Stephen Baxter - Bronze Summer

‘Oh, yes. A fine candidate. In fact a protege of mine, from the House of Jackdaws. She met with some controversy, but so does every Annid selection.’

‘And do you think she will be easy to work with?’

‘Unlike my mother?’ Milaqa snapped.

Kilushepa glanced back at her with a humourless smile. ‘Feisty one, isn’t she?’

‘Not necessarily a bad trait in the young,’ Bren said.

‘As long as it’s beaten out of them before they are grown.’

‘Your mother and the Tawananna did have their differences, Milaqa,’ the Jackdaw said. ‘Kuma wanted only what was best for Northland, as she saw it. But our two countries have been closely linked for so long — our destinies are intertwined — I don’t think your mother saw that. And I don’t think she saw the greatness of the Tawananna here, who, working behind the throne of Hattusa, kept an empire intact in a time of famine and drought. Planning military interventions. Restoring irrigation and water storage systems. Ensuring flows of food into the desiccated heartland-’

‘And the last is where I relied on our traditional links with Northland,’ Kilushepa said. ‘And the miraculous foods you ship to us in such massive loads. If not for that, yes, I believe the Hatti empire would have collapsed by now. Even Hattusa itself burned and abandoned, perhaps.’

Milaqa said, ‘If Northland’s foods were so valuable to you, why the differences with my mother?’

‘I didn’t just want shipments of mash. I wanted the secret of that food, the seed stock, for which I was prepared to pay a very high price. Hattusa and Etxelur are close allies; I could see no reason why a sharing of such resources should weaken the bond between us rather than strengthen it. Yet the partnership I offered was rejected by the Annid of Annids…’

Milaqa studied Bren as she described this. Was this Bren’s plan too, this heady scheme, this integration of Hattusa and Etxelur? Was this the reason her mother had had to die? And was this why Hatti iron had been used to kill her mother — did Bren somehow think it was appropriate, or just? And who was Bren to discuss such issues with the representative of a foreign power?

They came to the stone circle that surrounded the village. Kilushepa sneered. ‘Oh, look at this wretched effort. It would be dwarfed by some of the tremendous structures we have seen in Gaira! And I am told some in Ibera are even more dramatic.’ She led them to walk within the circle. ‘In any event my failure to make headway with this child’s mother surely contributed to my fall.’

‘Which was a disaster for the Hatti, and for the whole world,’ Bren said soothingly. ‘But a disaster I hope we can put right, in the days and weeks to come.’

‘That,’ said Kilushepa firmly, ‘is what we must discuss.’

When the conversation began to break up, Milaqa made for the hut Kilushepa said had been given over to their use. Maybe she could clean up in there, have something to eat and drink. Such was her mood of impotent fury at Bren and his lethal scheming, just to get out of sight of people for a while would be a good thing.

But as she approached the hut she heard a belch erupting from it, thunderous, liquid, drawn out, delivered with relish.

A man came strutting out of the house. Aged perhaps mid-twenties, he wore a tunic of grey wool that just reached his knees, leather leggings, strapped-on sandals, a scabbard with a bronze sword on his back, and a breastplate he laced about his body as he emerged into the light. He was shorter than she was, muscular. His head was bare, his dark hair cropped short and tousled, and his face was smoothly shaven. Even from a distance he smelled of spices, of perfumes she couldn’t identify, and of ale.

When he saw Milaqa his hand was on the hilt of the sword in an instant. He was a man used to sudden threats, she saw, a warrior. She took care not to move a muscle, showing her hands were empty.

He grinned, dropped his hands to his sides, and said something in what sounded like poor Greek.

‘Excuse me?’ she replied in Hatti. ‘And by the way, you stink of ale.’

‘Oh, you speak the tongue of the longhairs, do you?’ he said, reverting to that tongue. ‘Passably well, too.’

‘It’s what I study. Languages.’

‘Really? You study?’ He looked her up and down. ‘A girl like you doesn’t need to be studying anything at all. Except maybe how to twist her hips.’ And he gave his own pelvis an obscene wiggle. His arms were bare, heavily muscled, and striped with small scars. He was stocky, but he moved with an animal grace — he was a slab of muscle, with not an ounce of fat on him.

Revolted, appalled — fascinated — she snapped back, ‘Not too respectful, are you, to the daughter of an Annid? Well, you won’t get any hip-twists from me.’

‘Daughter of an Annid? So you’re a Northlander. The first I’ve met in fact. Explains the skinny frame, the complexion like water, the arrogant ways. As for stinking of ale…’ He raised a hand to his mouth, breathed, sniffed deeply. ‘It will wear off. Anyhow, what do you know about beer? Got a husband who likes a drop, have you?’ When she hesitated, his grin widened. ‘Oh. No husband. Well, that makes the situation more interesting. Like a drop yourself, do you? You want to join me? I’ve a cask in the back, barely touched. Kilushepa sips a little, leaves the rest to me. Not bad stuff — not made by these dirt-scratchers here, but bought from a village a couple of days away where they specialise.’

She felt like jabbing at him. ‘Queen Kilushepa told us about you. Or at least, she let slip that you existed. She calls you “the Trojan”.’

He grunted. ‘My name is Qirum. She has other names for me, when we’re alone in the dark, as we have been nightly, ever since I bought her.’

She tried to understand the sudden swirl of emotions inside her. This repulsive man, this arrogant, dirty, hard-drinking bully of a soldier was the opposite of everything she respected. What did she care if such a woman as Kilushepa lay with such a man as this, or not?

He was staring at her, as if he could see into her head, her heart. He took a bold step forward. ‘The daughter of an Annid — you know, I’ve never lain with a Northlander-’

‘And you’re not going to now.’

‘What, is it the drink you’re worried about? Think it will hinder my prowess?’ And he stepped back, performed a back-flip that left him standing on his feet, and drew his sword from the scabbard on his back and slashed at the air. His body had moved in one piece, as if carved from oak; the strength of his core muscles must be remarkable. ‘See? Not even sweating. Tell you what — fetch me some of the nettle tea the farmer women serve up, and come and join me in here. It’s warm and dark…’

‘No, thanks.’ She walked away.

His laughter pursued her. ‘I’ll see you later, little girl, daughter of an Annid. See you later!’

That evening the farmers built a tremendous bonfire at the heart of their village. Sheep were slaughtered for the roast, as was a boar trapped that day in the forest, and there were mounds of the coarse bread the farmers made from their grain. In return the visitors handed over gifts: bronze and amber from the Northlanders, and from Kilushepa’s party exotic artefacts of glass, copper, tin, even a creamy white substance that turned out to be from the tooth of some tremendous animal whose description Milaqa didn’t quite believe, and iron, ornaments and tools made of the precious stuff.

It was a clear starry night. After the feasting, while Bren engaged Kilushepa in deep conversation, the Kanti farmers began a ritual of their own. They tracked around their circle of stones, trampling flat a kind of walkway as they did so. Every so often the elders lay on the ground and took sightings of stars along lines of the stones, sometimes right across the village space, while the children danced and sang.