The heat-scorched steppe was cut by mountain ridges.
Bare gray rocks reaching their tops to the sky were girded by the dull green of thickets climbing stony slopes.
Somewhere here a stream broke through that fed the local vegetation.
There it was!
A bright green strip ahead screamed of unthinkable wealth, because where there was water, there was life.
Here too, near a shallow stream only four paces wide, stood a village, and its inhabitants looked at uninvited guests without the slightest friendliness.
Thousands of animals and people would drink the water, churn up mud with hooves and trample the bank, littering it with shit. And the peasants got no profit from this, only trouble.
There were no royal warriors here, and caravan guards sometimes behaved worse than bandits.
Right now several cunning guys had gone into the village like they owned it and returned from there with a goat they were dragging by the horns.
Its owner had gotten punched in the face and now sat in the dust, spitting blood and seeing the caravan off with a hateful look.
"The end! The end of trade!" Hapasali kept lamenting.
"Excuse me, sir," Timothy addressed him. "But why is trade ending? Well, so what, some bad people raided, burned some barn. Well, it happens. Why are you so upset?"
"You don't understand, kid!" the merchant looked at him angrily. "A trade route is a vein through which blood flows. Cut it in one place, and the strongest warrior will die, unable to fight anymore. Imagine they've devastated two more such inns? What will we do? We can't feed such a horde if they won't sell us grain and won't let our donkeys to the wells and watering holes. Ahead we have the city of Sangarius, to the north—the kingdom of Kalasma, to the south—Happalu. Either one of their kings has lost his mind and taken up banditry, or there's no longer order in the land of Hatti that's held for the last four hundred years. If so, trade is finished! Nobody will haul goods where roads aren't protected."
"What will we do then?" Timothy looked at him in confusion.
"Good question," the merchant nodded, and an unhappy smirk appeared on his swarthy face. "I'm even afraid to imagine what someone like you will do if he doesn't have a piece of bread. I'm already getting scared, and I'm not afraid of much in this life, kid. I grew up on this road. I've walked it as long as I can remember. And before me my father walked here, and before him—my grandfather. Bandit gangs always existed, but never were there so many. Each new passage becomes harder and more dangerous than the previous. I haven't been home for almost a year, and now I'm thinking of staying behind the fortress wall of Hattusa and sitting there until everything calms down."
"To arms!" came a cry from somewhere far away. "To arms!"
"Who'd attack a caravan with fifteen hundred men?" Timothy was surprised—for some reason he'd thought they'd just stroll to Hattusa and back.
"You'll see now," the merchant pointed north, where dozens of horse teams were deploying in a wide line, on which warriors raced. "Bandits don't fight from chariots, kid. Chariots are driven by warriors from noble families who were taught this science from childhood. I wonder which of the local kings has gone mad?"
"Who's in charge here?" A warrior in bronze sparkling in the sun stopped his horse right in front of the caravan, which had broken into several large groups.
The guard came forward, lowering their spears. Archers drew their bowstrings, and slingers piled suitable stones in heaps.
"I'm in charge," Hapasali stepped forward and bowed with dignity. "We're merchants from Hattusa, most valiant, and we're going home. We honor the laws of the land of Hatti, and the king of kings patronizes us."
"King of kings?" the warrior grinned, showing white teeth. "His sword has become soft as a woman's tit, and his spear has dulled. The word of the king of kings no longer has force in the land of Sangarius. The Mushki and Kaska are tearing up the land of Hatti, and he can't repulse them. We now defend our own land ourselves, which means you'll have to pay for passage."
"But this has never happened!" the merchant was indignant. "We're palace people! The lumes-egal himself, the great king's warehouse chief, sent us to trade! The lumes-uru, provincial governor, can't collect tariffs from us!"
"There's no more governor," the warrior smirked. "There's the illustrious Azirta, king of the city of Sangarius and the area around it. He's extended his hand over this road. Pay!"
"We don't agree! We must fight!" the merchant looked indecisively at Helon, but he, dressed in bronze, only shook his head negatively.
"That wasn't the agreement," the warrior said. "We protect you from bandits. We won't fight with the warriors of kings. They're on their own land, and they're within their rights."
"This is the guard I hired!" the merchant exhaled. "Miserable cowards."
He turned to the warrior and asked with a doomed look:
"How much?"
"A tenth!" the warrior answered.
"I'd rather burn all the goods with my own hand!" Hapasali stubbornly clenched his teeth. "I'll give a fortieth!"
"Try it!" the warrior grinned into his thick beard. "I'll cut you down and take everything."
"Fine," Hapasali answered in a hollow voice. "As you say. A tenth, noble warrior!"
Father bargained well, and instead of useless women's nonsense managed to get a little ship with thirty oars counted as dowry.
True, we'd have to pay extra for it. They'd agreed to give ten more horses next year, and now father looked at me with silent expectation, like at a magician who'd promised to pull a rabbit from a hat.
He had no idea what to do with this ship.
We lived near the sea, of course, but we weren't traders at all, because that was a contemptible occupation for a noble warrior.
We were supposed to live by honest labor, meaning from war and from our own land.
By the way, the labor of slaves and bonded peasant-tenants was also considered honest, so there was no contradiction here. A rich slave owner who hadn't lifted a finger his whole life was considered a respected worker throughout the civilized world.
The crappiest thing was I didn't fully understand what to do with the ship either.
Though for now I didn't have it anyway—they'd only just started building it. That's when I'd rack my brains.
I had thoughts about sailing to the Black Sea region—tin came from there after all. Maybe I could intercept some sales channel.
Tin was the oil of our time. With tin you were king.
And I'd have to think about iron too. It would very soon become the only alternative material. I remembered that's exactly why the "Sea Peoples," who'd gotten acquainted with iron in Asia Minor, turned into a deadly battering ram that crushed the most ancient civilizations.