Son of Ishtar

by Gordon Doherty

  Kurunta broke the wicked spell by putting two fingers between his lips to issue a shrill whistle. A trio of Storm soldiers brought over a bunch of spear poles – devoid of bronze tips – and a stack of shields. ‘Now, split into two teams of fifty and face each other in a line… it’s time to see how easily you buttercups bruise,’ Kurunta purred, slitting the string holding the poles together and tossing them one by one to the boys.

  Hattu caught one spear pole: it was heavier than he had expected and rough to the touch – enough so that it did not slip in his grasp. He slipped into place on one line of fifty. Dagon was by his left side and Garin on the right. He eyed the boy directly across from him in the opposing line of fifty. A little shorter than him but definitely sturdier too. An even match.

  ‘With the infantry, it is all about holding shape. As two men working together in a forest melee, as a company of a hundred standing in square, anchoring a chariot manoeuvre or as part of an entire division, standing together in a line across a desert plain, you must stay on your feet and work together, as a unit. Sometimes it is fitting to charge, to sprint. Other times, you must measure your foe and approach carefully, slowly, retaining an ability to defend yourself as well as strike at him. Spear and shield epitomise this balance perfectly. Take a shield, see for yourselves.’

  The trio of Storm soldiers began handing out the shields. One covered in tanned, dark brown cowhide was thrust into Hattu’s hands. It felt solid, but lighter than he had expected. It covered him neck to thigh, with the sides curving inwards like a lady’s waist. For a moment, he became lost in a brief and inappropriate reverie of Atiya.

  ‘Now rest your spear against the right side of your shield, like so,’ Kurunta said, showing them the correct grip and battle stance: left leg forward, right foot anchoring, spear held in the right hand and the shaft resting against the ‘waist’ of the shield.

  Hattu followed suit, lifting his shield a little to place the spear there. Almost by accident, the edge of Dagon and Garin’s shields clacked against his own, with their spears poking from the almond-shaped gaps between the touching edges. It was the same all along the line.

  ‘See? Like the scales of a lizard and the quills of a porcupine,’ Kurunta chuckled in satisfaction. ‘Now, your task is simple,’ he said, drawing a line in the dirt with the end of his boot behind each team. ‘Drive the other side back. Capture the hilltop as your own. As soon as any one member of either side falls back over their line, the game is over. It is a test of strength and a lesson: that any group of soldiers is only as strong as their weakest link. Don’t let it be you,’ Kurunta said. The general then stroked his chin. ‘First, though, let’s mix things up a little. You, move here. You, there,’ he said as he rearranged the opposite team, drawing the short stocky recruit away to another spot in the line. Hattu soon understood Kurunta’s game: now it was Tanku – the burliest of all the recruits – directly across from him. The boy’s lips, blistered and scabbed from the tortuous denial of water, lifted like an angered mastiff’s.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Kurunta bawled. ‘Charge!’

  With a clamour of shouts and panicked shrieks, the two opposing walls of recruits surged together. Hattu swung up his spear pole as he and Tanku bounded for one another. Crack! their shields and spear shafts met and Tanku’s face was a finger’s width from his own, teeth clenched. After that instant of collision, the pair fell back. Whack! They clashed again. This time Tanku’s brute strength won out, driving Hattu back towards the line. Hattu saw he was but paces from falling over it. ‘You’re finished here,’ Tanku growled, ‘Cursed Son!’

  Hattu knew he only had one option. In a trice, he released the tension on his shield and spear pole and swung away from Tanku like an opening door. Tanku’s incredible momentum sent him flailing forward, across the dirt line and onto his face.

  The struggle amongst the other boys ebbed as they saw what had happened. Confusion reigned. ‘Have we won?’ Garin asked. ‘No, Tanku fell over their line,’ another insisted.

  Hattu was caught between offering Tanku a hand to get to his feet and seeing what Kurunta had to say about it all, when Tanku rose and hooked a ham-like fist across his face. A shower of white light shot across Hattu’s eyes and he spun wildly away, crashing into the rest of the boys.

  ‘You wretch,’ Tanku cried, the veins on his shaved temples pulsing like angry worms. ‘I’ve had enough of you. You don’t belong here. For an entire moon I’ve been starved of water from morning till sunset because of you. Tonight I will eat a pitifully small meal because of you. No more… no more!’ he screamed then leapt at Hattu. Hattu braced. Dagon leapt between them, only for someone else to punch Dagon. A moment later and two boys – Sargis, a beanpole of a lad a good head taller than Tanku, and Kisna, a hawk-faced recruit with jaw-length hair – pounced on Dagon’s attacker. In a few breaths, the two groups of fifty had dissolved into a sprawling mass of flailing arms and legs, young men thrashing on the ground, yelping as others collapsed on top of them. Some had dropped their spear poles and taken to using fists and feet. One had pinned another to the ground and was vigorously punching him in the crotch over and over – the pinned one’s wails growing steadily more piercing. Hattu saw the livid face of Tanku, stranded like him on the opposite side of the melee.

  ‘Oh dear, sweet, Lord of the Storm,’ Kurunta boomed, striding around the ruckus, hands clasped behind his back. ‘This is surely the sorriest shower of dogs I have ever been burdened with. Enough… enough!’

  The fighting pack broke apart, the recruits panting, spitting blood, moaning, warily cupping wounds – the boy with the pulverised crotch wearing a haunted look.

  Kurunta weaved between the two fifties in a figure of eight. ‘If I took you into battle today, I would be digging a hundred graves tonight. Training is over for today.’ With that, the gnarled general turned and strode away, his silver tail jostling as he made his way down the red-earth slope back towards the academy far below.

  ***

  That night, Hattu sat on the dormitory porch, alone. A hearty aroma of spiced carrot stew wafted from inside the sleeping quarters. He looked over his shoulder: the porch armoury was now stocked with the poles and shields they had been given that day. A burst of laughter erupted from inside. He saw the boys there in the orange glow of tallow-light, eating their half-rations, drinking and bantering – Garin telling them some tale about his pet cats and their antics back home in Hattusa. They were exhausted but undeterred. He, it seemed, was as hated as Kurunta.

  When he noticed a veteran from the neighbouring dormitory walking nearby, carrying a basket of bread, his belly growled fiercely. And an idea sparked in his mind. Perhaps there is one last chance to make things right, he wondered.

  He tugged his hair round to hide his smoke-grey eye, then jumped to his feet and ran over to the soldier. ‘Can you spare me a few loaves?’ he asked. The soldier looked him up and down, then shrugged. ‘In exchange for what?’

  Hattu patted at the hair hanging by his ear, then drew one lock around and pulled from it the only thing of value on his person: ‘this stone is beryl,’ he said, untying it and offering it reluctantly.

  The soldier eyed it then took it, not quite believing his luck, handing Hattu three rounds of bread.

  ‘Thank you,’ Hattu said. His hair slipped back from his smoke-grey eye as he said this, and the affable soldier’s face drained of humour.

  ‘You?’ the man said, then hurried away.

  ‘Aye, me,’ Hattu whispered in reply to the space the man had been occupying.

  Hattu took the three loaves back into his own dorm. The chatter amongst the boys fell away as they saw him. ‘I… I brought you these. To make up for the ration cut.’

  Silence.

  Sargis and Kisna, the two who had helped Dagon during the brawl earlier that day, licked their lips, eyes fixed on the fresh loaves. Garin’s belly growled in an unfortunately-timed protest.

  Every other recruit in there followed Tanku’s lead,
glowering at Hattu.

  It was only when Dagon stepped forward as if to accept the loaves that another boy cut in, stepping out before Dagon, facing Hattu. ‘Well, the son of the king spoils us tonight,’ the boy sneered, snatching the bread from Hattu’s arms. ‘Three whole loaves? We are truly grateful.’

  Hattu gulped. Dagon had slunk away into the shadows. The hard stares of the others remained. He backed away and left them to it, returning to the porch. He slumped to sit once more and gazed up at the sky, sprinkled with a silvery sand of stars. If a man travels far enough – the stars themselves will change, old Ruba had taught him. He made out the great Hunter – the constellation in the shape of a man drawing a bow. Aye, old tutor, that may be. But as things are, I will likely never find out, he mused, looking eastwards in the direction of Hattusa, thinking of the Scribal School.

  ‘Why am I here?’ he sighed, looking over at the small lodge by the compound gates where Kurunta slept – his snoring almost shaking the building. He noticed that the compound gates were open. Odd, he thought, usually they were closed and barred. Realisation dawned: there really was nothing stopping him from leaving. And there, in the shadow of the gatehouse, he saw the vapour-thin mirage of the round-shouldered scribe, staring at him, beckoning him. A bout of laughter sounded from inside and the last crumbs of conviction fell away at that moment. He began to rise from where he sat. ‘Perhaps it is time to go home,’ he said sadly.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ a voice replied.

  Hattu started, then looked round to see Dagon emerging from the dorm. ‘Myself,’ Hattu said, ‘I think.’

  ‘I brought you this,’ Dagon said, handing Hattu a steaming bowl of carrot stew.

  ‘I can’t,’ Hattu waved a hand. ‘It’s my fault the ration was halved.’

  Dagon chuckled. ‘Halki’s balls it was. That was Kurunta’s doing.’

  ‘Not in their eyes, it wasn’t,’ Hattu muttered, flicking his head towards the dorm.

  Dagon looked inside with a sigh then sat down and gestured for Hattu to do likewise.

  Hattu lifted one side of his mouth in a pathetic attempt at a smile as he sat. ‘Be wary of sitting next to the Cursed Son,’ he said.

  Dagon laughed nervously. ‘I know how it feels,’ he said. ‘To have every smiling face turn sour when it looks upon you.’

  Hattu saw how he traced a fingertip over the deepest scar pits on his face as he said this.

  ‘When I was nine summers, my mother never tired of telling me how handsome I would be when I became a man. That autumn, I fell ill with the plague. I survived, as you can see, but life is different now. Some people avoid me as if I still carry the pox. Mother isn’t quite so effusive about my looks any more.’

  Hattu sensed the boy’s awkwardness, but felt a great warmth inside at this – the first civil conversation he had enjoyed in a month. ‘I was certainly pleased to see you that first day I arrived.’

  ‘When I was arse-deep in horse dung?’ he said, brightening up. ‘Ha! Then, it seemed like torture…’

  ‘Now,’ Hattu finished for him, shooting a sour eye at the shadowy outline of the red fells, ‘I’d pay to shovel dung all day long.’ He picked up the bowl and took a spoonful of carrot stew. It was thin but salty, warm and flavoursome and instantly gave him a sense of wellbeing. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Dagon said nothing. Hattu ate in silence for a while before the boy spoke again. ‘Do you remember the first day I saw you?’

  ‘No,’ Hattu lied.

  ‘It was at the Tawinian Gate on the day of the Gathering: you and Prince Muwatalli were entering the city. I remember scowling at you then. I did it because others did. I’d heard the things they said about you: that the Dark Earth stalked you and those close to you. I thought it was the right thing to do. Since then I’ve learned to think for myself,’ he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘To the pits with that lot.’

  ‘To the pits,’ Hattu smiled.

  Dagon returned inside and Hattu remained where he was to the rest of his meal.

  A while later, the dormitories were silent, the tallow lamps within extinguished. A hunter’s moon cast a pale light across the still night, and Hattu remained by the porch. Once more, he saw the meek scribe in the compound gateway. Rising, he stretched and walked towards the vision. The scribe vanished as he approached. Outside the compound, the grounds of the academy were devoid of movement. Crickets croaked and a drunk soldier lay slumped by the door of the arzana house. Looking east, he saw the few sentries posted near the academy’s perimeter, standing around braziers. Now the ethereal scribe was there, one finger coiling and uncoiling, summoning him – further east. Hattusa was only a few hours’ walk away. Safety, peace, sanctuary from this ritual humiliation.

  ‘Would they stop me,’ he mused aloud, looking at the sentries, ‘if I simply left now?’

  The idea seemed sweet, soft and seductive. He found himself walking towards the perimeter. By morning he could be visiting Atiya. He could groom Arrow in the comfort of the acropolis halls. He took another few steps closer to the sentries. What would Father think? What would the people say about him now: the Cursed Son or the Craven Son?

  ‘To the pits with them,’ he said – the words coming from deep within. It was only now he realised he had stopped in his tracks. ‘And to the pits with you,’ he repeated at the ethereal scribe.

  He turned away from the academy perimeter, swinging back to face the red fells instead, eyeing them moodily. ‘I can do this,’ he whispered. He took a deep breath then set off at a run towards them, ploughing up the lower slopes, undaunted, his eyes on the top. Atop the hills, he fell to his knees, panting in a sliver of moonlight. It was not the climb that was the challenge, he realised, but the heat of day and the burden of the water. ‘How can a man better the divine sun and the weight of the sacred water?’ he gasped into the night.

  Silence.

  His eyes fell to the flat, boot-marked fell-tops before him. The moonlight betrayed a lone ant scuttling across the dust, bringing with it a tiny chunk of earth and placing it down by a red boulder. The first part of a new nest, he realised. ‘Poor creature,’ he said, guessing that the ant was separated from its swarm. Alone, it could never build an entire nest. An impossible feat.

  ‘I have more in common with you than my soldier-kin, it seems.’

  Chapter 9

  The Mountain Wolves

  High Summer 1302 BC

  Summer grew hotter by the day. One sultry evening, the officers met in the command building by the paddocks. Once their planning talks were over, a few remained, drinking and chatting.

  General Nuwanza eyed his colleagues, the unanswered question floating between them like bad wind.

  ‘Volca? He is a shrewd one,’ Colta answered first, smoothing at his forked beard.

  ‘Shrewd?’ Kurunta scoffed. ‘He is a bumptious fool with a voice like a chisel.’

  Nuwanza roared with laughter. ‘Then I am lucky to have spent little time with him.’

  Kurunta gulped at a cup of wine and slammed it back down on the table – the sound echoing and drawing surprised looks from the few other officers in there. Kurunta shot them all a sour eye then turned back to Nuwanza. ‘Who taught him to speak our tongue – Ruba, was it? The old goose wants stringing up for that, for Volca never shuts up now. On and on, riding over my every attempt at a sentence and echoing my ideas to the king with a boldness that seems to cover up the fact they were my bloody ideas in the first place. Even his apologies – rare as they are – seem offensive. And that helmet – who… who wears a ridiculous helmet with bull’s horns like that all the time?’

  ‘An arsehole in the king’s retinue. Who’d have thought it?’ Nuwanza chuckled again.

  ‘He’s not Hittite… not even from the vassal lands,’ Kurunta moaned.

  ‘Nor was I,’ Colta said with a raised eyebrow, now tugging testily at his beard. ‘When I came here I was a mere Hurrian beggar. The king could have cast me aside but he did not.’


  Kurunta’s shoulders slunk and he sighed. ‘I meant no offence, Old Horse.’

  ‘The worst thing you can do is let his behaviour get under your skin,’ Nuwanza suggested. ‘Find a way to tolerate him.’

  Kurunta shook his head, spreading his fingers on the surface of the table and rolling his shoulders. ‘But he’s everywhere. When he’s not at the king’s side, he’s lurking around the palace like a ghost.’

  ‘True,’ Colta mused. ‘Always seems to be in and out of the scullery.’

  ‘The cellar kitchens?’ Nuwanza said, his V-shaped brow drawing together. ‘If he’s caught down there with the slightest speck of dirt on him then he’ll be eating a plate of turds for his evening meal.’

  Kurunta’s eyebrows leapt up at the prospect. ‘And I’d happily supply the ingredients,’ he said with a happy growl. ‘And it seems he’s impressed the king so much that he and his two cronies have been initiated into the Mesedi.’ He snorted in derision. ‘What next?’

  ‘The two cronies are worse,’ Colta reasoned. ‘Drunkards! While Volca skulks around in the cookrooms, those two cavort with the harem girls – full of wine and acting as if they are royalty themselves.’

  Nuwanza chortled. The two other Sherden were scrawny and pale versions of Volca. Each was uglier than the other and they certainly were not sharp thinkers like their leader.

  ‘Braggarts, they are,’ Colta rasped, any trace of humour draining from him. ‘They boasted about their bravery the day they saved the king from the rampaging elephant. Belittled poor Zida while they were at it: crowing about how our old friend was overcome with fear at the sight of the beast and how they had to step in.’

  Nuwanza laughed no more. ‘Zida was many things,’ he said in a low voice, ‘stubborn, miserly, foul-tempered… noble, strong as a bull and fast as a lion. But never, never was he craven.’

  Silence reigned for a moment.

  Kurunta poured each of them a refill of watered wine from the mixing bowl, then drank his share in one gulp. ‘We’ll ask Zida what really happened when we each enter the Dark Earth.’ He let a wry smile lift one edge of his mouth. ‘Perhaps there the tight-fisted swine may even see fit to buy us all a drink at last?’