Son of Ishtar

by Gordon Doherty

  As the summer came to an end, the land cooled and the trees turned russet and gold, and the Fields of Bronze grew busy with men preparing for winter billet. The standing troops stationed here over summer would disperse to their homes or to workshops in the cities, leaving just a skeleton garrison of a few hundred to look after the snowbound academy over winter.

  Soldiers paced from place to place, towing carts of arms and supplies. Many eyed the arzana house enviously, hearing the pipe music and the laughter of the off-duty men emanating from within. Those who passed the command building near the paddocks cast spellbound looks at the royal carriage drawn up there, watched over by two glittering Mesedi.

  Inside the cool, shady command building, King Mursili sat across a table from Kurunta.

  ‘The Mountain… Wolves?’ the king repeated as if he had misheard.

  Kurunta nodded reluctantly. ‘I named them the Hill Pups. They decided to change it.’

  Mursili sat back on his chair, cradling his chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘And it was my boy who named them?’

  Kurunta shrugged. ‘Aye. He did. The rest of the hundred agreed readily to his suggestion. And then they sat together, painting blood-red streaks on their shields and on their skin: like the tear of a wolf’s claws,’ Kurunta said with a weary flick of his eyebrows.

  ‘They hold him in some esteem, then?’ Mursili asked. ‘When I sent Hattu to you, I ordered you to-’

  ‘He will not break,’ Kurunta interrupted. ‘Forgive me, My Sun,’ he reprimanded himself. ‘But I have put him through the grimmest trials. First it was the Water Ordeal, carrying to the hills a burden that no soldier could manage.’ He snorted in incredulity. ‘I even told him Prince Muwa had beaten the challenge, yet I have only ever subjected troublemakers to it.’ He leaned forward to hold Mursili’s attention. ‘The point of the task is that it is impossible. It is designed to break the spirit and the body. Yet he found a way. He broke the damned challenge!’ He shook his head. ‘There was one night, before he managed it, when I could tell he was wavering, thinking of leaving. I opened the gates to the infantry compound before I turned in, thinking he would be gone in the morning. But he did not leave. The sentries told me he had risen and taken to scrambling up the hills in the darkness. For over a month I left the gates unlocked. He had ample chance to leave and refused it.’

  ‘I’ve known you a long time,’ Mursili said. ‘You have many tricks to break a man.’

  Kurunta shrugged. ‘Indeed. Next, I took him to the Bridge of the Mountain God.’

  ‘The jump?’ Mursili said, leaning forward in interest.

  Kurunta avoided the king’s eyes. ‘I, er… wrapped cloth around his eyes and… ’

  Mursili drew in a tight breath. ‘You made him jump blindfolded? When I asked you to break my son, I did not mean physically… ’

  ‘Absolve me, My Sun, I did not expect him to actually attempt the jump, but he did – and he made it with room to spare. Then I subjected them all to the River Ordeal, up in the ice stream,’ Kurunta’s face crumpled, ‘and I will admit I maybe only did that because I was angry… and a bit hungry… and I had a sore tooth. But I watched them and I saw that it was Hattu who worked it out – the key to minimising the pain of the ordeal. Next, he saved one of his comrades – probably his biggest detractor – who had fallen into the ravine.’ He threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘After that I took them on a full morning’s run around the hottest valleys in the fells. I noticed Hattu falling back. I thought I had cracked it then, until I saw that he had merely slowed to help the lad at the rear – Garin, built like a date pudding.’

  ‘Yet he has not excelled, has he?’ Mursili mused. ‘You say it was the big one named Tanku who they elected as their captain?’

  Kurunta chapped the table in frustration. ‘Half elected Tanku, half Hattu. Hattu convinced them Tanku was the better choice: stronger, louder and fiercer.’

  ‘Then his meekness remains?’

  Kurunta flashed a dry, foul grin. ‘Not meek… bright, selfless. Tanku selected Hattu as his chosen man. It was the moment I knew that the boy’s place is in the army. Raku flat-face, the Chief of the Storm’s First Regiment, did not want him in his thousand at first. Now he does. Hattu is the finest prospect I have trained in some time: bright of mind and fleet of foot. He is stronger even than Prince Muwa was at that age.’

  Mursili felt Ishtar’s invisible finger trace his spine. ‘Aye, well, he will serve as a fine assistant when Muwa becomes king,’ he said, more tersely than intended.

  Kurunta searched the king’s face, confused, then relaxed. ‘There is not a hint of treachery in him, My Sun. Let Ishtar forgive me for this, but what she told you that night… is not true. He will not seek to harm you or his brother, I can assure you of that much.’

  ‘Can you?’ Mursili replied instantly.

  ‘You have known me your entire life, you know that I don’t fawn to you like others. I can only give you my honest opinion.’ Kurunta sighed. ‘But that aside, you asked me to break him. I am sorry, My Sun, for on that front I have failed you.’

  Mursili’s eyes drifted across the scars on the table. ‘Alas, I fear you could never have succeeded. Fate, it seems, is a river that no man can divert.’

  ‘What for Hattu now?’ Kurunta asked. ‘Will you take him with you, back to Hattusa? I have overheard him talking with the others. He has spoken with some fondness of returning to the acropolis over winter.’

  Mursili’s eyes brightened. ‘He yearns for a soft bed?’

  ‘No, he merely longs to show you how well he has done,’ Kurunta replied. ‘He itches to make you proud, My Sun.’

  Mursili tapped his lips with his forefinger a few times, caught in some inner dilemma. ‘He is to stay here over the snows,’ he said at last, ‘with the winter guard.’

  Kurunta’s eyes fell. ‘Aye, I will tell him so,’ he said sadly.

  ‘His training is not complete,’ Mursili grumbled. ‘He may think he has beaten the rigours of the academy, but he has yet to be put through his paces by Colta.’

  Kurunta’s gaze lifted to meet the king’s again. ‘True. Many infantrymen, nobles… some princes even, have been reduced to white-faced wrecks by the old hurkeler and his damned horses.’ His good eye glazed for a moment and he issued a short, reminiscent laugh.

  Mursili drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Then that is how it shall be. Hattu will stay here through the winter and next summer too. And it will be me he will stand before, at the end. The Chariot Ordeal separates the strong from the mighty. It will be me who grants him… or denies him… the status he covets,’ he snapped, ‘as a true prince.’ A streak of hot, stinging pain shot down his left arm as he heard his own words ringing around the room. He clasped a hand to his armpit, feeling pins and needles in his left hand.

  ‘My Sun?’ Kurunta gasped, half-rising from his seat.

  Mursili waved him back testily. Recapturing his breath, he dipped his head. ‘Watch over my son: that he grows strong and skilled should fill me with pride and hope. Yet, still, all I can see when I look at him is what I gave up so he could live. And all I can hear when he speaks is Ishtar’s pledge, of the dark future…’

  ‘Hattu is a good lad, My Sun,’ Kurunta said earnestly.

  Mursili’s bloodshot eyes flicked up, alight, his face sombre. ‘No man is born wicked, old friend.’

  ***

  Hattu sat by the window of the arzana house, oblivious to the skirling, pacy pipes and the raucous goings-on around him. His eyes were trained on the command house across the track: still and silent in the twilight, the ruts of King Mursili’s recently departed carriage still fresh in the dust.

  I understand now, Father. You wanted me to fail, to return to my old life and remain there, Hattu mused. He felt no anger, just a heavy sense of betrayal. In his short visit to the academy, the king had not even sought him out. Instead, Gorru the Mesedi had come in to the arzana house to tell him that he was to remain at the Fields of Bronze throughout the
winter. Why? Because you think I will finally break and cry for my soft bed in the palace? Or to keep me safely distant from Hattusa and the Grey Throne? The chair you think I am destined to seize for myself? You do not trust me. You believe Ishtar and think me a curse. But if there is anything I can swear by, it is that I will never break our oath, Father. If that confounds the Gods, then so be it. He barely realised that one hand had curled into a shaking, white-knuckled fist. I will show you.

  A sudden frantic clatter snapped him from his introspection. He swung round just as the two wrestlers in the sunken pit at the heart of the low, dark hall tumbled up onto the floor in a baleful embrace. The larger of the two hauled the smaller up by his loincloth and his club of hair, then hurled him towards the edge of the hall. The fellow flailed through tables and chairs, sending cups of barley beer fountaining in his wake. Hattu ducked back an instant before the fellow went plunging through the window with a strangled yelp. A great roar went up from the spectators and they exchanged trinkets and copper rings to settle bets. The victorious wrestler stood tall, beaming, his oiled skin glistening and his smile spoiled by the tooth that had been knocked out during the bout. ‘Next?’ he shouted with extreme confidence, leaping back into the pit.

  The fellow who had exited hastily moments before made a commendable attempt at climbing back in the window. ‘N-not finished,’ he slurred, blood streaming from his broken nose and one eye swollen shut.

  ‘I’d say you are,’ Hattu suggested, helping him inside then resting him on his chair where he passed out at once, snoring. He turned away to find the rest of the Mountain Wolves. The interior of the arzana house was as big as a paddock, packed with men in military tunics or kilts, hugging the maze of niches and benches or craning over the wooden balcony of the mezzanine, beer cups sloshing as they drank in great, untasting gulps, belching and cheering the next wrestling bout. Bubbles of orange lamplight gave the place the appearance of a cave, and coils of fragrant smoke battled hard against the olfactory assault of stale drink and the rank odour of unwashed men.

  ‘Hattu,’ Garin called from the darkness of one niche. His fleshy features were ruddier than usual and beaded with sweat.

  ‘Are you well?’ Hattu asked.

  Then the harlot sitting behind him in the darkness leaned forward, her sultry, dark lined eyes glued to Hattu as she nibbled on Garin’s ear, then wrapped her legs around his waist and drew him back into an embrace.

  ‘Dagon has something for you,’ he said, before his words grew ecstatically muffled.

  Hattu cocked an eyebrow and left them to it.

  A hand with a fresh cup of foaming beer shot out in front of him. ‘There you are,’ Tanku said, pushing the cup into his hand. The big recruit was seated, wearing just a kilt and cradling his newly-awarded captain’s helm – dark brown leather with a bronze browband like the others’, but with a long, dark plume that trailed to the small of his back when wearing it. Behind him a bald masseur was rubbing oil into Tanku’s back and grinding his elbows into the muscles. ‘We’ve made it. Summer is over and we’re unbroken. Drink. You should be enjoying this as much as the rest of us,’ he insisted.

  Hattu drew a mouthful of the bitter drink through the reed straw. Just months ago, he would never have felt such ease alongside the burly soldier. Now he did. Tanku was bold, stubborn and at times reckless, and all those things had surfaced thanks to Kurunta’s brutal training. But underneath, Tanku was a good young man who sought simple pleasures for himself and his close ones.

  ‘The women are quite beautiful,’ Tanku said, eyes combing the niches where soldiers and harlots cavorted. Then he held up his cup with a grin. ‘Especially after a few of these.’

  Hattu smiled, taking another mouthful of beer. The drink was warming his blood already, loosening his stiff neck. He saw a few intent-laden and expertly-painted female faces peek out from the dark recesses. He had never lain with a woman and, for a moment, his loins stirred. Yet all he could think of was one girl, far from here.

  ‘I’ll let Garin and the others enjoy their company. For me, there is someone else,’ he said.

  Tanku’s eyebrows arched. ‘Aye?’

  ‘Atiya. She lives at the Storm Temple. She is bright and beautiful like the dawn,’ he said without effort.

  ‘Ha! But she is in Hattusa, is she not. You are here, now. Some say it is the last rite of a prince to make him a man,’ Tanku grinned.

  When one of the harlots coiled and uncoiled a finger, beckoning him, flashing one up-tipped breast, he felt his throat drain of moisture. The truth was it seemed more daunting than the leap over the bridge of the Mountain God. ‘I… I… ’

  A slurred voice and stale-beer breath ended his quandary. ‘You don’t talk to… him,’ a hulking soldier growled, pushing in between Tanku and Hattu. He was from the Blaze Division, Hattu realised. ‘They call him the Cursed Son.’

  Tanku stood and elbowed the man away. ‘Then they are fools,’ he shouted.

  The pipe music faded and the wrestling stopped.

  ‘Tanku, it doesn’t matter,’ Hattu whispered.

  ‘Aye, it does,’ Tanku countered. ‘We are the Mountain Wolves!’ he cried. ‘Prince Hattu is one of us.’ He beat his fist against his chest.

  From dark corners and tables dotted around the arzana house, ninety eight other young men suddenly shot to their feet and emitted the keening wolf howl. Raku flat-face and a handful of other Storm men also thumped their cups on their tables in agreement.

  A tense silence passed. Hattu saw the many other veterans in the place cast chill looks upon his comrades – the kind of looks they had previously reserved for him alone. Soon though, the pipes struck up again, the raucous chatter continued and the two wrestlers resumed knocking lumps out of one another.

  ‘How do you do it, Tanku?’ Hattu asked as they both sat again. ‘You have no notion of fear.’

  He laughed once, then dropped his head a little and began knitting and un-knitting his fingers. ‘One night, when I was a boy, I noticed a white, glossy orb on the ceiling above my bed,’ he said, the fire in his voice now but an ember. ‘I was fascinated by it: so sleek, so delicately woven in the finest threads. I went to sleep that night and I woke, hearing a terrible scratching noise. Near me, all around me… on me. I opened my eyes and saw the white orb on the ceiling had ruptured like a boil. Three dozen or more spiders were scurrying across my face, one in my ear, many in my hair. I had heard tales of venomous spiders and what their bites could do to a boy. My mother was asleep nearby, but I was too afraid to scream, lest they crawled into my mouth. So I lay there for the rest of the night, silent, alone… terrified. I understand fear well enough.’

  Hattu felt an invisible itch on every part of his skin. He rose, clamping a hand to Tanku’s shoulder. ‘I don’t know what lies ahead for us, but whatever it might be: spiders, brigands, Kaskans – you will not be alone.’

  Tanku planted a hand over Hattu’s, looking up. ‘That’s the greatest lesson I’ve learned during this summer,’ he said with a smile.

  Hattu wandered off, sat on a bench by the wall and took a long draw on his beer. He felt warm and weightless now. He barely noticed Dagon sitting down by his side. He pressed something into Hattu’s hand. Hattu spread his palm: it was Atiya’s teardrop beryl stone.

  ‘This? How did you know?’ Hattu gasped. The last he had seen of this was when he had traded it for three loaves of bread, months ago.

  ‘I bought it back for you. I saw you, on those early nights – stroking the stone for comfort. Then I saw you barter it in exchange for food for the rest of us.’ Dagon laughed and took a drink of his wine. ‘Were we worth it?’

  Hattu tied the stone back in his hair and looked around the smoky haze, the drunken chaos and the many soldiers. One face in ten was friendly now, at least. ‘Aye, you were,’ he smiled.

  Chapter 10

  Sacred Rain

  Late Winter 1301 BC

  The winter was severe, the days short and perishing. The heartlands were
blocked with deep snow, the countryside deserted, every sane person having retreated to the safety and shelter of the Hittite cities.

  A bitter wind blew into Hattu’s eyes as he plunged along the top of the snow-coated fells under an angry sky, his bare chest running with sweat, his now shoulder-length hair and linen kilt wet with it too. It had been a long, lonely winter, with just a few soldiers and Kurunta for company in the all-but-deserted Fields of Bronze. The Wolves were gone. Dagon, Tanku, Garin, Kisna and Sargis had all left in the days following the drunken night in the arzana house. In the distance he could see the white-coated mass of Hattusa off to the east. Damn you, Father, he growled, vaulting over a boulder, a shower of snow spraying in his wake.

  His skin stung and his chest burned with every breath as he came to a red outcrop mottled with patches of clinging snow. He launched from the run and onto the lower face, feet and hands latching onto the holds he had spotted from a few strides away. A moment later, he was on his way up. The cold bit at his fingers but the holds were good, and soon, there was nothing in his mind but the climb. He hauled himself onto the top of the rocky tower and sat cross-legged, swiping the sweat from his face and tucking his hair behind his ears. He pulled a woollen cloak from his leather bag around his body. The keening wind picked up for a moment. This, he decided, was probably the definition of alone.

  Then he heard something else – something familiar – high above.

  He looked up into the sky – white and bruised with full storm clouds – to see a tiny shadow up there swooping down towards him. ‘Arrow?’ he gasped. He shot out his left arm, offering the dark-brown bracer to her. She landed on his wrist as if they had never been apart. ‘You are far from your nest, girl, and a storm threatens,’ he reprimanded her, stroking her back with one finger. Then he heard another shriek. A smaller falcon appeared – a male – swooping down to settle in the snow near Hattu. ‘A mate?’ he cooed. Arrow shrieked at him in reply, head tilting one way then the other. ‘Ah, just friends, I see,’ he said puckishly.