He was awake.
He was alive.
He was lying on his back. He opened his eyes cautiously. He saw blue sky, the deep blue of morning. There was the moon, still full, still high though it was daylight. The eclipse must be over. He had missed the moment of last shadow. Pyxeas would be furious. He tried to rise — but pain burst in his head, and he cried out. He managed to reach a sitting position, though the world spun around him.
‘Take it easy.’ Somebody before him, a low, gentle voice. Uzzia. ‘Drink this.’
His vision seemed to pulse, as if his blood was pressing at his eyes. But he saw the mug before him, the glistening water. He took it, managed to lift it to his lips, drank. ‘What happened?’
‘Well, you missed all the fun. Some protector you are. You didn’t even see the rock that knocked you down, did you? Good shot, actually.’
‘One of the men?’
‘No. A trader. That fellow Ogul. Never did trust him. At the moment of eclipse the locals went crazy. Ogul and his buddy took the chance to get rid of us, I think, and get their hands on our stuff. Once you were down they rushed us, the traders and the bearers.’
He considered that. ‘Yet I’m alive.’
‘True enough.’
‘The scholar?’
‘Jamil saved him. Fought like a lion — Jamil, that is. Killed two of them before they overwhelmed him.’
Avatak had to work through this news step by step. ‘He’s dead. Jamil is dead.’
‘Yes. But he saved Pyxeas. Once Jamil was down they turned on me. I got rid of one — Ogul, actually, and good riddance — and I scared off the rest.’
‘How?’
‘I threw the oracle at them. It bounced off a fellow’s hard head and smashed to pieces.’
Avatak winced. ‘Pyxeas won’t like that.’
‘I’ll let you take the blame. The local men thought the god was broken, or something, and ran off for the horses. Pausing only to grab most of our goods.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘More or less.’
‘So we’ve lost Jamil. And the luggage?’
‘They took the blankets, clothing, trade goods, food, water, medicines. We still have the paper bundles, Pyxeas’ learning. So, we lost nothing important.’
Avatak actually laughed, but the pain in his head burst anew. ‘And no horses.’
‘No. But. .’
Avatak heard a soft ripping sound. He turned and saw the mule cropping patiently, as if unaware of the devastation of the night.
‘They tried to take that mule. Kicked one of them so hard I’ll swear I heard a bone snap.’
Avatak laughed again. ‘So what now?’
‘Now we fix you up. We’ll put poor Jamil under a cairn.’
‘It will have to be a big cairn.’
‘He would have smiled to hear you say that. Then we’ll gather up what we’ve got left.’
‘And then what?’
‘And then on to Cathay,’ Pyxeas said. The scholar was sitting up, rubbing his head. ‘After all, there’s still a world to save. Well, don’t just sit there, boy, help me up!’
33
Barmocar’s flotilla at last approached Carthage.
The passengers crowded on deck. The Carthaginians chattered excitedly, understandably glad to be coming home at last. The rest were more apprehensive, Rina observed, wondering what kind of welcome waited for them in this formidable city.
From the ocean Rina could see little more than the blank face of a tremendous wall rising to seal off the shore, brilliant white in the watery sun. Behind the wall were low hills encrusted with stone buildings. From one tall mound rose a slim pillar bearing the statue of a man, or a god, evidently a huge monument to be visible from so far away. The sea before this walled shore was crowded with shipping; this close to land most of the ships had their sails trimmed, and she could see oars working along the length of their hulls.
The day was warm, though the sky was veiled by thin, misty cloud that softened the sunlight. This was the coast of Africa, she reminded herself. She had no idea what a ‘normal’ summer day here should feel like.
Pushing her windblown hair out of her face, Alxa pointed. ‘I think that pillar is at the top of the Byrsa, the old citadel. And the hero on the top is Hannibal, son of Hamilcar, conqueror of Latium and saviour of Carthage.’
Nelo was silent, withdrawn, adding cramped little drawings to the corners of his overfull sketchbook. Alxa was more alive, Rina thought. Interested, engaged. ‘How do you know so much, child?’
‘Because while you spent the journey sulking in our cabin, and my brother here has been scribbling, scribbling, I’ve been talking to people. Especially the Carthaginians. Finding out stuff. Learning the language. Don’t you think it’s a good idea, if we’re going to spend the rest of our lives here?’
Of course it was. The problem for Rina was that she had lived all her life in a stratum of Northland society where people had been expected to learn her language, not the other way around.
Nelo just stared at the city blankly. ‘It is a great stone tomb,’ he said. ‘Dead, where Northland was alive. It will swallow us up like a sarcophagus.’
Rina said, ‘We will find a way. You’ll see.’ On impulse she took his hand.
He looked at her, surprised. She wasn’t the kind of mother to make such gestures. He withdrew, gently, and there was an awkward silence.
Alxa just laughed and turned away. The boat sailed on.
They came to the entrance of the harbour. This close the white facade of the sea walls was dazzling, but Rina noticed a few blackened scars, the relics of the war and banditry that blighted the age. The walls’ smooth surface looked like grow- stone: Northland engineering, probably, Etxelur growstone laid over an older core; everybody knew that Northlanders mixed the best growstone in the world, and much revenue had been earned for the country by hiring out its expertise for such projects. The harbour mouth, a break in the walls, was guarded by a gigantic chain of which only a few links showed above the surface, ready to be pulled up to block the way. The chain was fixed to elaborate structures on which stood lighthouses, tremendously tall, with polished mirrors like staring eyes.
The harbour, once they entered it, was huge, overwhelming, like an inland sea lined by wharfs and jetties and warehouses and enclosed by the towering walls. The ships on the water were dwarfed, toys in a pond. At the far end, a gap in the walls led to yet another harbour, perhaps even greater than this one, lined by a kind of circular terrace, two or three storeys tall, topped by shining red tiles.
‘That one beyond is the military harbour,’ Alxa murmured. ‘One of the wonders of the world. So the Carthaginians say.’
Barmocar’s flotilla pulled up at jetties on the left-hand side of the outer commercial harbour. Rina saw elements of design in the utilitarian architecture, a touch of style, a portico supported by slim columns that ran the entire length of the waterfront. As Barmocar’s boat reached a jetty an official approached, bearing a slate. He wore a long black robe and a mask over his mouth. Barmocar disembarked and greeted the official with a smile and a formalised embrace.
‘Plague,’ Rina said. ‘They’re worried about plague, even here.’
Alxa, hanging over the rail, struggled to hear what Barmocar was saying. ‘The man wants us to wait on the ships. We may have to stand off at sea. For seven days! That can’t be right.’
Nelo said, ‘They want to wait and see if we’re infected with anything. It’s sensible if you’re trying to protect a city.’
Another seven days on the ship! After the trials of the journey, that would finish her off, Rina thought.
But Barmocar and the man were smiling, and Rina saw Barmocar hand the official a small pouch of purple cloth.
Alxa raised her eyebrows at her mother. ‘Well, we won’t be held up.’
Rina smiled. ‘You’re getting terribly cynical for one so young.’
‘That’s stupid,’ Nelo said, visibly unhappy. ‘That man’s sup
posed to protect the city from disease! What use is he if he’s just going to let through anybody who waves a bit of money?’
Rina was an Annid; she had plenty of practical experience of petty corruption. ‘Nelo, don’t worry. It’s just a rule being bent. If they were seriously concerned about plague here that man wouldn’t be doing what he’s doing. He’d be thinking about his own family, his own safety — he probably wouldn’t let us land at all. Now come on, let’s get our stuff together before we’re thrown off the boat. .’
The quayside was a jumble of passengers and their goods, grimy, weary, eager to get this last leg of their journey over with. The word had evidently got around that this was a boatload of the rich, and would-be porters came flocking, hungry for work, a look Rina had come to recognise.
Barmocar and his wife stood by, chatting to a dock official and his ship’s captain, while their mountain of luggage was loaded onto carts under the blustering supervision of Mago. Some of the Carthaginians waited while messengers fetched family or servants from the city; others had the dock workers call for carriages. They seemed surprised at how few horse-drawn carriages came in response. But there were plenty of two-wheeled contraptions with weary-looking men in harness — slaves, perhaps, or nestspills, doing the work of horses.
Alxa was growing agitated. ‘Mother? Everybody is making arrangements. What about us? What are we to do?’
‘We,’ Rina said coldly, ‘are in the hands of Barmocar, our host. We just wait.’
‘But he’s not paying us any attention. He’s not even looking at us.’
‘Wait, child.’
They did wait, silent and ignored, until at last the business was done, the carts were loaded. And Barmocar was helped up into the lead carriage.
Rina dropped her bundles, and with all the dignity and command she could muster she strode forward to face the Carthaginian. Even now he didn’t look down at her from his perch on the cart. ‘Barmocar!’
The man laughed, and gave a curt order to drive on. But Rina grabbed the traces of the lead horse. He looked down at her. ‘Why do you stand in my way?’
Rina summoned Alxa. ‘Repeat what I say in Carthaginian. Say that we had an arrangement, he and I. A business deal.’ They were attracting a small but curious crowd, of Barmocar’s other passengers, a few passers-by. ‘No, don’t whisper it, child. Speak it boldly. Put on a show. I want these others to hear. This man is a Carthaginian. A trader in a city of traders. Is he a man who reneges on deals honourably made? And are there followers of Jesus here? Any Hatti? Shall we discuss why a Carthaginian trader should wish to acquire the bones of-’
‘Enough.’ Barmocar leaned out of his carriage and hissed at her. ‘The deal was to bring you to Carthage, and that I’ve done.’
‘No. The deal was that you should get us established in Carthage. A place to live, work-’
He laughed. ‘What work? What use is a Northlander Annid here?’
Anterastilis, his wife, touched Barmocar’s arm, and whispered something.
Alxa frowned. ‘I can’t quite hear. I think she’s saying you’re not worth the scandal. “Send her to. . ” Jexami? “He might help.”’
‘Jexami?’ Rina had once known a Jexami, cousin of Ywa. ‘You’re sure that was the name?’
‘Jexami,’ repeated Barmocar, leaning from his carriage. ‘You heard right. Bought property here years ago. Your countryman. Maybe he’ll have something for you. I’ll have a carriage-man take you there. Would that fulfil our “contract”? Now, if you’ll let go of my horse-’
She stepped back. The driver flicked a rein, and the carriage rolled away, followed by carts bearing the rest of Barmocar’s baggage. The rest of the passengers dispersed too. Rina and her children were left standing, with their pathetic bits of luggage at their feet.
Only one man remained, a tall but scrawny man with big, powerful hands, standing by a two-wheeled cart.
Rina sighed. ‘All right. Look, I’ll take the luggage. I’ll get out to Jexami as fast as possible and get things sorted out. I’m sure he’ll put us up. Come back here at nightfall. I’ll send this man to collect you if I can’t make it back. In the meantime stay out of trouble.’
‘We’re not children,’ Alxa said.
Rina stepped closer to her. ‘Look after your brother.’
Alxa glanced at Nelo with impatience, then resignation. ‘Just don’t forget about us when you start in on Jexami’s mead, all right?’
Rina kissed her on the cheek, hugged her son, picked up the rough bags and walked determinedly to the waiting carriage-man and his cart.
34
The carriage-man’s cart jolted with every step of his jogging pace, and the bench on which she sat was hard as growstone. Yet she had suffered a lot worse during her long journey from Etxelur, her backside was probably tough as leather by now, and she endured.
Beyond the city wall the North African countryside opened up. They were heading west, towards the setting sun. The road ran dead straight across the plain, and was well built, properly drained — a good road, but there was no sign of an iron rail, and Rina coldly relished that fact. A sandy dust covered the roadway, just like the dust that had blown over the Carthaginian boat from the dried-up plains of Ibera.
Beside the road stood handsome properties, estates of well-constructed stone buildings clustered in rectangular plots. The estates were surrounded by carefully defined fields, and Rina recognised vines, olives, fruit trees. This hinterland, so close to this major route into town, must once have been a lush and prosperous place to live. But the vines looked withered, the fruit trees barren, and the few animals, sheep and cattle, cropped desultorily at sparse, yellow grass. There were some hastily heaped-up stone barriers, with threatening signs hand-painted in the angular local script. On the road there wasn’t much traffic — carts laden with produce heading back towards the city, a few carts heading out. And there was a thin trickle of nestspills, all heading to the city, all on foot. It was a sight Rina had become inured to in Northland. It was something of a shock to have come to the other end of the world to see the same thing.
Jexami’s property turned out to be a particularly large and well-built group of buildings set back from the road. In scraps of shade, servants watered orange trees. As Rina clambered down, the carriage-man stood by, eyes bright in a dusty face, waiting to be paid. He was thin, evidently underfed, dressed in dusty rags.
‘Typical of that crook Barmocar not to pay you in advance,’ she murmured in her own tongue. She switched to Greek. ‘Thank you. . I don’t know your tongue, I am sorry.’ She dug her purse from a fold in her robe and withdrew Northlander scrip. ‘Is this enough? I’m sure you can convert this to your own currency in the counting houses. .’
He took the handful of coins, stared at them, then tried to hand them back, speaking in his own tongue.
She closed his fingers over the coins. ‘This is your fee. If it’s not enough-’
He grew angry. He threw the coins on the ground and held out his empty hand, all but shouting.
‘I’ll take care of it.’ The voice was cultured Etxelur. A burly, expensively dressed man came walking quietly from an opened gate, a servant at his side. Rina, with relief, recognised him: it was indeed the Jexami she remembered, cousin to Ywa Annid of Annids, on Ywa’s father’s side, and so a remote cousin of Rina too. He snapped out questions to the carriage-man and gestured to his servant. Pay him. Jexami was shorter than Rina and a little younger, with thinning black hair cropped in the local style, and he wore a purple tunic and tight-cut trousers. He looked like a Carthaginian. Even his accent, when he spoke the language, sounded authentic to her. She would not have recognised the man if he had not spoken to her.
She bowed in the formal Etxelur style, ignoring her own grubbiness, and the scattering of coins at her feet. ‘Cousin Jexami. Thank you for meeting me.’
‘Barmocar sent a runner to warn me you were coming.’ He grinned. ‘Barmocar! That old rascal. How is he? Haven’t seen him for
too long. Come in, come in, I have no manners left, it seems.’ He led her through the gate. The man collected her bundles from the road. ‘You look exhausted, if you don’t mind my saying it. Things have become so difficult, haven’t they?’
The gate clanged shut behind them. The estate was a series of independent buildings set around a central courtyard. The walls were of stone, with big upright slabs infilled with rubble and neatly finished. In the courtyard a fountain ran, feeding miniature orange trees in pots. The servant stood by.
‘Rather impressive, isn’t it?’ Jexami said, as they crossed the courtyard. ‘Originally built by an Arabic prince, in the brief interval when this country was overrun by that sort, long ago. They left behind some exquisite architecture. This place is much transformed in the centuries since, but we’ve restored the hydraulic system. Do you know, this fountain hasn’t run dry once, despite the drought. Mind you the air’s so arid the oranges haven’t flourished even so.’
She felt bewildered, even oddly dizzy. She found herself staring at the little orange trees. ‘Jexami, I’ve come to you because-’
‘First I must show you some hospitality,’ he said smoothly, deflecting her. ‘Himil — come here.’ The servant hurried over, and Jexami gave him brisk instructions. Then he led Rina into the courtyard. ‘Of course dear Ywa is still in Etxelur, is she not? It’s some time since she wrote.’
Rina frowned. Was he really so out of touch as he seemed? ‘Things are difficult at home. Ywa is under a lot of pressure.’
‘Well, of course she is. I’ve urged her many times to do what you’ve done, to pack her bag and come here. To fly south for the winter, like a swallow! Look, I insist you relax before we talk. Any of these houses may suit. They all have their own baths, you know, and most have their own bread ovens! For this is the Carthaginian way. You must wash, change — my wife has plenty of old clothes, I’ll send a girl to help you. Perhaps you’d like to sleep?’
She felt that if she got to a soft bed she could sleep through a full day. But she must not, not yet. She told Jexami of her children. ‘Perhaps you could send for them? I was going to send back that oaf of a carriage-man.’
Iron Winter n-3 Page 18
