The Words had been an inspiration of Caxa, the Jaguar-girl sculptor who had memorably carved a sign to the gods outside My Sun—a sign now desecrated by the Trojans who had smashed the place up, but the Annids had promised that some day it would be restored. The Trojans’ advance on the Wall had cut off Etxelur, the Wall and the Annids from the rest of Northland. So Caxa, inspired by the colorful banners that were draped over the Wall’s face on festival days like the midsummer Giving, had suggested painting slogans on the Wall itself: tremendously tall designs, Words that could be seen many days’ travel away. The idea had been accepted with enthusiasm. Soon sections of the Wall’s white face were covered with the ancient ring-and-groove lettering of Etxelur, messages shouting out to all who could see, and read them:
THE WALL STANDS!
THE LOVE OF THE MOTHERS PROTECTS US ALL!
THE TROJANS CANNOT PREVAIL!
Of course the Trojans responded. Even if they couldn’t read such signs they could guess their purpose. So in their assaults on the Wall the Trojans defaced the signs, and built bonfires to smear them with soot. In response the Northlanders had cut the signs deeper into the Wall’s sheer face and painted over the soot. It had become a strange side battle in this war, a battle over words, symbols, ideas, one side writing, the other side erasing, over and over. And it was a uniquely Northlander battle too. Most Northlanders could read and write, whereas in Troy and Greece and the land of the Hatti, literacy was the province of the scribes—not even the kings could read the proclamations they applied their seals to. Regardless of what the Words said, their very existence was a reminder of the uniqueness of Northland civilization.
Tibo worked steadily, shifting his position, balancing the weight of his bucket. The work was easy, if repetitive. It seemed to satisfy some corner of his soul to complete such a simple task, just filling a groove with paint. Another way to achieve the calmness Riban had urged him to find within himself. And as he worked on he became aware of the dawn approaching. He worked with his back to the landscape, but gradually he made out the face of the Wall before him in the gathering daylight, a blue-gray wash that picked out the pocks and flaws in the Wall’s growstone surface.
Then there was another wooden creak, louder, and voices calling from the plain.
Tibo turned to see, hanging one-armed from the net. Northland had emerged from the dark, flat to the horizon under a cloudy blue-gray sky. The land was scarred by the Annids’ huge new defensive earthworks, ramparts and ditches, running for long stretches along the face of the Wall. At the base of the Wall itself water stood in hollows, building up against the growstone. Trojan raiders had long ago torched the windmills on the Wall’s roof, so now, in chambers safely tucked deep within the Wall, work gangs were turning great wheels to keep the pumps working—gangs manned by volunteers, it was said. But it was impossible to keep the flooding down completely. Looking along the face of the Wall itself Tibo could see more relics of the Trojans’ many assaults: broken ladders, the wreck of a battering ram that had smashed itself to pieces against the Wall’s growstone face, earthen ramps, even pits where Qirum’s men had tried tunneling under the Wall.
But this morning, Tibo saw, astonished, Qirum was trying something new.
At first he thought the thing silhouetted against the dawn light was a huge man, a terrifying figure. Then he saw that it was no creature but a man-made thing, a tower of wood and rope roughly nailed and bound together. Platforms stuck out of it like great tongues, protruding toward the Wall. Some of them were surely high enough to be able to reach the galleries, like the one from which he dangled.
And the tower was moving. It was mounted on wheels, thick and solid, that looked as if they had been cut from the trunks of huge, ancient oaks. Teams of oxen dragged this thing over the muddy ground, and it cut deep ruts as it passed. There were so many of the animals that they combined in his view into a black slab of heaving muscle, breath steaming in a cloud. Men drove the oxen with sticks and whips, and warriors jogged alongside the tower, their bronze armor bright in the gathering light. Chariots followed, perhaps bearing commanders. There were men in the tower itself, dwarfed by its scale. They looked like toys, Tibo thought, toy soldiers that Puli or Blane would play with.
This was the source of the tremendous wooden groans he had heard through the night. It was a siege engine.
“Father!”
“I see it.” Deri was hanging on the net, staring. “I heard of such things in Hattusa, but I never saw one before—and I never heard of one so big. But then I imagine no siege in history has ever faced such a barrier as the Wall.”
“Where did it come from? It wasn’t here yesterday.”
“They must have brought it up overnight, in pieces, on carts. Then they put it together in the dark, and here it is.” He shook his head. “We must never underestimate the Trojans, son.”
Now the Wall community was waking in the dawn, and cries of alarm echoed in the galleries. Soon the first resistance began. Arrows and stones flew from the galleries above Tibo’s head, some of the arrows burning. Tibo glanced up, and saw Mi with her lethal Kirike’s Land bow firing off shot after shot, one glowing spark sent flying through the air after another.
The first fire arrows fell on the tower. Some sank home in the engine’s wooden frame, but they burned only slowly—perhaps the wood was wet—and there were men with blankets and buckets of water and earth to douse any fires that did catch. Meanwhile, down on the plain, the Trojan warriors raised their shields and fired back in response, but being so far below their arrows fell well short, thumping back into the muddy ground.
And all the while the great engine lumbered ever closer to the Wall. Now it approached the band of ditches and ramparts that had been dug out before the Wall itself. Trojan engineers rushed forward to break the ramparts and lay boards over the ditches. The few defenders stationed there put up some resistance, but when the Trojans arrived, when the swords glittered and the blood splashed, they fell back.
“We aren’t going to stop it,” Tibo murmured.
“There’s a way to go yet. But you and I might have some fighting to do today, son. Come on.” Deri dumped his jug and brush, letting the paint splash down the Wall’s face, and began scrambling back up the net. “Words will have to wait.”
Tibo followed his father up the face of the Wall, staring over his shoulder at the engine’s lumbering advance.
On the balcony, even as she fired her own bow, Mi called out commands, redirecting the arrow fire. Now the defenders began to target the oxen that dragged the tower. Unless you had a lucky shot it would take more than a single arrow to bring down a mature ox, but it was all but impossible to miss an animal in that compressed mass, and the wounded animals writhed and bellowed in distress, disturbing those around them. The drivers had to work hard to keep the beasts moving in formation, with oaths and blows.
And now Mi heard a roar, coming from somewhere below and to her left. A mass of warriors had run out from a concealed entrance in the face of the Wall. They formed up into a rough block and headed straight for the Trojan force, their weapons held aloft, yelling defiance. The units were commanded by officers from Hattusa, but by now Northland’s army contained men from Etxelur and the other Wall Districts, the rest of Northland, and from allies in Albia and Gaira. They sprinted over boards hastily thrown over the ditches, and made for the engine, coming at it from the side. The Trojans formed up in response.
But before that battle was joined there was another tremendous wooden groan, like a huge cry of pain. Mi saw that the engine was leaning. Its front left corner was tipping into a hole that had opened up in the ground beneath its wheels. Faces everywhere turned to the siege engine, the defenders on the Wall, the warriors on the ground, the engineers at their work breaching the ramparts.
“Ha!” a man called, leaning over the balcony. “I did that! I helped dig that trap! Just brush and a dusting of earth over a hole in the ground. One of Raka’s bright ideas, meant to trap a chari
ot, but if it catches that monster it will do for me!”
The engine tipped further still. Mi was surprised by how easily it was going over. For all its bulk it had to be tall to reach the Wall’s galleries, and so it must be top-heavy, and once it started to fall it was doomed. The drivers beat the broad backs of their oxen, but the panicking animals could do nothing now. Indeed, Mi saw, some of the bellowing oxen were being dragged backward as the tower tilted. When their traces broke the animals stampeded, causing more panic among the increasingly disorganized Trojans. Men trapped in the tower itself ran, yelling. Some of them jumped to the ground, arms flailing. The commanders’ chariots turned away sharply, fleeing the disaster.
The end was near. As the engine tipped further and further panels fell away from the tower’s sides, falling to the ground in a hail of wood shards, and Mi heard the pop and crack of big structural beams breaking, like bones snapping. At last the tower’s huge flank hit the ground, and the engine collapsed into the dirt, whole tree trunks wheeling out of a cloud of wood shards that flew into the air.
Mi heard whoops of triumph all around her. It looked as if the whole population of the Wall, swollen with nestspills, had come out onto the galleries to see.
And from below there came the raucous shouting of fighting men. The Northland defenders were closing now, encouraged by the catastrophe of the tower to finish off the raiders. The surviving Trojans got themselves organized, but they faced a fighting retreat along the road to the south.
Mi yelled encouragement, releasing the grief and anger that always lingered inside.
56
“We must be patient, King.”
“Patient? Patient, you say, man? Patient! Pah!”
Qirum raged around the principal room of his palace. He snatched another cup of wine from a terrified serving girl, who quailed and ran off barefoot. He stalked past the table full of the gold drinking cups his generals had learned to bring him as gifts, past the rich tapestries hanging on the walls. He drew his sword from its jeweled scabbard and held it up before a tapestry. He could have slashed it to ribbons in a heartbeat. Yet he stayed his hand.
The Spider stood, silently watching him, hands behind his back. Hadhe sat on a low couch with her baby, just two months old. The child was having trouble feeding, and whimpered, not loudly, just enough to be distracting. The only other people in the room were the four guards standing like statues in the corners, and another serving girl who stood by the door. All of them waiting on Qirum’s next word, his next reaction—all of them save the Northlander baby, who was obsessed with his own empty stomach.
Qirum threw his sword to the carpet. “Pah! I can’t even trouble to destroy this garbage, this offal, this shit. Why are we here, Telipinu? Why do we waste our spirits and our soldiers’ lives on this soggy plain of a country?” He picked up a golden cup, crusted with gems. “It doesn’t even have treasures worth looting. Even this trinket came from Gaira, didn’t it?” Qirum threw the cup against the wall; it collided softly with a tapestry and fell to the floor, undamaged. “These Northlanders treasure duck eggs and hazelnuts more than gold!”
Hadhe smiled. “Well, you can’t eat gold.” Her Trojan had become passable in the months she had lived in this citadel. She was not outwardly defiant, but she never used the proper honorifics, not even for the King himself.
The Spider ignored her. “You know why we’re here, King. It is your own strategy, your grand plan. You are building a kingdom here—a country, with farmers and warriors, a new city, a temple fit for the Storm God one day—all from nothing. It takes time.”
Qirum nodded. “Time, good Telipinu. But how much time? How many more days in this soggy marsh? And on the Wall, those smug Northlanders are pissing all over the ruins of my engine—laughing at it, laughing at me! And Kilushepa, come to that, if the spies are right that she has returned to Northland. Why shouldn’t they laugh? The engine was another abject failure.”
The Spider shook his head. “No. Not a failure. Another lesson learned. We tried a ram; this growstone of theirs is too thick, too resistant. We tried ladders, dirt ramps; the Wall is too high, too easily defended. We tried burrowing, only to find the Wall’s roots are too deep—”
“I was convinced my engine was the answer.” It had been born from Qirum’s own sketches, his own imagination.
“And it so nearly did succeed!”
“It fell over, man.”
“So we build another, better. We make it like those great tombs of the Egyptians. Broader at the base, narrower above, with longer platforms for the warriors. Impossible to topple.”
Qirum eyed him. “You’ve been thinking about this.”
“And some of my men. Such a device would need a lot of wood to build. Well, the lands of Albia and Gaira are full of wood … Lord, no man has ever laid siege to such a mighty wall as this, in all history. And when you bring it down your name will be celebrated from Gaira to Egypt and beyond. But we must learn how to do it.” Hadhe’s baby whimpered more loudly. The Spider glared at her.
Qirum protested, “But all this will take another season, at least.”
“This is a siege, Lord. Sieges last years, not months.”
“A lot of years if those Northlanders on the Wall continue to grow fat on fish from the northern sea, which we cannot reach.”
Still the baby cried, wailing in discomfort.
“But you know we have sent ships north, which—oh, will you stop that foul racket!” The Spider strode over to Hadhe, reaching to grab the baby. She quailed back.
Qirum stepped between the Spider and Hadhe. “Leave them, Telipinu.”
Just for a heartbeat the Spider did not back down. Qirum was aware of the four guards tensing, quietly reaching for their weapons. Then the Spider stepped back deliberately. “Lord, your weakness for this bed-warming whore and her bastard brat is …”
Qirum put his arm around Hadhe. “All part of my complicated charm, Telipinu. Which is why I am king and you are not.”
Hadhe murmured, “And I know you will always treat the child well, King. Despite what I do now.”
He stared at her. “What’s that? What do you mean?”
There was an odd moment of stillness. The Spider had turned away, disgusted. The guards had melted back into their corners, putting away their weapons. There were no eyes on Qirum and Hadhe. She whispered in his ear, “It was my fault. That My Sun fell, that my children were lost. Perhaps this makes up for that terrible failure.”
And he saw the knife flash in her hand. He flinched back, but the blade dug through his tunic and scraped his belly, and he felt warm blood flow. She drew back her arm, but before she could strike again he grabbed her wrist and forced it back. Her eyes met his; her face was expressionless.
Immediately the Spider was at her back. He slit her throat with a single swipe of his own blade; the blood, bright and gushing, flowed down her white tunic. She had been holding the child; he rolled to the floor, screaming, as she fell back.
The guards ran to Qirum’s side, their own blades drawn. He could smell their fear at this failure to protect him.
The Spider stood before the King. “Fetch the surgeon,” he snapped, and a guard ran.
Qirum lifted his tunic and inspected his belly. “She only scraped me … Not much in exchange for her life. Well, she was no soldier.”
The Spider looked down on Hadhe’s corpse. “Why did she do it? You were good to her. You protected her from me only a heartbeat ago.”
Qirum breathed hard, his heart pumping, his body belatedly reacting to the sudden threat. “But she lost one child and saw the banishment of others, and the death of her husband, and the rape, murder or enslavement of everybody she knew. She did have a grudge to bear, I suppose. Though it was not me who wielded the sword.” He looked down on the knife, which was on the floor. “That looks like an Etxelur blade. I wonder if it was smuggled in by Milaqa and that uncle of hers. Or maybe Hadhe just swiped it.”
The surgeon came bustling in, l
ooking anxious, as well he might, for if he failed to treat the King properly the cost would likely be his own life.
The Spider pointed his dagger at the child on the floor. “Shall I finish off that thing?”
“What? No, no. Surgeon, find it a wet nurse when you’re done here.” He considered. “Ensure that it grows up never knowing who it is, where it is from, who its mother was. That’s sufficient punishment for the mother’s shade to bear in the underworld, I think. But don’t harm the child.”
The surgeon nodded, gingerly cutting away the King’s bloody tunic.
“All the time she’s held that knife, over months and months, waiting for the one moment when the guards were distracted enough to give her a chance. And I thought she was growing fond of me. People always surprise you, don’t they, Telipinu? Oww, man, be careful with that salve! Now, where were we?”
The Spider grinned, and knelt down to wipe the blood off his knife on Hadhe’s tunic. “Talking about siege tactics.”
57
“We must be patient,” Teel said.
“And I agree,” Raka said.
In this crowded room deep within the Wall, an annex to the great Hall of Annids, the air was thick with the smoke from the lamps on the walls, with stale aromas from cloaks of elderly feathers and fur, and with a sharper stink of fear, Milaqa thought.
Now Noli, her hunger-gaunt making her seem more stern than ever, held up a hand. “I do not question the vigor of our fighters, or their bravery, or the hard work and ingenuity that has been put into our defenses. But the fact is the Trojan bear cub continues to find ways to test those defenses. We were lucky that his absurd tower stumbled into a trap.”
Deri said, “The trap was meant for chariots, granted, rather than siege towers. But it worked. A simple hole in the ground defeated all the ingenuity and labor that went into that monstrosity.”
Bronze Summer : The Northland Trilogy (9781101615416) Page 34