Iron Winter n-3

by Stephen Baxter

  Zida looked at Kassu. ‘That’s good of him,’ he said neutrally. ‘Can’t be much of a priest, though. Didn’t save your potatoes, did he?’

  Kassu shrugged. As Zida seemed to be guessing in his own crudely insightful way, Palla had actually caused a lot of arguments between Kassu and his wife. Kassu resented the priest’s frequent visits, resented having to feed the man. ‘The will of Teshub Yahweh is not ours to question.’

  Zida laughed again. ‘That’s for sure.’ But he spoke softly, for they were heading into empty country now, away from the city. He put his right hand on the hilt of his scabbarded sword, and Kassu found that he’d unconsciously done the same thing.

  They moved without a light, but by now their eyes were fully open to the dark. The land, much of it disused farmland, was mostly empty. Once they saw an animal, like a big dog. It could have been a wolf; animals like deer and wolves had been spotted much closer to the city than they used to come. The abandoned countryside was reverting to the wild, some said, even so close to New Hattusa.

  Kassu pictured the landscape. New Hattusa sat by the shore of a bay that opened up to the north; to the west a spit of land separated the bay from the Middle Sea. The city was protected by layers of defences, some inherited from the deeper past, some planned by the Hatti kings when they first moved the capital of their empire here. There were rivers to north and south, and to the east a tremendous New Wall, a mass of Northlander growstone and hard facing stone, that ran from the valley of the Scaramander in the south all the way to the Simoeis in the north. To the west, along the coast, there were sea walls and heavily defended harbours. The bay itself, where dredgers worked constantly to clear away the silt of the rivers, could be closed by the raising of a great chain across its mouth. And at the heart of all these defensive layers sat New Hattusa, Troy, within the ancient walls that had once famously failed to expel the Greeks, but had long since been rebuilt and had not been breached for a thousand years. But there were always threats, especially in these times of hunger and rootlessness. And given the way they were heading, Kassu guessed that this night the threat was approaching from the north, from the line of the Simoeis.

  As they neared the river they sought out scraps of cover, staying away from the high ground, keeping to the shade of desiccated copses. Soon Kassu could smell the river itself, a stench of rot. The water was no more than a dribble through a bed of sour mud.

  Then Kassu smelled woodsmoke.

  He and Zida found a lying-up point in the ruins of a farmhouse, which they entered cautiously. This must once have been a favoured location, a bit of high ground close to the river, even if it was near the boundary of the city’s hinterland. Now the house was long looted, burned, looted again, and the interior was open to the sky. There was a huddle of bones lying in one corner, which Kassu didn’t look at too closely. The snow, falling heavier now, was collecting on what had once been quite a fine floor of stone tiles.

  Crouching behind a broken wall the two of them peered out at the river valley. On the far side they saw a line of sparks, along the bank. Kassu tried to count the fires, but gave up when he got to thirty.

  ‘There they are,’ Zida muttered.

  ‘The river won’t be hard to cross. Not with the water as low as it is. You could just ford it.’

  ‘They might have started already, before it’s fully light. I would. Lucky for us a scout spotted them and came running back with the news. This is supposed to be part of the outer defence, along with the New Wall. If I were Himuili I’d build up this border. Walls and ramparts. The river isn’t enough of a barrier any more, you said it yourself.’

  Kassu shrugged. ‘But Himuili can only do what the King and the Hazannu and the rest tell him to do.’ The Hazannu was the city’s top administrator, its mayor, a tough ex-soldier called Tiwatapara. ‘They haven’t got the manpower to do everything, not any more.’

  ‘So I’d buy some in. Rus. Scand even. Big hairy idiots the pack of them, but they can fight if you point them in the right direction.’

  ‘Who do you think they are? Turks? Franks, maybe?’

  ‘Hard to tell yet. Listen. You go back, take the bad news. I’ll wait until it’s lighter, identify them, count them, maybe spot when they cross if they haven’t started already.’

  Kassu nodded. Splitting up had its obvious dangers, but the sense of it was obvious too. ‘All right. Jesus protect you.’

  Zida, no theologian, laughed at the childish prayer. ‘Oh, stop off at your farm and tell that priest the Turks are on the way. Watch how fast he runs back to his church so Jesus can protect him.’

  11

  By the time Kassu had got to the city, and had talked his way into the Lower Town through the Sphinx Gate in the Old Wall, the day was well advanced and the nuntarriyashas festival was already under way The narrow alleyways and public places of the Lower Town were crowded with townsfolk, with farmers like himself who’d come in from the country, with traders and merchants hoping to make a quick profit on this day of autumn celebration — and, no doubt, with hungry folk from far and wide who had used the excuse to get into the city in the hope that King Hattusili would be generous in opening up the grain silos.

  And, as he tried to get to General Himuili at his station at the King’s Gate, Kassu got stuck behind the Procession of the Searching Jesus.

  The march was a cacophony of noise, colour, dance, working its way around the circuit of the walls in search of the penitent rogue Judas-Telipinu. At the head of the crowd rode Jesus Sharruma Himself, mounted on an ornate chariot. The statue, larger than life, brought out of its church in the citadel for this special day, shone with gold plate and was adorned with precious stones. Jesus wore a Hatti soldier’s tunic with golden mail, but also the soft felt cap of a scribe; He carried a sword in one hand and a shepherd’s crook in the other, and tremendous palm leaves cast in gold crossed to make an arch over His head. And under all the grandeur, it was said, the statue’s core was a simple wooden figure carved by Jesus Himself, son of a carpenter, in His old-age exile in Old Hattusa.

  The chariot itself was a grand affair, driven by two soldiers along with burly guards to keep away any overeager celebrants. The holy chariots were one responsibility of Kassu’s own general Himuili, whose formal rank was Chief of the Chariot Warriors of the Left, an archaic title with cavalry units having replaced the chariots centuries ago, but its ancient meaning lingered in ceremonials like this. The great chariot bearing the god was followed by a crowd — men, women, children — dancing, chanting prayers and singing hymns, and crying out supplications to Judas-Telipinu, the Missing God, to reveal himself. Jugglers, dancers and conjurers worked the fringes.

  This ceremonial commemorated the culminating incident in the life of Jesus the Carpenter, a story familiar to every child of New Hattusa. After years of holy oratory that had infuriated the religious authority in the Hatti’s vassal territory of Judea, Jesus had been betrayed by allegations of heresy by one of His own followers, Judas. He was turned over to the Hatti governor, the Lord of the Watchtower, at his palace in Jerusalem, with a recommendation of execution. This Lord, who represented a state with an open pantheon, was repelled by these demands. And meanwhile a rumour swept the city that the rogue apostle Judas had repented, and confessed the falsity of his allegations. The Lord of the Watchtower decreed that Jesus would be spared if Judas could be found to repeat his recantation in the Lord’s own presence. So, throughout the city Jesus’ followers began a frantic search for the rogue apostle — and Jesus, some said to His own astonishment, was spared. Much later Jesus was brought to Old Hattusa in chains, but was raised up by priests and scholars, who recognised in the prophet’s message an ethical foundation for their own relatively tolerant, compensation-based system of laws.

  After His peaceful death Jesus was welcomed into the Hatti pantheon. Now even a king would prostrate himself before Jesus Sharruma, son of Teshub Yahweh, the Storm God, and Mary, his Mother Goddess of Arinna. With time the incidents of Jesus�
�� life were incorporated into the tapestry of the Hatti religious year — and so every autumn the citizens of New Hattusa went searching for Judas, who had been identified with an older deity called Telipinu, the Missing God, who had to be brought out of hiding to bring the rains.

  Usually the nuntarriyashas was among the most popular of the many festivals of New Hattusa’s religious calendar. But today Kassu, standing impatiently until the procession passed, could sense a tougher edge to the crowd’s pleading with Telipinu. No wonder, he thought, for judging by the evidence of the years-long drought, the god had never done such a good job of hiding before. As soon as he could get by, Kassu pushed forward, making for the Pergamos, the old citadel with its temples and palaces. Even away from the procession route the city was crowded — it was always crowded these days. As the drought had worsened and banditry went on the increase, more people from the countryside had got into the habit of coming into the city’s safekeeping at night. So the marketplaces had been built over, and even some of the great temple places were crowded with huts and shacks, with fires burning on the marble pavements and children chasing around the pillars.

  When Kassu reached the King’s Gate in the wall around the Pergamos he was surprised to find the King himself was already out of his chambers, before the open gate. Shielded by a fine curtain and sitting under a huge parasol to keep off the snow, Hattusili the Sixteenth was a small man, portly despite the years of famine and drought that had plagued his empire — but then he was the King, and kings did not obey normal rules. He was muttering to a chamberlain, a flabby man in a purple robe who had the look of a eunuch to Kassu; the chamberlain was going through a scroll, densely printed.

  The King was surrounded on three sides by guards in suits of mail so complete that even their faces were covered, but with ornate embroidered tunics, and elaborately painted almond-shaped shields. And before the King stood the supplicants, ordinary folk of the city in a long line, carefully shepherded by more guards with swords and stabbing spears. They all wore hooded cloaks so they could not look at the King, and he did not have to look at them; they were like mounds of grimy laundry Kassu thought. At the head of the line they were addressed by more chamberlains with wax tablets for note-taking. On festival days like this you could approach the King in person, and in his presence you would speak to one of his close advisers — never to the King himself, who stayed back from the unwashed, discreetly shielded by a veil of near-transparent linen. The Hatti kings had always had a deep fear of contamination, of filth and dirt and corruption.

  To one side of this small piece of theatre stood a group of men, some in mail, some in elaborately embroidered courtiers’ robes. Earnest, evidently powerful, they spoke gravely and quietly. Kassu recognised Himuili, his own commander, as well as the Hazannu, the mayor, and Angulli Father of the Churches, the empire’s high priest — and Prince Arnuwanda, nephew of the King and cousin to Uhhaziti, the tukhanti, the crown prince. Behind this group, as Kassu could see through the open gate, the Pergamos itself rose up, the wide avenues lined with grand buildings, the summit of the ancient hill crowned by the royal palace and the Church of the Holy Wisdom. All this Kassu glimpsed in a few heartbeats.

  Then a rough hand shoved him in the back and he fell heavily to the cobbled ground.

  With a scrape of armour, heavy steel plates stitched into leather, Himuili Chief of the Chariot Warriors of the Left, came and stood over Kassu and kicked him in the ribs, as it happened just where Zida had got him that morning. ‘Get up, idiot.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Kassu scrambled to his feet.

  Himuili was half a head taller than Kassu, maybe forty years old, with a face like a clenched fist. ‘Kassu, is it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of the Fourth Infantry-’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I told that idiot Zida to take somebody and go scout out whatever’s going on at the Simoeis. He said he’d take you, Kassu. He said you’re an idiot.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But he didn’t say you’re an idiot that deserves to get his head stuck on a pike for failing to prostate himself before My Sun,’ and they both nodded their heads at the King’s title. ‘A dozen lashes. Report to the wall barracks later.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Himuili beckoned, and led Kassu back to the group of high-ups.

  Father of the Churches Angulli regarded Kassu with curiosity, Prince Arnuwanda with a kind of grim readiness despite his youth, and the Hazannu stared with contempt. They were all tall, well-fed men, like great trees standing around Kassu, and he prayed that his tongue wouldn’t tie itself up.

  ‘Well?’ Himuili snapped. ‘Good news from the Simoeis, or not?’

  Kassu briskly described what he had seen on the far bank of the river, the fires he had counted, his own rough estimate of the force that was approaching the city.

  Arnuwanda spoke now. ‘The question is who they are. The Franks rarely come so close to the city and we can usually buy them off anyhow. .’ The prince was no more than twenty years old. He wore his hair long but loose, his upper lip was clean-shaven, his beard carefully shaped, and his young skin shone with expensive oils. He had a new tattoo on his cheek, a circles-and-bar design that looked like a souvenir of his long summer visit to Northland. His accent was smooth, Kassu thought, but oddly spiced, probably thanks to the Greek and Northlander tutors who had been imported to educate him. But he held himself like a warrior, having been educated in those arts by men like Himuili, and having ridden out in battle at the age of fifteen, or, some said, even younger. The Hatti had always needed their princes to be generals. ‘If it’s nomads,’ the prince went on, ‘we might have more trouble. Difficult wretches who don’t know when they’re defeated. They just scatter on their ponies hoping to lure you into traps-’

  ‘If they haven’t eaten their ponies already,’ Angulli said, and he giggled. This was the Father of the Churches, Brother of Jesus; he sounded slightly drunk to Kassu.

  Himuili rolled his eyes. ‘We’ve ways of dealing with nomads, sir. The Turks are more persistent nuisances, especially now they’ve captured so much territory in eastern Anatolia. Gives them a base to fight from, you see.’

  Arnuwanda nodded. ‘But at least, again, we know what we’re dealing with. The problem will be, as always, raising the manpower. And feeding the men.’ Another swirl of snow came down, thicker than before. Arnuwanda pulled his expensive-looking purple cloak tight around him.

  ‘Not the Turks,’ came a booming voice, immediately recognised by Kassu. ‘And not the Franks either.’

  There was a commotion among the outer layers of the guard. Zida, for it was he, strode boldly towards the group of dignitaries. He had taken off his cloak and had wrapped it around some kind of trophy that dripped deep-red blood as he walked.

  ‘Let him through,’ Himuili snapped. ‘Let him through, I say!’

  Zida, standing before his general, panted hard. Even the King, Kassu noticed, peered out of his linen tent to see what the fuss was about.

  ‘You’ve been running,’ Kassu murmured.

  ‘Faster than you, farm boy.’

  ‘A dozen lashes for your failure to prostrate,’ Himuili snapped.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Tell me what you have.’

  ‘The identity of our attackers.’ Zida held up his bloody bundle and pulled away the cloak — to reveal a human head, roughly severed at a neck from which blood still dripped, a face pale with a heavy moustache. Zida held it up by a hank of red hair. There was a collective gasp, a wave of shock that spread out through the crowd of onlookers. Even the hooded supplicants were distracted, even the King. Reflexively the guards clustered closer around their master.

  Kassu spotted his wife Henti, on the edge of the crowd, dressed in her nuntarriyashas finery, the robe shabby, faded, old, as everything was in New Hattusa these days, but still she looked radiant in his eyes. But she had come with her cousin Palla, the priest, who
probably had business with Angulli. Side by side the cousins looked very alike. Kassu saw that Henti held the priest’s arm firmly as she stared at the head.

  Himuili stepped forward. With his thumb, he opened one of the relic’s closed eyelids, to reveal an eye as blue as the sea in summer. ‘Rus, ’he growled.

  ‘In fact he found me before I found him,’ Zida admitted. ‘He crept up behind me. Lucky I got him first. Otherwise-’

  ‘Otherwise you would have died uselessly,’ Himuili murmured, gazing at the head. ‘And all that expensive training wasted. Careless, that. Make that two dozen lashes.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘But he is Rus. You established that?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He lived long enough to convince me. But they aren’t just Rus out there.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Scand.’

  Another gasp of dismay.

  ‘While he was begging for his life, he said it wasn’t his fault.’

  ‘What isn’t?’ Himuili snapped.

  ‘Their emigration.’

  ‘You mean their invasion. The assault they’re mounting.’

  ‘No, sir. Emigration is the word he used. His Hatti was quite good. Well, it’s no surprise. He said he’s served in the armies of My Sun, a mercenary regiment. He said, emigration,’ Zida repeated. ‘And he said they’ve been driven to it by the drought and now the ice in their own lands, and by the wave of Scand that came down from their distant lands further north yet. The Scand sacked Kiev, it seems, before they all came to an arrangement.’

  Himuili grunted. ‘That’s nice. An arrangement to attack us.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Arnuwanda paced, fists clenched, the muscles in his bare arms bulging. ‘The Rus! Do you know any history, good Himuili?’

  ‘Not as much as I should, sir,’ the general said drily.

  ‘Throughout its existence the empire of the Hatti has been besieged by enemies, within and without. Well, we fought off the Kaskans and the Arzawans, and the Greeks and the Persians and the Carthaginians and the Arabs and the Mongols, and we’re holding off the Turks — but now this! The Rus have been our allies. We gave them our god, they rejected Thor and Odin for Jesus! And now they turn on us.’