Bronze Summer

33

Troy was a broken city. Even when the raiders had gone there was no sense of order, no authority beyond the petty gang lords who strutted through the rubble-strewn streets like emperors.

Still, Qirum seemed to find it easy to do his deals in the aftermath of the raid. He quickly secured the services of a handful of warriors, all former Hatti soldiers, or so they claimed. These men looked tough to Milaqa, but uncomfortably hungry, and she had no idea how to judge their loyalty. And Qirum turned up a couple of carts, hard to find in a city where even timber for the fires was growing scarce. He failed to locate any horses, but he did manage to get the Northlanders some food, fish and dried meat. He promised that none of it was rat flesh, or worse.

Hattusa was far to the east of here, many more days’ travel, in the Land of the Hatti. But for now it was not Hattusa they sought but a boy from Northland.

‘We will find him,’ Qirum assured Deri. ‘Find him and save him. Stick with me. You will see.’ Tibo had made himself close to Qirum, Milaqa realised. Maybe Qirum had adopted him as a kind of pet, a half-tamed wolf cub. Just as he had adopted Milaqa, maybe, another impulsive affection that made no particular sense. Whatever the reason, Qirum seemed determined to see through his pledge.

His men meanwhile had been quietly extracting information from the survivors of the raid. The leader of the black charioteers was a man who called himself the Spider. It was said that he had been a military commander under the Hatti regime, before going rogue. Now he was one of the most feared of the bandit warlords who had sprouted like weeds in an increasingly lawless country. He was believed to have a base to the east. With that knowledge Kilushepa was prepared to allow a diversion to pursue Tibo.

‘We are heading east anyhow,’ Qirum told her.

‘As long as the time we lose is not excessive.’

Teel growled, ‘And as long as we don’t get ourselves killed confronting this Spider.’

Milaqa hissed, ‘Shame on you, uncle. Don’t let Deri hear you say that. Tibo is your blood, as he is mine.’

Teel, as he often did, looked shifty, uncomfortable, priorities conflicting in his head. ‘We didn’t come here for this, for a rescue mission. He’s probably dead already — you understand that, don’t you? We’re trying to save empires here. We can’t save everybody, Milaqa.’

‘But we can try,’ she snapped back fiercely.

After three uncomfortable, uneasy nights in Troy, they left the city and set out east. They were the survivors of Qirum’s party of Northlanders, and the dozen Trojan warriors he had hired. The Trojans took turns hauling the two carts on which Kilushepa and Noli rode, along with their baggage. The warriors grumbled or bragged every step of the way.

The road to the east was decaying, rutted. This was a country that Qirum called Wilusa — a shattered, starving place, and unseasonably cold when the wind picked up under the sunless sky. The fields were dry and unworked, the houses and barns looted and collapsed. Irrigation channels scored the land, but they were dry too, dust-filled and weed-choked. Teel pointed out the remains of stands of forest, long since cut to the ground for firewood.

From the beginning Qirum imposed a careful rationing system. It was just as well, Milaqa thought, for otherwise his hungry warriors would have finished the food they had brought from Troy in days, and then probably started in on the precious seed potatoes. And he allowed his warriors to hunt. Once they saw a herd of goats, running wild, and the men chased them, but the animals, hardy survivors themselves, were too quick.

They passed a stone watchtower. There was no sign of the soldiers who must once have manned it.

Kilushepa seemed dismayed by this abandonment. ‘By such means as this tower we Hatti maintained security for generations,’ she said to Noli and Milaqa. ‘We were a great nation. Once we destroyed Babylon. Once we defeated the Egyptians, at Kadesh, in the greatest battle the world has ever known. But our empire was always under threat. The Hatti kingdom itself is a patchwork of many peoples, surrounded by a buffer of restless vassals and dependencies. So we built an empire like a fortress, with fortified towns connected by roads for the troops, marked out by watchtowers like this. Or at least that was how it used to be…’

They came to a river that flowed roughly south to north, towards the great northern sea that lay beyond the strait where Troy was situated. It was low and silty, the banks choked with reeds, but the water flowed and was fresh, and they refilled their skins and jugs.

They turned and headed south, working upstream. Kilushepa said they would find fords and bridges. Here, by the water, there were more houses, just shacks of reeds and bits of timber, hearths that looked recently used. But they never saw any signs of the people who must live here. The soldiers routinely robbed what they could find, pulling apart the little houses, emptying the traps and lines of any catches.

‘They must see us coming,’ Milaqa said. ‘They run and hide.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ Teel murmured. ‘We must look like bandits to them. Which of course we are, to all intents and purposes.’

Another day on from the watchtower they came to a small town, sprawling by a river bank studded with jetties. The party approached cautiously. The town was laid out a little like Troy, Milaqa could see, though on a much smaller scale, with a ditch and palisade surrounding an inhabited area within which a stone-walled citadel rose proud on a hillock. And just as at Troy shanties and lean-tos were pressed up against the outer rampart, a wrack of people washed up by a tide of hunger.

The road led them across the defensive ditch to an open gateway. There was a crowd gathered by the gate, pushing and shoving. Milaqa heard raised voices, shouting, and a man’s agonised cry. Qirum’s party slowed. The warriors touched the hilts of their swords.

Teel said nervously, ‘We don’t need any more trouble.’

Deri growled, ‘We’re not leaving until we’re sure Tibo is not here.’

‘If the Spider’s black chariots are at work here,’ Kilushepa said, ‘I think we’d know it by the screams.’

‘Perhaps they’ve been here,’ Qirum said. He stepped forward, hands on hips, peering; the light under the unending cloud was uncertain. ‘For I think that’s one of the Spider’s men who’s doing the screaming.’

The mob surrounded a man dressed entirely in black, Milaqa saw now. They had him by the arms, and were dragging him under the gateway in the wall.

Qirum said, ‘Left behind, I imagine. And now taking punishment on behalf of them all.’

Deri said urgently, ‘He might know where Tibo has been taken.’

‘Yes. Come with me — you, Deri, and Milaqa. You others wait, and keep your weapons hidden.’ He set off immediately, with Deri and Milaqa hurrying behind.

And Kilushepa followed, striding boldly. Qirum just looked at her, and hurried on.

When they got to the gateway Milaqa saw immediately what the inflamed people were trying to do. The gate was a rough arch of stout wooden timbers. Ropes had been thrown over the arch, and were tied to the charioteer’s chest, wrists and feet. Men started to haul at the ropes, and a baying cry went up. The captive was clearly to be dragged into the air by the big band around his chest. He was struggling, squirming. His face was a mask of blood, his eyes were pits of darkness, and his long black tunic was stained rust-brown. He was a big man physically, Milaqa saw, but there was no sense of violence about him.

Milaqa said to Qirum, ‘They will haul him over the arch.’

‘Yes. And bend him backwards until he snaps like a twig. A crude but effective punishment, I suppose… Kilushepa! Wait!’

But the queen, with an impressive burst of speed, was already striding towards the mob. ‘Stop this!’ Her voice, imperious, carried over the yelling of the mob. Even the captive was silenced.

Qirum hurried to her side and walked with her. ‘Is this wise?’

‘These are my people. I am still their Tawananna. Stop this, I say — stop it now!’

A woman approached her, ragged, limping. She led a little girl by the hand. ‘Who are you to tell us what to do?’

‘I am queen. I am Kilushepa. I am Tawananna.’

‘Kilushepa’s dead. That’s what I heard.’

‘Then you heard wrong. Here she is, here I am, in the flesh. Here I am, returning to Hattusa to take up the reins of power — and to ensure that people like you are protected once more.’

Milaqa was lost in admiration for this woman, who faced a murderous mob and held them spellbound with a few words, even if she must know she was making promises she could not keep.

And the captive, bound, blinded and bloodied, twisted and turned his head. ‘Tawananna? Is it you? I heard you speak, just once. I would never forget that voice.’ He spoke clear Nesili, his accent like Kilushepa’s.

She walked up to him. The mob melted back, to Milaqa’s continuing astonishment. ‘What is your name, man?’

‘I am Kurunta. You would not know me. There is no reason why… I was a scribe in the palace precinct. In great Hattusa! An archivist. I wrote, I read-’

The woman with the little girl pushed forward again. ‘This man ran with the Spider. His men raped me. They killed my husband, and my son. And my little girl — look, Tawananna!’ She pulled the girl forward and exposed her face, and another ghastly injury inflicted by a hero’s sword. Milaqa turned away.

But Kurunta twisted free of the grasping hands. ‘Tawananna! Save me! I was a scribe before the world ended, and the Spider took me, and I woke in this nightmare of killing. Look what these people did to me!’ He held up his arms. Milaqa saw that his hands had been cut off, his eyes put out. ‘Look what they did!’

Kilushepa said to Qirum, ‘We need this man. Pay off these people. Then let us leave this place.’

And she walked away, back towards the carts, leaving Qirum facing a surging, yelling mob.