Bronze Summer (6 page)

‘I was senior wife of Hattusili the Fifth. I was involved in the negotiations with the Northlanders. But Hattusili died. Some say it was plague.’ Her face was blank. ‘He was succeeded by his nephew, Hattusili the Sixth, who is a callow boy much under the influence of another of his uncles. In our court, you may know, a queen who survives her husband has influence. I was Tawananna. I
am
Tawananna. I had priestly responsibilities, and was involved in diplomacy and affairs of state. It is our way.’

‘But Hattusili the Sixth—’

‘Or his uncle.’

‘Found you in the way.’

‘I was asked to help organise a major military expedition against the Arzawans, of western Anatolia, who as you know have always been a problem. But this was a ruse to get me out of Hattusa. Once I was alone with the King’s soldiers, away from the palace bodyguards, I was taken. Hands were laid on me.’ She paused. Qirum could imagine what had followed. ‘I was thrown among the population of a captured city. Those around me did not believe I was who I said I was. So I was brought here. And then I met you.’

‘And in me, you saw . . .’

‘A chance.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Ultimately, to return to Hattusa in triumph. To remove the fool Hattusili from the throne along with his obnoxious uncle, and to install my own son in his place – if my boy survives.’

Qirum was astonished; in this saga of palace politics and betrayal this was the first time she had mentioned she had children.

‘And, incidentally, I will save the Hatti kingdom from drought and famine, and secure our future for all time, so that we may fulfil our service to the great Storm God Teshub.’ She was exhausted, he saw, barely able to sit up straight. Yet her words were strong and clear.

He had to laugh, though. ‘Is that all? And how will you achieve that?’

‘By using my knowledge of Northland. My links with it. I will go there.
We must acquire the seed stock behind their strange food
. We cannot remain dependent on the goodwill of a country so far away. I have thought on this for a long time. It was a project I pursued before I was deposed, in fact. It remains a valid strategic goal. And with that treasure I will buy back my influence and position at court.’

All this sounded impossible, a fantasy. He had only a hazy idea where Northland actually was; although he had travelled far compared to most, he could not even imagine such a journey. ‘The Northlanders won’t just give such a prize to you. Look at you – you’re in rags – you have no power to speak for the King in Hattusa. What could you possibly have to trade?’

‘In these turbulent times, they and their allies will receive the partnership and the protection of the mightiest empire the world has ever seen.’

There was a guffaw from the doorway – Praxo, laden with sacks of water. ‘Trojan, you need to stop up that mouth of hers with your pork sword before she makes me piss my pants laughing.’ He threw down the sacks.

Qirum set a sack before Kilushepa, and loosened the bonds at her wrists so she could drink.

‘I won’t tell you how much this water cost me,’ Praxo said, settling to the floor. ‘There’s a secret pipeline, you know. Laid down in previous generations by wise rulers, to keep the town watered during sieges. There’s a sort of cabal that knows where it is, and runs it. About the only place you can get clean water in Troy nowadays. I hope what you’ve got between your legs is worth it, oh queen.’

She did not reply. She merely drank, steadily.

Gently, Qirum took the sack away from her. ‘Take it easy. Your stomach needs to get used to being full. You’re expecting me to help you achieve this dream you speak of?’

‘As I said, I don’t have much choice.’ She turned that startlingly pale gaze on him again. ‘But perhaps the old gods favoured me. For I saw something in you, Qirum. Something you may not know is there yourself. A hunger. I think you will rise up from this squalor, the ruins of a devastated town . . .’

Praxo swigged wine and laughed. ‘You’ve got it wrong, lady. If not for this squalor he wouldn’t exist at all.’

‘Be still, Praxo.’

‘No, it’s true. He was conceived on the very night Troy fell to the Greeks. I don’t suppose he told you
that
. His mother was a highborn, supposedly, but everybody in Troy these days says they are descended from highborns—’

‘Shut up!’

‘And his father was a Greek. It was a rape! A quick in-and-out, and the lad goes on his way for a bit more plunder and mayhem, and if he still lives he probably doesn’t even remember it. Just one more hole to plug, in a long line of holes.’ He gestured at Qirum. ‘And here’s the result. Neither Greek nor Trojan, unintended, wanted by nobody, dumped by his mother as soon as she could manage it, and left with nothing to sell but his little pink arse!’

Qirum bunched his fist, longing to strike the man. But his anger was overwhelmed by a deep ache of humiliation.

Kilushepa watched him steadily. ‘We will put this right, you and I.’

These words drew him in like a fish on a line. ‘How?’

‘By winning. In the morning we will start.’

‘And tonight?’

She held out her arms. ‘If you untie me, and send away this oaf – and allow me to clean myself, to make myself as I once was – I will show you, as I promised, how I captivated a king.’

Praxo laughed, and stood clumsily. ‘Well, you’ll find me at the whorehouse as usual. Enjoy the night, friend, for it’s all you’re going to get out of that old stick.’

‘Go!’

Kilushepa held out her bound arms. Entranced, fearful, Qirum reached for his knife.

8

The men hauled the skin boat safely up the beach from the rushing surf.

Tibo, exhausted by the rowing and the sun, got his father’s permission to take a break. Stiffly, unused to the land after so long at sea, he walked away from the boat, up to the softer sand above the waterline. It was morning still but the sun beat down from high in a cloudless sky, and his skin prickled with sweat and sand and salt, slick with the oily unguent the men had given him to keep from burning. He climbed a shallow dune and flung himself down, panting.

He had crossed the mighty Western Ocean. He was far from home. He was fifteen years old.

From here he could see more of the landscape of this distant continent, a bank of sandy hills, a forest like a wall, remote mountains. The forest was dense and mysterious, and he saw rustlings in the green – heard a cry like a distressed child. Soon he would have to penetrate that strangeness. To his left, to the south, he saw a stream of clear-looking fresh water, gushing down a gully in the open, sandy earth and to the sea. Beyond it he saw more such streams, and further out the ocean itself was discoloured. This, his father Deri had told him, was an estuary, the outflow of a tremendous river that drained the heart of this strange country.

It was no accident the boat had landed here. Traders from Northland had been coming to this remote shore since time beyond memory, voyages recorded in graceful swirls and loops in the Archive in the Wall. With Deri’s detailed periplus and the knowledge and experience worn deep in the heads of the older sailors, they had made their way here without any difficulty, hopping down the long and convoluted coasts of these western continents, foraging and trading for provisions. But it was all extraordinary to Tibo, even though he had spent much of his young life travelling with his father between Northland and his father’s family home on Kirike’s Land, an island in the middle of the Western Ocean.

Looking back, he saw the sailors were getting on with the chore of unloading the boat. They dumped out the oars and leather sail and mast, their packs of clothing, dried food, water sacks and fishing gear. Then they turned over the boat itself to allow it to dry out, exposing a hull of tanned ox-hide crusted with barnacles. Most of the men had stripped down to their loincloths. They looked like winter animals, bears perhaps, muscular and hairy, out of place on the hot sand of the beach. A cousin of Tibo’s father’s called Nago, comparatively skinny, of few words but a leader when the oars came out, ran down to the sea, pissed noisily, and hurled himself into the water.

His father Deri walked up. He carried two light packs, and bronze swords in their scabbards. He sat on the dune crest, and handed his son a flask. ‘We’ll fill these up in the stream. You look thoughtful.’

‘Look at the lads on the beach. We’re a long way from home.’

‘I know it’s all strange,’ Deri murmured. ‘But we of Kirike’s Land are at home here, we know our way around. You’ll see.’

Deri was not yet thirty. He wore his red hair long and tied back from his face; his skin was paler than his son’s and burned easily, but in the months of the journey it had weathered to a leathery texture, the creases around his eyes prominent where he had been squinting against the sun. He looked strong, at ease. Tibo couldn’t believe he would ever be so effortlessly confident. And yet Deri had been younger than Tibo was now when he had become a father.

‘So,’ Deri said. He held out one of the packs to Tibo. ‘You ready to go?’

‘Go where?’

‘To find the Jaguar people, of course.’ He stood in a single, supple movement. ‘We’ll just follow the estuary inland, and into the green. You won’t believe their country until you see it. And there we will beg the services of their king’s sculptor.’

Tibo stood unwillingly. ‘Now? We only just arrived.’

‘But this is why we came.’ He helped Tibo hitch the pack on his back; it was cloth and leather sturdily sewn, and it sat comfortably on a frame of willow. ‘Let me tell you something. I was born on Kirike’s Land but grew up in Northland, because my mother, your grandmother, came from there, and then I went back to Kirike’s Land to raise my own family. And in Northland we are forever looked down on by those leathery old snobs in their great Houses, the Annids, the Wolves. We’re just boatmen from some rock in the middle of the ocean, and that’s all Kuma was to them. If you’re low-born, you stay low-born. But now everybody agrees your aunt Kuma was one of the best Annids who ever lived.

‘
That’s
why we came here – we, the family of Kuma herself – you and me. We will find the sculptor who will create the greatest honour of all for Kuma, by which she will be remembered for all time.’ He ruffled Tibo’s hair. ‘Nothing to it. Just watch where you step. Oh, and keep away from the water.’ He led the way down the beach to the stream, where he bent to fill a water flask.

Tibo had no choice but to follow.

The estuary was fringed by a muddy plain, itself bordered by walls of forest. Working their way inland, father and son followed roughly defined paths that followed the edge of the forest, or cut in among the trees. Out on the mud birds worked in great flocks, exotic types that Tibo didn’t recognise and Deri couldn’t name. In the deeper water Tibo saw fish swim, bronze and gold, unfamiliar, and what looked like eels, and stranger shapes, long and sleek with crusty backs. Once he saw a long, flat head that seemed to be all jaw, opening and yawning, revealing rows of teeth. These beasts were why, Deri said, you had to be careful of going in the water, or even near it.

Towards the end of the day they cut away from the water and pushed into the jungle. The trees were impossibly tall and green and laden with vines and lichen, and the ground was choked with undergrowth so thick you had to slash your way through with your bronze blade. Deri knew the forest to some extent, having travelled here at the death of the last Annid of Annids a decade earlier, and he knew which fruit was safe to eat. You could find rabbits and deer here, he said, brought over the ocean in the deep past by Northlanders. And there were other sorts of animals to hunt, such as big clumsy creatures like huge rats that fled at their approach.

But there were other, still stranger forms lurking in the forest. Once Tibo heard a cry, almost human, and he saw a shadow flitting through the high branches, like a child, a thing that clambered and swung. And, late on as the light faded, he saw two yellow eyes peering out of the green gloom around them – a black face, a slim muscular form. But when he looked again it was gone.

He told Deri what he had seen. His father grinned, his teeth white in the gloom. ‘Perhaps it was a
jaguar
.’ The word was strange, not of the ancestral language of Northland. ‘The god-animal of the Jaguar folk. You are honoured; the jungle is welcoming you.’ But after that Deri kept his bronze sword drawn and in his hand, and stayed subtly closer to his son.

Deri called a halt for the night at the edge of a wide area of swampy land. They found a dry space away from the water, and spread out a cloth over the ground, and hung another from a tree branch to discourage the insects. While Deri gathered dry wood, Tibo started a fire using a flint and a striking-stone from his pack.

Then, before the light vanished completely, Deri beckoned to Tibo and led him to the edge of the water. Here an extraordinary tree grew right out of the water, a complex tangle of trunks and branches draped with vines. Deri took off his shoes and stepped carefully into the water, leaned down and dug in with his bare hands, scooping out crabs that he threw up the bank to Tibo. Then he took a knife and began prising off oysters and mussels that clung to the tree roots. ‘This strange waterlogged tree is the whole world to these creatures.’

Tibo, avoiding the crabs’ snapping claws, smashed their shells with rocks. They heated a stone slab over their fire, and cooked the crab meat in strips, and popped open the mussels and the oysters.