Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze)

FIRE ISLAND

by Diana Gainer

CHAPTER ONE

LIBUWA

The usually bustling alleyways were quiet at dawn, as two dark-haired men made their way to the market place. They walked single file, the one before the other, through the narrow streets. In silence, they passed between the high, white halls of the houses. Reed mats hung, unmoving, in little windows just beneath the flat roof lines. The fronds of the many palm trees did not stir. Not a breath of wind freshened the hot, summer air, already heavy with moisture from the nearby sea. Dogs wandered about the village, long-limbed things with filthy hides and open, running sores. Some of the bedraggled curs stood and watched the men briefly, before continuing their browsing among the piles of garbage accumulating in the streets. But most of the animals slunk away at the sight, cowed by the memory of blows from such tough, slender rods as the one that rested on the second man’s shoulder.

The man in the back was large, not tall but heavy-set, with thick rolls of fat hanging over the knotted waistband of his white kilt. His head, like his chin, was bare. Indeed, there was little hair to be seen on any of his smooth flesh. He was not particularly dark, either, clearly a man who spent a good deal of his time indoors. His sandaled feet kicked up dust as he walked with a heavy but energetic stride, more than once coming abreast of his companion. As he did so, raising his wooden shaft from its resting place on his shoulder, he whacked the bound man before him across the back, demanding, “Pick up the pace there, Diwoméde. You are going to be sold, not executed. Besides, the
maas
wants me back at the villa with his goods before midday. You had better not make me late!”

The first man, sun-bronzed and lean unlike the second, stumbled under the blows. His back and hairy chest bore innumerable scars, some old, some recent. Not all had resulted from the slave-master’s rod. One shoulder was especially knotted with thick scar tissue. Although his hands were tied behind his back, he still favored the old injury, bending his left elbow as far as he could to bring that wrist closer to the unsound arm. He clearly did not like bending the scarred arm any more than necessary. In his demeanor as well as his appearance, he presented a striking contrast to the other man. His beard and scalp had been shaved only the day before, but, even so, a dark shadow of new growth already covered both. The hair on his arms and legs was nearly as thick as that on his chest, too. Diwoméde’s skin was leathery, as well, and dark from hours spent outside in the harsh sun. Though strong and essentially healthy, his head was bowed, his eyes on the ground. His pace remained slow, also, and spiritless, despite the other’s urgings. Even at his best, his pace was awkward. Half of one foot had been cut away, years before. It had long since healed, but he was still reluctant to put his full weight on it, even so. It was not simply the fear of pain that impeded his steps, either, as the two men proceeded toward the market. Naked and barefoot, his low status sat upon his shoulders like a physical weight. He was not eager to be sold like a head of cattle or a mere sheep.

Leaving the white-washed walls of the larger dwellings, the two men passed among the simpler huts of the village perimeter. These were constructed of reeds, of long-stemmed grasses, and of lilies from the nearby marshes. After they were first gathered into thick bundles, the reeds had been planted in the ground in a rough circle, with a narrow gap for a door. The tops of the standing bundles were then drawn together and fastened at their tops, with more twisted fibers, creating a temporary shelter from the rain and from the brutal south wind. Many huts of this rough construction had already been abandoned and were beginning to come apart. Buffeted by the constant, dry wind, they leaned heavily to one side. But the hovels that were still inhabited were nearly as bedraggled and forlorn as those that now stood empty. The shepherds of the land normally fled to better watered uplands to the south, in order to pass the stifling summer in greater comfort. These nomads usually returned here to the shore in the north only when the oppressive heat began to lessen in the autumn. Nothing but the gravest of misfortunes kept anyone in this place throughout the hot season.

To Diwoméde, the simple huts resembled so many up-turned boats. It was an uncomfortable thought. Boats made him think of the sea, which lay so near, and how he yearned to voyage across it once more, leaving this parched land forever. “Diwiyána,” he whispered to the sky, “if you can hear me, great lady, let it be a merchant who buys me today. If I must be a slave, let it be in a civilized land, at least.”

From behind him, the heavy-set man struck Diwoméde again, growling, “
Ayá
, there, what are you muttering about, Diwoméde?” He trotted forward, coming abreast of the captive. “Shut your muzzle, you barbarian dog! Keep your head down and your eyes on the earth! Look meek and obedient for me, now. I want to get a good price for you, today. If I do not, you will regret it. I will see to that!”

Rounding the last of the wattled huts, the two men approached the shore. The sparkling waters of the Great Green Sea were close now, and the men could see a number of ships anchored in the little harbor. The vessels were long and slender, their pitch-blackened sides low in the water. Their oars had been pulled inside. Each longboat’s sail was furled and tied to the yardarm, high on the mast. They did not look prepared to set sail anytime soon. Nevertheless, the sight of the ships aroused such a deep longing in Diwoméde’s soul that he could not help but slow his pace further, staring out at them. “Goddess,” he breathed, “let me...”

But he did not have time to voice his prayer. Gripping the captive’s scarred arm and dragging him forward, the heavy-set man raised his staff and called to a cluster of kilted men by the shore. “Bikurnár, my brother! So, it is you, indeed! I thought that it might be your fleet that dropped anchor, last night. Look here! Come, see what I have for you. I have a rare prize, Bikurnár, a rare prize, in truth!”

From the little group came one as tall and slender as a young palm tree, his skin as dark as his kilt was white. His black hair was oiled, tightly curled, and had been coaxed into ringlets that hung to his jaw. Rubbing his freshly shaved chin, he walked slowly toward the newcomers. “He looks rather ordinary to me, just another one of those miserable sea people,” he pronounced, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he looked Diwoméde over. “He seems to be a damaged one, at that.” He shook his head, frowning. “But, since you are a friend, Mirurí, I will do you a favor. I suppose I could take him off your hands for a reasonable fee, say, a dozen goats.”

“Do not insult my intelligence!” the heavy-set Mirurí cried indignantly. “I came here to sell, not to pay! This slave is a little more marked up than the usual one, I will admit. But there is a good reason for that. He is not just any wretched barbarian, you see, not a mere oarsman or shepherd, carried off in a raid on a northern island. No, this one was a king in his own country, I want you to know.
Ayá
,” Mirurí added, quickly amending his argument, as Bikurnár rolled his eyes in obvious disbelief. “Maybe he was not a king, exactly. But he was high born. He commanded a fortress, at any rate. He led troops in any number of wars, and that is how received so many wounds. Look him over more closely, my brother, and you will see that what I say is true. He does have a few marks of the lash on his back, it is true. But then, that is only to be expected. It takes a few whippings to make a decent slave out of a high born man.”

Bikurnár merely grunted, still frowning. “Some of those marks may well be from battle,” he agreed guardedly. “But that does not prove him to be of noble birth. Among barbarians, it is not only the high ranks who fight. Even a carpenter or a farmer may be called upon to fight for his overlord.”

Mirurí shrugged his beefy shoulders. “
Ayá
, of course, everyone knows that.” He paused. An idea came to him and he raised a finger to catch the other man’s flagging attention. Speaking quickly, he added, “But high born he was, I swear this to you. I swear by the holy sun above us. This, too, I vow. Not only are you going to pay me for him, but you will give me a good sum, as many horses as I can count. Great lords do not come cheap, barbarians though they may be.”

“A great lord, you say,” Bikurnár chuckled, circling the slave, shaking his head. “Watch those oaths, my friend. The sun himself may take offense, some day. No, Mirurí, a high-born man would resemble a lion, not a half-drowned rat. This speck of vermin is obviously lame. He is slow moving, and I imagine that knotted arm is paralyzed as well. He would be no good for working in the fields and little better for herding cattle. He does not have the look of a house slave, either. If I took him to Mízriya, I would not be able to sell him. No civilized man with any taste would have such a shaggy beast in attendance in his household. He probably has fleas, too. Spare me your lies, now. I am not interested in this so-called prize.”

“Not all of your customers are as particular as you are, Bikurnár,” argued Mirurí, waving his limber rod excitedly. “Men of all nations come to this trading post, you know. I am an expert in this matter. You and I may have the benefit of being versed in Mízriyan ways, but most of the traders around here are Libúwan. They are still nomads at heart, even if they have built permanent houses. They love to hear about distant places, even though they no longer travel around themselves. Why, the
maas
of this very village – may the good god, Amún give him life, prosperity, and health – is just such a Libúwan, himself. He is a true nomad chieftain in his soul, although he has not stirred from his villa for several years now. In fact, it was he who stole this barbarian from Mízriya, from the estate of the governor of the Lower Kingdom, himself. Such an important man as the governor would only keep high-born slaves, you know.” His grin broadened as he finished his little speech, perhaps widening a little too broadly.

“Nonsense!” the slender man announced with a snort. “You forget, Mirurí, who you are talking to, here. I spent many years in Mízriya, myself. I know the customs and history of that country better than you do. When the Great King defeated the sea people, he took thousands upon thousands of prisoners. He sacrificed all the high-born captives to Amún, as has been done there since the beginning of time. Every Libúwan here and everywhere knows this, no matter how small and insignificant his tribe. News of these events has spread all the way from Mízriya’s borders to the twin cliffs where the sun goes at night!”

Mirurí cringed at that reaction. “
Ayá
, all right, but this prisoner was still someone special. He was a great storyteller, whatever his rank was. Even if no Mízriyan could bear the sight of his ugliness, there are other nations represented here and elsewhere along the coast. You would have no trouble at all selling him again, and at a very nice profit, too.”

“Other nations, you say?” Birkurnár asked, with a scornful, humorless laugh. “What others? I am the only Káushan who sails this far west. I am only doing it out of gratitude to your brother. If he had not given me shelter when I deserted the Mízriyan army, I would never have come to such an impoverished port as this in the first place. Much less would I be visiting every other summer.”

“Now it is you who are spilling oily lies, Birkurnár,” the lighter-skinned man argued playfully. “I know you too well. You come this way so often because the Great King of Mízriya has put a price on your head, just as he has done to me.” Seeing that the slender merchant’s face hardened, Mirurí went on in a forcibly cheerful tone. “But all of that is completely irrelevant. I tell you, there are men of every nation here! There really are, I tell you, incredible though it may seem, in such an out-of-the-way place! Just last month, a whole fleet of foreign immigrants came and settled in the village, some from as far off as Lúkiya, clear across the Great Green Sea. Others were from Kanaqán, in the eastern elbow of the sea. Many of them are still here, too. Now, such people may not be nearly as civilized as Mízriyans, but they do know a king from a shepherd. They are not put off by a few unsightly scars or a bit of hair on the chest, either, not on such a talented specimen as this!” He waved his rod dramatically about Diwoméde’s scarred shoulders to emphasize his point.

But the dark merchant only snorted again, impatient now, inspecting the more recent scrapes and bruises on the captive’s back. “Barbarians, all of them,” he responded curtly. “Besides, the only Lúkiyans I have seen were either prisoners of war, themselves, or the sons of captives. If they know what makes a good slave and what does not, it is from personal experience!” He straightened his back and took several steps away from the merchandise, shaking his head as before. “No, I do not believe that I could sell this one. He is obviously unsound, and the marks on his back prove that he was disobedient. No doubt, that is why your
maas
wants to be rid of him.”