Soaked by seawater, his tunic drenched in blood, Adhao had to be carried in by Tibo and the other men. He was badly wounded, a deep gouge in his belly. A priest hovered at his side, helplessly pressing moss into the wound as he was carried.
Muwa, watching, murmured to his queen, ‘That’s the mark of a sea pike.’
Raka frowned at Milaqa’s translation. ‘A what?’
‘A spear. Fifteen paces long. Bound at the joints with iron bands … A weapon, lady, used when one ship attacks another. As the Greek galleys have for centuries assaulted ships along our own coasts.’
‘It’s true,’ Adhao said, gasping, his Kirike’s Land accent thick. ‘They came at us, big ships with painted eyes. We could not fight back. We did not know how. All of us died – all save me, and they did this to me before dumping me in the harbour on the Wall. They said I was to serve as a message.’
Deri sucked his teeth. ‘Then they have found a way to get their ships to the seaward face of the Wall. They must have sailed all the way around Albia, to the west and north. Quite a feat, for sailors from the gentle waters of the Middle Sea.’
Raka asked, ‘What does this mean?’
Kilushepa said, ‘It means Qirum has worked out how reliant you have become on supplies from the northern sea. And it means that he has found a way to cut off that supply, or impede it at least, by blockading it with his ships.’
Noli drew herself to her full height. ‘And do you still say we should do nothing, Tawananna?’
‘Yes,’ Kilushepa said sharply. ‘Even with this setback, you have reserves. Perhaps we can find a way to fight back. Greek galleys on your northern seas must be vulnerable. Yes, I still counsel patience.’
But Noli pointed at poor Adhao, who writhed with the pain as the priest tried to treat him. ‘Patience, until Qirum does to all of us what he has done to this man? Patience, while that monster from the barbaric east raises generation after generation of his cattle-folk warriors, right here in Northland? Patience, until the Wall itself crumbles and we are all lost, and our land, and even the memory of it, erased by the sea? I will not have it.’ She glared around at the Annids. ‘Will you? And you, and you?’
She was greeted by a swelling growl of approval.
And, before long, the decision became clear. Northland would fight.
As the meeting broke up Milaqa murmured to Teel, ‘It feels like everything’s changed.’
‘Yes,’ he said grimly. ‘Just as Qirum, or his wily basileis, probably intended when they sent us this “message”. For an open fight will suit them better than it suits us, believe me.
‘Maybe this day was inevitable, however. There’s much they couldn’t talk about in an open session. Such as the rebellion of the Districts, or the threat of it. Qirum, wily little brute that he is, has been making moon eyes at the leaders in the Market, the Manufactory – even the Scambles, it’s said. Not everybody in this great linear city of ours cares much for the Annids, who tax remotely and hand down their laws, and ask for young men and women to come lie down and die for Etxelur, while scarcely ever bothering to show a face beyond the Scambles. If even a few Districts broke away and threw in their lot with him—’
‘Once Qirum was inside the Wall—’
‘All would be lost. So maybe we have to act now while we still can. And – ah, Deri.’ He touched his brother’s arm as he passed.
Deri paused and looked at him. ‘Any bright ideas?’ he asked blackly.
The moment was tense. Though they had always tried to keep it from her, Milaqa had often glimpsed the rivalry between them, these brothers so different, the sturdy fisherman, the wily politician.
Teel sighed. ‘I don’t want this any more than you do. But if we must fight, let us fight to win. Let’s put our heads together, brother, for once. We must speed up the training for a start. Use more Hatti veterans to train more Northlanders. And we should call in favours, from Albia, Gaira, the World River.’
Deri nodded. ‘And we must put pressure on the iron-makers. What a bunch of fusspots they are! We must make them understand that a dozen flawed arrowheads are better than a single perfect specimen.’
Teel glanced at Milaqa. ‘Though we give battle, we must continue to think. For I continue to believe that it is through intelligence we will ultimately prevail.’
She wondered what he meant by this latest oblique remark; Milaqa had been used by Teel more than once.
Adhao cried out again. The Annids clustered around him, and Raka called for the priests with their medicine kits.
As it turned out they had only months to make their preparations. Before the end of the latest summer without the sun, the third since the fire mountain, the Trojan brought his army to the Wall.
58
The Third Year After the Fire Mountain: Late Summer
On the night before the battle the Northlanders emerged from the crevices of their great Wall, marched south, and formed up into units. They almost looked like an army, the Trojan scouts said, dismissive. And at last they were offering battle.
Despite the urgings of his basileis to strike before dawn, Qirum was prepared to wait until the sun was risen before responding. He had laid siege to the Wall for half a year already, it had been months since his spies had reported the Annids were preparing for battle, and there was plenty of the campaigning season left to get this done. Waiting a few more hours would do no harm.
The day was well advanced when Qirum at last emerged from his tent and walked out into the field, before his lines, alone. Qirum wore no armour, nor did he carry weapons or a shield. He wanted the men to see him, and his enemies, if they could peer that far. He caused a stir among the men as he walked along the lines, and there were ragged cheers from the still-loose formations.
The land was flat to the horizon. The dew was heavy in the marshy grass; his boots left footprints in the soft earth. The sky was a milky blue, the sun pale, but at least you could see the sun this morning. The dew would soon burn off, but the day would never get overwhelmingly hot, for it never did here. A good day for fighting, then. In the air he saw a bird of prey, a kestrel perhaps, eerily stationary above the ground, watching some hapless prey. And at his feet there was a patch of some ragged pink-headed flower about which butterflies and bees fluttered. He wished the busy creatures well; soon this little stage of life would be trampled and blood-soaked. He breathed deeply of the fresh, slightly chill air. This was not home, and never would be, and yet it had its riches, in its own way, on such a day as this.
In the north the Wall was a faint bone-pale line. Before it he saw the enemy lines, a mass of men in the mist, with smoke from their fires rising into the still air.
He turned to survey his army. Facing the enemy, they were drawn up in units of fifty or a hundred each, in three rough blocks: Protis and his Greeks in the centre, with Qirum’s own Trojans to the left and the Spider with his mostly Hatti exiles to the right. The men were strapping on armour if they had it, sharpening blades with whetstones they would dump before the charge, boasting and joshing, gathering their energies – summoning up the will to fight. Behind the main blocks there were units of archers and slingers, and further back the charioteers were readying their vehicles, harnessing up the horses. The animals skittered and neighed.
And as the King walked before his men the songs began. The Trojans thumped spears on shields and chanted battle cries. The Anatolians sang hymns to their Storm God; Qirum recognised one mournful lament, a soldier’s prayer to be buried at home beside his mother. The Greeks were different; they preferred to stay silent, watchful, ready – ominous. Qirum briefly wondered how it would have been for the generation before his in Troy to have faced a siege by thousands upon thousands of such silent, competent warriors.
He could hear similar music wafting across the field from the Northlander lines. He recognised more doleful Hatti elegies – hymns to the Sun Goddess of Arinna, perhaps. They had all come so far from home, he thought, to kill and be killed on this distant plain.
The Spider walked out to him, laden with the King’s armour, which he set respectfully on the ground. Qirum put on his breastplate, and shields for his shoulders and thighs, and shin guards, and shaped pieces for his forearms, tying each leather strap tight. The Spider was already fully armoured himself, with sword and spear at his back, his helmet under his arm. As Qirum dressed the Spider sniffed the air, peered around with his one good eye, stepped forward and dug his heel into the ground. ‘This bog will cut up.’
‘The same for both sides.’ Qirum glanced towards the enemy. ‘Just as the scouts said, they advanced across the river they call the Milk to face us. They seem to have sought no advantage from the terrain, as I would have done. But then, I would never have sallied out from the Wall and its defences.’
The Spider shrugged. ‘There’s no high ground advantage to be had on this tabletop of a country. Do you want to speak to the men?’
‘Enough speeches, I think.’
The Spider nodded. ‘Then if you will permit me to be your champion—’
Qirum clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s see if you can finish this before it’s started.’
The Spider strapped on his helmet and strode forward across the plain between the armies. He began to bellow insults, in his own tongue and the locals’. ‘Northlanders! Savages! Women, dogs, children all! Is there a man among you, just one man, who will face me and settle this?’
Seeing him advance, the men roared.
Deri stood with Muwa before the Northlander lines. He could clearly see the lone warrior approaching, his stride purposeful, even eager. Behind him the Trojans were yelling, cheering, slamming weapons against their spears, thousands of them; it was a noise like a thunderstorm.
Hunda came out of the block of Hatti at the centre of the Northlander line and walked before the men, lifting his arms. ‘Answer them!’ he yelled in his own tongue. ‘Are you going to let them make all the noise today? Show them how Hatti can sing!’ And in the Etxelur tongue, ‘Show them how Northlanders can yell!’
Soon the whole line was roaring back at the Trojans, the Hatti and the Northlanders at the centre, and the more exotic blocks of warriors from Albia and Gaira to right and left, the dark wolfmen of the forest, the white-robed priest-warriors from their country of skies and open spaces and stone circles.
Milaqa ran at Hunda’s side, without armour or weapons, shouting translations of his Hatti words. Her voice could not match Hunda’s battle-trained bellow, but her thin voice got the message across. Deri would have preferred her to be far from this field, but he had no control over his niece. He could only pray that her own sense would see her survive the day.
‘He comes to issue a challenge,’ Muwa said to Deri, raising his voice over the din. His Northlander tongue was clear if heavily accented. ‘The Trojan. You understand that if we send out a champion to meet him, the issue may be resolved without further loss of blood, whoever lives, whoever dies, if honour is served on both sides.’
Deri grunted. He began to tighten up his armour, borrowed from the Hatti. ‘I have learned more of your bloodstained customs than I ever wanted to know.’
‘I will go, if you wish.’
‘Thank you, my friend. But Northland’s champion must be a Northlander. And as you said, I don’t even have to win.’ He spoke evenly, and yet he felt fear and a kind of deep regret in his heart. He was not by nature a warrior; he was a fisherman, forced into this role by circumstance. He glimpsed a scrap of blue in the sky above, a rare sight these days. Was this to be the day he died?
And then a roar went up from the Northland lines. Startled, Deri looked round. A single man was already walking out to meet the Trojan challenger. Armoured, bristling with weapons, it was Tibo.
Deri ran after him.
Muwa followed. He warned Deri, ‘If you drag him back you will make a fool of him, and of yourself. This is all about honour, remember.’
‘But I cannot let him die.’
They caught up with Tibo. He marched forward, his pace steady, unrelenting. He said, ‘Leave me alone, father. I have no intention of dying.’
‘It is not your place to do this.’
‘You speak of honour. I know that man. That is the Spider. Who has been more dishonoured by this man than me?’
Despite Muwa’s urging, Deri grabbed his son’s arm and forced him to stop. ‘Please. I’m begging you. In your mother’s memory – let me take your place.’
Tibo, his face hidden by bronze armour plates, would not look at his father, and would not speak further. All the efforts by Riban and others to calm Tibo had come to nothing, Deri saw, gone now there was a scent of vengeance. There was little left of the son he had raised in that twisted face, only the rage that had always threatened to consume him. And Deri, who had failed to protect his son from the death of his mother, or from the fire mountain, or from the brutalising at the hands of the Spider, could now not save him from himself.
He let him go. The boy continued his steady march towards the Spider, who waited for him, hands on hips.
Muwa touched Deri’s shoulder. ‘We can accompany him. We can carry his weapons—’
‘And carry his broken body back from the field.’
‘If necessary. But you must not fight for him.’
Deri nodded curtly.
Tibo faced the Spider.
They stood a dozen paces apart on a patch of unremarkable green sward, in a flat, featureless landscape. Yet the world pivoted on the two of them.
The Spider grinned. He pushed his helmet off his head, and dropped it. ‘No armour. Come on, boy, I remember you, I know you picked up some Hatti-speak in the camp.’
‘No armour,’ said Tibo thickly, and he began to work at his own straps.
Soon heaps of discarded armour plate lay at the feet of the two men.
Muwa and Deri stood back, some paces behind Tibo. ‘This might help the boy,’ Muwa murmured. ‘He may be quicker than the older man, more agile.’
‘Only the mothers can help him now.’
‘Now the weapon,’ the Spider said. He hefted sword and long spear, one in each hand. ‘What’s your choice, little boy? The sword? No, not for you—’
Tibo hurled himself forward, spear held aloft. The Spider easily sidestepped, nimble in tunic and boots, his legs bare, and he swept the shaft of his own spear so it caught Tibo’s legs, tripping him, and he went sprawling in the grass. The Spider pivoted and prepared to lunge, but Tibo rolled and was on his feet in a heartbeat.
The Spider could have struck again, perhaps even ended it. But he backed away, applauding ironically.
Muwa had hold of Deri’s arm. ‘You must not intervene.’
Deri raged, ‘You call that honourable? To goad the boy? If the red mist closes in his head—’
‘It is his fight. He must learn to master himself, and his own flaws.’
But Deri feared his son had little time left in which to learn anything.
The Spider walked before Tibo and made a lascivious curled-tongue gesture. ‘As I was saying. The spear’s the weapon for you. Look at my spear, boy, the shaft of ash, the bronze head. Lovely piece of work. I remember those nights in the camp. Your warm little arse. It was the long spear for you then, wasn’t it?’
Tibo charged again.
Again the Spider sidestepped easily. This time he swung the blade of his spear across the back of Tibo’s legs as he stumbled by, and the boy went down screaming, blood pouring from a wound on the back of his right calf, shockingly bright. He tried to get to his feet, but his injured leg gave under him and he went down again.
‘Hamstrung,’ Muwa murmured.
The Spider stood before Tibo, his arms spread wide. ‘Come then. Finish me. Finish me as you longed to, all those nights when you warmed my bed, and the beds of my men.’
At last Tibo made it to his feet, using his spear as a crutch. Even now, thought Deri, even now the boy might have had a chance if he only thought clearly, if he used the Spider’s arrogance ag
ainst him, if he looked for a gap in the man’s sloppy defence. Or he could throw down his weapon and admit he was beaten – he would be dishonoured, maimed, but he would live.
None of this came to pass. Tibo raised his spear, steadied himself on his one good leg, and hurled himself forward. It was less a run than a controlled lunge.
The Spider knelt, jammed the butt of his spear into the soft ground before Tibo, held it firm. Tibo could not stop, could not turn aside. He fell onto the spearhead. The watching Trojans roared. As the metal cut through cloth and flesh, sliding deep into the stomach cavity just below the ribs, Tibo made a gurgling, choking sound. Blood and darker fluids poured down the shaft and over the Spider’s hands as he held the spear firm. Then he twisted the shaft, Deri heard a ripping sound, and Tibo gave an animal cry.
Deri would have gone forward, but Muwa grabbed him, arms around his torso. ‘You must not,’ he murmured. ‘You must not.’
The Spider cautiously let go of the spear. It remained jammed in the ground, and propped up Tibo’s body, precariously balanced. Still the boy lived; his arms moved, his fingers twitching. The Spider, soaked by Tibo’s blood, walked around the pinned boy, like an artist before his creation. ‘What fond memories this brings back.’ He ran his finger delicately down Tibo’s back. Then he pulled up Tibo’s tunic, and ripped down his loincloth, exposing his buttocks. Deri could see the boy had soiled himself. The Spider pulled his face elaborately. ‘Oh, how unfortunate. But still – once more, shall I give you something to remember me by as you sink into the underworld?’ And he lifted his tunic up.
Deri raged against Muwa’s strong grip. ‘You will get your chance,’ Muwa murmured. ‘Another place, another day, the man will die at your hands. But not here—’
An arrow slammed into the Spider’s back, knocking him to the ground. He lay still, dead immediately. There was an angry roar from the Trojans.
Deri looked back at the Northlander forces. Mi had come out of the lines. She screamed abuse, brandishing her bow. Others from her unit of archers came to drag her back. Another damaged child, Deri thought.
Bronze Summer Page 35
