Stephen Baxter - Iron Winter

Kassu nodded. Splitting up had its obvious dangers, but the sense of it was obvious too. ‘All right. Jesus protect you.’

Zida, no theologian, laughed at the childish prayer. ‘Oh, stop off at your farm and tell that priest the Turks are on the way. Watch how fast he runs back to his church so Jesus can protect him .’

By the time Kassu had got to the city, and had talked his way into the Lower Town through the Sphinx Gate in the Old Wall, the day was well advanced and the nuntarriyashas festival was already under way The narrow alleyways and public places of the Lower Town were crowded with townsfolk, with farmers like himself who’d come in from the country, with traders and merchants hoping to make a quick profit on this day of autumn celebration — and, no doubt, with hungry folk from far and wide who had used the excuse to get into the city in the hope that King Hattusili would be generous in opening up the grain silos.

And, as he tried to get to General Himuili at his station at the King’s Gate, Kassu got stuck behind the Procession of the Searching Jesus.

The march was a cacophony of noise, colour, dance, working its way around the circuit of the walls in search of the penitent rogue Judas-Telipinu. At the head of the crowd rode Jesus Sharruma Himself, mounted on an ornate chariot. The statue, larger than life, brought out of its church in the citadel for this special day, shone with gold plate and was adorned with precious stones. Jesus wore a Hatti soldier’s tunic with golden mail, but also the soft felt cap of a scribe; He carried a sword in one hand and a shepherd’s crook in the other, and tremendous palm leaves cast in gold crossed to make an arch over His head. And under all the grandeur, it was said, the statue’s core was a simple wooden figure carved by Jesus Himself, son of a carpenter, in His old-age exile in Old Hattusa.

The chariot itself was a grand affair, driven by two soldiers along with burly guards to keep away any overeager celebrants. The holy chariots were one responsibility of Kassu’s own general Himuili, whose formal rank was Chief of the Chariot Warriors of the Left, an archaic title with cavalry units having replaced the chariots centuries ago, but its ancient meaning lingered in ceremonials like this. The great chariot bearing the god was followed by a crowd — men, women, children — dancing, chanting prayers and singing hymns, and crying out supplications to Judas-Telipinu, the Missing God, to reveal himself. Jugglers, dancers and conjurers worked the fringes.

This ceremonial commemorated the culminating incident in the life of Jesus the Carpenter, a story familiar to every child of New Hattusa. After years of holy oratory that had infuriated the religious authority in the Hatti’s vassal territory of Judea, Jesus had been betrayed by allegations of heresy by one of His own followers, Judas. He was turned over to the Hatti governor, the Lord of the Watchtower, at his palace in Jerusalem, with a recommendation of execution. This Lord, who represented a state with an open pantheon, was repelled by these demands. And meanwhile a rumour swept the city that the rogue apostle Judas had repented, and confessed the falsity of his allegations. The Lord of the Watchtower decreed that Jesus would be spared if Judas could be found to repeat his recantation in the Lord’s own presence. So, throughout the city Jesus’ followers began a frantic search for the rogue apostle — and Jesus, some said to His own astonishment, was spared. Much later Jesus was brought to Old Hattusa in chains, but was raised up by priests and scholars, who recognised in the prophet’s message an ethical foundation for their own relatively tolerant, compensation-based system of laws.

After His peaceful death Jesus was welcomed into the Hatti pantheon. Now even a king would prostrate himself before Jesus Sharruma, son of Teshub Yahweh, the Storm God, and Mary, his Mother Goddess of Arinna. With time the incidents of Jesus’ life were incorporated into the tapestry of the Hatti religious year — and so every autumn the citizens of New Hattusa went searching for Judas, who had been identified with an older deity called Telipinu, the Missing God, who had to be brought out of hiding to bring the rains.

Usually the nuntarriyashas was among the most popular of the many festivals of New Hattusa’s religious calendar. But today Kassu, standing impatiently until the procession passed, could sense a tougher edge to the crowd’s pleading with Telipinu. No wonder, he thought, for judging by the evidence of the years-long drought, the god had never done such a good job of hiding before. As soon as he could get by, Kassu pushed forward, making for the Pergamos, the old citadel with its temples and palaces. Even away from the procession route the city was crowded — it was always crowded these days. As the drought had worsened and banditry went on the increase, more people from the countryside had got into the habit of coming into the city’s safekeeping at night. So the marketplaces had been built over, and even some of the great temple places were crowded with huts and shacks, with fires burning on the marble pavements and children chasing around the pillars.

When Kassu reached the King’s Gate in the wall around the Pergamos he was surprised to find the King himself was already out of his chambers, before the open gate. Shielded by a fine curtain and sitting under a huge parasol to keep off the snow, Hattusili the Sixteenth was a small man, portly despite the years of famine and drought that had plagued his empire — but then he was the King, and kings did not obey normal rules. He was muttering to a chamberlain, a flabby man in a purple robe who had the look of a eunuch to Kassu; the chamberlain was going through a scroll, densely printed.

The King was surrounded on three sides by guards in suits of mail so complete that even their faces were covered, but with ornate embroidered tunics, and elaborately painted almond-shaped shields. And before the King stood the supplicants, ordinary folk of the city in a long line, carefully shepherded by more guards with swords and stabbing spears. They all wore hooded cloaks so they could not look at the King, and he did not have to look at them; they were like mounds of grimy laundry Kassu thought. At the head of the line they were addressed by more chamberlains with wax tablets for note-taking. On festival days like this you could approach the King in person, and in his presence you would speak to one of his close advisers — never to the King himself, who stayed back from the unwashed, discreetly shielded by a veil of near-transparent linen. The Hatti kings had always had a deep fear of contamination, of filth and dirt and corruption.

To one side of this small piece of theatre stood a group of men, some in mail, some in elaborately embroidered courtiers’ robes. Earnest, evidently powerful, they spoke gravely and quietly. Kassu recognised Himuili, his own commander, as well as the Hazannu, the mayor, and Angulli Father of the Churches, the empire’s high priest — and Prince Arnuwanda, nephew of the King and cousin to Uhhaziti, the tukhanti , the crown prince. Behind this group, as Kassu could see through the open gate, the Pergamos itself rose up, the wide avenues lined with grand buildings, the summit of the ancient hill crowned by the royal palace and the Church of the Holy Wisdom. All this Kassu glimpsed in a few heartbeats.

Then a rough hand shoved him in the back and he fell heavily to the cobbled ground.

With a scrape of armour, heavy steel plates stitched into leather, Himuili Chief of the Chariot Warriors of the Left, came and stood over Kassu and kicked him in the ribs, as it happened just where Zida had got him that morning. ‘Get up, idiot.’