Stephen Baxter - Bronze Summer

‘My husband Hattusili was able to take the throne from his cousin because he was able to promise a new source of food. We had been relying on grain from southern Anatolia and from Egypt, but the trade routes were precarious. And our access to our source of tin, too far to the east, was always uncertain. But my husband, as a young man, had travelled, and he forged a trading link with an empire far to the west of here, called Northland.’ She said this word in a tongue with which Qirum was unfamiliar. ‘They send us tin from their own sources. And they send us food, great barrels of it, by the shipload. In return we send them wealth of various sorts. I think they see us as useful, because we help keep the pirates and raiders — people like you, Qirum — away from their ships, and ultimately their own lands and their allies.’

‘What kind of food? Grain, meat?’

‘Not that. Food made from the produce of plants we have no knowledge of. And they do not send us the seed stock so we cannot grow it ourselves. Northland is a strange country that nobody has ever been to and nobody knows anything about.’

‘And you were involved with this?’

‘I was senior wife of Hattusili the Fifth. I was involved in the negotiations with the Northlanders. But Hattusili died. Some say it was plague.’ Her face was blank. ‘He was succeeded by his nephew, Hattusili the Sixth, who is a callow boy much under the influence of another of his uncles. In our court, you may know, a queen who survives her husband has influence. I was Tawananna. I am Tawananna. I had priestly responsibilities, and was involved in diplomacy and affairs of state. It is our way.’

‘But Hattusili the Sixth-’

‘Or his uncle.’

‘Found you in the way.’

‘I was asked to help organise a major military expedition against the Arzawans, of western Anatolia, who as you know have always been a problem. But this was a ruse to get me out of Hattusa. Once I was alone with the King’s soldiers, away from the palace bodyguards, I was taken. Hands were laid on me.’ She paused. Qirum could imagine what had followed. ‘I was thrown among the population of a captured city. Those around me did not believe I was who I said I was. So I was brought here. And then I met you.’

‘And in me, you saw…’

‘A chance.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Ultimately, to return to Hattusa in triumph. To remove the fool Hattusili from the throne along with his obnoxious uncle, and to install my own son in his place — if my boy survives.’

Qirum was astonished; in this saga of palace politics and betrayal this was the first time she had mentioned she had children.

‘And, incidentally, I will save the Hatti kingdom from drought and famine, and secure our future for all time, so that we may fulfil our service to the great Storm God Teshub.’ She was exhausted, he saw, barely able to sit up straight. Yet her words were strong and clear.

He had to laugh, though. ‘Is that all? And how will you achieve that?’

‘By using my knowledge of Northland. My links with it. I will go there. We must acquire the seed stock behind their strange food. We cannot remain dependent on the goodwill of a country so far away. I have thought on this for a long time. It was a project I pursued before I was deposed, in fact. It remains a valid strategic goal. And with that treasure I will buy back my influence and position at court.’

All this sounded impossible, a fantasy. He had only a hazy idea where Northland actually was; although he had travelled far compared to most, he could not even imagine such a journey. ‘The Northlanders won’t just give such a prize to you. Look at you — you’re in rags — you have no power to speak for the King in Hattusa. What could you possibly have to trade?’

‘In these turbulent times, they and their allies will receive the partnership and the protection of the mightiest empire the world has ever seen.’

There was a guffaw from the doorway — Praxo, laden with sacks of water. ‘Trojan, you need to stop up that mouth of hers with your pork sword before she makes me piss my pants laughing.’ He threw down the sacks.

Qirum set a sack before Kilushepa, and loosened the bonds at her wrists so she could drink.

‘I won’t tell you how much this water cost me,’ Praxo said, settling to the floor. ‘There’s a secret pipeline, you know. Laid down in previous generations by wise rulers, to keep the town watered during sieges. There’s a sort of cabal that knows where it is, and runs it. About the only place you can get clean water in Troy nowadays. I hope what you’ve got between your legs is worth it, oh queen.’

She did not reply. She merely drank, steadily.

Gently, Qirum took the sack away from her. ‘Take it easy. Your stomach needs to get used to being full. You’re expecting me to help you achieve this dream you speak of?’

‘As I said, I don’t have much choice.’ She turned that startlingly pale gaze on him again. ‘But perhaps the old gods favoured me. For I saw something in you, Qirum. Something you may not know is there yourself. A hunger. I think you will rise up from this squalor, the ruins of a devastated town…’

Praxo swigged wine and laughed. ‘You’ve got it wrong, lady. If not for this squalor he wouldn’t exist at all.’

‘Be still, Praxo.’

‘No, it’s true. He was conceived on the very night Troy fell to the Greeks. I don’t suppose he told you that. His mother was a highborn, supposedly, but everybody in Troy these days says they are descended from highborns-’

‘Shut up!’

‘And his father was a Greek. It was a rape! A quick in-and-out, and the lad goes on his way for a bit more plunder and mayhem, and if he still lives he probably doesn’t even remember it. Just one more hole to plug, in a long line of holes.’ He gestured at Qirum. ‘And here’s the result. Neither Greek nor Trojan, unintended, wanted by nobody, dumped by his mother as soon as she could manage it, and left with nothing to sell but his little pink arse!’

Qirum bunched his fist, longing to strike the man. But his anger was overwhelmed by a deep ache of humiliation.

Kilushepa watched him steadily. ‘We will put this right, you and I"

These words drew him in like a fish on a line. ‘How?’

‘By winning. In the morning we will start.’

‘And tonight?’

She held out her arms. ‘If you untie me, and send away this oaf — and allow me to clean myself, to make myself as I once was — I will show you, as I promised, how I captivated a king.’

Praxo laughed, and stood clumsily. ‘Well, you’ll find me at the whorehouse as usual. Enjoy the night, friend, for it’s all you’re going to get out of that old stick.’

‘Go!’

Kilushepa held out her bound arms. Entranced, fearful, Qirum reached for his knife.

The men hauled the skin boat safely up the beach from the rushing surf.

Tibo, exhausted by the rowing and the sun, got his father’s permission to take a break. Stiffly, unused to the land after so long at sea, he walked away from the boat, up to the softer sand above the waterline. It was morning still but the sun beat down from high in a cloudless sky, and his skin prickled with sweat and sand and salt, slick with the oily unguent the men had given him to keep from burning. He climbed a shallow dune and flung himself down, panting.

He had crossed the mighty Western Ocean. He was far from home. He was fifteen years old.

From here he could see more of the landscape of this distant continent, a bank of sandy hills, a forest like a wall, remote mountains. The forest was dense and mysterious, and he saw rustlings in the green — heard a cry like a distressed child. Soon he would have to penetrate that strangeness. To his left, to the south, he saw a stream of clear-looking fresh water, gushing down a gully in the open, sandy earth and to the sea. Beyond it he saw more such streams, and further out the ocean itself was discoloured. This, his father Deri had told him, was an estuary, the outflow of a tremendous river that drained the heart of this strange country.