‘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.
68
The Third Year of the Longwinter: Midwinter Solstice
On the night that word came down that the Carthaginians were ready to give battle at last, Kassu and Zida hurried to their homes in the Hatti’s temporary city.
Zida was exuberant. ‘They say Carthage’s priests chose tomorrow for its auguries. A near-midwinter night, and the moon has just waned past its half, and for days to come the sky will be dominated by the crescent moon, the sign of Baal Hammon — or some crud like that. Ha! They can have the moon; we have Jesus Sharruma who will crush their puny testicles in His holy fist.’
Kassu grunted. ‘Don’t get your hopes up. Years of drought, months of siege, the plague. . we’re all worn out.’
‘I’ll take my chances.’ They reached Zida’s shack, a kind of cone of turf heaped up on poles. ‘Anything’s better than this shit.’ He aimed a mighty kick at the wall, and a chunk fell in with a dry rustle.
There was a high-pitched squawk, and out came the burly Libyan woman Zida had taken as his slave, mistress or third wife, depending on how drunk he was when he was telling you. She had bits of straw in her crisp dark hair, and dried mud in the bowl she was holding. ‘Look what you did to supper, idiot!’
‘We’re fighting in the morning, Roofa, my love. Fighting those Carthaginian pustules at last! Won’t you Libyans be glad to see the back of them?’
‘Never mind Carthaginian pustules. Look what you did!’ Still holding the pot, she stalked around the house, and pulled at the wrecked wall. ‘Now what’s going to keep the rats out?’