BooksBarbecue
Back Iron Winter Save as PDF
Chapters (89)
  1. Title page
  2. Contents
  3. Map
  4. ONE
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. TWO
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. THREE
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. FOUR
  77. 70
  78. 71
  79. 72
  80. 73
  81. 74
  82. 75
  83. 76
  84. 77
  85. 78
  86. 79
  87. Afterword
  88. By Stephen Baxter
  89. Copyright

She smiled. ‘The molk, Barmocar.’

‘What?’

‘A word you taught me when I first arrived in this country, having all but reneged on your deal to deliver my family to safety. Do you remember, Barmocar? “We call it molk. A gift for the gods, in times of great stress. The greatest gift one can give.” Do you remember saying that to me? And then you made me send my son off to war.’

He glared back at her. ‘What is it you want?’

‘To see you perform the molk.’

Carthalo said smoothly, ‘The molk has long become a merely symbolic practice. Today we sacrifice lambs – sometimes a carving is burned – but children—’

‘I know it’s done,’ Rina said. ‘When you’re desperate enough, you Carthaginians. You murder your children to please your antique gods, in secret, so I have learned. After the year I’ve had, I suspect I know more about your city than you suffetes do yourselves. Now I want to see it done again. By you, Barmocar.’

‘Mago,’ Barmocar whispered. ‘You mean Mago. You want me to send him back to the war.’

Pyxeas touched her arm. ‘Niece, you don’t need to do this.’

She shook him off.

‘Please,’ Barmocar said. ‘I’ve lost my wife – we were childless, you know that – the son of my sister is like my own—’

‘And this is the end of it,’ Carthalo said sternly. ‘No more demands?’

‘No more,’ said Pyxeas with finality.

Carthalo turned to his countryman. ‘Barmocar?’

But the man, head dropped, could not speak.

68

The Third Year of the Longwinter: Midwinter Solstice

On the night that word came down that the Carthaginians were ready to give battle at last, Kassu and Zida hurried to their homes in the Hatti’s temporary city.

Zida was exuberant. ‘They say Carthage’s priests chose tomorrow for its auguries. A near-midwinter night, and the moon has just waned past its half, and for days to come the sky will be dominated by the crescent moon, the sign of Baal Hammon – or some crud like that. Ha! They can have the moon; we have Jesus Sharruma who will crush their puny testicles in His holy fist.’

Kassu grunted. ‘Don’t get your hopes up. Years of drought, months of siege, the plague . . . we’re all worn out.’

‘I’ll take my chances.’ They reached Zida’s shack, a kind of cone of turf heaped up on poles. ‘Anything’s better than this shit.’ He aimed a mighty kick at the wall, and a chunk fell in with a dry rustle.

There was a high-pitched squawk, and out came the burly Libyan woman Zida had taken as his slave, mistress or third wife, depending on how drunk he was when he was telling you. She had bits of straw in her crisp dark hair, and dried mud in the bowl she was holding. ‘Look what you did to supper, idiot!’