Qirum was smoldering. But to Milaqa’s relief he didn’t try to force his way past Muwa; he just stalked away.
When he had gone Muwa produced a clay tablet from a pouch at his belt, which he gave to Hunda. “A message from Kilushepa. She says you are to go to this address. You’ll understand what to do when you get there.”
Hunda looked as confused as Qirum had, but he obeyed, and slipped away.
Muwa beckoned. “The rest of you, follow me.”
And he led them into the citadel of the Hatti king.
Within the citadel’s walls they passed through wide courts lined with columns, each with its own guarded gateways. The citadel was a jumble of distinct buildings, and yet there was a cohesion to the design, Milaqa thought, all these grand structures serving a single purpose, unified by courtyards and colonnades. Here it was not like the rest of the city. The courtyards were swept clean, the buildings well maintained, there was no crush, there were no hungry children with their palms out—indeed nobody they saw, finely dressed and evidently busy, looked hungry at all.
They were brought to a house of stone and mud brick that looked imposing to Milaqa, but she could see it was dwarfed by the grander buildings on the very top of this hill, the highest ground of all, where the King in his apartments could view his capital city at his leisure. Inside this house was a single vast room, the walls adorned with tapestries and filmy curtains. Soldiers, bodyguards, lined the walls of the room, their faces blank, their weapons visible.
And Kilushepa was already there, waiting patiently. In full Hattusa finery at last, she looked impossibly glamorous to Milaqa, with her hair piled high and her figure draped in a robe of soft, brightly colored fabric; her eyes were lined by kohl, her lips stained a deep plum red. Milaqa thought it was astonishing how far she had risen since her lowest moment, when Qirum had rescued her from a column of booty people, a whore of her own soldiers. And if she still felt begrimed inside, and Milaqa understood the deep Hatti taboo about cleanliness, she showed no sign of it.
Muwa guided the Northlanders in, and settled them on benches on one side of the room. It was only when the Northlanders had taken their places, and after serving children had come among them with plates of delicate foodstuffs and cups of wine, that the members of the panku arrived. Of course, Milaqa thought, they would not be kept waiting by mere foreigners. There were a dozen of them, nine men and three women. They all wore clothes at least as gorgeous as Kilushepa’s; all wore their hair elaborately plaited or braided, and the men were clean shaven. They were so heavily coated with creams and other cosmetics that Milaqa could not tell how old any of them were. And, unlike Kilushepa, they were all festooned with jewelry, pendants around their necks, rings on their fingers, bangles on their wrists and ankles, gorgeous wares from Crete and Egypt, and they tinkled and clattered as they moved.
None of them deigned to so much as glance at the Northlanders. They took their places on benches opposite, and pecked at the foodstuffs brought before them, chatting in low tones to each other.
Muwa hastily told them about Hatti politics. “The panku is a council called for specific purposes—to consider the rights and wrongs of a particular issue, and to advise the King. You see, it doesn’t have a formal constitution. And it doesn’t have a fixed membership. Anybody can serve—the palace servants, the bodyguards, the Men of the Golden Spear, the Captains of the Thousand—even cooks, heralds, stable boys. Anybody who has the King’s ear at a particular time, or who just happens to be around when the panku is called.”
“It sounds a mess,” said Teel. “Our Annids are much more proper about deliberations and decision making.”
“Well, this is our way,” Kilushepa said. “This is a rather ancient institution, fallen by the wayside in recent times, but revived by the current King who likes its flexibility in these times of change and stress. You shouldn’t underestimate its power. There have been times when the panku has even challenged the King, over the conduct of a war for example. So don’t think that if it goes badly for us at the panku we can appeal to the King. This is where we need to make your case well, and win it.” She glanced at the members of the panku. “I can see, however, that the crone who calls herself the current Tawananna has not dared to show her face. The most important people here are the two men in the center. The one on the right is Nuwanza. My second cousin, and the man who has supported me so far in my quest for rehabilitation. The other is called Tushratta. He is a closer relative of the king—ours is a complicated family—and one of his senior advisers. The rest are not important, nobodies come to show their pretty faces, and have a bit of fun, and maybe to make a name for themselves. I, by the way, will do the talking.”
Noli nodded silent agreement.
But Teel was tense. “If we leave without the secrets of the iron—”
Kilushepa held up a silencing finger. “You will get what you want—and I will get what I want—although things might not work out quite the way you expect.”
Now Nuwanza, Kilushepa’s cousin, rose to his feet. The hubbub of conversation among the panku members died away.
Nuwanza smiled at Kilushepa, and extended outstretched arms to the Northlanders. He was a portly man of about forty, and he struck Milaqa as sane, competent. “All children of the little mothers of sea, sky and earth are always welcome here in our magnificent capital, which bathes in the light of My Sun, our King. And we are aware that you have journeyed far and have braved many perils to bring us your gifts. Please, cousin—proceed.”
So Kilushepa began. Sitting calmly, her voice carrying through the large room, she outlined again the journey they had undertaken—and the promise of potatoes and maize.
She showed a sample seed potato from the sacks. “It will grow where no other useful crop survives, in the uplands, in poor soil, anywhere, given water. A given field will produce more raw food in the form of potatoes than any other crop. Potatoes can even be grown between grain crops, thus multiplying the value of a piece of cultivated land. As a root, the crop is difficult to steal, for it remains underground until it is dug up, and few raiding armies will pause to do that …”
Milaqa marveled as she spoke on, making a humble root crop seem almost glamorous. But so it was, she supposed, if your concern was the destiny of an empire, and how it was to be fed.
“Finally—one can survive on nothing but this root, and cow’s milk … I am sure you can see how this will transform the potential of our farmland, and all our fortunes.” Kilushepa handed the root to Nuwanza.
“Such a humble thing,” Nuwanza said, turning the potato over in his hands. “Yet each mouthful of food I put into my mouth is a humble thing.” He glanced at the few sacks. “You cannot feed a city of fifty thousand on a handful of these roots, no matter how vigorously they grow, Queen.”
“No. It will take years—crop after crop must be planted, and protected, and harvested, and the seed dug in again. Nuwanza, what we must do, you and I and our allies in the palace, is to work for stability—frankly, to hold the empire together for the three or four or five years it will take for these new crops to start producing on a massive scale. With these crops, these gifts from the gods, as soon as the sky clears, the famine will be banished and a new generation will grow up fat and healthy. And then new Hatti armies will march out to subdue the rebellious dependencies, and once more impose the will of My Sun the King on surrounding nations.
“But without this gift—and let us speak honestly, councillors, for if we do not acknowledge the magnitude of our debt we cannot begin to repay it—without it our empire might crumble. Hattusa itself might fall. Just as, indeed, we might already have fallen if not for the gift of the Northlanders’ mash, which filled the bellies of our troops when we had nothing else to give them.”
Tushratta leaned forward grandly. He was a thin, older, more sinister-looking man than Nuwanza, Milaqa thought. “I do not deny the magnitude of your achievement in bringing us this treasure, fair Kilushepa. And this from a position of des
olation, of false banishment.”
Milaqa saw Kilushepa sit straighter at his use of that word “false,” an indication of how far her rehabilitation had already come.
“But,” went on Tushratta, “you ask too much in return. We cannot give up our Master of the Iron! For centuries our gifts of iron have awed the other Great Kings, of Egypt and Assyria … How can you expect us to sacrifice that?”
Then followed a long and complicated sequence of negotiations, which Milaqa found hard to follow. Kilushepa argued that the Northlanders lived far away, and would pledge not to divulge the secret of iron making to any of the Hatti’s local rivals. And they wanted the iron only for tools and weapons, not for gifts; they would not try to compete with the Hatti kings on that level. Noli confirmed this, speaking quietly. The Hatti seemed to think war making was a rather vulgar and wasteful use of such a precious substance. “Like stopping up your enemy’s mouth with gold,” said Tushratta.
But the Master of the Iron had been in his post since the King himself was a small boy. How could such a venerable gentleman be taken away? Perhaps the Northlanders would be willing to leave an apprentice or two to learn the craft at the feet of the Master himself, and then take the secrets of the process home. But that could take years; the Northlanders insisted they needed the iron now.
The argument seemed to be stuck in stalemate.
Then Kilushepa rather grandly stood—the first time she had been on her feet in the whole session, Milaqa noted. “I have the solution,” she announced. “It has just struck me—of course—you are right, good Tushratta, it is unreasonable to expect the King to give up his Master of the Iron. But the Master has an apprentice, and he seems an able lad, from what I’ve heard. I doubt if the King even knows he exists. And if he were to leave, no harm would be done to the iron-making tradition here, for the Master would soon find another assistant to train up.” She turned to the Northlanders. “Annid Noli—would you consider this?”
Teel grinned, and murmured to Milaqa. “Now we see Kilushepa’s tactics. We told her about the apprentice we wanted. Did you imagine the queen would ask for him from the beginning? No, for it would never have been granted. But by arguing so hard for the Master, Kilushepa makes the loss of the apprentice seem a trivial price to pay.”
Advised by Teel, Noli agreed to the deal.
But Milaqa was shocked when the panku, led by Tushratta, again refused, with bland smiles and apologies. Even the apprentice was too precious to be given up.
Suddenly Teel’s smugness was gone; he was furious. He growled in their own tongue, “I’m starting to think these slimy creatures never meant to give us anything at all. This isn’t negotiation, not bargaining—this is robbery!”
But Kilushepa, as calm as ever, continued to press her case. She at least did not seem downcast.
Then a runner summoned Muwa. He went to the chamber door. When he returned, he looked grave. “Members of the council—honored guests—I am afraid your discussion is moot. For Zidanza the apprentice won’t be going anywhere.” He stood aside.
Hunda walked in, heavily bloodstained. He bore a body, limp—a tall man, but lightly built, and dressed in a scarred leather apron. He put the body on the floor. The stink of blood was shocking in these fragrant surroundings.
Kilushepa shrieked. Coming from such a calm woman, the sudden noise was doubly shocking. “Zidanza! Dead!” She rushed to the body, and pulled back his apron. The hilt of a dagger protruded from the lower belly, which was a torn, bloody mass. Kilushepa grabbed the knife and hauled it out of the body, and the courtiers gasped and turned away.
And while everybody else was distracted by Kilushepa’s performance, Milaqa stared at the body. At the young man’s face. At his chin.
Hunda said, “The body was found not far from the citadel walls. He had been raped, I am sorry to say. There is bruising around his mouth, his thighs. Abused, raped, then killed.”
Kilushepa held the knife resting on her palms, and showed it to Muwa, Noli, Teel, Milaqa. “Look at this! Do you know whose this is? Do you?”
“It is the Trojan’s,” Teel said. “There is no doubt.”
Hunda nodded, as if reluctant to admit it. “But none saw Qirum do this.”
Kilushepa pointed dramatically at Muwa. “But you heard him, Chief of Bodyguards. You were there in my apartment when I goaded him to make his threats. He said he would do anything he could to advance his own ambitions against the King. How better than to slaughter this apprentice, and then his Master of the Iron—for surely he will be the next victim? And the sexual frenzy that has been visited on the boy—is this not some kind of twisted revenge for Qirum’s past, when in the ruins of Troy he was forced to prostitute his own young body to survive?”
Muwa looked grim. “I’m afraid you are right, madam.” He turned to his men. “Send the orders. Find this Trojan. Kill him if you have to. Make sure he gets nowhere near the Master of the Iron.”
The meeting of the panku began to break up. The council members flooded out into the street, looking back with horror at the corpse, or with disdain, Milaqa thought, as if the boy were somehow ill-mannered to be bloody and dead in such surroundings.
Over the hubbub, Nuwanza called across to the Northlanders, “I am afraid the Chief of Bodyguards was right. Our discussion has no further purpose; clearly we cannot give you what you want. Let us meet again tomorrow and consider some other recompense. You will leave Hattusa laden with treasures for the service you have performed for the King, believe me.” He spread his hands. “But not the iron you sought.”
Kilushepa nodded, and Teel bowed gracefully, and thanked him.
Milaqa plucked Teel’s sleeve, and whispered urgently in her own tongue, “That’s not Zidanza.”
“Hush,” he said mildly.
“But it isn’t! Zidanza has a mole on his chin. I noticed it; it looked like a burn, but wasn’t. This man, whoever he is, has no mole.”
“Well, he wouldn’t, would he?”
“What?”
“He’s not the apprentice.”
She was utterly confused. “Then who is he?”
“That doesn’t matter, does it? I see it now. The real Zidanza is in hiding. Soon we will smuggle him out of the city, and we will bring him back to Northland.
“What a strategist the woman is! Kilushepa knew the panku would not give up the Master, or even his apprentice. But she wanted to fulfill the agreement she made with us; she sees the value of our friendship in the long term, where these fools cannot. So she arranged for this—subterfuge. We get the apprentice. They believe he’s dead, and will not miss him. In the meantime they have their Master, who will soon train another junior, once they stir him from his bed. And all the time the councillors think that Kilushepa has won them the secret of our foods for nothing! What a victory she has won.”
“This is insane,” Milaqa said. “And what of Qirum? Did he kill this stranger?”
“Oh, of course not. Why would he?”
“Then who did?”
“That doesn’t matter either, does it?”
“But why would Kilushepa falsely accuse Qirum? He saved her life—he was her lover.”
“She’s said it herself. He was a stepping stone. Useful to her once, but he had become an irritant. Evidently she used this opportunity to resolve that problem too.”
Anger burned; all she could think of was Qirum. “Is that how you see people too, Uncle? As problems to be solved?”
“This is how the world works, Milaqa. And if you want to be a Crow you need to learn to think more like Kilushepa. What a woman!”
She turned on her heel, leaving him behind.
At the door the sergeant was still waiting, his tunic stained by the blood of the stranger.
“Please—Hunda …”
“Yes?”
“Get me out of here. Out of the citadel. Now.”
He hesitated for one heartbeat. Then he led her out into streets bubbling with agitation and rumor after the exit of the
panku members. People flinched back from the bloodstained soldier. Hunda led Milaqa toward the gate of the citadel, but when she got the chance she turned a corner faster than he did, and disappeared from his sight. She felt tremendously guilty; Hunda was a good man, and today he was obviously bewildered by the events he was suddenly caught up in, and here she was using him unscrupulously. But she had to get to the gate before the palace bodyguards.
When she arrived at the gate Qirum was still standing there, where she had last seen him. For once, it seemed, his own sense of self-preservation had deserted him. And, she noticed, there was no blood on him, no sign of a desperate struggle with an iron maker. He asked, “How did it go? Did my Kilushepa—”
“Your Kilushepa betrayed you. Run, Qirum.”
His face clouded. “She would not.”
“She claims you killed a man. An iron maker.”
“She would not—I did not!”
“Where is your dagger?”
He checked his belt. He drew a dagger, but it was not his—a clumsier design, good enough to mimic his own weapon’s weight and size. “She took it when I slept. After our love. She betrayed me. And the Northlanders? That snake, Teel—”
“He knew nothing of it. But now the deed is done, he relishes it—”
“I am betrayed by all but you, Milaqa.”
“Run. Hide. Get out of the city. You have only heartbeats before they come for you.”
He hesitated. Then he kissed her, once, on the cheek, just as he had on the first day they had met. “I won’t forget this.”
There was shouting behind her, from the citadel. She glanced back, saw men running, swords drawn—Hunda coming, yelling at her.
When she looked again, Qirum was gone.
And much later, when she got back to Hunda’s home—and she found Deri there, cradling a weeping, bloodstained Tibo—she discovered who it was who had killed the innocent man, whose rage and inchoate desire for revenge had been unleashed in so useful a fashion. They began to talk urgently about how to get the boy out of Hattusa before he suffered the dread judgment of a Hatti court.
Bronze Summer : The Northland Trilogy (9781101615416) Page 25
