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.’