Iron Winter (Northland 3) (25 page)

She was astonished at the question, and dismayed.
I hoped to find myself under your protection and guidance.
‘I can work,’ she said stiffly. ‘I was an Annid. I have
skills in direction, decisionmaking. Perhaps I could work as an adviser to the Council of Elders, or—’

He waved that away. ‘Forget it. The Carthaginians loathe us Northlanders. Ingrained after centuries of our manipulating their destiny – that’s the way they see it.’

‘The role of Northland has always been to bring peace and collaboration between disparate peoples—’

‘And to get rich and powerful in the process. Forget it, as I said. There’s no way anybody would
pay
you for your advice. It’s best if you can persuade them to forget
you’re a Northlander at all. Why do you think I dress in this repulsive purple? Is there anything you can
do
? I mean, a specific skill. Weaving, knitting, lace-making, cooking –
by the mothers, anything, women do many jobs in Northland, brick-making, growstone-mixing!’

‘I am an Annid, from a family of Annids. I was ten years old before I had to lace up my own shoes.’

She meant to make him laugh. He returned her look, stony-faced. ‘Your children, then. How old?’

‘Twins, just sixteen now. A boy and a girl. He, Nelo, is a promising artist, in the new deep-look style—’

‘How big is he?’

‘What?’

‘Physically. Tall, short, thin, strong . . .’

‘Shorter than me. Quite heavily built. Strong, if he puts his mind to it. But he has a gentle spirit which—’

‘He may find work on the labour details. The sewage system, for instance – constantly clogging up. And corpse details when the plagues come. Or the farms.’

‘No Northlander farms.’

‘They do here. Now, the girl?’

‘Alxa. She’s a bright, independent young woman. Stronger than me, I think. She has a facility for languages. She learned Carthaginian on the journey.’

‘A translator, then? That might have possibilities. Not useful for me, mind you, I have all the staff I need. Good-looking?’

She flared. ‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Because one role Northlander women are popular for here is as companions. Oh, don’t look at me so, Cousin. It doesn’t have to be – like that. But you can imagine how it
gives a Carthaginian pleasure to order round a pretty, stuck-up Northlander, as they see it.’

She suppressed her anger. ‘I am reluctant to rely on the labour of my children. They are too young.’

‘This isn’t Northland,’ he said firmly. ‘You are far from home. Nobody wants you here, frankly. The quicker you absorb that fact the better. And the sooner you learn that
your preferences are irrelevant—’

‘Help us,’ she said bluntly.

He sat back in his chair, sighed, and rubbed his face. ‘Rina, Rina. I have nothing for you.’

‘You have room. Food, warmth. At least let us stay for a few days. Until we can find work, get established somehow. I will pay you back.’

He laughed. ‘What, with Northland scrip?’

‘With the money I, we, will earn when we find jobs.’

‘Impossible. Believe me, with the kind of jobs you’ll be taking you won’t be paying down loans. Look, Rina, I have my own position in society here to think of. If I start
taking in strays and nestspills—’

‘You are a Northlander.’

‘Not any more,’ he said coldly. ‘And since you abandoned the place to come here, neither are you.’

‘As family, then.’ She forced herself to say it. After all, she had begged before Barmocar. Was this any worse? ‘I’m desperate. For my children. Please. I have no other
recourse.’

He sighed again. ‘I always was too soft for my own good. Seven days. And then you’re gone. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .’ He bent over his desk. ‘Send in my clerks
on your way out. And shut the door.’

A little later Alxa and Nelo, fetched from the city by Jexami’s servants, showed up at the estate.

Alxa was wide-eyed. ‘By the mothers’ eyes, this is grand. It’s almost as good as the Wall. Does that tap work?’

‘Leave it alone,’ Rina snapped. ‘Touch as little as possible.
Use
as little as possible.’

Nelo frowned. ‘Are we staying here?’

‘Yes. For now. Not for long. But we mustn’t impose . . .’ Nelo’s face was bloodied, she saw, a smear from a cut over his eye, and a bruise was rising on his cheek.
‘Oh, my, what happened to you?’ She ran to get a bowl of water and a cloth.

Alxa sat on a chair, testing its softness. ‘We got into a fight.’

‘You did what?’

‘We went for a walk. The city is teeming, Mother, full of people. We found a tavern. We thought we’d have some wine. But the landlord wouldn’t accept our Northlander scrip. And
some men had heard us talking, I mean in our own tongue. They came over to give us a hard time. One of them said something—’

Nelo said, ‘He called Alxa a whore. I know enough Carthaginian for that. He said Northlander women make the best whores, because they’re big and healthy. Like wild deer. I punched
him.’

‘You did
what?’

Alxa said, ‘It was all I could do to get us out of there in one piece. Those narrow streets, we had to throw them off, we ran and ran!’ She laughed at the memory of it, swinging her
legs. ‘Where’s our luggage? Is there any hot water? Can I ask for tea?’

Rina held her son’s bruised forehead, peering into his eyes, looking for his spirit, seeing only blankness.

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.

Pyxeas’ party descended from the land of ice and high meadows. Uzzia insisted they go slowly, for a traveller used to thin air could be as damaged by a sudden exposure to
thicker air as easily as the other way around.

Slowly was all they could manage in any case. Having left Jamil under his cairn on the high desert, there were only the three of them now, the three survivors of the shattered caravan. Or four
if you counted the mule. Pyxeas, for the sake of his pride, insisted on walking a few steps every day, but it was only a few steps before he had to be loaded up onto the back of the patient mule.
He had never seemed older, never frailer, and his energy in the thin air of the roof of the world was a memory.

What was left of their baggage went on the mule’s back too, and on the backs of Uzzia and Avatak as they marched along. At least they were reasonably equipped. The robbery hadn’t
been very efficient, and the panicking thieves had run off leaving a good deal of their own kit behind – clothes, blankets, water sacks, even boots. Avatak had been all for burning this
stuff, but Uzzia persuaded him that if another man’s boots might save his life he should take them.

Pyxeas’ notes had been soiled and scattered, but were reasonably intact. Avatak saved the scroll on which he had been keeping his journal of the journey, and Pyxeas insisted he make an
entry every day. Avatak did abandon his heavy hourglass. The oracle was smashed, but Pyxeas was set on keeping what was left of its case, despite its bulk. Uzzia plucked out a few gears from the
oracle’s abandoned carcass, saying she might make a bracelet of them for a favourite niece in New Hattusa.