uplands, in poor soil, anywhere, given water. A given field will produce more raw food in the form of potatoes than any other crop. Potatoes can even be grown between grain crops, thus multiplying the value of a piece of cultivated land. As a root, the crop is difficult to steal, for it remains underground until it is dug up, and few raiding armies will pause to do that…’
Milaqa marvelled as she spoke on, making a humble root crop seem almost glamorous. But so it was, she supposed, if your concern was the destiny of an empire, and how it was to be fed.
‘Finally — one can survive on nothing but this root, and cow’s milk… I am sure you can see how this will transform the potential of our farmland, and all our fortunes.’ Kilushepa handed the root to Nuwanza.
‘Such a humble thing,’ Nuwanza said, turning the potato over in his hands. ‘Yet each mouthful of food I put into my mouth is a humble thing.’ He glanced at the few sacks. ‘You cannot feed a city of fifty thousand on a handful of these roots, no matter how vigorously they grow, queen.’
‘No. It will take years — crop after crop must be planted, and protected, and harvested, and the seed dug in again. Nuwanza, what we must do, you and I and our allies in the palace, is to work for stability — frankly, to hold the empire together for the three or four or five years it will take for these new crops to start producing on a massive scale. With these crops, these gifts from the gods, as soon as the sky clears, the famine will be banished and a new generation will grow up fat and healthy. And then new Hatti armies will march out to subdue the rebellious dependencies, and once more impose the will of My Sun the King on surrounding nations.
‘But without this gift — and let us speak honestly, councillors, for if we do not acknowledge the magnitude of our debt we cannot begin to repay it — without it our empire might crumble. Hattusa itself might fall. Just as, indeed, we might already have fallen if not for the gift of the Northlanders’ mash, which filled the bellies of our troops when we had nothing else to give them.’
Tushratta leaned forward grandly. He was a thin, older, more sinister-looking man than Nuwanza, Milaqa thought. ‘I do not deny the magnitude of your achievement in bringing us this treasure, fair Kilushepa. And this from a position of desolation, of false banishment.’
Milaqa saw Kilushepa sit straighter at his use of that word ‘false’, an indication of how far her rehabilitation had already come.
‘But,’ went on Tushratta, ‘you ask too much in return. We cannot give up our Master of the Iron! For centuries our gifts of iron have awed the other Great Kings, of Egypt and Assyria… How can you expect us to sacrifice that?’
Then followed a long and complicated sequence of negotiations, which Milaqa found hard to follow. Kilushepa argued that the Northlanders lived far away, and would pledge not to divulge the secret of iron-making to any of the Hatti’s local rivals. And they wanted the iron only for tools and weapons, not for gifts; they would not try to compete with the Hatti kings on that level. Noli confirmed this, speaking quietly. The Hatti seemed to think war- making was a rather vulgar and wasteful use of such a precious substance. ‘Like stopping up your enemy’s mouth with gold,’ said Tushratta.
But the Master of the Iron had been in his post since the King himself was a small boy. How could such a venerable gentleman be taken away? Perhaps the Northlanders would be willing to leave an apprentice or two to learn the craft at the feet of the Master himself, and then take the secrets of the process home. But that could take years; the Northlanders insisted they needed the iron now.
The argument seemed to be stuck in stalemate.
Then Kilushepa rather grandly stood — the first time she had been on her feet in the whole session, Milaqa noted. ‘I have the solution,’ she announced. ‘It has just struck me — of course — you are right, good Tushratta, it is unreasonable to expect the King to give up his Master of the Iron. But the Master has an apprentice, and he seems an able lad, from what I’ve heard. I doubt if the King even knows he exists. And if he were to leave, no harm would be done to the iron-making tradition here, for the Master would soon find another assistant to train up.’ She turned to the Northlanders. ‘Annid Noli — would you consider this?’
Teel grinned, and murmured to Milaqa. ‘Now we see Kilushepa’s tactics. We told her about the apprentice we wanted. Did you imagine the queen would ask for him from the beginning? No, for it would never have been granted. But by arguing so hard for the Master, Kilushepa makes the loss of the apprentice seem a trivial price to pay.’
Advised by Teel, Noli agreed to the deal.
But Milaqa was shocked when the panku, led by Tushratta, again refused, with bland smiles and apologies. Even the apprentice was too precious to be given up.
Suddenly Teel’s smugness was gone; he was furious. He growled in their own tongue, ‘I’m starting to think these slimy creatures never meant to give us anything at all. This isn’t negotiation, not bargaining — this is robbery!’
But Kilushepa, as calm as ever, continued to press her case. She at least did not seem downcast.
Then a runner summoned Muwa. He went to the chamber door. When he returned, he looked grave. ‘Members of the council — honoured guests — I am afraid your discussion is moot. For Zidanza the apprentice won’t be going anywhere.’ He stood aside.
Hunda walked in, heavily bloodstained. He bore a body, limp — a tall man, but lightly built, and dressed in a scarred leather apron. He put the body on the floor. The stink of blood was shocking in these fragrant surroundings.
Kilushepa shrieked. Coming from such a calm woman, the sudden noise was doubly shocking. ‘Zidanza! Dead!’ She rushed to the body, and pulled back his apron. The hilt of a dagger protruded from the lower belly, which was a torn, bloody mass. Kilushepa grabbed the knife and hauled it out of the body, and the courtiers gasped and turned away.
And while everybody else was distracted by Kilushepa’s performance, Milaqa stared at the body. At the young man’s face. At his chin.
Hunda said, ‘The body was found not far from the citadel walls. He had been raped, I am sorry to say. There is bruising around his mouth, his thighs. Abused, raped, then killed.’
Kilushepa held the knife resting on her palms, and showed it to Muwa, Noli, Teel, Milaqa. ‘Look at this! Do you know whose this is? Do you?’
‘It is the Trojan’s,’ Teel said. ‘There is no doubt.’
Hunda nodded, as if reluctant to admit it. ‘But none saw Qirum do this.’
Kilushepa pointed dramatically at Muwa. ‘But you heard him, Chief of Bodyguards. You were there in my apartment when I goaded him to make his threats. He said he would do anything he could to advance his own ambitions against the King. How better than to slaughter this apprentice, and then his Master of the Iron — for surely he will be the next victim? And the sexual frenzy that has been visited on the boy — is this not some kind of twisted revenge for Qirum’s past, when in the ruins of Troy he was forced to prostitute his own young body to survive?’
Muwa looked grim. ‘I’m afraid you are right, madam.’ He turned to his men. ‘Send the orders. Find this Trojan. Kill him if you have to. Make sure he gets nowhere near the Master of the Iron.’
The meeting of the panku began to break up. The council members flooded out into the street, looking back with horror at the corpse, or with disdain, Milaqa thought, as if the boy were somehow ill-mannered to be bloody and dead in such surroundings.
Over the hubbub, Nuwanza called across to the Northlanders, ‘I am afraid the Chief of Bodyguards was right. Our discussion has no further purpose; clearly we cannot give you what you want. Let us meet again tomorrow and consider some other recompense. You will leave Hattusa laden with treasures for the service you have performed for the King, believe me.’ He spread his hands. ‘But not the iron you sought.’
Kilushepa nodded, and Teel bowed gracefully, and thanked him.
Milaqa plucked Teel’s sleeve, and whispered urgently in her own tongue, ‘That’s not Zidanza.’
‘Hush,’ he said mildly.
‘But it isn’t! Zidanza has a mole on his chin. I noticed it; it looked like a burn, but wasn’t. This man, whoever he is, has no mole.’
‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he?’
‘What?’
‘He’s not the apprentice.’
She was utterly confused. ‘Then who is he?’
