‘The Mountain Lord died at his hand – he will surely be the toast of the army… the toast of all the lands, now.’ Volca continued, pointing at the shard of broken lion skull from Pitagga’s helm. ‘And the young priestess, his true love, lives only because he saved her. Is it not a wondrous thing?’
Muwa felt the words like hot pins in his chest.
‘Though you should be careful, Tuhkanti,’ he said, his tone changing to that of a cautioning tutor, ‘for although it is a good thing when men of the royal line are thought well of by the people and the armies, it can become dangerous if they think him… the best of the royal blood. For that is your place surely, is it not?’
Muwa’s dark face creased even more. ‘My Father is ill, not dead. He is the best of the royal blood.’
‘Of course he is,’ Volca said. ‘But all can see he is not far from the Dark Earth. He cannot continue to rule in his weakened condition. Another will have to rise to rule in his stead. When that happens, I fear you will be pushed aside… in favour of the Son of Ishtar… and his beautiful priestess. Look… look how he watches you approach… with a sword in his hand – a drawn sword!’
The hot pins became glowing lances. He threw down the whip and leapt down from the chariot, striding towards Hattu. The lonely mountain path was otherwise deserted bar Volca and the unconscious Dagon and Atiya. He heard a million chattering voices in his head, felt shame, greed, lust and fury broil in his heart. He realised then that he too held his curved sword in his hand. Had he drawn it a moment ago or had it been there for some time? He did not know.
This must end, he realised, now.
***
Hattu glared at his brother.
Muwa strode towards him. His face was streaked with red, as if a giant cat had clawed him, and the famous shining silver cuirass was clad in battle-filth. The stiff mountain wind cast his hair across his face, set in a rictus. His ice-bright eyes were fixed on Hattu. Utterly fixed. His hand hung by his waist, clutching his jewel-hilted dirk firmly, his white knuckles trembling and his arm stiff. He strode towards Hattu at an unnerving pace. Hattu felt as he had in those moments before the Kaskan horde had smashed into the Hittite lines.
Fear, anger… hatred?
His oath with Father echoed in his mind. Then you believe Ishtar? That it is me who will slay princes and kings? That it is me who will seize the throne?
Darkness and light waged war in his heart.
Suddenly, it seemed all too clear what he had to do.
Hattu strode towards Muwa, matching his pace. His arms shot up and so did Muwa’s. A clatter of swords sounded as both blades were dropped to the ground and the pair came together in a fierce embrace. The wind leapt from Hattu’s lungs. Muwa pressed his face into the side of Hattu’s head. ‘I love her too,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion.
‘Brother?’ Hattu whispered, confused.
‘Atiya. I love her with all my being, and it drove me to think dark thoughts,’ he continued with a weak sob. ‘Forgive me, Brother. For now I know,’ he said, withdrawing a little to look his brother in the eyes, tracing his thumbs over Hattu’s bloodstained cheeks, ‘now I understand that she loves you.’
Hattu’s mind raced back over the darkness that had enshrouded his brother. It had all begun with his first dalliances with Atiya. ‘I did not think anyone could feel for her what I feel… but… you love her too?’
Muwa smiled weakly, it was a look that took Hattu back to their early days of carefree play. ‘Who could not, Brother? And I always will love her. But as my brother’s woman and soon his wife. As my sister.’ He traced a finger over Hattu’s feather cloakpin. ‘And I heard it from one of my men that Arrow had died. I am sorry, Brother. I did not know about it and my words and harsh treatment of you and your men in these last days must have seemed insensitive.’
‘Then it wasn’t… ’
Muwa frowned.
Hattu did too. Of course it wasn’t Muwa. But then who? Who killed Arrow?
‘Hattu… Muwa?’ Atiya groaned, lifting her head groggily. Both looked to her. She smiled weakly, and they crouched by her side. Suddenly, her face twisted in horror, looking past them. ‘He’s here!’
‘Who?’ they both said, eyes searching her.
‘Look out!’ she cried.
Hattu and Muwa turned to see Volca the Sherden, Gal Mesedi, Protector of the King, lurching towards them, trident levelled, set to plunge into them and drive them off the side of the rocky table. Hattu pushed Muwa back and threw himself aside too. Muwa threw out a leg to trip the Sherden, who tumbled over on himself, his horned helm falling from his head and off over the edge of the path, into the void. Now both Hattu and Muwa took up their swords again and stalked towards him.
***
Volca’s outstretched hand shook in vain over the drop, as if clawing at the memory of the helm. His cloak and the ring of hair around the back and sides of his head billowed in the mountain breeze and he felt the cool wind lick at the scabrous crown of vein, sinew and bone.
Behind him, the priestess continued to reveal his secrets. ‘He was Pitagga’s man. He has been poisoning the king. He lured the army here. He is a traitor.’
He turned to face the two approaching brothers. He recognised the look in their eyes. He had seen it before, on that day when the ingrates he had liberated on the Isle of the Sherden turned upon him and peeled off his scalp. Before he had broken free of their dungeon and escaped the island. He saw in the brothers’ eyes and in the priestess’, the revulsion at his disfigurement. He saw the whiteness of the princes’ knuckles, the sharpness of their swords.
He felt his heart rattle against his ribs and his step grow uneven as he backed away. He retreated slowly until he came to Muwa’s chariot, then flicked his trident across the reins and led the nearest stallion from under the yoke. Climbing onto its croup, he trained the end of the trident on Hattu and Muwa, his eyes darting beyond them to the far end of the table of rock and the continuing mountain path there. It was the only way: behind lay the Hittite army and on either side was a death plunge.
The two princes crouched like warriors, challenging him to try. With a shriek, he heeled the stallion into motion, spearing into the space between them. Muwa’s blade struck across his green scale vest. Hattu’s sword clashed with the trident with a resounding clang. The blows nearly threw him from the stallion’s back, but he clung on and broke past the pair, charging on up the path.
‘Ya!’ he cried, tasting the momentary glory of escape, then feeling a crushing sense of disgrace: another throne he had worked so hard to make his own had slipped away.
***
Mursili trembled in his wagon-bed.
High in the Soaring Mountains, they chased the Kaskan lord,
They turned upon each other, and both did draw a sword,
Mursili’s lips trembled. No… please…
Ishtar crouched so her lips hovered by King Mursili’s ear, continuing her poem:
But from the depths of hatred, something golden grew,
The swords fell onto the earth, and they were brothers anew.
Mursili’s thumping heart slowed, and he heard something. A distant rumble of hooves. A murmur of surprise from the men around the wagon...
‘My Sun!’ Colta yelped as if a boy again.
Unable to move his head on his pillow, King Mursili saw from the corner of his eye a young, plague-scarred soldier riding a white stallion from the direction of the Soaring Mountains. Dagon, he recalled, recognising Hattu’s army companion. ‘Pitagga is dead!’ Dagon cried as he rode through the sea of battle-stained Hittites. The bustle and nervous chatter grew into a barely contained clamour.
Then a single chariot streaked into view behind Dagon. Muwa and Hattu stood upon it, lashed with the red paint of battle, each held one hand aloft, clasped together.
The sea of soldiers gawped, then exploded with an almighty cry: ‘Pitagga is dead!’ they echoed Dagon’s news in disbelief then again in triumph, falling to their knees by the stream, cas
ting up water with their hands and singing words of praise to the Gods and the spirits.
‘The Tuhkanti has slain the Kaskan lord!’ men yelled in delight and relief, casting proud salutes at Muwa as the chariot weaved through their masses.
But Muwa’s free hand patted Hattu’s chest. ‘The Lord of the Mountains lies still and cold. But it was the doing of the Son of Ishtar!’ Muwa howled.
A cheer exploded across the men once again as the chariot circled. Mursili saw that the slight, pretty priestess, Atiya, was aboard the chariot too, clinging to Hattu’s waist. The sight sent a thick, warming sensation through his frail body.
‘Tuhkanti!’ they yelled at Muwa. ‘Son of Ishtar!’ they cried to Hattu. ‘Tarhunda’s favour follows you!’ the men wept and sang, beating spears on shields. In those few instants, the charnel plain had been transformed into a scene of triumph. A war piper struck up a frenzied tune of victory.
‘I knew he could do it,’ a voice said quietly. Mursili saw General Kurunta, resting one elbow on the carriage window, talking to the king but watching the events on the plain.
Strange, Mursili thought, the gnarled old veteran seemed young again – his face crease-free and both of his eyes present.
‘I know why you doubted him,’ another voice said. Old Ruba was there now too. ‘And I understand why you tried to hold him back, but I know there is greatness in him, My Sun.’
‘Loyal, noble, greatness,’ Nuwanza added. The trio reached down and squeezed Mursili’s hand. Then, they were gone, and Mursili realised they would not be back.
The king felt his eyelids droop. Behind his closed eyes, he saw that she was still there, as she always had been.
Ishtar? he asked her.
She simply continued to pace carefully around him, seductress and huntress as one.
The sound of hands slapping on the wagon’s window ledge scattered the vision and he opened his eyes.
‘Father?’ Hattu and Muwa gasped. ‘Did you hear? Pitagga is dead, dashed in the mountain gullies. The shame of the Lost North is gone with him,’ Muwa panted. He held up a leather sack, tightly tied. ‘Sarpa’s dishonour is over also.’
‘Nerik, Hakmis, Zalpa… they are all ours once again. The Grey Throne rules the Soaring Mountains once more,’ Hattu said. ‘Old Ruba would have been so proud. Lady Danuhepa awaits you back in Hattusa. Think of these good things… golden things.’
Both boys held his arm as they spoke. Only now Mursili realised one who had gone into the mountains had not returned. ‘V…’ he tried to speak. ‘Volca…’
‘Volca was a treacherous cur,’ Muwa said flatly. ‘It was he who was responsible – in league with Pitagga throughout it all – for the missing healers, for the death of Sarpa, of Ruba, of Nuwanza, of Kurunta, of Hattu’s falcon… and for what has happened to you, Father. He has been poisoning you all this time.
‘I… know,’ Mursili whispered. A tear crawled from his eye and blotted on the pillow.
‘But Volca lives still. He fled,’ Hattu sighed. ‘Through the mountains and on to the south.’
‘We have already put scouts on that road. Word will reach the corners of our lands,’ Muwa insisted, ‘and he will be brought before you. Though I fear there is not punishment grim enough in our tablets of law to subject him to. His two kinsmen have been arrested, taken from their places in the Mesedi and bound in chains. Yet they are merely worms – he was the serpent.’
But he is gone, Mursili thought, the effort to speak those words too great. The Kaskan threat has been seen off, and my boys are in harmony – true brothers.
Yet when his eyelids drooped again, he saw that still, Ishtar remained, waiting… for what?
Chapter 24
Gods of Nerik
Summer 1300 BC
‘Father?’ Muwa said in a gentle voice, shaking him softly.
King Mursili woke to see that several days had passed. The noonday sun shone brightly and the plains of Nerik had been cleared of corpses. The plagues of flies and vultures were gone. His sons were in the carriage with him, one either side, each holding a hand. And the young priestess was there too, clasping Hattu’s free hand. He smelt a sweet scent of summer blooms and realised he had been washed and anointed with perfumed waxes and oils, and his garments had been changed. Equally, the princes wore clean robes, Muwa in black, Hattu with the forest green cape over a fresh white tunic. Outside the wagon windows, he saw many Hittite soldiers, garments washed of battle-filth, wounds bandaged or sewn together with sutures of thin bronze wire. Hardy, proud, chests puffed out, heads high, left hands raised in clench-fisted salutes, they formed a corridor along which the carriage rumbled.
‘We’re going to ascend the mound of Nerik, Father,’ Muwa said. ‘To tell the Gods that their shame is over.’
‘You will be remembered for this,’ Hattu said. ‘After three hundred years, you will be the first Hittite King to worship the Storm God on this hallowed mount.’
Mursili’s lifeless flesh was suddenly charged with a shiver of wonder. The carriage tilted uphill and he realised this was not a dream. He heard the chanting of the blue-robed priests as they neared the top of the Nerik mound, and smelt incense sweetening the air up there. As the carriage tilted level again, he saw the grey, broken remnant of old Nerik. But the men had been busy, it seemed. The site of Nerik’s Storm Temple had been cleared of tumbled stonework, leaving just the neat outline of its foundations, within which benches and an altar had been erected. And the rescued statue of Tarhunda had been raised, stripped of Kaskan adornments and cleaned with oils. He saw an Elder Priest holding the tall, thorned helm – the crown of the High Priest of the Hittite Empire.
The wagon door swung open and Hattu and Muwa helped to lift him into a waiting chair and carried him over to the altar, where a libation jug of wine awaited, along with a cup in the shape of a terracotta bull. Hattu and Muwa stood by the king’s side as the corridor of soldiers dissolved to ring the summit of the Nerik mound, watching on as the Elder Priest placed the high helm on the king’s head. In Mursili’s stead, the priest read the lines of a prayer to the Storm God, and the watching ranks repeated them in a low, cantillating tone.
Two clay vases were brought before Mursili, then planted in the ground. One contained the cremated remains of Prince Sarpa’s head, and the other the ashes of the fallen lion, General Kurunta.
‘In the name of fallen heroes, this city will rise again,’ Muwa spoke in the king’s stead. ‘The ruins will grow into fine halls, temples, homes and strong barracks. For too long, hallowed Nerik has lain desolate. Now, under my father, our Sun, it will again become the glory it once was.’ The campaign scribes tapped out the statement furiously on their soft clay and wax tablets as the men of the army exploded in a joyous chorus.
Later, when the worship was over, the soldiers enjoyed wine and beer bread by the firelight to a chorus of pipe music and raucous, ribald banter. Mursili remained in his seat, watching them, his sons seated by his feet, looking over the celebrating soldiers and chatting between themselves as they enjoyed wine of their own.
‘The… world… is yours now, my sons,’ he said. The effort nearly knocked him out. ‘Never… quarrel…’
Hattu looked up, rising on his knees to be level with the seated king. ‘Ishtar was wrong, Father. We have proved that, have we not?’
Muwa looked up too, rising to the other side of the chair. ‘Hattu’s blood is mine and mine his. We are as one.’
Mursili felt his vision darkening once again, and this time he realised it might be forever. Is this it? Is this the Dark Earth coming for me? He knew he did not have much longer, and had to be certain of one thing. Why are you still here? He asked the dark ether.
Ishtar’s mien appeared in the blackness, long and mournful. Because I too wish to revel in Prince Hattu’s feats. I truly believed he would slay his brother today. She finally halted her relentless circling of him. And, because… it has changed nothing. The course of history has been altered… but the confluence of time
will bring him to the same, dark place.
She reached out with one hand, placing it on his forehead. It was like the kick of a mule. With a flash of golden light, he was suddenly alive, spry, sprinting from one edge of the land to the other faster than any man or beast, then soaring through the sky across mountains and seas, through blizzards and arid desert winds. Time, days, moons, seasons, years – whole lifetimes – shot past him in an angry fury. And at last he saw that she was not tormenting him, but speaking with candour:
A burning east, a desert of graves,
A grim harvest, a heartland of wraiths,
The Son of Ishtar, will seize the Grey Throne,
A heart so pure, will turn to stone,
The west will dim, with black boats’ hulls,
Trojan heroes, mere carrion for gulls,
And the time will come, as all times must,
When the world will shake, and fall to dust…
And he saw it all played out with her flat-voiced verse. Amongst the flames, the dead and the bloodied throne, stood a shadowy warrior in a dark green cloak with a falcon perched on his shoulder. He realised his body was trembling.
‘Father?’ Hattu said, his voice tight with concern, one hand on the king’s. Muwa clasped the same hand also.
But Mursili, Labarna, Great King of the Hittite Empire, the Sun, realised that Volca’s foul brew had penetrated deeply, turning parts of his body cold and useless. These words might well be his last, so he was determined to make them sweet. Young Hattu deserved this much after so many years of coldness… and especially given what lay ahead for him. He thought of the hollow with the soaring birds, the cascading falls and the blue tarn, of Queen Gassula, young and smiling, lying by his side on the summer grass there. He remembered the warmth of her caress, the sweetness of her every touch. The rheum in his eyes thickened and a single bead stole down his cheek, splashing on his, Hattu and Muwa’s hands.
‘The high hollow was truly… wondrous, wasn’t it?’ he whispered. The words had no sooner parted from his lips than the blackness closed over forever. In the void, Ishtar waited. But she was receding, stepping away at last, after so many years. She gazed heavenwards, her great wings extending. Up, she rose… and was soon gone from view. Mursili found himself alone in the eternal, empty darkness.
Son of Ishtar Page 43
