‘While I did not expect Pharaoh to be represented at this gathering, I appreciate his fine gift. And in excha-’ he halted, now understanding the markings. They were a depiction of lands and rivers and great seas. Not just the Hittite realm, but all to the west, east and south as well. Egypt was marked out at the bottom of the etching, yet it had no borders. Where currently the Egyptian realm touched the Assyrian Empire and Hittite lands in the patchwork of vassal kingdoms known as Retenu, this chart showed no such boundaries, with all Assyrian and Hittite holdings contained inside the Egyptian domain… like conquered subjects.
‘It is a map,’ Sirtaya advised Mursili through a well-practiced smile.
Mursili’s heart hardened, the glimmer of hope vanishing. He stared into the envoy’s eyes for a time before speaking again. ‘And what does my Brother King ask of me in return?’
Sirtaya’s eyes narrowed. ‘Pharaoh requests a small gift of iron… iron of heaven.’
Mursili might have laughed had the tension not been so high. His blacksmiths had strived fastidiously to craft the few divine meteorites that fell upon Hittite lands into daggers and axes. Seven such weapons were locked in the royal armoury – hard blades, harder than bronze, but they were brittle and useless as true weapons. Still, they were rare treasures, and he would be damned if he was going to gift one to his enemy.
‘Do this, and he will send you,’ Sirtaya continued, his veil of servility slipping, ‘a vast shipment of tin. With it, you could make many jackets of bronze armour. A prudent investment… ’ his eyes traced the taunting markings on the tusk-map ‘… in these dangerous times.’
Mursili’s jaw worked at the twin meaning, anger broiling within him as Sirtaya’s lips twitched in triumph. He leant forward briskly on the throne, primed to rise. He could set Zida, his two generals or any of the finely-armed guards loose upon this dog. He could hang the beggar from the city walls and let the crows peck at his eyes. But the thunder in his heart steadied, the gods guided him, and he knew what he had to do.
‘Your master needn’t have bothered sending me tusk-etchings,’ the king said in a low, steady burr. ‘I have scholars of my own who can draw our borders… with far greater accuracy. And extra weapons? I have no need for them. Have you seen my divisions in their pomp? They shine and clatter, heavy with sharpened bronze of their own.’ He inhaled slowly through his nostrils and sat tall upon the throne. When he spoke next, each word was like the slow, deliberate strike of a smith’s hammer: ‘Pharaoh will have no iron.’
Sirtaya’s face fell in disgust. ‘You reject Pharaoh’s request? Surely you know his wrath is legendary?’
Mursili let a weighty silence past. ‘Oh yes, I know. And so too, I am led to believe, does the Hittite nobleman, Tetti.’
Sirtaya’s head retracted at the apparent non-sequitur. ‘What?’
‘Tetti was a loyal and good-hearted member of my Panku. A friend, a comrade… and a damned fine envoy. Two years ago I despatched him to Memphis to speak with Pharaoh,’ Mursili’s eyes darkened under his dipping brow, ‘yet he never returned. Some say he now languishes there in a cell, beaten, naked and forgotten.’
Sirtaya’s lips receded over his gums in anger. ‘Such words blacken my master’s name. When Pharaoh hears of this affront, you know what will happen.’
Mursili, Great King of the Hittites, glowered at him. War? he mused. War is an inevitability. It is only a question of when, as you have proved today. And when it comes, it will be the cruellest war ever waged, and the Gods will gather to watch. He sucked in a deep breath, and boomed: ‘Pharaoh will surely hear of this, but not from your poisoned lips. Just as Tetti never returned to me, neither will you return to Egypt.’
Sirtaya’s face fell blank for an instant, then – at the slightest movement of Mursili’s index finger – a pair of Mesedi lunged up the steps and seized the Egyptian by the shoulders. Gasps and whispers filled the hall.
‘Take him to the Well of Silence,’ Mursili boomed, standing. The grim underground gaol lying east of Hattusa would provide the brazen messenger with an eternity of darkness and quiet with which to reflect upon matters.
Sirtaya spat some jagged volley of oaths in his native tongue, struggling to free himself from the grasp of the Mesedi as they dragged him down the steps, until Zida rose from his place by the throne and strode over to whack him over the back of the head with a small cudgel. As the Egyptian’s limp form was dragged from the hall through a small hatch-door, the whispers of the crowd exploded into a babble of shock and intrigue.
With a sharp clap of Mursili’s hands, the din ceased.
‘Loyal Kings, remain here with me,’ he said, struggling to control the still-strong tremor of rage in his voice. ‘The rest of you, I bid you outside to the feast.’ He gestured towards the doorway, beyond which a skirl of pipes had struck up.
***
Hattu slunk quietly out of the hall amongst the masses – all gossiping avidly about what had just happened. Ranks of long, low, food-festooned feasting tables now lined the twilit ward. People took their places and the entertainment began: acrobats and dancers spilled across the centre of the feasting area, bearing torches, ropes and hoops. The pipers now belted out a fast, frantic tune as the acrobats took to leaping and twisting, setting light to the hoops and diving through them. Two dancers held a rope taut between them while a third edged along it on his toes.
As Hattu made his way around the spectacle, a painted man at one of the feasting tables stopped talking and stared at him as he chewed on a leg of goose, grease staining his chin and food-scum clinging to his teeth.
Would you dare glower at the Labarna or my brothers like that? Hattu thought to himself.
Another fellow took a long gulp of expensive Amurrite wine, eyeing Hattu over the rim of his cup, then whispered something to the painted one. Hattu read his lips over the skirling pipes.
The Cursed Son, the man said, but in Sumerian, an ancient language. The painted one nodded in agreement, then scraped up a handful of honeyed nuts and shovelled them into his meat-stained maw, crunching into them with a dismissive laugh.
The pair probably expected that Hattu, a prince, knew nothing of the tongue. It was, after all, the job of a scribe to understand and translate the many languages of the world for their kings and people. For the first time in a while, Hattu silently thanked the Gods – and Ruba – for his confinement to the Scribal School.
‘You eat like pigs, and smell like them too,’ he whispered in Sumerian as he passed the pair.
The two gawped, faces blanching further under all the paint. A brief glow of pride burnt off Hattu’s anger.
An arm wrapped over his shoulders. ‘Ah, Brother, there you are. Come, let us sit,’ Muwa said, guiding him through the chattering throngs and clacking cups towards a table. Hattu looked up, seeing the empty benches there. ‘Why there?’ he started, then saw exactly why: on the opposite side sat the young Priestess of Poverty, Atiya.
She toyed nervously with the braided tail of black hair that hung from her scarlet headscarf and sat across the breast of her pleated temple robes. The amber hoops she wore in her ears shook gently as she shot timid, dimpled smiles around the crowd, and the copper moon amulet on her chest sparkled in the torchlight. She was closer to Muwa’s age than his, but it never felt that way. There was something about Atiya that instantly lifted his heart. Perhaps it was her sepia skin, or maybe her eyes: full, sable pools. Atiya’s parents had been killed by the Kaskans years before, and he had always felt a need to protect her.
As they approached the table, Hattu felt himself shrink in his step, suddenly self-conscious. Why on earth had he not first returned to his chamber in the palace to find a pair of boots or a clean tunic? His bare, grazed and grubby chest and arms looked even scrawnier when set against the many older boys and men suited in ceremonial armour.
Atiya hadn’t noticed them approaching yet, so he tried to mimic Muwa’s tall, confident stride, pushing his shoulders back and tilting his head up a little
to give him a fraction more height, throwing his legs out with each stride purposefully. She noticed them then, eyes widening in delight.
‘Muwa!’ she said, standing. ‘And, er…’ her beaming smile grew lop-sided and she tilted her head, ‘Hattu? Why are you strutting like a deranged peacock?’
Muwa burst into laughter and Hattu’s face creased in anger. Few spoke to the two princes with such candour. ‘I, no, he,’ he pointed to Muwa as if to blame him but his words died in a tangled stutter. Atiya stretched over the table to accept Muwa’s embrace and the delicate kiss he placed on the back of her hand. Hattu felt a fiery spike of injustice at this and at the coquettish look she gave his older brother. He stretched out to embrace her too, but found he was a little too short to reach, and had to make do with the motherly kiss she planted on his head instead – the kind offered to a child who has just settled down after a tantrum. But damn, he thought, slumping onto the bench, is this the Gathering or the Humiliation of Hattu?
A panicked shriek sounded from the acrobat display: one of the fire dancers was rolling on the ground, his kilt ablaze. The crowd offered the fellow sympathetic laughter, one man deigning to toss his cup of wine over the thrashing wretch, who then suffered the ignominy of staggering away, kilt reduced to ashes, exposed buttocks burnt angry red. Aye, well, it could be worse, Hattu grinned.
Next, a troop of bulging wrestlers came on, dressed in just loincloths. They coated their skin in oil, tied their hair up in tight knots and proceeded to twist seven spadefuls of agony out of one another with a series of grunts, cracks and pops of bone and cartilage. Hattu turned away and gazed over the fare on offer: sweet loaves, slabs of pure white goat’s cheese peppered with chopped coriander, joints of goose and venison, figs, ruby-red pomegranates, chunks of honey in the comb and rows of foaming beer cups and huge urns of wine. Hunger swept away his annoyance. He reached over to take a sweet loaf – still warm – pouring a little oil on it then breaking it in two and biting off a chunk. Syrupy, soft and fragrant, it instantly reinvigorated him.
He wondered what he could talk to Atiya about. She was already in conversation with Muwa, intrigued by his recent trips to the southern cities. He spotted some hen’s eggs on the table, and this suddenly reminded him of his efforts that afternoon. He rummaged in his bag and presented the falcon egg across the table like a prize. But Atiya was oblivious, for Muwa had offered her something first.
‘For you,’ Muwa said, pressing a white linen purse into her hand. She pulled the cord and out fell a small silver brooch in the shape of a lion’s head, its eyes picked out with twilight-blue lapis stones. The Elder Priestess and a few others nearby cooed in wonder.
‘I cannot accept this,’ Atiya gasped.
‘You cannot refuse,’ Muwa replied instantly, closing her hand over the piece. ‘It was crafted in faraway Troy, by the hand of King Alaksandu’s finest silversmith – more delicate than anything the artisans of Hattusa might sweat, solder or hammer. I had it commissioned whilst in Troy last year, during the last months of the Arzawan War. King Alaksandu brought the finished piece with him today.’
‘Muwa, you make me burn with embarrassment: I am not worth such a treasure.’
Muwa grinned, cocking his head slightly until she smiled. ‘Oh it was worth it – if only to see you smile.’ Atiya clasped the brooch to the breast of her robe, looking around timidly as if expecting someone to scoff at her.
Muwa began to recount some other memories of his time fighting in the west. ‘The Arzawan War was gruelling,’ he mused with the poise of a seasoned warrior, swishing his wine cup and gazing into the distance as he described the battles and the distant lands. Atiya seemed lost in his words.
Hattu found himself drawn into Muwa’s tale also. Talk suggested the Chosen Prince would soon lead a division in his own right – as a general like Kurunta or Nuwanza. This was Hattu’s twelfth summer, and Father seemed loath to be in his presence, let alone discuss his future.
Muwa flicked his head to one side and clicked his tongue as he concluded his recollections. ‘Aye, it was a hard-won war. But the Arzawan League is gone.’
‘Thanks mainly to you,’ Atiya said. Her fawning words were belied by the playful glint in her eyes and the way her ruby tongue played with a small gap in her pearl-white teeth.
Muwa reddened ever-so-slightly ‘Well, I don’t mean... I… I,’
Atiya looked at Hattu now, winking to share her mischief. Hattu’s heart soared at the momentary attention. Then she noticed the falcon egg. ‘My goodness, what a comely shell,’ she cooed.
‘It is for you,’ he said, sounding unflustered in comparison to Muwa.
‘He found it out in the woods – when he should have been at the Scribal School,’ Muwa clarified, reaching to ruffle his younger brother’s hair, but Hattu ducked out of the way, stretching over to place the egg in Atiya’s hands.
‘It will not hatch,’ he said, noticing how warily she held it. ‘I found it whilst climbing,’ he started, then raised his voice a little, casting Muwa a sideways glance, ‘at the top of a ridge. A high ridge.’
‘Hattu? You must be careful,’ she shot him a reproachful look. ‘Men have fallen to their deaths from those heights.’
‘It was worth it to see you smile,’ he said, hoping Atiya wouldn’t spot the obvious imitation of his brother’s line.
Atiya laughed, but shuffled awkwardly. ‘Muwa, Hattu… I…’
Sarpa hobbled up behind them, resting his crutch against the bench and scooping his hands over his brothers’ shoulders. ‘Brothers, what Atiya is trying to say is she thinks you are but a pair of goats.’
Hattu chuckled and Muwa shot him a quizzical look: ‘Goats? Funny you should choose to liken us to goats,’ Muwa said. ‘Did you ever tell Atiya about the time when you were a boy and you tried to ride on a goat’s back?’
‘No,’ Sarpa said, straightening up and plucking a cherry from the table before hobbling away promptly.
‘The goat threw him,’ Muwa smirked, raising his voice so Sarpa would be sure to hear, ‘tossed him into a trough of dung.’
Atiya laughed then eyed both. ‘But Sarpa is right. Stop bringing me things. I need nothing. If you have to bring gifts, then bring them as offerings to the temple grounds – the Gods are more befitting of them than I.’
‘In the eyes of some, perhaps,’ Muwa said, rising and taking Atiya’s hand to kiss it once more. ‘Now, I must leave you – Father asked me to eat swiftly then rejoin his talks.’
Hattu watched as his brother returned to the Hall of the Sun. For the brief moment the tall doors were opened, he heard raised voices within, the conversation sharp and salty. When the doors banged shut, Hattu felt a great sadness.
‘And how is Arrow?’ Atiya said, mercifully drawing his attentions back to her. She could read him like a clay tablet, Hattu realised.
He looked over to the royal palace at the north end of the acropolis – where Arrow had made a nest on the sill of his upper floor bedchamber. Old Ruba’s beloved pony, Onyx, was tethered underneath, and seemed to be engaged in some conversation with Arrow, he nickering, she screeching. ‘Ah… no doubt hungry,’ he confessed. ‘I will be back shortly,’ he said, gathering up some strands of meat and rising, warmed again by her smile.
He traipsed on towards the palace. It was largely dark and silent, but something caught his eye: the high balcony at the southwestern corner of the royal dwelling. He had never been on it or in the dark adjoining room. The Black Room, as it was known, was always locked. Father never allowed anyone to enter that chamber. He had even beaten Hattu for approaching it. He gazed up at the balcony sadly. Then he was overcome with a chill: for up there he saw some dark, rippling shape – writhing like a living shadow, floating. The movement faded, then all was still again. He had seen the likes a few times before.
Just what was up there? He had asked Ruba once, and the old tutor had replied:
The king’s demons live in that high room.
With a shiver and a nervou
s gulp, he eyed the palace wall, contemplating a climb up there to see these demons for himself. But the plasterwork was recent and utterly smooth. Even the best climber would be confounded. When he had pressed Ruba again on what was up there, the old tutor had replied: You will have to ask your father, lad.
But how could he ask his father about the Black Room, about anything, when the king despised him so, left him out of everything? Overcome with angry defiance, he swung round to glower at the Hall of the Sun with a sour eye, thinking of Father, Muwa and the many kings within. The doors were locked, two Golden Spearmen standing vigil before them. His eyes drifted to the corner of that building: unlike the palace, there were creases in the stonework foundations and full wrinkles in the mud brick section higher up, leading to one of the high-up, arched windows that lit the hall. This, he could climb.
If Father won’t invite me to the talks… he mused with a recalcitrant half-smile.
It was as if a spell was upon him. He scuttled over, hugging the shadows until he reached the foot of the throneroom walls, then up he went. A moment later he was halfway up, the climb easy and the holds regularly-spaced. He began traversing sideways, over the grand doorway and the heads of the oblivious Golden Spearmen then up towards one high window.
He clambered onto the dusty, broad stone sill, settling there, peering down into the Hall of the Sun like a crow. Muwa and twenty-three uniquely-dressed monarchs and lords were gathered around the foot of the throne in an arc, facing the throne dais. Two Mesedi and Zida stood before the platform like a screen. General Nuwanza, the coal-haired colossus, stood at the side of the hall with a trio of sentries. But where was the demon, Kurunta One-eye? Hattu wondered.
He leaned ever closer, searching the hall for the missing general, when a shard of loose stone scraped under his foot and a tiny puff of grit and dust spat out from the sill, toppling down into the throneroom. Instantly, the eyes of the Mesedi, Nuwanza, Zida and the king shot up like flaming arrows, about to be loosed. He ducked down and lay still with fright.
Son of Ishtar Page 4
