Iron Winter (Northland 3) (46 page)

Once they passed a cart hauled by a couple of beefy-looking Libyans, perhaps slaves, and led by a soldier in a dark cloak, his face hidden. The cart’s load was covered by a thick,
bloodstained cloth, and Nelo did not need too much imagination to know what was under there. The deaths continued in a steady trickle, from hunger, from the blood plague and other diseases that
swept like fires through the city’s crowded tenements. Nelo had found these deaths horrific when he had first come to live inside the city walls. But Fabius had once told him that cities were
always like this, even in the good times, even with plentiful food and water. It made Nelo sharply homesick for the wide, empty, orderly landscape of Northland, where people did not die like
this.

They came to a darkened property that had once, according to a faded sign over the door, been a manufactory of jewellery. Now the frontage was scarred by fire, and the door had been broken
down.

Gisco checked his bit of paper. ‘This is the one.’ He gestured to Suniatus. ‘No need to knock.’

Suni grinned, drew his sword, kicked the door in, and led the way inside.

If this had been a manufactory it had long been stripped bare, the contents looted. Now in two, three, four ground-floor rooms people huddled, whole families crammed into one corner or another,
mothers clutching infants, cowering back from Gisco’s light. There was a complicated stink of milk, piss, shit, sweat, and deep ingrained dirt. Gisco, without a word, stalked through the
rooms, blade in hand, holding his lantern so he could see faces. Eyes gleamed bright from heaps of rags. He still hadn’t told Suni or Nelo what he was looking for.

‘Not here,’ he said once they had gone through all the rooms. He saw that Suniatus had grabbed a bit of bread from some wretch, and was biting into the hard crust. ‘Oh, give
that back, Suni.’ Suniatus cast the fragment over his shoulder, and the huddled forms scrambled for it. Gisco looked around. There was an upper floor, but the ceilings of the rooms were
flimsy and cracked, and the dawn sky showed through, a reluctant grey.

‘Nothing up there, Sergeant,’ Suniatus offered. ‘I saw from outside. Top floor pulled down, for the wood to burn, I guess.’

‘All right.’ Gisco stalked through the rooms again, ignoring the people who had to shrink back out of his way. At length he found a hatch in the floor. ‘Aha! A cellar.’
He gestured at Suni, who found an iron ring fixed to the hatch, and hauled it up. Gisco held up his lantern over the hole. Nelo glimpsed a wooden ladder, a floor of packed earth beneath.

Gisco nodded to Suniatus, his finger to his lips. ‘You first, Suni. Quiet, now.’

Suni grinned, settled into the hatch, and let himself down the ladder one-handed. Gisco passed the lantern. Suni looked around, then headed off determinedly to one corner, moving out of
sight.

Nelo waited with Gisco. Somewhere an infant murmured, and was hushed. Nelo wondered what happened to these people when it rained, under that roof. But then it rarely rained in Carthage
nowadays.

There was a brief sound of a struggle, a surprised grunt. Then Suni called up, ‘You can come down, sir.’

Nelo led the way down the ladder.

The cellar, whatever it had once stored, was stripped as bare as the rest of the house. In one corner a man lay face down on a pile of blankets, with Suni grasping one twisted arm and kneeling
on his back. There was a heap of clothes, a discarded mail coat, and weapons – a battleaxe leaning against one wall. And there was a woman, Nelo saw, cowering in the corner, grasping a
blanket to her chest.

Gisco took in the scene at a glance. ‘Good work, Suni.’ He strode across to the man, got a handful of hair and pulled his head back, making the man grunt. Nelo saw the hair was
bright red, and that the man was bearded. Gisco dropped the man’s head casually, as if dropping a sack of potatoes. ‘This is the one. Who’s she?’

The woman sat up straighter. ‘Sir. My name is Satilis. My husband owns this shop. Owned – I have not seen him for some time.’

Gisco leaned down and peered at her in the lantern light. ‘She’s older than I thought.’

Suni grinned. ‘Maybe this fellow likes ‘em wrinkly.’

‘Sir – are you acting under the orders of the suffetes? Of the Popular Assembly?’

‘Aren’t we all?’

‘I demand my rights. We have always paid our taxes and tolls, officer. My husband’s father once served on the Tribunal of One Hundred and Four. It was bad enough that my shop, my
home, was forced to open its doors to stinking farmers’ families from the country. Now this man has come, he just walked in here, he doesn’t even speak our tongue, but he had a letter
demanding asylum, a letter from General Fabius, and, and—’

Suni guffawed. ‘General Fabius? Sure he did.’

Gisco stood straight. ‘Get out of here, madam.’

‘What?’

‘You won’t want to see what’s to come. Get out. Shoo, shoo.’ And he chased her as he would a reluctant dog.

The woman got up and scrambled for the ladder, which was hard to negotiate in her blanket. Both Gisco and Suniatus stared as she climbed, revealing thighs, buttocks, ample hips.

Gisco sighed. ‘That will keep me warm tonight.’

Suni laughed again. ‘Now what, sir? What do we do with this fellow? Haul him in?’

‘No time for that, Suni. He’s an obvious saboteur. Placed here to open the gates and let his brutish comrades into our city, along with their Hatti overlords. Finish him
off.’

‘With pleasure. How?’

‘Behead him. Make it neat, would you?’

Suniatus lifted his blade, yanking the man’s head back; the man began to struggle, his teeth grating.

‘Oh, by the left bollock of mighty Teshub, kill the man first. Have some manners, Suniatus.’

‘Sorry, sir.’ Suniatus efficiently slit the man’s throat with a scrape of his blade, held him down while he bled out, and then sawed off the head, grunting and complaining as
his blade got stuck in the vertebrae.

Meanwhile Gisco turned to Nelo. ‘You. Find a sack, a bag.’

‘Yes, sir. What for, sir?’

‘Our keepsake. This brute’s crimson head, boy. We’re on a mission to root out agents of the Hatti princes, like this one.’ He said this absently, while perusing his list
by the light of the lantern. ‘You still here? Go, boy, go!’

So they proceeded through Megara. Nelo had to carry the sack, which dripped blood as they walked, and was surprisingly heavy. It got heavier yet as they visited a second house, and a third, each
time finding a solitary Rus or Scand warrior living among fearful Carthaginians, each time coming upon him without warning, each time coming away with a head. The whole business, the stink of the
heads, sickened Nelo.

Yet it puzzled him too. Even when the warriors saw them coming they made no attempt to resist, not until it was too late and they realised their fate at Suniatus’ hands. They did jabber
out pleas in their own harsh tongues, but that was to be expected, and none of the killing party understood a word.

On the fourth killing Suniatus whistled as he sawed at the man’s neck. ‘This is the life for me, aurochs,’ he said to Nelo. ‘Killing these brutes is as easy as picking
olives off a tree.’ He threw over the head for Nelo to catch.

They came upon the fifth man in an upper room of a small abandoned temple. By now the day was bright, the curfew lifted, and in the streets outside the wagons of the dead continued their
mournful progress, amid the gathering noises of the city day. This time Suniatus struggled to get the Scand on his back before despatching him. Gisco was forced to help, sitting on the man’s
legs while Suniatus pinned his chest.

And the man saw Nelo. His eyes widened. ‘Northlander.’

Nelo was startled. He had said the word in the tongue of Etxelur.

‘Northlander. You are a Northlander. I can tell, the hair, the eyes. I visit – I have visited—’ Suniatus punched him in the mouth, knocking his head to the side. But he
stayed conscious, and spoke from a bloody mouth. ‘Please. Mistake. They make mistake. I am loyal, loyal to Fabius!’

Suniatus recognised the general’s name, and sat back, panting, pinning the man’s arms. ‘What did he say? Something about my general?’ And he slammed the back of his hand
into the Scand’s face.

‘Get on with it, Suni,’ growled Gisco, pressing on the man’s legs.

‘Sir.’ Suniatus made a more determined effort to contain the man’s struggles.

But the Scand still tried to talk to Nelo. ‘Please! Fabius, his men take us, he speaks to us. Offers us gold and bread, more than the Hatti, if we fight for him. He will give us back to
our families, when Hatti are gone. That’s what he said.’

‘Shut up!’ Another blow with the back of the hand.

‘That’s what he said! Gold and bread! Look, look—’ But, pinned, he could not reach whatever he was after. Some proof of a contract with Fabius? ‘That’s what
he said—’

At last Suniatus drew his blade across the neck. The man died, choking on his own blood, gaze still fixed on Nelo.

As Suniatus removed the head, Nelo said, ‘Sir. He was speaking Northlander.’

‘What of it?’

‘He said the general recruited them. General Fabius, sir.’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘He gave them gold and bread, and told them—’

Gisco stalked over to Nelo and loomed over him. ‘No, he didn’t, aurochs. You didn’t hear him say any such thing. Because if you did I’d have to cut off your precious
artist’s hands, and then I’d let Suni finish you off like the rest of these treacherous scum, and maybe I’ll do that anyhow because you annoy me, Nelo, you’re a waste of
good muscle. Now. Did this man say anything to you?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good. Right. Where to next?’

There were two more items on Gisco’s list, two more addresses. Two more heads to collect. By the time they were done it was mid-morning, and Suniatus had to take three of
the heads from Nelo to carry in a separate sack.

Now they had a fresh appointment, Gisco said.

He led them through the streets of the lower city to the ancient inner wall that enclosed the Byrsa, the citadel. People were going about their business, to work if they had it, or to queue for
the daily dole of grey bread and water if not. Nelo was aware of the glances they attracted, for the sacks dribbled blood, but people knew not to stare at soldiers.

They reached a gate in the citadel wall where more soldiers had gathered, with more bloody sacks. Comrades hailed each other, and made black jokes about what their sacks contained. Gisco spoke
quietly to other officers, and they scrutinised each others’ lists, comparing notes. Nobody asked why they were waiting, or what for, or why the heads were needed. You weren’t supposed
to ask such questions.

With permission, Suniatus went off and bought shrivelled apples from a trader in a sparsely populated marketplace nearby, and handed them around. Suniatus made a pretence of offering one to
Nelo, then threw the fruit in his sack instead. ‘Let these Scand fight over it in Valhalla.’

Then there was a gathering noise, the murmur of a crowd, along with footsteps, some laughter and cheers, and the rattle of wheels. The soldiers dumped their apple cores and straightened up,
fixing helmets and mail coats.

A war chariot, a big two-horse machine stolen in a raid from the Hatti, came clattering into view around a bend. With driver and spear man, Fabius was aboard, resplendent in a polished
breastplate, scarlet tunic and purple cloak. With his helmet off he was unmistakable, and the men cheered as he approached. A couple of carts followed behind him – and they were laden with
severed heads, Nelo saw, dozens of them heaped up like turnips on farmers’ carts. They were all men, all bearded, all red-haired – all Rus or Scand. A guard detail jogged along beside
chariot and carts.

Behind Fabius came the crowd, citizens of Carthage. They were a ragged, grimy lot, Nelo thought; not only was there no food to be had but there were no new clothes to buy in the market, not even
soap and fresh water to spare to clean the old. But today the great general Fabius was putting on some kind of spectacle, and on impulse the people came out to see what was going on. And it helped,
Nelo saw, that a few more soldiers followed behind the guard, carrying satchels from which they threw stuff out to the crowd – peas, beans perhaps, small items that people leapt for and
scrapped over.

The chariot pulled up at the gate. Fabius beckoned Gisco over, while Nelo and Suniatus emptied out their own sacks onto the heap on the carts. ‘More fruit for my harvest I see,
Gisco.’

‘I’ve spoken to the other commanders, sir. I think we got them all.’

‘Good, good, a thorough job. The city thanks you for it – or it will, before the day is done. Ah, there’s my scribbling Northlander. Up here, boy, ride with me. Do you
have your satchel? By the gods, what’s that mess on your clothes?’

‘Sir—’

‘You. Give him your tunic, man. Just do it! He can’t be facing the Tribunal of One Hundred and Four with Rus brains all over his bib.’

The soldier, picked out at random, reluctantly stripped down to his breeches and handed his tunic to Nelo. His companions whistled and mocked.

Nelo climbed onto the chariot, hideously self-conscious. He dared to ask, ‘The Tribunal, sir? What are we going to do there?’

‘You’ll see, boy. Just record everything, Nelo, regardless of how well you understand it. Once again we are going to witness history. No – we are going to
make
history.’ He stood on his chariot, and turned to face the crowd and the soldiers. ‘Did you hear that? Did you hear what I said?’ He had the leathery lungs a commander always
needed, and at his bellow the murmur of the crowd subsided. ‘I said that today, we, all of you, are going to make history!’

That won him a ragged, slightly bemused cheer.

Fabius dramatically pointed to the Byrsa. ‘There are men up there, old men, men who are fat in these times when even a soldier goes hungry, men who would today hold me to account.
That’s their job, you might say. That’s the purpose of the One Hundred and Four. Well, so it is. That’s their duty. That’s their privilege. That’s their right. But
such duty requires immense wisdom. And what wisdom do they show? They question the conduct of the war.
My
conduct of it.’