The Wrath of God

by Jay Penner

  The Oracle of the Atalanni.

  She who drove us to war and countless deaths.

  She who killed the formidable Minos.

  She who suggested to my love that she kill herself with our unborn child.

  Khaia.

  Mother.

  My legs feel weak from the revelation. What other unkind surprises do the gods have for me?

  I look around. Many gray, ash-covered bushes are on fire, and the seeds explode in the heat. Dark smoke rises, ash descends from the skies, and the raging fires roar below us. The palace is in ruins, and parts of it are now in the waters below after a collapse. It is as if the world around me reflects my soul—broken, burned, deceived, and without life.

  “Why should I believe you?” I ask. “All you know is deception!”

  “What do I gain by lying now? Not much. Have you never wondered why I resisted sending you to Egypt?”

  I pause to reflect. I have had people joke to me that I look like the manly version of the Oracle.

  Her eyes.

  Her expressions.

  It all comes together.

  She really is my mother.

  But that is no excuse.

  “You tried to kill my baby,” I say, flatly, looking into her eyes for a reaction.

  Her mouth scrunches in confusion. “What—”

  Then it registers to her. A mind clouded by ambition and desire. Her eyes open wide in surprise, and she covers her mouth with her palm. To my surprise, tears spring and roll down her cheeks, and she begins to cry.

  The little girl picks up on her mother’s distress and begins to cry as well.

  Little girl. My sister.

  Khaia—no, my mother—holds her tightly as she tries to recover. A gust of hot wind laden with black soot blows over us. Itaja comes forward again and asks me, near my ear, “What is going on, sir?”

  “Wait for me,” I tell him. “She is revealing what I needed to know, but I must speak some more.”

  Itaja is unhappy. He wants a quick execution so we can leave.

  “Step back. Let me complete my conversation,” I tell him, more forcefully. He finally goes back to the men.

  “I did not know. I vaguely suspected, but I dismissed the thought,” she finally says, her voice trembling. I believe her.

  She continues. “I never intended for her to be tortured. We tried to dissuade King Hannuruk. I tried to—”

  “You tried to have her kill herself!” I hiss at her.

  “Yes,” she says. “I did not know. At that time, a merciful death was better than the horrific punishment. You came in time but imagine if you did not!”

  I follow the reasoning. “But you pushed—”

  “Do not lay this on my feet, my son. I had nothing to do with Apsara’s difficulties with her husband, your dalliance with her, or the imposition of her punishment by the King.”

  I am conflicted. What she says is true. And yet a corner is my mind says that my mother is not telling the entire truth—but I decide not to pursue. I turn and beckon Apsara.

  She takes tentative steps and comes to me. I can see that Apsara has guessed what is happening.

  My mother does not attempt to embrace Apsara. She looks at her and says, “You would make a magnificent wife, Apsara. Beautiful and bold. What a fool I was not to see this.”

  Apsara does not respond.

  “If there was peace, would we have reached this situation?” I ask her, changing the subject.

  “I thank divine blessings that your child grows in her,” she says, wistfully, not answering my question.

  It is clear to me that the gods never sought what the Oracle said they did. It seems the wrath of the gods is directed at us for reasons we might never fathom, or for what we did at Khaia’s behest.

  “You will never see your grandchild,” I say, firmly. It is as if I am compelled to be cruel.

  She nods.

  “Her name is Akhi,” she says, looking down on the little girl—no, my sister. She is a beautiful child, and yet her cheeks are wet with tears and face dirty with ash and soot standing here with her mother. She lifts the girl and kisses her again and hugs her tightly. Khaia then presents the child to me. “Hold her. Take care of her,” she says. There is a finality in her voice. I am a raging cauldron of emotions. I grew up without my parents, or so I thought, and here I stand face to face with the woman who once bore me to this world and saw to my well-being. She actively resisted sending me to Egypt, she again resisted sending me the second time, and she had, time to time, enquired upon me even as I grew up. I only saw it as interest from the head of the Divine Council.

  I take Akhi in my arms.

  She resists and reaches back to her mother.

  I hold her firmly to my chest—and after a fight where I realize that a toddler poses a greater challenge than an enemy in the battlefield, I beckon Itaja to take her. Khaia touches her daughter’s hand as Itaja takes the thrashing girl away.

  Tears roll freely on my mother’s cheeks, and she wipes them. “This is not what I foresaw, Teber. I hoped that one day, I would rule to make us the greatest empire that ever was, and that you would succeed me.”

  I shake my head. “We would be happy in peace, mother.”

  She lets out a gasp at my utterance.

  She reaches out and gently feels my cheek.

  I do not stop her.

  She comes forward and holds me. She stays that way for a while, and I dare not disturb her—even with all the anger at her, I cannot help but marvel at the embrace of a mother.

  This is how it feels.

  Apsara surprises me by gently placing her arms on Khaia. My mother turns to her. “May you live a thousand summers,” she says. “And may the gods forgive me for my treatment of you.”

  She then places both her palms on Apsara’s cheeks and kisses her forehead. Then she steps back. She fiddles with her gold bracelet—it shines even in the ash-ridden haze. She gently removes it, kisses it, and drops it to the ground.

  “Why was I given away?” I ask her. “Where is my father?”

  “The laws required that the one anointed to be Oracle must relinquish their child before the child is three and must never reveal themselves. The punishment is death to the child, no matter the age. Your father was a soldier in the army, and he died during a fight with the Mycenaeans—you never knew him.”

  I wipe ash from my face and clear my eyes. I have the answers I need.

  It is time.

  “We must end this, mother,” I tell her. She nods and gently clears her eyes and face with a linen napkin. She looks up at me once more and leans forward to kiss my forehead.

  “Teber. My son. My handsome, powerful son. May you live forever. Look at what I have wrought,” she says.

  She walks to the edge of the cliff near the barricade. I decide to give her some time to prepare herself. This is a job for eager Itaja.

  I step forward to look below.

  Far below the cliff, the land burns with fury and the remaining temple walls cry tears of molten rock. The fountain of lava has grown in size—it is taller, wider, and the grievous wound in the black earth is pumping out bright red-orange liquid rock in prodigious amounts. Toxic fumes assault our senses, and fine ash coats every living and non-living being. There is a demonic hum in the air—like a nest of vipers hissing and a million bugs of the night around our ears.

  Another gust of hot wind rustles our hair. Khaia holds the barricade and leans forward to look at the spectacle below.

  Then she looks at me.

  And then my mother leaps over the low barricade in one swift motion and disappears.

  “No!” I scream and rush forward. I lean to look and only glimpse a small spec of her sheer blue fabric as she impacts the terrifying violence of heat below us. She burns away like a dry leaf in raging fires and vanishes.

  As if on cue, the central vent roars—it is a sight I have never imagined. A forceful jet of red lava erupts and creates a gigantic column of black ash.
Astonishingly, bolts of lightning shoot within the black cloud—it is as if the Great God of the Seas himself rides the clouds and is throwing fiery bolts from his Trident.

  “Run!” I scream, and I turn to the men still waiting. I hold Apsara’s hands, and Itaja has my sister. We rush from the cliff edges as the enormous column rises in the air. We feel the heat on our backs. We run across the undulating fields, hopping, jumping over obstacles, and reach the flatter areas where there are no constructions. Behind us, the earth rages on, and my lungs burn with exhaustion as we try to make the distance. My sister is now in my arms, bewildered and quiet, terrified by the happening around her.

  We try to make the distance, but the world around us gets dark quickly, and the heat grows.

  But I know a secret place, but it is half a day away in these conditions. There are a few boats that we can commandeer.

  I pray fervently to the gods to let us go.

  CHAPTER 61.

  KALLISTU

  We finally make it to the bottom of the cliffs to make our way to the secret place—a small cove in the western edge of the inner ring close to the harbor. I know that it has fifteen fast boats with sails, each capable of holding eight to ten people. An internal tunnel goes right under the island and emerges at the outer western edge into the open sea—therefore the boats do not need to traverse the turbulent inlet to get out of the maelstrom.

  But the path is treacherous, and Apsara is exhausted. She sweats profusely in the heat. The non-stop shower of fine ash and soot harasses us, and we must clear the coating on our bodies frequently. Even the short journey has had its casualties; I have lost seven more men, leaving us with just forty-five. Some have collapsed during the trek, some fell from the cliffs, and one man decided to end his life.

  Itaja has been my rock.

  We finally arrive at a narrow pathway at the bottom of the southern edge. The fountain of fire is away from us, to the northeast, now a little calmer than just a few hours ago. A small hope grows like a little plant in me—are the gods accepting of Khaia’s death and intending to calm down? But I cannot take chances.

  Muddy, debris-filled seas slosh to our right. We only have a few leather skins of water left.

  “How far is it?” Apsara asks, her breathing heavy and her face almost unrecognizable. I let her pause for a while to catch her breath. A pregnant woman should not be going through these travails.

  “Not too far, my love, just there,” I say, pointing to a place ahead where the path turns inward, and there is a small overhang from the cliffside. Beneath the overhang are multiple pathways, of which one rocky stone bridge leads to the secret cove.

  “Itaja, take ten men with Apsara and proceed ahead,” I tell him. “You know where it is and what to do.”

  He nods. Apsara resists leaving, but I insist. “I will be right behind. There is one more thing I must do,” I tell her, drowning her protests. She argues me with some more. I finally chide her for putting herself at risk with my baby. “It is your duty to care of yourself for the sake of this land and our child,” I tell her, and firmly put an end to the argument.

  “Promise me you will follow us soon,” she says, her eyes moist. I hold her face and kiss her deeply. I taste the salt of her tears and sweetness of her lips. They taste like heaven amidst the hell around us. She then removes her necklace—the only possession she was left to keep in her imprisonment—and gives it to me. It is a beautiful thing—thin gold thread adorned by green and blue gems.

  I kiss the necklace and put it into my waist pouch. “I will be right behind. I have just one more thing to take care of.”

  We embrace again for what feels like eternity. I watch her walk away slowly with Itaja and the soldiers around her, and she continues to turn and look at me until her silhouette vanishes in the darkness of the cave. If all goes right, she will be on an evacuation boat soon, and I will be able to follow.

  There is just one more thing.

  With the remaining men, I sprint up the steep incline, dodging burning bushes and gusts of smoke and ash. These men have refused to leave my side in spite of my exhortations and orders. “No soldier worth their value or the mercy of their gods would abandon their general,” one of them says, and I embrace him in gratitude. The dungeons are near the Palace. We make progress through the cracked quadrangles, collapsed compounds and arenas. There is no one here anymore.

  I have heard that most people, including former guards and soldiers, are hiding in quake-proof tunnels, and hoping for calmer days.

  I ask most of my men to take shelter. I descend the steps of the prison with two lieutenants. The roof has not yet caved in, but the ground is a treacherous path of sharp upturned slabs of stone and jutting masonry from broken walls. The cell doors are empty—few were held here as this was not a general prison.

  I finally find a closed cell. The door is locked—a large padlock still holds firm. I peep through the small opening on the door, and once my eye adjusts to the darkness, I find a figure lying on the floor.

  It is her.

  With the help of one of my men, I use a hammer to break the lock and rush inside.

  Sitkamose is still. I place a finger by her nose and realize she is still alive. The Princess is emaciated, and if it were not for the bread and a jug of water placed in her cell, she would have starved to death. I hold her up and place a water bladder to her lips. We stay that way for a while as the life-fluid enters her and she finally stirs.

  Once she comes to her senses, I hush her from speaking and give her some bread. Strength is critical as we leave to evacuate. The earth is mercifully quiet—there have been no quakes since the last two days, and yet the eruption of fire in the inlet is growing stronger by the minute. I do not know the meaning of it all.

  “General Teber,” she says, flatly. I am surprised she remembers me. “Why come to save me?” I am glad I can converse in broken Egyptian.

  “Atalanni not seek your incarceration or death of Prince,” I say, hoping that if she returns to Egypt, she might persuade the Pharaoh to show mercy to the Atalanni that may find their way to Egypt.

  She nods. “Your land. Ruined. Warned you.”

  “Time to leave.”

  Once she steadies herself, we make our way out.

  She keeps pace with us even with the stumbles.

  “Much worse than imagined,” she says, looking around, as she pauses for breath.

  “So must hurry. Darkness soon and rush of tides.”

  “Where go?” She asks.

  “Egypt,” I say.

  Sitkamose appraises me shrewdly. “Me hostage? Bargain?”

  “No. Only right the wrong. Return you.”

  She takes a deep breath and coughs as the fine ash irritates her lungs. I let her catch her breath as we watch the growing, raging eruption of fire in the inlet sea, now clearly visible from our location.

  “You good man,” she finally says. “Could left me die.”

  “This way, Princess,” I finally say, and we begin our jog to the secret cove. I ask the men to check their ration packs. We are satisfied that we have enough to last us through a few weeks with very tight rationing. The food packs slow us down, but they are necessary. Besides, the escape boats are always stacked with animal oil, fishing gear, waterskins, and other implements that aid us on our journey on the sea.

  The air around us has changed by the time we arrive at the bottom of the cliff to the narrow path that leads to the bridges to the cave. The pulsating eruption in the center has grown larger, and the seas are much rougher. Ash and debris-filled waves lap the shore, swirl in great circles, and wash over the path, making it treacherous and slippery.

  My heart thunders, but this is no time to ponder.

  We line up in a single file and walk briskly, staying close to the cliff wall to our left and keeping a careful eye on the waters to our right.

  I am relieved when the stone bridge that leads to the cave overhang appears at a distance.

  Not much longer!
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  We quicken our pace, and I exhort the men and the Princess not to stop now, no matter how much the limbs hurt or the breath burns. My voice can barely be heard in the roar of the fires, the wheezing ash-filled wind, and the intense sloshing and swaying of angry seas.

  “No!” I hear a scream behind me.

  A large wave sweeps up from the sea, striking a man and pulling loose the earth beneath his feet. In an instant he vanishes, indistinguishable from the debris—floating branches, clumps of sand and ash, burnt wood, dead fishes, twigs, tree branches, burning rock—a swirling, terrifying spectacle.

  “Keep moving!” I shout. Thankfully, the path widens and gives us more latitude between the sea and the cliff wall, making it safer. I can feel the intense heat of the inlet fires—it is far and yet its power is unquestionable.

  I am frightened by what I see near the bridge. The sea here is shallow, with dark rock lurking right underneath. But that also means lava from the eruption can flow on it, and that is exactly what is happening. A fast-moving mass of bright orange-red molten rock, with the consistency of thick honey, rushes towards the bridge from the massive erupting central vent of fire.

  “Run, run, run,” I flail my arms. We get to the stone bridge under the onslaught of the heavy, debris-laden waves, and Sitkamose rushes across to the other side. I have already told her where the boats are.

  “Come on!” She turns to us and shouts. The men ahead of me sprint and jump across the now slowly breaking bridge and they manage to land safely. They usher Sitkamose to come with them, and the group runs.

  I leap, skipping on the moving rocks. Men behind me rush one after the other, each getting to safety as the hiss and heat of the nearing molten river increases.

  There are two men left. The first jumps but his foot gets caught in a crack, and he tumbles into the boiling water. His screams are drowned in the frothy hot foam, and he vanishes under the turbulence. I watch in dismay as the stone bridge groans and breaks away under the onslaught on the heavy water, followed by the hot, thick, fast-flowing molten rock that now floods the space between me and the entry to the cave.