Son of Ishtar

by Gordon Doherty

  Hattu kept his head down as they passed under the gatehouse, sensing the many eyes upon them. They gazed at his older brother in awe. But he felt something else in the stares that strayed onto him: something cold and resentful. Indeed, one plague-scarred, greasy-haired, gaunt boy eyed him with disgust. He tugged a lock of hair round under his headband to cover the smoke-grey eye.

  He heard one of them mutter: ‘See where the Cursed Son walks? Always in Muwatalli’s shadow.’ Muwa’s shadow, he felt the term sizzle like a brand on the back of his neck.

  ‘It is like magic, Brother, the way they part before you,’ he said to Muwa as they entered the lower town. ‘They respect you. They love you.’

  Muwa snorted, patting his silver cuirass. ‘It is my title they respect,’ he said, flashing Hattu a quick smile. ‘And… those in the crowd, ignore their bitter words. Cast aside our stations for a moment.’ He tapped his own breastbone then Hattu’s as they walked. ‘In here we are brothers, equals.’

  Hattu smiled and gazed ahead as if the compliment had been unnecessary. In truth it had been like a salve. They walked up the paved main way, lined with bright markets and taverns and thronged with yelling merchants, sweating workers carrying baskets on their heads and lumbering wagons bearing precious ingots of tin and copper. The air was rich with the scent of charcoal, baking bread and malting barley and the less pleasant reek of dung and sweat. The way led over the Spirit Bridge, the Ambar’s packed banks below thick with women washing garments and men gathering clay. On the far side of the bridge, the road snaked steeply up the base of the acropolis mount. They wove past the tablet house and the Scribal School, on across the Noon Spur – a quarried terrace that only ever saw sunlight from midday onwards. Soon, they reached the final approach to the acropolis: a broad, flagged, earthen ramp. The gates at the top were sheathed in bronze, and the colossal stone lions either side gazed down upon them with black-painted eyes.

  Home, Hattu mused despondently as they climbed the steep ramp. When they neared the citadel they were greeted by two elite soldiers. A Mesedi – one of the hundred chosen warriors who served as the king’s bodyguard – stood resplendent in a bronze scale corselet, leather kilt and a high, bronze helm. Beside him up there was a white-robed Golden Spearmen – from the fifty-strong acropolis guard unit bearing the gilt spears that gave them their name. These two warriors saluted then hauled at ropes and the Ramp Gates groaned open to let them in.

  As soon as Hattu stepped through the shadow of the gatehouse and onto the carmine-red flagstones of the acropolis, his senses were assailed. The air was thick with the aroma of wine and roasting meats and the clamour of shrieking laughter and highborn argot. Strangers lurked in the shadowy colonnades, clustered near the palace and by the polished-stone edge of the sacred pool. Some were pale-skinned, some dark as night. Some were daubed garishly in strange dyes, others clad in lurid gowns and most dripping with jewels. There were bragging rich men and their wives, slaves, sycophants, holy men, champions and warriors. From the royal harem, fiercely-painted women leaned from the shuttered windows, eyeing the fattest and richest foreigners like cats planning to corner mice. And amongst the outlanders stood members of the Panku – the tall, proud, Hittite nobility who gathered often before the king to lobby and squabble over affairs of the realm.

  Hattu found his gaze being dragged from one spectacle to the next, until it settled on a trio of men standing high and clear of the masses, up on the steps by the tall doorway to the Hall of the Sun. Each was a cousin of the king, and each looked over the gathered masses with deliberately cruel eyes. At once, Hattu felt his mouth grow dry as he always did in the presence of these men.

  There was Zida, Gal Mesedi – chief of the king’s hundred bodyguards – lean, tall and sinewy, wearing a flowing red cloak held in place by a fierce silver hawk brooch. His lips moved almost imperceptibly, whispering suspicious words to the one nearest to him.

  General Nuwanza, the square-jawed Master Archer, had the powerful chest and upper arms of a bowman. Dressed in just a kilt and boots, he nodded slowly, his gaze following Zida’s direction. Nuwanza’s night-black, sharply receding hair was gathered in three tails that sprouted from his crown. His brow was creased in concern, his black, wiry eyebrows drawn together in a V. There was someone in the crowd these two disapproved of. Hattu felt a crumb of sympathy for whoever that was.

  But the third figure standing by the hall’s entrance sent the sharpest of chills through Hattu. General Kurunta dragged his lone, mean eye – the remains of the other masked behind a tattered, leathery patch – over the crowd like a scythe. His bald, umber-skinned head was dipped a fraction. The braid of silver hair sprouting from above his right ear hung down the side of his face to rest across his chest like a scorpion’s tail. He was clad in a leather kilt, boots and crossbands that hugged his bare, teak-hard chest – the hilts of the two swords sheathed on his back jutting up behind him as if he was about to sprout wings. There was something in the way he stood, feet apart in a stance of power, shoulders tensed as if ready to reach up and snatch out his twin blades… the man reeked of menace. The people of Hattusa spoke of Kurunta One-eye in whispers. The breaker of men, the master of infantry, some said. The vengeful general, others dared to say: for what man would not seek revenge, whose king had ordered the taking of his eye?

  Kurunta’s gaze swung across the masses and halted, pinioning Hattu. Hattu felt an icy lance of panic in his breast, not sure what to do, where to look.

  ‘Ah, refreshments,’ Muwa said, taking two clay pots of foaming barley beer from a passing slave girl and handing one to Hattu. ‘Here: I find it a good way to avoid speaking to bores,’ he said, then quickly sucked on the reed straw when one dignitary swung round to engage, eyes bright and mouth primed to offer some gushing monologue.

  Hattu chuckled and took a sip of his own beer – bitter and refreshing – as he scanned the sea of strange faces.

  ‘Brothers,’ a voice cut through the crowd.

  ‘Sarpa,’ Muwa and Hattu replied in unison as the king’s second son barged towards them, his honey-gold eyes sparkling and his head freshly shaved as was the way of the templefolk. At fifteen summers, he was as tall as Muwa but nowhere near as muscular – his face gaunt and angular. He pushed between two dignitaries with the aid of a crutch. At the sight of the stick, Hattu felt that familiar spike of guilt: Sarpa had been following in Muwa’s wake, training as a soldier, accompanying Father to war. Until last autumn, when he had taken Hattu on a climb. It was a short climb – only eight times a man’s height, but it was damp that day. Hattu had slipped, and Sarpa had caught him only to fall himself, shattering a hip on the rocks. The limb had healed but now Sarpa’s gait was shambling at best, and his military days were over. Now he spent his time serving as a priest at the Storm Temple in the lower town.

  The three brothers embraced. Hattu winced inwardly: I’m sorry, Brother… When they drew apart, he smiled to mask his true feelings.

  ‘How was it?’ Sarpa whispered to him. ‘The climb,’ he clarified with a grin, seeing Hattu’s confusion. ‘I see the rock dust under your fingernails.’

  Hattu smiled genuinely this time. ‘It was incredible. My heart was fit to burst with pride when I reached the top.’ He thought of the falcon egg in his satchel and added: ‘Is Atiya here yet?’

  ‘The priestesses will be here soon,’ Sarpa smiled.

  Then, from the high end of the citadel grounds, the thick, metallic clash of a gong sounded. All heads turned to the Hall of the Sun. With a rumble of feet the crowds poured towards the towering throneroom’s entrance. The Gathering was about to commence.

  Hattu beheld the tall doorway. Of all the hard faces and doubting eyes out here, it was the judgement of the man inside he feared most of all.

  Chapter 2

  The Gathering

  Spring 1303 BC

  Crowds took their places on the benches lining three sides of the hall, a dozen Mesedi and Golden Spearmen standing watch before them. The chatter
faded towards a whisper and all eyes turned to the semi-circular, stone-carved dais at the hall’s western end, as if guided there by the broad fingers of reddening, late afternoon sunlight that shone in from the high arched windows. Atop the dais were two limestone lions passant, each with one paw raised as if ready to stride forth, and they bore the seat of Hittite power upon their backs. The sacred Grey Throne was deliberately plain: fashioned from cedar and cold-hammered rivets of iron – a stubborn, hoary metal that fell from the skies.

  King Mursili sat upon the royal seat draped in a blue linen robe – the silver, winged sun circlet on his brow the only kingly trapping on his person. As a final, reverberating clash of the bronze gong chased the remaining whispers from the hall, he glanced at the polished bronze sceptre resting on the right arm of the throne. His reflection stared back at him: his eyes glazed and pouchy, his expression melancholic and his face wide and jowly. Even his once sleek, dark locks were now riddled with spidery white strands.

  Life as Labarna had been hard, devouring his youth like a leech. An endless succession of rites and rituals in honour of the Gods had him trekking eternally across the Hittite heartlands to its holy cities. And when the Gods were appeased, war quickly filled the gaps. And through it all, one name had echoed eternally in his heart.

  Sweet Gassula, he wept inwardly.

  At first he had blamed the midwives, then he had exiled the augurs, and he had even raged at his late stepmother who had chosen the birthing staff. His anger had been like a ravening, insatiable predator, for a time. He realised his eyes had settled on one face in the crowd: the one he had chosen over his wife. Hattu, upon whom his grief had fastened, festered and grown into something misshapen and cruel. The boy’s odd eyes were wide and fearful. He was barefoot and dressed in only a scuffed, threadbare kilt, his hair tousled – in stark contrast to his flanking brothers, the tall, princely Muwa and the lame but still-majestic Sarpa.

  Ishtar, ever-present in his thoughts since that dark night, spoke from somewhere deep within: It will begin on the day he stands by the banks of the Ambar, soaked in the blood of his brother.

  He barely noticed that silence had long taken over from the faded gong until something snagged his attentions: someone shuffling uncomfortably down on the bench to the right of the throne, like a cat pawing at its feeding bowl trying to attract the attention of its owner. It was his Great Scribe, Ruba, his owl-eyes fixed on the sceptre, his winged eyebrows rising in concern.

  ‘My… My Sun,’ Ruba said, his voice tremulous.

  Zida, sitting on the bench beside Ruba, rolled his inky eyes, chuckling darkly with Kurunta and Nuwanza.

  Ruba shot the military trio a sour look then turned back to the king: ‘We should get things underway as soon as we can.’

  ‘You wish to hold court in my place, Old Goose?’ Mursili whispered back. He loved Ruba, but the old fellow was like a nagging concubine at times. Ruba dropped back to the bench and shook his head.

  Lifting the sceptre in his own time, Mursili drew a long breath and swept his gaze around the room, meeting every eye. ‘My loyal kings, your presence gladdens me,’ he lied. ‘Arinniti the Sun Goddess, and Halki, God of the Grain, have been kind, for our fields are thick with crop this year. Together, we trade our wares and make for a stronger world.’

  He settled the sceptre across his knees, indicating that the tributes were to commence.

  First came the King of Ugarit, a thriving market town – the trade hub of the world, some would say – perched on the coast of northern Retenu, not far from the Egyptian borders. This alliance was a vital one, ensuring the Hittite merchants who travelled there received good rates on the vital tin ingots, wine, oil, flax, timber and much more. The king’s skin was dark as old leather, telling of his life under the unforgiving eastern sun and contrasting sharply with his white cap and cape. The crowd rose respectfully as he crossed the black flagstoned floor and climbed the stairs towards the throne, the echoes of his footsteps rising to the high ceiling like the flapping wings of scattered doves. Bowing at the neck, he offered Mursili an ostrich egg, silvered and dotted with jasper and beryl. ‘My Sun, I bring you this treasure. And outside waits a wagon with five hundred golden shekels and two fine silver cups.’ His words of tribute and a description of the gift were recorded by junior scribes – Ruba’s underlings, their hands a blur as they tapped their reed styluses at woodpecker-like speed into their soft clay tablets.

  ‘Most generous, Brother King,’ Mursili replied. ‘May the gods continue to bless Ugarit’s fleet with good trade winds.’

  The King of Ugarit bowed again as he left the plinth.

  Next came the Lukkans from the fertile southwestern lowlands. Their yellow-cloaked chosen chieftain shuffled up the semi-circle of steps, his soft leather slippers squeaking and his feather headdress swaying and shuddering like the tail of an ungainly peacock. He held out a hunting bow – a fine piece made from ash and ibex horn, the handle dotted with pearl and the ears fashioned as serpents’ heads. ‘May this bow fell game for you with your every shot. Or,’ he added with a toadying look, ‘strike down the encroaching armies of your enemies.’

  The oily words were intended to please, but Mursili felt angry, like one who has a stain on his gown pointed out to him before a group of friends. He fixed a false look of equanimity on his face and replied: ‘No bow could strike my enemies and their forces: they cringe, far beyond my borders.’ It was a lie, but a necessary one.

  A series of vassal kings approached and the gifts stacked up. Next came the purple-cloaked Trojan King. Mursili’s decorum wavered and it was all he could do to stop his face breaking into a rare smile.

  ‘My Sun,’ King Alaksandu said with regal poise. Then his resolve failed and he added with a whisper: ‘comrade.’ A smile marched across his face – as bright as the gold and silver banded scale vest he wore. The King of Troy and ruler of the western vassal state of Wilusa was Mursili’s age but far fresher-faced. He carried his helm – crested with a stiff, curled tail of leather like a coiled whip – underarm, wore his nut-brown locks combed back from his brow without a parting and his short beard was expertly groomed to fill out his handsome face. His green eyes shone like gems. ‘It has been too long.’

  ‘Aye,’ Mursili replied, ‘though longer for me than for you – I seem to have aged forty years since last we met and you are still but a young man.’

  Alaksandu started to laugh, but stifled it when he sensed the many jealous eyes around the hall scrutinising the interaction.

  ‘He brings no gift?’ one gull-voiced member of the crowd called out.

  Alaksandu’s face hardened for just a moment. ‘I, Alaksandu of Troy, Laomedon of Wilusa, would not dare enter My Sun’s halls without bearing gift,’ he addressed the crowd then turned back to the king. ‘On Hattusa’s southern approaches wait eighty sorrel-red stallions, broken and trained upon the plains of the Scamander. Forty chariots they will pull for you. Forty reasons for any who dare even look upon your borders to think again.’

  Mursili allowed a smile to play on his lips as he dipped his head fractionally to show his gratitude, first to Alaksandu, then to the Trojan King’s wife, Placia, who stood back down in the crowd with a contingent of Trojan guardsmen. The last time he had seen her she had been heavy with child. Now, she carried a babe in her arms.

  Alaksandu spotted Mursili’s interest. ‘Just as I bear two names, we have given him two also: Podarces… and Priam. The augurs give us mixed messages,’ he whispered. ‘They trouble me with their words. But I have faith in the Gods: my boy will grow to be strong and wise, and he will preside over a glorious time for Troy and her allies.’

  As Alaksandu spoke, Mursili noticed Hattu, just beyond the Trojan King’s shoulder, shuffling where he stood.

  The west will dim, with black boats’ hulls,

  Trojan heroes, mere carrion for gulls… Ishtar whispered.

  Mursili smiled to mask his disquiet. ‘Good fortune to you and your beloved, friend,’ he said, ‘
always.’

  ‘Always,’ Alaksandu genuflected and turned to leave.

  The next to ascend the throne dais was an odd one, his skin the shade of river clay. He was slender, shaven-headed, and sported a jutting, squared beard that hung to the copper pectoral necklace on his bare chest. His wore a pale linen kilt and a shawl covering his back and shoulders. The fellow’s dark eyes held a hint of something parlous and untamed, there and not there at once – like the glimpse of a serpent swimming in a deep, black tarn.

  Egyptian, Mursili realised, shooting a look to Ruba, whose face was creased in confusion as he scanned his clay tablet of attendees. Egypt was no part of the Hittite world. Indeed, the colossal empire at the southern edge of the world was just the opposite – probably the biggest rival of the Hittite realm alongside the avaricious Assyrian Empire.

  ‘Great King Mursili, Labarna,’ the fellow said. ‘I am Sirtaya of Memphis, messenger of your Brother King, Pharaoh Horemheb, Lord of the Two Lands, Son of Ra, Horus of Gold.’

  Mursili beheld him with a carefully blank expression. Rumour was strong that Pharaoh Horemheb spent his days revolutionising the mighty desert armies in preparation for war. More, in recent summers there had been raids on the southeastern vassal land of Amurru – one of the Hittite throne’s most tenuous possessions. Brigands, most said, desert raiders and no more, others claimed. But why, then, had some of the captured raiders been in possession of Egyptian gold? Mursili’s chest tightened. With every passing season the prospect of a Hittite-Egyptian war grew like a gathering black pall.

  ‘My master offers you this... ’ Sirtaya held out an elephant’s tusk, finely polished. Mursili studied the piece, admiring its beauty but uncertain what the odd markings on it were supposed to be. He thought of the rare elephant herds roaming in the Hittite heartlands and felt a pang of sadness that such a creature had died to provide this oversized trinket. But, he thought as he turned an appraising eye on the Egyptian dignitary, did this gift offer hope? Might war be avoided?