Bronze Summer (24 page)

‘The raiders could have come from Gaira, or from Albia,’ said Voro.

‘Or,’ said Noli, the stern elder Annid who had so vigorously opposed Raka’s appointment, ‘they could have been
us
. Northlanders, turning on their own.’

‘Our kind would not do this!’ snapped back a burly Vole.

‘Our kind are human too,’ Teel said. ‘Our kind are starving too.’

‘No,’ Qirum said clearly. All eyes turned to him. He pushed back his cloak, so his breastplate shone in the firelight. He murmured to Milaqa, ‘Translate for me. I was the first to inspect the ruined settlement. You saw me. The raiders were starving farmers. How do I know? Because of the way they tore these buildings apart. You saw the broken-open storage pits I found. In my country every city has a granary, a grain store, to feed the people in times of famine.’ He snorted contempt. ‘These petty raiders thought this was a farm, or a city. That there must be a grain store somewhere. That is why they dug into the very floors. They didn’t know how you live. Hungry farmers did this – not you Northlanders.’

Raka nodded. ‘All right. But for them to have come so deep into our country, to act so savagely, they must have been hungry indeed.’

Teel said, ‘They will come again, or their kind. After such a winter, famine must rage across the Continent.’

Kilushepa spoke now, through Milaqa’s translation. ‘My country has suffered famine for years, because of drought. Already, I believe, Hattusa – my capital – would have fallen, the empire itself crumbled, if not for your assistance, your potatoes and maize. I have spoken of this before. And now we have the burden of the fire mountain’s clouds. If the empire of the Hatti were to fall now – if the other great states of the east were to collapse, Egypt and Assyria—’

‘The Continent would swarm with raiders,’ Teel said. ‘So would the sea. Desperate, starving farmers, with their hungry children. And some will come dressed like this.’ He reached over and rapped his knuckles on Qirum’s breastplate; the Trojan grinned. ‘Not just hungry farmers,’ Teel said. ‘Hungry warriors.’

Raka nodded. ‘So what are we to do?’

Before any of the Northlanders could reply, Kilushepa took her chance. She stood, and pulled Milaqa to her feet. ‘Speak my words well for me, child,’ she murmured in Hatti. ‘I will tell you what you must do, Annid. You must help me return to Hattusa.’ She glanced around at the few Jackdaws in the company. ‘Those of you who trade with us know my reputation. I was ousted by fools. Only I held that country together – only I can save it now. If you help me, I pledge that a saved and stabilised Hatti state will help contain the collapse of the countries around us.
We Hatti will protect you Northlanders
, and the legacy of your ancient civilisation. It is as simple as that.’

Milaqa was appalled by the way she used this massacre as an opportunity, and by the woman’s hypocrisy. She remembered Kilushepa’s contempt for Northland during the midwinter walk on the Wall. There had been no talk of the ‘legacy of your ancient civilisation’ then. But this, she supposed, was diplomacy, the business of the world, which left little room for truth.

Raka paused before she spoke again, evidently thinking through her response. ‘And in return for this service, what reward would you want, Tawananna?’

‘Only one thing,’ Kilushepa said smoothly. ‘I want the secret of the foods you give us. Potatoes. Maize. No more of your mash. Give us seeds. Let us grow these crops ourselves; let us feed ourselves, rather than rely on your hand-outs.’

There were shouts of outrage.

Noli protested, ‘This was Bren’s plan! This was what he had Kuma murdered for! Must we even discuss this grotesque entanglement?’

Raka, sitting quietly, held up her hand until there was calm. ‘Tawananna, you will understand that we will have to consult. Such a grave step cannot be taken lightly.’

Kilushepa nodded gracefully, sat, and the group broke up into knots of discussion.

Teel tugged Milaqa’s elbow. ‘That’s nice work by Raka. I mean, Kilushepa has taken her chance, but the Annid really isn’t giving away much. The secret of our magic foods would be lost eventually anyhow through some spy or other, or another crooked trader like Bren – we’ve been lucky to keep it so long. Of course the Annids will take some convincing. But I think we can do a better deal than for some vague promise of friendship from Hattusa.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Watch and learn, young Crow. Do you have the arrowhead?’

She slipped the thong over her head and handed the piece to him. ‘What do you want with it this time?’

‘To change the world. Translate for Kilushepa.’ He stood easily, and spoke over the gathering conversations. ‘Annid of Annids – forgive me. I have another concern to raise.’ He held up the arrowhead, dangling from its thong. Everybody present knew its significance. ‘
This
killed Kuma. Even though she was wearing
this
.’ Again he bent and rapped his knuckles on Qirum’s breastplate. This time the Trojan laughed out loud. Teel turned to Kilushepa. ‘And the only place in the world where such iron is made, madam, iron hard enough to use as a decent weapon, is Hattusa.’

Kilushepa smiled.

Teel said, ‘Iron ore can be found anywhere. It’s not like the copper or tin you need to find for bronze. We could arm ourselves quickly, with weapons that could fend off any warrior armed with bronze –
if
we could only make the iron to the right standard.

‘I’m no Jackdaw but I think the terms of the bargaining are obvious. Tawananna, we have a secret you want – potatoes and maize. With that you could feed your people. You have a secret we need – your hardened iron. With that we could defend ourselves, even against hordes of farmer-warriors. Annids, Tawananna, I think you have some negotiating to do.’

There were murmurs of surprise, shock, anticipation. Kilushepa stayed silent, apparently considering.

Qirum bent over and whispered to Milaqa in his own tongue, ‘Your man Teel – what a deal-maker. I’m a good one too, so I know. Trading potatoes for iron! Just as in his youth he traded his balls for power. I wonder what history will make of this! But of course, if you want Hatti iron you’re going to have to travel to Anatolia to get it. And I do mean
you
, Milaqa, you with your gift of tongues.’

29

The First Year After the Fire Mountain: Midsummer

Xivu, the Jaguar man, sat glaring at Voro from the shadows of Vala’s house. ‘Which, as I understand it, is your own strange name for the range of hills to the south of here.’ His Etxelur-speak was uncertain, his tone dismissive. He had a warm blanket thrown over his shoulders as he sat close to the fire on this cold summer’s day. With his very un-Northland dark eyes and strong nose and deep black hair, he looked out of place, Vala thought, sitting here in this wooden house loaned to her and her family of nestspills by a cousin, surrounded by cooking pots, racks of fish and scraps of meat, heaps of clothes for mending, and the children, Mi and Puli playing a complicated game of counters on a wooden board, while little Liff sat on Mi’s lap, half asleep. Out of place and profoundly unhappy. And he looked on Voro with unconcealed contempt.

But Xivu was here because he needed Vala and Voro’s help. Caxa was lost, Xivu’s sculptor, his treasure. When he had begged the Annid of Annids for help, Raka had sent him to Vala to sort it out. In this sunless summer Raka had a lot more important issues to handle than the fate of a girl sculptor from across the ocean. After all, if Kuma’s monumental image was not set on the Wall this year, it would be done next year, or the next, when they all had more time and energy; Raka was sure the little mothers would forgive them for the delay.

And Vala in turn had called in Voro.

‘Why me?’ Voro had asked. ‘I’m a Jackdaw. A trader. Maybe you should send a priest.’

‘The priests are too busy trying to persuade the little mothers to warm us all up. And besides – you’re not doing much trading, are you?’

He looked away.

It was true. Everybody knew why. Voro was still being eaten up inside by a corrosive guilt from his association with the death of Milaqa’s mother Kuma. Vala had said, ‘You must put aside this shame.’

‘Must I? How? It’s like the clouds in the sky that won’t go away.’

Vala touched his hand. ‘Forget about Milaqa for now. Think about Caxa.’ This was her bright idea, to solve two problems at once. ‘Maybe you can help her. You’re young, and so is she. You’ve both been through trials. You’ve got a lot in common.’

‘Even though we were born an ocean apart.’

‘Even so, yes. Go and find her. And if you do, maybe it will help you too. People will see you in a different light. You’ll break up that cloud over you once and for all – even though, Voro, it looks a lot blacker to you than to the rest of us.’

He had agreed, and he had gone looking for Caxa, but he had returned – without her.

So here they all were. And Vala, sitting by the hearth, grinding herbs with mortar and pestle, was not impressed by Xivu’s arrogance.

‘Of course,’ Xivu said now, ‘this isn’t the first time the sculptor has been endangered among you people. She nearly got broiled alive on Kirike’s Land.’

‘I know,’ snapped Vala. ‘I was there, remember?’

Voro studied Xivu. ‘Why don’t you go after her yourself?’

Vala laughed. ‘Oh, she runs away from
him
. He’s the main reason she’s run off, I reckon.’

‘Enough,’ Xivu snapped. ‘I told your Annid that this is not the way to handle the problem. In my country we would send a squad of soldiers to flush her out of the hills, like a hunted bird.’

‘But this is not your country,’ Vala said sternly.

‘No, it isn’t. This is Northland. Where this boy was manipulated into complicity in murder. Now you manipulate his guilt to make him do this task for you. And he will manipulate Caxa to bring her home. It is just as you build your country. You dig a ditch here, a dam there,
manipulate
a great river to run this way instead of that. We would cut through it.
We
would build a city of stone and make the river serve us!’

Vala ignored him. ‘So, Voro, before you go out again, what would you like to eat?’

30

The First Year After the Fire Mountain: Late Summer

The party travelled the length of Northland, which was pretty much as far as Milaqa had ever journeyed before. Then they made an epic overland crossing south through Gaira, coming to the shore of the Middle Sea. And then they took to the sea, in Qirum’s boat that had been waiting for him for a year, and they travelled east, the length of this calm ocean. For Milaqa it was numbing, a journey without end, and Qirum’s bragging leadership had grown annoying; he of course had come this way before, as he constantly reminded the party. But in the end her mind opened up to the sheer scale and diversity of the world beyond Northland through which she travelled – and the effects of the long drought and of the fire mountain, which could be seen everywhere they stopped.

The last seagoing leg of the journey was to be a crossing from Greece to Troy. After this, Milaqa understood, they would travel by land eastward across Anatolia to Hattusa, capital of the Hatti empire – ‘if the empire still exists,’ Kilushepa said gloomily, ‘if Hattusa itself stands.’ And there Kilushepa would attempt the miracle of diplomacy and statecraft that would restore her to her throne.

But they had to get through Troy first.

Waiting for Qirum, the seven-strong party from Northland stood on a wooden jetty, their packs at their feet, wearing heavy tunics as protection against the unseasonal cold. The port was just another huddle of a dozen houses overlooking a small harbour, like so many on this Greek mainland, a place whose name Milaqa had forgotten as soon as she was told it, just another stopping point on this endless journey. There was some trade going on this cold morning, with seagoing ships and smaller coast-hoppers jostling for space in the harbour, and caravans forming up on land. Yet there was room for much more, Milaqa thought; you could see at a glance how trade had shrivelled with the long drought, and now this summerless year.

But Qirum’s own ship stood proud in the water, its long, sleek hull black as night, waiting to serve them as it had all the way along the coastline of this Middle Ocean from the south Gaira coast. The carved bird’s head peered from the stern, and the eyes painted on the hull glared, vivid. It was a formidable sight, even under a dismal grey sky.

Qirum walked up, leading three locals. ‘So here’s our latest crew,’ he announced. The ill-smelling Greeks stood together by the jetty, their own packs on their backs, eyeing up the women. They looked hungry. Well, everybody was hungry. One of them seemed to have a bad leg, judging by the way he was standing.

And there were only three of them.

‘A boat like this needs eight rowers and a pilot,’ Kilushepa said. She stood with Noli, the Annid companion appointed by Raka for this mission of diplomacy. ‘What are you playing at, Trojan?’ She now spoke a heavily accented Northlander, practised with difficulty during the long journey, though she would lapse into her own tongue.