Iron Winter (Northland 3) (24 page)

The quayside was a jumble of passengers and their goods, grimy, weary, eager to get this last leg of their journey over with. The word had evidently got around that this was a
boatload of the rich, and would-be porters came flocking, hungry for work, a look Rina had come to recognise.

Barmocar and his wife stood by, chatting to a dock official and his ship’s captain, while their mountain of luggage was loaded onto carts under the blustering supervision of Mago. Some of
the Carthaginians waited while messengers fetched family or servants from the city; others had the dock workers call for carriages. They seemed surprised at how few horse-drawn carriages came in
response. But there were plenty of two-wheeled contraptions with weary-looking men in harness – slaves, perhaps, or nestspills, doing the work of horses.

Alxa was growing agitated. ‘Mother? Everybody is making arrangements. What about us? What are we to do?’

‘We,’ Rina said coldly, ‘are in the hands of Barmocar, our host. We just wait.’

‘But he’s not paying us any attention. He’s not even
looking
at us.’

‘Wait, child.’

They did wait, silent and ignored, until at last the business was done, the carts were loaded. And Barmocar was helped up into the lead carriage.

Rina dropped her bundles, and with all the dignity and command she could muster she strode forward to face the Carthaginian. Even now he didn’t look down at her from his perch on the cart.
‘Barmocar!’

The man laughed, and gave a curt order to drive on. But Rina grabbed the traces of the lead horse. He looked down at her. ‘Why do you stand in my way?’

Rina summoned Alxa. ‘Repeat what I say in Carthaginian. Say that we had an arrangement, he and I. A business deal.’ They were attracting a small but curious crowd, of
Barmocar’s other passengers, a few passers-by. ‘No, don’t whisper it, child. Speak it boldly. Put on a show. I want these others to hear. This man is a Carthaginian. A trader in a
city of traders. Is he a man who reneges on deals honourably made? And are there followers of Jesus here? Any Hatti? Shall we discuss why a Carthaginian trader should wish to acquire the bones
of—’

‘Enough.’
Barmocar leaned out of his carriage and hissed at her. ‘The deal was to bring you to Carthage, and that I’ve done.’

‘No. The deal was that you should get us established in Carthage. A place to live, work—’

He laughed. ‘What work? What use is a Northlander Annid here?’

Anterastilis, his wife, touched Barmocar’s arm, and whispered something.

Alxa frowned. ‘I can’t quite hear. I think she’s saying you’re not worth the scandal. “Send her to . . . ” Jexami? “He might help.”’

‘Jexami?’ Rina had once known a Jexami, cousin of Ywa. ‘You’re sure that was the name?’

‘Jexami,’ repeated Barmocar, leaning from his carriage. ‘You heard right. Bought property here years ago. Your countryman. Maybe he’ll have something for you. I’ll
have a carriage-man take you there. Would that fulfil our “contract”? Now, if you’ll let go of my horse—’

She stepped back. The driver flicked a rein, and the carriage rolled away, followed by carts bearing the rest of Barmocar’s baggage. The rest of the passengers dispersed too. Rina and her
children were left standing, with their pathetic bits of luggage at their feet.

Only one man remained, a tall but scrawny man with big, powerful hands, standing by a two-wheeled cart.

Rina sighed. ‘All right. Look, I’ll take the luggage. I’ll get out to Jexami as fast as possible and get things sorted out. I’m sure he’ll put us up. Come back here
at nightfall. I’ll send this man to collect you if I can’t make it back. In the meantime stay out of trouble.’

‘We’re not children,’ Alxa said.

Rina stepped closer to her. ‘Look after your brother.’

Alxa glanced at Nelo with impatience, then resignation. ‘Just don’t forget about us when you start in on Jexami’s mead, all right?’

Rina kissed her on the cheek, hugged her son, picked up the rough bags and walked determinedly to the waiting carriage-man and his cart.

The carriage-man’s cart jolted with every step of his jogging pace, and the bench on which she sat was hard as growstone. Yet she had suffered a lot worse during her long
journey from Etxelur, her backside was probably tough as leather by now, and she endured.

Beyond the city wall the North African countryside opened up. They were heading west, towards the setting sun. The road ran dead straight across the plain, and was well built, properly drained
– a good road, but there was no sign of an iron rail, and Rina coldly relished that fact. A sandy dust covered the roadway, just like the dust that had blown over the Carthaginian boat from
the dried-up plains of Ibera.

Beside the road stood handsome properties, estates of well-constructed stone buildings clustered in rectangular plots. The estates were surrounded by carefully defined fields, and Rina
recognised vines, olives, fruit trees. This hinterland, so close to this major route into town, must once have been a lush and prosperous place to live. But the vines looked withered, the fruit
trees barren, and the few animals, sheep and cattle, cropped desultorily at sparse, yellow grass. There were some hastily heaped-up stone barriers, with threatening signs hand-painted in the
angular local script. On the road there wasn’t much traffic – carts laden with produce heading back towards the city, a few carts heading out. And there was a thin trickle of
nestspills, all heading to the city, all on foot. It was a sight Rina had become inured to in Northland. It was something of a shock to have come to the other end of the world to see the same
thing.

Jexami’s property turned out to be a particularly large and well-built group of buildings set back from the road. In scraps of shade, servants watered orange trees. As Rina clambered down,
the carriage-man stood by, eyes bright in a dusty face, waiting to be paid. He was thin, evidently underfed, dressed in dusty rags.

‘Typical of that crook Barmocar not to pay you in advance,’ she murmured in her own tongue. She switched to Greek. ‘Thank you . . . I don’t know your tongue, I am
sorry.’ She dug her purse from a fold in her robe and withdrew Northlander scrip. ‘Is this enough? I’m sure you can convert this to your own currency in the counting houses . .
.’

He took the handful of coins, stared at them, then tried to hand them back, speaking in his own tongue.

She closed his fingers over the coins. ‘This is your fee. If it’s not enough—’

He grew angry. He threw the coins on the ground and held out his empty hand, all but shouting.

‘I’ll take care of it.’ The voice was cultured Etxelur. A burly, expensively dressed man came walking quietly from an opened gate, a servant at his side. Rina, with relief,
recognised him: it was indeed the Jexami she remembered, cousin to Ywa Annid of Annids, on Ywa’s father’s side, and so a remote cousin of Rina too. He snapped out questions to the
carriage-man and gestured to his servant.
Pay him.
Jexami was shorter than Rina and a little younger, with thinning black hair cropped in the local style, and he wore a purple tunic and
tight-cut trousers. He
looked
like a Carthaginian. Even his accent, when he spoke the language, sounded authentic to her. She would not have recognised the man if he had not spoken to
her.

She bowed in the formal Etxelur style, ignoring her own grubbiness, and the scattering of coins at her feet. ‘Cousin Jexami. Thank you for meeting me.’

‘Barmocar sent a runner to warn me you were coming.’ He grinned. ‘Barmocar! That old rascal. How is he? Haven’t seen him for too long. Come in, come in, I have no manners
left, it seems.’ He led her through the gate. The man collected her bundles from the road. ‘You look exhausted, if you don’t mind my saying it. Things have become so difficult,
haven’t they?’

The gate clanged shut behind them. The estate was a series of independent buildings set around a central courtyard. The walls were of stone, with big upright slabs infilled with rubble and
neatly finished. In the courtyard a fountain ran, feeding miniature orange trees in pots. The servant stood by.

‘Rather impressive, isn’t it?’ Jexami said, as they crossed the courtyard. ‘Originally built by an Arabic prince, in the brief interval when this country was overrun by
that sort, long ago. They left behind some exquisite architecture. This place is much transformed in the centuries since, but we’ve restored the hydraulic system. Do you know, this fountain
hasn’t run dry once, despite the drought. Mind you the air’s so arid the oranges haven’t flourished even so.’

She felt bewildered, even oddly dizzy. She found herself staring at the little orange trees. ‘Jexami, I’ve come to you because—’

‘First I must show you some hospitality,’ he said smoothly, deflecting her. ‘Himil – come here.’ The servant hurried over, and Jexami gave him brisk instructions.
Then he led Rina into the courtyard. ‘Of course dear Ywa is still in Etxelur, is she not? It’s some time since she wrote.’

Rina frowned. Was he really so out of touch as he seemed? ‘Things are difficult at home. Ywa is under a lot of pressure.’

‘Well, of course she is. I’ve urged her many times to do what you’ve done, to pack her bag and come here. To fly south for the winter, like a swallow! Look, I insist you relax
before we talk. Any of these houses may suit. They all have their own baths, you know, and most have their own bread ovens! For this is the Carthaginian way. You must wash, change – my wife
has plenty of old clothes, I’ll send a girl to help you. Perhaps you’d like to sleep?’

She felt that if she got to a soft bed she could sleep through a full day. But she must not, not yet. She told Jexami of her children. ‘Perhaps you could send for them? I was going to send
back that oaf of a carriage-man.’

It was a simple enough request, and not much of an imposition on his hospitality. Yet he hesitated, to her surprise. At length he said, ‘Of course.’ He snapped his fingers and gave
Himil brisk instructions. ‘As soon as he has you settled he will deal with it.’

She chose a building at random. As Jexami had promised it was like an independent house, with its own kitchen, bedrooms, a bathroom just off the vestibule – even its own water supply, from
a toy fountain in the bathroom. A girl brought her buckets of water and fresh clothes.

She stripped off her dirty travel garments, which the girl took away, then stepped into the bath. She knew little of Carthaginian customs. Perhaps this bathroom beside the door was meant as a
gateway, between the grime of the outside world and the purity of the home. Whatever the symbolism it was a luxury beyond belief to sponge the hot water over her bare skin. There was even soap,
which from its scent appeared to be of Northlander manufacture.

Soon she was warmed through, and scented, and was pulling on the clean clothes the girl had brought her. The need for sleep seemed to wash over her in a flood. Yet she must not succumb, not
until she had dealt with Jexami and his odd reticence, not until the children were safely with her.

The man Himil was waiting for her when she emerged. He led her across the courtyard to a west-facing building dominated by a big, airy room. Here Jexami sat behind a desk covered with scrolls
and slates, with a scribe to one hand, a clerk to the other scribbling numbers. When she came in, Jexami raised a hand, one finger in the air, without looking up.

The instruction was unmistakable. She waited in the doorway, motionless. She had become used to fielding such slights from the Carthaginians. She had not expected this discourtesy from a
Northlander – a friend, a relative. Yet it was so. She began to feel uneasy.

At length he sat up straight, smiled at Rina, and clapped his hands to send the clerks away. He waved her to a seat before the desk. ‘Are you hungry? Would you like some fruit juice, wine,
tea?’

‘A little wine would be welcome.’

Himil was despatched to fetch it.

There was a bundle on the desk, neatly wrapped in linen. He pushed it over to her. ‘Your dirty clothes – properly laundered, of course. Your baggage is outside. Oh, and the coins are
in there too.’

‘The coins?’

‘The ones the carriage-man dropped in the dirt. Not worth much of course, but you may as well have them back!’ He laughed, as if he’d made a joke.

She frowned. ‘I don’t understand. They are good Northlander scrip.’

‘“Good Northlander scrip.” Hmm. You know, since I settled here I’ve come to feel that we were always rather cut off from the flow of events up in Northland. Buried in our
great big old Wall. We tend to think that the rest of the world can fall apart and it won’t affect us, don’t we? Rina, Northlander currency isn’t worth the metal it’s
stamped from these days. After all, what’s it backed by? As soon as the cold started cutting the trading links, for the average Carthaginian, Northland has become – nothing. A fantasy
country as remote as the moon.’

‘But you are prospering.’

‘I was lucky, or we had foresight. We saw that times were becoming hard, the years of flood in the north, the drought in the south. This was even before the cold came, you understand. We
thought that Carthage, so much further south, at the centre of the world, would be more – secure. We thought ahead, Rina. As you did. It’s just that we made our judgements a little
earlier.

‘We built up a business down here. I handle the import of certain kinds of soft fruit from across Greater Carthage into the city itself. Good sound trade. And we managed to convert most of
our Northland currency into the local scrip, just before the crash came.’ He opened his hands to her. ‘Do you have any other assets with you? Land titles, other
currencies—’

‘Nothing but holdings back home. In Northland.’

‘Which are worth nothing here, I’m afraid. Not even as guarantors of credit.’

‘No wonder that crook Barmocar asked for payment of the kind he did.’ And she told him about the Virgin’s bones.

He laughed, as if delighted at the man’s ingenuity. ‘No wonder indeed. The rascal! But let me give you some advice. I wouldn’t make an enemy of Barmocar – not if you can
help it. He’s a pretty influential man here. And, let’s face it, he’s the only member of the Tribunal of One Hundred and Four that you know. If I were you, I would cultivate that.
So what will you do?’