"From the west they came with their ships, first bringing finely painted pottery to trade. When they saw the splendor of the Hittite kingdom, they returned baring the the sword. They ran ashore an undefended cities coast, demanding riches. Four times they returned until they meet Hittite mettle. The Komna king bowed before the might of the Hittite empire, surrendering his people and by his mercy the great King of Hatti bestowed upon them a place in his kingdom."

- unkown

20 years earlier

They were after him, a scared little boy laying in a ditch behind a stone goat fence, his ears pricked up, hearing even the slightest of noises.

They were serious this time and there was no grandmother now.

He hated his older brothers, since he turned fourteen they were always at his heels, trying to get a hold of him.

When a boy of his people turns fourteen, his earlobes are to be cut off, a sign that he was never to be a slave, for his people celebrated their freedom.

They were proud to be a free farming people, holding a steady place in this world.

To show their pride they removed the earlobes, for a slave is marked by a wooden flock driven through his earlobe.

The boy pressing himself against the stone wall was afraid of this however, many times his grandfather proudly presented him with the blunt ceremonial knife, with which he was to, some day, cut off the soft fleshly bit from his ear, mortifying the young child every time.

His brothers had their ears cut already and he remembered their screams, he always dreaded the day he turned fourteen. And then it came.

His grandmother alone protected him from his brothers and grandfathers plans, much to the chagrin of his parents, who felt shame by the boys openly display of fear.

It was only thanks to the old womans clout that his ears were not cut immediately.

But as time moved on, his mother grew annoyed by the boys presence in the house and she cast him out every day, with his brothers already lying in wait.

Now everyday was a hunt, as he lay behind the wall, he felt ants crawling over his limbs, but he remained motionless, he could hear them approach, they were stealthy predators, but his heightened senses caught their every step as they closed in.

His heart beating ever faster and his blood rushing behind his ears, he knew his body was ready to engage them in fight, but his mind kept him from bolting out of his hiding place.

They exchanged no words and then he heard them moving away, they possibly picked up another trace or heard someone talk, the proximity of his hiding place to the village must have saved him.

When they were gone long enough, he continued his flight in the opposite direction they went.

As he arrived at the villages town square he noticed a gathered crowd.

He quickly scaled one of the houses roofs to get a better vantage point over the scene.

He saw man of the chief, dressed in colorful dyed linen and helms of bronze, they carried bronzen dirks, only the chiefs men were allow to carry arms, as well as wear colored linen, the boy always envied their attire, even though it was seen as pompous by everyone he knew.

They were taking corn from a peasants house three pitiful looking sacks they produced, one was spoiled by mold, probably hidden, buried in damp earth.

A man, his head lowered, stood at the doors frame, and a woman screamed at the chiefs men as they loaded the raids spoils on their cart.

"This is our last emmer! Are we to eat dirt? We have paid our share already!" she screamed hysterically.

Then she was was thrown to the ground as she impotently tried to wrestle a sack from one of the men, the chiefs captain on horseback engaged her.

"What is this? This woman dares to raise not only her voice, but her hands against the chiefs men!"

He turned to her husband who still stood petrified inside the doorframe.

"Did you not teach her a woman's proper place?"

Then he turned back to his men.

"Teach her how to address the chiefs men."

The man grabbed the woman, she scream like a lamb on its way to the butchers.

The boy couldn't believe it, nobody was doing anything, even the man in the doorway only stared at the ground like a stoic.

One of the man loosened a strap on his black leather belt and took off a horse whip, while another uncovered the woman's back.

As they whipped her, she cried and screamed, the boy couldn't believe what he saw, her screams turned his stomach.

How could these man do this?

Commit these violent acts against a defenseless women in the open, on a street, without interference by the village?

As these thoughts ran through his mind, two pairs of hands grabbed him, an arm wrapped itself around his throat, while another toke his legs. They got him.

He tried to struggle but they were bigger and stronger then him, he quickly lost his strength, after a while he stopped resisting and started pleading with them, while hot tears started running down his cheeks.

They brought him to the animals hut, as they held him down he tried pleading to his grandfather, but he had the same look on his face as if he were to cut a goats throat. The boys screams were as petty animal screams to him, he didn't hear the words nor did he hear the fear in his voice.

He slowly opened the old wooden chest in which the ceremonial knife was stored.

The boy only saw blurred shapes now, for his eyes were filled with tears.

As the shape he knew to be his grandfather came closer and he could feel his cold leathery hand on his head, he screamed as loud as he could.

"It hasn't even touched the skin." he laughed.

As the blade meet the soft skin below his ear, his scream grew even louder.

The blood in the boys bandaged ear still pumped stinging pain through his head as he sat at the waterfronts cliff.

It was very late at night, the moon was high and the sky full of lights.

He should have been home, but he couldn't be with the others, his brothers and grandfather who had mutilated him and his mother and father who did nothing to stop them.

His mother didn't even care as he came to her sobbing, she acted as if she was embarrassed for his pain.

Why did it have to be like this, who made that rule. Why do my ears have to burn so much I can't even lay my head down to sleep.

The only person he wasn't mad at was his little sister and his grandmother, his grandmother tried to help and his sister started crying for him, as if they had cut her up, not him.

She wanted to hug him but he ran, he needed to be alone.

He picked up a rock and was about to throw it, when he saw the silhouette of a small ship arrive at the coast.

As he followed the ships course he saw that it was meet by a group of men illuminated by a single torch.

He stealthily approached the spot the boat made its landing at, to see what was going on.

The horned silhouette of an heavily armored man emerged before the pale moonlight, the boy had to stop for he first thought an ancient god had come forth from the sea.

From what he could make out they wore black cuirasses, made of hardened leather and pads attached with bronzen spikes to the cuirass, on their heads the wore bronzen helms, with horns like an oxen and a disk in the center.

Their hilts held dirks, similar to the ones the boy had seen on the chiefs men, but they also wore strange blades which curved in a half circle, something totally unfamiliar to the boy.

The warrior looked in the boys direction, but he was hidden well in the shadows.

Two more men of similar attire climbed out of the boat meeting the party waiting for them at the beach.

As the boy came closer he realized one of the man was his father and the others were the village elders.

He tried to get close enough to listen as one of the elders approached the leader of the horned men, who took off his horned helm to reveal a bold head reflecting the moons light.

"We know it's bad, but you have to understand, we are farmers, men of the fields. We do not wage war." one of the elders pleaded.

"Neither did half of my people. I know how things stand. There was no good harvest for the last four years. The rain isn't coming and the river beds run dryer every year. Still do not the palaces demand the same yield?"

Concerned looks were exchanged between the elders, There was a familiar ring to the mans words.

"Still we are farmers, we can manage."

"So we thought. Have your people felt them? The tremors shaking the earth two years ago? They ripped apart our houses and streets, many died, buried under the rubble. Sickness followed on the tremors heels. All the able bodied men were summoned to rebuild the palace and still there was demand for the ever increasing yield! Even as our people died on the streets. Then the Sherden came, a tribe from the west, fierce warriors, knees unbent to the Hittites, they always have stood fast against them, they were raiders, here to plunder our kingdom, for they knew the Hittites weakness. As they slayed our chief, who swore loyalty to the Hittites, they offered us to join them. There was still more booty to be plundered and a raiding force was always short of able bodied man. We took them on their offer for there was nothing left for us, but dry soil. And what is left to you?"

There was no denying these fears weren't on the elders mind, their efforts were already strained to the furthest degree, a tip on the wrong side of the scale could mean doom.

Breaking the tense silence the boys father stepped forward.

"What happened to the people who didn't follow?" he challenged.

The bold warrior hesitated.

"Whoever wasn't willing to come, was left to his own devices."

"With what? Did you spare the silos and livestock or did you take everything with you? Who was to stop you? The elderly and sick who wouldn't follow? I tell you here. We are not pirates!"

The biggest of the horned warriors standing in the back, bolted forward, his beard was fashioned into a wedge and was black with a blueish tint, together with his large hawk nose and the scar running across his face, he had the most vicious looking face the boy had ever seen.

"Peasant idiot! Choose your words wisely!" he hissed.

"Or what? If we don't want to be your allies, we are to be your enemies?"

The bold warrior held the scarred one back.

Their eyes meet and gazes of bitter hatred were exchanged.

The scarred one shrugged him off and walked back to the boat.

"We did not insinuate that. We came here to check your allegiance to your chiefs. We give three days, then our warring party will arrive. We are many and out rages are seldomly contained, but we will attempt to spare, if you choose to not enter on any side."

The bold warrior continued as the scarred warrior gazed over to the boys father with murder burning in his eyes. Seeing as there was no more to be achieved here the bold warrior and his companions turned back and mounted their boat to return and bring home the news of the negotiation.

One of the elders shook his head.

"Our choice has been made, now has it?"

"We are not pirates! There is no good life for people of the sword. They will meet their match and they will sink into slavery. They try to intimidate us. Obviously they are not sure of their numbers or they wouldn't try to persuade us. We have to be strong! The kings palace has stood on these hills before any of us was born, it will still stand even when my children find the grave."

The boy realized for the first time his fathers importance, he saw how he talked to the elders who were comforted by his speech and they looked up to him as a leader.

It made him sad he hadn't know his father much, he was the third child, serf to his first born brother who would undoubtedly inherit the estate, so his father never cared much of his third boy.

For his son he always was a monolithic figure of violence and obedience, here the boy saw him act with people like they mattered.

There was a dull feeling in the boys stomach, and as much as his ears stung and his belly was grumbling, he had set his mind on not returning this night, he build himself a little hut in the woods near the families field.

He would stay the night there for there was much to think about.