Son of Ishtar

by Gordon Doherty

  Muwa drew a stool to sit and Hattu followed suit. Kurunta gave him that lone-eye copper rod glower, accompanied by a tiny upturn at one side of his mouth that might just have been a crumb of cordiality. Nuwanza and Colta gave the princes curt welcomes. Volca, on the other hand, smiled a welcoming smile that was at odds with his wintry eyes. The head of the table, by the high windows, was unoccupied.

  Hattu, ill-at-ease with the company, dropped his gaze to the surface of the table: ancient, scarred in places and worn smooth in others. It was a bewitching thing, carefully crafted from different types of wood to present a map of the world – one of the few in existence. Light ash for land, dark oak for the distant, strange seas. The land regions were marked with ink and dyes, outlining mountain ranges, forests, passes, pastures and wastes. Hattusa was marked boldly near the centre. The strange lay of the world beyond sent shivers across his skin.

  Then, the side door creaked open: Orax and Gorru shuffled in, carrying a cedar litter upon which King Mursili sat. They set him down at the empty space at the table’s head.

  Mursili’s eyes rolled round to meet his council, hanging for a moment on those of his two sons. It was with great effort that he gave the pair a nod. The left side of his mouth gaped, the lips hanging open and wet with drool. Likewise his left eye was dilated, gazing into infinity. His right eye, in contrast, was bright, his lips on that side taut. ‘My council… ’ he said, taking breaths between words, ‘…is complete.’

  A moment later Ruba shuffled in, his eyes heavy with unfinished sleep, bearing a blank, soft clay tablet. He looked lost and confused for a painful moment, before the light came back to his eyes. He came to stand by Mursili, then held a reed stylus over the clay to indicate that he was ready. All eyes fell on the King.

  ‘The summer scout… was correct. Pitagga… is amassing… a new army…’ Mursili said. No preamble, no ceremony.

  The king gestured to Kurunta, who took over.

  ‘Pitagga frames his failed attack on Hattusa like the corpse of a martyr. He preaches to his people about our recapture of Wahina in the northeast and Pala and Tummanna in the northwest as if those lands had been stolen from them. His bards, oracles and champions have travelled all across the mountains of the Upper Country to tell tales of his ‘glory’ and the glory yet to be had. The twelve Kaskan tribes venerate Pitagga as a demigod. Even the tribes of the dark northern woods of Hatenzuwa have answered his call. And one of our spies in the distant northeast, in the lands of the Azzi, told us of Kaskans there, trading Hittite captives in their hundreds.’

  ‘Trading captives with the Azzi,’ Nuwanza said. ‘For what?’

  Kurunta’s dark expression seemed to pervade the room. ‘We do not know. And that is a concern.’ He took a swig of well-watered wine before continuing. ‘We have oft talked of one day recovering the Lost North; of rebuilding the long-ruined cities of Hakmis, Zalpa and Nerik – the shame of the Grey Throne. Yet it is Pitagga who holds those lands still, and aims to extend them…’ Kurunta traced a finger over the ancient map table top, drawing attention to the strip of highland territory lining the north of the Hittite heartlands, squashed up against the foot of the Soaring Mountains, ‘… most recently, he has been probing the lands of Galasma.’

  ‘Why Galasma?’ Muwa said, leaning forward on his elbows to get a better view of the Kaskan territory and the Galasman realm.

  Unconsciously, Hattu mimicked his brother’s actions. The Galasman people manned a large stretch of the Hittite border forts and watchtowers designed to rebuff any Kaskan attacks that might spill from the mountains. Galasma – the mere mention of the place in Hattusa’s streets usually conjured pulled faces and groans: Gruff, rugged men. Not true Hittites. Fierce bastards, though. Then he thought of Darizu, the meek Galasman Lord of the Northern Watchtowers he had watched quail and mumble through a confession of cowardice before the king. After his disgrace, Darizu had been given another chance – posted to Galasma, his homeland, to marshal that vital frontier.

  Muwa’s eyes darted then widened. ‘Pitagga wants the lead mines,’ he gasped, answering his own question.

  ‘Exactly.’ Kurunta’s good eye swivelled to meet those of the others in turn. ‘Those lead mines are vital. Without the dark ingots we bring from the rocky depths, we can barter for ever-less tin in the eastern markets of Ugarit. Without tin, there can be no bronze… ’ he stopped and sighed heavily. ‘Suffice to say I shattered three swords this year at the academy – three swords worked thin as reeds, such is the scarcity of tin. Axes too – now fashioned with gaping holes in the middle of the blade to spare as much of the precious metal as we can – are breaking like clay.’

  A handful of low grumbles sounded around the table.

  ‘Those mines must be protected – fiercely,’ Muwa insisted. ‘The Galasmans mustered a few thousand men the last time we levied them. How many has Pitagga rallied to his cause?’

  ‘My two kinsmen rode north and sighted them. Ten thousand spears, they counted,’ Volca claimed.

  Every man around the table bristled at this.

  ‘Ten thousand?’ Kurunta stroked at his bottom lip. ‘Then put the Galasman forces to one side. With all four of our divisions fully mustered – farmers and freemen included – we can field nearly twenty thousand spears.’

  ‘Aye, enough to end the Lord of the Mountains,’ Volca cooed enthusiastically.

  ‘While we could muster twenty thousand,’ Nuwanza countered, hands raised to slow things down, ‘we would have to leave at least a division behind to protect the heartlands. That leaves us with fifteen thousand. And what if Pitagga has mustered more since Volca’s men scouted north? The margin shrinks.’

  Volca laughed mockingly. ‘We can tarry and play with numbers all winter, Bowman.’ Nuwanza’s nose wrinkled in annoyance. ‘But, come spring, Galasma is set to be assailed – heavily. Without action, the lead mines will fall into Pitagga’s hands.’

  ‘Aye,’ Kurunta agreed grudgingly, shooting Nuwanza a semi-apologetic look at the same time. ‘If Pitagga seeks to take the mines, then there is only one way he will be approaching.’ He traced a finger along a narrow line in the map that bisected the Soaring Mountains, north to south. ‘The Carrion Gorge.’

  The Carrion Gorge? Hattu’s eyes grew wide. He imagined a corridor of rock, teeming with the wild-eyed, shaggy-haired brutes, pouring south right now as they spoke, axes honed and intent on splitting Galasman heads then forging south to Hattusa once again.

  Kurunta held up a pacifying finger, as if reading the same troubled thoughts from the others. ‘Early snow in the north has blocked the gorge and the passes that would take us there, so neither Hittite nor Kaskan will be able to approach Galasma during the cold season. But come the spring the snows will be gone… and it will be the swiftest who claims Galasma as their prize.’

  Nuwanza stroked his jaw in thought. ‘At the least we should right now despatch winter scouts – men who could pick their way round the snowdrifts – to take word to Darizu.’

  Kurunta shook his head. ‘My thoughts too, old friend, but the northern snows are deep – no man or horse could get there. Galasma will winter alone.’

  Mursili nodded weakly. Mute and still throughout it all, the king had been listening intently, taking everything in. ‘It will be… so. Come the first thaw, the Wrath Division will stay here to garrison Hattusa and the heartland cities.’ He sighed heavily. ‘The other three divisions… will be… levied in full. The standing regiments will be joined by the shepherds and the farmers. Fifteen thousand spears will set for the north. Prince Muwa will… lead the Fury, Nuwanza the Blaze, Kurunta the Storm. Colta will lead… the Lords of the Bridle.’ His eyes swung to Hattu. ‘Prince Hattu, you… will march… with the infantry under Kurunta.’

  Hattu considered this for a moment. Father’s tone was cold. The words were intended to put him in his place. Was that why he had been summoned to these talks? He glanced to Kurunta, remembering the one-eyed general’s words:

  No prince can
serve as a low-ranking foot soldier – it would be a bleak omen.

  Kurunta watched him carefully. Father too. They were expecting a reaction – a boyish response of petulance.

  ‘You wish me to march with my comrades in the Wolves? Happily. I would march with the ox train if you asked me to.’

  Kurunta’s appraising eye creased at one side, lifted by a hint of a smile. King Mursili’s sagging face darkened.

  ‘My Sun,’ Colta interrupted, pausing a moment to consider his words, ‘Hattu is also a fine charioteer. We have a shortfall of riding teams at the moment following the losses at the battle in Pala – less than two hundred pairs are fit and able to man our battle cars. Hattu and his driver, Dagon, could-’

  ‘The Labarna has spoken,’ Volca snapped.

  Colta’s nose wrinkled in ire and Nuwanza opened his mouth to argue the Chariot Master’s case.

  ‘Enough,’ Mursili said with a wet rasp, slapping his good hand on the table.

  All settled down, discontent caged.

  Mursili continued: ‘I will journey with the army too.’ A few nascent protests were swiped away by another raised hand from the king. ‘I will ride in my carriage. Prince Muwa will lead the expedition in consultation with me. I must be there. I must see it done.’

  Volca stared at him for a moment, his copper earrings jangling. ‘It?’

  Hattu saw a tear brimming in the king’s good eye. ‘It. This,’ he gestured to the map with a shaking hand across the lost north. ‘This must… end. Pitagga has flattened my towns… slaughtered my garrisons… broken the walls of my home…’ he looked at Hattu and Muwa. ‘… slain Prince Sarpa. Yet still, every year he marches into my lands… with my boy’s skull on his lance,’ a weak sound that might have been a sob escaped the king’s drooping lips. ‘We must secure Galasma and its mines. But then we must end the Kaskan threat forever, before they destroy us, before our enemies in Egypt, Assyria and Ahhiyawa realise we are paralysed by the mountain men.’

  ‘Respectfully, My Sun, the Kaskans cannot be beaten,’ Nuwanza said. ‘They are too numerous, and always angry sons will grow and form new armies that will emerge from the mountains to avenge defeated fathers.’

  ‘Their armies, we must face,’ Mursili replied. ‘But to end the Kaskan threat… we must throw down only one man… Pitagga.’

  Hattu felt a wave of fire and pride rush across his skin and saw the other generals roused by it too.

  ‘Aye!’ Kurunta, Nuwanza and Colta called out gruffly.

  ‘We will hunt him like the pig-herd he is,’ Volca agreed, his wintry eyes gleaming.

  ***

  The snows came and went, and the tail end of winter saw the New Year rains fall and the Hittite army entire gather around Hattusa. Wagonloads of weapons came from the armouries of the outlying cities to the east. The smiths’ workshops glowed night and day as scarce tin ingots were forged with copper and new bronze arms were added to the stockpiles. Soldiers came in from far and wide. Many hundred-strong companies filtered in from the southern river towns and villages. A full regiment of one thousand Blaze soldiers arrived from the city of Ankuwa. Farmers from the western pastures were called up to serve their country – freemen, bringing with them the weapons they had not used in several years. And more men still would be picked up along the route of the Galasma expedition. For the first time since the chaos of the Arzawan War, the divisions of the Grey Throne would swell to their capacity. They camped on the bare hills around Hattusa in a sea of off-white bivouacs, ready for the king to lead them to war.

  On the first day after the rains ended, Hattu stood on the Noon Spur, tapping one foot nervously like a man wishing he could conjure a twin to be in two places at once. He looked towards the Great Barrack gates, appraising every soldier who emerged then sighing, before every now and then turning to look downhill towards the Storm Temple and the trappings of the imminent Tapikka pilgrimage: a line of ox wagons, crates and mules. So much effort he had poured into helping Atiya prepare to leave Hattusa… and all the while the words had gone unsaid. Fool! Every day since his return from the academy, he had visited her. Every single day. They had walked together in the gardens of the temple. They had watched from the Dawn Bridge as Arrow hunted along the Ambar ravine. He had even taken to standing behind her, hugging her, linking his hands on her stomach, mouthing the words he longed to say to her. But not once had he mustered the courage to say it aloud as Danuhepa had urged him to. Idiot!

  Then another soldier emerged from the shadow of the Great Barrack gates, drawing his attentions back to the other matter. A handsome, beaming young man, his eyes and skin bright, his black hair cut short above the ears but growing long over the nape of his neck.

  ‘Kol?’ Hattu said.

  ‘Captain of the Eagle Kin, my Prince,’ the warrior replied with a clench-fisted salute.

  It was still a welcome surprise when soldiers greeted him positively. The Eagle Kin was a company in the Third Regiment of the Wrath Division, and it seemed some men of the Wrath, like the Storm ranks, were warming to him. ‘Comrade,’ Hattu replied, reflecting his ebullient smile.

  ‘What brings you here?’ Kol said, looking past his shoulders at the campaign preparations across the lower town and in the countryside around the city. ‘I thought you would be camped outside for tomorrow – for the march?’ The soldier’s eyes betrayed his disappointment. As part of the Wrath, he and his unit would be bound to Hattusa while the rest of the army journeyed north.

  ‘I’ll be heading outside soon, but first I have something vital to arrange. Something I need you for.’

  Kol’s eyes brightened again. ‘Anything.’

  ‘The yearly Tapikka pilgrimage is due to set off tomorrow after the army has departed. The king cannot lead it as he normally would for he will be at the head of the march. But the Gods must not be neglected,’ Hattu explained, being sure to recount the brief as Muwa had given it to him.

  ‘Lest we bring their anger upon us,’ Kol nodded.

  ‘The procession will go ahead, leaving at noon tomorrow. The templefolk will ride in the wagons with the sacred effigy. The Tuhkanti has tasked me to select a strong escort for the procession – for the wagons will be taking the low road to Tapikka, a safe route but a long one. I have been asking around and the Eagle Kin has a fine reputation. I want your men to see the procession safely to Tapikka.’

  Kol’s face lifted with a wave of pride and he stood a little taller. ‘I will protect them with my life.’

  Hattu knew he had made the right choice. He gestured up the slope to the Ramp Gate. ‘I have arranged for a few horse scouts from the king’s stables to go with you.’ He held up two small parcels, offering the one in his left hand first, ‘these silver shekels should pay for new boots for your men. And these,’ he said holding out his right hand, ‘should keep your comrades strong and spirited on the march – honey cakes, cooked by the palace staff.’

  Kol laughed and took the parcels. ‘Unnecessary but welcome, my prince… comrade.’

  ‘Fare well, Captain,’ Hattu said with a smile.

  The pair saluted one another then parted.

  Hattu broke into a jog, off down the main way, his eyes fixed on the Storm Temple again. He burst into a run, knowing he only had this one last day to do what he should have done long before now. What I should have done the moment I returned from the Fields of Bronze.

  He dived through a gap in the drawn-up pilgrimage wagons and charged in through the ceremonial gateway leading into the temple complex, startling a pack of priests and workers on a lawn there in mid-chant. He halted at a washing font, hurriedly throwing water over his face and hair and scrubbing his hands swiftly with the brush as custom demanded. He pelted down one loam-flagstoned cloister, then emerged onto the small meadow near the heart of the temple grounds. It was freckled with snowdrops, edged by a pale, sandy colonnade, veined with budding jasmine, all overlooked by the great shrine of Tarhunda. And there she was, puffing and groaning, hauling two large buckets of oil
across the meadow towards a row of foreign statues – a tin-coated griffin, a silver dog, a man with an eagle’s head and lapis lazuli eyes and a rising bronze serpent with wings.

  Atiya noticed him at last. ‘Ah, Hattu. Temple workers… ill, so I need to clean this lot before tomorrow,’ she panted, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.

  Wordlessly, he went to her and took the burden. ‘You should have summoned more workers from the acropolis to help. You should have called me down. I would haul pots of oil to the horizon for you, you know that.’

  I’d do anything for you.

  Atiya looked to her feet, a little embarrassed, but smiling too. She walked across to the end of the meadow, Hattu huffing and puffing with the oil buckets in her wake.

  ‘Atiya, come tomorrow, I’ll be gone and so will you,’ he started. But an oaf of a priest staggered between them, belching loudly and drowning out his words.

  ‘What was that?’ she said.

  ‘We won’t see each other again until autumn at least. I need to tell you something before we part. I-’

  Hsssss yeeeooowl! A calico cat scampered across the meadow beside him, hotly pursued by an eager temple hound. Again, his words went unheard. ‘Atiya, I-’

  ‘I can’t hear a word you’re saying,’ she laughed, then she began walking backwards, beckoning him with a finger. ‘Come on, not far to go now. There’s a good mule,’ she said, eyes laden with mischief and her tongue peeking out between a small gap in her teeth.