A historically-based novel with authentic, legendary, & fictional characters interacting across the extraordinary panorama of the Bronze Age Collapse in the Hittite Empire between the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean seas. Diomedes, previously a hero of the Trojan War, and the polyglot Peoples of the Sea raid inland into the Hittite Empire during its final months. It is both a study of ancient mythic consciousness and an exciting adventure of love, character, destruction, desperate survival, and the lived mystery of pagan rituals. It was a time of such chaos, royalty was overthrown, palaces and temples were burnt, and the power of the gods was thrown into doubt, yet the ancient Great Goddess, who had been suppressed, began to regain her former dominance.
Diomedes, though prominent in Homer's Iliad — a warrior the equal of Hektor or Achilleus, a thinker as cunning as Odysseus and as wise as Nestor, and the only man who dared wound gods — has seldom, if ever, been the chief protagonist in literature. He is given his due within. He ascends the heights of glory but also must descend into the dark Underworld in the attempt to save the one he loves.
A historically-based novel with authentic, legendary, & fictional characters interacting across the extraordinary panorama of the Bronze Age Collapse in the Hittite Empire between the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean seas. Diomedes, previously a hero of the Trojan War, and the polyglot Peoples of the Sea raid inland into the Hittite Empire during its final months. It is both a study of ancient mythic consciousness and an exciting adventure of love, character, destruction, desperate survival, and the lived mystery of pagan rituals. It was a time of such chaos, royalty was overthrown, palaces and temples were burnt, and the power of the gods was thrown into doubt, yet the ancient Great Goddess, who had been suppressed, began to regain her former dominance.
Diomedes, though prominent in Homer's Iliad — a warrior the equal of Hektor or Achilleus, a thinker as cunning as Odysseus and as wise as Nestor, and the only man who dared wound gods — has seldom, if ever, been the chief protagonist in literature. He is given his due within. He ascends the heights of glory but also must descend into the dark Underworld in the attempt to save the one he loves.
I. The Fall of the Hittite Empire
“Sing, O Muse, the song of Diomedes, the greatest warrior at Ilios who strove with gods. Sing of how he abandoned the siege before its end to wreak havoc with his bronze blade in the vast lands of the Hatti.”
The Gathering of the Invaders
Chaos is the fount of creation, the man pacing on the hill considered to himself. Civilization and order become rigid and barren, as he had seen so many corpses stiffen soon after death. Death returns life to its origins: it is the mother of beauty.
The dry wind blew steady across the barren rocky hillsides as it had always done. Below on the eastern slopes and in the valleys, the wind lessened but there was still no sign of rain. The heat blasted and the drought continued, so most fields were fallow. In the few still planted with thin stalks of barley, emmer wheat, or lentils, only women or the very old appeared occasionally to tend to the parched crops since all the men of fighting age had long since been absorbed into the Hittite military. Herd animals had largely disappeared. He was not surprised.
Over the rough hills ahead as far as the Sardinian could see, there was no sign of life at all beyond a few crows and circling kites. Somewhere out there, he thought to himself, the ancient city of Hattusa lay. Its once massive population had shrunk considerably in recent decades as the result of drought, plague, war, and declining trade, but now it likely had far more than its usual twenty thousand souls in and around it, for all the countryside will have gathered there to escape the impending storm of destruction, the storm of destruction that he, the Sardinian, was planning to coordinate.
He knew what he and the others must do, yet it puzzled him, this strange eternal empire of the Hittites. What was the source of its power? Surely only the protection of the gods could have allowed such a vast kingdom to endure so very long on such poor soil. Not only that, but it was mostly land-locked! It had no ports in the north so no direct access to any of the great seas around it, though centuries ago the empire was said to have included the port cities of Ura and Ugarit in the south, which remained vassal-states, so it had indirect access to the Mesogeios Sea. But links with these had weakened in recent times and they were far away. Strangely, the Hittites had seaports on neither what the Hellenes call the Aegean Sea, nor on the Pontos Axeinos (Black Sea). Recently Ugaritic ships had landed Hatti troops on Alasiya to secure the copper trade, but Hattusa itself had no port city. If it had, the peoples accompanying him who embraced the sea as a second home would have attacked it before the great city itself.
He shook his head, mulling over the fantastic tales he had learned from other warriors and sailors who were neighbours or allies of the Hatti. He made a point of sending out spies, getting information from the local tribespeople, and interrogating prisoners. Their compact capital city, Hattusa, itself, was located on a naturally defensible rolling hilltop within a bend of the Delice tributary of the great Marassantiya River where its turbulent mountain waters smoothed out onto a shallow plain. There were some imposing bluffs and mountains in the vicinity, but the builders did not choose to make direct use of these natural defences. What they did do, however, was build defensive walls like no city he knew of had ever done. The city’s giant fortification walls surround its two squared kilometres. It could easily contain numerous Troys, yet it was said to have few permanent residences within its upper city walls for commoners; only priests, attendants, military leaders, and guardians dwelt there. The extended royal family lived in the great palace itself, which was on the rocky akropolis of the lower city so high that it looked down upon the upper city. The city of the gods engaged in commerce but discretely. It was not a centre of commerce. External caravan trade was in the hands of the rulers not competing merchants. Within the city walls, there were no open marketplaces with vendors displaying their wares and shouting out their bargains. Hattusa was a sacred city, a centre of power, and its purpose was to maintain close ties with the all-powerful 1000 gods of the Hatti who alone determined destinies.
In fact, though the Hittites called themselves the Hatti, the Hatti were a different people with a different language and different gods who in ancient times were conquered and absorbed by a warrior tribe from the north of Europa who called themselves the Nesa, but who now took the name Hatti for themselves. In fact, some said the Kaska who were coming to parley were remnants of the early Hatti. Outsiders combined their names to refer to the Hittites. This amalgamated Hittite people were not strict on keeping their gods to themselves and they were no spiritual seekers, but they were avid copiers and syncretists. The Hittites so freely integrated the gods and customs of other kingdoms that the reference to their 1000 gods was not an exaggeration.
The will of all these gods was realized in the person of the Tabarna or Great King (also the High Priest) whose dictates are carried out by the nobility and the massive standing army. Its enormous gates are in walls so thick a space is left in them where city activity is carried on. They have over a hundred tall guard towers along the ramparts so no one can approach unseen. Hattusa had never been conquered since the building of its great walls began in the time of the first Hittite Great Kings, though the royals had been forced to move their capital twice because of the threat of Kaska invaders. The mighty walls had never been breached; since their construction the city had never been desecrated and plundered – as the Sardinian and his allies were determined to do.
The Sardinian turned away to face west, from where he had ascended the hill. Filling the meandering valley along the broad but shallow arm of the Sangarios River below and extending onto the hillsides beyond was the vast but varied army of eight thousand warriors he and the other leaders had brought together for this boldest of adventures. Amidst and behind them were their horses, chariots, and chariot transport carts, as many as could be gathered in such a short time, and following that were their families, households, and the usual camp followers swelling the total number by a half. The clatter of cookware, the whinny of horses, the bray of asses, and the noise of human voices speaking too many different languages to count rose to his ears as a familiar dissonant chorus. The sights and smells of the encampment rose up in his senses. The colourful array of the disparate peoples each in its unique clothing with their own style of billeting, their own tents, shelters, and banners, and their own take on eating and sleeping procedures, would have confused the mind of many an observer, but the Sardinian had been observing such aggregate gatherings for many years now, more on the sea than on land, and he had a discerning eye. He reflected that despite the departure from their diverse homelands, voluntary or forced, or maybe because of it, they seemed to cling proudly to their local customs, raiments, and speech. Uniting them in single cause had not been easy.
He knew the pirates and warriors gathered below were indeed ferocious marauders. Earlier, they had been still gathering on the east of the island of Lazpas or the coast of the Seha River Lands south of Wilusa when they learned a quickly gathered force from the Hittite vassal kingdoms of Pitassa and Hapalla joined by Wilusan refugees still loyal to the Hatti had gathered to drive them back into the sea. However, their new conglomerate army of southern exiles and seafarers pulled together quickly and moved out, attacking the inlanders within the week on the plains of the Seha River Land. There was no battle plan. Each language group organized its own bowmen, chariots, and infantry block formations. They fought mostly in separate blocks for there had been no time to coordinate but still with such fury that the Hittite allies were crushed, left for dead, or dispersed within hours. The various groups tried to outdo each other, which only added to their fervour. Now they knew their power.
Though most of the original nations of this mixed group were more from local regions gathered from western Anatolia – the Lukka, Mirans, Maionians, Achaians from Miletos (called Milawata by the Hatti), and, from the north coast, mercenaries from Taruisa – there were still many like himself from further afield (though he had family in Sardis nearby). Among them were included some groups whose origins were unknown to any but themselves. People with white skin, light hair, and blue tattoos from unknown northwestern regions and a few others with skin like mahogany from beyond the Great Desert in Africa. These lean Nubian warriors with shining ebony skin from the land of Kush stood over most others and were made even taller with their multicoloured feathered headdresses. From north Africa came the scarified Libu. All were one in cause, yet each group mostly stuck to its self-identity, obviously in modes of attire and battle armour, but also in mannerisms, habits of relationship, and attitude. Each worshipped different gods and had their own customs of appeal and appeasement, but it was notable how such rituals were performed without fervour, their focus being on immediate survival, unlike former days when animal or human sacrifice was common. Their tribal or national deities were thought to be particular manifestations of the same generic gods – how else could it be with immortals who must be everywhere? – so there was rarely any conflict over religion. Perhaps the fact that unlike the soldiers fighting for kingdoms, no specialists of the sacred – priests or priestesses – were included in their numbers made it easier to assimilate beliefs. The various peoples differentiated themselves more by way of their singers of tales, their bards, who in the evenings around communal campfires filled the air with the sounds of plucked lyres or tambourines while reciting plaintive chants in numerous languages all telling of the glory achieved by their heroic ancestors, most often warriors and always men. The singers were also fighters, so had no sacred status beyond their talents.
Of course, the most distinguishing feature of each tribe or nation was its language, and these differed greatly in sound. Few had any written form, but those that did had a higher status so contributed most to the common pidgin speak. These included Achaian Hellenic, Luwian, Arzawan, Babylonian-Akkadian, Misriwi (Aigyptioi), Hurrian, and Hittite. But in this polyglot army, Luwian had come to predominate as a second language, as it had throughout Asia Minor. The Luwian, Lukkan, Hittite, and Hellenic seemed to share common features, making it easier for those most valued of people, the interpreters and translators, to work out shared meanings. Without interpreters who spoke more than one language, the entire expedition had no chance at all.
The Sardinian had never been to his distant ancestral island. He had been born at sea during some early migration away from Sardinia and had spent most of his childhood in the town of Sardis, many leagues to the SW of where he was now, a city founded by his ancestors as indicated by its name. So he spoke both the ancient Sardinian dialect that all Sherden speak, learned from his parents, but also the more widespread Luwian, along with a smattering of Hittite and Achaian from Miletos. His clothing and weapons identified him as Sherden (the name given by the Misriwi Nile peoples to his wandering tribe). He was armed with a three-hand long heavy bronze dagger, a trophy from the conquest of Mykenai, with an exquisite gold etching of spearmen in a lion hunt on the dark metal strip down the sides of the blade.
He was about to begin his descent to the masses in the valley when he saw the dust cloud indicating the Kaska leaders were approaching. Kaska messengers had already arrived and demanded that the Kaska be a part of this expedition against their hated traditional enemies, the Hittites, but messengers had no power to make alliances. Within moments, scouts appeared, confirming what he was seeing. They would be riding in four-wheeled carts pulled by the small horses of the region. Horses were faster than oxen but the quicker ride could not have been pleasant. He descended to join the other leaders of the invading army to meet the war-loving Kaska.
As the soldiers set up an open tent with a long table for a meeting place, the Sardinian went to put on the rest of his military attire. One has to make one’s identity known and status declared, after all. As he burnished his bronze helmet and heavy gold-embossed sword, he considered the situation. His first instinct was to attack immediately, so the Hittites have less time to prepare. Suppiluliuma II, their Great King, would have been alerted to their presence by now so must already be arming his citizens, calling up allies, and fortifying the defences of the giant walls around Hattusa. Why wait? He shook his head. He knew that first, a plan of attack must be agreed upon – as much as possible with such a heterogeneous horde – and that, second, coordination with the Kaska, who occupied the mountainous terrain just north of Hattusa right to the coast of the Pontos, must be achieved, for they were in a position to determine the outcome of the battle to come. The fact that the vast Hittite Empire had never been able to entirely subjugate their northern enemy and link to a port on the sea testified to the ferocity of the Kaska warriors and to the rugged mountains in which they dwelt.
His trusted colleague, Payava the Lukkan, approached. Though the confederation of regional peoples and those from over the sea had no single leader, the Lukkan was widely accepted in that role due to his local knowledge, fair treatment of all factions, presence at the failed defence of Taruisa, and, most important, his notable oratory before crowds. The strands of grey in his beard and hair testified that he was a veteran warrior. He was in full regalia, wearing shining bronze plated armour including greaves, a patterned purple cape with a fringe, and a bronze helm topped with an upstanding multicoloured reed headdress nearly two hands tall. He did not carry the famous Lukkan shield but he brought a long ashen spear with an impressive gold-engraved bronze head ending in a perfect point.
“Greetings, friend,” The Sardinian announced so others could hear, but with a nod of recognition and eye contact for the more personal bond they shared. “You look ready to become the King of the Hatti.”
“Perhaps I will have that chance,” he smiled and walked to the head of the table, “if we can hold our army together and agree to work with our new acquaintances. We will need all your battle savvy,” he winked. “Any word yet?”
“The Kaska have arrived. They are currently washing off the dust from their long journey and are being served some sustenance, so they won’t engorge themselves while we negotiate.” The men smiled at the reference to their presumed savagery. “It’s a small troop of about ten men, but it seems that only one is in charge.”
“Why would they travel across this war-torn land with so few warriors?” Payava asked. “Have they no fear of Hittites or mountain brigands?”
“The Kaska control the northern mountains and foothills, but getting here must have put them in some danger. It seems they know of hidden passes. That could be very useful to us.”
Other war leaders of the conglomerate forces arrived. All in full regalia, looking more ready for battle than to parlay. They were a colourful yet fearsome group. Each tribe or group had chosen its own leader most often by acclamation (though often this had been determined in advance), the loudest clamour meaning he was chosen. Much the same process continued with various regions or alliances choosing leaders from the group leaders, and so on, narrowing it down to this council. The attack on Hattusa had ultimately settled on the shoulders of the five men gathered here now. None was commander-in-chief, but the Lukkan usually had the last word. The Sardinian led more from behind the scenes, his words most often chosen for counsel rather than harangue.
They greeted each with harsh cheer, striking each other’s shoulders with the laughing bravado of seasoned warriors. Wine was served in large copper goblets, premixed with water.
“Do we wait for the Kaska?” asked Leukos of Kriti indicating his cup.
“No need,” said Payava, and the men all laughed, one or two downing the entire goblet in one glug.
The Kaska were announced by the guards, and soon three of them entered with the obvious leader in front. He was short, broad, and with a rough full beard, wearing leather armour and carrying a pointed copper-plated leather helmet in his arm. The Lukkan spoke a greeting in Luwian, but it was not enough. The leader waited while the man on his right translated the words into Kaskian. The leader spoke and the translator replied in Luwian, “Greetings to you and your gods. I am called Kaskaili, man of the Kaska. I am here to speak for all Kaska peoples.”
“You and your gods are welcome here,” said the Lukkan. “Please be seated.” He signalled and a cup of wine was brought to Kaskaili but not to the guard or interpreter. Kaskaili sat and, looking warily about, tasted the wine. He smiled broadly, indicating he liked the raw vintage. The men of the council then also sat, leaving only Payava standing. He was the first to identify himself. He was bearded and of medium height though he appeared taller in his colourful upright reed-topped helmet, which he removed before he began to speak in the common Luwian.
“I am called Payava. The Hittites call my people the Lukka, the Achaians call us Maionians, but we refer to ourselves as the Termilai. Once we lived on Megalonisi, the big island of Kriti. My mother was called Poulxeria, and she could trace her lineage back to the goddess Amitirita, whom the Argives call Amphitrite.” He heard the mumble and looked up to the confused faces of the Kaska. “In my land, we trace our lineage through our mothers, but men and women rule equally. I speak for many tribes and nations from southwest Anatolia and more from out in the Aegean. The Lukka Lands are our homeland, but we have expanded our boundaries out onto the broad seas and found adventure on many shores.” He waited while this was translated and he continued by listing some of those adventures. “Though my people have never been conquered by the Hatti, we once fought for them in the greatest battle of all time against Ramses II and the Misriwi at Kadesh, and we helped them prevail. But in return the Hatti turned on us and attempted to annex our lands, so we have been their enemy ever since. We are here to avenge the recent attacks against our borders by the Hittite Great King, the second Suppiluliuma, who has even brought war ships from Ugarit to our waters. It is we, along with our neighbours the Arzawa, who first set out to destroy Hattusa to protect ourselves,” he paused, “and because it is time. As you can see, we have called upon the raiders from the sea to share in our glory. After the seaborne marauders attacked our lands, we saw that the old gods had departed and without their guidance our leaders could no longer defend us, so to protect our families ourselves we fighters joined the wandering warriors. Since that time years ago, many are the ports I have raided and plundered. I already had family, thirteen suns ago, when I took part in the great raid on Misri from the western desert and along the coast led by the Libu but the gods determined the old Pharaoh Merneptah was to repel us. Many Libu died and many others were captured, but I escaped, finally returning to my homeland, but my family was gone. Not long ago, I led many Lukkan warriors in defence of high-walled Taruisa, which the Achaians call Ilios or Troy. On the windy plain, I sent many Argives and other sea warriors to dark Hades, though now we are friends and allies,” he said with a nod and a grim smile to Leukos the Tjekker-Peleset and the Danaan, red-haired Eruthros. With the mention of Ilios, he had the full attention of the Kaska. Kaskaili did not speak until the the Lukkan was finished.
His translated question was, “You fought at the defence of Taruisa?” Payava nodded. “A terrible catastrophe. It fell only four suns ago,” Kaskaili continued. “The citadel of Ilios was said to be impregnable. All was destroyed in the flames?” Again Payava nodded. “You are most fortunate to have survived a siege that is said to have lasted many years and ended in utter destruction. How was that possible?” The Kaska leader looked both skeptical and suspicious.
Payava smiled, “The siege in fact lasted two years, off and on, and certainly seemed like many more. No doubt its length will grow as the bards sing the tale. Most of the time, the Trojans were kept contained in the city, fighting from the walls. We were not in the city but in the hills beyond from where we could harass and attack the Achaians, Peleset, Danaans, and their seaborne allies. When the walls of Ilios were finally breached, the destruction began. The people were slaughtered. The city was ravished, and finally torched and there was nothing we could do, so we left.” His words were simple facts to him, neither a complaint nor an excuse, just the truth.
In the silence, the Sardinian arose. He left his bronze Sherden war helm with bull’s horns and silver sun disk before him on the table, yet he was nearly as tall as the Lukkan would be in his reed tiara. As was his people's custom, his beard was so trimmed as to be hardly visible. His great bronze sword nine hands long was in its engraved leather sheath across the armoured plates on his chest. Speaking in Luwian, he intoned, “I am called the Sardinian for I am of the Shardana-of-the-Sea peoples from the great island of Ichnussa, which the Hellenes call Sardinia. It lies beyond the island of the Sikeloi (whom the Misriwi call the Shekelesh) in the western sea of the Great Green. I have never been there and met my ancestral gods, nor have I seen our famous nuraghes, holy well temples, nor the giants’ tombs, for I was born at sea and grew up in Sardis-Hyde at the foot of Mount Tmolus in what the Greeks call Maionia and the Hittites the Seha River Land, southwest of here. The city was founded long ago by one of our people, a queen named Sardo. I left Sardis very young, joining with the sea raiders even before my first beard. In fact, so many of our people have left the land and become raiders that the kingdom is quite undone. Our Sardinian language is Sassarese but I speak Arzawa, Luwian, and some of the Hittite and Achaian tongues. I am a learned man: I read the Hittite cuneiform and the Luwian glyphs. My name in Sassarese is Al-la-an-se-ri-da-ni, which others seem unable to pronounce.” He paused to let the chuckles subside. “If you need a name, you can call me Sarpedon as others do, the name of my stepfather’s Maionian ancestor in Sardis-Hyde who fought in the first war at Wilusa. My people have ridden the waves for many generations, freebooting as pirates and selling our skills as warriors to the highest bidders. They, too, were at Kadesh, but they fought with the Misriwi and many were in the Pharaoh Ramses’ royal guard. It was there we learned to attach the sun-disk of Ra to our horned bronze war helms.” He indicated his own impressive example, its polished bronze and silver glinting in the evening sun. “But, up until now, our loyalties have been only to ourselves, for, like the Lukka, we fought against old Pharaoh Merneptah with the Libu even while other contingents of our people were fighting for him. We gave no quarter even against our own kind. It was there I shared delight of battle with Payava the Lukkan but have not seen him again for these many long years. It is good to share a war again.” They grinned fiercely at one another. They meant it. Sarpedon sat.
Leukos rose in turn and placed his feathered leather helmet before him. He was short and sinewy with the bow-legs inveterate sailors so often have. Holding the hilt of the short stabbing sword slung across his hip and speaking in a Hellenic dialect, he was the first who identified his home as primarily the sea itself. He puffed himself up with pride and spoke long, yet kept himself just this side of garrulous. Leukos told the story of how his people of the northeastern side of the island of Kriti or Megalonisi, known to some as Caphtor, deserted their homeland devastated by drought, earthquakes, and sea raiders to become sea raiders themselves. He said some of his people still struggled to work the land in the valleys around Phaistos, but others had now migrated to Canaan where they were called Philistines. They now also dwelled on the island of copper, Kyprio, known as Alasiya in Luwian and Hittite, where they were called the Ekwesh. The Misriwi called them the Peleset. He and his seaborne troops had also participated in the initial attack on Ilios, but they had left for better rewards after the outlying city was pillaged and the survivors went behind the great inner walls for the long stalemate. But he thought better of mentioning this to the Kaska, as they seemed sympathetic to the fall of Taruisa. “Not long ago, the Great King of the Hatti ordered the ships of his vassal state of Ugarit and other cities along the Syrian coast to take on Hittite troops and attack Alasiya. They took most of the island, burning some of our ships and killing many Cypriots and many of our families too. Suppiluliuma has listened to demon gods. We seek to wreak terrible vengeance on the Great King of Hattusa and on Ugarit. Be it noted that Ugarit is currently without its navy, which is still ferrying soldiers of the Hatti in the Lukka Lands and on Alasiya…”
Even before the words were translated to Kaskian, the man of Kaska shifted impatiently. Once translated, Kaskaili sneered without rising: “No doubt you are all redoubtable warriors and your credentials are worthy. However, you have too many names for us to remember who you are or where you dwell. Unlike the Kaska who have held the same homeland since before the Hittites came, you seem mostly to be nomads and vagabonds who have deserted your homes. So why don’t we just get on with it and decide exactly when we, the Kaska, will lead your troops to finally crush Hattusa out of existence?” He slammed down his empty wine goblet, gesturing for more. His guard tensed up straight, gripped his spear tightly, and eyed the other leaders warily. The words were translated. Leukos glanced at the Lukkan and took his seat. The allied leaders were taken aback at this breach of warrior protocol. What point is glory if your name is not known?
The Lukkan rose and spoke low but his tone was not without implied threat. “We have come to take down the Hittite Empire. We were not invited by the Kaska who have never been able to do more than defend their own territory from the Hatti. You asked to join us, but we will proceed with or without you. If you wish to join us, it is the custom of noble warriors to identify themselves to each other. You will have your chance, too. If you cannot bear to wait, I invite you to leave and go attack Hattusa on your own, as you have attempted so many times before.” He paused and looked directly at the Kaska leader. “Are you willing to join us on our terms – or are you leaving?”
Kaskaili slurped some wine and grunted looking down, glancing sideways. Then he looked up, smiling through wine-stained brown teeth and said in feigned cheer, “Proceed, by all means, proceed.”
“We must proceed, and quickly,” continued Payava. “The Great King, Suppiluliuma, has sent word he wants to negotiate. He wants to send us a delegation, no doubt to bide for time but also to attempt to buy us out. He knows our numbers and our strength. And we both know,” he looked at Kaskaili, “that the gods of Hittites have deserted them. They have sent this long drought and have repeatedly shaken the earth, destroying allied cities and granaries. People from the towns are crowding into the city and surely starvation threatens. We know the Great King has sent messages to bring his armies home, so we must act before they get here. The ancient city is vulnerable and ready to be brought down, but it is still Hattusa, the most impregnable fortress the world has known. What we are undertaking makes the fall of Mykenai look like a skirmish and the fall of Troy but a single pitched battle.”
Point made and purpose proven, Payava glanced at the Miran commander, and sat down. An older man with battle scars and grey in his beard arose. He wore only a simple, much-abused leather cuirass over his linen tunic and no helmet on his balding head. “I am Uhhaziti and I speak for all Arzawa, though it is now a dispersed land. My own region is known as Mira. Like the Lukka and the Kaska, we have been enemies of the land-stealing Hittites since time immemorial. We had hoped the Great King of the Hatti, the second Suppiluliuma, would allow us to move back onto our ancient lands, but when we tried he turned on us with his vast armies, taking even more Arzawa territory. War is upon us, so we must strike now. I still live on the land of my ancestors as do most of my people and we have not joined the sea marauders in any numbers, but I will ignore the insults of the Kaska that we are vagabonds. Arzawa land was once as great in size as the Hittite kingdom, but the Hatti broke us into pieces. Both the Lukkan and the Sardinian from Sardis dwell on lands that were once within Arzawa land. Our kingdom is no more, but the gods have given us undeniable signs that our ancestral homeland is about to be returned to us. Our day of vengeance is at hand. So I agree we must proceed like hungry wolves upon the flock of sheep before they realize what we are doing.”
All nodded in agreement though the issue of who would lead the charge remained unsettled. The largest man of the group stood up, his archaic boar’s tusk war helm before him. He had long, reddish-bronze coloured locks with a black silver-studded headband and a full beard partially concealing a long scar. His massive shoulders and chest were encased in a thick black leather corslet with bronze stars embedded in it; a large, curved sickle-like sword hung at his hip. His thickly muscled arms were left bare. He held a sturdy spear upright in his left hand and spoke, “Too much talk. I will not detain this meeting long. I am Eruthros, king of the Danaans of Aitolia. Don’t know or care what the Aigyptoi or Hittites call us. We fought first for, then against Mykenai, burning it to the ground. We fought at Ilios and burned it to the ground, killing everyone,” he looked at the Kaska with a malevolent smile. “And we are here to do the same to Hattusa or to anyone else that gets in our way.” He paused then sat down again to his wine. The three Kaska shifted uneasily.
Understanding reached, Kaskaili stood, placing his pointed Assyrian-style war helm before him, and repeated he was speaking for all Kaska and that he and his followers had been waging guerrilla war against the Hittites all his life, just as the Kaska had always done to those who take their lands. He regaled everyone with the tale that in ancient days before the Hatti had become the Hittites and built an empire, they, the Kaska, had burnt the forerunner of Hattusa to the ground, and, further, after the Hittite Empire had been established, attacks of their ancestors had twice driven Great Kings to move their capital elsewhere.
“But, even with the Great King elsewhere, you were unable to take Hattusa itself. Is that not so?” asked Uhhaziti the Arzawan.
“That is so,” admitted Kaskaili. “Still, I have come to lead the Kaska in the first charge against the greatest city in the world. We are willing to attack the Lion Gate itself,” he stated, for the moment forgetting its famous high thick walls and postern passageways for sorties of Hatti defenders. “We will bring down the great Lion Gods who defend the gate and then open the way for your warriors from many homes. Or you can attack the Sphinx Gate after we have broken through.”
Everyone was aware that these were empty boasts – no one could break through the aggressive defences of the famous Lion Gate, the main entry point of the city – but the allied leaders also understood what the Kaska chief had in mind: vengeance, glory, and being the first to plunder the unimaginable treasures inside the city.
“You will follow our plan,” the Lukkan spoke in a low hiss. “Our numbers and siege weapons give us the power that is necessary to attack several gates at once, but you would be welcome to storm the Lion Gate with all your forces once we have the rest of the city engaged.”
“Or you can stay home with your women,” gruffly added bronze-haired Eruthros. “But if you interfere with us in any way, we will turn our attention to your lands and your people next, from both land and sea.”
That ended it. It was agreed that the allied forces of the free Anatolians and the sea peoples would move out in a week. They should be in position for a full attack on the city in two weeks, so the Kaska could gather their forces in the mountains north of Hattusa at that time. The siege was likely to last a long time in any case. There were no reports of Hatti armies returning to defend the city since all were elsewhere engaged. In the southwest they were defending the recently extended borders against the Arzawa and Lukka, and in the south on the Great Green they were backing the navy of Ugarit. In the east they were holding back the attempted incursions of the Assyrians. The approaching army of vagabond warriors was unexpected and Hattusa had only what forces were in the city. It was time for war whether the 1000 gods of the Hittites agreed or not.
Kaskaili accepted the terms; he and his squadron left the same day. It changed nothing when only two days later, another Kaska squad arrived for parlay. They met only the Sardinian and the Lukkan with their leader declaring, “I am Kaskaili. I speak for all Kaska. Not this one.” He opened the straw basket he was carrying and unceremoniously dumped the gory head of the former Kaskaili on the ground. He insisted the Kaska would lead the charge against the Lion Gate but was quickly made to understand he had no choice in this, just as the first Kaskaili had learned. He was duly instructed on the plan, no discussion permitted. The Kaska would arrive later as back-up forces. He and his troop were given sustenance and sent packing back to from where they had come. It was clear the Kaska were not a united people but one still caught up in tribal conflicts. “No matter,” said Payava, watching the dust of their departure.
Suppiluliuma
The Great King lay prostrate, his arms spread wide, on the marble floor of his meditation chapel before the painted gold statuette of the Storm-God, which impassively glowered down at him. He felt the room shift as the god entered the image. The human king’s heavy, pointed, jewel-studded crown was placed beside his head. Golden Tarhunta forever held the thunderbolt trident raised in his left hand and in his right a double-headed hatchet was held aloft. On his head was the horned crown that proved his godhead. The pointed top came to a bauble from which a long gold tassel fell.
Both the Great King and the Storm-God had long, braided black hair and non-moustachioed beards coiffed in carefully formed plaits and ringlets, though only the hair of the Great King was perfumed and oiled while the god’s was rigid stone. A bearded king went against all tradition, for male nobles of the Hatti had always been clean-shaven. However, Suppiluliuma wished to strengthen his sense of identity with the immortal Storm-God as his own mortality currently felt fearfully in jeopardy. Besides, after meeting with Ashur-nadin-apli, the Assyrian Great King, for territorial settlements, he had been impressed by the mighty black beard of the ruler from Assur; finally, it made him look more ferocious than his father.
Suppiluliuma finished up the long list of titles of praise and got to his supplications more quickly than usual. He was managing to ignore the irony of praying to the Storm-God when there had been no storms – or rain – for many months and not much more since he had become king only twelve years before.
“All the lands of the Hatti are dying, so that no one prepares the sacrificial loaf and libation for you, O God. What god or demon has decreed this wasteland? Has thy son, the god Telipinu who brings vegetation, wandered off again and forgotten his duties? The ploughmen who used to work the fields of the gods have died, so that no one works or reaps the fields of the gods any longer. The miller-women who used to prepare sacrificial loaves of the gods have died, so that they no longer make the sacrificial loaves. As for the corral and the sheepfold from which one used to cull the offerings of sheep and cattle – the cowherds and shepherds have died, and the corral and sheepfold are empty. So it happens that the sacrificial loaves, libations, and animal sacrifices are cut off. And you come to us, O Gods, and hold us culpable in this matter! I beseech you mighty Teshub, all-powerful Tarhunta, to relieve my land of its woes. Turn the plague, the hostility, the famine against my enemies. The crops have dried up and my people are starving. How can we worship you? Bring us rain!”
The King’s last three words were boldly asserted. Suppiluliuma’s gold earrings clattered on the marble floor as looked up nervously, realizing his temerity, as though he might be struck.
In fact, the land had begun the severe drought near the end of the twenty-eight-year reign of his father Tudhaliya IV and it continued during the single year his strange older brother, Arnuwanda, had held the throne of the empire. Did he hear the Storm-God whisper “pollution”? If so, he knew the god did not mean the pestilence that first accompanied the drought and lingered still, but the lack of attention the people were paying to their gods. Rituals were no longer being strictly followed, as the 1000 gods of the Hatti demanded.“How can the gods be properly worshipped when so many people have deserted them, leaving the holy city? But I, Sun of the Hatti, have done my duty, Holy Ruler,” the Great King whispered, and indeed had he not spent the entire morning circulating from temple to temple to lead in the prescribed ritual activities, just as he had done every other morning? “The land is impure…” Suppiluliuma heard the god’s whisper like the sigh of a low breeze in his own mind.
Could he be the impurity? “It’s true that I, My Majesty, had Kurunta killed, he who had been appointed by my grandfather the Great King Hattusili to be vassal-King of Tarhuntassa. But in sacrilege during the short reign of my weak brother he declared himself Great King and had it so inscribed in sacred hieroglyphs. There cannot be two Great Kings of the Hatti! What right had he…?” He trailed off. Was it his own thoughts or did he hear Tarhunta whisper, “His brother Urhi-Teshub was Great King. Kurunta was his heir, but since he sided with your grandfather, he was rewarded the local kingship in Tarhuntassa…” “But he wanted more,” said Suppiluliuma to the voice within him. “Fear not, O King, it was your destiny,” the inner voice replied. The Great King added even lower, “I killed my brother after he was anointed Great King. I strangled him with my own hands using a garrotte,” he hissed, “but Arnuwanda was … unnatural and not fit to be ruler. He would not marry even to make an heir…” “All is well, be at ease,” breathed the voice of the Storm-God. “It was all planned by the immortal gods. If it has happened, it was destined. There is no avoiding this logic. Your Majesty is not the pollution.”
“Then why have you allowed a foreign army into the land of the Hatti?” Suppiluliuma hissed, his outrage showing, his golden earring again clattering on the marble. Silence. “My Majesty has received reports that a gathering of forces from many lands has taken place to the west in the Seha River Land, likely led by the same men of Lukka and Arzawa I only recently thrashed into their place. They have already crushed a force from my vassal kingdoms to the west, strengthened by loyal Wilusans who survived the destruction of their city. If the Ahhiyawa are among them, these may be the same rebel sea peoples who burnt Taruisa to the ground! Is Hattusa next? Why, Great God Tarhunta, have you allowed this happen?” “…” “Yes, yes I know, they are not your people. They do not make sacrifice or send sweet burnt offerings up to you. Perhaps, Storm-God, you do not venture to their territories or have power there.” “…” “But,” Suppiluliuma actually rolled to support himself on one elbow and face the sky, “we are your people who offer you gifts. And My Majesty is your chief priest and Great King. We supplicate you, mighty Storm-God, deliver us from this approaching evil. My Majesty, the Sun of his people, must not die!” Silence.
Later in the day, the Great King withdrew to his quarters and had a trusted bearer sequester his tall golden crown whose weight he would not miss. His high priest robes were removed and he was dressed more parochially in the kingly robes of administration. He sent a servant for warmed honey-barley broth and sat in a comfortable but still kingly chair. He had his beard and long hair combed out and he covered his head with a woollen shepherd’s cap. Now prepared, he called for Mahhuzzi, his chief advisor and his cousin, and for his scribe, Penti-Sharruma, to attend to him. They briskly arrived, the fleshy scribe seating himself cross-legged on the floor while the vizier remained standing, his narrow, clean-shaven face alert.
Suppiluliuma had a noisy sip from the drink that arrived and got right to the point, not his usual custom, speaking in the direction of Mahhuzzi: “We have had little assistance from our sacred gods in the matter of this drought or these recent earthquakes…”
“My King, my prayers and sacrifices are going on ceaselessly. Only today—”
“Stop,” the Great King ordered with a wave of his hand. “Our more immediate problem is the approaching army who have already destroyed the army I sent against them from Hapalla and Pitassa. Where are our friends and allies? This is not the time to be tending to their own gardens when the Great King of the Hittites is threatened! It is an offence to the gods to so threaten My Majesty!”
“They will never be able to take Hattusa, Great King. It is protected by the Storm-God, Tarhunta himself! Some of the people who migrated away in such vast numbers have now returned to seek shelter from the approaching army, so we have more defenders.” In a quieter voice, he added, “Still our armies are mostly far afield so it may be wise to seek their return and other reinforcements.”
“The Storm-God seems to be too preoccupied trying to share the sky with the Sun Goddess to end this drought. Who can we call upon? It seems there is trouble everywhere – sea pirates, revolts, trade routes falling into disuse, people leaving the sacred city in droves but now returning again to huddle at the Lion Gate in fear. Dare we approach the Kaska?”
“It is no use, Great King. They have proven their hostility to us again and again. We are already fighting the Assyrians in the east. We must look to the south, but we have an army engaged in fighting in Tarhuntassa, too.”
“The south, yes. The Sun of the Hatti must call upon the great states of Amurru and Ugarit. They have soldiers and a mighty navy,”
“Yes, my Lord, but you yourself ordered their navy and warriors down to the Lukka Lands to fight incursions of the sea pirates in those waters and you had the Ugarit navy carry Hatti soldiers to attack the alien ships around the copper island of Alasiya, which they are still doing.”
Suppiluliuma sat up, shaking his head in growing frustration. “All this is no matter! I am the Great King of the Hatti, chosen by Tarhunta-Teshub the Storm-God. Our will cannot be blocked. What we decree happens! Penti-Sharruma, attend to me. I command that an urgent message be sent in dried clay to Ammurapi, the underling I have allowed to be King of Ugarit. Take note of these words.” Penti-Sharruma had his stylus ready for the quick copy. “I am not going to bother with the usual praises and pathetic grovelling. No, don’t record that. Start here:
“To Ammurapi who rules Ugarit at my mercy. From My Majesty, your Lord. With My Majesty, all is well, but My Majesty is distressed that King Ammurapi did not come to his court as ordered for his required obeisance. However, My Majesty notes we are all troubled by the drought and the unknown invaders in our lands, so My Majesty is grateful that Ammurapi has sent food and supplies to the Hittites at great privation to himself. Still, the unknown enemy advances against us in numbers beyond count. My troops are far afield and our numbers are few. I demand your military assistance. Send whatever is available. Look to it and send it to me now!”
Form these worlds into a strong clay tablet and have it sent to Ugarit with fast riders immediately.”
Against a backdrop of the Mediterranean Bronze Age Collapse, the Sea Peoples prepare to invade Hittite capital Hattusa. The Great King Suppilulima II worships at the temple of the Storm God Tarhunta. His Great Queen Lieia-Hepa schemes to return Hatti to female rule and the dominance of the Goddess Arinna. Approaching the city, they encounter a band of refugees, including Diomedes, Trojan War veteran and once king of now-fallen Tiryns, who had been held prisoner. Henti, the ex-harem-girl, interprets. They learn that the royal family, priests and nobles have deserted, carrying with them the Hatti treasure. Diomedes and his warriors go in pursuit to Lawazantiya, cult city of the goddess. Suppilulima has a crazed plan, but Diomedes and Co ally with Queen Lieia-Hepa, who has her own plan. Kabi the Canaanite has a better idea.
The Diomedeia constructs a scenario that elucidates the collapse of the Hittite Empire, involving famous kings and generals we know from Homer and from history and who are listed in an appendix. Many of the stories we know from mythology, Jason and the Argonauts, the fall of Troy, etc. are told as tales by warriors to each other.
I will grab up any book set during the Bronze Age, but this one is remarkable for what I assume is historical detail. A bit too much of it crammed into the first chapter, maybe, before we get a chance to get familiar with the characters. Some of it—descriptions of statues and rock carvings we can still see today—I think we could do without. It’s hard to say that, though, because we have little evidence of the period other than those artefacts and the occasional clay letter from one king to another.
The dialogue could have been more natural by observing the ‘three beat’ rule—long utterances need to be broken up by action points, dialogue tags or responses.
The war council between Kabi, Klymenos, and Sarpedon is great. From that point the plot and inter-personal drama become quite exciting, although the pace slackens towards the end as the fates of the Hatti and Diomedes and his People of the Sea are determined. The ending is disappointing, yet promises a continuation of series.
Don’t miss the well-researched appendices. In fact, I recommend reading them first.