People of the Inner Sea (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  Mirurí, silent until then, nodded. "A generous and tempting offer," he began.

  But his fellow exiles bridled at the suggestion. "We are your equals, Dukoméde," the It'ákan complained. "We are kings, not mercenaries for hire."

  The Kep'túriyan agreed. "Such an invitation insults us."

  Untouched by their anger, Dukoméde shrugged his bare, blue-lined shoulders. "It was worth a try," he sighed. "Ai, I have had no luck at all this year. I understand your skepticism, Odushéyu. There are certainly as many charlatans in this world as there are prophets with true sight. But my own seer is practically infallible. I do not know the name of that Tróyan priestess he saw in 'Aidé, but the gods have certainly listened to her. My grain crop was miserable, this year, and there is not enough decent pasturage in the highlands for all the sheep, even though the ewes bore only half as many lambs as last year."

  "It is the same everywhere," Mirurí observed, fingering his curly, black beard. "All over Ak'áiwiya and Assúwa, and in the east as far as Kanaqán. For all we know, Ashúr is stricken as well. But there is always Mízriya…"

  Dukoméde seemed not to hear the slender Libúwan. Moodily, the island chieftain stared into the dying embers of his hearth. "We even heard rumors that Agamémnon had attacked At'énai on his way home, early in the spring," he added. His visitors' ears pricked up at the name of Ak'áiwiya's one-time overlord.

  "Attika won the battle, of course," the tattooed chief went on, "killing most of the men Agamémnon sent against them and Erékt'eyu imprisoned the rest. Then, news came that queen Klutaimnéstra had killed her husband. So, I sent to Attika for the Argives held in captivity. I might at least buy those men's services, I thought, since Agamémnon could not ransom them and Klutaimnéstra probably would not choose to. But," he threw up his hands, "fortune was against me even there. My messenger returned with empty hands. Only one Argive survived, I discovered, and he is on his way back to Argo, to be executed, no doubt."

  Idómeneyu dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. "We heard similar rumors ourselves, on Kéya. But others told us that it was Agamémnon who killed his wife. That is a far more likely circumstance, if you ask me. The Argive queen may have terrorized her own household, but her husband was always more than her match. No, Agamémnon is having a little more trouble with his wife's followers than he expected. I am sure of it. If an Argive warrior has been ransomed, it was surely the wánaks himself who sent the bronze."

  Odushéyu was as unimpressed as his companion. "You cannot always believe what you hear, Dukoméde, even when messengers who ought to know better are the ones who carry the rumors. Remember, when we were children we used to hear that the great 'Erakléwe had sacked Tróya and killed all the royal family but for a single princess. It was said that he raped her and sold her into slavery."

  "But later, people had to admit that her brother, Alakshándu, had been spared as well," Idómeneyu added with a smile. "Not only did 'Erakléwe not kill him, but Alakshándu ruled Wilúsiya by decree of the Náshiyan emperor. It was only when Agamémnon came to the throne of Argo that we learned the real truth. Our legendary hero had only taken the Tróyan princess in a raid. He never even lay with her, much less slaughtered the royal family. Argo's king Atréyu ended up awarding the woman to his qasiléyu at Sálami. She was hardly a slave."

  "Whether the stories I hear are true or not," Dukoméde said, wearying of his guests' conversation, "we of Skúro do not stand against the great gods. Tomorrow you will sail away without any of my men."

  When the small Ak'áyan army set out again the following day, the gods seemed against them, indeed. The usual winds were absent that year, making the crossing of the Inner Sea an arduous task. It took all the men's strength beneath a blazing sun to reach the lesser island of Psará before dark the next night.

  After the long, hot journey, Idómeneyu refused to go north to Lázpa as originally planned. "Look," he told the other two leaders. "K'íyo is within sight. We should go there next. What would we find on Lázpa anyway? Agamémnon sacked all the major towns there just last year. They cannot have recovered yet. So they will be slim pickings. Getting there would mean another day as bad as the last one, in any case. Never mind Wilúsiya and Ainyáh. We do not need that man's army. Their loyalty would be suspect anyway. Let us go directly to K'íyo from here and, from there, south to Millewánda."

  Odushéyu fumed and fought the idea, but Mirurí and most of the men took the Kep'túriyan's side. They were tired of rowing in the heat. At length, the It'ákan exile agreed that the main force would go to K'íyo, in the morning. They would move on to the allied citadel of Millewánda, on the mainland, the following day. But there, the main group would wait, while a smaller group of It'ákans continued to the north, following the original plan.

  This lesser contingent would not attack Lázpa's walled villas this time. Odushéyu's group was insufficient for that. Instead, they would only spend the night on the big island, on the way to Tróya, another day's travel north. Odushéyu still insisted that he would invite Ainyáh to join the Ak'áyan expedition against Mízriya. "We cannot afford to pass up this chance to increase the size of our army," the It'ákan argued.

  At the mention of the southern empire, Mirurí abruptly switched sides. "We will need every spearman we can recruit," the Libúwan agreed, "if we hope to prevail against a Mízriyan fortress."

  Seeing the two leaders adamant on the point, Idómeneyu agreed reluctantly. "But I will only wait so long," he warned the It'ákan and Libúwan. "My men will stay in Millewánda until the midsummer festival. But after we have jumped the fires at the solstice, we will go. If you are not in Millewánda by then, to 'Aidé with you both! My men and I will set out on our own immediately after the feast."

  aaa

  On K'íyo, Idómeneyu's men heard news of Assúwa that heartened them considerably. Rainfall had been disastrously sparse for the past several years throughout the Náshiyan empire, just as in Ak'áiwiya and Kanaqán. Stores of food of all kinds were low, even in the great capital city of Qattúsha. As elsewhere, the common people were restless. There was an increase in disorder on the roads and rivers. Farmers and shepherds ruined by the drought formed themselves into marauding bands and attacked the better-off villagers, who flocked in turn to the walled cities.

  "Where there is unrest in the countryside, kings are preoccupied with holding onto their thrones, great emperors as well as the pettiest vassal lords. That means opportunity for outsiders," Idómeneyu told his men. "Evil times for the Náshiyans mean good times for us." Thus encouraged, they sailed south for Ak'áiwiya's eastern outpost.

  Millewánda was situated on the southern side of its famed harbor, on a promontory reaching into the Inner Sea. The Máyandro River flowed close to the base of the massive fortification walls, adding the strength of its bull god to the city's man-made protection. Men of Kep'túr had founded this city as a trading post in generations past, Idómeneyu happily informed his companions. It had passed into true Ak'áyan hands in the days of the legendary hero 'Erakléwe, and it had been sacked and burned only once, by the hero himself. "Kep'túriyans are always welcome here," the exiled king exulted.

  Claiming to be merchants from Knósho, Idómeneyu gained entrance into the vast citadel with a few of his men. He and his warriors made their way through streets crowded with the families of destitute shepherds and farmers, looking over the buildings as they went and plundering them in their minds. Though packed with refugees, the port was still impressive. Its stone curtain wall surrounded a hill twice the size of Tróya or Argive Tíruns, a larger area even than that of Agamémnon's capital at Mukénai. Set into the wall at regular intervals were square bastions, in the Náshiyan style, that increased the deadly effect of defending archers on the heights, when facing attacking spearmen. The cemetery outside the walls, however, contained the Ak'áyan type of rock-cut tombs.

  Inside, the population was as mixed as the architecture. Every public place was crammed with people speaking diverse languages, L
úkiyans from the surrounding countryside, and the visitors’ distant kinsmen, native Kep'túriyans. There were many Ak'áyans with their varied, lilting dialects, and even a few visiting traders from distant Alásiya and Kanaqán. Every available space in the city was taken, the streets cluttered with huts and tents. Even the main courtyard of the palace on the low hill's peak was filled with rude dwellings. These shelters, Idómeneyu found to his dismay, housed men armed for war.

  At the entrance to the palace courtyard, Idómeneyu's little band was met by a stocky, beardless man. He seemed to be the leader of the troops behind the low walls of stone, as all the others made way as he passed. He wore a tunic, longer than an Ak'áyan kilt, the fringed fabric hanging just below his knees, a curved dagger at his side. On his feet he wore Náshiyan mid-calf boots with upturned toes, and leather greaves wrapped his shins. A shorter tunic of dark leather covered his upper body, leaving only his arms bare. Those muscled, sun-bronzed arms showed as many scars and minor wounds as Idómeneyu's and his companions'.

  The war leader had been interrupted while shaving, his long, brown hair falling uncovered to his shoulders, one cheek still dark with the stubble of several days’ growth of beard. His bronze razor was still in his hand, a small, ax-like object with a slightly curved blade. His dark eyes narrowed with suspicion as he looked over the newcomers, and he growled, "Who are you? What is your business here?"

  Stricken with anxiety at the sight of hundreds of armed men so near, the small contingent of visitors turned nervous eyes on its leader. Idómeneyu was silent for a long moment, his mouth open, his right hand raised and a finger pointed at the half-shaved warrior. "Tushrátta!" he suddenly cried, showing his teeth in a large smile. "You Lúkiyan goat, I have not seen you in ten years!"

  "Idómeneyu!" said the other with a similar smile of recognition. "You Ak'áyan pig, it has been fifteen years if it has been a day!" Laughing heartily, the two men embraced, pounding each other on the back. Relaxing, Idómeneyu's men glanced at each other in relief.

  Tushrátta pulled back to look the Kep'túriyan over. Frowning a bit, he asked, "But what is this? I see no bronze on you, no spear in your hand. Are times that hard in Kep'túr? You have not fallen to trading, surely. My old fellow pirate cannot have become a merchant." The idea was clearly distasteful and he backed away, hands up as if to avoid touching an evil thing.

  Idómeneyu hung his shaggy head and cleared his throat. "I have indeed fallen on hard times, Tushrátta," he muttered, so quietly that the other man hardly heard him. The accompanying Ak'áyans felt the tension rise again and they nervously fingered the daggers beneath their cloaks, their feet shifting, their eyes darting from side to side.

  "But not that hard!" Idómeneyu suddenly shouted and leaped upon Tushrátta, knocking the man to the pavement of the courtyard. The razor flew from the commander's hand as his wrist hit the ground. In an instant, the soldiers in the courtyard were on their feet, rushing toward the visitors with lowered spears. Idómeneyu's men threw down their knives, seeing themselves outnumbered and out-armed, and they raised both hands, palms forward to show they held no other weapons. Half a dozen leaf-shaped blades pressed against the Kep'túriyan king's back, as he sat on Tushrátta's chest, his hands at the commander's throat.

  In a tight voice, Tushrátta commanded, "Lower your spears, men. He is my friend." He began to chuckle.

  Laughing with him, Idómeneyu released the Lúkiyan, backed away, and offered a hand to help him up. Once more, the two embraced, although Tushrátta rubbed the back of his head, wincing. Confused, the other Ak'áyans looked at each other and, one by one, retrieved their fallen blades, while the equally bewildered Lúkiyans set the shafts of their spears on the ground.

  "I am sorry about your head," Idómeneyu said cheerfully, throwing an arm over the other man's shoulder. "But you did insult me, you know."

  Tushrátta nodded. "Come this way," he said, beckoning to the Kep'túriyan's companions. "Eat with us." Before long, the visitors were seated within the courtyard, munching dry bread and stringy mutton, and drinking watered wine with Tushrátta's soldiers.

  Idómeneyu explained to his men, "We served as mercenaries in Alásiya, years ago, when my father was wánaks of Kep'túr, and his was Lúkiya's most infamous pirate."

  Tushrátta took no offense at that description, reclining on sheepskins before the door of his hut. "My father was the best marauder of his generation," he declared with some pride, "but there was a still greater one whose deeds are sung in every Lúkiyan citadel. That was Piyamáradu, the Scourge of the Inner Sea. He was born a subject of Náshiya, to a Lúkiyan father and a Wilúsiyan mother. His city is one you may have heard of – Tróya."

  When his audience nodded at the name, their faces guarded, he continued, "It was in the days of our grandfathers, when an Ak'áyan raiding party attacked Tróya. The highborn women were outside the city walls for the festival of the goddesses Dáwan and Kórwa. Many were taken captive, Piyamáradu's wife and sister among them. When the emperor refused to seek revenge on Ak'áiwiya for this outrage, Piyamáradu swore he would dedicate his life to that end.

  "From a base here at Millewánda, he ravaged the coast of Assúwa, to punish the emperor for abandoning Tróya. At the same time," and here Tushrátta began to chuckle, "he made a pact with Atpá, the king of Millewánda at the time. Piyamáradu delivered all the booty from his raids here, where king Atpá traded it to Ak'áyan merchants.

  "Now, Piyamáradu's ships were never in this port when the Ak'áyans came, but hiding on the other side of the promontory, where they could not be seen. At a prearranged signal, Piyamáradu would sail his longboats out to sea and rob the Ak'áyans." Tushrátta was now laughing so hard he could barely talk, his face red and his sides shaking. "And then…Atpá resold the loot to the Alásiyans." Tears rolled from his eyes and he wheezed with laughter at the thought.

  Idómeneyu did not share his friend's amusement. "We did not come to Millewánda to hear old stories about Lúkiyan pirates," he snapped. "What news do you have of Náshiya? Is it true that emperor Qáttushli is making war in the southeast?"

  Tushrátta sighed, wiping his eyes and still smiling. "By all the thousand gods, you Ak'áyans are the last to learn everything. Qáttushli has become a god. He makes war on no one now."

  "What?" Idómeneyu demanded indignantly. "How can a man become a god? That is nonsense. And do not try to prove your case. I heard Tróyans make the same absurd claim about their old king, Ganuméde."

  The half-shaved commander burst into renewed guffaws and roared with laughter until Idómeneyu drew his dagger, rousing the surrounding warriors to take up their spears again. Waving them all to sit, Tushrátta finally regained his composure enough to speak. "Idómeneyu, you ignorant barbarian, when a great king dies, we say he becomes a god. It is just an expression! Qáttushli is dead. His son, Tudqáliya, ascended the Náshiyan throne last summer, a weak puppy of a prince, truly his mother's child. He has been hard pressed on every side since his coronation. Káshka nomads came down from the north, as they do every few years. And yes, the Ashúriyans are continuing to harass Náshiya in the southeast, as usual. The new emperor sent messages to all the dependent kingdoms of his realm, on his accession, calling for troops to meet those two threats. He demanded extra supplies of grain, too, to refill the storehouses of Qattúsha city, which had been depleted by the drought.

  "My homeland of Lúkiya was preoccupied with internal matters at the time and we did not respond to Tudqáliya's first decree. Our king Sharpaduwánna died at Tróya, early last summer. Even you must have known about that. Naturally, I took control when that happened. We could not have a little boy sitting on the throne, even if Sharpaduwánna was his father. Of course, I handled the problem of the drought in our traditional manner. I delivered no troops or supplies to my overlord, but sent out my pirates to take what my country needed from wherever it could be found."

  "Of course," Idómeneyu said dryly.

  "Of course," Tushrátta grinned. "First, we
went to Míra. With a whole land of merchants next door, how could I help myself? They presented such a tempting target. After all, they never had a decent army, even in the best of times. Their mercenary officers deserted before the Tróyan war had even ended and the ranks of the foot soldiers were heavily depleted. The drought did nothing to improve matters for them. Even so, they dutifully sent a small force at Tudqáliya's summons. What sheep! Naturally, that left them without adequate numbers for defense." He smiled broadly at the memory. "City after city fell to our spears and torches."

  Idómeneyu leaned closer to the Lúkiyan, burning with desire for such success. "And then?"

  Tushrátta's face grew solemn. Staring up at the pale, cloudless sky, he sighed, "The other nearby kingdoms kept their surviving warriors at home, after hearing the news about Míra. They sent messengers to the palace at Qattúsha demanding action on their own behalf. 'Quell the Lúkiyan incursions first,' they all told Tudqáliya, 'and then the emperor will see our troops march on the Ashúriyans.' My spies intercepted several such messages.

  "I was not worried, at first. You see, at the same time, the emperor received boasting letters from the Ashúriyan king. I had spies in Qattúsha's citadel, of course, and they kept me well informed of matters. Ashúr's king, Tukúlti-Ninúrta, wrote to say that he had taken ten thousand Náshiyans prisoner. Can you believe that? What a number! As many men as there are stars in the sky! He had flayed them alive, too. He gouged out their eyes while they were still breathing, and, in the end, adorned the walls of his capital city with their skulls. The days of Ashúr's subservience to Náshiya were over. When I heard this, I assumed I was the lesser threat and the emperor would simply ignore me and march east."