Iron Winter

35

Rina spent six of Jexami’s seven days fruitlessly searching for work.

Then, on the day before Jexami was to throw them out of his house, she swallowed more pride, took Jexami’s advice, and approached the only man of position she knew in the city: Barmocar. She used a veiled threat about exposing his possession of the Virgin’s relics to secure an appointment.

She was taken into the city by one of Jexami’s carriage-men, and dropped at one of the big gates in the landward wall. By now she had learned her way around Carthage, a little. The city within the wall was a neat grid of streets. The building stock was constructed of the local sandstone, and brilliant-white paintwork was common, so that when the sun pushed through the thickening clouds the air seemed to fill with light. The city’s complicated history had left its mark too. Alongside the temples to Carthage’s ancient gods there were mosques and muezzin towers, relics of the days of Arabic conquest, and more recent churches to Jesus, symbols of Hatti influence, squat buildings whose faces were carved with representations of crossed palm leaves. Mostly, however, the lower city was crammed with residential properties, apartments heaped up three and four storeys high, and shops, workshops, taverns and inns open to the street. The people swarmed everywhere, vendors calling, children running, imposing men and women carrying scrolls and slates. She saw no signs of the dispossessed who had washed up against the external walls, but still the city was crowded. She imagined everybody with a place in the city bringing in relatives from the dying countryside, until there was no room left.

Walking through this noisy, off-putting chaos, she never got lost, for her destination was the Byrsa, the tall hill that dominated the centre of the town, topped with its mighty statue of Hannibal of Latium, the city’s greatest hero, a sight you could see from anywhere in the lower city. She fixed on the statue and headed that way.

At the foot of the Byrsa the street pattern changed. From here, broad avenues ran radially up to the peak of the citadel mound, with lateral crossways between them. She set off to climb a steeply sloping street, lined to either side with apartment blocks that could be several storeys high. She passed an open miller’s store where grain was ground on a turning wheel, and a jeweller’s where the craftsman laboured on fine pieces in full view of passers-by, and a temple, a fine building with a courtyard where two tremendous statues of men, or perhaps gods, loomed over an altar. At the temple she paused, breathing hard, and looked back over flat rooftops of the lower city. The steep road running down from this point was well maintained and clean, she saw. Vases and jars stood on many roofs, there to catch the rain, she imagined, in a city eager for every drop. From up here at least there was no sign of plague or famine. This was an intact, well-run, functioning city. Perhaps the storm which was engulfing the whole world had yet to break here. But it would break, she thought, remembering all she had seen on her journey. It would break.

Barmocar’s office was right next door to the temple. He kept her waiting, of course, and met her in an anteroom, rather than take her into his office. ‘I thought you’d show up again. Helpless sorts like you always do.’ He sat at a desk, but she was forced to stand; he had a cup of water which he sipped, but offered her nothing. ‘Will this take long? I am, if you haven’t noticed, a busy man.’

‘Busy with what?’

‘The temple. Which has always been an important institution in this city, and I’m senior on its governing council.’ He eyed her. ‘The temple is the big building next door. With the statues of our gods Melqart and his son Tanit — I don’t suppose you know who they are, do you?’

‘I need your help,’ she said.

He sat back, a grin on his face. He was a fleshy man, though even he had lost weight during the long journey from Northland. She had no idea if he intended to help her or not, but he was evidently planning to have some fun. ‘Jexami warned me you’d show up. How will you pay me this time? Do you have some other prophet’s bones hidden up your arse?’

‘I have nothing to give you. You know that. Nothing but my labour.’

‘Yes, but labour doing what? What could you possibly do for me that would justify a salary to keep you alive? Oh, and those kids of yours.’

‘I am highly intelligent, and educated. Surely you see that.’ She stopped herself; even in this desperate moment she had slipped into patronising him. ‘I can contribute in many ways to your enterprises. As a clerk, a scribe-’

‘By Melqart’s toenail, you don’t even speak the language, woman!’

‘I can learn.’

‘Learn? What, an old stick like you? Look, as far as I can see you have only one saleable asset, and that’s your son’s brute strength. Even the girl’s no beauty.’

‘My son is an artist.’

‘Ha!’

‘There must be something I could do. Work in your office. Your household. .’

‘You really are desperate, aren’t you?’

‘And you really are enjoying this,’ she couldn’t help but snap back.

‘Still the arrogant she-devil! I’ll tell you what — only because it amuses me — perhaps there is something. Working for my wife, not for me. She’s talked occasionally of needing a woman, somebody less stupid than the cattle that pass for servants these days.’

She felt a spark of hope. ‘I can help with her correspondence, run the household-’

‘You’ll do what she tells you. Starting with cutting her toenails, I should think.’

‘I’ll take it — thank you-’

‘Wait.’ He held his hand up. ‘There’s a condition. We Carthaginians have a practice. Very ancient, predates the Muslim invaders, even the wars with the Latins I think. We call it molk. A gift for the gods, in times of great stress. The greatest gift one can give.’

‘Molk?’

He leaned towards her. ‘The sacrifice of a child.’

She stiffened. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Put the boy in the army — if they will have him.’

‘A Northlander, in a Carthaginian army? It would destroy him.’

‘No. Starving outside the city walls will destroy him.’ He picked up a stylus and tapped his teeth. ‘I have links with the army council. These are difficult times — you know that. We always need recruits. Those wretched Hatti are said to be marching in great numbers. The city will actually pay a small bounty if one brings in recruits. So, you see, you are worth something to me after all. And it would be good for the city. Good for the boy, probably, too, to get him away from you. There’s the deal, and it’s the best you’re going to get. Or,’ he said casually, ‘you could prostitute yourself, I suppose. You’d earn a little before they wore you out. What’s it to be, Rina the Annid?’

Deep in a black corner of her heart she swore, not for the first time, that she would revenge herself on Barmocar, somehow, some day.