‘But they laughed.’
‘Let it go, Henti. Without humour how could any man’s mind survive such acts?’
‘So what now?’
‘The March begins in the morning, from the Lion Gate,’ Zida, the soldier, said. ‘Not that I’m expecting a prompt start. It will take a long time before thirty or forty thousand people are formed up and ready to go, no matter how willing they are. Believe me, I know; I’ve been on booty-people marches.’
‘Zida. I. . Thank you. You’ve spared Kassu a lot of pain.’
‘You were brave to face it yourself, lady. Braver than most. One does become attached to these creatures, doesn’t one? Their little lives — their babies, their mourning of their dead. Not that attached, mind you. People have been complaining more about getting their pet dogs put down.’
‘But is it all worth it, Palla? All this blood spilled before we even begin the March?’
‘Wait until you see it tomorrow,’ the priest said. ‘It will be a magnificent sight — a whole city, the greatest city in the world, emptying out on the Troad. And the armies marching to either side, the cavalry too. Even the fleets will be setting sail out of the bay. The March of the Hatti is an event unprecedented in history, an event that will be marked for all time. It will be like a festival day! Jesus Sharruma will be brought from His church to lead. Then will follow the crown prince and the royal family. And then will come the priests led by Angulli Father of the Churches, who will proclaim the March and its meaning-’
Zida guffawed. ‘Ha! If he can be separated from his bottle.’
Palla said in a lower tone, ‘Well, we have a plan for that. We priests, I mean. We’ve a copy of the words he is to say. Words to be repeated daily throughout the journey, until we reach the plains of Libya.’
‘What words?’
‘About how Jesus was a booty-person once.’
‘Was He? My theology is a bit vague, priest.’
‘Then shame on you, Zida. It dates from the time after the Lord of the Watchtower in Jerusalem saved His life from the Judean authorities. Jesus spread His message further, but He stirred up trouble too. There were radical Jews who rejected His divergence from their traditions, others who saw Him as the one who would lead the final holy war, and the usual malcontents who looked for any excuse to rise up against Hatti rule. Well, Jesus gave them all an excuse. He was an old man by then, sixty or seventy. The rebellion was put down with some effort, and the Jews had to be quelled.’
‘In the traditional way, I suppose.’
‘Yes. Jerusalem and their other cities were emptied and burned, their temples smashed. The population of Judea was rounded up and marched to the Land of the Hatti, to be put to the usual uses. Jesus Himself was recognised as innocent of trouble-making and would have been allowed to flee with others of the elite, but He insisted He stayed with the people. He was lost in the march.’
Pimpira, in his hole, found himself getting lost in the story. He had always liked the priest’s stories.
‘A few years after that a scholar called Hapati-urmah, of a school that was developing an interest in Jesus’ teaching, heard a rumour He was still alive, and in Hattusa of all places, I mean Old Hattusa. So he hunted around and there was Jesus, bent and old, working as an assistant in a carpenter’s shop. All around Him loved Him, it’s said. Well, the scholars wanted to take Him up into the temple, but He refused to leave the shop, His life would end where it began, He said. So they came to Him, sitting in the sawdust as they listened to His words. So you see, there is the example we wish to promulgate to the people: for Jesus Himself, a booty-people march ended in redemption.’
‘Hmm. Until His bones were pinched by the Northlanders.’
‘There is that, yes.’
‘I’ll tell you why the Hatti kings liked Jesus. Because the faith He preached was a submissive creed. A slave’s creed. Makes people easier to handle, see, if they think you’re enslaving them for their own good.’
‘That’s a cynical point of view.’
‘All soldiers are cynics.’
‘Oh, no, they’re not, Zida, believe me. Your friend Kassu for one. Look, I’m getting cold, Henti. Shall we go to the house?’
‘All right.’
Zida called, ‘You two! Keep an eye out for stragglers. And you lot get on with the pyre. .’
Footsteps.
And there was Pimpira, alone in the dark. Soon he could smell burning meat.
28
He waited and waited.
He was growing very cold, because he had been lying still so long. He tried not to think of what had happened above, where his mother and father might be now. What he might see when he came out.
But when to come out? He had no way of telling the time; he couldn’t see any daylight. He waited a long time. It might have been hours. It might have been heartbeats! It seemed long.
When he tried to move he found he had stiffened up; he had been lying curled up, like a baby. He moved as slowly and deliberately as he could, pushing the chunks of frozen earth away as noiselessly as possible. His father’s hasty shovelling had left the earth loosely packed, and it wasn’t difficult.
Soon he was standing, his head and shoulders thrust out of the pit. It was still daylight, but the light was fading under a grey lid of sky. The big house was dark. A fire burned in a corner of the farmyard — he didn’t look at that too closely. There was no wind, and the smoke from the pyre rose straight up to a blank sky. He hoisted himself up, kicking away the last of the debris, and stood, a bit shakily, on the lip of the pit.
‘Told you.’
A hand grabbed the ragged queue of hair at the back of his head. With a cry, he fell to his knees. He felt cold sharpness at his throat, a blade.
Two figures stepped into his sight. It was the priest Palla, his face expressionless, and a soldier, wearing mail and a heavy,dusty cloak. The soldier said, ‘Always a few stragglers. Wily lot, these slaves. Well, let’s get this done.’
Pimpira felt the blade at his neck press harder. He stiffened, determined not to cry out, in case his father should ever hear how he died.
‘No, Zida.’ The priest stayed the man’s arm with his hand. ‘Not like this.’
‘Look at him, he’s lame. He can’t join the March. It’s the law. You know that, priest.’
‘Yes, but have some humanity, man. Look at his face! There was hope there, even if he knows he’s lost his family. Hope now replaced by a despair, so cruelly. What’s your name, boy?’
‘Priest, this is not a good idea-’
‘Your name.’
‘Pimpira,’ the boy said, his voice a croak after so long in the earth. ‘My name is Pimpira.’
‘A Hatti name,’ said the soldier.
‘Given him by his parents’ owners on his birth, no doubt. And where do you come from?’
‘Wilusia district.’ Which was where the farm was, where they stood.
The soldier laughed out loud.
‘Well, if he was born here it’s a correct answer,’ the priest said. ‘I mean your people. Where did they come from, originally?’
Pimpira couldn’t remember the name, of a place neither he nor his parents had ever seen.
‘Which prophet comforts you? Jesus, Mohammed?’
‘The wise Zalmoxis.’
Zida asked, ‘Who?’
‘He’s a Dacian.’ It was the voice of the master. Kassu himself walked up to stand before Pimpira, in mail and cloak and dusty boots. Pimpira tried to drop his head in submission, but the blade at his throat, the hand holding his hair, would not allow it. ‘His people are Dacian.’ Kassu glanced around, at the blood-splashed ground, the pyre of corpses. He glared at Palla. ‘You did this while I was away. To my slaves, on my farm. Your idea, I suppose, priest. Must you meddle in every aspect of my life?’