‘Suniatus! Get your arse up here!’
60
Three days after midsummer day, three days after the Hatti’s latest attack on the walls of Carthage, Hastayar the Tawananna herself led the Hatti party that approached the city’s great gate, in response to the Carthaginians’ latest offer of negotiation. Thus went this war, Kassu thought, a huge oscillation between bouts of bloody warfare and stiff, usually futile attempts at reconciliation.
A pall of smoke, yellowish, hung over the city as the Hatti party approached, and Kassu, walking in the train with his wife Henti at his side, wondered what could be left in that hulk of a city to burn. The day was bright and the sun high, though the air was no hotter than usual, and the Hatti queen walked under a canopy carried by four favoured servants — including Pimpira, Kassu’s ‘nephew’. The awning itself was a spectacular tapestry, a minor masterpiece of Hatti art, and a great banner of Jesus Sharruma with crossed palm leaves went before Hastayar. The invitation to serve had been an honour for the relative of a serving officer, but Kassu wondered what Hastayar would think if she knew the boy’s true origin. Pimpira limped bravely, compensating for the deformity of his foot. The sight of him there made Kassu obscurely proud. He had failed at many things in his life, but at least he had saved this one boy.
Kassu himself, in brightly polished mail and his best cloak, walked behind the main Hatti party. Henti carried a bowl of potatoes, gathered from the bit of farmland they had been granted a day’s walk from the Hatti camp-city, dispossessed from a Libyan family. Fifty soldiers’ wives in this party were carrying such bowls. The potatoes were a symbolic gift for the Carthaginians, to show them the Hatti besiegers were not starving, that they could afford to be generous. The bowl was heavy, and Henti looked hot, weary, displeased. They barely spoke. They rarely did these days. Kassu had saved her life, and Palla’s, but he had not been able to save his marriage, it seemed, apart from the outer form.
Then the wind changed, and the smoke from the city wafted over them. Kassu smelled meat, grease: the smoke of funeral pyres. Henti winced and turned her head, but with her two hands holding the bowl she could not cover her face.
Only a handful of advisers walked with the queen under the awning: Tiwatapara who had once been Hazannu of New Hattusa, the general Himuili with a small, carefully selected guard — and Palla, the young priest, dressed in elaborate robes of purple embroidered with gold. It sickened Kassu to his stomach to see Palla there. But he had to admit Palla was doing well during this extraordinary war, filling the gap left by his superior, Angulli Father of the Churches, who was usually either insensible with drink or raging because of the lack of it.
The Carthaginians themselves waited before the gate, the dignitaries on a spectacular podium under a white linen roof, bright in the sunlight. Perhaps a thousand troops had been drawn up in parade order before the gate, a show of strength; Kassu recognised Libyans, Iberans, Franks, Balearics, in among the Carthaginian phalanxes. But despite this splendour the ground before them was scarred by defensive ditches and berms, and the face of the great wall behind the Carthaginians was blackened by fire. Once there had been fine suburbs out here beyond the city’s protecting walls, the homes of the rich, even hunting palaces. Now all that had been demolished by the Hatti, stripped and burned, any inhabitants caught outside the walls driven off, sold into slavery or slaughtered. Even the Carthaginian army had retreated to within the walls of their city now, despite the crowding inside.
In the Carthaginian pavilion chairs and low tables had been set out on a huge ornate rug. After an elaborate formal ceremonial the Tawananna and her advisers were seated in the pavilion, facing their hosts. Servants circulated with trays of sweetmeats and jugs of wine. Of the Carthaginians, Kassu recognised only Fabius, the Roman general, who had made sure the enemy troops knew his name and reputation. The rest, mainly men, mostly dressed in elaborate robes, were evidently courtiers — or whatever the equivalent was in Carthage, which was a strange city that had no king. The group broke into huddles of conversation, while interpreters and aides murmured in their ears. Around the dignitaries, soldiers on both sides stood with their cloaks held back and their hands hovering over the hilts of swords.
Kassu could hear his own general Himuili speaking to Fabius, and he could understand, for the cultured Roman spoke the Hatti’s Nesili tongue. They made a contrast, though. While a huge ferocious Rus stood behind Himuili, Fabius’ only close companion was a boy, unarmed, who sat on a low stool, scribbling, drawing, writing.
The pyre smoke was the first thing Himuili mentioned. ‘By Jesus’ mercy, Roman, you’re roasting the pork this morning.’
Fabius grinned, not offended. ‘The clear-out of the night’s dead. We’ve long run out of anywhere to inter them, trapped within our walls as we are, and so we burn. As do you, for my scouts have spied out your daily pyres, Himuili, so you needn’t deny it.’
‘Of course we burn to get rid of the plague victims — and you have it in Carthage as well as we do, and
‘Must it be like this, Himuili?’
Himuili nodded. ‘You and I know what a siege is like. You begin with trumpet blasts and bright banners and dreams of glory. Before long it’s disease and hunger and filth, and latrine trenches running with liquid shit and vomit.’
‘But do our masters know this?’
‘At least my lord the prince Arnuwanda has served on more than one battlefield. Whereas the fat old men who command you, Roman — what are they, merchants, landowners, farmers? And, I hear, when they get bored with their generals they put them on trial and nail them to the nearest tree.’
‘We haven’t reached that point quite yet.’
Himuili shrugged. ‘Spare yourself that fate. All you need do is persuade your merchant bosses to open the city gates to us, and the war will cease.’
‘Really?’
‘We have not come to destroy, or slaughter. The Hatti kingdom has always been open to people of all kinds — New Hattusa was always a land of a thousand tongues, under the mercy of Jesus Sharruma. We don’t want to destroy Carthage. All we wish is to
‘You are a million strong! Come to
‘But what choice is there? After all we can’t withdraw, for we have nowhere to go. Your merchant princes must understand that. And even if you were somehow to manage a victory over us, what would you do with us all?’
‘Sell you as slaves in return for wheat. Egypt is a big country. Always lots of work for slaves. You could build a new mausoleum for the Pharaoh, perhaps.’
Himuili laughed. ‘You do amuse me, Fabius. Are all Romans comedians?’
Fabius grunted. ‘Since we’ve been the butt of jokes by the all-conquering Carthaginians since before your Jesus walked the world, we have to be.’
‘Ha! I’ve heard some of them. What do you call a Roman raising a cup of victory wine? The waiter! But time is running out for you, comedian.’ Himuili leaned forward, intent. ‘My own spies tell me that. Factions at your court are pressing you to come out of these walls and give battle.’
‘You know as well as I do that you Hatti would probably win such a battle. Which is why it won’t happen. Besides, there’s an equally vocal faction on the councils who want to negotiate some kind of peace.’
‘And you, what passes for a military commander in this city, must try to satisfy the contradictory demands of your rulers.’
‘This is the Carthaginian way, Himuili, and it’s served them well for a long time.’
‘Hmm. If you ask me, they’ve already got you crucified, Roman.’
Fabius drily raised his cup of wine to his opponent.
Now the event reached some subtle milestone. The servants withdrew and more formal negotiations began, with the Tawananna directly addressing the senior Carthaginians, amid a buzz of translators and assistants.
The talks lasted hours. Kassu and Henti stood in stiff silence, with the silent ranks of aides, servants, slaves and soldiers.
