Iron Winter n-3

by Stephen Baxter

  It was a simple enough request, and not much of an imposition on his hospitality. Yet he hesitated, to her surprise. At length he said, ‘Of course.’ He snapped his fingers and gave Himil brisk instructions. ‘As soon as he has you settled he will deal with it.’

  She chose a building at random. As Jexami had promised it was like an independent house, with its own kitchen, bedrooms, a bathroom just off the vestibule — even its own water supply, from a toy fountain in the bathroom. A girl brought her buckets of water and fresh clothes.

  She stripped off her dirty travel garments, which the girl took away, then stepped into the bath. She knew little of Carthaginian customs. Perhaps this bathroom beside the door was meant as a gateway, between the grime of the outside world and the purity of the home. Whatever the symbolism it was a luxury beyond belief to sponge the hot water over her bare skin. There was even soap, which from its scent appeared to be of Northlander manufacture.

  Soon she was warmed through, and scented, and was pulling on the clean clothes the girl had brought her. The need for sleep seemed to wash over her in a flood. Yet she must not succumb, not until she had dealt with Jexami and his odd reticence, not until the children were safely with her.

  The man Himil was waiting for her when she emerged. He led her across the courtyard to a west-facing building dominated by a big, airy room. Here Jexami sat behind a desk covered with scrolls and slates, with a scribe to one hand, a clerk to the other scribbling numbers. When she came in, Jexami raised a hand, one finger in the air, without looking up.

  The instruction was unmistakable. She waited in the doorway, motionless. She had become used to fielding such slights from the Carthaginians. She had not expected this discourtesy from a Northlander — a friend, a relative. Yet it was so. She began to feel uneasy.

  At length he sat up straight, smiled at Rina, and clapped his hands to send the clerks away. He waved her to a seat before the desk. ‘Are you hungry? Would you like some fruit juice, wine, tea?’

  ‘A little wine would be welcome.’

  Himil was despatched to fetch it.

  There was a bundle on the desk, neatly wrapped in linen. He pushed it over to her. ‘Your dirty clothes — properly laundered, of course. Your baggage is outside. Oh, and the coins are in there too.’

  ‘The coins?’

  ‘The ones the carriage-man dropped in the dirt. Not worth much of course, but you may as well have them back!’ He laughed, as if he’d made a joke.

  She frowned. ‘I don’t understand. They are good Northlander scrip.’

  ‘“Good Northlander scrip.” Hmm. You know, since I settled here I’ve come to feel that we were always rather cut off from the flow of events up in Northland. Buried in our great big old Wall. We tend to think that the rest of the world can fall apart and it won’t affect us, don’t we? Rina, Northlander currency isn’t worth the metal it’s stamped from these days. After all, what’s it backed by? As soon as the cold started cutting the trading links, for the average Carthaginian, Northland has become — nothing. A fantasy country as remote as the moon.’

  ‘But you are prospering.’

  ‘I was lucky, or we had foresight. We saw that times were becoming hard, the years of flood in the north, the drought in the south. This was even before the cold came, you understand. We thought that Carthage, so much further south, at the centre of the world, would be more — secure. We thought ahead, Rina. As you did. It’s just that we made our judgements a little earlier.

  ‘We built up a business down here. I handle the import of certain kinds of soft fruit from across Greater Carthage into the city itself. Good sound trade. And we managed to convert most of our Northland currency into the local scrip, just before the crash came.’ He opened his hands to her. ‘Do you have any other assets with you? Land titles, other currencies-’

  ‘Nothing but holdings back home. In Northland.’

  ‘Which are worth nothing here, I’m afraid. Not even as guarantors of credit.’

  ‘No wonder that crook Barmocar asked for payment of the kind he did.’ And she told him about the Virgin’s bones.

  He laughed, as if delighted at the man’s ingenuity. ‘No wonder indeed. The rascal! But let me give you some advice. I wouldn’t make an enemy of Barmocar — not if you can help it. He’s a pretty influential man here. And, let’s face it, he’s the only member of the Tribunal of One Hundred and Four that you know. If I were you, I would cultivate that. So what will you do?’

  She was astonished at the question, and dismayed. I hoped to find myself under your protection and guidance. ‘I can work,’ she said stiffly. ‘I was an Annid. I have skills in direction, decisionmaking. Perhaps I could work as an adviser to the Council of Elders, or-’

  He waved that away. ‘Forget it. The Carthaginians loathe us Northlanders. Ingrained after centuries of our manipulating their destiny — that’s the way they see it.’

  ‘The role of Northland has always been to bring peace and collaboration between disparate peoples-’

  ‘And to get rich and powerful in the process. Forget it, as I said. There’s no way anybody would pay you for your advice. It’s best if you can persuade them to forget you’re a Northlander at all. Why do you think I dress in this repulsive purple? Is there anything you can do? I mean, a specific skill. Weaving, knitting, lace-making, cooking — by the mothers, anything, women do many jobs in Northland, brick-making, growstone-mixing!’

  ‘I am an Annid, from a family of Annids. I was ten years old before I had to lace up my own shoes.’

  She meant to make him laugh. He returned her look, stony-faced. ‘Your children, then. How old?’

  ‘Twins, just sixteen now. A boy and a girl. He, Nelo, is a promising artist, in the new deep-look style-’

  ‘How big is he?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Physically. Tall, short, thin, strong. .’

  ‘Shorter than me. Quite heavily built. Strong, if he puts his mind to it. But he has a gentle spirit which-’

  ‘He may find work on the labour details. The sewage system, for instance — constantly clogging up. And corpse details when the plagues come. Or the farms.’

  ‘No Northlander farms.’

  ‘They do here. Now, the girl?’

  ‘Alxa. She’s a bright, independent young woman. Stronger than me, I think. She has a facility for languages. She learned Carthaginian on the journey.’

  ‘A translator, then? That might have possibilities. Not useful for me, mind you, I have all the staff I need. Good-looking?’

  She flared. ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Because one role Northlander women are popular for here is as companions. Oh, don’t look at me so, Cousin. It doesn’t have to be — like that. But you can imagine how it gives a Carthaginian pleasure to order round a pretty, stuck-up Northlander, as they see it.’

  She suppressed her anger. ‘I am reluctant to rely on the labour of my children. They are too young.’

  ‘This isn’t Northland,’ he said firmly. ‘You are far from home. Nobody wants you here, frankly. The quicker you absorb that fact the better. And the sooner you learn that your preferences are irrelevant-’

  ‘Help us,’ she said bluntly.

  He sat back in his chair, sighed, and rubbed his face. ‘Rina, Rina. I have nothing for you.’

  ‘You have room. Food, warmth. At least let us stay for a few days. Until we can find work, get established somehow. I will pay you back.’

  He laughed. ‘What, with Northland scrip?’

  ‘With the money I, we, will earn when we find jobs.’

  ‘Impossible. Believe me, with the kind of jobs you’ll be taking you won’t be paying down loans. Look, Rina, I have my own position in society here to think of. If I start taking in strays and nestspills-’

  ‘You are a Northlander.’

  ‘Not any more,’ he said coldly. ‘And since you abandoned the place to come here, neither are you.’

  ‘As family, then.’ She forced herself
to say it. After all, she had begged before Barmocar. Was this any worse? ‘I’m desperate. For my children. Please. I have no other recourse.’

  He sighed again. ‘I always was too soft for my own good. Seven days. And then you’re gone. Now if you’ll excuse me. .’ He bent over his desk. ‘Send in my clerks on your way out. And shut the door.’

  A little later Alxa and Nelo, fetched from the city by Jexami’s servants, showed up at the estate.

  Alxa was wide-eyed. ‘By the mothers’ eyes, this is grand. It’s almost as good as the Wall. Does that tap work?’

  ‘Leave it alone,’ Rina snapped. ‘Touch as little as possible. Use as little as possible.’

  Nelo frowned. ‘Are we staying here?’

  ‘Yes. For now. Not for long. But we mustn’t impose. .’ Nelo’s face was bloodied, she saw, a smear from a cut over his eye, and a bruise was rising on his cheek. ‘Oh, my, what happened to you?’ She ran to get a bowl of water and a cloth.

  Alxa sat on a chair, testing its softness. ‘We got into a fight.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘We went for a walk. The city is teeming, Mother, full of people. We found a tavern. We thought we’d have some wine. But the landlord wouldn’t accept our Northlander scrip. And some men had heard us talking, I mean in our own tongue. They came over to give us a hard time. One of them said something-’

  Nelo said, ‘He called Alxa a whore. I know enough Carthaginian for that. He said Northlander women make the best whores, because they’re big and healthy. Like wild deer. I punched him.’

  ‘You did what?’

  Alxa said, ‘It was all I could do to get us out of there in one piece. Those narrow streets, we had to throw them off, we ran and ran!’ She laughed at the memory of it, swinging her legs. ‘Where’s our luggage? Is there any hot water? Can I ask for tea?’

  Rina held her son’s bruised forehead, peering into his eyes, looking for his spirit, seeing only blankness.

  35

  Rina spent six of Jexami’s seven days fruitlessly searching for work.

  Then, on the day before Jexami was to throw them out of his house, she swallowed more pride, took Jexami’s advice, and approached the only man of position she knew in the city: Barmocar. She used a veiled threat about exposing his possession of the Virgin’s relics to secure an appointment.

  She was taken into the city by one of Jexami’s carriage-men, and dropped at one of the big gates in the landward wall. By now she had learned her way around Carthage, a little. The city within the wall was a neat grid of streets. The building stock was constructed of the local sandstone, and brilliant-white paintwork was common, so that when the sun pushed through the thickening clouds the air seemed to fill with light. The city’s complicated history had left its mark too. Alongside the temples to Carthage’s ancient gods there were mosques and muezzin towers, relics of the days of Arabic conquest, and more recent churches to Jesus, symbols of Hatti influence, squat buildings whose faces were carved with representations of crossed palm leaves. Mostly, however, the lower city was crammed with residential properties, apartments heaped up three and four storeys high, and shops, workshops, taverns and inns open to the street. The people swarmed everywhere, vendors calling, children running, imposing men and women carrying scrolls and slates. She saw no signs of the dispossessed who had washed up against the external walls, but still the city was crowded. She imagined everybody with a place in the city bringing in relatives from the dying countryside, until there was no room left.

  Walking through this noisy, off-putting chaos, she never got lost, for her destination was the Byrsa, the tall hill that dominated the centre of the town, topped with its mighty statue of Hannibal of Latium, the city’s greatest hero, a sight you could see from anywhere in the lower city. She fixed on the statue and headed that way.

  At the foot of the Byrsa the street pattern changed. From here, broad avenues ran radially up to the peak of the citadel mound, with lateral crossways between them. She set off to climb a steeply sloping street, lined to either side with apartment blocks that could be several storeys high. She passed an open miller’s store where grain was ground on a turning wheel, and a jeweller’s where the craftsman laboured on fine pieces in full view of passers-by, and a temple, a fine building with a courtyard where two tremendous statues of men, or perhaps gods, loomed over an altar. At the temple she paused, breathing hard, and looked back over flat rooftops of the lower city. The steep road running down from this point was well maintained and clean, she saw. Vases and jars stood on many roofs, there to catch the rain, she imagined, in a city eager for every drop. From up here at least there was no sign of plague or famine. This was an intact, well-run, functioning city. Perhaps the storm which was engulfing the whole world had yet to break here. But it would break, she thought, remembering all she had seen on her journey. It would break.

  Barmocar’s office was right next door to the temple. He kept her waiting, of course, and met her in an anteroom, rather than take her into his office. ‘I thought you’d show up again. Helpless sorts like you always do.’ He sat at a desk, but she was forced to stand; he had a cup of water which he sipped, but offered her nothing. ‘Will this take long? I am, if you haven’t noticed, a busy man.’

  ‘Busy with what?’

  ‘The temple. Which has always been an important institution in this city, and I’m senior on its governing council.’ He eyed her. ‘The temple is the big building next door. With the statues of our gods Melqart and his son Tanit — I don’t suppose you know who they are, do you?’

  ‘I need your help,’ she said.

  He sat back, a grin on his face. He was a fleshy man, though even he had lost weight during the long journey from Northland. She had no idea if he intended to help her or not, but he was evidently planning to have some fun. ‘Jexami warned me you’d show up. How will you pay me this time? Do you have some other prophet’s bones hidden up your arse?’

  ‘I have nothing to give you. You know that. Nothing but my labour.’

  ‘Yes, but labour doing what? What could you possibly do for me that would justify a salary to keep you alive? Oh, and those kids of yours.’

  ‘I am highly intelligent, and educated. Surely you see that.’ She stopped herself; even in this desperate moment she had slipped into patronising him. ‘I can contribute in many ways to your enterprises. As a clerk, a scribe-’

  ‘By Melqart’s toenail, you don’t even speak the language, woman!’

  ‘I can learn.’

  ‘Learn? What, an old stick like you? Look, as far as I can see you have only one saleable asset, and that’s your son’s brute strength. Even the girl’s no beauty.’

  ‘My son is an artist.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘There must be something I could do. Work in your office. Your household. .’

  ‘You really are desperate, aren’t you?’

  ‘And you really are enjoying this,’ she couldn’t help but snap back.

  ‘Still the arrogant she-devil! I’ll tell you what — only because it amuses me — perhaps there is something. Working for my wife, not for me. She’s talked occasionally of needing a woman, somebody less stupid than the cattle that pass for servants these days.’

  She felt a spark of hope. ‘I can help with her correspondence, run the household-’

  ‘You’ll do what she tells you. Starting with cutting her toenails, I should think.’

  ‘I’ll take it — thank you-’

  ‘Wait.’ He held his hand up. ‘There’s a condition. We Carthaginians have a practice. Very ancient, predates the Muslim invaders, even the wars with the Latins I think. We call it molk. A gift for the gods, in times of great stress. The greatest gift one can give.’

  ‘Molk?’

  He leaned towards her. ‘The sacrifice of a child.’

  She stiffened. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Put the boy in the army — if they will have him.’

  ‘A Northlander, in a Carthagin
ian army? It would destroy him.’

  ‘No. Starving outside the city walls will destroy him.’ He picked up a stylus and tapped his teeth. ‘I have links with the army council. These are difficult times — you know that. We always need recruits. Those wretched Hatti are said to be marching in great numbers. The city will actually pay a small bounty if one brings in recruits. So, you see, you are worth something to me after all. And it would be good for the city. Good for the boy, probably, too, to get him away from you. There’s the deal, and it’s the best you’re going to get. Or,’ he said casually, ‘you could prostitute yourself, I suppose. You’d earn a little before they wore you out. What’s it to be, Rina the Annid?’

  Deep in a black corner of her heart she swore, not for the first time, that she would revenge herself on Barmocar, somehow, some day.

  36

  Pyxeas’ party descended from the land of ice and high meadows. Uzzia insisted they go slowly, for a traveller used to thin air could be as damaged by a sudden exposure to thicker air as easily as the other way around.

  Slowly was all they could manage in any case. Having left Jamil under his cairn on the high desert, there were only the three of them now, the three survivors of the shattered caravan. Or four if you counted the mule. Pyxeas, for the sake of his pride, insisted on walking a few steps every day, but it was only a few steps before he had to be loaded up onto the back of the patient mule. He had never seemed older, never frailer, and his energy in the thin air of the roof of the world was a memory.

  What was left of their baggage went on the mule’s back too, and on the backs of Uzzia and Avatak as they marched along. At least they were reasonably equipped. The robbery hadn’t been very efficient, and the panicking thieves had run off leaving a good deal of their own kit behind — clothes, blankets, water sacks, even boots. Avatak had been all for burning this stuff, but Uzzia persuaded him that if another man’s boots might save his life he should take them.