Empires of Bronze: Son of Ishtar (Empires of Bronze 1)

Prologue

Hattusa, Capital of the Hittite Empire
1315 BC

'Last night I dreamt of skeleton hawks,' said the bald, waxy-skinned priest. 'They banked and swooped above the Storm Temple, clutching hale nestlings in their talons. Shrieking, maddened, they cast the young down, dashing them on the cold, hard ground. It was a dream of death.'

King Mursili sank to one knee, deaf to the bleating words, every sense instead fixed on the ailing newborn in his arms. His long, night-black hair hung like a veil as he dipped his face towards his feeble son, his tears spotting on the babe's blue-tinged lips.

'Hattusili?' Mursili said, his throat thick and raw. It was a name of strength, a name of famous predecessors. 'Hattu?' But the babe's every breath grew shallower. The king looked up, towards the birthing stool before him. Slumped upon it was his beloved Queen Gassula, naked, skin greying and stained with her own blood, as frail as baby Hattu. Mursili had witnessed such traumatic births before... and the burning pyres that followed. 'No. Not my queen... not my boy,' he begged the ether.

'My dreams foretold this, My Sun,' the priest persisted, his eyes reflecting the light of the tallow candles and sweet frankincense flickering on the stone floor around the stool. The storm outside raged as if to underline the claim: lightning scored the night sky, thunder shook the heavens, a gale keened and rain lashed the purity hide sealing the stony birthing chamber's outer door. 'And Hittites should always heed their dreams.'

The words tore Mursili back to reality. His head snapped round to pin the priest into silence, the winged sun-disc on his silver circlet accentuating his angered brow. Then he looked up and around the ring of others. The midwives gawped at him uselessly, their arms wet with blood to the elbows. The augurs too could only look on fearfully. 'Do something,' he growled. His gaze snapped onto the Wise Woman. 'Repeat the prayer to the Goddess of Birth.'

But the withered, yellow-toothed hag was impassive. 'The rites have been recounted, Labarna. Repeating them will achieve nothing.'

'Then slaughter another crow, another lamb,' he demanded.

'Those slain already were enough,' the Wise Woman drawled. 'The Gods will not be pleased at senseless butchery.'

Mursili shot to standing. 'The Gods? They have abandoned me.' He stared at the high ceiling of the chamber, thinking of the skies above and the thousand divinities of his sacred land. 'Is there none who will spare me this tragedy? None?'

'Be careful, My Sun,' the Wise Woman advised. 'Such appeals can echo far into the void...'

'I will give you anything,' Mursili cried, ignoring her.

'My Sun!' the priest beseeched him.

Mursili shouldered him away. 'Spare their lives, spare them from the Dark Earth, and I will honour you.' He lifted the ailing baby Hattu aloft like an offering. 'My child will honour you. Hear me!' he roared.

Silence. Nothing but the pounding of rain. He slumped with a deep sigh. A midwife took baby Hattu from him and the well-meaning priest rested a hand on his shoulder. 'You must entrust them to the healers now.'

Mursili made to protest, but as he swung to the priest a fog of exhaustion passed over him. Spots swam across his eyes. He swayed and almost fell, only for the priest and others nearby to catch him.

'My Sun! You must rest,' the priest wailed. 'It has been three nights since last you slept.'

A fresh protest welled in Mursili's throat but died on his tongue as another wave of fatigue washed over him. Steadying himself, he saw the asu healers lifting Gassula to a bed near the birthing stool, while a cluster of others placed Hattu on a towel-clad bench edged with jars of curative waxes and potions. The Gods are silent, he thought, and so men must decide the fate of my beloved ones.