Stephen Baxter - Bronze Summer

‘Have patience,’ Teel counselled.

The soldiers opened a tall wooden gate, and Qirum led the party into the citadel. Paved steps cut into the mound led up to the ornate door of the King’s house. This was a square construction with a flat roof, of the kind Milaqa recognised from her travels in the east, but it was much cruder than those ancient palaces, a wooden frame clad with stone, and roofed over by long timbers and a thatch of river reeds. Servants or slaves, many of them women younger than Milaqa, mostly barefoot, came running out. Bearing towels, jugs of hot water, trays of fruit, they fawned around Qirum and his guests. None of the servants would look Milaqa in the eye. She wondered how many of them were Northlanders.

Qirum led them into the single large room that dominated the house. There were rugs and mats thrown over the floor, and a clutter of couches, cushions and low tables. Guards stood in the corners with hands on scabbarded swords, watching the newcomers. Cut into one wall was a kind of shrine, shelves with little statuettes of gods; priests intoned steadily, their backs to the visitors. Qirum crossed the room to speak to the priests.

The Northlanders stood together in the middle of the room, uncertain, ill at ease.

Milaqa wandered over to the single south-facing window that looked out over the rest of the citadel. Standing by the window, breathing air laden with smoke and the stink of cattle dung, she saw this place through the eyes of Qirum, saw it as it might become. This prospect would one day look out on a palace complex of workshops, kitchens and granaries, and beyond a crowded city bustling with people. But for now the new fields and farms were no more than a scratch on the ancient ground of Northland, and in the undeveloped lands beyond she saw water spreading from clogged weirs, a field flooded by a collapsed dyke.

Qirum returned to the Northlanders. ‘I apologise for keeping you. I have always believed in keeping the gods happy first and foremost.’

Noli asked, ‘To whom do your priests pray?’

‘To the Storm God who sends us to war — he is represented by the bull. And to the god we Trojans know as Iyarri, and the Greeks call Apollo. In one of his aspects, Smintheus, he is the god of plagues, and of mice.’

‘You pray to be saved from plagues?’

‘We have had a number of problems during our first summer in this country. A number of deaths. But thankfully now-’

‘I can see why.’ Noli pointed grandly out of the window. ‘You let the weirs clog, the dykes crumble. Because of your brutish ignorance the land is returning to the marsh from which my ancestors saved it, and from such marshes rise the diseases that deservedly afflict you. You can tell that traitor Bren, if he is in this pile somewhere, that I hope the plagues carry him off too, if they haven’t already.’

‘I will take your views into consideration,’ he said with dry humour. ‘In the meantime you are my guests-’

‘I intend to spend as little time here as I can, Trojan,’ Noli snapped. ‘Here I am, here we are, as you requested. Let us hear whatever it is you have to say.’

Milaqa saw anger behind Qirum’s facade of good humour. Milaqa suspected he wanted to lavish hospitality on them, to put on a show — to demonstrate he was a king. Noli wasn’t playing the game. Qirum said carefully, ‘Despite your curtness, madam, I guarantee your safety here. And I promise you safe passage back to Etxelur, bearing news of this meeting. I hope you appreciate that much.’

‘We do,’ Deri said gruffly.

‘Then let’s get on, if you’re in such a rush.’ He turned to Erishum. ‘Bring the tablets.’

The man left the room, and in a moment returned with two clay tablets, each small enough to hold in the hand. Erishum handed them to Noli, who glanced over them and passed them in turn to Milaqa. ‘Can you read these?’

The tablets were marked with the angular writing used by the Hatti and their allies and satellites. ‘With time-’

‘Let me save you the effort, Milaqa,’ Qirum said evenly. ‘This is our custom. In times gone by a war could be settled by sending out a single champion from one side to challenge a man from the other. You would try to resolve it that way, you see, before committing men in their hundreds to die. Well — perhaps it will still come to that. But in these more civilised times we go one step further, and first send out words to be our champions.’

The talk of war chilled the room. But Noli kept her composure. ‘Words? These little blocks of clay?’

‘The block in your left hand, Milaqa, is a tablet of peace. The one in your right, a tablet of war.’

‘Peace? On what terms?’

‘There will be no more Northland,’ Qirum said simply. ‘Well, this is already true. All of Northland is now the Kingdom of New Troy — my kingdom. Mine to use as I please. In fact I have already parcelled up much of it; I will show you the maps, if you like. All that remains is to mark the boundaries. But you of Etxelur can live in peace. Your Annid of Annids will serve as one of my basileis if she likes, but I, and my heirs, will remain the overking. You can even keep your Wall; you can live as you like, in the strip of land bordering it. After all there are few enough of you. The tribute I will exact will be modest. Food, wealth, a levy of soldiers-’

‘A tribute that will pay for what, exactly?’

‘For protection,’ he said smoothly.

Noli smiled thinly. ‘Let me be clear. Perhaps you should translate for me, Milaqa, to be sure he understands. This is what you call a settlement. This is our reward for peace.’

‘It is.’

‘And you see it as just? Very well. And the terms of your tablet of war-’

‘When your resistance is crushed, you, your children, and your grandchildren unto eternity, will work on the farms of my estate. The Spartans have this system. They call the owned ones helots.’ He said this as if imparting an interesting fact, rather than making brutal threats. Not for the first time Milaqa wondered how much she really understood this man.

Noli was expressionless. ‘And what of the canals, the dykes — what of the Wall? What will become of the works of Northland?’

He laughed. ‘Oh, I care nothing for your Wall! Let it fall or stand, I don’t care. No, wait — I always rather liked those big stone heads that adorn it. What was the name of your Jaguar-girl sculptor, Milaqa? Perhaps I will have her chip off the old faces and replace them with my own handsome smile — looking down on Northland, for ever!’

Noli seemed to consider. Then she took back the tablets from Milaqa and raised them both, as if she was going to smash them to the floor.

‘Annid — wait.’ Teel took her arm, and guided her a few paces away. Deri joined them, and Milaqa. They spoke softly, but Milaqa was sure that there were ears to hear every word. Teel said, ‘We must consider his offer.’

‘What offer? To be a vassal or a slave?’

‘You see how strong he is already. At least we can buy time, find ways to deal with this threat-’

‘No,’ Deri said sternly. ‘This place, this ‘‘kingdom’’ of warriors and farmers, is like a growth in the body that kills you if you don’t cut it out.’

‘Sometimes such a thing will kill you because you cut it out,’ Teel replied.

Noli shook her head. ‘In another generation it will be impossible to shift them, and all will be lost. You heard how he spoke of the Wall. This fool understands nothing of how Northland is maintained, how we have preserved it in the hundreds of generations since the days of Ana and Prokyid. This is a day that has long been threatened. The records of the Annids show how we have kept the cattle-folk at bay, and their warriors and weapons and war-making, through ingenuity and determination. But a final conflict was inevitable, I suppose. Has it has fallen to our generation to face that conflict? Then face it we will. We must resist this man, this monster. And if we fail — well, at least our children would not have long to suffer servitude, for soon the sea will rise up and drown all of us, warriors, slaves and all.’