Usually the nuntarriyashas was among the most popular of the many festivals of New Hattusa’s religious calendar. But today Kassu, standing impatiently until the procession passed, could sense a tougher edge to the crowd’s pleading with Telipinu. No wonder, he thought, for judging by the evidence of the years-long drought, the god had never done such a good job of hiding before. As soon as he could get by, Kassu pushed forward, making for the Pergamos, the old citadel with its temples and palaces. Even away from the procession route the city was crowded – it was always crowded these days. As the drought had worsened and banditry went on the increase, more people from the countryside had got into the habit of coming into the city’s safekeeping at night. So the marketplaces had been built over, and even some of the great temple places were crowded with huts and shacks, with fires burning on the marble pavements and children chasing around the pillars.

When Kassu reached the King’s Gate in the wall around the Pergamos he was surprised to find the King himself was already out of his chambers, before the open gate. Shielded by a fine curtain and sitting under a huge parasol to keep off the snow, Hattusili the Sixteenth was a small man, portly despite the years of famine and drought that had plagued his empire – but then he was the King, and kings did not obey normal rules. He was muttering to a chamberlain, a flabby man in a purple robe who had the look of a eunuch to Kassu; the chamberlain was going through a scroll, densely printed.

The King was surrounded on three sides by guards in suits of mail so complete that even their faces were covered, but with ornate embroidered tunics, and elaborately painted almond-shaped shields. And before the King stood the supplicants, ordinary folk of the city in a long line, carefully shepherded by more guards with swords and stabbing spears. They all wore hooded cloaks so they could not look at the King, and he did not have to look at them; they were like mounds of grimy laundry Kassu thought. At the head of the line they were addressed by more chamberlains with wax tablets for note-taking. On festival days like this you could approach the King in person, and in his presence you would speak to one of his close advisers – never to the King himself, who stayed back from the unwashed, discreetly shielded by a veil of near-transparent linen. The Hatti kings had always had a deep fear of contamination, of filth and dirt and corruption.

To one side of this small piece of theatre stood a group of men, some in mail, some in elaborately embroidered courtiers’ robes. Earnest, evidently powerful, they spoke gravely and quietly. Kassu recognised Himuili, his own commander, as well as the Hazannu, the mayor, and Angulli Father of the Churches, the empire’s high priest – and Prince Arnuwanda, nephew of the King and cousin to Uhhaziti, the tukhanti, the crown prince. Behind this group, as Kassu could see through the open gate, the Pergamos itself rose up, the wide avenues lined with grand buildings, the summit of the ancient hill crowned by the royal palace and the Church of the Holy Wisdom. All this Kassu glimpsed in a few heartbeats.