Son of Ishtar

by Gordon Doherty

  ***

  ‘Now breathe,’ Colta said, inhaling noisily and sweeping his arms out to the side within the shade of the byre as if to illustrate, before exhaling with a husky rumble. ‘All four of you have proved yourselves to be skilled and able. You make strong chariot teams.’

  ‘Pardon my rudeness, Old Hor-’ Garin started, then coughed, ‘er, sir, but you don’t have to demonstrate your driving before the king, out there,’ he said, pointing out of the tall timber byre to the sun-soaked parade track and the growing clamour around it.

  ‘No,’ Colta beamed. ‘But when I first came to Hittite lands I did. Had I failed I would most probably have been sent back to Hurrian lands. Or worse – relegated to the infantry.’

  ‘Is that what happened to Kurunta?’ Hattu asked.

  ‘Not quite,’ Colta replied, averting his eyes. ‘He took the Ordeal and proved to be a fine chariot warrior until,’ he tapped under his eye. ‘Well, a man needs both eyes to ride well – to judge depth and distance.’

  ‘Easy with that thing, you pair,’ Hattu whispered, pointing to his eyes then to the whips Dagon and Garin held.

  Garin, Tanku and Dagon laughed, spiriting away a dash of tension.

  ‘Is there anything you can tell us about what awaits us out there, Master Colta?’ Hattu pried.

  The Chariot Master merely smiled. ‘Ten teams, sixteen circuits of the track. What could be simpler?’

  All four of the riders looked at one another, certain they were being toyed with.

  ‘It is a test of everything I have taught you, and that which Kurunta taught you last summer too,’ Colta said in a whisper as if breaking some code. ‘Speed, skill, teamwork, sharpness of mind… mastery of fear,’ he added, his face stony.

  The parade horn sounded. They each clasped arms with one another, then strode from the byre and into the sweltering midsummer heat. The red-dust oval track warped and writhed in front of them in the heat haze. The high statue of Peruwa flickered in and out of view, so hot was the air. A timber stage had been erected on the far side of the track, a cloth awning casting shadow over the jumble of faces within. More spectators stood in the full sun, either side of the stage. Three, maybe four thousand were in attendance – mainly nobles here to watch their sons, or rich men coming to enjoy the free wine. And there were strange wicker walls or barriers of sorts at either end of the oval – but no people there. They strode to the starting line where their chariots awaited along with eight other cars and crews. Ten teams, sixteen circuits of the track. What could be simpler? Hattu tried to reassure himself.

  He climbed aboard his chariot with Dagon, reaching over to pat Thunder and Rage’s croups. To his surprise, he found a snub spear and arrows inside the car, along with a bow. He cast a suspicious look back to the byre, but Colta was gone.

  ‘A short, smooth ride, that’s all we ask,’ He whispered to Rage and Thunder, taking the leather thongs dangling from the cheek pieces of his helm, fastened them under his chin, then looked to the straight edge of the track. Now he could see the occupants of the shaded plinth: a collection of highborn from the Panku stood in there, as well as Orax, Gorru and eight more of the ever-present Mesedi. Old Ruba stood to one side, in the full sun, forfeiting the shade so he could stand by his beloved pony, Onyx. He saw the pale-skinned Volca too, but for once it wasn’t the man’s horned helm that caught the eye, but the Sherden’s red cloak and the silver pin on it: in the shape of a silver hawk – the mark of the Gal Mesedi. It had once been Zida’s. So now Volca was chief of Father’s bodyguards, he realised. And where was Father, he thought? The Chariot Ordeal surely couldn’t start without the king. He noticed another figure on the plinth: an odd, withered stranger with long, thin, patchy and entirely grey hair, seated and staring at him with sunken, dark-ringed eyes. A shiver of fright struck through him as he noticed the silver sun-circlet the fellow wore, and realised who it was.

  Father? Hattu mouthed. It had been just over a year since last he had seen the king. Could any man age so much in such a short space of time? Father had never looked young to him, but today he seemed as old as the rock upon which Hattusa sat. The king’s eyes met Hattu’s with a weary, haunted look. Then he waved a finger listlessly and the horns blew.

  Ten whips cracked and the chariots were off. Hattu, taken by surprise, nearly fell to one knee, shooting out his spear hand to the lip of the car to steady himself – the mark of a poor chariot warrior. A ripple of gentle laughter broke out at this. He saw some of the crowd nudge and mutter to one another, and felt sure he knew what they were saying.

  The Cursed Son.

  ‘To the pits with you all,’ he whispered back at them, then stood strong and tall, his skin prickling with the heat of embarrassment. They circled the track in an easy trot, keeping time with the others. Hattu knew that as the warrior of the team he had little to do here other than to ensure he adjusted his weight shrewdly – it was Dagon’s skill with the reins that would keep them right. They came round again to pass the start line. Now there was a ripple of polite applause from the crowd at the awning. Then a single, short blast of the horn sounded from Colta – now at the plinth – and his stablehands.

  Hattu and Dagon glanced at one another, reading the signal. Faster, they mouthed in unison.

  Ten shouts of ‘ya’ sounded and the chariots picked up into a canter, Hattu spreading his feet a little more for balance. It seemed incomprehensible that another fourteen laps would be any great challenge, but by the fourth circuit, the horses had been geed by Colta’s signals into a gallop and Hattu was in full battle poise just to stay steady on his feet. Thunder and Rage were sweating – their red hides slick – and the sun was growing fiercer. Their stride was now ever-so-slightly less than perfect – Hattu watching with a tightening stomach as flailing hooves from the mounts either side wavered closer to Rage and Thunder, axles swerving to within hand-widths of one another. By the tenth lap, foam bubbled from the beasts’ mouths and Hattu’s thighs and lower back were on fire – sapped of energy.

  Dagon snapped the whip above the traces. ‘Six more laps to go and-’

  His statement went unfinished as, from behind the wicker barrier on the north end of the oval, a row of archers rose up, bows nocked and drawn. Nuwanza, at the end of the line of bowmen, grinned then bawled: ‘loose!’

  Thrum! A storm of shafts shot towards the line of ten speeding cars.

  ‘Down!’ Hattu screamed, pulling Dagon by the shoulder as he sank to his haunches. The shafts rattled down. A shrill cry sounded and Hattu saw, from the corner of his eye, a warrior from another of the cars falling, barely harmed from the strike of a blunt arrow but lucky to escape broken bones as he tumbled over and over in the dust. The pair stood again, only just in time to turn around the oval’s northern edge, seeing that the neat line of ten chariots was now staggered and down to nine. They came round to complete eleventh and twelfth laps, exhausted and tense – but nothing more could happen now, surely? The wicker barriers at the southern end of the track were too high to hide more crouching archers. But before Hattu could convince himself of this, he heard a scream from the right of the track, near the byre. Like a demon rising from the dust, Kurunta sprinted from the heat haze and into view, carrying two poles like swords. A thunderous roar echoed his as Raku and a hundred veteran Storm infantrymen appeared in his wake, washing towards the flanks of the chariots.

  ‘Hattu,’ Dagon howled as Kurunta leapt at their car. Kurunta’s twin poles came whipping round towards Dagon’s arms – a stiff whack there and he’d drop the reins. But Hattu shot out his spearpole to forfend the strike. The twin poles spun from Kurunta’s hands and he fell back onto the track, roaring curses. Then Raku expertly bounded onto the chariot car. At once the extra weight sent the vehicle zigzagging across the track, cutting across the paths of others. Raku batted Hattu’s spear from his hands then grappled with him – his hands were enormous, his fingers gripping and pinching like a wrestler’s, then he wrapped his mighty arms around Hattu’s arms and t
orso like a rope, drawing them face-to-face. Hattu felt Raku drawing back to the rear of the chariot, ready to drop off with him. He stared the big officer in the face and realised he had only one option. ‘I’m sorry,’ he croaked, then thrust his forehead into Raku’s nose. With a crack and a splatter of warm blood, the officer moaned, releasing his grip and falling onto the track.

  Hattu saw Raku land on his back then sit up, legs splayed, touching a hand to his bloodied nose before tossing his head back and roaring with laughter.

  ‘Hattu, face front,’ Dagon cried as the chariot swerved deliberately left then right to avoid the chaos around them. The sudden ambush by the infantry had been telling. Two cars bumped together, sagging and slowing to a halt as their shredded wheels became entangled. Another thumped into one of the track’s posts as infantrymen pulled warrior and driver from the back, pinning them to the ground and marking them with a ‘kill’.

  Hattu and Dagon panted, unblinking despite the dust swirling around the track, on through the thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteenth laps, each time passing the ominous high screens at the southern end with doubting looks. The bright sky dulled as they went, surly clouds gathering. By the sixteenth lap, they were in fourth place of the six remaining chariots. They weaved around the now abandoned other four vehicles, seeing that just the southern bend and half of the straight lay between them and the end of the Chariot Ordeal.

  ‘We’ve done it, Hattu, we’ve…’ Dagon started and then faded off with a wail.

  The southern screens toppled to the dust with a bang. Behind them, five bronze-strapped chariots waited, crewed by mean-eyed veterans. With a lash of whips, they jolted forward, coming head on for the now exhausted and beleaguered Ordeal racers. The car coming directly for him and Dagon shot out ahead. Hattu’s eyes bulged as he saw the warrior. Muwa!

  Muwa’s face was taut with the wind of the ride, bent into a feral grimace, his thick hair leaping and dancing as he trained his tipless spear on Hattu’s breast. Hattu had nothing but his bow, and found his hands working to swing it from his back, nock and draw. It was swifter than ever he had managed at the archery range. Muwa was but a car’s length away. No time to sight, no time to think. Loose!

  From the edge of his vision, Hattu saw King Mursili lurch forward in his chair, his eyes bulging at the sight of the two princes set to clash. The shaft flew true and straight at Muwa’s heart. The tipless missile bounced away harmlessly off of his shining white cuirass. A great gasp rose up from the crowd. All around Hattu and Dagon, the crunch of wood and the yells of men rang out as the two onrushing chariot lines tangled. There was a trice of calm, before Thunder and Rage sped clear with three other cars – two having been brought to an abrupt halt by the veteran riders.

  Hattu looked back, disbelieving, then forward, seeing the finishing line as they pelted round the southern bend for the last time. They raced across it to a chorus of acclaim, beating another car to finish second while Tanku and Garin came fourth. They came round on another lap to slow, panting, laughing hysterically, then came to a halt by the stage. They slid from the back of the chariot and embraced. Then, pacing over from their vehicle came Garin and Big Tanku, who emitted a wolf howl and punched the air, then drew the four into a huddle. After a blur of snatched breaths, guzzled water, more hugs and wolf howls, the four chariot teams who had passed the Ordeal were called before the plinth. The clouds above were now heavy and dark, the air spiced with the stink of an impending thunderstorm – and no wonder, given the heat.

  ‘Brave charioteers, you have proven yourselves here today,’ Mursili said, a clear tremor in his voice and his upraised hands quivering with weakness. ‘I bless you in the name of the Storm God, Tarhunda. You will bring his thunder to the battlefield.’ A series of gasps rang out as the sky grumbled, as if the Storm God was listening. ‘And in the name of Peruwa the Horse-God. The Lords of the Bridle will be proud to call upon you when next they take to war.’

  Each team was called up before the king one by one. King Mursili muttered some blessing to them, pouring driver and warrior a cup of wine each as they went. As it came to Hattu and Dagon’s turn, Hattu felt his heart race. The moment would be seminal, with his father – the man who had sent him here to break his spirit – about to bless him and effectively confirm him as a soldier and a charioteer. As a true prince.

  He came before the king, dropping to one knee with Dagon and dipping his head. His eyes rolled up and he caught a glimpse of Father’s expression, so sad, mournful even. Is this not a time to rejoice? Now you have not just one valourous, courageous son, but two. And the king truly was unwell, he realised – his eyes were sunken and black lined and his lips were tinged with blue. The sky growled again, louder this time.

  ‘By all the Gods, my boy,’ Mursili whispered while all others cooed at the divine thunder and the sheet of blinking light that flickered behind the clouds, ‘you thrash and strive to liberate yourself from my tether. Well now you are free. Do not fail me… remember our oath.’

  Hattu felt a cold shiver pass across him. ‘Always,’ he affirmed, his gaze unwavering.

  ‘Drink, and go forth,’ Mursili said aloud, addressing the crowd again, handing Hattu and Dagon each a cup of wine. ‘Honour your family, your fellows and your country,’

  Descending from the plinth onto the now overcast track, he supped on the wine, tart and strong but refreshing given the circumstances. The twelve crewmen of the six failed teams loitered at the foot of the plinth, heads hung in shame.

  ‘I’d heard rumours,’ Dagon said, ‘but I really hoped they weren’t true.’ He nodded towards Kurunta, who was holding up an empty cup, grinning like a shark.

  ‘Right, who’s thirsty?’ Kurunta beamed, eyeing the failed teams. ‘All of you, I’d say. Yes, it’s tradition, after all. Wine for the winners, and for the losers… ’

  Kurunta slipped behind the awning for a moment. The sound of a stream of liquid tinkling into bronze sounded. A moment later he returned to hold the cup out to the first of the losing teams. A coil of steam rose from the vessel as the driver beheld it with a weary face.

  ‘Drink up,’ Kurunta chortled. The poor fellow drank and gagged his way through the foul offering, stopping at one point to pick something from his teeth. Such was the fate of his warrior partner. But a short while later, the tables were turned: the third chariot crew awaited their punishment drink, but when Kurunta took leave behind the awning to fill the cup again, there was no tinkling of liquid. A painful silence ensued, then: ‘Curse you. Six teams failing is unheard of!’ he howled, his head poking round the edge of the awning, his good eye searing into the ashamed crew as the thunder boomed overhead. ‘Did you fail just so you could humiliate me?’

  A series of stifled laughs brought Kurunta’s bald head swivelling further like that of a furious vulture. ‘What are you laughing at?’ he fumed at the king’s entourage. ‘I’ll drink enough tonight to fill a cup for every one of you.’

  His words were cut off with the rapid drumming of hooves. All heads looked to the east, in the direction of Hattusa. A messenger, perched awkwardly on a horse’s croup, streaked across the sullen countryside, shouting out as he approached, but the words were unintelligible.

  ‘Black news… My Sun.’

  The crowd gasped and broke out in a babble of interest. Hattu’s skin crept. King Mursili sat upright and alert in his chair. The messenger slid from the horse and came skidding onto his knees before the king.

  ‘My Sun, the Lord of the Mountains lives.’

  Mursili beheld the messenger as if he carried the plague.

  ‘The man whose body we found, he was a mere mountain chieftain – an enemy of Pitagga. Pitagga dragged him into the battle, wrists roped, wearing a set of his own armour and had him cast under the wheels of our chariots, knowing that he could despatch a foe and deceive us at once. It was a wicked hoax.’

  Mursili stood, swaying on his feet. ‘Tell me this is a mistake or I will have you whipped!’

  The messenger bo
wed his head, shaking. ‘It is as I say, My Sun. Already, he seeks to gather a fresh army; already he plots a new invasion.’

  Mursili took three unsteady steps towards the messenger. Hattu recognised the fierce ire that shone in the king’s eyes. But then it happened.

  Like a candle being snuffed out, the king’s eyes grew dull, his face drooped, and he stumbled and crashed from the plinth and onto the dust where he lay, stock still.

  Lightning lit up the grey land and thunder roared.

  ‘Father?’ Hattu and Muwa cried in unison.

  Ruba, Nuwanza, Kurunta, Colta, Orax, Gorru and many others rushed to encircle him, Muwa fell to one knee, lifting the king’s head. Hattu clasped his father’s hand – limp and cold. He squeezed it. Mercifully, the king squeezed back – but with the strength of a child. His pupils were dilated and his breathing shallow. The right side of his face was trembling in a pained rictus, and the left side hung horribly, like that of a dead man.

  Volca lifted Mursili’s fallen cup, tucked it inside his cloak, then knelt by the fallen king too.

  Chapter 12

  Soldier Prince

  Autumn 1301 BC

  After King Mursili’s collapse, the Labarna was carried back to Hattusa, while Hattu and his chariot-comrades were posted back to the infantry barracks. Three more months of advanced training under Kurunta passed before the autumn arrived and Hattu’s time at the Fields of Bronze came to an end and he too returned to the capital after seventeen long moons.

  As he walked the cropland tracks leading to the city’s western walls, a biting wind moaned, casting golden brown leaves across his path. Hattusa itself glowed oddly in the low autumn sun. It was not how he had envisaged his homecoming.

  Yes, he was taller, stronger, self-assured too, the rough itch of his white military tunic reminding him of the trials he had faced… and won. And with fourteen summers behind him nobody could call him a boy any longer. He wore his hair scraped back often now – the notion of disguising his odd eye and his identity repulsive – into a tight, high tail that had grown long, dangling between his shoulder blades and weighed down by the beryl stone and a few lions’ teeth he had found on a patrol. But the city he had left last spring seemed… different.