The pair embraced, giggling, her head buried in his chest. She hadn’t seen him since spring, since he had gone north with the king in pursuit of the rogue, Pitagga. Atiya felt her heart lift and noticed how much more manly he had grown in that time: his long hair loose like a lion’s mane around his broadened features. And his confident manner, still developing the last time they had spoken, now seemed rounded and natural – as if he had learned from the Labarna how to harness and command the very ether around him. There was a sadness in his ice-bright eyes too. It was a devastating mix and she felt breathless for a moment.
‘I sang for you, at Sarpa’s pyre,’ she said.
Muwa’s head fell for a moment. ‘We were brought the news by outriders. Still, it seems unreal.’ He twisted in the direction of the Storm Temple. ‘Still, I see him in here, hobbling, smiling. Pitagga will pay, Atiya. By the Gods he will pay.’
Atiya rested a comforting hand on his chest.
After a short silence, the darkness lifted from him. ‘I brought you this,’ he said, holding up a vial of clear glass, with a light green liquid inside. ‘Perfume, made from the resin of pistachios,’ he whispered. ‘I bought it from overland Amurrite traders.’
‘Muwa, I have told you before,’ she complained, trying to hand it back.
He replied by kissing her hand. ‘I’ve missed you dearly, Atiya. When Kurunta rode out to meet with the column and told of the Kaskan attack, I,’ he faltered, his eyes misting over. ‘I feared that you…’ he let his head drop, his thick mane of hair tumbling round to part-obscure his face. ‘I could not bear to lose you too,’ he said.
‘You still have your father and Hattu,’ she reminded him.
‘Yet it is only you I can think about when I close my eyes,’ he replied instantly.
Like a lost girl, she felt her cheeks flushing at the words. A tingling glow rose from within, as if her heart was being stroked by a feather, just like that life or death moment when Hattu had saved her outside the walls, she realised. But then, it had been stronger and more intense, now it was slow and lingering. Muwa raised a hand to cup her chin, tilting her head gently up towards his, then leaned down and pressed his lips onto hers. Her heart raced.
‘I missed you, Atiya,’ he said as their lips parted.
‘And I you,’ she replied, somewhat dazed. It was the first time a boy’s lips had touched hers. ‘Hattu missed you terribly too.’
Muwa smiled. ‘My brother found ways to keep himself busy, it seems. Fighting Kaskans? Gods, he had more excitement here than I did in Wahina chasing Pitagga’s shadow.’
That memory of the Kaskan raid, of Hattu’s first thought being to save her, to protect her, returned. The glow inside her grew too. And then the oddest thing happened, she felt a pang of guilt for standing here with Muwa like this. Muwa reached down to kiss her again, but she stepped back, smiling awkwardly. ‘I’m so happy you’re back, and tomorrow we can spend all day together – you can tell me of the lands of Wahina. But the elders will kill me if I don’t finish clearing the statues of snow,’ she lied.
Muwa’s confidence seemed dented, and his smile grew a little lopsided. But he recovered well, bowing curtly and smiling warmly once more. ‘As you wish. Until tomorrow.’
She watched him go, feeling guilty and confused. After the sound of footsteps faded, she returned to brushing the statue, humming a song to herself. It was a therapeutic task, and one best done alone.
But no, she realised, she was not alone. Sensing eyes upon her, she looked round, expecting to see the Elder Priestess there in the colonnade again, but it was deserted. Instead she noticed, through the copper fence bars nearby, a brave fellow trudging through the snow outside the temple grounds. He was strange, she thought, with short amber hair and a handsome, freckle-dotted face. A foreign trader of some sort, she reckoned. He smiled at her and offered a polite bow of the head. She returned a smile of her own then nervously went back to tending the statue. Yet she had the oddest feeling the stranger was still watching her.
‘Men,’ she cursed under her breath.
***
Muwa crunched through the snow, back up the deserted main way. When Atiya was a girl and he a boy, she had enthralled him with her energy and zest for life. Now, as adolescents, her beauty and her companionship had him spellbound. The mere thought of her brought giddiness to his mind and clumsiness to his actions.
A few times he shot a look over his shoulder. Something was awry. Not with Atiya – brushing at the bull statue. Nor with the odd fellow trudging past the temple fence – the only other soul outdoors apart from the fur-clad sentries on the walls. No, there was something wrong with him. Inside. It was a new sensation. Like the first taste of honey or the first sight of snow, he mused… no, for those things were golden and heady. This was like… like the first taste of sour milk, like the sting of a wasp… deep, deep inside. Then he realised what it was: for the first time in his life, someone had denied him that which he desired.
She rejected me.
He looked back once more, seeing Atiya and recalling the moment Father had told him: one day, you will be Labarna. Until then, you are the Tuhkanti – and you will want for nothing.
Indeed, Muwa had lived the life of an heir-apparent. Adulation, respect and reverence met his every turn. Harem girls quarrelled to keep him company just as men fought to be noticed by him on the battlefield. Nobody had ever denied him… until now.
And it only made him crave her affections more intensely than ever.
***
King Mursili walked along the heights of the fortified Dawn Bridge, the winged sun-disc circlet hugging his brow and his body wrapped in grey wool against the blizzard. He passed two shivering sentries posted there, who threw him clench-fisted salutes. He had given his chat with Hattu a day to settle, and now he knew what he had to do.
General Kurunta waited for him on the centre of the bridge, wearing just his leather kilt and twin baldrics strapped across his bare chest. ‘You must be melting in that garb,’ Mursili said glibly.
Kurunta swung to face him, his braided tail jangling in the wind. ‘Eh? My Sun,’ Kurunta saluted. ‘I came at once. What concerns you?’
Mursili stood in Kurunta’s lee, then shot a glance over his shoulder back up at the acropolis. He had the most dreadful feeling that – despite the roar of the storm – someone up there might hear them. ‘It is more about what will concern you, old friend. Next spring, Hattu is to be trained.’
Kurunta’s scarred, leathery face creased. ‘The Prince? With the army?’
Mursili nodded.
‘I don’t understand, My Sun,’ Kurunta replied. ‘You’ve worked so hard all these years to confine him to the life of a scholar.’
‘And you are one of the few who truly know why,’ Mursili replied. ‘You saw my boy by the Spirit Bridge, Sarpa’s blood upon him. Scholar or otherwise, Ishtar’s divination came to be... the first part of it at least.’
Kurunta’s good eye searched the snowstorm moodily. ‘Perhaps this is Ishtar’s test.’
‘How so?’ Mursili asked.
‘In recent days I have begun to fear what might happen should you and Prince Muwa come to harm. With no other trained heir, this sacred land would erupt in a thousand fires, My Sun. I remember the chaos of old – princes fighting princes. Pretenders slaying kings… does that not sound familiar?’ His face was a war of doubt and certainty as he spoke. ‘Maybe this is the fate of us all if Hattu is not trained as a true prince?’
Mursili smiled a tepid smile. ‘You think Ishtar’s game is to show me that my boy is the bringer of our demise… when he might actually be our saviour instead? You have always been an idealist. That is why men follow you without question.’
‘My Sun?’
‘I digress, Kurunta. In any case, all that matters is this:’ Mursili’s features darkened. ‘When Hattu comes to you in the spring, you must… break him.’
Kurunta’s good eye widened. ‘Break him? I will not take offence because thi
s comes from you, My Sun, but surely you must know I will do this without need for you to ask. Like any recruit, he will suffer. And I save my hardest moods for the princes: he will grow stronger or he will break, like a blade passing through a smith’s fire.’
Mursili leaned a little closer. ‘No, he will break. I want him to return to me after the summer, beaten, begging me to resume his schooling instead. It must be his choice – one that he will abide willingly. You will see to it.’
Kurunta searched the snow again. ‘His time will be hard enough. The people whisper about him as they whisper about me. The other soldiers will reject him: you know what they call him?’
‘The Cursed Son,’ Mursili replied, his face lengthening. ‘And that is why you must break him.’
‘Then it will be done, My Sun,’ Kurunta bowed from the neck.
Chapter 7
Welcome to the Storm
Spring 1302 BC
The spring sun blazed just above the eastern horizon, flooding the Ambar valley with golden light and casting the shadow of Hattusa’s twin tors across the lower town. When an ox-drawn carriage rumbled from the Tawinian Gates and along the rutted track that intersected the croplands, many field workers turned to look. It was a fine vehicle: made of cedar wood, banded in copper, with bronze footplates and silver rails and handles. Not the royal carriage, but a vehicle from the acropolis nonetheless.
Within, Hattu felt the many eyes searching inside this small, shady box. They couldn’t discern its occupant at such distance, surely, but he drew the linen curtain a little across the small window in any case, sinking back into the cushioned bench.
Two Mesedi sat across from him, their hair clubbed on the napes of their necks and their bronze helms resting across their laps. Big Orax and the remarkably hirsute Gorru – from a distance it seemed that his white tunic had black sleeves and black leggings to match – were two of Father’s finest guards. The pair maintained stony, expressionless stares.
Feeling the need to further withdraw, Hattu tugged a lock of hair forward from his leather browband so it hung over his misty eye, as if it might somehow make the soldiers mellow towards him. When the carriage bucked as they crossed the small, rustic stone bridge across the stream emanating from the Spring of the Meadow – the seventh of Hattusa’s blessed water sources – he almost yelped in fright, much to Gorru and Orax’s amusement. All morning he had been like this, unable to relax: his every step seemed clumsy and his breathing shallow. He had even snapped at the well-meaning Ruba, who brought him a wax tablet and stylus so he could practice his writing while he was away. Away, he thought, tugging the curtain back a little to see how far from Hattusa they were now. The city was shrinking, the familiar sounds and smells fading. He looked in the direction they were headed: the croplands had tapered off and now just rugged, hilly scrubland and wild olive thickets sprouted here and there, shimmering in the hot sun. The path was dotted with just a few men and boys too, trekking westwards with bags and a few with weapons, headed where he was.
Isn’t this what I’ve always wanted? he wondered, a pang of dread trying to serve as an answer.
It was then that a cry sounded from the sky. He looked up to see Arrow gliding there. His heart surged at the sight and, instinctively, he thrust his left arm out of the carriage window. Arrow swooped, landing gracefully on the leather bracer. When he drew her inside the carriage, Gorru and Orax suddenly shuffled and sat a little further back in their seats, their hard, confident demeanours crumbling. When Arrow paced on the spot to settle her talons and then shrieked aggressively at the pair, Gorru grabbed the bench in fright and let out a strangled sound that might have been a scream, but was quickly covered up with a cough and then a harrumph of humiliation.
Hattu did all he could to maintain a straight face. He stroked Arrow’s speckled neck. ‘I have no food for you, girl,’ he said, sadly realising that he would not see her again until winter, when the academy would break up over the cold season. Then he saw the tiny, polished, blue-green beryl stone in the shape of a teardrop tied to Arrow’s leg. Atiya, he realised, recognising the piece as one of the jewels she often crafted at the temple.
Over the winter, he had taught Atiya how to handle Arrow, standing with her on the Dawn Bridge, sending the falcon out to chase voles, mice and rabbits through the snow-blocked eastern stretch of the Ambar valley. It seemed that the lessons had been sound, given she had managed to despatch Arrow to him like this. But she had been ever so serious the last time he had spoken to her. It was six days ago: they had met in the budding gardens of the Storm Temple. She had sat by his side at the edge of a natural pool there, tracing her fingers along the surface of the turquoise water. He had tried to make conversation: banal chat, nonsense jokes, even teasing her to the point where he thought she might push him in the pool. But she said almost nothing. It was at the end of that odd meeting that it had become stranger still. I will never forget what you did for me, she said, kissing him on the cheek and squeezing his hand before turning and running into the temple complex’s interior without a further word.
‘Return to her,’ he said to Arrow, holding his arm outside again. ‘Watch over her, aye?’
As Arrow took flight back towards Hattusa, Orax relaxed a little and Gorru muttered some oath at the bird under his breath. Hattu grinned as he threaded a lock of his hair through the tiny hole in the beryl stone, affixing the gem in his chin-length mane. The carriage climbed a low hill. When it came to the brow, Hattu felt a cold stone settle in his belly as he saw three huge shapes emerge from the gentle heat haze ahead, like spirits rising from a silvery pool: three towering stone huwasi – rock effigies, set a danna or so apart, each with lifeless eyes staring into infinity. One was of a warrior, feet set wide apart in a stance of power, bronze-headed spear clutched across his muscled chest; another was of an archer, kneeling, teeth clenched in a rictus, drawn bow pointed to the sky and strung with a bronze arrow; the last was of a prancing horse, its hooves and eyes picked out in bronze. He heard Gorru chuckle darkly and knew that this was it: the Fields of Bronze; the ancient training grounds where horses were broken… where men were broken.
As they drew closer, the silvery pool of heat haze obscuring the feet of the statues slipped away to reveal the sprawling academy complex. It was spread across a large oval of flat ground, hugged by a crescent of scarred, red-earth fells. It resembled an open, unwalled town rather than a fort, with an assortment of huts, byres, low, white-walled compounds and paddocks holding cantering warhorses.
He saw faint movement here and there, and heard stark, distant shouting and whistling, along with the thwack of missiles plunging into wood. Soldiers marched to and fro, their weapons catching the sunlight. Their sharp, urgent cries stirred a sense of unease in him, reminiscent of the day the Kaskans stormed Hattusa.
‘Are you ready for this, Master Hattu?’ Orax asked as they descended the gentle slope towards the academy.
Hattu swung round, the sudden dialogue after unbroken silence unnerving. He saw that both of the Mesedi wore a slight glimmer of mischief in their eyes – revenge perhaps for the intrusion of Arrow. He gathered himself with a deep breath as the wagon drew to a halt, right in the heart of the academy complex. ‘By all the Gods, yes,’ he lied.
This place would be his home now. Somewhere behind his breastbone he felt a welling sense of terror and excitement.
Then a voice in the darkness added: … destiny.
***
His hubris melted like wax in the sun as soon as he stepped down from the carriage and into the stark light of day. The heat exacerbated the acrid stink from a nearby smith’s furnace and the reek of sweat – from horses and men. Then there was the noise: a raucous clatter of metal and wood and incessant hectoring cries, not to mention the gruff laughter and clatter from within the ramshackle arzana house – a soldier’s tavern and a brothel in one. As the carriage wheeled away back to Hattusa, a hot wind blew up around him, coating his skin in puffs of red dust, sending his hair dancing
across his face. Regiments marched around him on the bare parade field. Scarred, knotted bodies, flint-hard faces and gritted teeth, everywhere. Two soldiers stood by the stone pool marking the Spring of the Soldier – the academy’s main water source. They were dressed in kilts, their sweat-slick torsos scraped from some combat drill, sipping water from wooden cups. One nudged the other, nodding furtively in Hattu’s direction. The other looked then straightened up as if he had seen a venomous snake. He saw other men’s eyes flick towards him, heard them muttering. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but in his mind, he was sure every single voice whispered the same three words.
The Cursed Son.
He felt his heart quickening as he looked this way and that for something, anything, other than the hateful eyes. But they were everywhere. And even the high statue of the spear-warrior, wide-apart feet straddling the gatehouse of a low-walled compound just ahead, seemed to be glowering down at him, nostrils flared.
‘Prince Hattusili?’ a voice whispered. His head swung round: there by the paddock was the most unexpected sight… and the foulest stench. A boy with thin, greasy, hair, short and slicked back, stood by a mountainous pile of steaming horse dung, his face and grey tunic smeared with the stuff, a spade in his hands. ‘I am Dagon, he said, ‘you do not remember me?’
Hattu frowned.
The boy wiped some dung from his face and the sunlight betrayed the cruel plague scars on his cheeks.
Hattu now realised who it was: the boy who had been trapped in the house on the day of the Kaskan raid, pinned inside by a cart that had rolled across the doorway. The boy who had previously scowled at Hattu like all the others. ‘I remember you.’
The boy stepped forward. ‘That night, after the Kaskans came,’ he said, shooting glances left and right as if wary of being seen talking to Hattu, ‘I returned to my home to find it a pile of ashes. If you hadn’t moved that cart…’
Son of Ishtar Page 11
