Iron Winter

‘Good. And there is more.’

‘I thought there might be.’

‘You will help us build a New Northland,’ Pyxeas said.

Carthalo smiled again, more cautiously. ‘And how are we to do that?’

‘Give us a city. Somewhere in your hinterland. By the little mothers’ tears, man, don’t baulk at that! You must have a dozen tomb-cities emptied out by the plague and ripe for reoccupation. As for our people, they are scattered across the Continent, the cities of the Middle Sea. . You will help us find them. Send agents throughout the known world, wherever the ice has spared. Bring them home — bring them to their new home. That way, at least something of our culture, our values, our learning, may survive, until the longwinter passes, and we can go home again, for we will not forget where we came from.’ He looked at Rina, and held her shoulder. ‘This has been done before. I, Pyxeas, have seen the mark of Northland, or of our ancestors — the three rings, the bar, the form like the Mothers’ Door — on rock panels in Coldland, even in the Land of the Sky Wolf. Put there before the last time the ice came. Northland has endured the ice before. Now it is the task of our generation to ensure it endures again.’

Carthalo said, ‘You realise you are asking me to nurture a rival close to my own hearth. For I have no doubt that you Northlanders will rise to greatness again.’

‘It’s either that or have the Hatti crush you,’ Pyxeas said with uncharacteristic bluntness.

‘Consider it done,’ Carthalo said softly. ‘I must prepare a presentation on this to the Council of Elders. In the meantime, the fire drug-’

‘One more thing,’ Rina said, and she faced Barmocar.

Barmocar looked fearful, as well he might, she thought. He glanced at Carthalo. ‘Our business is surely done-’

‘This woman is the niece of the man who is going to give us the fire drug,’ Carthalo said smoothly. ‘And a woman who has a grudge against you, Barmocar, my friend, and from what I’ve heard I can’t say I blame her. I suggest you listen to what she has to say.’

She smiled. ‘The molk, Barmocar.’

‘What?’

‘A word you taught me when I first arrived in this country, having all but reneged on your deal to deliver my family to safety. Do you remember, Barmocar? “We call it molk. A gift for the gods, in times of great stress. The greatest gift one can give.” Do you remember saying that to me? And then you made me send my son off to war.’

He glared back at her. ‘What is it you want?’

‘To see you perform the molk.’

Carthalo said smoothly, ‘The molk has long become a merely symbolic practice. Today we sacrifice lambs — sometimes a carving is burned — but children-’

‘I know it’s done,’ Rina said. ‘When you’re desperate enough, you Carthaginians. You murder your children to please your antique gods, in secret, so I have learned. After the year I’ve had, I suspect I know more about your city than you suffetes do yourselves. Now I want to see it done again. By you, Barmocar.’

‘Mago,’ Barmocar whispered. ‘You mean Mago. You want me to send him back to the war.’

Pyxeas touched her arm. ‘Niece, you don’t need to do this.’

She shook him off.

‘Please,’ Barmocar said. ‘I’ve lost my wife — we were childless, you know that — the son of my sister is like my own-’

‘And this is the end of it,’ Carthalo said sternly. ‘No more demands?’

‘No more,’ said Pyxeas with finality.

Carthalo turned to his countryman. ‘Barmocar?’

But the man, head dropped, could not speak.

68

The Third Year of the Longwinter: Midwinter Solstice

On the night that word came down that the Carthaginians were ready to give battle at last, Kassu and Zida hurried to their homes in the Hatti’s temporary city.

Zida was exuberant. ‘They say Carthage’s priests chose tomorrow for its auguries. A near-midwinter night, and the moon has just waned past its half, and for days to come the sky will be dominated by the crescent moon, the sign of Baal Hammon — or some crud like that. Ha! They can have the moon; we have Jesus Sharruma who will crush their puny testicles in His holy fist.’

Kassu grunted. ‘Don’t get your hopes up. Years of drought, months of siege, the plague. . we’re all worn out.’

‘I’ll take my chances.’ They reached Zida’s shack, a kind of cone of turf heaped up on poles. ‘Anything’s better than this shit.’ He aimed a mighty kick at the wall, and a chunk fell in with a dry rustle.

There was a high-pitched squawk, and out came the burly Libyan woman Zida had taken as his slave, mistress or third wife, depending on how drunk he was when he was telling you. She had bits of straw in her crisp dark hair, and dried mud in the bowl she was holding. ‘Look what you did to supper, idiot!’

‘We’re fighting in the morning, Roofa, my love. Fighting those Carthaginian pustules at last! Won’t you Libyans be glad to see the back of them?’

‘Never mind Carthaginian pustules. Look what you did!’ Still holding the pot, she stalked around the house, and pulled at the wrecked wall. ‘Now what’s going to keep the rats out?’

He laughed. ‘The rats are more at home in there than we are. Oh, I’m a fired-up warrior tonight and you’d better be ready for the passion that’s coming your way, woman!’

‘And you be ready for the pots and pans I’m throwing at your empty head. Get in this house. Get in!’ And she shoved him with the flat of her hand towards the crude gash of the door.

‘See you in an hour,’ Zida said to Kassu.

‘An hour.’

Roofa delivered one final mighty shove to the small of Zida’s back, and he fell into the house, weapons clattering, mail coat rustling.

Kassu walked on, grinning. But, as usual, he had lost his good humour by the time he had got home.

His own house was a marginally tidier, marginally better-built box of sod, in a rough street of similar properties. He stood before the house, looking at the old worn-out blankets that hung over the door, the patch of ground where they had tried to grow peas and beans but the plants had been devoured by rats and rabbits before they had a chance. It was hard to imagine a more depressing prospect, even if you hadn’t known what the atmosphere was like inside. Angrily he pushed indoors.

In the single room within, one lamp burned. Oil was expensive; all you could get was thick, gloopy stuff that was said to come from some animal of the sea. Henti was sitting cross-legged under the lamp, stitching an expensive-looking officer’s cloak, dyed deep purple. The cloak wasn’t Kassu’s, but that wasn’t unusual. The whole Hatti nation had pitched up on the plain before Carthage for this end-of-the-world war, and the whole nation was contributing to the effort. Kassu knew women who worked in the manufactories, even in the forges.

In the corner, meanwhile, Pimpira was grinding grain. He kept his head bowed, his eyes averted, subservient. He lived with Kassu and Henti as a slave once more, though he slept with his parents in a big barracks during the night, both of them having survived the March. The only sound in the room was the soft, repetitive, scratching rasp of Pimpira’s grindstone — and under that, a soft, breathy singing. Henti, murmuring an old Kaskan lullaby. Kassu had heard it before, it had been taught her by her grandmother on her mother’s side, who had come from that region. She probably didn’t even know she was singing it.

Kassu leaned over his wife. Her head was bowed, and he saw the neat parting in her long dark hair, the tight bun at her neck. ‘You’ve been with him,’ he said softly.

She didn’t look up. ‘Have I?’