Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze) Read Online Free Page B

never complained of either action. But then, a slave would not dare. He wished more than anything that he could see her now, could make her a gift of a bit of silver, or the magical Mízriyan glass, the famous blue-green faience. He would tell her that he never meant to cause her harm….
    Diwoméde’s unhappy reverie was interrupted by the agreement reached between his guard and the merchant on the shore. As Mirurí hurried back to Satmarítu’s house for a razor and a clean tunic, Bikurnár used the knife that he kept tucked in his belt to cut the slave’s hands free. Gesturing with the yellow blade, Birkurnár ordered Diwoméde to go to the edge of the salt waters and wash himself. The shallows of the sea were muddy and stank of human waste. But, grateful to be able to ease the pain in his shoulder, the Ak’áyan meekly obeyed. Perhaps, he thought, he could wander just a little farther out. Just a few more steps and he could begin swimming, possibly even reach one of the ships out there in the deeper part of the harbor. But the tall Káushan was watching him too closely. Birkurnár soon ordered Diwoméde back to the dusty marketplace. Silently, the slave complied. It was said that the gods took away a man’s honor when he became a slave, Diwoméde reflected. In that moment, he knew that it was true.
    The area was rapidly filling with people of every nation. Those who had come to sell spread out their goods on the hard-packed earth. They set up small canopies of leather or felt for shade, before squatting behind their wares. All along the shores of the bay, cheerful voices called to each other in greeting. Other men and women came to pick up the choicest figs, freshly caught snails, fishes large and small, or water birds for the day’s meal.
    Behind a small pavilion, Bikurnár arranged his own wares – a row of naked slaves awaiting sale. With a curt command, he directed Diwoméde to the end of the line. Then the merchant hopped up on a raised dais to call out to his potential customers. Diwoméde sat where the merchant had directed him, his knees up and his elbows resting on his knees. The other captives squatted, their heads down, watching the tall Káushan with sidelong glances.
    “We are not bound,” whispered one, a short and sturdy man who had lost an arm long ago. “This is our chance to escape. Watch for my signal.”
    The man beside him grunted. “They have not bound us because there is no need.”
    On the other side, another noted, “We have all been branded on the shoulder blade with the name of Mízriya’s Great King. Our rank is obvious to anyone who sees us. There would be no refuge for us anywhere in this trading post.”
    The first began to argue, “But if we are quick, we might get past…”
    The second slave cut him off, hissing, “Beyond the village is the desert and certain death.” Neither spoke another word. Nor did either one make a move to run away.
    Listening, Diwoméde lay his forehead down on his arms. It was true, he knew. Escape was impossible, tempting though it might be. In Mízriya there had been too many Káushan mercenaries about to make a move. Here, the land was so hostile, the overcrowded villages of the Black Land seemed prosperous by comparison.
    A spindly Libúwan man halted at Bikurnár’s greeting and glanced over the human wares. “Not much call for slaves these days, is there?” he asked cheerfully.
    The merchant sighed deeply and shook his head at his inventory. “Ostrich feathers are more valuable, I will admit. These dregs are not even mine. I am only selling them on commission.”
    The Libúwan nodded sympathetically, stroking his pointed beard. “Things have certainly changed a great deal in our lifetime. In my father’s day, we considered the fishers and herders of the Lower Kingdom our kinsmen. If we had a bad year, we could take refuge among the swamps and reed-beds of the Mízriyan delta. We could live handsomely on fish and waterfowl until we could