Son of Ishtar

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘Water,’ Dagon said, lashing a cup over his dusty skin. ‘Tomorrow, and every other day, we have water while we’re up here. Is that not a fine thing?’

  The others murmured in relieved agreement.

  But Kurunta cut it short, swinging back to face them all: ‘Tomorrow? No,’ he said eyeing Hattu askance. ‘Tomorrow, we try something different.’

  ***

  That evening, with the rudimentary well complete and the Water Ordeal broken, Hattu considered rewarding himself with a long, uninterrupted sleep. But as darkness had fallen, the whispers in his mind began to fight fiercely against his sense of achievement.

  Cursed son! they shrieked, enraged that he had dared to defy them.

  And so the notion of a night scramble – the only place the whispers could not be heard – came to him. As soon as the others were asleep, he rose and sped up the red hillside under a waning moon, crickets singing and a lone owl hooting. He found a dusty crag up there and scaled it, reaching the top and taking a moment to gaze up at the stars, to spot the constellations and to catch his breath before setting off back for the infantry compound again.

  When he returned to the barrack house, he slowed, seeing a lone figure standing by the door. Tanku, Hattu realised. He approached cautiously, hoping Tanku would go back inside before he reached the door. But the big, burly lad was not for moving. Hattu considered waiting out of sight, but when his heel ground on a patch of dirt, Tanku swung round like a sentry on duty. His eyes were like moons, his face tight with terror. When he saw Hattu, his demeanour darkened. ‘You?’ he said waspishly.

  ‘Aye, me,’ Hattu said, edging past the big lad.

  Tanku caught his arm. ‘That water well was… a pleasant surprise. And the sortie too – I suppose I owe you gratitude of some sort for that.’

  Hattu nodded awkwardly. ‘You should sleep, you know,’ he said, ‘you will need your energy for tomorrow, for whatever Kurunta has planned for us.’

  Tanku shrugged. ‘I don’t need to sleep.’

  To Hattu, the words rang distinctly untrue, and the black rings under Tanku’s eyes supported this theory. He saw how the big recruit’s gaze kept darting into the shadows of the barrack room, to his deserted bed a few strides inside. Confused, Hattu peered there also. No, the bed wasn’t deserted: in it was a small, dark, eight-legged shape. When the spider scurried suddenly, Tanku snatched in a breath, almost leaping back from the doorway as if the tiny creature could spring at him from there.

  An intense urge to laugh grew in Hattu’s belly. The burly, fearless Tanku – the champion recruit, destined to lead men one day – was afraid of spiders? He checked the laugh, seeing the raw terror in the big lad’s eyes. Silently, he stepped inside, plucked the spider from the bed and tossed it outside through one of the shutters – big Tanku peering inside to watch like a nervous child.

  ‘Until morning,’ he said quietly to Tanku, before stepping over to his own bed and turning in.

  ***

  Kurunta roused the Hill Pups before dawn. Hattu awoke from a deep, thick sleep to find the general shaking him violently with a dog-snarl on his features. ‘Time to rise, Prince,’ he hissed.

  With a few coughs, pained emissions of wind, bewildered groans and muted words of confusion, they shuffled from the academy grounds in the cool darkness in their armour and carrying their weapons, following Kurunta to the south. They crossed over the broad track that linked Hattusa with the eastern and western extremes of Hittite lands. As dawn broke like a golden hawk, spreading its fiery wings across the sky, they climbed a long, slow path up a grey-green mountainside to the tune of the rising cicada song.

  ‘Keep moving, hurkelers,’ Kurunta grunted, ‘You’ll just love what I have in store for you today.’

  Hattu glanced to Dagon, who shot back an equally bemused look.

  The ascent steepened sharply, and a distinctly cool breeze swirled around them. Suddenly, a flurry of gasps rang out. Hattu looked ahead, craning his neck like the others. The slope levelled out onto a plateau of sorts, about halfway up the mountainside. Up there, glaring sombrely down upon them was an ancient stone huwasi – far taller than the warrior statues back at the academy grounds. This was a towering effigy of a man sculpted from storm-grey limestone, veined with white. Bearded, he wore a tall, conical helm and braved the cutting winds, bare chested with just a scaled kilt covering his waist and thighs. His feet were apart as if marching, right arm raised with the fist clenched in salute. The grass up there was bent almost flat and they could hear the forlorn moan of the wind, passing around the statue.

  ‘Sarruma, the Mountain God,’ Hattu whispered almost in time with the many other recruits, his hair blowing across his face as he beheld the effigy, worn smooth in places by centuries of wind, snow and rain. It had probably been erected by the earliest Kings of Hattusa, Hattu guessed.

  They slowed behind Kurunta as they arrived by the foot of the huwasi, the wind buffeting them. By the statue’s base there were shards of clay vessels, age-old libations of beer made to the Mountain God. Wordlessly, the recruits took to unhooking the small leather bags tied near the tips of their spears and breaking pieces from their bread ration, laying it by the deity’s feet. Hattu made his offering, then looked behind the statue: a few paces beyond, the plateau was riven in two by a wide, jagged fissure. A rocky spur jutted out like an arm, stretching part-way across this ravine. Its surface was almost flat and smooth – well-polished by rains. On the far side of the ravine lay a shorter, stumpier arm, pointing back. But a gap existed between the two tips – as wide as a tall man lying prone, arms outstretched, he reckoned. He approached the ravine edge and heard a tumultuous roar of rushing water. He stretched his neck to glance over the edge, seeing the knots of white water and clouds of foam and spray down there, so far below that it made him dizzy. Jutting from the furious water were black fangs of rock, worn smooth like whetted blades. Hittite lore told that every stream, pond, river and lake marked the edge of one of the many passages to the underworld – the Dark Earth – and right here and now, Hattu understood why.

  ‘Be careful, Prince,’ Kurunta yelled, slapping his hands onto Hattu’s shoulders from behind.

  Hattu wailed, eliciting a chorus of mocking laughter from the others. He drew back, skin prickling with the ebbing fright and rising humiliation, while Kurunta strode up to stand on the neck of the near spur and turned to face the recruits. ‘This was once a natural bridge, so the elders said, part of a path that led to the good tracts of shallow pasture in these low mountains: ideal for grazing horses and cattle in the arid summer months. Now, the bridge is broken – no use to herdsmen. Soldiers, on the other hand… ’

  ‘A recruit will jump and a soldier will land on the other side,’ Dagon whispered by Hattu’s side. ‘My father told me about this. I didn’t believe him.’

  ‘Ah, our first volunteer,’ Kurunta said, his face brightening.

  Dagon emitted a syllable that suggested he wasn’t so keen.

  But a chant struck up – gleefully orchestrated by Kurunta – and the recruits quickly formed the walls of a makeshift corridor, leading to the nearside spur of the broken bridge. Dagon gulped.

  ‘You’re strong enough,’ Hattu whispered. ‘The gap is wide but not so wide. I know you can do it.’

  Dagon gulped again and flashed a timid look of thanks to Hattu, then set down his shield and weapons, unbuckled his linen vest and prised off his boots so he wore just his loincloth. As the chanting grew more rapid, Dagon crouched, his right leg slightly proud, then sprang forward. He raced out onto the rocky spur and leapt. Hattu’s stomach clenched, the chanting faded. Silence but for the moaning wind. Dagon flailed through the air, legs cycling as he went. Thud! He landed on the far spur with a stride to spare, then staggered on to the safe ground on the other side, turning round, eyes wide, mouth agape.

  A reticent cheer rose up from the recruits, each more concerned about their turn. Hattu offered him a swift clenched-fist salute while Kisna tossed Dagon’
s arms and armour over to him.

  Next went big Tanku. He stripped down to his loincloth and began by stretching his legs, bending his well-toned torso one way then the other, eyes fixed all the time on the broken bridge. There was an air of utter confidence about this lad, a sparkle in his eyes that suggested he already knew he would have no trouble making the leap. A stark contrast to his boy-like fear of the spider the previous night, Hattu thought. The chanting grew again as Tanku crouched like a lion about to spring, then launched himself forward, building into a ferocious sprint, stride lengthening as he struck out onto the jagged spur. The chanting faded again as a hundred breaths were sucked in at once, and Tanku’s ham-like thigh muscles tensed, every sinew stretching and spending the momentum of the sprint as he leapt high and fast, legs astride, then tucked his calves up behind his thighs, arms aloft as if to cut through the wind.

  Thud!

  He landed soundly with three strides to spare, his legs uncoiling so his feet met the stony spur on the far side at a jog. Turning, he swept his eyes over everyone on the other side of the ravine, his hair billowing across his face. He took to beating one fist against his breast then punched the air and let out a wolf-like howl. Those watching on the other side erupted in a chorus of cheers.

  The recruits lined up one after the other, each facing their own fear and leaping out across the void, the dread morphing into elation as each landed safely. Tanku’s wolf howl caught on too, each emitting their own version. Gradually, the corridor of recruits on this nearside shrank until there were only a handful left. Hattu felt his heart beat faster and his limbs shudder. Best to go now, than to be last, he reasoned. But as he put forward towards the run-up, Kurunta blocked him with a hand. ‘Not yet,’ he growled, ‘for a prince, it must be different. You must show that no level of fear will stand in your way.’ He was unfurling a square of black cloth from his belt as he said this.

  Sargis, Kisna then Garin went next in his stead. The chant struck up as Garin knotted his long black hair into a tight tail. The plump recruit had lost weight since his enlistment, but he was still ungainly in his stride and carried more bulk than he ought to. Hattu thought of his night scrambles and knew that being lean and spry offered a huge advantage. But timing and judgement were equally important. ‘Measure your stride,’ Hattu said quietly to Garin as the boy prepared himself. ‘Get as close to the edge of the spur as you can before you jump.’

  Garin shot him an irritable, nervous look. ‘I don’t need your advice,’ he murmured.

  Hattu shrugged and backed away.

  Garin surged forward, his feet pounding onto the spur. His toes met the end of it and he launched himself. A perfect stride, Hattu thought. But Garin’s leap was poor, with little elevation. The held breaths this time turned into a cacophonous series of alarmed cries. Thud! Garin landed, belly-first, just on the edge of the far spur, his legs thrashing over the void. The cries faded to a chorus of relieved laughter as Garin scrambled like a spider to safety.

  Now just Kurunta and Hattu stood on the nearside.

  Hattu turned to Kurunta. ‘Now can I jump?’

  By way of reply, a sudden, stark crack rang out. All heads shot to the edge of the far spur where Garin had landed heavily. A section of shale, about the width of a man, broke away from it and tumbled into the abyss. Silence. Then a splash where some of the loosened material had met with the angry waterway far below.

  ‘The jump is… wider,’ one boy shouted across from the far side with a tremor in his voice.

  The words sent a cold fear over Hattu.

  Kurunta turned his head to glare at Hattu, his lips peeling back in a foul-toothed smile. ‘You want to take your turn? Certainly,’ he said triumphantly. Just as Hattu began to stretch his legs, Kurunta held up the square of black cloth and walked behind Hattu, wrapping it over his eyes and tying it behind his head. ‘Sir?’ Hattu said, eyes switching to and fro in the sudden blackness.

  ‘Now watch, Hill Pups, as your prince demonstrates his superior courage,’ Kurunta boomed, ignoring Hattu. ‘He can jump higher and further than any of you, and he can do it with his eyes closed.’

  A refrain of derisive mutters sounded.

  ‘You expect me to jump when I can’t even see?’ he said as Kurunta oriented him towards the spur.

  ‘Afraid, Prince?’ Kurunta cooed.

  Hattu felt the wind turn cold as winter. His legs felt like water and even the thought of the ravine’s unseen proximity made him feel sick and dizzy. His breathing grew ragged and short, and a stinging panic rose from his belly to his breast then coiled around his throat as if to choke him. All the fears of falling that had plagued his climbs came to him at once like a multi-headed demon.

  ‘I will understand if you’d prefer not to make the jump,’ Kurunta continued, resting his hands on Hattu’s shoulders. ‘Just ask me to send you back to Hattusa tonight, and you need not do it. You can take off the blindfold and set yourself at ease. No more danger, no more fear.’

  In his mind’s eye he saw that which the cloth blocked out: the void and the spurs, but there were just two people there: the shadowy, green-cloaked warrior across the jump and the round-shouldered scribe here, beside him.

  A fiery defiance overcame him. ‘Curse you, sir,’ he said through clenched teeth, shrugging Kurunta’s hands from his shoulders, then setting off for the spur like a deer.

  He heard a gasp of shock from the gnarled general, but pounded onwards. He had watched all the other boys, noticed their speeds, counted their strides. Five strides took him onto the spur, then he felt the surface underfoot change: soft, smooth. Another three strides to the precipice. The ball and toes of his right foot met the rugged edge of the spur perfectly, then… he leapt.

  Soaring, he heard only the roar of the wind. It seemed too long – endless: had he missed the far spur and was he right now plummeting towards the black rocky fangs below? Wretched terror shook him, only to be swept away by a bone-rattling crunch as he slammed down onto the end of the far spur, then rolled over and onto the safe flat ground.

  He stood up and tore the blindfold off, tossing it into the ravine, shooting a fiery glare back at a gawping Kurunta, then eyeing each of the recruits likewise. There was no round of cheers, no wolf-howls, just a stunned silence. ‘I jumped not to prove I am stronger, faster or more courageous than any of you. I jumped because I want to be one of you, no more.’

  A few grumbled in disagreement. Some were still stunned. Tanku gave him a grey look, but said nothing.

  Kurunta leapt across like a springing cat, landing beside Hattu and for a moment, looking like he was about to brain him. Instead, he spat on the ground. ‘You jumped… ’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You actually jumped.’

  ‘You were certain I wouldn’t,’ Hattu replied.

  Kurunta beheld him for a moment longer. ‘You remind me of me when I was young. I was stupid too,’ he scoffed, then jogged past the recruits, leading them on uphill.

  ‘He’s running out of ideas,’ Dagon whispered to Hattu as they went, a wry eye on Kurunta.

  They came to a mountain brook, gurgling and narrow. Kurunta halted there, shooting an exasperated eye across the Hill Pups. ‘So who knows of the River Ordeal?’ he said.

  The hundred young soldiers gulped, each sure that whatever it was, it would be unpleasant.

  Moments later, they were in the white-cold waters in only their loincloths, neck-deep. Hattu sat beside Dagon, both boys with their arms clutched around themselves, shivering, teeth chattering, lips blue. The cold was insufferable, penetrating to their bones, frosting their marrow, clouding their minds. Kurunta, striding around them on the banks, seemed utterly unmoved.

  Garin rummaged underwater with one hand then fell aghast. ‘I… I can’t feel it,’ he stammered. ‘It’s disappeared inside me!’

  ‘It was never that big anyway,’ Kurunta remarked calmly, before covering one nostril and blowing a blob of rubbery filth from the other. ‘So remember, the first to leave guarantees half ratio
ns for the lot of you tonight,’ he reiterated. ‘The choice is yours: blue balls or empty stomachs.’

  ‘This is nonsense,’ Tanku contested. ‘One of us must leave first, so the punishment is guaranteed.’

  Kurunta strode round the edge of the brook to crouch by the burly recruit. ‘This is nonsense… Sir,’ he corrected. ‘And you are right, you will be eating half-rations tonight regardless. The test is to see who will break first, choosing to end their own suffering at the cost of their comrades’ wellbeing.’

  Hattu caught Tanku’s eye. The big recruit was as blue as the rest of them, and for a blessed moment, the pair were in accord. ‘If we all rise at once, then the suffering ends and no one person has to take the blame.’

  Tanku’s teeth stopped chattering for a moment. ‘But damn, you’re right.’ He rose a little, waded into the centre of the group and waved his hands up. ‘Up, get up. If we all get out at once…’ he repeated Hattu’s words. There was a moment of uncertainty, then the hundred rose onto their feet, made a careful few steps to the brook’s edge and stepped out more or less together.

  Kurunta said nothing. His withering gaze was enough. ‘Get your clothes on and be ready to march.’

  They filed down the mountain again, retracing their steps. When they came to the broken bridge of the Mountain God, it had lost something of its aura. Broken as a bridge, broken as a challenge. The boys leapt across one by one, giving fresh wolf-howls as they landed. Hattu, blindfold-free, relished the leap this time, then turned to watch Tanku – last to make the jump.

  The big recruit’s confident demeanour was as striking as the first time, his long legs eating up the run-up and the ball of his foot coming down perfectly on the edge of the far spur. Then the mountainside echoed with a thick, stark crack!

  Tanku’s face fell, just like the end of the far spur – the section under his kicking foot snapping off under his weight just as he launched himself. The shard plummeted into the void. Tanku shot across the gap, flailing, his face widening into a cry of horror as he fell short and disappeared into the abyss.