by Jay Penner
“We bring the gods’ messages to the people, Your Majesty; we do not read the gods’ mind.”
“But how could you not see this, Khaia?” Hannuruk asks, dropping the ‘sacred’ formality.
“There were no signs, and the Trikaia have not conversed with me this month, Your Majesty. We do not know—”
“You are supposed to know! You are the Oracle!” Hannuruk’s voice rises. The members in the room fidget. Conflict between the two great powers of the Atalanni empire does not bode well to those around them.
Khaia does not flinch. She looks at the King and holds his gaze. “As I said, Your Majesty, we do not guess god’s mind. We do not yet know if our gods caused this, or if there are other forces at work.”
It is then that Hannuruk’s son, Nimmuruk, raises his voice. “It then begs the question how close the gods are to you, sacred Khaia,” he begins, and looks at his father for approval, as he always did.
“Be quiet!” Hannuruk admonishes his son, who, mortified, bends his head, and sucks his breath. Khaia knows it is especially humiliating to be chastised in front of the senior officers of the army, but also the young Queen who suppresses a smile.
The King turns to Khaia, “Well, Khaia, what do you think is the message from the gods? What should we do?”
Khaia takes a deep breath and addresses the Prince first. “The moment I realize that the gods no longer favor me, Prince Nimmuruk, I will relinquish the seat of the Oracle.”
She holds his stare until the Prince turns away.
Khaia turns to the King. “There is dense energy about me, Your Majesty,” she says, and gently slaps her palms to her cheeks. “And I need two days to come back with a message. I must attempt to have the gods speak to me.”
“What if there is another disaster before the two days?” This time the soft voice is that of the Queen, an enigma to many of the Atalanni. She is spellbinding, and at only seventeen summers of age, this foreign-born Princess now sits beside the throne of the Atalanni ruler.
Hannuruk shoots a look of disapproval at her. It is not customary for the Queen to speak in the presence of the Divine Council.
Khaia knows that the relationship between the Royal couple is not one of happiness.
“I do not foresee such an occurrence, Your Highness. If the gods wanted complete destruction, we would have perished by now. It is a sign; the gods, whether they mean harm or wish to warn, have always given us time to consider our acts, and beg them for more information. I ask you to give me two days.”
Hannuruk looks around, and none of his men speak. The Prince has not lifted his head since his father’s chastisement. Khaia briefly feels sorry for the man but buries it as she remembers his behaviors of the past.
“Do you think Kaftu has received a similar warning?” Hannuruk asks, referring to the large island to the south the Egyptians called the Keftiu.
“We do not know yet. We should send a vessel to inquire about their situation.”
“Could it be that the Egyptian gods are casting their baleful eyes on us?” Hannuruk presses.
Khaia hesitates. “I request the two days, Your Highness. I am confident that our gods will tell us the source of this anger—whether it is the Egyptians, the Shepherd Kings, the Mitanni, or the Mycenaeans of the North, or something else entirely.”
“The gods of the Mitanni have no quarrel with the Atalanni, sacred Khaia,” says the Queen, her lips tight and eyes conveying displeasure, “Indra and Varuna bless this land as their own.”
Khaia turns to the Queen. “Forgive me, Your Highness, I do not list the gods of Kingdoms with malice, and the Mitanni have blessed us with their friendship and a magnificent Queen,” she says, but does not speak out loud what goes through her mind—A girl who sits beside the throne because of me. Khaia is also surprised how quickly the Queen has picked up their language and is comfortable in conversing in simple, yet full sentences, even if with the lilting Mitanni accent.
The Queen nods and speaks no more, twirling her dark, luxurious hair by her ear. Hannuruk sighs loudly and mutters, “I have done all I can to please them, what more do they need from me?”
He then stands up, a sign of his getting ready to leave.
The Prince continues to stare at Khaia.
Something about him made her skin crawl.
She feels anxious.
But she also knows her time has come.
CHAPTER 3.
KALLISTU
Khaia meditates in the sacred room of her quarter and emerges long after the sun sinks beneath the waves.
A nurse hands Khaia’s baby back to her arms, and she cradles her little daughter. It is Khaia’s dream that Akhi would grow more to be like her and find a place within the Divine Council. The life outside for the offspring of the priestly class is not a kind one.
The baby clutches at her mother’s hair and tries to eat it.
Khaia smiles.
Her daughter’s birth was heralded as a miracle, for it was extraordinary for a woman of her age to bear a child and live, and yet Khaia had survived the ordeal. That event further cemented the people’s views that Khaia was a special messenger of the gods, even greater than her fifty predecessors.
“I will always watch over your wellbeing, my little jewel,” she says, as she lifts the perfumed baby closer to her face and kisses the cheeks. She then puts the baby in a cradle and sits by the lamp in the center of her austere living room.
“It is time,” she says to herself, as her mind wanders to the relationship between royalty and the council. She remembers her speech to new recruits about the role of gods. She straightens her back and breathes deeply to relieve the stress.
“Hannuruk thinks I look at the moon, like the wolves on a night, and howl at the gods for them to respond,” she laughs, speaking to no one in particular.
It is time.
CHAPTER 4.
ATALANNI SEAS
Our war boats are magnificent. Each a sleek war machine with intricate art of dolphins and spears on its side. The tides have turned after five hours of maneuvering and attacking the Mycenaean flotilla.
They are now trapped within an arc of the Atalanni Navy.
We are the greatest navy on this earth!
These denizens of Mycenae, a backward citadel in the lands far north, have been an irritation for two summers now. They desperately try to turn and run, but that is useless, for our arc extends from the North-East to the South-West. We tighten the noose, pushing the Mycenaean fleet towards the cliffs of a small island.
I inhale the heady smell of sea salt and floating seaweed. We will soon mix that with the metallic smell of the blood of these barbarians.
“No one escapes!” I shout.
Men raise a dolphin-patterned flag—bright yellow and distinct against the deep blue skies and water. The oarsmen, with the assistance of the wind on the sails, move the boats ever closer to the enemy who is now turning pointlessly and colliding with each other.
My thirty-foot-long boat slices the Atalanni waters and races towards the enemy leader’s boat—a sad replica of the Atalanni designs.
The men shout their war cries and ready their spears. I have to focus on the battle ahead for my mind is sometimes distracted by the thought of someone back home. Someone I desire more than anyone else, and someone with whom I wish to run away—
Our archers unleash three-headed bronze-tipped arrows which rip through the enemy that stands by the side of their boat in false bravery. Within minutes, the long shining bronze spike mounted at the front of my boat rams into the enemy’s broadside, shattering the wood boards and embedding deep into the innards of the enemy.
“Attack!” Holding my sword and bronze shield, I leap onto the enemy boat. My men have jumped aboard as well, and the Mycenaean soldiers are in a defensive position trying to fend off the attack.
I target a large bearded man, naked from the waist up and holding a crude spear. His eyes are full of fury and fear, and he thrusts his spear to impale me.
I dodge and step away.
I swing my sword as he turns and sever the man’s spear arm elbow. He screams, his arm dangling by its tendons, but he is not subdued. He tries to push me off the boat, but I slack and thrust my sword through his belly and twist it. The Mycenaean grunts and falls, almost faint from the injuries. I kick his head and swing my sword again, cutting the neck to the spine.
I turn my attention to the others.
The scene is frantic. The fight turns into a massacre soon, with every enemy on the boat impaled or decapitated. The light brown wood floor is soaked with blood, which in places sloshes like thick wine as the boat sways.
I take stock of the situation and pull out a conch from my belt. I blow it loudly, hoping that many would hear it over the din of battle.
Soon other captains blew their horns too, indicating that the Atalanni troops should attempt to subdue the enemy and hold them.
The enemy gives up, and the battle slowly dies down. It takes hours for us to extricate ourselves from the mass of tangled boats and avoid being smashed against the cliffs. On my order, men secure the remaining Mycenaeans and tie them in groups, hauling them onto our boats. These wretched men would be flogged and sold off to slavery on Kallistu and Kaftu.
The troops secure the captives and gather fallen weapons. We scuttle the Mycenaean boats and set many on fire to ensure that none return to their wretched citadel. Men not dead scream and flail about as they burn, some leaping into the sea and drowning as we watch.
I turn to Bansabira, one of my trusted lieutenants. “These fools do not learn. They die in these waters and yet do not give up. This has been the largest invasion so far, to what end?”
“I do not know, sir. Perhaps they are so enamored by our riches and beauty that they wish to have it all for themselves.”
“They are brutes. Uncultured, with no art to speak of, no skill worthy of worship, just bloodthirsty and ambitious. Perhaps we should mount an invasion on their land and finish them once for all.”
“The elders and the Divine Council are unlikely to sanction that, sir,” he says, “but it is certainly a fine idea. One day the King will tire of defending ourselves and instead send us to attack.”
“That is yet to be seen, and you are right. It seems our restraint is being taken advantage of,” I say, looking at the watery carnage.
The men turn their attention to the matters at hand. The Atalanni dead, as many that could be gathered, are spread among several boats. We will consecrate them to the Great God of the Sea after due honors.
We wait a day for the winds to take us back home, and eventually make our way to the magnificent crescent harbor of the Kallistu, the capital of the Atalanni—our home. All I can think of on my way is finding the next opportunity to hold her.
She is so beautiful! And funny.
But I must be extraordinarily careful in how I arrange my escape with her. The remote deserts of Assyria are a good place, away from this conflict.
As the boats make their way through the single narrow passage that allows us into the inner harbor of the ringed island capital, I notice smoke and fire from the smaller central island. There are cracks on the central temple walls and fallen columns on the causeway of the gods.
“What happened here?” Itaja wonders.
“We will find out soon,” I say, as we near the harbor and prepare to disembark. On the ground, many officers and King’s Guard wait. I finally disembark and salute Rishwa, the Prime Minister to the King.
What makes this high ranked man wait for me?
“What of the Mycenaeans?” asks Rishwa. The deep creases on his gaunt face make his seventy summers of life apparent. With his wise eyes and bushy eyebrows, and he has always struck me as the wisest of men.
“Defeated. We have about fifty slaves. The rest are dead, and their boats have been burned. What happened here?”
“Very good,” he says. He pauses. “The gods grumble. The King awaits you, Captain Teber.”
CHAPTER 5.
KALLISTU
The King’s Supreme Council is being seated when I enter the throne room. I have never attended a Supreme Council before, for my rank and position do not meet the requirements for attendance. It is extraordinarily rare for the Supreme Council, which consists of the Royals, the Generals, the Engineers, and the Divines, all to convene. The last time it happened was two summers ago when Idukhipa Apsara, then the fifteen-year-old Mitanni princess, was wed to King Hannuruk.
And yet, for some reason, I have been asked to attend along with the most elite of the Atalanni.
“Captain Teber of the Navy,” the usher announces, and I nervously follow a royal guard who leads me to a chair behind Unamur, the General of the Atalanni. I salute the General, who turns behind and looks surprised by my presence. Members are still settling in—the Royals and the Oracle are absent.
“King Minos of Kaftu,” the usher announces, and there is silence in the room as the attendees stand and bow to the entrant. The colorful governor of Kaftu, a hirsute giant of a man with a mass of silver beard and a head full of unruly hair, walks in surrounded by ceremonial guards. Minos is a spectacle—he wears a white loincloth held by golden cords. Around his ample girth is a thick waistband made of gold and bronze plates. The band is adorned by various gems. On his neck is a golden chain with miniature bells. He holds a bronze scepter and walks barefoot.
Minos is no King; he is the Governor of the Island, but the Atalanni rulers have bestowed the title to Minos for he governs the largest of the Atalanni islands. There are many stories about Minos, most of them unsavory, but he has proved to be a worthy Governor and is known to be fiercely loyal to the Atalanni ruler. He is the latest in the extensive line of Atalanni Governors, all called Minos, that have served the Atalanni kings.
Minos has served King Hannuruk’s father and now serves Hannuruk.
Minos is seated beside the platform where the Atalanni royalty sit. As the men and women wait, I survey the room. The seating arrangement is in three concentric circles with the royal platform forming the focal point around which the semi-circular rings originate. The inner-circle seats the highest nobility, followed by the other two, each with a diminishing rank and status.
I sit in the third ring and recognize a few to whom I make gestures of respect.
There is a loud ringing of bells, and we all stand. The usher announces, “The Supreme Ruler of the Atalanni, The Lord of the Hundred Islands, The Supreme King of Kaftu, Patron of knowledge, art, and armament. His Glorious Majesty, Son of Hannuruk, beloved Son of the Gods of Skies, Earth, and Water, His Majesty King Hannuruk!”
Ceremonial guards fan the King as he walks towards the throne. Hannuruk is an average man, now nearing sixty-five summers, and has put on weight from the decadence of royal living. He wears a gem-studded crown of the bull, its horns embroidered with veins of blue lapis-lazuli. A fine bright white-and-blue skirt is held by fine golden cords. He wears exquisitely embroidered sandals, with securing threads reaching up to his ankles. Besides him walks the stunningly beautiful Queen Apsara, who looks straight ahead, dressed in the traditional attire of an Atalanni Queen. She wears a luxurious full-length orange-and-brown gown open at the breasts. Her long silver earrings and curled hair fall to the sides of her face and accentuate her beauty. I, like most others, cannot take my eyes off her. I restrain from unabashed admiration, for who knows if the King’s spies are watching everyone. Few know that I had been in the Queen’s contingent of bodyguards for a brief period after her wedding. The Queen’s shining black eyes briefly connect with mine and an electric thrill courses through me. Behind Apsara is Aranare, the Queen’s maid.
Prince Nimmuruk follows his father’s footsteps, dressed much like his father but without a full crown. He wears a diadem signifying his position as the Crown Prince. He is short and stout. Nimmuruk’s face is smooth without a hint of hair.
Hannuruk, once on his high pedestal, leans and embraces Minos. He guides the Queen to sit on his righ
t and the Prince to his left. The audience takes their seats once the King sits.
The rest of the members now wait for the final arrival—the Oracle and the senior members of the Divine Council. The shadow of the large Sun Dial, an ingenious device that measures the passage of time, moves slowly as the supreme council waits.
Soon, Khaia enters the chamber. Today I finally see at close quarters the performance of the most powerful woman in the Atalanni empire, even perhaps exceeding the Queen. I have heard that the Oracle is formidable and is the authority on all things that connect the divine world to ours. I am struck by her fearless hazel eyes, which are accentuated by luxurious liners.
Her entrance is theatrical and mesmerizing. She wears a crisp white-and-blue gown with saffron embroidery. Around her neck is an elegant necklace made of precious stones and a silver thread. Her earrings are large. To her shoulders are attached two striking wings—fashioned to look like that of a griffin.
It is as if she is a goddess floating to the arena.
Behind her are two almost naked priestesses. They wear diaphanous fabric, barely hiding their oiled bodies and distracting firm breasts.
My face warms and guilt floods into my heart.
These are holy women.
I hope my carnal thoughts do not draw the anger of the gods!
One priestess holds a polished bronze double-ax with a deep red leather handle cover, and the other holds a slithering brown-spotted snake around her shoulders. They look straight ahead, ignoring the gaping mouths and hungry eyes, their straight and delicate noses pointed to the Oracle’s back.
Once again, the chamber rises in respect, and the usher announces the titles of the Divine Council. Khaia, looking straight ahead, bows to the King and takes her seat in the first ring. The priestesses take a seat on the third ring, and her two senior advisors sit in the first. I am told of the great power the Divine Council holds in all matters of importance, and this is the first time I am seeing them in such a momentous setting.