been not the snow, but the rain. By night Pimpira and his family had been forced to huddle in corners to avoid the freezing-cold water leaking into their shabby hut, and outside the rain pooled on ground that was still frozen just under the surface if you pushed your finger into it, and froze hard in great sheets. Pimpira’s father said it was an extraordinary sight, something he’d never seen in all his years. Every year, every month, every day, brought a new sight, something that nobody had ever experienced before in the history of the world, he said. Pimpira’s father was thirty-one years old.
Despite the freeze, this morning, as every other morning at this time of year, the slaves were sent out into the fields for another day of struggling to plough the hard earth, goading the surviving oxen. As the morning wore on they would be joined by more workers, paid free folk coming out from the city, desperate for work and food. Pimpira, fourteen years old, knew little about crops, about wheat and rye and barley — with his deformed foot he was rarely sent out into the fields — but he couldn’t see how the seeds were going to take in ground frozen hard as rock. But they all went through the routines of the season anyhow, and the master seemed to see that they didn’t need whipping to do it. For what choice was there, if they were to have any chance of food later in the year?
As usual, Pimpira was sent away from the rest. The boss told him to dig out an old storage pit under the floor of a demolished barn. It was the kind of job that suited him; he was strong in his upper body, but he wasn’t too mobile because of his foot. It was tough labour, smashing the frozen earth into chunks that he could pitch out of the hole, but as he hacked away with his rusted iron shovel, he soon started to warm up.
He didn’t know why he was digging this hole. It wasn’t as if they were likely to need more storage pits any time soon. He had a sneaking feeling that what the pit might end up storing was not grain but bones. People were dying, his own brother had been taken during the winter, leaving his mother clinging to his little sister, Mira. But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t his decision. To Pimpira life was simple; a hole was a hole was a hole. He got on with his digging, and he watched the pale sun climb in the sky. Like every other day the hours would stretch long and empty until the evening, when the slaves would huddle in their shabby huts, and speak of better times, and pray to their gods and prophets, Jesus or Mohammed or the little mothers of Northland or the sun god of Egypt, and Pimpira’s father would relate the calm sayings of the teacher Zalmoxis from the old country. They would talk endlessly of food. People would describe the very texture of the meat as it was cut, the way the juices pooled on the hard bread that served as your plate, the feeling as your teeth cut into it, the spurting of blood and fat, and Pimpira’s empty stomach would gurgle and twist.
And they would seek news of the future from the oracles — not the way the sages did it in the city, studying the writhing of snakes in boxes or the way sheep entrails fell from an opened bowel. The slaves had no snakes, and any entrails went straight into the pot. But they had their own ancient ways, studying the flight of the birds in the sky — not that there were many birds this spring save crows and buzzards — and dropping oil or blood in bowls of water, to see how the fluids flowed and spread. They argued endlessly about the meaning of each sign, and it seemed to Pimpira that they never agreed, but it comforted everybody.
This dull routine was the whole of Pimpira’s life.
And it ended, cut off as if by the fall of a blade, when the slave boy came running from New Hattusa.
When he heard the boy coming, Pimpira climbed out of his hole to watch, and the other slaves and workers paused in their tasks, curious. The boy ran like a whipped dog, right through the farmyard, legs and arms pumping, his eyes wide, his mouth gaping. He was young, not much older than Pimpira, perhaps, though it was hard to tell anybody’s age these days as everybody was so skinny. You could tell he was a slave, though. He was barefoot, for one thing. And his tunic and trousers were
Then there was a thunder of hooves. On panting horses, two soldiers in light mail and shining steel helmets came charging after the boy. One man carried a net, the other wielded a sword. Cavalrymen! Pimpira was thrilled at the sight. He had only seen soldiers on parade in the city, on occasional feast days when he had been allowed to accompany the master and his family. He pitied the boy, for he clearly had no chance of outrunning the horses; he must have had a good start to get so far. As the cavalrymen passed through, some of the men on the farm called out greetings and good-natured abuse. ‘I’ll give you five to one the fat one falls off his horse!’ The soldiers did not respond. Soon they were disappearing into the east.
After that Pimpira heard a rumble of noise, coming from the west as had the running slave and the cavalrymen, and again he turned to look. More soldiers, he saw from a glint of distant armour, a small squad of them this time, walking before wagons.
The mistress, Henti, emerged from the big house, with the young priest Palla who so often seemed to hang around here, evoking much ribald speculation from the slaves. Henti walked to the fields and passed among the workers, speaking to them softly. It seemed to be the end of work for now. The slaves were told to gather in the courtyard, a square of beaten earth before the big house, while the hired hands laid down their tools and began to drift off towards the city. They muttered, looking confused, distressed; none of them could afford to be without a day’s pay.
The squad of soldiers drew nearer. Pimpira, in his hole, stood on tiptoe, balancing on his good leg, squinting to see them better.
The punch in the back caught him completely by surprise. He was knocked forward into his pit, banging his head on the hard-frozen wall. Winded, he lay there, submissive. He had been born and raised a slave; you just accepted whatever was done to you.
‘Don’t move.’ It was his father’s voice.
Dirt rained on his back, and heavier lumps. He turned, squinting up. ‘Father?’
His father had taken Pimpira’s shovel and was frantically scooping the pile of lumpy, still-frozen earth back in the hole. ‘Shut up,’ he said, panting, glancing up. ‘Don’t move.’
‘What are you doing? Must I hide here?’
‘Yes, you must hide.’
‘How long?’
‘You’ll know. Then dig your way out.’ His father kept shovelling. The rubble was building up on his chest, his legs. Soon he would be buried. Pimpira, shocked, saw tears stream down his father’s face. ‘Remember us. Now put your hands over your face.’
The next shovel-load came raining down on Pimpira’s head. He huddled in the hole, curling around big blocks of frosty earth. Soon the rubble had shut out the light, and he was covered. But the weight was not great; he would be able to climb out. He heard frantic scuffing. He imagined his father kicking dirt over the storage pit, to conceal it. Then running footsteps, receding.
And then the soldiers arrived, with a tramp of marching boots, a clink of scabbards knocking against greaves, wagons trundling to a halt. Pimpira longed to see them! But, as his father had ordered, he lay curled in the hole.
More footsteps. His mistress’ voice. ‘Zida. I hoped it would be you.’
‘I told you I’d do it for old Kassu. I take it he’s not here.’
‘Working on the round-up in the city. He knows in his head what must be done here, but his heart would explode out of his chest if he were forced to dispose of his own slaves.’
Dispose of?
‘That heart of Kassu’s is his big trouble, for all he’s a stickler for his duty. And if not for the generosity of his heart, lady, you might not be alive to see this day. Or that streak of piss standing beside you.’
‘The blessing of the Carpenter be on you too, Zida.’ That was the voice of the priest, Palla. He sounded good-humoured.
‘I asked Palla to be here,’ Henti snapped. ‘He’s good with the slaves. I’ve seen him comfort them. They’re not animals; they deserve consolation when it comes to the end.’
Zida said sourly, ‘You’re a big bucket of consolation, priest, while the rest of us bloody our hands with the killing.’
Palla said evenly, ‘I think Jesus will understand what’s to be done today, and He’ll see the grain of goodness in you even as you slaughter, officer. You’re here to commit a terrible act — and yet you have come to spare your friend the pain of doing it himself.’
Zida snorted. ‘We’ll have time to discuss it when we’re all down in the Dark Earth. Let’s get on with it. I’ve a dozen more farms to visit before this day is done. I see you’ve got them separated. Good. We find it’s best to get
