Iron Winter n-3

by Stephen Baxter

  Mago grinned again. His face was scarred, she saw, the length of his right cheek. He blew her a kiss. ‘Glad to see me, Grandmother?’

  ‘Get him out,’ Carthalo murmured to Barmocar.

  ‘But I brought him here — the funeral-’

  ‘Out. Now.’

  Barmocar turned and gestured to his nephew, who left the tent gracelessly.

  ‘I know why he’s here,’ said Rina. ‘And the sons of the rest of you, I dare say. Because you are losing your war with the Hatti. That’s the truth, isn’t it? And you privileged ones are pulling your sons out of the killing fields.’

  Barmocar seemed prepared to deny it, but Carthalo raised a hand. ‘It’s true enough,’ he said softly. ‘Not that this is news we want to shout out. We are not withdrawing our sons, not all of us. My own two boys, as well as a nephew already dead. .’ He hesitated, apparently overcome with emotion, but it could have been a skilful act, Rina reminded herself. ‘Rina, we fight valiantly — our sons do. But the plague is cutting through our young men like a scythe through wheat ripe for the harvest. It has even reached the troops in the field, that and other diseases and blights.’

  Pyxeas said, ‘The plague has afflicted the whole world. The losses must be affecting the Hatti too.’

  ‘Of course. But the Hatti’s sheer numbers overwhelm us.’

  Rina’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you asking us to help you fight this war?’

  ‘You, and Northland.’

  ‘We don’t speak for Northland,’ Rina said. ‘Besides, all the resources of Northland are locked up in the snow.’

  ‘Actually not all,’ Pyxeas said. He tapped his liver-spotted temple. ‘This is where our real resource is. Knowledge. And that’s what this Carthaginian wants to get his hands on. Am I right?’

  Carthalo nodded. ‘We need to win this war — or at least stop the Hatti. And to do that we need, frankly, a weapon they don’t have. That’s what I hope you can give us. What Fabius hopes for.’

  Rina shook her head. ‘Why should we help you? The Hatti have been our allies for. .’

  ‘For two millennia,’ Carthalo said smoothly. ‘I know my history, you see. And do you know how that came about? In a different time of crisis, long ago, there was an exchange. Etxelur gave Hattusa the potato to feed a starving population. And in return Hattusa gave Etxelur a plague. An invisible demon to wipe out an invading army. You see, this sort of arrangement has been made before.’

  ‘But if the Hatti have been our allies for so long-’

  ‘Why betray them now? But what of the long-term interests of Northland? If Carthage were to be overrun, even destroyed, you would have a Hatti empire dominating the Middle Sea. When the world recovers from this longwinter, would such an empire not have further ambitions? Why should it not look north? Would it not be in Northland’s best interests to keep a balance of the continental powers?’

  Pyxeas laughed. ‘That’s a good argument. Or would be, if not for the fact that the longwinter never is going to end — not in our lifetime anyhow. And that kind of petty human calculation is going to be scrubbed out by the ice. You’ll have to do better than that, sir, if you’re to get what you want from us.’

  Rina felt left behind. ‘But what is it they want, Uncle?’

  Pyxeas tapped his temple again. ‘He wants me, Pyxeas, to tell him how to make the fire drug of Cathay. And eruptors, weapons to exploit it.’

  ‘Ah. And can you tell him?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He stepped closer to Carthalo, intense. ‘In fact, I can do better than that. I, Pyxeas, have long anticipated this moment. I have put in place a plan — I had my students send letters to Northlanders in Carthage. To you too, Rina, though I don’t think you ever received it. But others did. House of Crow studies. And they have been working, in secret, for months.’

  Carthalo’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean? What kind of work?’

  ‘We already have the weapons. We Northlanders. We have the fire drug. We have the eruptors. In this city. These could be in your hands in days — a month at most. I, Pyxeas, have organised this.’

  Carthalo was clearly stunned. But he was a good politician and remained in control. ‘If you were to grant us this-’

  Rina touched Pyxeas’ arm. ‘We would be making a decision on behalf of all Northland.’

  He turned to her with eyes huge and sad. ‘I’m afraid we must, my dear. For Northland, the old Northland, is already lost — save for us. What we must face now is the future. And the building of that future begins here and now.’

  Carthalo smiled. ‘Quite right. Name your price.’

  Pyxeas glanced at Rina. ‘This is your moment.’

  ‘Bring him home,’ she snapped. ‘Bring him back from your wars.’

  Carthalo nodded. ‘Your son. I understand. Consider it done.’

  But even as he spoke Rina saw Barmocar sneer at her, a sly smile he didn’t trouble to hide. She saw his opinion of her there and then. She might have the power of life and death over him and his kind, but to him she was small, a petty woman obsessed with family, and always would be so. She had been abused by this man’s wife. Humiliated for his amusement. She had sworn revenge on them both. That little smile, she thought. That little smile was going to cost this man so much.

  Pyxeas, meanwhile, had greater prices to exact. ‘You may have the fire drug. But you will use it to make peace with the Hatti, if you possibly can.’

  ‘What? They are barbarians,’ Barmocar said. ‘One may as well try to make peace with a rabid wolf-’

  ‘No. They follow Jesus. Warlike they may be, but peace is at the heart of the creed of their god. And they too have suffered with the plague. You may have the fire drug, to threaten them with overwhelming destruction, but you will offer them the chance of peace at the same time. Stop the bloodshed. And to symbolise that-’ he glanced at Rina, ‘-you will give them the bones of the Virgin Mother of Jesus, which Rina took illegally and gave to Barmocar in fair payment for her passage here.’

  Carthalo raised his eyebrows at Barmocar. ‘I knew nothing of this.’

  ‘It was private business.’

  ‘Not any more. You will deliver the bones to the Temple of Melqart in the morning. Consider that done too, Pyxeas.’

  ‘Good. And there is more.’

  ‘I thought there might be.’

  ‘You will help us build a New Northland,’ Pyxeas said.

  Carthalo smiled again, more cautiously. ‘And how are we to do that?’

  ‘Give us a city. Somewhere in your hinterland. By the little mothers’ tears, man, don’t baulk at that! You must have a dozen tomb-cities emptied out by the plague and ripe for reoccupation. As for our people, they are scattered across the Continent, the cities of the Middle Sea. . You will help us find them. Send agents throughout the known world, wherever the ice has spared. Bring them home — bring them to their new home. That way, at least something of our culture, our values, our learning, may survive, until the longwinter passes, and we can go home again, for we will not forget where we came from.’ He looked at Rina, and held her shoulder. ‘This has been done before. I, Pyxeas, have seen the mark of Northland, or of our ancestors — the three rings, the bar, the form like the Mothers’ Door — on rock panels in Coldland, even in the Land of the Sky Wolf. Put there before the last time the ice came. Northland has endured the ice before. Now it is the task of our generation to ensure it endures again.’

  Carthalo said, ‘You realise you are asking me to nurture a rival close to my own hearth. For I have no doubt that you Northlanders will rise to greatness again.’

  ‘It’s either that or have the Hatti crush you,’ Pyxeas said with uncharacteristic bluntness.

  ‘Consider it done,’ Carthalo said softly. ‘I must prepare a presentation on this to the Council of Elders. In the meantime, the fire drug-’

  ‘One more thing,’ Rina said, and she faced Barmocar.

  Barmocar looked fearful, as well he might, she thought. He glanced at Carthalo. ‘Our busin
ess is surely done-’

  ‘This woman is the niece of the man who is going to give us the fire drug,’ Carthalo said smoothly. ‘And a woman who has a grudge against you, Barmocar, my friend, and from what I’ve heard I can’t say I blame her. I suggest you listen to what she has to say.’

  She smiled. ‘The molk, Barmocar.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A word you taught me when I first arrived in this country, having all but reneged on your deal to deliver my family to safety. Do you remember, Barmocar? “We call it molk. A gift for the gods, in times of great stress. The greatest gift one can give.” Do you remember saying that to me? And then you made me send my son off to war.’

  He glared back at her. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘To see you perform the molk.’

  Carthalo said smoothly, ‘The molk has long become a merely symbolic practice. Today we sacrifice lambs — sometimes a carving is burned — but children-’

  ‘I know it’s done,’ Rina said. ‘When you’re desperate enough, you Carthaginians. You murder your children to please your antique gods, in secret, so I have learned. After the year I’ve had, I suspect I know more about your city than you suffetes do yourselves. Now I want to see it done again. By you, Barmocar.’

  ‘Mago,’ Barmocar whispered. ‘You mean Mago. You want me to send him back to the war.’

  Pyxeas touched her arm. ‘Niece, you don’t need to do this.’

  She shook him off.

  ‘Please,’ Barmocar said. ‘I’ve lost my wife — we were childless, you know that — the son of my sister is like my own-’

  ‘And this is the end of it,’ Carthalo said sternly. ‘No more demands?’

  ‘No more,’ said Pyxeas with finality.

  Carthalo turned to his countryman. ‘Barmocar?’

  But the man, head dropped, could not speak.

  68

  The Third Year of the Longwinter: Midwinter Solstice

  On the night that word came down that the Carthaginians were ready to give battle at last, Kassu and Zida hurried to their homes in the Hatti’s temporary city.

  Zida was exuberant. ‘They say Carthage’s priests chose tomorrow for its auguries. A near-midwinter night, and the moon has just waned past its half, and for days to come the sky will be dominated by the crescent moon, the sign of Baal Hammon — or some crud like that. Ha! They can have the moon; we have Jesus Sharruma who will crush their puny testicles in His holy fist.’

  Kassu grunted. ‘Don’t get your hopes up. Years of drought, months of siege, the plague. . we’re all worn out.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances.’ They reached Zida’s shack, a kind of cone of turf heaped up on poles. ‘Anything’s better than this shit.’ He aimed a mighty kick at the wall, and a chunk fell in with a dry rustle.

  There was a high-pitched squawk, and out came the burly Libyan woman Zida had taken as his slave, mistress or third wife, depending on how drunk he was when he was telling you. She had bits of straw in her crisp dark hair, and dried mud in the bowl she was holding. ‘Look what you did to supper, idiot!’

  ‘We’re fighting in the morning, Roofa, my love. Fighting those Carthaginian pustules at last! Won’t you Libyans be glad to see the back of them?’

  ‘Never mind Carthaginian pustules. Look what you did!’ Still holding the pot, she stalked around the house, and pulled at the wrecked wall. ‘Now what’s going to keep the rats out?’

  He laughed. ‘The rats are more at home in there than we are. Oh, I’m a fired-up warrior tonight and you’d better be ready for the passion that’s coming your way, woman!’

  ‘And you be ready for the pots and pans I’m throwing at your empty head. Get in this house. Get in!’ And she shoved him with the flat of her hand towards the crude gash of the door.

  ‘See you in an hour,’ Zida said to Kassu.

  ‘An hour.’

  Roofa delivered one final mighty shove to the small of Zida’s back, and he fell into the house, weapons clattering, mail coat rustling.

  Kassu walked on, grinning. But, as usual, he had lost his good humour by the time he had got home.

  His own house was a marginally tidier, marginally better-built box of sod, in a rough street of similar properties. He stood before the house, looking at the old worn-out blankets that hung over the door, the patch of ground where they had tried to grow peas and beans but the plants had been devoured by rats and rabbits before they had a chance. It was hard to imagine a more depressing prospect, even if you hadn’t known what the atmosphere was like inside. Angrily he pushed indoors.

  In the single room within, one lamp burned. Oil was expensive; all you could get was thick, gloopy stuff that was said to come from some animal of the sea. Henti was sitting cross-legged under the lamp, stitching an expensive-looking officer’s cloak, dyed deep purple. The cloak wasn’t Kassu’s, but that wasn’t unusual. The whole Hatti nation had pitched up on the plain before Carthage for this end-of-the-world war, and the whole nation was contributing to the effort. Kassu knew women who worked in the manufactories, even in the forges.

  In the corner, meanwhile, Pimpira was grinding grain. He kept his head bowed, his eyes averted, subservient. He lived with Kassu and Henti as a slave once more, though he slept with his parents in a big barracks during the night, both of them having survived the March. The only sound in the room was the soft, repetitive, scratching rasp of Pimpira’s grindstone — and under that, a soft, breathy singing. Henti, murmuring an old Kaskan lullaby. Kassu had heard it before, it had been taught her by her grandmother on her mother’s side, who had come from that region. She probably didn’t even know she was singing it.

  Kassu leaned over his wife. Her head was bowed, and he saw the neat parting in her long dark hair, the tight bun at her neck. ‘You’ve been with him,’ he said softly.

  She didn’t look up. ‘Have I?’

  ‘I know. I always know. I can see him on you. Smell him. Hear him in the songs you sing.’

  ‘Why don’t you stop us, if you still care? Oh, I forgot. You had your chance, and you weren’t man enough to take it.’

  ‘We fight in the morning.’

  Now she looked up at him. ‘What?’

  ‘The Carthaginians are coming out. Our scouts have sent word.’

  Uncertain, she bent her head and kept sewing. ‘I thought that general of theirs who has taken over the city, the Roman, has been refusing to give battle.’

  ‘Evidently he changed his mind. That’s Romans for you — probably why they always lose. Indecisive. So you see, my dear wife, this might be the last time we will be together this side of the grave.’

  She looked up again. ‘Do you want-’

  He laughed and pulled back. ‘I only have an hour. We’re to muster and advance on the city, to be ready before dawn. I’m to report to Himuili himself. So unless you can do something quick — has Palla taught you any more whore’s tricks?’

  She put aside the cloak she had been mending. ‘I’ll help you prepare. Pimpira, food for the master, now.’

  Kassu was deflated at her calm. She always had been the stronger one.

  He began to pull together his kit.

  So, before the dawn had fully broken, the Hatti army drew up on the desiccated plain, west of Carthage. Kassu reported to Himuili, his general.

  And he was handed a horse. The beast was a nag, bony and limping slightly, but it was, undoubtedly, a horse. Somewhat to his surprise he found himself riding with Himuili and other senior commanders, even including Prince Arnuwanda himself, as they inspected their forces. In the often chaotic months since the siege had been laid Kassu had enjoyed a kind of promotion that wasn’t necessarily reflected in his rank. He seemed to be recognised as one of Himuili’s more literate and numerate junior officers, and was therefore useful in great feats of organisation, such as the running of the Hatti’s military camp-city, and now in drawing up the army in good order, ready for this climactic battle. So here was Kassu in the dawn light, passing before tens of
thousands of men ready for battle, on a horse.

  Himuili watched him, amused. ‘Comfortable, soldier?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Well, I can feel this nag’s bones through the saddle. I thought I’d come no closer to a horse again than a hoof boiling in a stock pot.’

  Himuili barked a laugh. ‘Well, it’s your lucky day. We’ve been keeping back the surviving beasts for today, for the battle that we knew would come — keeping them out of the sight of hungry scumbags like you, Kassu. You can guess how many men have gone to their graves because we kept a horse alive instead, but that’s something we will have to sort out in the afterlife.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Shut up. Look along the line.’ He pointed.

  Kassu looked north. On the Hatti army’s left flank he made out cavalry units: men and horses, some mounted, some leading their horses.

  ‘So what do you see?’

  ‘Our own cavalry.’ The men were each equipped with lance and sword, and a small round shield. ‘And light archers. Mongols?’

  ‘Good, yes.’

  ‘Others equipped with Frankish bows.’ These were gadgets of wood and iron; you turned handles to wind a thick cord back across a frame. They were awkward to handle but the bolts they delivered could pierce thick armour. ‘What about the Almughavars?’

  ‘On the right wing.’

  Kassu turned to see. These riders of the steppe were lancers; they carried four or five iron-tipped javelins that they would hurl one by one, and then they would drive forward at an infantry unit with a long spear. Once they closed they would snap the spear to use it as a shorter thrusting weapon.

  ‘All these lads of the steppe have worked out their own way of fighting,’ Himuili murmured. ‘Godless wretches who drink their horses’ blood by day and hump them by night, but formidable fighters if you use them right. If we get one good charge out of them I’ll be happy. Well, it might be enough, for the Carthaginians are probably in a worse state than we are.’