Read Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze) for Free Online

high-ranking official,” Bikurnár was saying hopefully, squinting in the brightness of the midday sun. “Or so I have heard.”
    Ainyáh made no attempt to hide his disgust at the sight of the slave. “Save your lies for the next customer, Káushan. I am buying on another’s behalf, not my own,” he told the tall merchant, looking the captive up and down. “This wine-sack is obviously only half a man, from the look of the foot alone. You would not try to sell him in clothing unless you were trying to hide some defect, and do not pretend to be offended by my saying so! That squawking he did may pass for a song here in Libúwa, but not in Kanaqán. I tell you, my people would have no interest in this worthless scrap of dried leather. No, no, do not say anything. I will buy him, but only because I have been charged to do so. Now, let us settle on a reasonable price. I will not give you any bronze. He is not worth it. I will not give you any cattle or horses, either. I have two jars of wine and, to show my generosity, I will throw in six poppy jugs. That is my offer. Take it or leave it.”
    Bikurnár groaned extravagantly, gripping his head as if the Kanaqániyan had beaten him with a stout club. “ Ayá , if I accept so little, my reputation will be ruined! I appeal to you as a fellow merchant, Red Man. You could at least add a goat to the payment, or a few geese.”
    “I have no time for this,” Ainyáh snapped. He looked up at the bright, pale sky. “It is late and it is hot. My price is already more than he is worth.”
    “Take it, take,” Mirurí urged in a loud whisper. “The maas will have me beaten if I do not return before his nap.”
    “This will destroy me,” the merchant wailed, but the cry was half-hearted due to the heat. “The slave is worth much more than that!” Sweat dripped from his brow and chin. “ Ayá , the sun is too hot for any more arguing. I accept your offer.”
    Diwoméde’s heart sank and he let the lúra drop from his hands. He hardly noticed when Bikurnár cursed and struck him in response. Even death from starvation and overwork in Mízriya’s copper mines seemed preferable to enslavement in the household of his personal enemy! The gods must truly despise him, he decided. As Mirurí applied his limber rod to the slave’s back, driving him toward his new master’s ship, Diwoméde almost welcomed the physical pain. At least it was a distraction from his acute mental anguish.
 
    Ainyáh, no more pleased to have Diwoméde than the slave was to be possessed, quickly stripped his new captive of his tunic and put him to work. The man of Kanaqán had a small boat drawn up on the shore, a vessel made from bundles of reeds tied together, without a mast. He set Diwoméde to unloading its meager cargo of ceramic jars. Some were large, bulbous, and reeking of rancid oil. Most were much smaller and shaped like the head of a dried poppy. From them came a sickly sweet odor that the slave found oddly intoxicating. He would have given anything in that moment to be able to open one of those small jars and down the viscous, black liquid that he knew was inside, for therein lay forgetfulness. Mirurí, sweating profusely, stood in the sun to supervise, shouting and gesticulating with his staff in an effort to speed the work. But the slave made a less than satisfactory bearer, especially when he carried the largest jar of oil, as Bikurnár apologetically admitted. Diwoméde’s pace was uneven, and, with his stiff arm he was unable to lift the bigger jars to his shoulders without assistance from one of Ainyáh’s crewmen. Mirurí was nearly dancing with impatience before all of the Kanaqániyan’s goods lay on the sand of the beach.
    The slender slave-merchant pulled off his short, black wig and joined Ainyáh in the shade of his pavilion to watch. “When I started in this business, a captive brought in half his weight in copper,” Bikurnár sighed. “I had more cattle than I could count.