Against the Tide of Years

by S. M. Stirling

  “They can’t stay,” Alaksandrus said, standing beside Arnstein. “They can’t. There’s no food out there! We brought almost everything in and burned what we didn’t.”

  Ian nodded. Troy stank of the beasts driven inside it, and of the peasants who camped in every open space, including on some of the roads.

  “I’m sorry, Lord King,” he said, “but there comes their supply line.”

  He pointed at the ships that were sailing in out of the west, their sails gilded by the setting sun.

  “ The Wolf Lord’s ships,” Alaksandrus said desolately. Ian brought up his binoculars and looked. They were medium-size sailing vessels, not enormously different from the ones Nantucket or Tartessos turned out; a little lower in the freeboard, perhaps, and he saw differences in the sails that he couldn’t name. What all of them had in common was the wolfshead banner at their mastheads, red on black.

  A curious change came over the Trojan king; he sighed, and a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. “A man without hope is a man without fear,” he said. “ Let’s see what his herald has to say.”

  “ You think they’ll send a herald? ”

  “ It’s usually done.” A small quirk of the melancholy lips. “ I always did. Surrender is cheaper, if you can get it.”

  “ What are your intentions, Lord King? ” Arnstein asked.

  Alaksandrus’s lips quirked again. “ Fight,” he said. “ Your men may get here before we have to give up—the city’s well provisioned, and one can always hope for plague in the besieger’s camp.”

  Things moved with glacial slowness; every so often Ian would look up at the Emancipator. He could go . . .

  The herald had brass lungs and spoke the Trojan dialect well; he was also dressed in a uniform of gray tunic and trousers, black boots and belt—definitely not one of the horde.

  “My lord summons you to parlay,” he said. “Outside the walls.”

  “Does your lord take me for a suckling babe?” Alaksandrus yelled back.

  “Do you distrust his word of honor? ”

  A derisive laugh arose from those crowded near the square towers that marked the gate bastions. The herald nearly wheeled his borrowed Ringapi chariot about to leave, then visibly controlled himself.

  “Each party may bring six men. The meeting shall be there—” he pointed to a small hillock in plain view. “ Thus neither side may gain unfair advantage.”

  Alaksandrus nodded slow assent. Ian felt himself doing likewise. It was the old curse; he had to know.

  The sun was almost to the western horizon, backlighting the masts of the ships anchored offshore with boats going to and fro to unload barrels and sacks. Ian noted other developments with interest; from this ground level position he could see that the prisoners of the horde, and many of its members, were digging a trench and earthwork all around the city.

  It would make life much easier, he thought, if villains were stupid poltroons. Unfortunately, Walker isn’t. Mean as a snake, yes. Stupid, no, and nerve enough for three.

  The Trojan party walked forward; three of the guards were Marines with rifles. The group standing to meet them seemed to be mixed, barbarian Ringapi flamboyance and Walker’s men in their grimly plain outfits in about equal numbers—and two extra figures whom he took for midgets and then realized with astonishment were children, tow-headed and about ten years old. It wasn’t until he was within talking distance that the tall figure in the center threw back the hood of his cloak and Ian Arnstein saw again that boyish, square-jawed, hated face.

  Not so boyish anymore, he thought savagely. The left eye was gone, courtesy of Marian’s katana, and a V of scar ran up under the eye-patch. Some lines there, too, and a weathered outdoors look. Looks healthy, dammit.

  The woman beside him hadn’t aged too much either, but the changes in her face—Ian shivered slightly. Objectively speaking, she was a petite, pretty, well-kept Oriental woman in her thirties. But somehow it was if the skull beneath the skin was far more visible now.

  “ Well, if it isn’t the Professor!” Walker laughed delightedly.

  Ian replied with a curt nod, making sure that the Python was there under his jacket. For a moment he considered pulling it out and using it—Walker’s death was, he decided coldly, worth his own—but it would be foolish. William Walker was far more experienced and deadly at personal violence than Ian Arnstein was ever going to be.

  Even the commodore had taken only his eye, the last time they were within arm’s reach of each other.

  Walker shrugged at his silent glare. “Okay,” he said, then dropped into Achaean. A scholar’s corner of Ian’s mind noted that it was virtually devoid of accent now.

  “Here are my terms,” he said. “ If the city surrenders and admits my troops, I’ll keep the Ringapi out—they’ll be content to move east, provided the city gives them half its gold and silver—and the lives, personal freedom, and remaining property of the inhabitants will be safe; they can have the status of freemen in the kingdom of Mycenae. If you resist, I’ll turn my allies loose to sack it when I take it. And I will take it.”

  King Alaksandrus followed the man’s words well enough, but Ian could see that their lack of the formal phrasing annoyed him, even now.

  “ What of the king, and the nobles? ” he said.

  “Deportation to Sicily, or other places of my choice,” Walker said. “ I’ll grant them fiefs equivalent to their lands here, which are forfeit to the crown; they can take a moderate amount of their personal property. And never, never return, under pain of death. The Royal Guard to be split up and enlisted in my regiments.”

  Ian nodded; that would disperse the Trojan notables, and in a generation or two they’d merge and vanish with the gentry wherever Walker settled them. Assuming that Walker intended to keep his word.

  “And if you don’t surrender, I won’t have the king”—Walker’s eye speared Alaksandrus, with a slight smile at the plain armor that was supposed to disguise him—“or his family and nobles killed. I’ll turn them over to the Despotnia Algeos, and she won’t have them killed either. Show them your masterpiece, Alice.”

  Alice Hong’s smile wasn’t a snarl. It was bright and cheery, and far, far worse for that. She pulled the concealing cloak and mask off the figure standing beside her. Ian Arnstein took one look, and knew that however long he lived he would wish he hadn’t. He quickly turned his eyes above Hong’s head, concentrating on not humiliating himself by vomiting or fainting.

  They’re trying to shake you, Arnstein. You will be calm. Or at least look calm, if that was the best he could do. Far and faint he heard a child’s voice mutter in accented English, “Oh, yuk-o, Auntie Hong!” Somehow that made him feel even more furious, but it also made him more able to ignore Hong’s cheerful explanations:

  “—problem of preventing infection with the exposed bone here and here, but—”

  “Take that . . . thing away,” Alaksandrus said. He spat, and then spoke one word: “ No.”

  “ No? ” Walker said. “ Last chance. Or—” he indicated the vaguely humanoid figure that didn’t move except to breathe, as if each breath were fresh torment.

  “ No. And the gods my ancestors will receive me if I fall; I will not be taken alive. Your threat is empty.”

  Walker shrugged and made a sign with his hand; Hong stooped and draped the cloak about the unmoving figure with an obscene tenderness.

  “ I’m just as glad,” he said casually. “ The troops need a little blooding.” He looked at the city. “Somebody’s been giving you advice, I see. But being able to take it doesn’t help if you can’t dish it out as well.” He looked at Ian. “Special offer for you, Professor. I could use a man like you—and I know how to reward service, too. Who knows? You might like working for me more than that old fossil Cofflin. We might turn out to be simpatico, you and I.”

  “ Now you’re getting nasty,” Ian said quietly. “ I’ll wait, thank you very much.”

  “For what, the Riders of Fucking Rohan t
o come galloping to the rescue with their horns blowing and slaughter us insensitive orcs? ” he jeered and waved an arm in an expansive gesture. “Sorry, Professor, no TV cameras. This is Big-People Land—out here, things don’t work that way.”

  Arnstein met his eyes. “Your father,” he said flatly, “was a hampster. Your mother smelled of elderberries. Now go away, you silly Greek knigget, or I will taunt you once again.”

  Walker’s face was equally cold for an instant. Then he smiled again. “Don’t catapult any cows at us,” he said. “ You’re probably going to need them all, if you’re lucky.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  August-September, Year 10 A.E.

  “Commandus, Lord Kenn’et!” Hell, Kenneth Hollard thought, looking at the motley crowd assembled behind Raushapa’s chariot. And I thought the Babylonians were ragged.

  Many of the men gathered under the flag of Mitanni—suggested by the Arnsteins, and consisting of a white chariot wheel on a blue background, with crossed thunderbolts behind—were literally ragged; peasants in rags armed with anything at all, down to and including rocks snatched up a few minutes ago.

  Some had better equipment, which looked as if it had spent the past twenty years or so buried under the stable floor or hidden in caves. Wheels on chariots were actually wobbling, the horses were mostly elderly crow bait, and the bronze helmets and armor were green with verdigris where recent polishing hadn’t revealed dents, nicks, and ominous-looking holes. Their smell was formidable, too, although there he had to grant that everyone was getting a bit gamey, with water short and a lot of work in the hot sun.

  There were better than three thousand men and nearly a hundred chariots all up, though, and from their roaring cheers when Raushapa harangued them in Hurrian they seemed enthusiastic enough.

  “Translate for me,” he said when she’d finished, stepping up into the chariot beside her. Sabala’s leash was tied to the railing, and the hound barked hysterically until Raupasha called him sharply to heel.

  “Men of Mitanni,” he began. That brought another long cheer. “Men of Mitanni, your kingdom has been restored, now that Asshur is thrown down.”

  This time he was afraid the cheers would make somebody pop a blood vessel; a couple had fainted, although that might be the heat.

  “ We were traveling to Dur-Katlimmu to enthrone your queen.” Impatient, he held up a hand. They can certainly cheer; can they fight? “ Now a force of the Hittite rebel Kurunta of Tarhuntassa approaches, to deny you that.”

  This time the sound was a low growl. The Assyrians were hated bitterly, but the Hittites had left plenty of grudges as well.

  “With him march men of the Wolf Lord of Ahhiyawa,” he said, watching their unease. Rumors had penetrated this far, at least. “He has strong weapons and powerful magic, but so do your allies. Watch, and see.”

  A shiver of anticipation ran over them; they’d all heard what happened to the Assyrians. Hollard jumped down and walked over to the baggage train. The Islander section of it was mostly huge wagons pulled by twenty pair of camels; the beasts were groaning and complaining, as usual.

  A squad of Marine technicians had stacked their rifles and were hard at work assembling the ultralight that had come in with the latest shipment from the Island. As he watched they gave a unified hup-ho! and heaved the arrowhead-shaped wing up on top of the three aluminum struts above the little teardrop-shaped fuselage. That creaked on its tricycle undercarriage and creaked again as they busied themselves with the bolts. The pilot was going over the engine that drove the prop behind her seat, but came to her feet as he drew near.

  “Sir!”

  “At ease, Kayle,” he said. God, she looks pathetically young. “How does it look? ”

  “It’s a nice simple little engine, sir,” the Guard pilot said. “I double-checked the filters to make sure no sand had gotten into it. And, ah, sir . . .”

  “ Yes, Kayle? ”

  “Sir, we’re not fitting the bomb racks? ”

  “Kayle, this is a scouting mission. I want information, capiche? ”

  “Sir, yessir.”

  Kayle pushed her goggles back up on her forehead, threw her scarf over her shoulder, and climbed into the tiny cockpit. She tested the controls—essentially a set of wires that warped the wing—and chopped her hand forward. The crew bent and pushed the wing onto a stretch of open ground with no large rocks and turned the nose of the ultralight into the wind. The engine coughed, sputtered, then began its insectile drone.

  The crew kept hold of the wingtips until the pilot shouted to them to release, and the little aircraft bounced forward. Faster, with dirt and dust trailing back in a broad plume, and then on the fourth bounce it was airborne, banking up into the cloudless aching-blue sky.

  A long soft sigh of wonder came from the Mitannians as the eagle-painted wings banked and headed northwest to where the camel scouts had brushed the enemy patrols. Raupasha sighed herself as she stood beside him.

  “ To fly like that!” she said. “ The Emancipator is a wonder, but that would be like having the wings of your Eagle god, Lord Kenn’et.”

  “It is fun.” He found himself grinning at the girl’s eagerness, and then a thought struck him like ice water injected directly into the stomach.

  “It will make me feel much safer, when I lead my people into the fight,” she said sunnily.

  Oh, shit.

  Captain Chong smiled behind the slit of the sandbagged observation bunker, one of dozens built along Troy’s wall. The rising sun was behind them, giving a good view of the shoreline a half mile away; the city would be only a jagged black outline against a ball of fire to observers there. The Ringapi camp sprawled between, its campfires hazing heaven with their smoke. He cranked the field telephone sharply and pressed the Send button.

  “Up two,” the Marine said. “Ranging round, fire!”

  There was a whump from the Citadel, a long droning whistle, and then a slamming crump from the beach. Dirt and sand gouted skyward.

  Ian Arnstein raised his glasses. The cannon were still being towed shoreward on rafts from the Achaean ships anchored offshore. Not many black hulls pulled up on the beach, he thought, watching the doll-tiny men straining at their oars. The ships Walker had built were too big to do that; many of them were three-masters. There were a few of the traditional long, low penteconters, and he saw one that looked like a late-medieval Venetian galley, huge oars pulled by four men each and a brace of big guns pointing forward. That chilled him a little; it was just like Walker to commission a vessel of the sort that had made galley slaves common. Before then rowers were almost always free men.

  “The ships are just out of reach,” Chong said. “Three rounds, for effect!” And then “Cease fire!” regretfully, as the boats towing the rafts turned around and began thrashing the water toward the ships they’d just disembarked from.

  “Then they can’t get their guns close to the walls?” Ian said hopefully.

  “ I didn’t say that, sir,” Chong said. “ They just can’t land them here. We’re on the highest ground around, so we can hammer them as they come ashore. They’ll have to take them out of range and then bring them within range of the walls by night one at a time. It’ll cost them heavily, but I’ve got only four tubes and my ammunition is limited. Eventually they’ll get the guns in protected positions close enough to hit us.”

  “ What then? ” Arnstein asked, licking dry lips.

  The Chinese-born officer buckled his binocular case with a snap. “ Then they pound us into dust,” he said quietly.

  Arnstein nodded. But we’re buying time, he thought. It was a little comfort; not much, but a little. Walker doesn’t deal with frustration well. If we stand him off, he’ll get mad and stay longer than he should. Probably he just showed up to get things started.

  The bulk of the renegade’s troops were obviously elsewhere, judging by the numbers he could see. Doing what? he wondered—and then wished he hadn’t.

  You wanted adventure and
travel, Mandy Kayle thought, licking lips dried by the airstream. All right, Ms. Hotshot Pilot, you’ve got it. Endless deserts full of homicidal locals.

  The tawny landscape rolled away beneath her, with here and there a line of greener vegetation to mark a watercourse or arroyo. The wind blew past at forty-five miles an hour, barely a crawl up here at two thousand feet. She could see the dust plumes now.

  “Eagle Eye II here,” she said; it was a pilot’s privilege to pick her own call sign. “Eagle Eye II. I have the enemy under observation.”

  “ You’re coming through loud and clear, Two.”

  “Enemy are three miles to your northwest, proceeding in two columns of unequal size. Estimate the larger column to consist of ”—she juggled control stick and binoculars, tipping the Eye to the right to improve her view—“local troops, chariots one-fifty, repeat one-fifty, infantry three thousand, archers and spearmen, with oxcarts and pack donkeys to match. Over.”

  “Excellent work, Eye. Over.”

  Details sprang out at her: a charioteer’s long black hair spilling from under his helmet, ax flashing as he gestured with it; the plodding pace of infantry, breathing their own dust; a ripple of light on spearheads through the dust. The other column . . .

  “ Proceeding to close on second column.”

  She pushed the stick forward and to the side, working the pedals with her feet. There was the familiar lovely swooping sensation, the rattle and hum of air through the rigging, the snap of her scarf behind her. More grit at this level, but she kept the goggles up for a better view.

  “Second column is troops with firearms! Repeat, troops with firearms!”

  Men marching in order, in a column of fours behind a standard-bearer; mounted officers in modern saddles. Big wagons pulled by horses as well. And . . . one, two . . . six cannon. Something else too, something she couldn’t quite identify.

  And they’d seen her, right enough, men pointing, their mouths moving silently through the lenses of her binoculars. Moving to order, their packs thrown down, blocks throwing up their rifles in unison. Muzzle flashes winked up at her . . .