Black Sea Gods: Chronicles of Fu Xi

by Braden, Brian

  Occasionally, he felt a tug against his staff, which was always followed by a scream. He knew some of these people were attempting to wrest the staff from his hands and then melt into the crowd. Each time they were rewarded with pain for their efforts.

  The imposing walls rose high above the crowd. The gates to the city were open as conflicting masses of humanity tried to simultaneously enter and exit the city. A line of warriors lashed the mob with long whips, trying to keep some semblance of order.

  The leash pulled him through the throng until they came to the city gates. The gates were made from crudely hewn planks of a lighter-colored wood than the Kupar Bridge. The gates were banded with bronze and topped with iron spikes. They were pushed outward, perpendicular to the walls, and channeled the throng into a dense chokepoint. The warriors formed a picket of bronze and spears across the open gates. The crowd ebbed and pushed against them like the tide.

  Sarah’s white hair became a beacon as she pushed through the crowd.

  She moved as effortlessly as a mouse through marsh grass.

  The crowd thickened and he lost sight of her. He felt violent tugs against the rope, like a big fish struggling against a line and the leash began to slip from around his sweaty wrist. Aizarg knew if they became separated he may never find her again. On impulse, he began striking out with his staff. Someone yelped wherever the red orb made contact with their flesh. The tension on the leash abated as the crowd cleared a small space around Sarah and Aizarg. Aizarg took a deep breath, thankful to be out of the worst of it. But his gratitude faded as they were confronted by a wall of flesh and bronze.

  A line of burly guards stood with folded arms. They considered Aizarg and Sarah with hostile indifference.

  “Back, dogs!” A warrior stepped from behind the middle of the line and cracked a whip. “Show your wares or gold. No one enters Hur-ar without trade and NO ONE enters without paying the king’s tax!”

  The warriors wore pleated chest plates over ornate ocher and yellow robes. The robes were tightly wrapped over their muscled torsos and extended just above brass-shod greaves. They had long black hair and wavy beards similar to the Sammujad, but with dazzling yellow jewelry interwoven into their beards.

  So that is gold.

  “You!” The center guard pointed his whip at Aizarg. “What is your business? Speak quickly or feel my whip!”

  Aizarg opened his mouth, but Sarah stepped in front of him and lightly walked toward the warrior. With each footfall, her curves rose and fell in a slow, sultry rhythm. Her fingertips gently brushed up her hips, catching her dress with just enough tension to lift the ragged hem a few tantalizing inches before it slipped back down over her hip. Her fingers continued up through her long, white hair before letting it spill over her shoulders again.

  The crowd grew silent as Sarah stalked the warrior like a lioness. She pushed as achingly close as two humans could without touching. Aizarg felt the heat building between them. Sarah demurely tilted her head and flashed musky eyes. He glared down at her as if about to snap her neck. But Aizarg saw the man’s breath deepen and slow and knew the warrior had already ravished her a thousand times in his mind.

  Aizarg suddenly appreciated Ood-i’s strong attachment to Sarah. Yes, we are going to marry her off to a distant arun-ki. Very, very far away. I’m confident I’ll have no problem finding suitors.

  The crowd leered hungrily, anticipating what might happen next.

  Sarah didn’t raise her voice, but was clearly heard. “My master comes from far away to trade in Hur-ar. He brings no gold...” She shook her head and let her thick, white locks fall seductively across half her face. “...but he brings the finest silver.”

  For a long moment the warrior’s expression didn’t change, and then a grin spread under his greasy beard. The tension broke and the crowd let out a burst of approving cheers.

  “Your master is most welcome in Hur-ar.” The warrior never took his eyes off Sarah. “Bring your wench, slaver, and follow me to the perimeter barracks. There you can pay me the entry tax.”

  “Go easy, Gilga, and save some ‘tax’ for us!” One of the guards bellowed and slapped his thigh.

  Sarah looked back over her shoulder at Aizarg and mouthed “come.”

  Before Aizarg could take a step, a spear sank deep into the dirt inches in front of the warrior called Gilga.

  Gilga jerked his head up to see who threw the spear. Another warrior stood high above them on the wall. This one wore a conical helmet and more gold in his beard and around his neck. His features were obscured by his helmet, but he stood with an air of relaxed confidence with one hand resting on the hilt of his short sword.

  “Gilga,” the warrior called down in a commanding voice. “Take the slaver and his bitch to the commander with my compliments. She gets there clean, do you understand? You can purchase her favors only after the commander has his fill.”

  Sarah caught sight of the man on the wall and quickly lowered her head and brushed some hair over her face. Aizarg glimpsed a flash of fear and recognition in her eyes.

  She knows him.

  The man on the wall tossed down two small, circular objects in the dust in front of Aizarg.

  “Slaver, this should cover your cost minus the king’s tax.” The man turned and walked away.

  Sarah fell to the dust and snatched the objects. She held them close and looked around warily, as if someone might take them away from her. She dusted it off and bit down on one. Sarah smiled greedily and held up the gold disks so Aizarg could see. “They are real! Two shequels!”

  For a fleeting moment, Aizarg didn’t recognize her. Seeing Sarah grovel in the dirt after the shiny metal disturbed him more than her seduction of the warrior.

  They are just little things, these pieces of gold.

  Sarah must have seen something in his face, because she lowered her head. She stood, walked behind him and put the gold disks in his pack.

  “We may need them later,” she whispered.

  Gilga snarled and kicked over the spear. He growled at Aizarg and Sarah. “Come!”

  As they passed through the line of warriors, Aizarg heard one of the guards comment to another, “The Captain of the Gate is at it again. His efforts to buy the commander’s favor may earn Gilga’s knife in his back, instead.”

  With the entertainment over, the people in the throng pressed against the line of warriors again.

  Sarah and Aizarg crossed out of the late afternoon sun into the chilly shadows of Hur-ar.

  Inside the city the smell suffocated Aizarg. He covered his mouth and tried not to vomit.

  The wind doesn’t reach the bottom of these strange canyons.

  Piles of garbage and human waste lined the streets. Aizarg saw someone sleeping in the gutter. Why would anyone lie down in such filth? He stumbled and almost fell with the realization it was a dead body. Soon, he saw more corpses.

  Why would anyone want to enter this city? There isn’t enough water in the Hur River to cleanse the filth from this cursed place.

  Aizarg noticed the bodies were devoid of flies. He remembered the stump farmer’s tale about the animals fleeing the city.

  The strange curse infects this place, too.

  Countless faces passed by, but they reserved their glances for Sarah. None of them seemed the least bit concerned with the stench or the bodies. Most of the men only wore loin cloths and an occasional rag wrapped over his head. They looked sickly, with thin legs and knobby knees. Some rushed towards Aizarg with pleading faces and cupped hands shouting, “Alms, merciful master, alms!” Gilga occasionally cracked his whip across the beggars’ flesh to drive them back. Aizarg wanted to help, but he didn’t know how. Sarah’s leash pulled him mercilessly forward.

  Sometimes they passed men who wore ornate robes in a variety of colors. These men decorated their bodies with golden jewelry. They walked quickly and with purpose, indifferent to the suffering around them.

  Why do they wear scowls on their faces when it’s so o
bvious they have enough food? Do they not see the need of those around them?

  Hur-ar was an enigma, but its children provided the greatest mystery of all.

  A horde of ragged, filthy children followed behind them. They were all boys and mostly naked. A lucky few (the oldest) had rags wrapped around their waists. They begged just like the men, but were far more malnourished. Their bellies were distended and their eyes bulged.

  These are the children of their arun-ki! Their flesh, their future! Why do they not help?

  Aizarg wanted to rip off his pack and give them all his food. He wanted to scoop them into his arms and carry them far away. He lifted his sleeve and wiped away the mist forming at the corners of his eyes. He knew to cry here would be an invitation to death.

  Sarah tugged the leash and spoke over her shoulder. “This is the Avenue of Kings. It leads to the market district.”

  Kings? If I were a king here I would be ashamed.

  As they moved away from the city wall’s shadow, sunlight warmed his back and lit the long, crowded avenue. Tall, wall-like dwellings lined each side of the street. Aizarg craned up to see their tops and almost tripped on the strange, rectangular rocks that formed the street’s surface. The tall stone huts were smooth and brown, like the perimeter wall. Each hut seamlessly joined the next. Some had windows above other windows. Aizarg didn’t see ladders on the outside; he wondered how the people got up that high. Ropes with clothes pinned to them were strung high over the street.

  Women leaned out of the upper windows or sat on the front steps, watching the comings and goings. Most women wore faded wraps with the occasional piece of gold imbedded in holes in their ears or through their nose. Some carried babies and sometimes children clung to their legs. Like everyone else, neither the women nor the children smiled.

  They passed several intersections that led to narrow, murky alleys. Aizarg felt the air chill as he passed them. He shivered and wanted no part of those places. Now he knew why the Scythians called Hur-ar the Place of Mazes.

  The nature of the avenue quickly changed, as if they passed through an invisible barrier. The clothes hanging over the streets were gone, along with the garbage and corpses. The street grew wider as the dingy, packed hovels gave way to grand structures. These buildings were clean, white and much larger. Sometimes they were surrounded by walls, above which rose exotic trees and shrubberies.

  It looks better, but doesn’t smell any better.

  The beggars and feral children were gone, replaced by warriors at every crossroad. They brandished spears and clubs, but appeared bored and lethargic.

  A flash to his right caught Aizarg’s attention. He looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of a filth-covered boy a few years older than Kol-ok darting into an alley. The boy kept to the shadows, careful not to be seen by the guards, but Aizarg knew the boy trailed them.

  Aizarg turned around. A din rose ahead that sounded like the wind, or maybe rushing waters.

  “What is that sound?” he asked Sarah.

  She turned her head and spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “We are approaching the Grand Market. The barracks lie on the far side of the market, beyond the Temple of Ba’al. Do not let go of the rope or we may never find you!”

  The din became a deafening roar as the avenue ended on a platform overlooking an enormous public square. Gilga stopped and surveyed the scene below as Sarah and Aizarg came alongside him.

  “The crowds are thinned since the omens began,” Gilga commented. He pointed his whip to the right. “We’ll stay along the south wall and circumvent most of the market.”

  Thinned?

  More people packed the market than Aizarg thought existed in the world, than could exist in the world. Aizarg’s head swam at the staggering scene. Sunken below street level, the market stretched for almost a mile. A broad, fan-shaped stairway spilled down to the market level. Row after row of stands and stalls packed the square, many covered with colorful tarps or pennants flapping in the breeze. People flowed in the narrow alleys between the vendor stalls like water through the irrigation channels in the fields.

  A Great Sea of humanity.

  Four stone walls enclosed the market with four wide avenues radiating from the market’s corners. Stairways descended from the avenues to the market. Above the market wall, splendid mansions hemmed the square in on all sides, blocking Aizarg’s view of the rest of the city. Beyond their flat rooftops, Aizarg beheld the sheer cliffs that boxed in the city.

  A square within a square within a square.

  To his right, Aizarg clearly saw the road, much steeper than he originally thought, zigzagging up the cliff to the Black Fortress. High atop the Cliff Road, the Black Fortress loomed over the city. The fortress felt apart from Hur-ar, as if the city and fortress seemed oddly divorced.

  The Black Fortress looks as if it is protecting itself from the city.

  An enormous, black object rose above the far side of the market. Aizarg gasped and almost cried out before realizing it was only a statue. A terrifying serpent-like creature, standing twice as high as the surrounding palaces, stood on its hind legs and stretched its bat-like wings over the market. The monster’s fore claws were outstretched, as if to attack. Real fire licked out of its mouth, creating a trail of greasy smoke that settled over the market.

  Aizarg pointed to the statue and whispered to Sarah, “What is that?”

  “That is the Temple of Ba’al, the Black Dragon. He is the god of the Hur-po.”

  “I almost expected the Hur-po to worship the Narim.”

  Gilga heard them over the din and threw his head back in booming laughter. “You are an outlander, aren’t you? Narim only give us gold, but Ba’al shows us how to use it!” Gilga held out his arms over the market. “Through Ba’al we are granted all desires of our heart.” With that, Gilga descended into the sea of flesh.

  ***

  Gilga didn’t beat his way through the crowd as he had done before. He used his bulk to bully his way through the masses. Aizarg felt disoriented by the blur of chaos as vendors hawked their wares with animated gestures. Aizarg tried not to flinch, assaulted and surprised by their loud voices.

  Most of the people in the market were Hur. Like Gilga, the men sported dark, curly beards. They were bare-chested and wore tight-fitting quilted skirts and kaffiyas decorated in reds, oranges and sometimes blue weaves. The women wore equally tight linen robes, but of only pure white or black. While some women wore kaffiyas, most used golden headbands to keep their rich, black locks away from their face. Both men and women outlined their eyes with black pigment. All of them wore the yellow metal.

  Gold glittered everywhere. Men wore it on their wrists, around their necks, and woven into their beards. It dangled from women’s ears and through their noses. It changed hands, clinked in copper bowls and sat on brass scales. Aizarg could not turn his head without seeing the shiny metal.

  He looked over his shoulder to see if the beggar boy still followed, but the boy, or any of the poor, had vanished. Aizarg suspected the poor were forbidden from the market, as armed warriors were in abundance among the vendor rows. The people of the market were well fed, richly clothed, and indifferent to the suffering of their own.

  In Hur-ar, one is not a human without gold. Hatred for the city fermented in Aizarg’s heart with each step.

  But not all those in the market were Hur. He caught flashes of wild Sammujad nomads hawking weapons and animal skins, or the sunbaked Aryans selling copper and iron. Some faces were completely alien. A group of small, compact men wore heavy fur garments and pointed fur hats. They had bizarrely slanted eyes and skin the color of dusty spring pollen. These men held a beautiful, glimmering fabric over their outstretched arms and attracted a large crowd.

  The market simultaneously repulsed and fascinated Aizarg. Instinct told him to flee the oppressive crowd, yet he wanted to explore the market. His eyes were not only wide in amazement at the sights, but his stomach growled at the smells of roasted meats and
exotic spices.

  The treasures of Hur-ar went by in a blur as Gilga plowed a path for them. The leash stayed tight as Sarah relentlessly kept Aizarg moving onward. Thankfully, Gilga kept the low, southern wall on their right. Deep in the market pit Aizarg couldn’t see the cliffs and therefore couldn’t keep his bearings. If they ventured left, into the heart of the market, he would surely lose his way.

  They emerged into an open area where the southern and eastern walls converged and another stairway ascended from the market. To their left, the crowd thickened around a long platform erected against the eastern wall between the obsidian feet of Ba’al.

  The statue, even more sinister close-up, looked as if it were about to descend upon the market and devour everyone.

  Why would anyone worship something so foul? Are they blind to its evil?

  Gilga paused at the base of the stairs and considered the spectacle. Aizarg caught the warrior briefly watching him out of the corner of his eye, the way a hunter assesses his prey. Gilga quickly looked away and then jovially slapped Aizarg on the back and pointed at the platform.

  “Even in these times, business is good on the slavers’ block! If the commander is pleased with your white-haired wench, his endorsement could double, even triple, her price on the block.”

  Aizarg fought not to recoil at Gilga’s touch.

  A tall, fat man carrying a whip stood on the slaver’s block. His belly bulged over his waist wrap and his chins fell under a scrabbly beard. Aizarg had never seen a fat man before, and thought he looked like a monster spawned from between Ba’al’s legs. A line of naked girls and boys, some as young as little Bat-or, sulked in front of the slaver.

  Richly dressed men and women in the crowd occasionally raised their hands. An old woman standing on the platform pointed to them and made marks on a clay tablet. Several men and women lounged on gold-gilded litters carried on the shoulders of naked male slaves. They occasionally lifted a lazy finger and the woman on the platform smiled and nodded eagerly.