Son of Ishtar

by Gordon Doherty

‘Anyone else?’ Kurunta bawled as the toothy boy’s uneven footsteps faded to nothing.

  A doubting voice screamed inwardly at Hattu, almost shoving him towards the compound gates. His smoky eye ached, and he saw in the shadow of the gatehouse an ethereal form of another – that meek, round-shouldered scribe, face in shadow just as he had seen at the postern tunnel on the day of the Kaskan raid. The imagined scribe held out a hand, as if offering to escort Hattu home. And the ethereal scholar was not alone, Hattu realised with a shiver: for up on the roof of the officer’s quarters by the gate, there was another – another Hattu knew was not real. It was the strange vision of a green-cloaked warrior he had also seen at the Kaskan raid. This figure was crouched on one knee, the cloak hanging around him like a shroud and a battle helmet obscuring most of his face. The shadows hid this one’s face, but Hattu was sure he was being watched like a hawk.

  ‘Courage comes in many forms,’ Kurunta said in a low drawl. ‘It takes a brave man to admit that he is not suited for certain things.’

  Hattu felt Kurunta’s words like hooks in his skin, drawing him towards the gates. But neither he nor any other moved. The vision of the scribe vanished as did that of the watching warrior.

  ‘Good,’ Kurunta said at last, drawing the word out and pulling something akin to a smile, letting the gates close. ‘Now let me take you on a journey, a journey to the edge of madness, the place where soldiers are born,’ the general said, his cruel face twisting when his gaze met Hattu’s, ‘and craven hearts are broken.’

  Chapter 8

  The Edge

  Spring 1302 BC

  Under a hot noonday sun the hundred boys, kilted and booted, scrambled up the steep red-earth fells that rose behind the Fields of Bronze. Russet dust puffed into the air with every footstep and their breaths came in gasps and croaks.

  Hattu felt his hurried breakfast of bread and yoghurt surge up his gullet, but each snatched breath held it back. Sweat droplets sprayed from him with every juddering step as the scree littering the climb ensured that every stride upwards was accompanied by a slow slide back down.

  ‘Come on: Up, up!’ Kurunta bawled, already a good ten paces ahead of the fastest recruit. ‘By the plague-boar who spawned you, you’ll be doing this every day, so you’d better get used to it.’

  Those in front of Hattu renewed their efforts, sending dust spraying back into his face. He closed his eyes and forged on, grasping for purchase at the hardy green shrubs that speckled the slope. This frantic scramble was nothing like the careful but continuous strain of a climb; this felt designed to make a man’s heart explode. Blessedly, he reached the top of the fell before that happened. A gentle breeze touched him, not cool but a little fresher than the stifling, still air down on the low ground of the compound. He sank to one knee, panting.

  The recruits all around him were flagging too, some dropping to the ground, others bent double and spitting, slender torsos gleaming with sweat and patches of caked dust. The portly boy, Garin, was worst off, back arching as he vomited like a cat. Only Tanku, a burly and dark-skinned lad with his long hair shaved at the sides, had reached the top a respectably short distance behind Kurunta, but even he was coated in rivulets of sweat.

  Hattu looked all around. Up here, the pastel sky seemed infinite. These fells stretched off into the western horizon and to the south he saw the broad, ancient track that stretched east and west across the Hittite domain. Behind him to the east, he could see the Fields of Bronze down below: the compounds, paddocks and barns there swirling in a silvery heat haze. Beyond, he could see all the way back to Hattusa – just a hulking, sun-bleached mass near the eastern skyline – and far, far away to the north he could even see the great Soaring Mountains, their snowy peaks shining like white flame in the sunlight.

  A dull babble of voices from other parts of the fells caught his attention: companies of bowmen, spearmen, and slingers were dotted around the heights, marching along tight hill-paths, running along high ridges, tossing rocks to one another on lofty flats and leaping over well-worn timber and rock obstacles.

  ‘The hot season has begun, and so the ranks come up here – where it is cooler – to train.’ Kurunta explained. A flash of bronze on an adjacent hill betrayed a company from the Blaze Division, the hundred crouching within a bitemark-like section of crumbled hillside. All the boys’ eyes turned to the sight. The Blaze warriors had removed their leather helms, clutching them underarm so the sunlight would not catch the bronze brows. Meanwhile, an equal number from the Wrath Division jogged across the hilltop above the bitemark, two abreast. Their heads were switching this way and that warily.

  ‘Heh,’ Kurunta grunted, swinging one booted foot up onto a rock and resting his palms on his hips, his good eye alight with interest as he watched.

  Hattu watched the hidden Blaze captain rise slowly from his haunches to steal a glance up at his prey. As the hundred of the Wrath passed his men’s hiding place, the Blaze captain shot up with a shout: ‘For the great Sun Goddess!’ The Blaze ranks sprang from their crouches, out of the bitemark, bounding up the short stretch of slope towards the flank of the Wrath men, dark hair flowing in their wake. The Wrath ranks cried out, swinging their hide-shields and bronze-headed spears to face the flood of men coming for them. But a discordant rattle of Blaze spearheads clattering against Wrath shields brought it to an end. The Blaze soldiers whooped in delight at the victory won by those mock-killing strikes. A moment later they embraced with their disappointed Wrath counterparts, clasping arms and slapping backs.

  ‘Warriors…’ Kurunta said, pointing at the nearby infantry melee. Then he swung his finger across the hundred boys, ‘…scum.’ He paced before them, scowling down his nose at Hattu more than any other. ‘Unworthy scum. They carry sharpened bronze, they don the garb of soldiers, because I trust them, the king trusts them… the Gods trust them. You? You are barely fit to clamber up a gentle hillside, let alone carry a weapon. Now, every company of one hundred needs a name.’ He pointed at the veteran groups on the other hillsides. ‘The Scorpion Brotherhood, the Dark Sons, the Cruel Spears… You? I shall call you… the Hill Pups.’

  Tanku was the only one to visibly take offence, a thick vein in the shaved sides of his scalp bulging, but he did not dare challenge the suggestion.

  The thick plonk of a water skin being relieved of its cork had all heads turning towards Garin. The chubby recruit halted, the skin a finger’s-width from his lips, his guilty eyes looking this way and that.

  Kurunta brought his sword round in a flash. The flat cracked against Garin’s hand, and the water skin splatted onto the ground, leaking its precious contents into the red dust. ‘I told you before we left: no water. Did you not understand what I meant when I told you that I am now your master, the will of your king?’

  Garin nodded hurriedly, gawping up at Kurunta, cupping his swatted hand under his armpit.

  Kurunta’s face creased in what might have been a smile, but probably an evil one. ‘You know what they do up on the acropolis when someone offends the Labarna?’

  Garin trembled.

  ‘They treat him to a lovely meal, and a fine beverage to wash it down,’ Kurunta purred.

  Garin’s face lifted in pleasant surprise. Everyone else wore looks of confusion.

  Apart from Hattu, who had seen the punishment once before: when a Lukkan slave brought King Mursili bread and fruit-water. The Lukkan had a mean-eye and clearly resented his role – even though it was a relatively comfortable one. That day, he had made the mistake of neglecting to wash his hands before bringing the king’s food, his fingernails caked with black dirt and scum. He had been seized by the Mesedi and subjected to the age-old penalty for such carelessness. Hattu’s stomach churned in disgust as he recalled the stench from the plate of steaming brown fare the slave had been forced to eat – delivered straight from a palace official’s bowels – and the cup of equally foul, warm, yellow liquid the fellow had washed it down with, gagging, retching, eyes bulging from his head and te
ars streaming down his face as he was forced to finish every last mouthful.

  ‘Well I have a meal brewing in here, boy. A lovely, hot meal that will fill any plate,’ Kurunta said, patting his belly and then hitching his crotch, ‘and any cup.’

  Garin’s face darkened in realisation and he dropped his head.

  ‘So, if you want water, then you must look to your prince,’ Kurunta said.

  Hattu suddenly snapped to attention, conscious of all eyes on him. ‘What, how?’

  ‘There’s enough water to slake a hundred thirsty mouths, down there,’ Kurunta said, calmly pointing back down the slope. There, barely discernible in the heat haze, two men were ferrying buckets to and from the Spring of the Soldier, filling them. Kurunta gave them a wave, then leaned towards Hattu. ‘Go, fetch… or your comrades go thirsty.’

  Hattu saw the pale, sweat-streaked faces, the dry cracked lips, the baleful eyes now hopeful, pleading. He looked downhill at the pole the two men down there were preparing like a yoke, each end laden with one full water bucket. ‘But I, I can’t-’

  ‘You are a prince, are you not?’ Kurunta gasped. ‘Is it not your wish to be stronger than the rest? Go, fetch. Your limbs will grow sturdier for the repetition and the extra burden.’

  Hattu saw the boys’ gazes harden. Only Dagon offered him any encouragement, the plague-scarred lad nodding once, furtively.

  ‘Go!’ Kurunta snarled.

  Hattu backed away, then turned to the slope. The descent was swift but taxing, his quadriceps and hamstrings soon trembling with every jarring stride. He stumbled to a halt near the two soldiers.

  ‘Ready?’ the pair said immediately, straining to lift the pole by its ends as if preparing to harness an ox. Hattu stammered, still catching his breath from the descent: ‘I… I… ’

  ‘That’s a yes,’ one of the soldiers said.

  The pair placed the pole across Hattu’s back. The two water buckets on it pressed the pole down into his shoulders fiercely, squeezing precious air from his lungs. He shot his hands up to either side to balance the pole, the water buckets at either end swaying and sloshing, a little spilling from the sides. A moment later, the soldiers tied another two full buckets to the pole and one of them whistled gaily as he topped up the ones from which the spillage had come. Hattu staggered to adjust his footing, his arms trembling. A third pair of buckets nearly broke him. It was like carrying an awkwardly-shaped, writhing, grown man.

  ‘You’d better be going,’ one of the soldiers said, giving him a shove in the back. Six sploshes of water escaped and he nearly went sprawling, but he threw out a foot to stabilise himself, then another, then another on up the slope. The first strides were challenging and slow. The next few were utterly crushing. Everything was pulling down and back, and with his hands on the pole, he couldn’t even reach down and pull on the shrubs and roots for purchase. The extra weight meant every footstep sunk nearly shin-deep into the dust and scree. He craned his neck to see up the hill and realised he was barely a quarter of the way up. Kurunta stood in a wide-footed pose, hands on hips, glowering down on him. The rest of the boys stared down too, dry-mouthed, eager. Hattu heard only the rattling of his desert-dry breath and the thumping of his overworked heart. It felt as if a glowing coal rested at the bottom of each of his lungs. The sun crackled on his skin and now every small step was an ordeal. ‘I… I can’t,’ he croaked.

  Silence. Just the staring wall of faces up at the top of the slope.

  He focused on them until the edges of his vision grew black. Another step, and bright colours popped and flashed. Another step and he could see nothing. Suddenly, the weight was gone, a chaotic sensation of falling replacing it. He tumbled over and over, back downhill, the red dust going up his nose and in his mouth and more thorny roots scoring his skin.

  He came to a halt at the foot of the hill, coughing dust, his leg dripping blood where a root had torn it open. The pole lay just uphill from him where he had fallen, the buckets on their sides, their precious loads spilt and seeping away into the red earth. The two soldiers laughed, one tossing the other a small silver shekel bar to settle a bet.

  ‘Try again, Prince,’ Kurunta bawled down from the heights.

  Hattu felt a surge of nausea, and the very thought of standing, let alone climbing a hillside with a ridiculous burden, almost brought up the contents of his stomach.

  ‘Try again, or your comrades will not drink until sundown,’ Kurunta continued. Now a chorus of worried voices erupted. ‘Come on: get up!’ they cried, their words edged with anger.

  Hattu pushed himself to his feet, his head instantly swimming. ‘The pole,’ he croaked, asking the two soldiers for their help. One’s eyebrows arched in surprise, and he took the shekel back from the other’s palm.

  Hattu braced as they re-filled the buckets, then loaded each one onto the pole again. He took two steps towards the base of the dusty slope, then toppled face first. A chorus of jeers rang out from the heights above as he cast off the poles and threw up.

  ‘No water for you today,’ Kurunta concluded. The jeering intensified. ‘Such a shame. Prince Muwa managed to beat the Water Ordeal and bring water to his comrades. I can see why they call this one Muwa’s Shadow.’

  ***

  That evening, the moment the sun dropped to touch the western horizon, Kurunta gave the order for them to descend to the academy grounds. Hattu staggered downhill and over to the low, round cistern by the Spring of the Soldier with the rest of the recruits. The other boys fell to their knees, drinking frenetically, lashing handfuls of water across their dust-coated faces and hair. Hattu saw a space by the edge of the cistern and stepped towards it, only for big Tanku to elbow him out of the way with a snarl. So Hattu waited until the others were done then drank alone. He drank and drank until his gut ached from the sheer volume, then threw water over his face and hair and slid down to rest his back on the edge of the cistern, eyes closed. He brought the lock of hair with the teardrop-shaped beryl stone round from his shoulder and toyed with it, trying to forget about the day, to block out the gruff chatter of soldiers passing here and there and the inebriated caterwauling and clacking of cups coming from the arzana house. He spirited himself to the high hollow with the cerulean tarn, Arrow on his shoulder, Atiya by his side.

  When he opened his eyes he saw Kurunta standing in the gateway of the infantry compound, twisting a splinter of wood in his teeth, glaring at him. What have I done? He suddenly realised. I asked for this.

  ***

  As the days passed, spring turned into summer and the unforgiving Hittite heartlands baked. Every day, the Hill Pups were roused at Dawn and fed a breakfast of goat’s milk and bread with a single pot of honey to share. Shortly after, they were put through the rigours of the training field – running around a track, leaping over fences, crawling along ropes tied between two high posts and scrambling through tight earth tunnels. Only when it came close to midday – the time when farmers, citizens and even mangy dogs would be taking respite from the sun and sleeping in some shady refuge for an hour or two – Kurunta would lead the hundred up the fells. And every single day, Hattu was tasked with descending the hill to haul water buckets to the summit in that furnace-like heat. Every single time, he failed. His muscles had strengthened as Kurunta had suggested, that much was true, but he had never once reached the halfway point of the water-burdened climb before exhaustion took him. He either passed out or sunk onto one knee, knowing there was nothing left in him. He had tried to carry one bucket to the top at a time. Kurunta had let him reach the top with the first before snatching it and pouring it out. One ascent, six buckets, the general had growled gleefully.

  One day, exactly a moon after he had arrived at the academy, Hattu descended the hill at Kurunta’s order and came to the two smiling soldiers and the water pole. He eyed the sight as if he had just tasted sour beer, but said nothing. Today, he would broach the halfway point, he affirmed. It was a crumb of focus – something to stave off the madness of it all; the h
ill could not be bested with such a burden, surely? Yoked with the water poles, he began the climb. Up, up, dust, rasping breath, skin on fire, muscles burning. He even found himself taking a few steps beyond the halfway point. But then came the thud of his knees into the dust and the chorus of exasperated jeers from above. He squinted uphill, seeing Kurunta up there, smirking. The dog had set him an impossible task and he knew it.

  Now let me take you to the edge of madness, the place where soldiers are born… and craven hearts are broken.

  Hattu felt a fresh wave of vigour. With a groan, he forced himself to his feet again. Kurunta’s smirk faded and the boys up there cried in hope. He took one, two, three steps. Then blackness fell like an executioner’s blade. One of the soldiers from below climbed up to rouse him, pouring a bucket on his face and slapping him. Hattu sat up and gratefully gulped the remaining water. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘I wouldn’t be thanking me,’ the soldier said coldly, his eyes flicking to the hilltop.

  Hattu stood, shakily, seeing the wall of faces up there, twisted in anger, enviously eyeing the water dripping from Hattu’s chin.

  ‘You’d better get up there,’ the soldier said, dragging the pole and buckets behind him back downhill.

  Hattu hiked up the rest of the slope, his brain throbbing and his limbs trembling. When he reached the summit, Kurunta snorted and turned away from him. ‘No water… again.’

  ‘Sir, let them drink,’ Hattu rasped.

  Kurunta swung back and shrugged. ‘Why, so you feel better about letting everyone down? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Sir, please,’ he insisted.

  ‘Half-rations tonight for all of you,’ Kurunta barked matter-of-factly. ‘You can thank your prince for that in a moment.’

  Hattu felt his blood run cold. No, he mouthed as he saw the faces of the other recruits fall, then twist into cruel glares, all fixed upon him.