People of the Inner Sea (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  "Only two," answered the laborer, still panting from his run.

  Diwoméde nodded and demanded, "What land are they from?"

  The man of low rank was uncertain. "They appear to be Assúwan…" he began.

  "Lúkiyan?" his commander broke in, to ask in alarm.

  "I do not think so," the low-born man answered.

  "Wilúsiyan?" Diwoméde suggested, reaching to his right, where T'érsite stood in open-mouthed silence.

  "Perhaps…"

  The qasiléyu turned away abruptly. "T'érsite," he ordered brusquely, "round up twenty men. Have them arm and meet the ships at the shore." To the workman who had brought the message, Diwoméde commanded, "Go with them. T'érsite will find you a spear. Come back here to tell me who the visitors are, as soon as you know."

  The two men hurried from the large room, past anxious serving women building up the fire on the hearth. "Dáuniya," called Diwoméde to the youngest of the women. "I need to send a message to Mukénai. Can you write?"

  She shook her head, staring at him in amazement.

  "Ai, of course not. Who is a scribe?" he demanded, looking around at the others. But each shook her head. "Ask around," Diwoméde ordered them. "Find me a woman who can write. Go! Quickly!"

  Dáuniya scurried to the mégaron's doorway only to collide with a broad-shouldered man entering at the same moment. T'érsite laughed and caught her shoulders, pushing her back into the room. "Ai, it is only one little ship from Tróya," he called out, laughing. "It is only our Kanaqániyan friend, Ainyáh, paying us his annual visit."

  "Have the men armed?" Diwoméde asked.

  T'érsite was surprised. "No, qasiléyu."

  "Arm them and have them meet the ships, as I said," the younger man demanded heatedly. "Yesterday's friend may be today's enemy. Even if it is only Ainyáh, I want soldiers to escort him here. And next time, follow my orders exactly, or I will have you beaten."

  Obediently, T'érsite left the room, still shaking his head in surprise. Dáuniya hurried behind him. As the two were about to part company in the torch-lit corridor, the man began to chuckle. "Ai, Agamémnon knew what he was doing when he made the boy a qasiléyu," he said and he winked at the serving woman.

  "It is good to see him take an interest in things, again," Dáuniya responded and rushed on through the dark hallway.

  aaa

  Ainyáh was less pleased by his reception than were the laborer and the servant. "Is this how Ak'áyans treat all their friends?" the mercenary asked Diwoméde, as they dined that evening in the mégaron.

  The young qasiléyu did not apologize. "It is the times we live in, Ainyáh," he explained calmly. "No ruler can trust his neighbor or even his kinsman. We will continue to greet all our visitors with armed escorts until the drought and the threat of piracy end." Seeing that his guest was only slightly mollified, Diwoméde added, "It has been four years now. It cannot last much longer."

  Ainyáh did not share his confidence. "I have heard legends of as many as seven years of want," he noted. "But I do not intend to sit in Tróya that long, waiting on the gods. If things do not improve soon, I will begin looking for a new home for my people. I have lost men every season, to one disaster or another. You see, I have come with only the one ship, this time. If any of my followers are to survive to see their children reach adulthood, I believe I must find them a safe haven."

  "Where would you go?" the younger man asked, mildly curious. "Wórdo? Ask queen Poluksó to marry you?"

  The beak-nosed visitor was amused. "Go from a dry continent to an overcrowded island? That would be no improvement."

  Diwoméde shrugged, holding out his wine-cup for a refill from Dáuniya. "Then you would not be interested in Odushéyu's ex-wife, Penelópa, either, I suppose."

  Ainyáh laughed out loud at the thought. "If Assúwa and Kanaqán have too little rain, what could tempt me in It'áka? The western islands have always suffered from drought."

  The qasiléyu nodded, thinking briefly of how Odushéyu would bridle at that comment if he were there. "Kep'túr then? If Médeya is still alive, she may be interested in a new husband."

  His glittering eyes filled with suspicion, the man of Kanaqán perused the younger man's face. "Then the rumors are true? I heard that Idómeneyu divorced Médeya and his people rose up and killed him."

  Diwoméde stared down into his bronze cup. "I heard something similar," he admitted, but said no more on the matter.

  With his eyes on his wine, the qasiléyu did not notice that Ainyáh smiled, ever so slightly, satisfaction on his leathery face. The commander of Tróya's mercenaries did not volunteer that he knew a good deal more about Kep'túr's former king, Idómeneyu.

  Eager to change the subject, Diwoméde raised his head. "So Kep'túr is a possibility for you, is it? But you would not want to go soon, not until the pestilence has run its course. What about T'ráki? It is closer to you and they have enough barley to sell, as well as to feed themselves."

  "Another possibility," Ainyáh answered, but without enthusiasm. "Still, if I wanted a land without cities, I might as well live among Kentáuro cannibals beyond Dáwan's straits, or settle among the bull-men of the land of ítalo." He shook his head. "I prefer a civilized nation, Alásiya, perhaps. I have kinsmen there."

  Diwoméde considered the older man's words, rubbing his bare upper lip thoughtfully. "But Alásiya is as dry as Ak'áiwiya, they say. I hear that Mízriya is the only civilized place left without famine. But, I do not think you can take on a whole empire with only a few hungry Wilúsiyans. Now, tell me. Who are these cannibals you mentioned? Kentáuros, did you say? I think I heard someone mention them when we were at Tróya."

  "They are the most wicked of all beings," Ainyáh answered with a harsh grin. "Half man, half horse, they live by fighting, beyond the straits of Dáwan, in the northeast. If ever they come south, guard your women well. They rape everything female that they see, human or animal, causing them to give birth to monsters."

  Diwoméde was not sure whether to believe his guest. "Yes, I think I heard something along those lines. Or maybe they appeared to me in a dream. I am not sure which. That reminds me of Odushéyu's old story about the T'rákiyan dog-men."

  The Kanaqániyan was offended. "Do not compare my words with those of that sand-covered pirate. Odushéyu told nothing but lies. But I am speaking the truth. I have seen these Kentáuro dáimons, just as I have seen Odushéyu himself." He considered his host a moment and noted that the young man remained suspicious. "Speaking of Odushéyu," Ainyáh said slowly, "do you know where he is?"

  "Mízriya," the qasiléyu answered, without hesitation. "Or so they say."

  So Diwoméde knew that much, Ainyáh thought to himself. Almost in spite of himself, the mercenary laughed again, the sound of it harsh, filled with bitter gloating. "He is in Mízriya, indeed. King Mirniptáha soundly defeated him. Those Ak'áyans who were not killed in the fighting were taken captive and enslaved. Odushéyu is now a pathetic shadow of his former self. They have cut his hair short and shaved off his mustache and beard. He does not even have a man for a master, but a woman. She is a rich and powerful lady, this mistress of his, the wife of a powerful official. She calls Odushéyu 'Udu.'" Ainyáh laughed again and repeated the nickname. "Udu, as if he were a pet monkey. He is now the gatekeeper of the women's house, with no more status than a dog or donkey."

  Diwoméde shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the mention of captivity. His eyes fell on his injured foot, the new pink scars covering one side and the end where his toes had once been. He thought little enough of Odushéyu but could not enjoy Ainyáh's tale. "So you would not choose Mízriya as your new home, I take it," the qasiléyu continued with studied calm, changing back to the less difficult topic. "What about this ítalo country you mentioned? Are the bull-men as evil as the Kentáuro horsemen?"

  "I would not go to ítalo unless I were desperate," the Kanaqániyan sneered, annoyed that Diwoméde had not smiled at his description of Odushéyu. "Not a single city in
that country, only little villages or nomadic hunters and fishermen. But I have not given up on Mízriya, not completely, no. You are right that I cannot take it by force. Odushéyu's failure proved that. But I might sell my spear to the Great King. His country, at least, can afford to pay a mercenary his due in bronze. It is the only civilized land still as prosperous as before the Tróyan war."

  aaa

  But Mízriya did not escape the universal misery of those years of drought, piracy, and unrest. Not long after Mirniptáha's stunning victory in the delta region, his celebratory stele still not completed, the Great House became a god. His spirit passed to the western land across which the sun's boat sails at night, the priests announced. In seventy days, his mummified body, wrapped thickly in linen bandages, rested in its eternal, cliff-side tomb.

  The king's demise was not altogether unexpected and his tall son, Siptáha, was already on his way to the ancient capital to take over, when the word reached him. But governor Amun-musís marched upon Manufrí first and took the throne by force. All of Mízriya's former troubles were the fault of Mirniptáha, declared the new, more youthful Great House. Amunmusís bitterly persecuted his imperial father's memory, sending Káushan soldiers throughout the Two Lands to hammer out the name of Mirniptáha from his monuments, which were pitifully few, in any case. The new king's only surviving brother, Siptáha, lived in constant fear of assassination.

  At the same time, the Great King Amun-musís was forced to send his mercenary Sharudín troops, along with their Kep’túriyan allies, and native bowmen north to deal with repeated Libúwan incursions. Despite Mirurí's earlier misfortunes, the desert nomads refused to return to their arid Red Land. Amun-musís found himself unable to follow up on his victory over the people of the Inner Sea in the eastern delta. Although the chieftain Dawúd had halted his march at the banks of the Aigúpto River, and had not taken the provinces that Mirurí had previously overrun, still the fields of the western delta continued to pasture Libúwan cattle across the years.

  The new king's brother, Siptáha, was soon imprisoned in his house, stripped of all his former titles and duties. Fearing for their lives, many of the royal official's slaves and servants ran away from service in the endangered household. But this was something Odushéyu could not easily do, having nowhere to flee to. Siptáha had ordered Odushéyu's head and beard shaved But the hairiness of the former pirate's body set him apart from the natives of Mízriya and he could go nowhere without being recognized instantly as a foreigner.

  The Ak'áyan slave was set to guarding the door of Siptáha's harem. This position filled Odushéyu's heart with joy, when first he learned of it. He dreamed of entering the big house by night, enjoying the pleasures it was his task to deny others. But Tusirát, the official's chief wife, quashed his hopes when she looked the new gatekeeper over. "None of my husband's concubines, however young, will be tempted to lie with that hairy beast," she commented, her satisfaction at the thought mingled equally with contempt, the emotions shown only too clearly in her face and voice. "You are an excellent choice, Udu."

  Seeing that his life was now dependent on Tusirát, Odushéyu quickly adapted to his position. He soon forgot the dignity of his former rank and sought to win Tusirát's favor by carrying secret messages to the lady, brought by her kinsmen in the outside world. Though Odushéyu's collusion in this forbidden practice was soon discovered, Siptáha did not punish the slave. The out-of-favor official, by then, had come to rely upon his chief wife's contacts with her family to keep abreast of the rapidly changing political situation. With Odushéyu controlling access to the official's harem, Tusirát easily received messages from all parts of the Mízriyan empire, sending her own letters out again with little effort.

  Early in the third season, Odushéyu received his reward for this devotion to his lowly duties. A particularly complex flurry of messages had passed through his hands, letters coming in, other rolls of inked papyrus going out. Then momentous news came to the secluded women's house. With the bulk of the new ruler's troops, both foreign and domestic, away from his capital, Amun-musís had mysteriously taken ill and died. Tusirát was so pleased that she momentarily forgot her aversion and threw her arms around her hairy slave. "I will have my husband make you his butler, Udu!" she promised.

  But before Odushéyu could take up his new duties, his master Siptáha was gone. The former high official hurried to Manufrí to be crowned before Amun-musís's second in command could beat him to it. Safely crowned as the Great House, sitting on the Mízriyan throne, Siptáha sought to placate his still powerful rival, commander of the army, by making him governor of Kaush, far to the south of the capital city of Manufrí.

  The new Káushan governor, Satí, quickly took advantage of his distance from his overlord. Satí removed the slaves from Amún's mines in the deserts of Kaush, claiming that they had rebelled. "Send troops quickly," Satí wrote, "or the Káushans will all rise up to throw off Mízriyan domination."

  Accordingly, the new Great King of the Two Lands, Siptáha, called his foreign mercenaries back from the delta in the north. With this new threat arising from the mines in the south, he felt he was no longer able to support a large military presence in the Lower Kingdom to the north. But he did not send Satí the requested army. First, there was much work to be done in the Upper Kingdom. The hated name of Amun-musís now required removal from every statue and temple in every building and on every stone monument.

  When Siptáha gained the title of Great House, Odushéyu rejoiced, thinking his own fortunes had improved along with his master's. The It'ákan began to steal small trinkets of gold and other precious metals, intending either to buy his freedom outright or bribe a passing merchant to take him north. But Tusirát soon discovered the slave's forbidden activities. Odushéyu was beaten and stripped of his new rank almost before he had acquired it. At the end of the harvest season, he was back at his post at the king's house of women. So low had he fallen in his master's esteem that Tusirát would not even direct him to carry a letter to her mother, a mere stone’s throw away.

  Many times, as he finished a simple meal of bread and the beer he could not stomach, Odushéyu lay down on a rude bed of rushes and thought of Tróya's fall. "What crime did I commit there to merit this punishment?" he asked the unresponsive sky. "This is no way for a man to live. I was born to be a wánaks, not a slave. All I did in Wilúsiya, I did for the sake of areté. But how can a man maintain his honor in these times? Lady At'ána, why have you turned against me?"

  aaa

  Mízriyans of all provinces were asking much the same questions of the ram-god, Amún, and the mummy-god, Ptáha. Why had the great gods abandoned the Two Lands? The Great House of the southern empire sought to answer his people's doubts in the time-honored, Mízriyan tradition. Siptáha blamed the country's problems on his predecessor, whose crimes must have angered the divinities. However, despite a near complete erasure of the name of the wicked Amumusís from all monuments and papyrus records, the land's fortunes did not improve under the new sovereign.

  In the north, bordering the desert, Libúwa was a greater threat than ever. Mirurí's name might indeed be cursed by his family, as the deceased Amun-musís had once claimed. But when his father, Dawúd, passed to the land of the sunset, the brother of Odushéyu's one-time companion filled the old man's sandals just the same. Kaprá became paramount chieftain of the desert nomads and de facto king of the entire delta, and no Libúwan raised a hand to stop him from taking power. The western provinces had never returned to Mízriya's tax lists. Once the Great House, Siptáha, pulled his Sharudín mercenaries from the rest of the Lower Kingdom, the provinces of the eastern delta quietly sent their tribute to Kaprá and happily withheld their much larger tax burden from Siptáha.

  Mízriya's Káushan mercenaries did not attempt to halt the process. Hearing that governor Satí had effectively broken from Siptáha's control, the longbow men slipped away from the despised northern marshlands. As quickly as they could, these darkest of men r
eturned to their native land, in the far south. There, they found that governor Satí had ended Kaush's yearly payments of tribute to the Great House of Mízriya. Even the southernmost provinces of Mízriya's Upper Kingdom fearfully sent their taxes to him, to Satí, rather than to the supposedly rightful king, Siptáha. One day, all men knew, Satí would march north, at the head of his private army of southern longbow men, alongside their allied contingent of Ak'áyan mercenaries. Satí would depose the ineffective Siptáha and declare himself the only true son of the royal gods, mummiform Ptáha and ram-headed Amún. At that time, the new Great House, Satí, would remember who had supported him and the Káushans and Ak'áyans who had fought bravely would be rewarded handsomely.

  Under Siptáha's whimsical rule, meanwhile, only a fraction of the old Upper Kingdom remained of what had once been Mízriya's huge empire. The taxes that should have paid Siptáha's remaining soldiers decreased at every harvest. With its own income severely restricted, the imperial treasury ceased its customary gifts to the many temples of the Black Land. Impoverished priests and their unpaid workers, both enslaved and free, abandoned the formerly wealthy estates, in despair. Without food for their own mouths, the Mízriyans could not afford to feed their many gods. Offerings to the spirits of the dead kings came to an end. Men without farms of their own came and built their huts on the grain lands belonging to the gods' houses. These squatters planted crops for their own families and, without Káushan policemen to enforce payment, delivered no taxes to either the local god or the Great King in Manufrí. Each temple's livestock was soon carried off by whichever local man was strong enough to take it. The country's roads, never reliable, became completely unsafe. Every province closed its borders to men from other places, each provincial governor becoming, in effect, a petty king.