‘The Storm God knows it’s competence we need now, and unless we get it Hattusa itself will fall, I am sure of it.’
Now she smiled. ‘You are right. That is precisely why the gods have brought me back. We must talk. But first, sit.’ There was only the earth floor; he sat down, good humoured. ‘And wine!’ Kilushepa called. Gassulawiya hurried forward with cups of wine for them both.
Muwa told the Tawananna the state of the Hatti empire.
‘It’s the drought,’ he said. ‘This endless, god-withering drought. The cold summer is only adding to our misery. It extends far from here, you know — beyond Assyria, even, and to the north and east, the great plains of Asia. We’re suffering from huge movements of people, and raiding on land and sea. Then there’s the disruption of trade. The King can’t reward his subjects, he can’t send tribute to his allies abroad. Luckily for King Hattusili the Pharaoh seems to understand this, and he continues to send his grain shipments to Hattusa, but only a fraction of them get past the bandits. This is all court gossip, you understand. It’s said that it’s the same elsewhere — Assyria — Mycenae has burned, I hear, the once rich valleys around it abandoned.’
Qirum said drily, ‘That’s a terrible thing if you care about Greeks.’
‘You should care,’ Kilushepa admonished him. ‘For all the great states depend on each other, for precious goods, for foodstuffs, for mutual help against enemies. And if one state fails and dissolves into banditry and starvation, another may follow, and the system itself may collapse.’
‘But you believe you have a solution,’ Muwa said. He looked at the Tawananna with something like simple hope on his battered face.
‘We will discuss all that,’ Kilushepa said. ‘But first you must get me into the palace.’
‘Hmm. Frankly, the challenge is to ensure you don’t get struck down as soon as you set foot within the citadel walls, for you can be sure your enemies’ spies will already have reported you are back.’ He stood easily, lithe, strong. ‘A day, madam. Give me a day to set it up. Then I will come for you.’
‘Be warned, Chief of Bodyguards.’ Teel had spoken. He laid his arm over the sacks of seed. ‘Betray us, and the treasure we bring will be destroyed. And all of you will continue to starve.’
Muwa’s eyes narrowed. ‘Your threats are unnecessary. I am a man of honour.’
Teel nodded. ‘Then I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.’
With a bow to Kilushepa, Muwa left.
Kilushepa glared at Teel, shaking her head. Then she sat back on her pallet and closed her eyes. Suddenly she looked exhausted to Milaqa, all her strength gone. Her monumental bluff was evidently draining even her deep resources.
And it occurred to Milaqa that since returning to Hattusa, amid all the machinations and politics, she had not tried to find out about her own son — not even if he were alive or dead.
Qirum stretched, yawned, and blew out through pursed lips. ‘Well, that’s the day’s business done. What now? Shall we go and see what Hattusa has to offer? They’re not all stuffy and rule-bound here.’ He dug Teel in the ribs; the Crow recoiled. ‘Oh, I forgot. No whorehouse is any use to you. Although I could always find you a job. There’s a certain kind of man who likes them plump and ball-less.’ He turned on Tibo. ‘What about you, brother? An older woman might be right for you — nice fat thighs, you can bury yourself up to the hip. You can pretend it’s your mother if you like. Or we could find you a boy, I suppose. You could take a little revenge.’
Tibo was shut in on himself. He started rocking on his haunches.
Deri glared. ‘Leave my son alone. Just be on your way, Trojan.’
Qirum shrugged, stood and gathered up his cloak. ‘Suit yourself.’
When he had gone, Kurunta turned and reached out with a stump of an arm towards Milaqa. He whispered, ‘I brought you to the Spider. There’s nothing more I can do for you. Please. I’d like to go home.’
37
Milaqa took Kurunta’s arm, and led him out to the crowded street. He claimed to be able to find the way, and he blundered through the high-walled alleys, dragging Milaqa behind him.
It turned out not to be far to the man’s home — or what had been his home, one of another row of cramped houses. But there was nobody here who recognised Kurunta, and one woman threatened to stone them if this ‘criminal’ did not go away, and criminal he must be or else he would not have suffered such a terrible punishment.
‘It’s all different,’ Kurunta wailed.
Milaqa said, ‘You’ve been away a long time. I’ve seen it myself. You had children, yes?’
‘Yes, two youngsters and an older boy who was almost grown-’
‘Perhaps your wife moved away. Perhaps she went to live with family.’ What she wasn’t saying out loud was, perhaps she found another man. ‘We can ask. Find out where she has gone.’
‘No, no-’
‘Or is there somebody else you can go to? A brother or sister — your parents, even-’
‘Take me to the archive.’
‘The what?’
‘Where I worked. Please. Take me there.’
The archive was not far, and Kurunta was able to find his way from his home quite efficiently.
Under a small surface building, the bulk of the archive was kept underground, in a kind of cellar entered by a series of steps. The store itself was an expansive room lit by smoky oil lamps and divided into three parallel corridors by wooden shelves supported by stone pillars. On the shelves were clay tablets heaped in stacks, or leaning against each other like drunks in a Scambles tavern. The air was dry and smelled of the dusty clay, and the tang of burning oil.
Kurunta walked in confidently. He seemed to know his way around with precision. He made straight for a shelf, but his mutilated arms made it impossible for him to handle a tablet. Milaqa picked out a tablet at random, and let him trap it between his forearms. He held it up before his face. It was roughly square, small enough to hold in one hand, and covered with angular pocks and scrapes. Kurunta breathed in deeply. ‘Ah! The scent of dry clay. Now I’m home.’
Milaqa glanced around. ‘There must be thousands of tablets here — the place is huge.’
‘But this little archive would be lost in the great palace chambers. Five vast libraries — tens of thousands of tablets — all of them devoted to recording the feats of our great kings. A wonderful place. Can you read this, child?’
She took the tablet from him. She recognised the writing style, the speech of the Hatti rendered in the symbols of the old civilisations of the east. ‘I’m afraid not-’
‘Father?’
Milaqa turned. A young man in a plain tunic was coming down the stair.
Kurunta twisted his head blindly. ‘ Attalli? My son? Is that you? What are you doing here?’
The boy, no older than sixteen, looked bewildered. ‘Well, I work here now… I thought you were dead. We all did.’
‘Not dead, not at all. And where else would I be but with my beloved tablets? Oh, come to me, boy, come to your father.’ He held out his mutilated arms, and turned his eyeless face to the boy.
For a heartbeat it seemed Attalli, horrified at the sight, could not move. Then he rushed forward and embraced his father.
Kurunta turned, seeking Milaqa. ‘Do you still have that tablet? Read to me, boy. Oh, please, just a little. Just to prove the Spider was wrong…’
The boy took the tablet from Milaqa, and began to read, hesitantly. ‘ ‘‘This is to record my great victory, my promotion to chief archivist.’’ ’
‘Ha! Somebody is a boaster.’
‘ ‘‘I achieved this with the support of the gods Ashur, Enlil, and Shamash, and the Goddess Ishtar. With their divine aid I smashed my enemies as did the Great King Tudhaliya…’’ ’
