Queen Aba – The Siege of Olba

The Gods Demand Blood The sun had not yet risen. The stones of mountainous Cilicia seemed unwilling to let go of the night. The cold air trapped between the valleys still drifted above the earth, and the wind passing through the cracks in the rocks carried sounds resembling whispers to human ears. The giant stone faces of Adamkayalar rose indistinctly within the darkness. Some were believed to be kings. Some, gods. And some, cursed humans. But for the people of Olba, none of that mattered. Because they all still seemed to be watching. Below in the valley, hundreds of people were kneeling. Elders, women, children… everyone was silent. The morning frost made people’s breaths visible, and the vapor vanished among the stones. On the flat rock in the center, a white goat was tied. The animal was restless. It pulled at the ropes, stepped back, then lunged forward again. The harsh sound of its breathing through its nostrils echoed too loudly within the silence. At the front of the crowd stood the Priest King Aiakos. The dark cloth on his back moved lightly with the wind, half of his face remaining in shadow. The long ritual knife in his hand caught the pale first light of morning. No one took their eyes off him. Because in Olba, people feared priests before soldiers. The gods were invisible. But the man who spoke in their name was not. Aiakos walked toward the goat with heavy steps. A child clung to his mother’s arm. The woman immediately pulled the child’s hand away. “Don’t look,” she whispered. The child looked anyway. Because sometimes fear did not close a person’s eyes. It opened them. Aiakos pressed the knife against the goat’s throat. It was as if the wind itself had stopped. Only the goat’s rapid breathing could be heard in the valley. The Priest King raised his head. He looked to the sky. There were no clouds. But the morning light was weak. As if the sun did not wish to rise. “The gods demand blood,” he said. The stone faces echoed the words back. Demand blood… Demand blood… Among the crowd, an old man lowered his head to the ground and began to pray. A woman closed her eyes. A young girl stared at Aiakos in fear. The Priest King raised the knife. And at that very moment… a sound was heard from afar. Metal. Stone. Horse hooves. The heads of the crowd turned toward the entrance of the valley all at once. Dust was rising. A rider was descending rapidly. Aiakos’s hand remained suspended in the air. His eyes narrowed. We are late, he thought. And for the first time, he did not finish his prayer. Morning was gentler in the countryside of Olba. A thin mist had settled over the vineyards. The moisture of the night rested upon the leaves, and the first rays of sunlight shimmered within the droplets like tiny pieces of gold. Women worked silently among the vines. Baskets filled up, children ran between the stone paths, and the elders tried to finish their work before the day fully rose. The earth was not warm yet. The air smelled of the sea. A little farther beyond the vineyards, a small child tried to break off a branch when his mother called out sharply: “Don’t break that!” The child laughed. The woman shook her head and returned to gathering grapes. Everything was ordinary. Until one of the young women stopped. The bunch of grapes in her hand remained suspended in the air. Her gaze drifted toward the sea. The elderly woman beside her noticed. “What are you looking at?” The young woman did not answer. She simply pointed toward the horizon. At first, nothing could be seen. Then… a small black shape appeared. A single ship. Far away. But heading straight toward them. The old woman narrowed her eyes. “Not a fishing boat.” Another woman stood up. There was no wind. Yet the ship’s black sails were full. The color slowly drained from the women’s faces. Because people who lived by the sea knew certain things. Some ships brought goods. Some brought soldiers. Some brought death. A young mother quickly pulled her son close. “Go inside.” The child did not understand. “Why?” The woman did not answer. She could not take her eyes off the sea. A silhouette had begun to appear clearly at the ship’s prow now. A motionless figure. One of the women dropped the basket in her hand. The grapes scattered across the earth. The purple berries were crushed. Upon the soil, they resembled blood. “This is not a merchant ship,” said the old woman. No one answered. Because everyone was thinking the same thing. Pirates. And the sea… was coming toward them. Meanwhile, at the port of Olba, no one yet knew anything. Fishermen were gathering their nets, laborers were preparing to carry the morning cargo, and two drunken soldiers were talking about the night before. An old man sitting on the stone steps of the harbor spoke without looking at the sea: “Today is bad.” The young fisherman beside him laughed. “The weather is clear.” The old man shook his head. “Not the weather.” The young man did not understand. Just as he was about to answer… a short horn blast sounded from the watchtower above the harbor. Everyone raised their heads. It sounded once more. This time harsher. One of the soldiers stood up cursing. “What now?” The watchman was shouting from the top of the tower. But the wind tore apart and scattered his voice. Then someone pointed toward the sea. And one by one, the conversations in the harbor fell silent. In the distance, the black sail could now be seen. The ship’s deck was silent. This silence was not normal. Pirate ships carried shouting. Laughter. The smell of wine. Here, there was only the sea. And the creaking of wood. Aba stood at the very front of the ship. The wind tossed her black hair, yet she did not move. Her eyes were locked on the shore. She could see the vineyards now. And the people as well. They had not begun to flee yet. People first denied approaching disaster. Heavy footsteps sounded behind her. Ksenophanes. When the man walked across the deck, no one spoke. It was as though an invisible emptiness formed around him. He had aged. But his shoulders still stood perfectly straight. The old scar on his right cheek appeared darker in the morning light. Without taking her eyes away, Aba spoke. “They are very quiet.” Ksenophanes looked toward the shore. “They are not afraid yet.” For a while, neither of them spoke. The shores of Olba were now clearly visible. White stone buildings. Towers. Vineyards. The harbor. The city that had once belonged to him. Ksenophanes’s jaw tightened. “Twenty years ago,” he said slowly, “they exiled me from this shore.” Aba remained silent. Her father rarely spoke of the past. And when he did, his voice always grew heavier. “Today I return.” Aba finally looked at him. “To take the city?” Ksenophanes smiled faintly. “No.” Then he turned his eyes back to the land. “To remind them.” The sound of chains came from the lower deck of the ship. A seagull landed atop the mast. In the distance, the watchman’s horn at the harbor sounded again. This time longer. Aba turned her eyes toward the shore. “What if they do not accept me?” Ksenophanes did not answer at first. He looked at his daughter for a long time. For the first time… he thought he saw her mother in her. “People,” he finally said, “fear first.” He paused for a moment. “Then they grow accustomed.” The ship’s prow split through the waves. They drew closer to the shore. And the women along the shores of Olba could now see them clearly. The black sails. The armed men. And the woman standing at the front of the ship. A child tugged at his mother’s hand. “Who is that?” The woman could not answer. Because some people created fear before they even spoke. Aba continued looking toward the shore. As if she were not watching the city… but her future. Black Sail The sound of the horse’s hooves descending toward Adamkayalar echoed harshly through the valley. The horse was covered in foam. Its breath was shattered. The young messenger on its back threw himself down before the horse had even fully stopped. His knees struck the stone, but he did not wait to rise. The crowd parted to both sides. People stepped back in fear. Because sometimes the news itself arrived before the disaster. The young man tried to catch his breath. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Aiakos still stood before the ritual stone. The knife in his hand had not fallen. But the ritual was over now. The Priest King did not take his eyes off the messenger. “Speak.” The young man swallowed several times. His lips were dry. “At sea…” he finally said. His voice cracked. “There is a black sail at sea.” A murmur rose from the crowd. A woman covered her mouth. A child began to cry. The old men looked at one another. Aiakos’s expression did not change. But his hand had begun to tremble. “How many ships?” Before answering, the messenger looked behind him in fear. As if what he said would become worse once spoken aloud. “One.” A brief wave of relief passed through the crowd. Then the messenger continued: “But…” Silence settled over the valley once again. “…that ship is enough.” The wind rose again. This time harsher.