‘Kurunta forbade it,’ Sargis said through a mouthful of bread. ‘For fear that the Kaskans might hear and guess our route.’
‘A wise choice, I’d say.’ Hattu chewed his lip as he looked west to the curved range of hills there, and the Soaring Mountains just south of them. This was the opening to the crescent from Muwa’s dirt map. Cupped between the two ranges lay the plains of Nerik.
He saw that his two comrades were not enjoying their meals at all, Sargis tapping a foot and Kisna’s belly gurgling and groaning. It set him thinking, and it was a welcome distraction from the sorrow pulsing in his breast.
‘I used to fear every day at the Fields of Bronze,’ he said, spooning some eggs into a bowl for himself even though eating was the last thing he wanted to do. ‘I’d wake before the Dawn Call. You lot would still be sleeping, snoring… farting, louder than the thunder of the Gods,’ he said with a gentle laugh, pointing an accusing spoon at the pair, ‘while my guts would be turning over, my mind wide awake.’ He took a spoonful of eggs – creamy and rich, more soothing and welcome than he had expected – and smiled. ‘Fear absolutely had me, I admit.’
A few others had gathered nearby, listening. He felt an added weight of duty to make his words worthy, so he took a swig of water and continued:
‘At one point I was ready to walk away, back to Hattusa and the acropolis’ halls. I stayed though, because I sensed that there was something right about it all. True, we were put through torture every day, but we endured it together. Together, we saw it through. We are something special. Aye, we will face the Kaskans out there today. But, when the time comes, there is no other group of farting, snoring, daring and dogged bastards I’d rather stand with.’
Kisna snorted with laughter.
‘Farting and snoring,’ Sargis pointed at his comrade, then turned the finger on himself, ‘daring and dogged,’ he said, then rumbled with laughter too. Others close by chuckled and some lost that look of fear.
Hattu felt his own heart rise at the change in mood. His words had been as clumsy as they were worthy, he realised, but he had brought laughter and smiles to frightened men, shone brightness upon cold, black fear. Perhaps a vein of Father’s aura ran in him after all.
But when the laughter faded, the small grave mound hovered once more in the corner of his eye. Hattu felt a renewed surge of sadness. You should be up above, friend, he said inwardly, soaring high.
When Kisna and Sargis shared a look, then set down their bowls and stood, Hattu frowned. ‘Not hungry?’
‘We’ll finish eating in a moment, sir,’ Kisna said.
Hattu was confused at the formal address, then realised they were looking over his shoulder at something, eager glints in their eyes. He twisted round to see Tanku, Dagon and the rest of the Wolves with them. With them also were eight other captains of the Storm, and Raku the flat-faced regimental chief. Each of them wore roguish looks that might have terrified him in his early days with the army.
‘Tanku?’ he asked his captain, who led the gathering.
Tanku handed him a folded bundle of green cloth.
‘What is this?’ he said, confused.
‘A change of the watch,’ Tanku said.
Hattu eyed the cloth. It was the captain’s cloak. ‘This is yours, Tanku,’ he said, confused.
‘Not anymore,’ Tanku said, taking off his own helm and placing it on Hattu’s head, the long, trailing black plume dangling to the small of his back. ‘You are the true leader of the Wolves. I noticed it first at Baka when you led the climb to warn the rest of the army. Then in the woods, you were sharper than any other and spotted the Kaskan honey-ruse. And at that Hatenzuwan village, it was you who gave the order to refrain from Volca’s slaughter… when I was set to rush blindly into the village and do Volca’s bidding.’ He leaned close so only Hattu could hear. ‘And at that foul islet, I froze. You led us when I could not. You didn’t do so to garnish your reputation – you did it to protect the Wolves.’
‘Any one of us would have done that, Tanku. I was the closest to you, that is all.’
Tanku patted his shoulder and smiled. There was not a trace of sadness in his voice or his demeanour. ‘See? You do not yearn for the power of the captaincy; that is what makes you the right man.’
Hattu looked across the sea of faces. Dagon, Kisna, Sargis, all smiling fondly.
‘I’ve spoken with the men in the last days. They agree,’ Tanku said, taking the green cloak from Hattu’s hands and draping it over his shoulder. ‘It is the way of the Hittite army. A hundred elect their captain from within.’
‘Tanku, I can’t… you earned this. The academy tailors made this cloak for you.’
Tanku shrugged and grinned weakly. ‘Ach, in truth my mother made it for me. She also made me a matching loincloth, but you won’t want that, I’m sure.’
A low chorus of chuckling rose from the gathered men.
‘But still-’ Hattu protested.
‘It’s yours.’ Then he added with a cocked eyebrow. ‘Though I’ll be honoured to accept the post of Chosen Man.’
Then, in the silence of indecision, he heard the scrape, scrape of someone sharpening wood. He looked up to see Kurunta, sitting on a high boulder, hewing at a stake with his knife. ‘Will you just take the damned cloak and be quick about it?’ the one-eyed general grunted without a hint of a smile. ‘We’ve got a Kaskan Lord’s arse to kick today.’
Hattu smiled in his place. ‘Aye, sir,’ he said, sweeping the cloak over his shoulders, then taking hold of two corners of the cloak and tying them together on the right of his breast in lieu of a pin. The significance of the green cloak on his warrior’s shoulders was just creeping up on him, when Dagon approached.
‘And this is a gift, from all of us,’ his friend said, stepping forward to hand Hattu a bronze cloakpin… a single white feather fastened to it. The sight brought a tear to his eye and a stab of pain to his heart. Arrow, he thought. ‘It’s… hers?’ he said, his voice thick with emotion.
‘Aye, one of the Fury men caught it falling from the sky as she watched over us on the march. He kept it for good luck. ‘From the Son of Ishtar and his hunting bird – a fine omen, he said.’
Hattu pinned the cloak in place, smoothing the feather fondly.
‘Son of Ishtar… Master of the Wolves!’ the group said in a low chorus. Other regiments eating and preparing nearby stood to see and echoed the call. At once, the mood in the camp was lifted. But across the sea of tents, fires and faces, Hattu saw one, dark as a thunderstorm.
Prince Muwa stole through to the Wolves’ area, arms wide. ‘What is this?’ he spat.
Hattu’s elation faded, replaced by a hardening of his heart and a stiffening of his shoulders.
‘Tuhkanti!’ one of the Fury captains said with a salute. ‘Prince Hattusili is now Captain of the Mountain Wolves.’
Muwa glowered as he looked over the green cloak. Hattu felt his brother’s gaze like the flames of a close-held torch. ‘Has his captain died?’
‘No, Tuhkanti,’ Tanku said, ‘but as is the way of the army, we elected within our group to-’
‘Then this is a nonsense,’ Muwa growled. ‘We are out here in the Lost North – now is not the time to be swapping ranks … on a whim.’
Tanku tried to interrupt: ‘General Kuru-’
But before he could explain, Muwa barged past him and snatched out at the pinned right shoulder of Hattu’s new cloak as if to tear it off. Instinctively, Hattu shot up a hand to catch his brother’s wrist. It was a shaping moment. Tall, powerful Muwa’s arm shook as did Hattu’s. A battle of will and strength.
‘Take. Off. The. Damned. Cloak!’ Muwa groaned as a thousand gawping soldiers looked on.
Hattu felt his arm grow numb, Muwa’s grasp hovering over the cloakpin and Arrow’s feather. ‘By Tarhunda… by Ishtar…’ he said, ‘if you touch that, I will… ’
Muwa pulled his hand free and squared his shoulders. ‘You will what? Remember who I am, Hattu. Remember who you a
re.’
Hattu saw how his brother’s hand had moved to toss back his own black cloak and hang over the haft of his curved sword. Only then did he realise he had reflected the movement… or had he been the one to make the move first?
He thought of Ishtar’s cruel words. He thought of his oath with Father.
But the charging horses in his heart defied that vow, and his hand trembled, tensed and ready to tear his sword free.
‘Stop!’ Kurunta barked, sliding down from the high boulder and rushing between them, casting aside decorum and pushing both princes away from each other. The general’s face was bent with distress.
***
Mursili could barely keep his eyes open. The vial of fiery poison had sent him into an oblivion that he was only now waking from. It was raised voices and a close-by rummaging of busy hands that brought him round, shuffling to push pillows under his neck and lift his head a little so he could see from the carriage window. It allowed him to see Hattu and Muwa by a nearby ring of tents, leaning in towards one another, faces feral, hands hovering over their sword hilts. Only Kurunta’s arrival put a halt to what might have happened next.
‘You see?’ Volca said, straightening the pillows. ‘You see how hard I have worked?’
Mursili rolled his eyes up to the smiling Sherden warrior.
‘Soon, you,’ he pressed a finger to the king’s chest like a playful mother to a child, ‘will be but a living corpse. The root brew has seen to that. Nobody knows how toxic it is… except you, of course.’
Mursili’s wasted body convulsed once, yet not even a whimper escaped his lips.
‘All those who found out about it along the way have been carefully dealt with,’ Volca continued. ‘Your physicians, your courtiers, your overly-suspicious generals.’
Mursili’s mind flashed with memories of past glories and he conjured a new one: seeing himself leap up from the bed, grasp the Sherden warrior by the throat and then draw and dig his dagger hard and fast into the cur’s guts over and over and over again. The fantasy faded and he felt a stinging, hot shame overcome him. I took you in. Me…
‘I cut quite the wretch did I not? Staked by the anthills in Wahina,’ Volca cooed, his eyes seemingly reading Mursili’s thoughts. ‘Pitagga did not believe you would offer me shelter. Yet he lacks my skills of persuasion.’
Mursili’s breaths escaped in weak half-coughs now.
‘Yes, the Kaskan lord thinks he is my master. True, he employed me to draw your grand divisions onto the plains of Nerik.’ Volca smiled and cocked his head to one side. ‘And Nerik will be the scene of your army’s demise. I will see to it that you and I alone survive, however. Pitagga will then sweep south and plunder all of your lands. And a plunderer is all he is – he would rather topple your cities than secure them as his own. So when it is over… when the fires have died, when the pillaging is complete, when the Kaskans withdraw into their highland homes again and the remnant Hittite people return to their fallen cities and try to rebuild them, leaderless, they will stare agog as their corpse king emerges from the wilderness, aided by his loyal Gal Mesedi.’
Mursili saw tears of unbridled ambition in Volca’s eyes. Madness unharnessed.
‘And when you pass, soon after, the heirless Grey Throne will be mine.’
Mursili’s eyes swept back to the two princes, now being shoved apart by a forceful Kurunta, while Colta did his best to disperse the watching crowds, urging them to prepare to march for Nerik imminently.
‘Your boys? Aye, they are rightful heirs. But look at them. They will both fall at Nerik… if they don’t kill each other before then!’ he said with a laugh as if making a light-hearted remark.
Mursili closed his eyes, seeing Ishtar’s writhing, curvaceous form in the blackness. He summoned all his remaining strength to cry out, but it amounted in only enough strength to open his lips a fraction, soundlessly. Instantly, the neck of a vial was pressed there.
‘There, there, Great King; drink long and deeply,’ Volca said, a fresh dose of the poison flooding into King Mursili’s mouth.
Chapter 21
The Plains of Nerik
Summer 1300 BC
The dry, shallow ravine echoed with the clatter of boots, hooves and cartwheels. Russet dust spiralled up as thick as morning mist. Nearly fifteen thousand men moved in full armour. Knots of archers scuttled along the ravine-sides – wary once more that Pitagga might have lined up a pinch-point ambush as he had back at the Carrion Gorge.
Muwa and the Fury Division led the way. The royal carriage and the small pocket of Mesedi came next, Volca at their head. Then came the Storm and the Blaze – Kurunta leading both in Nuwanza’s absence. The war horses and the men of the chariot teams straddled the flank of the Storm. Behind them, the massive train of ox-carts and mules sprawled. The hundred men of the Cruel Spears had been assigned to march to the rear of these animals to keep them in check, and the Mountain Wolves had been posted at the head, to guide them.
Hattu brushed dried dung from his leather cuirass as best he could then tried to grab the harness of a mean-eyed mule once again. But it slipped from his grasp and the recalcitrant beast continued to nip at his hands. He had often pitied the poor sumpter beasts when seeing them driven and lashed by heartless handlers, but now he understood. The supply train was the lifeblood of the column. If the supply train could not move, then the column could not move. If the column could not move, then the campaign would be broken.
‘Come,’ Tanku called just behind Hattu, stamping his spear butt into the ground. The ox he was leading shook its head from side to side but did not move a muscle – apart from its bowels. ‘Dirty bastard,’ Tanku sighed.
When the mean-eyed mule took to biting at Hattu’s cloak, his patience snapped. He lifted the herding cane, ready to thrash the beast, but softened at the last, lowering the stick and instead rubbing the beast’s muzzle. Finally its tantrums stopped and it moved obediently.
And in truth, Hattu’s fury was not with the mule. He shrugged his right shoulder to toss back the forest-green cape and push the cane into his belt beside his sword, then glowered ahead to Muwa.
Not once did Muwa look back. No remorse. Not for any of it, Hattu realised. This was surely the Tuhkanti’s most brazen affront: selecting the Wolves to help herd the animals, just moments after he and Hattu had almost drawn their swords upon each other, just a handful of hours after slaughtering poor Arrow.
Perhaps it would be best if I fell today, Brother… for I fear what will happen if we are to stand before each other again.
It was a shout from ahead that scattered his baleful thoughts.
The army slowed instinctively – even before the division leaders and many captains gave the order. Hattu saw the end of the low ravine about an arrow shot away to the south. Beyond it was a sea of hazy morning air filling a huge basin of grassy flatland cupped to the south by the Soaring Mountains and on the west and north by these high hills and valleys. The plains of Nerik. A place of legend.
But the army remained halted, and he saw why: separating the ravine end from the plains of Nerik was a dark, jagged chasm. Across it lay a single bridge laid with timber planks and edged with a rope rail.
Muwa, at the head of the column, raised and flicked a hand. A scout went forward, riding his horse up to the bridge, checking its timbers and the soundness of the ropes, then walking his mount out onto the mid-section. ‘The bridge is good,’ he called back. Next, he rode on to the far side, shielded his eyes and cantered around in a wide circle. ‘The countryside is deserted,’ he shouted. ‘The heat blurs the air but as best as I can tell the land is empty.’
A murmur of excitement and triumph broke out along the column. They had done it – reached the old place before the Kaskans.
‘Let us hurry,’ Volca said. ‘The sooner we cross, the sooner we can set up a line of bronze for Pitagga to run onto.’
‘Forward,’ Muwa barked.
The army rolled onwards again. The Fury thinned into a column t
wo men wide, spilling across the bridge and reforming on the other side. Next went the royal wagon and the Mesedi, the Storm, then the Blaze. Left back with the baggage train, Hattu waited until Kurunta waved them across. ‘Bring the pack animals first, then the chariots.’
The cluster of charioteers grumbled at having to wait.
Hattu jogged forward to head up the sumpter train. ‘Now you will behave?’ he asked the mean-eyed mule as they approached the bridge. The creature’s ears flicked at buzzing flies and that appeared to be the closest thing to an answer he would get. As he stepped out onto the bridge slats, he saw that the chasm was indeed a deep, grim cleft, its floor cloaked in shade, somewhere far below. The bridge rocked a little with each footstep and clattering hoof, more and more as he moved towards the central, lowest point, his hand running across one of the rope-railings. Behind him, he heard worried lowing, braying and nickering from the animals and a few curses and moans of fear from the Wolves. The weight of the sumpter animals was certainly causing more motion on the bridge than when it had just been soldiers. ‘Keep your eyes on the far end,’ he called back. ‘No point looking down unless you want to go there.’ Indeed, Hattu could not tear his eyes from the silvery-green meadows that waited on the far side. The breeze gently combing the empty plain caused the stalks to sway like gentle waves.
A captain of the Blaze Division stood at the far bridgehead, holding out a hand to take the mule’s ropes from Hattu. ‘Come,’ he said.
Hattu urged the mean-eyed mule on with a muted ‘ya’, but it became suddenly agitated once again, straightening its legs and digging its hooves into the planks, looking back.
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