Stephen Baxter - Bronze Summer

Milaqa turned to Teel and Raka in outrage. ‘What is this? Is she to dress me up? Am I a doll, a toy?’

‘No,’ Raka said. ‘You are our ambassador. You must make an immediate impression on the Trojan, and the right one. Put yourself in Kilushepa’s hands. Look — Qirum calls himself a king. Kilushepa is a queen. How such people behave towards each other is a mystery to us, and with the mothers’ blessing it always will be. But she knows how you should present yourself to him.’

Teel lay back on a couch, sipping water and wine. ‘Don’t argue for once, Milaqa. Trust the judgement of others.’

‘If I didn’t trust you I wouldn’t be here at all.’

Teel shrugged. He would not look her in the eye, which was unlike him.

And Kilushepa was waiting, arms folded, glaring.

Milaqa shrugged, and began to peel off her travelling clothes.

‘We will burn those,’ said Kilushepa.

‘We will not,’ replied Milaqa.

As soon as she was naked the serving women closed in on her. They scrubbed her from head to toe with water and soaps, and washed her hair and dried it vigorously with towels. They even shaved her armpits, but she baulked when they tried to shave her pubic hair. Then they began to rub scented oils into her skin and hair.

She sneezed. ‘There’s something getting up my nose.’

‘Stop complaining, child,’ Kilushepa snapped.

‘Try to enjoy it,’ Teel advised. ‘This is called being pampered.’

‘Give me the life of a soldier any day.’

Now they dressed her in a robe of thick, colourfully striped wool. It looked beautiful, Milaqa had to admit. It seemed to shine in the light, and felt greasy to the touch; the wool was thick with oil. But the robe was cut so low in the front that her breasts were bare.

She tried walking around. ‘Are you sure you’ve put it on the right way round? I feel ridiculous walking around with my udders hanging out. And it’s so heavy and clumsy I keep tripping up.’

‘No,’ Kilushepa all but snarled. ‘It’s you who are heavy and clumsy, you great she-aurochs. Lift your feet when you walk. Lift!’

Now she was sat on a stool with a mirror of polished bronze held up before her face, and the cosmetics were applied. These came from tiny boxes of glass and silver and gold, themselves ancient and exquisite, the travelling kit of a queen. Milaqa’s oiled hair was teased into curls and glossy tumbles down her neck. A white power was applied heavily to her face, so she turned pale as a ghost, then bright red starbursts were carefully painted on her cheeks, chin, forehead. Black kohl was delicately applied around her eyes, by a girl younger than she was, who came so close Milaqa could smell the spiced meat on her breath. Perfume was dabbed at her neck, her breasts, a scent of rich flowers.

Then she was made to stand, and the finishing touches were applied. A bodice and golden belt were tied around her waist — the belt was heavy, she was astonished to find, it was not plate, it was solid gold, from Kilushepa’s personal collection. A brooch was fixed to each side of her bare chest, and bangles, more gold and silver, were slipped over her arms. Kilushepa herself set a headband in her hair, richly jewelled.

When Milaqa stood to face Raka and Teel, she rattled.

‘You are beautiful,’ Raka said.

‘I’m ridiculous.’

‘Not in Qirum’s eyes,’ Kilushepa said. ‘To him you will be the embodiment of royalty, of a Trojan princess. The fulfilment of a dream — a woman fit for the king he imagines he has become. And within this beautiful shell is you, Milaqa, the mate of his soul. To him, you will be perfect.’

‘And irresistible,’ said Teel, grinning sourly.

There was a murmuring outside the house. A lady came running in.

‘It is time,’ the Tawananna said. ‘You have been summoned. Already! I told you, we did not have a breath to spare.’ She faced Milaqa one last time, critically, her mouth pursed. ‘It’s been like putting rouge on the cheeks of an ox. But the results are moderately acceptable, for which I take full credit.’

‘Of course.’

‘Erishum will escort you to the citadel, to meet Qirum. He has a carriage.’

‘I’ll walk.’

‘You will use the carriage. Once you’re in the King’s presence — well, of course, you’ve no idea how to behave, but neither does that brutish Trojan, so I suppose it will not matter. Don’t trip over. Don’t drink too much. Try not to hit anybody.’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘One more thing.’ Kilushepa snapped a finger, and a girl came running with a package still sealed in ox-hide from the journey. As the servant began hastily picking at knots, Teel and Raka watched intently. Suddenly the atmosphere was tense, but Milaqa could not imagine why. The girl unwrapped the hide and an inner linen cover to reveal a box. Shallow, about the length of Milaqa’s forearm, it was elaborately carved with images of oak leaves and mice, and inset with gold. Kilushepa took this, and handed it to Milaqa. It was not heavy.

‘A gift,’ Kilushepa said. ‘We have sent tokens for Protis and the other savages. But this is for Qirum himself.’

‘What is it?’

‘A gift fit for the king Qirum imagines he is. A treasure from old Troy, looted when the Greeks sacked the city, and acquired by me at great expense. The Greeks called it the Palladium. Qirum will know what it is.’ She glared at Milaqa. ‘Do you understand? This must be opened by Qirum himself. This gift is for him and him alone.’

Milaqa nodded, not much interested in one more bit of manipulation. She took the ox-hide from the girl and wrapped up the box again, to keep it safe while she carried it.

Raka stood, came to Milaqa, and unexpectedly hugged her, leaning over the box. ‘I must not smudge your face. Even in my eyes you look beautiful. Thank you, Milaqa. The mothers will reward you for this. And I-’ She broke away, and Milaqa was startled to see tears in her eyes.

Teel stepped up now. ‘Don’t mind her. She always was sentimental, that one. She’s got worse since she’s had to send soldiers out to die. Well. Good luck, Milaqa. You made a good Crow, in the end, even if your training was a little unusual. As was your career. But then we live in unusual times.’ He patted her arm.

She stared into his face. His skin was slack, a plump man’s face emptied by years of privation. A face that hid secrets. He seemed to want to say more, but now, in this last moment, the flow of words on which he had built his career failed him. ‘What are you keeping from me this time, uncle?’

Teel just smiled.

Kilushepa plucked at her sleeve. ‘Come. A king awaits.’

Clutching the box, she turned and walked out through the door. Erishum gravely stood in the evening light. She tried to focus on the challenges that lay ahead, and put aside a growing unease.

When she walked into Qirum’s crowded inner chamber, carrying Kilushepa’s gift, at first the King simply stared.

He had been lying on a couch by the window, where a filmy drape lifted in a soft breeze. Lamps burned in alcoves cut into the wall. The usual guards stood in the corners, and a single priest bowed before the small shrine at the back of the room. Bear-like military men, officers in elaborate tunics and leather kilts, were gathered on low stools, arguing over clay blocks scattered on a low table, apparently records of troop movements or provision shortfalls, the business of an army. A boy in a plain tunic stood by, nervously translating the languages of Qirum’s officers for those who needed it. Serving girls flitted around the men, bearing trays of drink and food, under the watchful eye of an older woman who stood by one door.

And Qirum gazed at Milaqa, transformed by Kilushepa’s arts. At last he jumped up from his couch. ‘Out, all of you.’ The servants filed out immediately. The military men got up reluctantly, glaring at Milaqa. ‘Oh, leave the tablets, Asius, you fool. Out, out. You, priest. And you.’ He waved to his guards. They looked uncertainly at Erishum, who nodded, and they left their places. ‘Go on, all of you. You too, Erishum!’