Authors: Stephen Baxter
Teel asked, ‘And will you be the next Master?’
The boy looked shocked to be asked. ‘Me? No. Of course not. I’m not nearly high-born enough. No, my job is to assist the current Master, and to help train his replacement, when he is selected.’
Riban walked around the workshop, curious, peering into the pit. ‘How do you make your iron, apprentice?’
Zidanza looked doubtfully at Hunda. ‘We don’t talk about this. Let alone to foreigners. No offence. Maybe I should wake the Master—’
The sergeant shook his head. ‘These aren’t normal times, Zidanza. Answer their questions.’
Zidanza grinned. And, with an audience for perhaps the first time in his life, he opened up.
He took them around the secret stages of the processing. In the pit of fire, twice-burned coal was consumed to give a high temperature, much higher than you needed for the smelting of mere bronze – which, by comparison, Zidanza made sound like a game for children. This twice-burned coal was what Milaqa had taken for rocks on the fire. Iron ore subject to such heat resulted in the porous, floating-rock-like product he called a bloom. But this was not yet the finished product. You had to heat it again, and beat it, and quench it with water to cool it – but not too rapidly or you would crack it – and then heat and beat and cool it again, over and over. This got rid of ‘slag’ that you removed from the melt, until you were left with ingots of iron – he showed them samples, small finger-sized bars – that you could work up into finished objects like Milaqa’s arrowhead.
Teel smiled at Milaqa. ‘Following all this?’
‘Very little. But I see how complex it is. I wonder who first worked all this out.’
‘Who knows? Probably not one person. A whole chain of people, trying this and then that, over generations perhaps, trying to make this hard,
useful
iron, out of humble rock.’
Hunda joined Milaqa and Teel. ‘So what do you think? What do you need to take away, if you’re to have a gift of Hatti iron-making?’
‘Nothing,’ Teel said, ‘save the wisdom in the head of the Master. Everything else we can build in Northland.’
Hunda looked doubtful. ‘I can’t imagine the King allowing you to steal away his Master of the Iron.’
Partahulla stirred and snorted, choked briefly, then chewed a lump of phlegm in his sleep. Zidanza, eagerly showing a lump of bloom to Riban, didn’t notice.
Milaqa said to Teel, ‘But it’s not the Master who’s doing all the work down here. Not him, but his apprentice. Perhaps
his
is the head we need.’
Teel frowned. He seemed startled by the idea. ‘Well, let’s test him.’ He walked over to Zidanza and Riban. ‘Apprentice. I’ll share one of our secrets with you now. We don’t want iron-making so we can make gifts for kings. We want it so we can fight wars. Not just one arrowhead, not just one dagger – we want to equip an army, as now they are equipped with bronze.’
Zidanza looked astounded. ‘A whole
army
. Why, the first army with decent iron weapons would be unbeatable.’
‘We know,’ Teel said. ‘That’s why we want to be the first. But don’t worry, we are allies of the Hatti kings. If, in theory, I asked you to turn out, not one arrowhead, but hundreds – thousands – and daggers, swords, even armour – could you do it?’
He looked around the workshop, thought about it, and scratched his head. ‘I’m going to need a bigger pit.’
Teel grinned at Milaqa. ‘Good answer. I think you’re right, niece. Now all we need is for Kilushepa to persuade the King to let him go . . .’
41
Two days later the Northlanders were summoned to a session before the
panku
, the King’s council.
Muwa came to collect them from Hunda’s house. Hunda himself was here waiting. Nobody knew where Tibo was, he had left before dawn, and a faintly concerned Deri was out searching for him. But Noli, Teel, Milaqa, Riban were all ready. Teel and Riban carried the precious sacks of seed stock. They had all put on their smartest, cleanest clothes. Teel and Noli wore their Annids’ cloaks, and Riban the priest had looped around his neck a very ancient ceremonial axe of Etxelur flint, finely shaped and polished until it shone.
They set out through the city, flanked by Hunda and Muwa with an escort of palace guards, and climbed the sloping streets. Heading north, they passed out of the temple district and came to a rocky outcrop, itself crowded with grand buildings and mausoleums, from where they had a good view of the ‘lower city’, separated from the rest by its own walls and split up into precincts by more walls within – and the citadel itself, behind even stouter walls, which contained the apartments of the King. To their left, the west, Milaqa could see an astounding temple, dedicated to the Storm God, a box of stone set on a mighty plinth surrounded by lesser buildings, workshops, breweries, bakehouses, residential houses – a temple so huge it was like a city within a city, complete unto itself.
From the outcrop on which they stood a pair of spectacular stone bridges led directly to the King’s own house. But Qirum’s party was not to be so honoured as to go this way today. They had to make their way down from the outcrop, and through a gateway in the western side of the citadel wall.
At this gate Qirum waited in his polished armour. ‘So today’s the day. A day on which all history will hinge . . . Iron for the Northland! I have the scent of victory in my nostrils – my blood is on fire, as before a battle.’
‘Maybe,’ Muwa said drily. ‘But you’re not invited in, Trojan. The Tawananna specifically said you were to wait outside the citadel.’
Qirum looked baffled, then grew quickly angry, as was his way. ‘But Kilushepa told me—’
‘Just wait, Trojan. Get something to eat. Do a bit of whoring. You’ll learn the outcome soon enough.’
Qirum was smouldering. But to Milaqa’s relief he didn’t try to force his way past Muwa; he just stalked away.
When he had gone Muwa produced a clay tablet from a pouch at his belt, which he gave to Hunda. ‘A message from Kilushepa. She says you are to go to this address. You’ll understand what to do when you get there.’
Hunda looked as confused as Qirum had, but he obeyed, and slipped away.
Muwa beckoned. ‘The rest of you, follow me.’
And he led them into the citadel of the Hatti king.
Within the citadel’s walls they passed through wide courts lined with columns, each with its own guarded gateways. The citadel was a jumble of distinct buildings, and yet there was a cohesion to the design, Milaqa thought, all these grand structures serving a single purpose, unified by courtyards and colonnades. It was not like the rest of the city here. The courtyards were swept clean, the buildings well maintained, there was no crush, there were no hungry children with their palms out – indeed nobody they saw, finely dressed and evidently busy, looked hungry at all.
They were brought to a house of stone and mud brick that looked imposing to Milaqa, but she could see it was dwarfed by the grander buildings on the very top of this hill, the highest ground of all, where the King in his apartments could view his capital city at his leisure. Inside this house was a single vast room, the walls adorned with tapestries and filmy curtains. Soldiers, bodyguards, lined the walls of the room, their faces blank, their weapons visible.
And Kilushepa was already here, waiting patiently. In full Hattusa finery at last, she looked impossibly glamorous to Milaqa, with her hair piled high and her figure draped in a robe of soft, brightly coloured fabric; her eyes were lined by kohl, her lips stained a deep plum-red. Milaqa thought it was astonishing how far she had risen since her lowest moment, when Qirum had rescued her from a column of booty people, a whore of her own soldiers. And if she still felt begrimed inside, and Milaqa understood the deep Hatti taboo about cleanliness, she showed no sign of it.
Muwa guided the Northlanders in, and settled them on benches on one side of the room. It was only when the Northlanders had taken their places, and after serving children had come among them with plates of delicate foodstuffs and cups of wine, that the members of the
panku
arrived. Of course, Milaqa thought, they would not be kept waiting by mere foreigners. There were a dozen of them, nine men and three women. They all wore clothes at least as gorgeous as Kilushepa’s; all wore their hair elaborately plaited or braided, and the men were clean-shaven. They were all so heavily coated with creams and other cosmetics that Milaqa could not tell how old any of them were. And, unlike Kilushepa, they were all festooned with jewellery, pendants around their necks, rings on their fingers, bangles on their wrists and ankles, gorgeous wares from Crete and Egypt, and they tinkled and clattered as they moved.
None of them deigned to so much as glance at the Northlanders. They took their places on benches opposite, and pecked at the foodstuffs brought before them, chatting in low tones to each other.
Muwa hastily told them about Hatti politics. ‘The
panku
is a council called for specific purposes – to consider the rights and wrongs of a particular issue, and to advise the King. You see, it doesn’t have a formal constitution. And it doesn’t have a fixed membership. Anybody can serve – the palace servants, the bodyguards, the Men of the Golden Spear, the Captains of the Thousand – even cooks, heralds, stable-boys. Anybody who has the King’s ear at a particular time, or who just happens to be around when the
panku
is called.’
‘It sounds a mess,’ said Teel. ‘Our Annids are much more proper about deliberations and decision-making.’
‘Well, this is our way,’ Kilushepa said. ‘This is a rather ancient institution, fallen by the wayside in recent times, but revived by the current King who likes its flexibility in these times of change and stress. You shouldn’t underestimate its power. There have been times when the
panku
has even challenged the King, over the conduct of a war for example. So don’t think that if it goes badly for us at the
panku
we can appeal to the King. This is where we need to make your case well, and win it.’ She glanced at the members of the
panku
. ‘I can see, however, that the crone who calls herself the current Tawananna has not dared to show her face. The most important people here are the two men in the centre. The one on the right is Nuwanza. My second cousin, and the man who has supported me so far in my quest for rehabilitation. The other is called Tushratta. He is a closer relative of the king – ours is a complicated family – and one of his senior advisers. The rest are not important, nobodies come to show their pretty faces, and have a bit of fun, and maybe to make a name for themselves. I, by the way, will do the talking.’
Noli nodded silent agreement.
But Teel was tense. ‘If we leave without the secrets of the iron—’
Kilushepa held up a silencing finger. ‘You will get what you want – and I will get what
I
want – although things might not work out quite the way you expect.’
Now Nuwanza, Kilushepa’s cousin, rose to his feet. The hubbub of conversation among the
panku
members died away.
Nuwanza smiled at Kilushepa, and extended outstretched arms to the Northlanders. He was a portly man of about forty, and he struck Milaqa as sane, competent. ‘All children of the little mothers of sea, sky and earth are always welcome here in our magnificent capital, which bathes in the light of My Sun, our King. And we are aware that you have journeyed far and have braved many perils to bring us your gifts. Please, cousin – proceed.’
So Kilushepa began. Sitting calmly, her voice carrying through the large room, she outlined again the journey they had undertaken – and the promise of potatoes and maize.
She showed a sample seed potato from the sacks. ‘It will grow where no other useful crop survives, in the uplands, in poor soil, anywhere, given water. A given field will produce more raw food in the form of potatoes than any other crop. Potatoes can even be grown
between
grain crops, thus multiplying the value of a piece of cultivated land. As a root, the crop is difficult to steal, for it remains underground until it is dug up, and few raiding armies will pause to do that . . .’
Milaqa marvelled as she spoke on, making a humble root crop seem almost glamorous. But so it was, she supposed, if your concern was the destiny of an empire, and how it was to be fed.
‘Finally – one can survive on
nothing but
this root, and cow’s milk . . . I am sure you can see how this will transform the potential of our farmland, and all our fortunes.’ Kilushepa handed the root to Nuwanza.
‘Such a humble thing,’ Nuwanza said, turning the potato over in his hands. ‘Yet each mouthful of food I put into my mouth is a humble thing.’ He glanced at the few sacks. ‘You cannot feed a city of fifty thousand on a handful of these roots, no matter how vigorously they grow, queen.’
‘No. It will take years – crop after crop must be planted, and protected, and harvested, and the seed dug in again. Nuwanza, what we must do, you and I and our allies in the palace, is to work for stability – frankly, to hold the empire together for the three or four or five years it will take for these new crops to start producing on a massive scale. With these crops, these gifts from the gods, as soon as the sky clears, the famine will be banished and a new generation will grow up fat and healthy. And then new Hatti armies will march out to subdue the rebellious dependencies, and once more impose the will of My Sun the King on surrounding nations.