Son of Ishtar

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘They say we're born on the crags and raised by bears,

  That we've got knife-sharp fangs and flow-ing dark hair,

  We can march from dawn till dusk and all night too,

  Need no water or bread, just some bones to chew,

  So while the Pharaoh thinks he’s so widely feared,

  While the King of Ashur combs his curly beard,

  While the Kaskan bastards take their pigs as brides…’

  ‘In their hearts they all wish they were brave Hit-tites!’

  And some songs spawned bouts of thick laughter:

  I was tired of my ever-nagging spouse, Chief Raku began, eyes rolling left and right, hopeful he would not be left to recite this one alone.

  So I fled to the arzana house, many more immediately joined in.

  I sat down for a drink,

  A whore gave me a wink,

  Then laughed for I was hung like a mouse!

  Hattu cackled despite having heard that one a dozen times. Shielded like this in the centre of the thirty-wide marching column, the sense of danger seemed distant, unreal. Each terracotta slope or scree-lined vale rolled onto another empty, still landscape – brush, rock and dust in every direction. They heard tinkling goat bells and saw the odd herdsman sheltering from the punishing sun under small thickets of pink myrtle. The faraway mating yowl of a lynx caught the ear too, but all was sedate, so unlike the march to war Hattu had always imagined. And the Soaring Mountains were still but a jagged mirage on the northern horizon.

  ‘That is how it is, Prince Hattu,’ Kurunta grunted, noticing his curiosity. ‘All those days you lingered in the Scribal School, you might have thought you were missing out on high adventure. Alas, no, a campaign is one hundred days marching and a mere trice trying to stop an evil hurkeler from cutting your heart out.’ He roared with laughter at his own maxim then took to offering similar words of ‘advice’ to others.

  Eventually, they rounded a low hill to see before them a jungle of stone and pale clay in the centre of a large tract of golden grassland. It was a city, like Hattusa but on level ground, not quite as large as the Hittite capital and shaped like a teardrop. A small palace stood on an artificial mound near the centre of the settlement.

  ‘Arinna,’ Hattu realised, looking over to old Ruba, who now walked alongside Onyx. The Chief Scribe nodded once in praise then mouthed back to him. City of the Sun-Goddess.

  His eyes combed the place, seeing Hittite sentries on the walls, singing and punching the air in salute. More, on the high roof of the city’s Sun Temple, a line of dark-robed priestesses sang a lilting melody that sailed across the plain – a song of silver and sacrifice, of gods and glory.

  ‘They say that place takes the brunt of the Kaskan raids,’ Dagon whispered. ‘They see days like the one Hattusa suffered every few seasons.’

  A thick clunk sounded from the city gates – an ornate arched entrance flanked by two giant stone sphinxes and watched over by a carving of the Haga, the mythical eagle’s two crying heads and fierce claws outstretched. Three companies of one hundred men and a cloth-covered pair of wagons emerged from the gates to join the campaign army, the most senior captain announcing one wagon held numerous skins of wine to a great cheer from the marching divisions.

  As they marched through the early afternoon, Hattu had a strange sensation that he was being watched. He looked behind him and saw, of course, myriad eyes of many soldiers. But it wasn’t them. It was odd, he felt it on the back of his neck, as if someone was looking down upon him.

  By evening, Hattu noticed how the hazy Soaring Mountains had changed: now they loomed larger, less chimeral, veined in places with the deep gold light of the setting sun. He could now see features on the range – smaller peaks, overhangs and sheer rises.

  The order to halt and set up camp was given when they reached a defensible, dusty banking just as the sun was slipping away. The Fury men began to mark out the perimeter with torches while the other divisions caught up, each staking their golden divisional staff in the ground like conquerors.

  Hattu and the Mountain Wolves unbuckled their armour and helmets then took up a place on the flat ground atop the banking. Hattu helped Dagon to set up one of the open bivouac tents consisting of a sheet of hide and two poles – light to carry and providing ample shelter for the warm season. As he drove a pole into the dry earth, he felt that odd sensation again – the burning of eyes upon him. He looked up and around: just the usual doubtful looks from the many veteran soldiers. Then something dark sped across the dusk sky. What the? But it was gone as swiftly as it had appeared.

  As darkness fell, each hundred kindled and settled around a fire, using a little flour to thicken water and flaking some hare meat into the mixture to create a stew. Hattu prised off his boots and sat with his comrades under a full, coppery moon. Kisna and Sargis swigged at their water skins – spiced with a dose of wine, as they stirred the bubbling copper pot of stew then ladeled out a clay bowlful to each of the Wolves. The stew was thick and hearty and Hattu ate ravenously, mopping up the juices with a hunk of bread.

  Replete, they sat back against rocks or made pillows of their bags, gazing into the fire or up at the night sky. All were relaxed. Except Dagon, who seemed to have a bellyache of some sort.

  Garin, whetting his sword meticulously, hummed a low tune. Dagon shot him a sour look.

  Tanku crouched by the fire and belched near Dagon’s face, offering only a pale apology. Dagon’s eyes were alive with murder now.

  Zing! Garin’s whetstone sang for the millionth time.

  ‘I think your blade will be keen enough,’ Dagon grumbled, wincing and clasping his belly tenderly.

  Garin halted in drawing the whetstone along the edge for a moment, the croaking cricket song taking its place. He smiled, then returned to making long, slow, extra-grating strokes. Dagon flipped over onto his other side, grumbled and lay down fussily, shuffling and sighing. ‘This ground is as rough as the Dark Earth,’ Dagon moaned, wincing again and clutching his belly. We’ll never get a moment’s sleep.

  As if to mock him, a clicking, drawn-out snore sounded from nearby – like a woodcutter drawing his saw slowly across a giant bough. There lay Kurunta, in the open without a tent, as if he had been knocked on his back by a punch, still dressed in his leather kilt and cross-bands, mouth open. He had been attentive enough to take off his boots, however, and a pungent stench of goats’ cheese wafted from them.

  ‘That one could sleep soundly on a bed of nettles,’ Dagon groused, wincing at the stink.

  ‘Someone put sand in your loincloth?’ Tanku smirked.

  Dagon, lying back turned to the big captain, looked over his shoulder, eyes blazing, then raised one leg and let loose a long, mighty, rasping bellyful of wind that sounded a little like a furious goose. Hattu was sure he saw big Tanku’s hair rise, such was the force of the gust. Tanku gagged and spat, traumatised. Bellyache gone, Dagon settled back down again with a contented smile.

  Hattu chuckled, then turned his gaze away from the fireside. He scanned the circular camp. The sentries on the edge of the rise were spaced every twenty paces or so with a tall torch guttering in between each pair. On a wart-like outcrop of limestone, Volca sat enshrouded in his red cloak, shunning conversation and company, merely carving at a pear with a short knife, lifting each slice to his lips, slowly, carefully chewing. His eyes were fixed on the north and the looming mountains. Slowly, the Sherden’s head turned, his gaze falling upon and pinning Hattu.

  With a jolt, Hattu looked away.

  ‘What will we find up there at the frontier towers?’ Tanku mused, linking his hands behind his head, looking northwards.

  ‘The lead mines and a thousand Galasman allies,’ Sargis cooed, his gaze combing the dark horizon.

  ‘Glory!’ Sargis grinned.

  ‘Galasman women?’ Kisna mused. ‘I hear they do this thing with their tongues…’

  ‘What, talk?’ Dagon added wryly.

  Hattu chuckled guiltily,
knowing he would right now give everything to hear Atiya’s voice. He licked his spoon and pointed it at the dark mountain range. ‘When Gilgamesh went in search of a cure for death, he wandered the earth far and wide. He once ventured into the Mountains of Mashu, a range as big as the Soaring Mountains, no doubt.’

  All heads turned to Hattu now. Around a night fire, the words of the Epic were all the more enchanting. ‘There, he braved raging storms of rain and snow. At nights he huddled in caves with the sparest of scraps to eat and no fire to cook them upon. Then there were days of blistering heat that almost peeled the skin from his back and left him parched and half-mad. Up there, some say, he even faced mighty creatures, long gone now.’ He looked up, seeing the men hanging on his every word. ‘Great scorpion-men.’ When they sucked in a collective breath, he took up a twig and drew the figure of a man’s torso joined to a segmented lower body with many legs, a wicked-looking tail and a lethal sting.

  A log in the fire snapped, hissed and settled. All were rapt.

  ‘Brave bastard,’ Tanku remarked, pulling his green cloak over himself like a blanket. ‘Did he find what he was looking for: this cure for death?’

  Hattu smiled sadly. ‘He is no longer among the living, so we can only surmise that he did not.’ He brushed the sole of one foot over the scorpion drawing. ‘But what is death? Are we not here, eons after his time, talking of him, seeing his adventures in our minds, feeling the thrill of his quest, the chill of the snow, the sting of the heat? He lives on.’ Hattu remembered Ruba speaking these same words in the scribal school. ‘His name rings eternal because of his deeds.’ He set down his spoon and pointed a firm finger towards the mountains again. ‘In Galasma, we will carve our names into eternity.’

  The faces of the reclined Wolves brightened and a few grinned and wiped fond tears from their eyes. Hattu felt a surge of elation. For that brief moment, he sensed their enchantment. Was this a vein of that golden aura the king possessed – the ability to inspire and enrapture others?

  ‘But if I have dreams of scorpion men tonight, you’ll pay for it tomorrow,’ Tanku concluded.

  As the men drifted off to sleep, Hattu glanced up at the clear night sky, seeing that – as Ruba had insisted they would – the stars had shifted; only a little, but the Hunter constellation was maybe a finger’s width more southerly. Suddenly, the stars blinked – gone for a heartbeat as something dark and fast cut across them. Was this the watcher above? Hattu sat up, confused, alarmed. A shadow descended for him at pace… then the shriek of a falcon pierced the night air.

  ‘Halki’s balls!’ Garin yelped, waking with a line of drool hanging from his chin.

  ‘What the?’ Tanku choked, leaping to his haunches, the green cloak falling from him, taking up his spoon as if it was his sword.

  ‘Hmm?’ Kurunta sat upright for a moment, swept his head around and uttered something in gibberish, then lay back down and resumed snoring as if nothing had happened.

  Arrow descended from the night sky to land on Hattu’s shoulder. Another shriek.

  ‘In the name of-’ Tanku panted in relief. ‘Your hunting bird?’

  Hattu laughed, reaching up to stroke her tail feathers. ‘Aye. Followed me all the way here, watched our every step,’ he said. He heard the familiar braying of a pony nearby – perhaps in response to Arrow’s calls – and looked up to see old Ruba feeding Onyx near the king’s tent. He rose, taking Arrow with him.

  As he cut through the many rings and groups of tents, he spotted the eyes of those still awake glint like an army of fireflies, watching him. Some spared him only a moment’s attention, before returning to their ribald camp-games: one lot were taking turns in holding their genitals in the flames of their campfires in some absurd twist on the Comrades’ Oath. The stench of burning hair near this group was rife, and one lay on his side, clutching his crotch, groaning.

  He noticed from the corner of his eye a ring of Fury soldiers on their haunches. With them was that slit-eyed captain of the Leopard Clan who had voiced his disgust at Hattu earlier that day. They were clustered around the glistening innards of some poor bird. Hattu shot a protective hand up to stroke Arrow’s wing. They were asking low-voiced questions, pulling the entrails out bit by bit for answers. He had seen oracles do this often in Hattusa, by the banks of the Ambar. A lesion on the gut ropes could mean ill-fortune… or good fortune, if the oracle chose to answer that way. He heard their murmuring dialogue.

  ‘Will his curse blacken our march?’ Slit-eyes asked.

  A gangly Fury soldier pulled a strand of sinew, considered it for a moment then replied: ‘Surely.’

  ‘Will he bring death upon us?’ Slit-eyes said.

  Hattu’s heart sank as he realised that he was the subject. The gangly Fury soldier was about to pull another part from inside the bird to answer when he realised they were being watched. He looked up, eyes wide with shock on seeing Hattu, his lips moving soundlessly as if afraid to give an answer.

  ‘Tell them,’ Hattu said, exasperated. ‘Tell them what you have already decided.’

  Slit-eyes and the rest looked up as well now. The gangly one who was supposed to answer remained silent.

  ‘This sparrow flew three times over our fire at dusk,’ Slit-eyes said coldly. ‘Each time coming from the direction of your company.’

  ‘So you swatted it from the sky?’

  ‘To look ahead, to see what our eyes cannot,’ Slit-eyes said.

  Hattu sighed. ‘I’ll tell you what I see here: a sparrow dead needlessly; a company of soldiers gossiping like old wives.’

  They grumbled and turned away. Hattu sighed and walked on, all sense of relaxation gone.

  He came to Ruba, who was now brushing Onyx, but in brisk, irritable strokes. ‘Teacher, what is wrong?’

  Ruba looked up. For a moment, the old teacher’s eyes were vacant. Hattu took up a spare brush and began grooming Onyx too. After a few moments, the light returned to Ruba’s eyes. ‘Hattu? I didn’t realise you were on the march?’

  Hattu winced. The old man’s forgetfulness was worsening. He tried again: ‘You look troubled, Tutor?’

  ‘Ah, yes. The king,’ Ruba started then lowered his voice, ‘the king made a mistake in coming with us. He is ailing badly, merely from sitting in the carriage.’

  Hattu stepped forward towards the two Mesedi by the tent entrance, but Ruba put up a hand to halt him. ‘He is asleep. Best we do not rouse him.’

  Hattu slumped. ‘Very well,’ he agreed. He noticed a slave slipping inside the tent, taking a cup of something to the king.

  ‘Volca’s root brew. It is the only thing the Labarna asks for these days. He merely picks at bread or meat we put before him.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re here for him,’ Hattu said. ‘And when this is all over Danuhepa will see that he eats well.’

  Arrow cawed. Ruba started, as if only just noticing her. Onyx nickered. ‘Ah, feathery reinforcements? Understandable; I could not bear to leave Onyx behind.’

  ‘Well,’ Hattu said, stroking Arrow’s head, ‘at least Onyx was invited.’

  Ruba chuckled, then his eyes grew distant again. After a painful silence, he said: ‘Have you heard? The king is unwell.’

  Hattu’s heart ached. He squeezed Ruba’s arm. ‘I know, Tutor, I know.’

  Leaving the old teacher to it, he turned to one tall bivouac by the Fury quarter. Muwa sat on a log there, shaving the end of a stick with his dirk, his eyes fixed intently on the point.

  ‘Brother,’ Hattu said, sitting on the small rock across from him.

  Muwa stopped shaving at the wood. For a moment, his eyes remained on the point, as if he wasn’t sure whether to look up. When he did and his lion’s mane of hair toppled back from his face, he looked weary and irritable.

  ‘Ruba tells me Father’s health is deteriorating,’ Hattu said. ‘Perhaps we should have brought another few healers with us.’

  Muwa snorted and shrugged, gesturing with his knife to the nearby knot of blue-robed, sleeping pries
ts and asus who had accompanied the king in his wagon. ‘I doubt there would be room for them. When we pass the city of Sapinuwa tomorrow, we will see what the chief asu there can do for him.’

  His words seemed blunt, designed to end conversation rather than encourage it. Back to sharpening the twig he went. It had been a long march, Hattu reasoned, and the best of men were weary from it. He sought something to say that might cheer his brother, then remembered: ‘I have bright news,’ he said.

  Muwa slowed in honing his stick again. An unconvincing grin lifted one side of his mouth. ‘Aye?’

  ‘Of Atiya and me. I will need to speak to her when I return to Hattusa and I need to discuss it with Father, to see if it can be arranged, but I want to donate a bride price to the Storm Temple.’

  Muwa stopped sharpening the stick now. It was an awkward silence.

  ‘I… I want to ask Atiya for her hand. I love her, Brother,’ he felt his cheeks flushing, his hand reaching up to the beryl stone in his hair for reassurance. Muwa was the first he had told since that precious moment when he had confessed all to Atiya at the temple gates.

  More silence.

  As if to demand a response from Muwa, Arrow flapped down from Hattu’s shoulder and hopped across the short space between them, tilting her head up to stare at Muwa.

  Muwa sat upright, discarding dirk and twig. ‘You should empty your head of such thoughts, Hattu,’ he said sternly. ‘Out there,’ he glanced to the north and the dark outline of the Soaring Mountains, ‘await warriors. Not training comrades with blunted poles but killers who will have your head. Think of the struggles that lie ahead, not of mist-like fancies.’

  Hattu felt the words like a stinging slap. ‘I… I thought you would be happy for me, and her.’

  ‘This is war, Hattu,’ he said, standing, ‘and you are new to it. So listen to me when I tell you: forget Atiya – think only of your spear, your sword, and victory for us all.’ With that, he stomped from the bivouac, only to trip over Arrow. Arrow shrieked and flapped in a flurry of feathers, Muwa stumbled and righted himself. The moonlight betrayed a feral twitch of Muwa’s lip and clenched teeth. ‘And that bird should not be here either,’ he snapped, then turned to stalk off deeper into the sea of Fury tents.