‘I would try to help any Hittite in trouble and I’m sure you would have too,’ Hattu reasoned.
Dagon shrugged. ‘My father fought on the Spirit Bridge that day,’ he said. ‘He took an axe-blow to the leg and now he can only walk with the aid of a cane. He sent me here to make up for his absence from the ranks. I arrived yesterday – he said it would be better than living in the shanty hut in the slums that now serves as our home.’
Hattu felt the silence that followed weigh upon his shoulders. ‘My father is seeing to it that all those homes are rebuilt,’ he said at last.
‘That is good to know,’ Dagon smiled awkwardly. ‘But, if I may ask, why are you here? They say you were destined to live your life in the Scribal School – never to be a true prince.’
‘And I think I was, until now.’
Dagon’s eyes widened. ‘Do you know what rigours and horrors the recruits are put through?’
Hattu eyed the dung massif. ‘I have a fair idea.’
Dagon suddenly fell silent, his eyes bulging before he stooped to officiously shovel more dung.
Hattu was confused for a moment, until purposeful footsteps thudded up then halted right behind him. He heard a rasping of breath being drawn in and exhaled through flared nostrils. ‘If that shovel stops moving again, I’ll bury you in that shit mountain,’ a voice blasted, causing Dagon to flinch and then shovel frantically. ‘And you,’ the voice continued, a little quieter, addressing Hattu, ‘what do you think you are doing, distracting this hurkeler?’
Hattu turned, mindfully, knowing who was there.
Kurunta was not tall, especially now Hattu had grown a little more, but the man dominated the space before him. The general’s mottled face was bent in disgust, perhaps at Hattu’s presence, perhaps at the stench of the dung. His good eye tapered and looked over Hattu like a butcher might eye a goat kid.
‘General Kurunta, I…’ he started, his voice giving out on him. ‘I, my father sent me. No, I chose to come here.’
Kurunta’s nose wrinkled a little more, then he pulled an affected look of mollification. ‘Prince Hattusili?’ he said with an exaggerated gasp, loud as could be to make sure every single soldier in the academy heard. If they hadn’t recognised him before, then they certainly did now. Indeed, a troop of archers jogged past, shooting him narrow-eyed looks.
Kurunta leaned in a little closer, so only Hattu could hear. ‘It is a rare thing to be given the chance to work with a prince. You will find the training that lies ahead… most enjoyable.’ He pointed to the white-walled enclosure watched over by the statue of the warrior. ‘The infantry compound will be your home now, the ranks of the Storm Division your family. You will look back and cherish the days when you were thin as a reed with soft, princely hands.’
Hattu felt a spike of anger, rubbing the fingertips of one hand across the calluses and chapped nails on the other – evidence of the three crags he had scaled in the tail-end of winter. And although his body was still lean, he was no weakling.
Kurunta cupped Hattu’s chin and bent his head one way then the other, as if evaluating a mule. ‘You’re a meagre specimen, aren’t you, Prince Hattusili? Perhaps some dung shovelling might strengthen those shoulders.’
Hattu’s body shook with anger now. How dare he?
A hundred spearmen filed by, glowering upon Hattu, Kurunta’s words calcifying their mistrust. Kurunta’s face came so close their noses were touching and the general’s forehead touched Hattu’s. ‘Welcome,’ he grinned a shark’s grin, then shoved another spade into Hattu’s hands, ‘to the Storm.’
***
The low moan of a horn spilled across the Fields of Bronze with the pink light of dawn, infiltrating the grounds of the walled infantry compound. Hattu woke with a yawn that turned into a long sigh. His head ached from the din of the horn and the previous day spent in the full sun, heaving spadefuls of dung with Dagon.
He sat up, the rough wool blanket sliding down to his waist and the spiky, uncovered hay of his box bed rustling and crunching under his weight. He rubbed his aching back. All along the length of the sparsely-appointed dormitory were some hundred other beds like his, occupied by slumbering or stirring shapes. They were boys like him, part of the army’s annual intake of recruits. He even recognised one or two of them as boys he had passed in the carriage yesterday; at once he wished he had travelled here on foot like them. He had only been shown in here after dark last night, when they were all asleep already – though he had caught one or two eyes opening, watching him as he made his way to his bed. And when he had put his head down, he had heard them whispering. Our luck is out, we have been burdened with the Cursed Son. He had taken to thumbing Atiya’s beryl stone and pretending to be asleep. Soon, thanks purely to his tiredness, he was.
The moan of the horn continued, unbroken.
‘By the Gods, what is that?’ he croaked.
‘Make haste,’ a voice screamed from outside as the wail at last faded. The shapes in the other beds were sitting up now, bleary-eyed and confused, like him. He heard a drumming of feet from outside – men in a great hurry. Hattu sniffed the air, expecting to smell smoke, such were the sounds of urgency. Instead, he caught a stale waft from under the blanket of a bed nearby.
‘Hmmm?’ Dagon grumbled, rising up on one elbow, eyes barely open.
‘Outside,’ the screaming voice continued, accompanied by a rapping on the dormitory door.
‘Dagon, what’s-’ Hattu started, but a second moan of the horn began, drowning him out.
Dagon’s eyes shot open. ‘It’s the Dawn Call. Get up, get up!’ he yelped, suddenly awake.
All around him, the other young recruits were sliding from their beds, confused or still befuddled with sleep.
‘Damned tunic,’ one portly young soldier wailed, realising he had pulled on his tunic inside out. He tore it off then put it on again – still inside out. ‘Halki’s balls!’
As the horn’s moan ended, Hattu swung his legs from the bed and dressed, unused to such a panicked awakening. He pulled on his linen kilt and tied his belt, then reached down for the stiff pair of soldier boots tucked under his bed. They were the only thing the clerk at the barrack store had issued him with yesterday evening: shin-high, tight around the ankle and upturned at the toes.
Turn your feet into bronze, these will, the clerk had laughed darkly.
The horn began a third long moan. Hattu tied the leather laces on his boots and rose as the cluster of recruits shuffled clumsily towards the dormitory door. They filed though a porch area, passing by the empty racks of what looked like a small armoury.
Hattu hesitated. ‘No weapons?’ he whispered to one of the boys passing him. The boy ignored Hattu and hurried on past him and outside.
‘It’s Kurunta’s way of saying we are worthless,’ Dagon replied instead as he and Hattu spilled outside at the tail end of the group.
The fresh morning air hit Hattu like a playful slap. Disorientated and part-blinded by the sun, he moved forward as best he could behind the others. When they halted, he did too – at the northeastern corner of the huge, low-walled compound. This place housed the core of the army: a single standing regiment from each of the four divisions. Tall staffs were planted in each quarter of the compound, each bearing a gold symbol on top: a torch for the Blaze, a clenched fist for the Wrath, a bull’s head for the Fury and a lightning bolt for the Storm in this nearest quarter. Rows of long, pale-red mud-brick buildings like his own dormitory lay perpendicular to the compound walls, with a vast rectangle of flat, red dusty ground in the centre. The space was crammed with soldiers: perfect, hundred-strong squares of men, backs straight, jaws stiff, long, dark hair rippling in the breeze. They wore leather soldier boots, off-white linen kilts or tunics, stiffened linen or leather cuirasses and bronze-browed leather helms. In their belts they carried curved swords, vicious maces and small axes and in their hands they clasped hide-covered shields and high, skywards-pointing spears. The two rearmost ranks of each hundred wore
bows and quivers too. Each hundred was fronted by a captain sporting a trailing, black plume on his helm that hung to the waist like a horse’s tail.
Cries rang out from commanders in the other three quarters of the square, where the ranks began to dissolve and reform in different shapes: Blaze of Arinniti – march! Fury of Aplu – form a wall! Wrath of Sarruma – present spears! Every movement threw up a racket of echoes – boots, shields and spears in motion.
Nine not-quite-replete companies of one hundred Storm soldiers stood in this quarter, surrounding the hundred boys. They were each scarred and scowling, their long hair beaded with animal teeth or small talismanic jewels. This was the standing regiment of the Storm Division, Hattu realised, the remnant of the thousand veterans who had flooded from Hattusa’s Great Barracks to battle the Kaskans on the Spirit Bridge. They gazed in silence out over the compound walls towards the eastern skyline as if impersonating the warrior statue. The flat-faced regimental chief in charge of this lot stood at the head of the rightmost company of one hundred, holding the staff topped with the golden lightning bolt.
Urgent footsteps beat up behind them and Kurunta burst into view. He came to a halt before the assembled Storm ranks, posturing like a rhinoceros waiting to charge, feet wide apart, head dipped. ‘Storm Division… atteeention.’
With a sharp, martial clatter, the nine neat squares of veterans rapped their spear hafts into the dust and stood even more proud. The rabble of boys in the centre seemed to jolt at this.
‘And now let us welcome our new recruits… preeeeesent.’
With a rattle of timber and crunch of dust under boots, the nine neat squares of Storm veterans swung so each was facing inwards at the recruits, levelling their spears, their distant stares now trained on the young men. Fierce, cold stares. Eyes innumerable. ‘Ha!’ they cried as one.
Kurunta ignored his nine perfect companies to stride before the corralled gaggle of young men, the braided silver tail sprouting from above his ear jostling with each stride. Hattu only dared snatch glances from the side of his eye when the general’s back was turned. Suddenly, Kurunta thrust his face into that of the plump recruit with the inside-out tunic. ‘Garin, aye? I knew your father. He liked his food too.’ Hattu heard a low whine from the boy, then a deep chesty chuckle from Kurunta. On he strode like a vulture around a carcass. One toothy lad who had only had time to partially dress – standing in his loincloth and wearing one boot – stared at the general, wide-eyed. Kurunta rushed for him and screamed in his face: ‘See something you like?’ he pulled his eyepatch up to reveal a pit of scar tissue and the small, black hole at the centre. Hattu looked away, hearing just a weighty crumple as the staring boy passed out.
Hattu heard the rapid stomp of footsteps coming his way and before he could turn towards them, a flash and zing of bronze brought one of Kurunta’s twin blades to his neck. The cool tip touched his throat like the feet of a butterfly landing there. Kurunta gazed down its length, his teeth gritted and a low growl pouring from the gaps. Hattu dared not gulp lest the sword’s edge pierce his neck.
‘And you, Prince Hattusili,’ the appellation couldn’t have been more derisory. ‘Last of one thousand men to crawl from your stinking bed. What an inauspicious start. Muwa, the Tuhkanti – a true prince – at least made sure to lead his band of recruits out on his first day.’ He snorted. ‘Muwa’s Shadow, indeed.’
Now the nine veteran bands began to murmur. ‘I told you, Chief Raku – it is him,’ a soldier next to Flat-face the Regimental Chief whispered. ‘See his eyes – one like mist? He brings his curse to the ranks of the Storm,’ another claimed, the disguised hiss amplified by the compound’s walls. Even some of the other divisions turned heads towards the announcement. The boys near him took a step away, some with that same baleful look. Only Dagon remained where he was near Hattu’s side, his gaze on the ground before him as if struggling with his choice.
‘Well, what have you got to say?’ Kurunta demanded.
Hattu knew he was damned no matter how he chose to answer. ‘I stopped at the armoury in the porch. I should have been swifter. I made a mistake,’ he said.
‘Aye, aye you did,’ Kurunta replied, the words dripping with dark insinuation. He paced away from Hattu and strode before the recruits, then tossed up both swords and caught them overhand, before driving them down into the dust. ‘You have the honour of standing here today and the privilege – the mere chance – to prove yourselves worthy. The First Regiment of the Storm lost many soldiers last year when the Kaskans came. Veterans working the farmlands were drafted in to replace some of them, yet still we are one company short of a thousand. And I see one hundred boys before me. Are you ready for what is to come?’
Silence.
‘Are you?’ he screamed.
The reply came in a thin and highly unconvincing mumble.
Kurunta chuckled darkly. ‘You come here as lambs, weak, bleating, frightened. In the months to come each of you will be oxen and I will be your master: I will put your neck to the plough and, by the Gods, I will drive you until your heart bursts!’ His gritted teeth creaked under the strain of a gleeful rictus and spit showered the air. ‘When it is all over, we shall see who remains. Should you crumble, then you will spend the rest of your lives in ignominy. If you suffer it all as a Hittite should, then… then you will be lions. Your reward will be the chance to die for your country.’
While Kurunta spoke, Hattu couldn’t help but notice the fierce and frantic drills of the other divisions. He saw from the corner of his eye a hundred of the Blaze Division, gnarled and knotted as if sired by Kurunta himself, each with a bird’s talons painted on their hide shields.
‘The Pitiless Ravens, turn,’ the captain of that company bawled. They swung like a door, as one.
‘The Savage Bastards… brace,’ came another cry. This one was from a hundred of the Wrath Division, each with a fang emblem daubed on their hide shield. They stamped one foot in unison then dropped into a warrior’s crouch. ‘Ha!’ they cried.
‘The Savage Bastards?’ Hattu half-whispered, half-gasped, terrified and trying not to laugh at once.
‘My Father said they are savage,’ Dagon whispered in reply. ‘… and most certainly bastards.’
‘And I call you,’ a voice cut in, chokingly close, right behind and between Hattu and Dagon, ‘the Hurkelers of Hattusa!’ Somehow, Kurunta had yet again flitted round behind them unnoticed. ‘Aye, that’s right… when they’re not shovelling shit, they’re no doubt eyeing up the sheep and the goats.’
A burst of derisory laughter rang out from the veterans.
The general pulled away and now strutted past in front of them. He stabbed out a finger at Hattu as he went, not looking at his target but directing every other pair of eyes there. ‘Now our pampered prince mentioned that he stopped at the armoury. No doubt expected to find a jewelled spear waiting for him there and a set of plush armour.’
More snorts of derision from the veterans.
‘The first thing most recruits look for is a blade and a chance to play with it, but look at you – you would cut yourselves to ribbons.’ Kurunta said, addressing them all. He came back to Hattu again. ‘And the pampered prince – he would no doubt call for his slaves to show him which end to hold.’ The veterans’ laughter faded into a chorus of heckles and dark grumbling.
‘In any case what a recruit must do is not take, but give,’ Kurunta clapped his hands twice. ‘Give his being, his body, his mind, his heart… to a life of soldiery. Our enemies call us the Wretched Fallen Ones. They say we eat animal bones and sleep on rocks. They mock our Gods and our way of life. But… damn them all… they fear us like their darkest nightmares.’ Kurunta’s face was twisted at its saurian worst now, his every word sizzling with zeal. ‘And I cannot allow such a reputation to slip.’
From a squat red-clay building by the walls, a slave boy emerged, bringing with him a hemp wrap and a stool. The lad set the stool before Kurunta and unwrapped a small, polished bronze mirro
r with an ash handle, laying it on the stool. Then he dug out a pine implement and put it there too.
Hattu scrutinised the object. A spindle? he guessed, having seen women using these when winding flax by the Ambar.
The lad took the last item from the wrap. It was a square of bright, saffron-yellow material. He shook it and it unfurled, revealing itself as a long woman’s gown. The boy then folded it in half and laid it on the stool too.
Silence.
Kurunta gestured towards the odd goods. ‘You see here a woman’s dress, do you not?’
Utter silence.
‘DO YOU NOT?’ he bellowed.
‘Yes!’ came a rather terrified reply.
‘A mirror for applying coloured pastes to your skin, a tool for weaving pretty, soft garments… princely garments.’
More laughter from the veterans, now comfortable that Hattu was here to be mocked.
Kurunta wagged a finger, eyeing each of the boys. ‘So you make your choice. Walk from this compound and back to your homes…’ he glanced at Hattu, ‘or your palaces… where you can live the soft life of a woman. Or you can take the Soldier’s Oath today.’
Kurunta’s top lip twitched like a hidden wolf watching passing deer, seeking the weakest. ‘But know that whoever takes this oath then breaks it later, spits in the eye of the Labarna and the Gods. He will know no mercy… ’ Not a soul spoke. The only noise was the crunch crunch of Kurunta’s boots as he strode to the compound gates, bashing them open with his shoulder and thigh. The general stood there, in the shadow of the gatehouse and the warrior statue.
‘Make. Your. Choice.’
Kurunta’s one-eyed gaze pinned Hattu like a glowing copper rod, almost ordering him and him alone to leave. The cicada song grew shrill, almost deafening.
Then the one-booted toothy boy who had fainted came to. Bewildered and still wracked with terror, he rose and hobbled away from the group, across the dust and then sprinted out through the gates, flinching as he passed Kurunta.
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