‘So you see the formation,’ Himuili said. ‘Our best troops in the centre, the Bodyguards and the Golden Spearmen, before Jesus, to be led by Arnuwanda himself. The other central units have been handed to the Chief of Bodyguards, the Chief of the Wine Cellar, the prince’s brothers and cousins. .’
In the Hatti system the King was always the commander in chief — but as the Hatti nation had no king just now, with Uhhaziti’s coronation postponed until after the fall of Carthage, Prince Arnuwanda took that formal command, while relatives, more men of the royal blood, filled the other senior posts. Kassu suspected that Arnuwanda would be allowed to lead the initial advance, but would be whisked to the back of the lines by his own guards before the real action started. ‘Who have they given you, sir?’
Himuili pointed to his right, and spat between his helmet’s cheek flaps. ‘That bunch of bears.’ They were a unit of Scand and Rus. Bristling with fur and in their horned helmets, from this distance they did look like animals. ‘I’ve learned enough of their language to order them about. Mostly obscenities. You should see them in their quarters, Kassu. Hairy as my left bollock, every last one of them, but when they strip naked to scrape off the filth, you see that their entire skin is coated in tattoos. If I were a Carthaginian I’d take care where I pierce such a fellow when I kill him, for his flayed hide would make a good souvenir to hang on the wall. But they’re ferocious, I’ll say that.
‘Well. There you see it, soldier. What do you think of our chances today?’
Kassu thought carefully before answering. Himuili was quick to anger, but he knew the general wanted the truth. ‘There’s a lot of us, sir. But a lot more have died since we got here. And we look. .’
‘Say it, man.’
‘Weakened. Even before the fighting starts. By the hunger, the thirst. Many of us have had a brush with one sickness or another even if we haven’t succumbed to the plague, and every dose of the shits weakens you a bit more.’
‘You’re not wrong about that. Ten days back you’d have observed me attempting to spew up my own arsehole. Look how scrawny they are — even those cursed Rus, for all their bluster. Look how slowly they move. I think we’ve prepared as well as we can today. But even so, here we are, Kassu, the last army of the Hatti, and it’s an army of skeletons, of wraiths.’
‘Perhaps. But it’s the Carthaginians’ last chance too. .’
Now there was a trumpet blast, cries of warning, fingers pointing east. Turning their horses, they saw that the great gates of Carthage had opened.
Himuili grinned. ‘The game’s on. Good! Come on, soldier, let’s get back to our line before it blows away in the desert wind.’ And he flicked his horse’s reins and galloped away.
69
In the early morning of the very day of battle a courier came for Rina, sent by Barmocar. To her bewilderment she was summoned to join a party that would go into the field ahead of the Carthaginian army, to meet the Hatti leaders in a last-ditch negotiation. Her — a Northlander matron and outsider in this city, summoned to this most historic of events! But, she thought with a kind of grim pride, a Northlander should be marching with the Carthaginian army today. After all it was a Northlander weapon that might win the day for Carthage. And, short of beating out the iron carcass of an eruptor herself, in the days since her meeting with Barmocar and Carthalo she had used long-dormant skills of leadership to do as much as anybody to ensure that the project had been completed.
So she dressed quickly, donning a smart but sensible robe, and pulled a cloak over her shoulders. For walking on the rough ground outside the city, she dug out the stout boots she had worn for the journey from Northland. Here in the small town house given her by the suffetes, she had no servants to help her. She could not bear servants in her presence, not any more. Having checked her appearance in a brass mirror, she hurried out of her house and to the city gate.
The army pouring out of Carthage was an extraordinary sight. It was an army of scarecrows, Rina thought, after months of siege, all but the officers dressed in ragged uniforms and armed with rusty blades.
Fabius’ carriage was more extraordinary yet. He called it his ‘truce wagon’. The great vehicle, specially constructed, rolled on four pairs of mighty timber wheels, each hooped by iron and fixed to tremendous axles. The wagon was drawn by teams of Hatti prisoners, harnessed like oxen, but Fabius had promised them their freedom when the job was done, and so they pulled willingly. On the wagon’s bed sat a great chest, a huge wooden box nearly as tall as Rina, so long that the custom-made wagon barely fit it. The chest was covered in expensive cloths and tapestries bearing images of the city’s gods. But the most extraordinary aspect of the whole thing was what lay on top of that chest: human skulls, all lacking their lower jaws, a heap of them arranged in an orderly pyramid. You could see that most of the skulls were small, most of young children; the larger ones supported the smaller, until at the apex of the pyramid was fixed the smallest of all, tiny enough to have fit into Rina’s palm. It was the skull of a newborn, its little throat slit at the moment of its birth. This was a molk cart, and the city’s primitive sacrifice was horribly visible. And that, of course, was the point.
As the truce wagon rolled out of the gate, followed by the columns of troops, Fabius with his senior officers walked ahead. The great and the good of Carthage had been summoned to follow behind the general, and Rina hurried to join them. Here came Carthalo, following in the Roman’s wake, along with many others of the councils, even the Tribunal of One Hundred and Four whose constitutional function was to keep generals like Fabius in check. None dare resist him now. Some of Fabius’ soldiers walked beside the general, whether to protect him from Hatti or Carthaginians it was hard to say.
Barmocar, his expression dark, worked through the small crowd of dignitaries towards her. ‘So you came, madam.’
‘You summoned me. It was only courteous-’
‘Courteous? I brought you here to see what you have done, woman. The skulls, Rina — the skulls!’
She took a breath. ‘And Mago-’
He turned away from her, his face working. ‘His skull is here, on the carriage with the rest, not ten paces from where you stand. He did not die on the grisly altar of the temple, however. He died well, in combat, fighting off a Hatti raid. I hope that whatever you imagine I have done to you is now compensated.’ He leaned closer and whispered, ‘And if we live through this day I will make sure the rest of your life is blighted as mine is.’ He withdrew.
Alone, Rina walked on, trying to show no emotion.
Outside the city walls the Carthaginian army began drawing up in battle order, the men gathering in great blocks within which the men were all dressed and equipped similarly. These formations were called phalanxes, Rina had been told. The truce wagon rolled forward, accompanied by Fabius and the nobles, advancing beyond the lines. And now, Rina saw, a party of the Hatti came out to meet the Carthaginians. One man was mounted, and the rest walked under their own truce banner, of Jesus Sharruma with the crescent moon.
Rina was close enough to Fabius to hear one of his aides muttering advice to him. ‘The mounted man is Arnuwanda, their prince, chief of the armies, though it’s said it’s his aunt the Tawananna who makes the big decisions. The soldier at his side is Himuili, one of the smarter generals. The young priest — I don’t recognise him, I was expecting Angulli. .’