Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze) (33 page)

Érinu’s men were stunned by the confusion and, especially, by the Italian woman’s manner. Despite their chieftain’s continued urging, none thrust his spear into unwelcome Ak’áyan flesh, just as Tushrátta predicted. Andrómak’e struggled to her feet and reached for her husband’s arm again, wailing wordlessly. Cursing his guests and his spearmen equally, Érinu repeated his call for the visitors to be taken prisoner, just the same. He moved backward as he cried out his fruitless commands, trying to push Ainyáh to his feet and into action. At the same time, Dáuniya continued her demands for peace, clinging to Érinu’s other arm. At the queen’s elbow, her son followed, begging Érinu to heed his mother’s desperate wishes, warning that to do otherwise would kill her. Odushéyu did not want to join the crush of bodies that was beginning to move slowly from the queen’s chamber. But he dared not leave Diwoméde’s side. So it was that he, too, followed the group, though unwillingly. Just as reluctantly, the rest fell in with that flailing, shouting, weeping mass of humanity.

The native spearmen and the visitors, together, worked their way out of the entire complex of wooden houses that was the northern village. Still shouting their passionate arguments, they proceeded beyond the wooden walls of the settlement and down to the shore of the big bay. There, by the water, they remained in a large group, milling about, still unable to reconcile their competing wills, incapable of going their separate ways until a consensus had been reached. Érinu would not agree to release the refugees. His subjects remained partially loyal to his commands insofar as they would not allow the travelers to depart, though they still refused to kill anyone at his behest. Andrómak’e’s entreaties became increasingly frantic, but the spearmen still would not yield to her desires. At the same time, while none could enter deep water and make for the ships, neither would any man, Párpariyan or Assúwan, consent to take up arms against the visiting Ak’áyans who carried the sacred emblem of peace, despite Érinu’s oft-repeated calls to have the travelers executed. They were at an impasse.

Again and again, Dáuniya made her simple demand, “Let us sail on!”

“Listen to her,” Ainyáh pleaded, Sqamándriyo and his mother echoing his words.

But Odushéyu weakened the plea by insisting, “Indeed, my good man, but allow us to winter first, here in Párpara.” At this, the Lúkiyan, Tushrátta, further complicated the matter, adding, “We will pay for our keep with the strength of our backs. When we reach our new home, we will send you shipments of copper for as many years as you require. We will even select one of our number to remain here as a hostage until the debt is paid, if you wish. But do not cause any further bloodshed. We have had more than our fill of that.”

Unimpressed by references to wealth, calls for compassion, and the recollection of the dead, Érinu continued to pour imprecations on his visitors. “Traitors! Dogs! Swine! If you refuse to serve me now, you are all my enemies, forever! You are as good as dead! If you accept my hospitality through the season of storms, you will also incur the obligation to fight for my just cause! You have no other choices. On this, I will never compromise! It is a matter of honor!”

It was dawn by the time they reached the water’s edge. The women together drew the attention of their menfolk to the birth of the light. For a brief moment, all put aside their seemingly insurmountable differences to salute the eastern sky. Each raised a hand to heart, head, and sky, and hailed the impending sunrise. “There, you see!” Dáuniya announced triumphantly, glancing around at the crowd. “We are all kinfolk, after all, children of Mother Morning.”

As the gathered shepherds and women prepared to begin the quarrel anew, Sqamándriyo suddenly called out, “Look! Ships!”

All eyes turned toward the west, where the sea was still dark with the shadows of the dying night. It was true enough. Another long, black hull lay in the waters offshore. It was a larger vessel than any of the others, the slender Párpariyan ferries close to shore, or the Assúwan and Ak’áyan longboats anchored farther out in the harbor. The newcomer’s stern post rose high, as did the prow, each capped by a carved water bird. Behind this ship, half a dozen more had anchored in the large bay.

“When did these longboats arrive?” Érinu demanded angrily. He staggered backward, taken aback by the ominous sight. “Why was I not told of this?”

“They must have come during the night,” Tushrátta concluded, wobbling on his feet, “after everyone was asleep, or while we were feuding inside.”

The chieftain accepted the explanation but he was still not pleased. “I will deal with my lazy watchman later. What nationality uses the goose as its emblem?” he demanded, beginning to worry. “Tell me, Ainyáh. Can you do that much for me, at least?”

His Kanaqániyan kinsman rubbed his throbbing head. “No nation, brother-in-law. Only the holy sanctuary of ‘Elléniya has ships like these. But even that little island does not have this many. I cannot tell you who has brought these longboats.”

“He speaks the truth,” St’énelo agreed in his high, wheezing voice. He pushed his way through the crowd to face Érinu. “Listen to me,
wánaks
. I am not a priest. But I come from Lakedaimón, a country known for its piety. Those ships belong to the seeress of our sacred island of ‘Elléniya, just as he says. Our queen ‘Ermiyóna alone has the right to sail behind the goose, the holiest of birds after the eagle.”

“What should we do?” the Párpariyans asked their chieftain and one another. “Why has no one come ashore from that big longboat? Was it piloted by gods? What does this mean?”

“It means that they are waiting for you to go to them, my lord,” St’énelo explained, standing as tall as his trembling knees would allow him. Through the summer, his back had become more bent. He could barely hold his head up any longer, so he could scarcely see the chieftain’s face. But pride glowed in his sunken eyes. “That is the only proper way to consult an oracle.”

“I am a trained priest!” Érinu spat, stomping in an irregular circle, getting his fur-clad feet wet in his irritation. “I have no need to consult oracles, certainly not foreign ones.” He was quite indignant. But in the uproar, his words could only be made out by those few who were closest to him.

Beside him, his queen fell to her knees, weeping hysterically and beating her face and breasts.
“Ai gar
, woman,” he said to her, not without warmth. “Calm yourself, Andrómak’e, calm yourself.” Finally distracted from his anger, he knelt beside her, trying to catch her flying hands in his own. But Andrómak’e was beyond quieting by that stage. The suppressed anger and fear of the past fifteen years had taken her past the breaking point. She no longer had the power to hold back the baleful dance of the
maináds
. Érinu called to his men and to his nephew to help him hold her, as he quickly found that his own hands were powerless. These men, too, soon discovered themselves unable to keep her still. The woman struck out at those she loved with the same ferocity with which she battled the restraining hands of men who had become no more than strangers. The queen forced herself to her feet once more. She fought with every last shred of remaining strength until she was free of the crowd. With an inarticulate cry, she raced back up the slope to the hilltop fort and through the alleyways between the houses. Her voice matched her limbs in madness, a wolf-like howl that set all the little children in the area to crying.

Sqamándriyo followed his mother, calling her name and shouting half-formed prayers to the goddess Artémito, the wild lady who had surely taken her spirit captive. Érinu, also, took a few steps in her direction. But after a night without sleep, he no longer had the strength to chase her down. He sent his Párpariyans after her instead and sat heavily just beyond the water’s edge. Even so, the mad woman remained beyond his grasp.

“Go to her,” Diwoméde told his wife. “She knows you. She will listen to you.”

Dáuniya looked up at him, exhausted, feeling torn. “What about Flóra?” She reached for her daughter, pressing her cheek to the weeping child’s head.

But the
qasiléyu
did not release the little girl whose crying had slowed to a passionless, weary complaint. The toddler rested her little head on the man’s shoulder, her eyelids growing heavy. Diwoméde again urged, “Go, Dáuniya. I will keep her.”

She still hesitated. Staring deeply into his eyes, she sought a glimpse of his soul.

“I will take good care of her,” her husband assured her, feeling a little wounded that she still did not trust him. In that moment, he recalled his earlier outburst and how savagely he had beaten Odushéyu. Of course she doubted him. He was a violent man. What could he possibly say to make things right again?

Mélisha had managed to locate them in the milling crowd and she took a stand beside the
qasiléyu
. “Go on, Dáuniya,” she urged the younger woman. “You know that Diwoméde was a warrior. In the queen’s room, he hit Odushéyu as one warrior strikes another. He did it because he was protecting you, my silly girl. But he is a good man. He would never harm a helpless, little lamb like Flóra.”

Dáuniya glanced up at her husband’s face once more, less doubtful than before but still torn. He bit his lip to hold back the angry words he wanted to say. Instead, he told her, “Think of T’érsite. He fought at Tróya, just as I did. He carried a spear and killed his share of men. But he did not harm you, even though the code of
areté
would have allowed it. We are kinsmen. I am the same as he is.”

Tears unexpectedly welled in the eyes of both husband and wife at that. Without another word, Dáuniya turned and hurried after the sound of Andrómak’e’s frenzied shrieks.

Flóra’s eyes opened, just as her mother disappeared. Instantly, the baby was wide awake, seeing that Dáuniya was not there. It was a struggle to hang onto the blue-eyed child, Diwoméde found, and she no longer wanted to be held. It was as if her bones had mysteriously dissolved. She wiggled right out of his grasp. Mélisha tried to comfort the little girl with no more luck than the
qasiléyu
. The three of them were so engaged that a new visitor approached without being noticed.

“What is going on here, brother?”

Diwoméde jumped and a shudder ran down his spine at the sound of the familiar voice. He spun around to see who had spoken. “Orésta?” he asked, hardly recognizing the graying man who stood there, wrapped in a long tunic of black wool. “Is it you?”

“
Wánaks!”
Mélisha gasped, almost dropping Flóra. “What are you doing here?
Ai
, but you must leave! Go quickly, before that madman, Érinu, discovers you! He will surely kill you if he sees you.”

Andrómak’e collapsed before the narrow postern gate of the hilltop fort. The women of Párpara and their visiting sisters gathered around her, to do what they could for the distraught queen. Gentle hands bathed the sweat from her cold skin. They patted her pale cheeks and limp hands, caressed the damp hair that clung to her face. With the voices of mothers crooning to inconsolable infants, they assured her that she was not alone, that they understood and shared her anguish.

Párpariyan women in their long garments and tattooed faces knelt at Andrómak’e’s side, their unbraided hair rippling over their shoulders. “Resist the dance of the
maináds
, my lady,” they urged her. “Come back to us, come back to your people, to your sisters, to your children. We need you still. A chieftain cannot rule alone. He must have a woman’s spirit to guide him. Women are closest to the sacred hearth and to the gods. We are the keepers of the flame and the guardians of the ancestors. We are necessary if balance is to be maintained in the world of humankind.”

Alongside them, Ak’áyan and Assúwan women gathered in their threadbare skirts and tight bodices. Calling Andrómak’e’s name, they echoed the plea, “Do not go with the wild goddesses, good lady. We need you. If you leave us, who will temper Érinu’s rage?”

The queen’s eyelids fluttered, but only the whites of her eyes appeared. Nothing came from her pallid lips but a low moan and the sound of her tortured breathing.

Her two younger children sobbed at her side, pulling at her sleeves and hair, repeating, “Mamma! Mamma!” Even that did not rouse Andrómak’e from the other realm into which she had slipped.

“Hush now, all of you,” a white-haired woman demanded, shaking a corner of her shawl at the others. Her tone and her bearing spoke of authority. The crowd about her quieted obediently and stood back.

Even the children struggled to hold back their tears. “Help her, Grandmother,” the boy begged, he and his sister clinging to the old woman’s skirt now. “Help our mamma.”

Patting the small, trembling hands clutching her garments, she told them, “You children, stay out of the way now. Ladies, carry her to her bed. You cannot reason with her when she is in this state. She must rest. Then she will come back to us.”