Son of Ishtar

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘Gods, Atiya, even Kurunta was less cruel than this,’ he gasped as the oil in the buckets sloshed and fought against him. They reached the statues at last, but before he could rest the buckets down, Atiya produced a chunk of carrot and held it up to his lips.

  ‘What the-’ he started, the sentence ending when the carrot was pressed into his mouth.

  ‘Good mule,’ she said as he bit off a chunk.

  He stood tall, crunching through the root then holding his hands to his head like ears and attempting a braying ee-aw noise.

  She stared at him, then shook her head. ‘Do remember that you are a prince,’ she said with a cheeky tut and a sigh, then dipped a clean pad of linen in one of the buckets and took to polishing the eagle-headed statue. He watched her work, feeling his throat closing up and his tongue tying itself in knots… and his loins growing warm. She was nearly two summers older than his fifteen, as the curves of her hips and chest attested. And there was a single coil of dark hair trailing from her headscarf, resting on the nape of her neck. The sepia skin there was flawless. The sight of it evoked a sweet, almost tortuous feeling across his breast, like the stroke of a feather. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it might be like to kiss her there, gently. Of course, she chose that moment to shoot a coy look over her shoulder. He averted his eyes. He then set about convincing himself that he was a fool for thinking more of their relationship than was real. You are but a boy to her, he told himself.

  When the statues were bright as stars, she vanished inside the temple’s kitchen hall and brought out a bowl of honeyed porridge each for them and they sat and ate together. It was easier now, Hattu realised, without his foolish imaginings stilting his words and tangling his movements. He took to combing his hands through the grass as they chatted about old times, then noticed a caterpillar crawling along his finger.

  ‘One day it will fly – like Arrow,’ Hattu mused, lifting his hand, gazing down his nose and examining the caterpillar. ‘It has no comprehension of what lies ahead. Of what it will become.’

  ‘Nor do any of us,’ Atiya added, holding up a fingertip to meet the end of Hattu’s. The caterpillar then wriggled across, oblivious to the smiling pair beholding it.

  A short while later, she walked him to the temple’s main gates. He looked out across the lower town, seeing the sea of tents and soldiers in the countryside beyond the walls. Perhaps it was time to focus on the campaign ahead, he affirmed. Notions of anything else would be but a distraction – a silly, boyish distraction.

  ‘So it is time? The mule must become a soldier again?’ Atiya said, sidling up next to him.

  ‘I love you, Atiya,’ he said.

  Silence.

  Hattu felt the whole of the city and the sprawl of the mustering army outside writhing, buzzing, no doubt turning to point and mock him. Even the chanting, singing troupe of priests seemed to fall quiet. What have I done? I’ve ruined everything, I… ‘I… I… ’

  He fell silent as she stretched up on her toes and kissed him. Her lips were wet, warm and sweet with honey from the porridge, and a trace of her floral perfume danced in his nostrils. A gentle breeze picked up. Her headscarf fell to her neck, her braid tumbling loose. A few locks that had escaped Hattu’s tight, high tail of hair coiled around them to meet it, like curtains drawn for privacy. Pure instinct took hold and he wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her close, she clasping hers around his back.

  When they parted, he felt a surge of elation, a desire to cry out so all could hear.

  ‘I’ve always loved you Hattu. First, as a brother. Then, from the moment you came back for me – saved me from the Kaskans – as so much more.’

  He made to reply, but she lifted and pressed a finger to his lips. ‘I must prepare to travel to Tapikka. And you? Go to war, Prince Hattu. I ask only that you do not break my heart.’

  At that moment, Hattu realised all in his life was right. The girl he loved was in his arms, he had become a warrior, and the wicked prediction that he would grow to fight his kin had been proven wrong. Tomorrow, he would march forth with his kin, to fight beside them. And he would return… to be with Atiya, always.

  ***

  Muwa halted dead in his stride. What was this he saw before him? Atiya in an embrace with… Hattu?

  Atiya’s coldness. The soldier-trinket. It all made sense now.

  Then, when they kissed, he felt an invisible dagger of ice sink into his breast. He swung away, pressing his back to the gatepost opposite the temple gates. His breath came galloping back to him like a wild steed. All his days he had been told that the Tuhkanti wanted for nothing. The heir to the Grey Throne could have any woman in the land. And it was true: the greatest beauties in Hattusa, noblemen’s daughters and vassal princesses had been mooted as potential spouses. But he wanted none of them. He had long ago known that the priestess who lent colour to his dreams would one day be his wife.

  It has to be her! he screamed inside.

  When he looked back he saw them kissing again. Ever so slightly, his top lip twitched and his ice-bright eyes blackened under the shadow of his brow. The sour pool of rejection curdled within him, darkening and boiling like pitch.

  Chapter 13

  To War

  Spring 1300 BC

  Pipers played a stirring song as the sun rose from the horizon. Golden light spilled through the pillars of the Dawn Bridge, flooding Hattusa and setting the waters of the Ambar ablaze with its reflection. The city streets and the roofs of every house were packed with crowds, who cheered and chanted as the royal carriage ambled down from the acropolis, its bronze straps polished to catch the sun, the ring of one hundred Mesedi escorting it glittering likewise.

  ‘Missa! Kasmessa!’ – the crowds cried the cultic words in adulation of the king and their Gods.

  The carriage stopped by the Storm Temple to allow the ailing King Mursili to make a libation of wine and an offering of wheat before trundling on out of the Tawinian Gate. A gentle breeze combed the land as the wagon rolled towards the three ordered bronze divisions awaiting it on the flatland outside, side by side and facing the city.

  Within the ranks of the Storm, Hattu stood alongside the Mountain Wolves, stock still despite the grass tickling his bare legs above the collar of his soldier boots. He hoped the whole of Hattusa could see him like this: clad in his linen tunic and kilt, encased in his glistening, well-oiled leather corselet and helm, armed with spear, bow, mace, sword and shield. The weighty hide pack tied near the head of his spear was crammed with soldier bread, sheep’s cheese, salted hare, barley and a small flask of wine. Fresh pangs of fear and excitement curdled in his belly. He rolled his eyes left and right, seeing Tanku, Garin, Dagon, Sargis, Kisna and the rest of the Wolves doing likewise. Dagon shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, chewing nervously on a stalk of already overchewed grass. Garin’s belly groaned and protested like an angry man trapped in an urn. Tanku stood a little taller than the rest, expression granite-hard, the sides of his head freshly shaved and his bulky shoulders draped in a dark green cloak. Hattu could not help but look again at the garment – was it just his memory toying with him… or had that strange apparition of a warrior not been wearing that very cloak? Tanku claimed he had been gifted it by the tailors in the academy workhouse, but the others had jibed that his mother had made it for him, so proud was she at his attainment of the rank of captain. Regardless, it was a fine cloak, and it marked him out well as leader of the Mountain Wolves.

  Hattu looked forward again, across Hattusa, seeing the acropolis silhouetted in the dawn sun. His smoke-grey eye ached as he caught sight of something: it was surely a trick of the light, but for a moment he thought he saw that round-shouldered, humble scribe, watching them from those lofty turrets. He shielded his eyes from the sun to see better and the vision disappeared. The scribe was gone, and Hattu knew that this time it was for good.

  You’re going to war, he realised. Suddenly, the weight of his armour doubled and the thought of fa
cing Kaskans seemed like a cruel trick. He felt his heart race as fear began to conquer the excitement within. An old habit came to him then: he reached up to his long tail of hair, as if to draw a strand round to cover the odd eye. But his fingers found the beryl stone tied there. He stroked its smooth surface. For a precious moment, the panic vanished and the burden of the armour and equipment was gone. His eyes drifted to the lower town and the cluster of wagons waiting by the Storm Temple. The Tapikka pilgrimage. Already the templefolk were busy loading the supplies and soon the silver statue of Tarhunda would be brought out and loaded too. He could not discern any of the tiny figures from this distance but he knew she was there.

  Atiya. Sweet Atiya: her name enough to kindle warmth in his breast. I will return… and we will be joined before the Gods. It seemed so simple, so clear. He had yet to tell Muwa. His brother stood some distance away at the head of the Fury. From here, Hattu could only see his black robes, silver scale armour and his mass of thick, loose hair obscuring his face. We will rejoice later, Brother, he smiled.

  Volca ushered the king’s wagon and the Mesedi into place, sandwiched between the Fury and Storm ranks, then strode over to stand with Muwa, his red cloak and the small red rag knotted near the head of his trident spear snapping in the gentle wind.

  ‘Warriors of the Grey Throne, the day is young and the skies are fine,’ Muwa proclaimed, his voice oddly hoarse. ‘Pitagga of the Kaskan northlands roams yonder… his hands stained with Hittite blood.’ Muwa stabbed a finger towards the hazy outline of the Soaring Mountains. ‘Now he seeks to slay our allies, the Galasmans, and take from them and us the precious lead mines. Let us march with haste. Let us meet this cur with fire in our hearts and unleash upon him the wrath of the Gods!’

  Close to fifteen thousand voices exploded in a guttural roar, clenched fists punching the air. The bronze campaign horn sounded in a low, ominous note that filled the countryside.

  ‘Riders,’ Volca howled, stepping out from behind Muwa.

  A smattering of twelve lightly-laden, lean men on horseback broke northwards at a canter, scouting ahead. As soon as they had departed, Volca hoisted his trident and swished it down and to the north.

  ‘Ad-vance,’ he cried.

  ‘For-waaaaard!’ the many commanders howled. Then, with a rock-shaking chorus of myriad boots grinding on earth, every man in the Hittite army swung on their heel away from Hattusa to face the north, the gold-topped staffs of each division were hefted high to catch the sun, then the Hittite Army marched to war.

  They moved like a bronze chain drawn across the countryside by an invisible hand: the Fury, the Storm and the Blaze. The noble warrior-driver teams of the Lords of the Bridle rode on ox-wagons, rumbling along astride the marching divisions, and one long wagon carried a knot of priests and augurs. Behind them came a mass of solid-wheeled ox-carts carrying arms, supplies and two hundred of the precious chariots – which would be assembled if and when needed. Thousands of pack mules and unburdened chariot steeds trailed behind this wagon train under Colta’s guidance.

  For Hattu, marching in the front rank of the Mountain Wolves, those first few steps felt like massive strides. A storm of emotions raged inside. An urge to laugh, to weep and to shout aloud. Just when it almost boiled over, a gentle braying noise off to the left of the column drew his eye to the comical sight of old Ruba astride Onyx the pony. It was the first time Ruba had been summoned on campaign by the king for many years. While Onyx was struggling somewhat to carry his master, it would surely have been crueller to leave the pony behind and separate the doting pair. His old teacher cast him a warm smile, and Hattu replied in kind.

  They skirted the alder woods, and Hattu shot a look to his left over the dawn-lit canopy of green, seeing the fin-like ridge he had often climbed poking out, suddenly so small in comparison to the heights he had scaled in his training and his night-scrambles. Then many thousands turned their heads right and threw up clenched fists and cried fond words of affection towards the Meadow of the Fallen and the jagged Rock Shrine on that side of the track. Hattu’s eyes hung on the Rock Shrine. Memories of highborn joinings within surfaced. Imaginings came to him – of him and Atiya stepping onto the bedrock dais within, to drink sacred wine before the gods, to become one…

  With a barking of many voices and bumping of shoulders, the reverie was scattered and he turned his attentions to the road ahead. The divisions were narrowing to file through a tight pass that led up and into the northern hills. Soon, Hattusa was but a blotch behind them, slowly slipping into the horizon.

  Hattu had never been any further north than this. Thoughts of his home dragged on his heart like an anchor. At that moment he could recall only the few happy moments that had threaded his bleak boyhood in the great city. He felt a keen urge to look back one more time, but did not. He noticed many of the other young soldiers do so. He looked to Tanku, who seemed somewhat uncertain what to do about their misgivings. ‘Talk to them,’ he urged quietly, thinking of the times he had seen Father quell disquiet in the Panku sessions. ‘A few words will settle their nerves.’

  ‘Aye – and mine,’ Tanku flashed him a nervous grin. ‘This is but a stroll,’ the big captain called back to them, rolling his neck one way and then the other. ‘We’ll be back with our families in no time… as heroes.’

  Garin whooped, and others laughed and chattered in agreement.

  But a slit-eyed captain ahead at the rear of the Fury ranks did not share their enthusiasm. He was leading a hundred known as the Leopard Clan who wore paw-prints on their shields. He turned his age-lined face to them and shot each of them a derisive scowl, the look hanging on Hattu longest. ‘You’ll be lucky to keep your head with that one in your midst.’

  Hattu bristled. While many within the ranks had come to accept him, most still had not.

  ‘That’s Hattusili, my chosen man!’ Tanku shouted at the captain. ‘Do you have a problem with him?’

  ‘Many have died when close to him,’ the captain snapped back.

  ‘I would have died – plummeted into a ravine – were it not for him,’ Tanku snarled.

  ‘And I would have burned to ash in the Kaskan raid,’ Dagon added.

  ‘But he carries a curse,’ the Fury captain argued.

  ‘I carry a spear and a sword like you,’ Hattu shot back.

  ‘Enough,’ Chief Raku snapped.

  The Fury captain obeyed the superior’s demand, but turned away in disgust.

  But Dagon did not let it drop – instead he threw his head back and took to howling like a wolf. A moment later, the rest of the hundred joined in before breaking down in laughter.

  ‘I said enough,’ Raku barked – but only after letting the howl resonate long enough to make its point.

  The sun rose and the land was soon hot and dry. They followed the ancient northern route across high, windswept plateaus studded with boulders and tussocks of grass, across rope-bridges that crossed churning rivers, down steep, treacherous slopes and up energy-sapping hills. Dust thrown up by the many boots ahead clung to Hattu’s face, coating his nostrils and the back of his throat and buzzing flies harangued the column in swarms. His tunic was soaked with sweat under his cuirass. By mid-morning, the leather vest was chewing at his shoulders and his boots gnawed at his heels, his spear shaft and shield handle were grating at his palms, but all those places were well toughened and callused. Now the excited chatter of the early march had fallen away to be replaced by panting and coughing.

  Kurunta’s bare scalp was a shade of pink and slick with sweat, his brow lined like a freshly-ploughed field. Hattu noticed how he was glaring ahead at the royal wagon, where Colta had jogged forward and taken a seat on the bench attached to the rear of the vehicle, facing backwards, arms folded and his face decidedly smug. ‘Who does that pointy-bearded bastard think he is, sitting on a march?’

  General Nuwanza, jogging forward from the Blaze ranks, laughed, nudging an elbow into Kurunta’s side. ‘That you are marching means you are strong and fit
, Kurunta, as fresh as your latest young recruits. You should take it as a tribute.’

  ‘Young? I’m at least three times the age-’ he stopped and looked around him, then feigned a coughing fit to avoid finishing his sentence.

  So would you rather sit in the wagon, like an old man?’ Nuwanza asked with a playful edge.

  ‘Eh?’ Kurunta said, disgusted. ‘What nonsense are you talking now? Have you been drinking the foul glue from your fletching workshop?’ he scoffed, marching with a little more spring in each step, almost prancing, the silver braid by his temple swishing like a prize pony’s tail. ‘Nothing like a stiff march. And, what is age anyway?’ Kurunta waved a dismissive hand. ‘My wife has a polished bronze mirror, but I tell her,’ he said to Nuwanza, but loud enough so all would hear, ‘throw it away. If you don’t have a mirror, then you don’t grow old. I certainly don’t have a mirror.’

  Silence, then a voice from the ranks behind chirped…

  ‘Sir, you don’t have a mirror because you’re an ugly bastard!’

  Several hundred soldiers exploded with laughter until Kurunta swung to seek out the anonymous voice. He jogged backwards in time with the march, casting an evil glare across the marching ranks of the Storm that seemed to last forever, then his face bent in a demonic grin. ‘Aye, and don’t you forget it.’

  Another chorus of laughter.

  They marched onwards to the rhythm of boots. Fatigue crept up on them swiftly as the afternoon wore on. After a while – at Kurunta’s signal – the pipers near the head of each regiment struck up a skirling tune that seemed to fill the land, and set the hairs on the back of Hattu’s neck standing proud. When they played, the going seemed much easier. When they took a break, the men sang choruses of well-practiced songs, some to praise the Gods, others to stoke hearts: