Iron Winter

67

Carthalo, one of the two suffetes, had asked to see her. They would meet at an expensive cemetery on the flank of the Byrsa.

‘I will accompany you,’ said Barmocar.

‘I am summoned by the suffetes,’ she said, unbelieving. ‘Me. A runaway servant. A middle-aged Northlander with whip burns on her back and my fingers worn out from working your wife’s slit-’

‘My wife is dead,’ he said bluntly. ‘Two days ago.’

‘The plague?’

‘Of course the plague. And now she lies out in the cemetery. You will see. That is why we are going there.’

‘Anterastilis was a foolish, indulgent woman, who used me, and others, cruelly. But nobody in this world deserves to die, certainly not of the blood plague. Still — she is gone. Why should I help you, who took advantage of my weakness and vulnerability?’

‘I brought you to Carthage,’ he snapped with a trace of his old anger. ‘I took you in when no other would. Times were already hard, or have you forgotten that?’ He made a visible effort to regain control; he seemed to be under huge stress. ‘It is not me who asks for your help. You and your uncle, actually.’

‘Pyxeas?’

‘He is to attend too. It is important, Rina. Will you attend or not?’

The next morning Pyxeas himself came to the house, with Avatak, his Coldlander companion. Rina was overjoyed; it was the first time she had seen her uncle since his arrival at Carthage. But Pyxeas was silent, withdrawn, and seemed much older than she remembered, drained by his journey. He had trouble talking too; there were bloody gaps in the teeth of his lower jaw. Yet he was gathering his strength for whatever was to come today, she saw.

The four of them, Barmocar, Rina, Pyxeas and his boy, together with a servant, were loaded onto a carriage drawn by a single elderly horse, and they crossed the city.

Carthage, these days, woke slowly. On the landward walls the sentries’ fires were sparks against a sunrise that towered pink, and carts bearing the dead rolled in doleful caravans, heading for the big, ever-burning pyres. Pyxeas stared at the slow carriages, and his lips moved slowly. He was counting, Rina realised, counting the carriages, perhaps hoping to estimate the number of the night’s dead. And, as they began to climb the Byrsa itself, a series of upright crosses was thrown into relief against the sky, the dangling bodies silhouetted. Thieves, looters, murderers and other criminals, punished in an ancient Carthaginian style. At least the crows didn’t go hungry any more, the Carthaginians bleakly joked.

At length they came upon the cemetery, a place of grand tombs, some of them evidently ancient. Here was an open grave, a wound in the ground. A pavilion of some weighty fabric had been set up beside the tomb. Solemn folk had gathered here wearing heavy purple cloaks, while servants fluttered around bearing trays of drinks and bits of food. A ring of soldiers watched warily, in case any hungry citizens took offence at this display of ostentation by their leaders.

Inside, the pavilion was opulent, with an Etruscan tapestry hanging from one wall, a Persian carpet covering the dusty cobbles. A table had been set up along the pavilion’s axis — and the body of Anterastilis lay on the table, dressed in her finest clothes, washed, anointed with oil, her hair and cosmetics carefully made up. Beside her was an altar of stone laden with food, drinks, and gifts: perfumes, herbs, expensive-looking bits of pottery, amulets. A priest murmured prayers, reading from a scroll. Rina couldn’t help but remember the last time she had seen Anterastilis lying on her back like this. Well, she looked better now than she had back then, even at the peak of sexual ecstasy. They had even put her in a girdle, judging by the prominence of her bosom.

Carthalo of the suffetes approached them. He was a tall, angular man with a high forehead but a full head of dark hair, and blank grey eyes, and an oddly sinister, soft smile. And, trailing him, Rina was astonished to see Mago, Barmocar’s nephew, healthy, well fed — uniformed, but not at the war. He grinned, insolent, when he caught her eye.

Carthalo bowed formally. ‘Rina of Etxelur. Thank you for coming on this sad day. And you are Pyxeas the sage, sir?’ He spoke Greek; perhaps he had prepared for this visit sufficiently to know that Pyxeas could follow Greek but not much Carthaginian.

‘I am he, I admit it.’ Pyxeas’ speech was slurred by his damaged teeth. He rather spoiled the moment by absently helping himself to a biscuit from a plate on the altar.

Rina had to slap his hand to make him put it back. ‘By the little mothers’ tears, Uncle, that’s for Anterastilis!’

‘Oh. Well, I don’t suppose she’d have missed it.’

Carthalo smiled. ‘I follow a little of what you say. I once visited Northland, you know, many years ago. When the world and I were both much younger. Fascinating place. But your customs are quite different from ours. Your treatment of the dead, for example. You inter your dead in the fabric of your mighty Wall, so that your ancestors may add their strength to the unending war against the sea. Inspirational.’

His tone sounded mocking. Rina’s reading of his Greek was too uncertain to be sure. She wondered if this man, used to manipulating those around him, was too clever for his own good.

‘We of Carthage do things quite differently,’ he said now, waving a hand. ‘As you can see. We believe that the afterlife is similar to the life we have lived on earth. Hatti missionaries of Jesus argue that this is a childish notion. But really, which is the simpler assumption — that the afterlife is like the world we know, or like a world none of us has ever experienced? We believe, however, that at death a person’s spirit splits in two. The spiritual embodiment of Anterastilis, the rouah, now resides in the world of the dead. But the physical embodiment of her spirit, the nepesh, stays with the body — and as you can see she requires nourishment, just as a living person.’

‘Biscuits,’ Pyxeas said.

‘Biscuits.’

Rina faced Carthalo squarely. ‘You brought us here for a reason, I presume.’

Carthalo gave her that thin, intimidating smile. ‘It’s true that I thought it would be appropriate to have our discussion in the context of this solemn farewell to a woman who was your employer and your friend.’

Barmocar looked away.

‘This, our most ancient rite, is central to our culture, we Carthaginians.’

‘This and crucifixion,’ said Pyxeas. ‘And child sacrifice-’

Rina hushed him.

‘We have retained the semblance of an orderly society, despite our terrible losses, losses nobody would have believed a few short years ago. This is still Carthage, we are still Carthaginians. We asked you here today — indeed, at the command of Fabius himself — because I wanted you to see us at our best. For there is something I must ask of you. Something that Carthage must ask of Northland.’

Rina flared. ‘More than you have already asked? The gods took my daughter’s life, but Carthage took my son, to fight in her wars. Speaking of which-’ she pointed at Mago ‘-why is he here?’

Mago grinned again. His face was scarred, she saw, the length of his right cheek. He blew her a kiss. ‘Glad to see me, Grandmother?’

‘Get him out,’ Carthalo murmured to Barmocar.

‘But I brought him here — the funeral-’

‘Out. Now.’

Barmocar turned and gestured to his nephew, who left the tent gracelessly.

‘I know why he’s here,’ said Rina. ‘And the sons of the rest of you, I dare say. Because you are losing your war with the Hatti. That’s the truth, isn’t it? And you privileged ones are pulling your sons out of the killing fields.’

Barmocar seemed prepared to deny it, but Carthalo raised a hand. ‘It’s true enough,’ he said softly. ‘Not that this is news we want to shout out. We are not withdrawing our sons, not all of us. My own two boys, as well as a nephew already dead. .’ He hesitated, apparently overcome with emotion, but it could have been a skilful act, Rina reminded herself. ‘Rina, we fight valiantly — our sons do. But the plague is cutting through our young men like a scythe through wheat ripe for the harvest. It has even reached the troops in the field, that and other diseases and blights.’

Pyxeas said, ‘The plague has afflicted the whole world. The losses must be affecting the Hatti too.’

‘Of course. But the Hatti’s sheer numbers overwhelm us.’

Rina’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you asking us to help you fight this war?’

‘You, and Northland.’

‘We don’t speak for Northland,’ Rina said. ‘Besides, all the resources of Northland are locked up in the snow.’

‘Actually not all,’ Pyxeas said. He tapped his liver-spotted temple. ‘This is where our real resource is. Knowledge. And that’s what this Carthaginian wants to get his hands on. Am I right?’

Carthalo nodded. ‘We need to win this war — or at least stop the Hatti. And to do that we need, frankly, a weapon they don’t have. That’s what I hope you can give us. What Fabius hopes for.’

Rina shook her head. ‘Why should we help you? The Hatti have been our allies for. .’

‘For two millennia,’ Carthalo said smoothly. ‘I know my history, you see. And do you know how that came about? In a different time of crisis, long ago, there was an exchange. Etxelur gave Hattusa the potato to feed a starving population. And in return Hattusa gave Etxelur a plague. An invisible demon to wipe out an invading army. You see, this sort of arrangement has been made before.’

‘But if the Hatti have been our allies for so long-’

‘Why betray them now? But what of the long-term interests of Northland? If Carthage were to be overrun, even destroyed, you would have a Hatti empire dominating the Middle Sea. When the world recovers from this longwinter, would such an empire not have further ambitions? Why should it not look north? Would it not be in Northland’s best interests to keep a balance of the continental powers?’

Pyxeas laughed. ‘That’s a good argument. Or would be, if not for the fact that the longwinter never is going to end — not in our lifetime anyhow. And that kind of petty human calculation is going to be scrubbed out by the ice. You’ll have to do better than that, sir, if you’re to get what you want from us.’

Rina felt left behind. ‘But what is it they want, Uncle?’

Pyxeas tapped his temple again. ‘He wants me, Pyxeas, to tell him how to make the fire drug of Cathay. And eruptors, weapons to exploit it.’

‘Ah. And can you tell him?’

‘Oh, yes.’ He stepped closer to Carthalo, intense. ‘In fact, I can do better than that. I, Pyxeas, have long anticipated this moment. I have put in place a plan — I had my students send letters to Northlanders in Carthage. To you too, Rina, though I don’t think you ever received it. But others did. House of Crow studies. And they have been working, in secret, for months.’

Carthalo’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean? What kind of work?’

‘We already have the weapons. We Northlanders. We have the fire drug. We have the eruptors. In this city. These could be in your hands in days — a month at most. I, Pyxeas, have organised this.’

Carthalo was clearly stunned. But he was a good politician and remained in control. ‘If you were to grant us this-’

Rina touched Pyxeas’ arm. ‘We would be making a decision on behalf of all Northland.’

He turned to her with eyes huge and sad. ‘I’m afraid we must, my dear. For Northland, the old Northland, is already lost — save for us. What we must face now is the future. And the building of that future begins here and now.’

Carthalo smiled. ‘Quite right. Name your price.’

Pyxeas glanced at Rina. ‘This is your moment.’

‘Bring him home,’ she snapped. ‘Bring him back from your wars.’

Carthalo nodded. ‘Your son. I understand. Consider it done.’

But even as he spoke Rina saw Barmocar sneer at her, a sly smile he didn’t trouble to hide. She saw his opinion of her there and then. She might have the power of life and death over him and his kind, but to him she was small, a petty woman obsessed with family, and always would be so. She had been abused by this man’s wife. Humiliated for his amusement. She had sworn revenge on them both. That little smile, she thought. That little smile was going to cost this man so much.

Pyxeas, meanwhile, had greater prices to exact. ‘You may have the fire drug. But you will use it to make peace with the Hatti, if you possibly can.’

‘What? They are barbarians,’ Barmocar said. ‘One may as well try to make peace with a rabid wolf-’

‘No. They follow Jesus. Warlike they may be, but peace is at the heart of the creed of their god. And they too have suffered with the plague. You may have the fire drug, to threaten them with overwhelming destruction, but you will offer them the chance of peace at the same time. Stop the bloodshed. And to symbolise that-’ he glanced at Rina, ‘-you will give them the bones of the Virgin Mother of Jesus, which Rina took illegally and gave to Barmocar in fair payment for her passage here.’

Carthalo raised his eyebrows at Barmocar. ‘I knew nothing of this.’

‘It was private business.’

‘Not any more. You will deliver the bones to the Temple of Melqart in the morning. Consider that done too, Pyxeas.’

‘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.