend to the gods too often,” he noted, “and this will serve to demonstrate the greatness of Karména’s power.”

When Diwoméde formally agreed, the
flámen
stepped out of the larger dwelling from where she had been sitting in the shadows until then, listening. Her hair was long, divided into braids, each threaded through with locks of white among the black. Her face was dark and heavily lined, as is that of one who spends long hours in the sun. Draped in a crimson cloak, she wore a long tunic of undyed wool, the hem unfinished and falling in an untidy fringe over her bare feet. Her eyes were clouded over with the white sickness that had blinded her in the midst of her youth. But, facing T’éti as if she could see the old woman, she stood, silent and unmoving, utterly confident.

The former queen’s eyes widened, drawing back the folds of skin that draped them. The Rásna village disappeared from T’éti’s normally keen sight in a moment. In its place, she had a sudden vision of a strange
dáimon
with the body of a horse. Where the head of the noble beast should have been, there rose the body of a man. The momentary phantom struck her temporarily dumb, the hair rising on the back of her neck, goose bumps forming on all her limbs. She seemed to hear the screams of a foreign goddess, the queen of the apparition that now took possession of her soul. Helplessly, the aged priestess repeated the dreadful words that echoed in her ears, “Settle in the
ítalo
land,
Zeyugelátes
, but at your peril. You will not harvest a crop from your new fields until the lady of
ítalo’s
waters, the great Zánya, is satisfied. That will not be until her nephew, the Divine Nézun, exacts his blood price!”

Once T’éti gave her blessing, there was no further question of Karména’s powers. Fearful of that most inauspicious omen, the travelers agreed unanimously to have Karména perform the combined funeral ceremony for the youth from the island of Qéra and for Ainyáh. Preparations began immediately in a clear space beyond the village palisade. The body of the dead man was washed and dressed in the best garments available. A male kid was quickly slaughtered as a substitute for the unrecoverable body of the drowned youth despite ‘Iqodámeya’s earlier mention of his bones and tokens of the islander’s presence were brought from the ship. The women and children of the refugees gathered greenery from the nearest trees and bushes and laid this upon the still forms of the dead. Little by little, the natives returned to their village and the Italian women assisted with the ceremony in their own way. They gathered food and drink for the later feast, drawing on personal stores, collecting everything at the open gateway to the village. There they awaited the proper time, taking refuge from ritual pollution at the threshold, where numenous power was greatest. The Italian men prepared a pyre for the dead, chopping wood and collecting tinder. The
Zeyugelátes
, both the men and older boys, were reduced to tagging after their women, lacking the vigor to take on their proper tasks.

St’énelo had come to the village on T’érsite’s back, as the Argive had recovered from his wound. Now, as the Rásna tribe and the
Zeyugelátes
(as all the travelers had become known to the locals) bustled about, the ailing man asked to speak to Diwoméde alone. Begging the
qasiléyu
to put him out of his misery, St’énelo told in whispers how he had dreamed a wondrous vision as they had crossed the sea. “I saw the ‘
Elléniya
herself welcome me to the White Island! Yes, I saw the place, I swear. It lies in the Okéyano river, on the rim of the world. She healed me there with her magical touch, and I walked again, as tall and as straight as when I was a young man. King Meneláwo was there, too. He embraced me and kissed me on the cheek and called me ‘old friend.’ I want to go there, Diwoméde, I want it with all my heart. You see, I am not afraid of death anymore. The only fear has been that I would get lost on the way. But people say that this Karména is a true seeress. If she can lead Ainyáh’s spirit and the Qérayan’s shade to ‘Aidé, then surely it will not be too much trouble for her to guide my soul there, too. It is only a little bit further on from the land of the dead to the White Island, you see.”

Diwoméde laid his head beside the old charioteer’s, unable to face the prospect. “I cannot do it,” he wept. “I could never bring myself to hurt you, St’énelo. Do you not want to see where we will settle? Would you not prefer to be buried in a fine, stone-lined tomb? Please, do not ask me to do this.”

But the aging Lakedaimóniyan would not take back his request. “You would not be hurting me,
qasiléyu
. Do you not see? It is this life that brings me pain. It has been that way ever since Meneláwo sailed across the sea to Mízriya, so long ago. My children all died of the plague, one after the other, after that. My wife followed them, in her boundless grief. My younger brothers never returned from Mízriyan captivity and so I was alone, without kinsmen. I stayed with Orésta in his new capital at Spárta for a little while, after he became king. But it pained my heart to see the young queen, ‘Ermiyóna, so like her mother in form, but with such a stunted spirit. She has the soul of a mere child, and a frightened one at that. She could never be a proper seeress, not if she had a hundred teachers. She is nothing like her mother. It will never be the same as it was when I was a young man in Lakedaimón. That is why I left my homeland. I was pleased to see my old friend, T’érsite, again, when I came to Kep’túr. It truly warmed my heart to see you come back to Ak’áiwiya, too,
qasiléyu
. My only regret is that I gave you such a hard time, at first. I was a fool, thinking that you, of all people, had died in captivity. It was the loss of my brothers that made me such a fool. Forgive me, old friend. But now this island, this Bull Country, it is not my home. It never could be. Help me go to my true home. Send me to my old
wánaks
, to my oldest and truest friend, to Meneláwo. Make this terrible pain leave me. Put an end to this endless suffering of mine, please, I am begging you. Let me find that good, peaceful place that I saw in my dream. I want to walk again, to breathe again like a young man. Please!”

The
qasiléyu
drew his dagger, slowly, reluctantly, washing its yellow blade with tears for a long time. But he knew that there was truth in what the old charioteer had said, even though Diwoméde did not believe in the existence of the White Island, himself, nor in the destined return of the good king and queen. Diwoméde himself suffered every time he looked at St’énelo’s bony, wasted limbs. He could see that the old man’s every breath was labored. The charioteer’s days would not be long in any case. This might be his last chance to have a proper funeral ceremony, too. T’éti herself was aged and prone to coughing fits. It would indeed be no kindness to drag poor St’énelo through yet another month of pain only to bury him without any rites at all – and on who knew what ground. Unable to see clearly through his tears, Diwoméde gently laid the tarnished blade of his knife against the sick man’s throat.

“I am sorry,” the
qasiléyu
gulped.

“
Ai
, do not apologize,” St’énelo whispered, wheezing between the words. He closed his weary eyes, a serene smile on his haggard face.

Taking a deep breath, Diwoméde squeezed his eyes shut. Quickly, he drove the length of his blade through the old man’s flesh, the windpipe, and into the bone behind. Dáuniya and ‘Iqodámeya had watched the scene in silence. They crept forward as the blade struck bone, pulling the
qasiléyu
from the still body of his former charioteer. Diwoméde let his wife cradle him in her arms. He released torrents of sobs, choking and wailing as does a child who has lost both mother and father. Heedless of the blood covering his hands and lap, the former slave clung to Dáuniya helplessly through the hot afternoon until the funeral rites were ready to begin.

At the funeral ceremony, the refugee women raised their arms to the sky and wailed with great feeling. They sang bitter lamentations and scratched cheeks that had been marked all too often in the same way many times before. The men mourned with equal sadness. They tossed dirt on their heads and rubbed ashes on their arms and faces. After the three bodies of the departed (two men and the goat substituting for the youth lost at sea) had been laid on the pyre together, their comrades saluted them, raising their hands to their hearts, their foreheads, and the sky. Then, with heavy hearts, the whole group consumed the token feast, each leaving a morsel of meat and grain, and a spilling a drop of beer for the dead, before the pyre was lit. Dáunya explained, through rivulets of tears, “We will have another feast when we have collected the bones of the dead men and placed them in urns. Each of the urns will be set on the bench as the guests of honor while we eat. Then Karména will guide their shades away from this world, to the womb of the earth. It is a long journey and very dangerous, but they will be safe in her care. When she stands face to face with the Spirit of Death, she will look for a vision, a glimpse of where our destiny leads us.”

Seated where the smoke of the funeral pyre added to their tears, the travelers dropped off into an exhausted slumber, one by one. Their hosts could only wonder at the miserable condition of these strange visitors, so enigmatic and ill-omened. Túrem tried to rouse his sister, but she snored as loudly as the rest. Diwoméde, at her side, lay with his arm draped over her, little Flóra finally reconciled and clasped in her mother’s arms. The Lúkum could do no more than shake his head and chuckle in bewilderment at the motley, disheveled bunch.

From behind the collection of Rásna in the gateway, an older man now made his way. He wore a short tunic, undyed as was the
flámen’s
, with a long cape of black wool over his shoulders. On his head was a short, pointed cap of felt, adorned with a pair of curved bull’s horns. He raised his bushy, white eyebrows at the sight of the sleeping group. “By old Sézlan himself, I certainly did not expect this greeting! You might as well get your men together and start moving our guests out of the sun, Túrem. If we leave them where they are, they will all cook to death, before they have a chance to meet me.”

Karména stopped the Lúkum before he had time to obey. “Leave them. It would be easier to erect the big tent over them, they are so many.”

“Now, Karména, my dear,” the caped man said indulgently,” “I know that you are marvelously gifted and the best
flámen
ever seen. But you are still blind, woman. Just how many of them do you think there are?”

She cocked her graying head, letting her thick braids slide from her shoulders. “There are at least fifty, I should say. So much snoring could hardly be produced by fewer than that, Lárez, since you ask. Am I not right?”

The young archers’ laughter roused a few of the sleepers, but none came to full consciousness. Yúlu cried half-heartedly for a moment, then found his mother’s breast and returned to deep slumber.