Iron Winter (Northland 3) (19 page)

He didn’t know why he was digging this hole. It wasn’t as if they were likely to need more storage pits any time soon. He had a sneaking feeling that what the pit might end up
storing was not grain but bones. People were dying, his own brother had been taken during the winter, leaving his mother clinging to his little sister, Mira. But it didn’t matter. It
wasn’t his decision. To Pimpira life was simple; a hole was a hole was a hole. He got on with his digging, and he watched the pale sun climb in the sky. Like every other day the hours would
stretch long and empty until the evening, when the slaves would huddle in their shabby huts, and speak of better times, and pray to their gods and prophets, Jesus or Mohammed or the little mothers
of Northland or the sun god of Egypt, and Pimpira’s father would relate the calm sayings of the teacher Zalmoxis from the old country. They would talk endlessly of food. People would describe
the very texture of the meat as it was cut, the way the juices pooled on the hard bread that served as your plate, the feeling as your teeth cut into it, the spurting of blood and fat, and
Pimpira’s empty stomach would gurgle and twist.

And they would seek news of the future from the oracles – not the way the sages did it in the city, studying the writhing of snakes in boxes or the way sheep entrails fell from an opened
bowel. The slaves had no snakes, and any entrails went straight into the pot. But they had their own ancient ways, studying the flight of the birds in the sky – not that there were many birds
this spring save crows and buzzards – and dropping oil or blood in bowls of water, to see how the fluids flowed and spread. They argued endlessly about the meaning of each sign, and it seemed
to Pimpira that they never agreed, but it comforted everybody.

This dull routine was the whole of Pimpira’s life.

And it ended, cut off as if by the fall of a blade, when the slave boy came running from New Hattusa.

When he heard the boy coming, Pimpira climbed out of his hole to watch, and the other slaves and workers paused in their tasks, curious. The boy ran like a whipped dog, right
through the farmyard, legs and arms pumping, his eyes wide, his mouth gaping. He was young, not much older than Pimpira, perhaps, though it was hard to tell anybody’s age these days as
everybody was so skinny. You could tell he was a slave, though. He was barefoot, for one thing. And his tunic and trousers were
old
in the way only slaves’ clothes were old, patched
and handed down, the colour of mud, generations-old clothes so worn they were more like memories of clothing than the real thing. A slave, running away from the city.

Then there was a thunder of hooves. On panting horses, two soldiers in light mail and shining steel helmets came charging after the boy. One man carried a net, the other wielded a sword.
Cavalrymen! Pimpira was thrilled at the sight. He had only seen soldiers on parade in the city, on occasional feast days when he had been allowed to accompany the master and his family. He pitied
the boy, for he clearly had no chance of outrunning the horses; he must have had a good start to get so far. As the cavalrymen passed through, some of the men on the farm called out greetings and
good-natured abuse. ‘I’ll give you five to one the fat one falls off his horse!’ The soldiers did not respond. Soon they were disappearing into the east.

After that Pimpira heard a rumble of noise, coming from the west as had the running slave and the cavalrymen, and again he turned to look. More soldiers, he saw from a glint of distant armour, a
small squad of them this time, walking before wagons.

The mistress, Henti, emerged from the big house, with the young priest Palla who so often seemed to hang around here, evoking much ribald speculation from the slaves. Henti walked to the fields
and passed among the workers, speaking to them softly. It seemed to be the end of work for now. The slaves were told to gather in the courtyard, a square of beaten earth before the big house, while
the hired hands laid down their tools and began to drift off towards the city. They muttered, looking confused, distressed; none of them could afford to be without a day’s pay.

The squad of soldiers drew nearer. Pimpira, in his hole, stood on tiptoe, balancing on his good leg, squinting to see them better.

The punch in the back caught him completely by surprise. He was knocked forward into his pit, banging his head on the hard-frozen wall. Winded, he lay there, submissive. He had been born and
raised a slave; you just accepted whatever was done to you.

‘Don’t move.’ It was his father’s voice.

Dirt rained on his back, and heavier lumps. He turned, squinting up. ‘Father?’

His father had taken Pimpira’s shovel and was frantically scooping the pile of lumpy, still-frozen earth back in the hole. ‘Shut up,’ he said, panting, glancing up.
‘Don’t move.’

‘What are you doing? Must I hide here?’

‘Yes, you must hide.’

‘How long?’

‘You’ll know. Then dig your way out.’ His father kept shovelling. The rubble was building up on his chest, his legs. Soon he would be buried. Pimpira, shocked, saw tears stream
down his father’s face. ‘Remember us. Now put your hands over your face.’

The next shovel-load came raining down on Pimpira’s head. He huddled in the hole, curling around big blocks of frosty earth. Soon the rubble had shut out the light, and he was covered. But
the weight was not great; he would be able to climb out. He heard frantic scuffing. He imagined his father kicking dirt over the storage pit, to conceal it. Then running footsteps, receding.

And then the soldiers arrived, with a tramp of marching boots, a clink of scabbards knocking against greaves, wagons trundling to a halt. Pimpira longed to see them! But, as his father had
ordered, he lay curled in the hole.

More footsteps. His mistress’ voice. ‘Zida. I hoped it would be you.’

‘I told you I’d do it for old Kassu. I take it he’s not here.’

‘Working on the round-up in the city. He knows in his head what must be done here, but his heart would explode out of his chest if he were forced to dispose of his own slaves.’

Dispose of?

‘That heart of Kassu’s is his big trouble, for all he’s a stickler for his duty. And if not for the generosity of his heart, lady, you might not be alive to see this day. Or
that streak of piss standing beside you.’

‘The blessing of the Carpenter be on you too, Zida.’ That was the voice of the priest, Palla. He sounded good-humoured.

‘I asked Palla to be here,’ Henti snapped. ‘He’s good with the slaves. I’ve seen him comfort them. They’re not animals; they deserve consolation when it comes
to the end.’

Zida said sourly, ‘You’re a big bucket of consolation, priest, while the rest of us bloody our hands with the killing.’

Palla said evenly, ‘I think Jesus will understand what’s to be done today, and He’ll see the grain of goodness in you even as you slaughter, officer. You’re here to
commit a terrible act – and yet you have come to spare your friend the pain of doing it himself.’

Zida snorted. ‘We’ll have time to discuss it when we’re all down in the Dark Earth. Let’s get on with it. I’ve a dozen more farms to visit before this day is done.
I see you’ve got them separated. Good. We find it’s best to get the able-bodied out of hearing range before we start with the rest, because—’

‘I think we know why, Sergeant,’ said the priest.

‘You’re sure you sorted them properly? There are to be no nursing mothers on the March, no child under five, nobody over forty, no invalids, no lame.’

‘I read the instructions,’ Henti said. ‘I did what’s been asked of me.’

‘There aren’t many, are there? What, a dozen able-bodied?’

‘It’s not a big farm.’

‘What did you tell them?’

‘The lie I was told to repeat. That the able-bodied are being taken off for a few days to build new grain stores in the city. They believed it, I think.’

‘Umm. Well, the disposal has been going on for a few days already. We started in the city. We wanted to get as many of the able-bodied out and the rest finished off before the news started
to leak out. The last thing we need is a revolt.’

‘There was a runner,’ Palla said. ‘Came through the farm, not long before you.’

‘I sent a couple of lads after him. Won’t get far. Look, it will take a bit of time before the walkers are shackled and taken out of earshot.’

Palla said, ‘I will talk to the rest.’

‘Good. Distract them. Just don’t get them stirred up before we’re ready to process them.’

Process?

Henti said, ‘You may as well come to the house, Zida. Bring your officers. I’ve some food and drink we won’t be able to carry that needs using up . . .’

The voices receded.

Pimpira stayed in his hole, hungry, thirsty, cold, listening to the rattle of shackles being attached to ankles and wrists. He did not know what was going to happen, but he understood the
meaning of the basic separation of the slaves into healthy and not healthy, lame and not lame. He knew which group he would be in. This was why his father had hidden him, so he could not be put
with the lame and ill and old and very young. He stayed in his hole, and waited, and thought about his father.

After a time he heard singing, a wistful hymn to Jesus Sharruma, led by the priest’s clear voice. Pimpira mouthed the words.

Then he heard a rumble of many voices, barked commands from the soldiers, and a shuffling tramp, a clink of iron that settled into a steady, slower rhythm. Shackled slaves being marched away.
The line passed by his pit, and he cowered, fearful of discovery. There was a lot of weeping. He strained to hear his father’s voice, his mother, but the weeping drowned them out. The
shuffled steps, the rattle of the shackles, the occasional crack of a whip, receded.

Now there was only the soft murmur of voices from the group that was left. A child crying. The priest’s steady voice. Pimpira imagined him walking from one to the next. Maybe
Pimpira’s grandmother would be cradling Mira, his baby sister. But the voices were sparse sounds against a greater silence. It was a spring of silence, no frogs croaking in the ponds, no
songbirds calling for mates.

Then it began. He heard the sigh of steel, swords being withdrawn from scabbards.

The priest’s voice again. ‘Kneel. That’s it. Gather in a circle. Hold hands if it helps. No, Nala, it doesn’t matter that Mira’s crying. Just hold her. You’ll
see, soon she’ll be smiling for you in the afterlife, in the eternal light of Jesus Sharruma, and bathed in the tears of the Holy Mother Mary. No – don’t struggle. It helps if you
just kneel up and keep still. The soldiers know what they are doing . . .’ The little children were crying, afraid. ‘Now, I would suggest, Sergeant.’

And there was a noise like a pig being gutted, like meat being sliced. Harsher scrapes, like a butcher’s cleaver on bone. People tried to cry out, to pray, but their voices were drowned by
a kind of gurgling, as if they were drowning. Somebody screamed, and Pimpira heard running footsteps. ‘Oh, no, you don’t—’ Heavier footsteps, a tumble, a brief struggle, a
hiss of steel.

Soon it was done, it seemed, and he heard swords wiped on cloth and slid back into scabbards. Low soldiers’ voices – a rumble of laughter.

Henti stormed, ‘How can you laugh?
How canyon laugh?
The bodies at your feet – the children—’

‘Hush, hush,’ said the priest. ‘They did it so you didn’t have to. It’s the Emergency Laws, remember. Think of it as a kindness. It’s not these
soldiers’ fault, Henti. It’s not anybody’s, save the winter’s. Now they will burn the bodies for you, and tidy up.’

‘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.’