To the slaves: "You've won your freedom. Now is the time to see about winning new lives."
One of the rebels laughed. "Why not go on until the masters are our slaves?" he said, in Greek even she could tell was broken. So were his teeth, and stained brown. "Then we will have all their good things."
"Because you can't fight without us, and we won't help you do that-unless the Achaeans decide to fight to the death."
"Never will we betray our lord!"
That was the Achaean soldier who'd spoken first. Two of his neighbors exchanged glances, then grabbed a leg each. Daggers flashed; Marian flung up a hand to hold the Marines back as the lethal brawl spread among the Achaeans. It was over quickly; three bodies lying limp, and another moaning and clutching a bleeding head.
Walker had sworn men who were personally loyal to him, but Achaea hadn't been a nation even before he came and vastly expanded it-the whole notion would be alien to these people. Only a few of the Kings and great nobles even thought of the Achaean lands as a unit at all. For the rest, local loyalties were to kin and place; and Walker hadn't had time to build up the sort of dynastic legitimacy that an established royal family here could call on. Another generation or two, and his system might have set down deep roots…
But as it is, he hasn't. And oh, does that make a difference! Not while he's winning, but given a defeat, and an enemy on his soil… Plus his best troops were in Anatolia or Greece, not this backwater.
"Hear my word," she went on. "Here is my proposal. We are willing to let the Achaeans here live… so long as they promise to take no more part in this war and open their fortresses. They can keep their lands and goods as well."
That brought shouts of rage from the Sicels and slave rebels as well. She turned to them and made a soothing gesture; the Marines brought their rifles around to present the points of the bayonets.
"The lands of the King and the dead and those who don't live here, those are forfeit." Which would be a good two-thirds of the island. "Every slave who wants one can have a farm, or the tools of his trade; and so that nobody need fear his neighbor, let it be proclaimed that the taking of folk into slavery shall never be allowed here again. There will be land for you Sicels, too; not as much as you might want, but it's better than being hunted like game through the mountains or caught and sent to the mines, isn't it?"
The Sicel chiefs looked interested. They all came from the wildest parts of the mountains; the coastal tribes where most of the settlers were located had been wiped out long ago…
"But who shall till our fields?" a well-dressed Achaean asked in bewilderment. "If there are no slaves?"
Marian held up her hands and moved the fingers. "We have another saying: He who does not work, does not eat. You have your machines and the strength of your hands. For those who have more land than they can work, some of your former slaves might want to rent land, in return for tools and beasts and seed-grain. Or Sicels from the highlands, where making a living is so hard."
They weren't looking happy about that, but most of the bigger slaveowners had been absentees, or had died in the first explosive flare of the uprising because they and their retainers were so heavily outnumbered. The rest were farmers with moderate holdings or townsmen; Walker had handed out a lot of quarter sections, a hundred and sixty acres. That was riches by the standards of the Bronze Age, but he'd also had nineteenth-century farm equipment manufactured. A family could make a good living without killing themselves.
"More important-who shall rule?" another man asked.
Okay, let's see if we can get this across, she thought, and took a deep breath. "We don't wish to rule here. We suggest that each of your factions elect-get together and choose by show of hands"-none of these languages had a word for vote, but an assembly of the tribe's warriors was a familiar institution- "a man, a consul. The three consuls will rule, and each district should hold an assembly which-
It took all day just to get the idea across. Probably the Sicilian Republic would dissolve in chaos as soon as the small Islander garrison departed-she was going to use a couple of battalions of Alban auxiliaries for that, as long as she needed Syracuse as a base.
Then again, it might not; and it would serve Nantucket's purpose either way.
Spring came late to the uplands of central Anatolia, but when it did it came with a rush. Kenneth Hollard inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the flowering cherry trees and the fresh green of the grass underfoot; the breeze was from the south, carrying a kiss of warmth. It was good to walk freely, out of the fusty closeness of winter quarters, to air out the body and the soul.
Even better with a girl, he thought.
Raupasha's hand rested shyly in his. A dusting of the blossoms rested on her raven hair and the dark linen shoulders of her robe. He smiled down into the scarred, lovely face. Sabala sniffed at them, then raced off to make lunging snaps at butterflies.
"I did not dream a great warrior could be so… so sweet," she said a bit breathlessly, after they broke the clinch and walked on.
I didn't dream I could be so goddamned horny and not mind waiting… well, not mind it much, he thought. And: By God, an Islander upbringing gets you mileage here. Men here didn't have much technique; they didn't really need it.
As if to confirm his thought, Raupasha went on: "It is so strange, this custom you have of men and women arranging their own marriages… doesn't it lead to much foolishness, as youth lacks the wisdom of age?"
He nodded. "We marry later than your folk, usually. But yes, about as much unhappiness as any other way… but we have a saying, that it's better to be ruled by your own mistakes than someone else's wisdom."
That shocked her a little; he could see her frown. "But… then, how can a man be sure his bride is a virgin? If she has gone about seeking a man on her own."
He chuckled gently. The question made complete sense, in her terms; for that matter, his own ancestors-unless they happened to be Fiernan Bohulugi, or Trobriand Islanders-would have agreed with it.
"We don't think more of virginity in a woman than in a man," he said. Most of us, at least. "And as for married women, people can either trust each other, or they can't."
"In that case," she said, halting again and putting her arms around his neck.
A few minutes later her fingers were scrabbling open the buckle of his webbing belt with desperate eagerness. He pulled the hem of her robe upward and she raised her arms to free it, gasping as his mouth sought a breast and they both sank toward the soft spring grass-
Arrooooooown. Arroooooown.
"Oh, God dammit to hell, what now?"
That was the charioteer's horn, the agreed signal of something important. Raupasha broke away, smoothing her hair and rumpled gown, flushed and smiling as they walked back toward the vehicle; he ground his teeth and walked carefully.
All winter to get over the trauma, and now that she has, we get interrupted!
A mounted Hittite messenger waited beside the chariot; his mount was lathered, and he sweat-stained and tired.
"Lord Kenn'et," he said, and extended a leather tube.
Kenneth broke the seal and tapped the paper out into his hands, unrolling it and reading quickly. Part of it was written in Akkadian, but in Roman letters. Raupasha's smile died as she looked at his face; hers was grave and waiting as he looked up.
"What news, lo-, Ken," she said. "Is Walker moving?"
"Yes," he said. His fist crumpled the paper. "But that's not the whole of it." Her brows went up. "Pharaoh has denounced the treaty with the Hittites. Evidently he thinks this would be a good time to get revenge for the Battle of Kadesh. A bit startling and a bit late, seeing that that was forty years ago, but…" He shrugged.
Raupasha blinked, turning from an eighteen-year-old in love to the ruler who'd commanded a chariot squadron behind enemy lines. For a moment her living eye was as blank as the molded leather one in the mask that covered the scarred part of her face.
"But how can we turn aside to the sou
th, if Walker moves in from the west?"
"We can't," Hollard said grimly. "Tudhaliyas has called up his southern levies and vassals. They'll have to hold Pharaoh."
"But they are troops without firearms!"
He nodded. "Possibly the commodore can send help from Sicily."
"If not…'
"If not, Ramses may walk all the way to the walls of Hattusas."
"Or to the Euphrates, and cut us here off from Kar-Duniash, which is nearly as bad."
They looked at each other and stepped into the chariot. "Iridmi!" Raupasha called crisply. "To the camp-and do not spare the team."
CHAPTER THIRTY
April, 11 A.E.-Canaan, Kingdom of Egypt
April, 11 A.E.-Central Anatolia, Kingdom of Haiti-land
April, 11 A.E.-Canaan, Kingdom of Egypt
April, 11 A.E.-Eurotas Valley, Kingdom of Great Achaea
April. 11 A.E.-Damascus, Kingdom of Haiti-Land
April, 11 A.E.-Meggido, Kingdom of Egypt
April, 11 A.E.-Walkeropolis, Kingdom of Great Achaea
April, 11 A.E.-Meggido, Kingdom of Egypt
April, 11 A.E.-Achaean camp, western Anatolia
The cannon were keeping up well with the chariots; Pharaoh would be pleased.
Djehuty, Commander of the Brigade of Seth, was a little uncomfortable on horseback even after months of practice with the new saddle with stirrups; the son riding beside him had learned more quickly.
Still, there was no denying it was convenient. He turned his horse and rode back down along the track beside his units, with the standard-bearer, scribes, aides, and messengers behind him. The rutted track was deep in sand, like most of the coastal plain of Canaan… where it wasn't swamp mud or rocks. The infantry in their banded-linen corselets plodded along, their brown faces darker yet with dust and streaked with sweat under their striped headdresses of thick canvas. Round-topped rectangular shields were slung over their shoulders, bronze spear blades glinted in the bright sun. After them came a company of Nubians, Medjay mercenaries from far up the Nile. Djehuty frowned; the black men were slouching along in their usual style, in no order at all… although anyone who'd seen one of their screaming charges could forgive them that.
Then came one of the New Regiments; they wore only kilts and pleated loin-guards, but there were leather bandoliers of papyrus cartridges at their right hips and muskets over their shoulders. Djehuty scowled slightly at the sight of them, despite the brave show they made with their feet moving in unison and the golden-fan standard carried before them on a long pole.
Their weapons are good, he acknowledged. "But will they stand in battle?" he asked himself. They were peasants, not iw'yt, not real soldiers, raised from childhood in the barracks.
After them came the cannon themselves, wrought with endless difficulty and expense. Djehuty's thick-muscled chest swelled with pride under his iron-scale armor at the number Pharaoh entrusted to him-a full dozen of the twelve-pounders, as they were called in the barbaric tongue of their inventors. Each was a bronze tube of a length equal to a very tall man's height, with little bronze cylinders cast on either side so that the guns could ride in their chariotlike mounts. Very much like a chariot, save that the pole rested on another two-wheeled cart, the limber, and that was hauled by six horses with the new collar harness that bore on their shoulders rather than their necks.
Better for the horses, he admitted grudgingly, passing on to the chariots. Those had changed in the last few years as well. Besides a compound bow and quiver on one side, there was a scabbard on the other for two double-barreled shotguns, and the crew was now three, like a Hittite war-cart-one being a loader for the warrior who captained the vehicle.
He reined in and took a swig from the goatskin water bottle at his saddle. It cut gratefully through the dust and thick phlegm in his mouth, and he spat to the side and drank again, since there were good springs nearby and no need to conserve every drop. Years of work, to make the Brigade of Seth the finest in Pharaoh's service, and then to integrate the new weapons.
To be good commanders, his father had told him, we must love our army and our soldiers. But to win victories, we must be ready to kill the thing we love. When you attack, strike like a hammer and hold nothing back.
"Stationed in Damnationville with no supplies," he said, a soldier's saying as old as the wars against the Hyskos.
"But sir, there are plenty of supplies," his son said.
Djehuty nodded. "There are now, boy," he said. "But imagine being stuck here on garrison duty for ten years."
The young man looked around. To their left was the sea, brighter somehow than that off the Delta. The road ran just inland of the coastal sand dunes; off to the right a line of hills made the horizon rise up in heights of blue and purple. Thickets of oak dotted the plain, and stretches of tall grass, still green with summer rain. Grain turned yellow in a few patches of cultivation, here and there a vineyard or olive grove, but the land was thinly peopled-had been since the long wars Pharaoh had waged early in his reign, nearly forty Nile floods ago.
And those did not go well, he remembered uneasily-he'd been a stripling then, but nobody who'd been at Kadesh was going to believe in the great Egyptian victory that the temple walls proclaimed.
A village of dun-colored huts with flat roofs stood in the middle distance, dim through the greater dust plume of the Egyptian host passing north. The dwellers and their stock were long gone; sensible peasants ran when armies passed by.
By the standards of the vile Asiatics, the hairy dwellers in Amurru, this was flat and fertile land. To an Egyptian, it was hard to tell the difference between this and the sterile red desert that lay east of the Nile.
"War and glory are only found in foreign lands," the younger man said stoutly.
"Well spoken, son," the commander said. He looked left; the Ark of Ra was sinking toward the waters. "Time to camp soon. And Pharaoh will summon the commanders to conference in the morning."
"My Kat'ryn…" Kashtiliash of Babylon said.
"Yeah, Kash?" she said, looking up from the washstand. Beads of water ran down the smooth-muscled shoulders, over breasts like lathe-turned wine cups. The pink nipples stiffened to the touch of the chill water, in the predawn cold.
He seated sword and revolver more firmly on his hips and took a deep breath. Holding his spear firm for the charge of a lion or boar was easier than this. Kathryn took up a towel and began to dry herself; uniform and helmet and weapons waited on a stand in the corner of the rammed-earth commanders' quarters.
"Kat'ryn, I have been months gone from the land of Kar-Duniash."
She nodded, suddenly slightly wary. "Yes… has anyone made trouble back home?"
"No," he snorted. "Nor will any, so long as they know I would come down the Euphrates with the New Troops and the cannon should a usurper arise; also my half brothers are here with us-and you know that is not chance. But… the Egyptians are moving, and they threaten our line of communications."
"You're worried about rebellion?" she said.
"I have no son of my Great Wife as yet," he said quietly. "My others are children. If I were cut off here…"
"You're going to pull the army out, Kash?" she asked steadily. Lamplight glinted in the alien blue eyes.
"No," he shook his head. "My word is good. But if our line to Babylon is threatened, I must send part of these troops to secure it. I must; the safety of my House and the realm require it."
She threw down the towel and came to him. "I understand," she said. A sudden lynx grin. "So, let's finish Walker first, and then it'll be Pharaoh's turn, eh?"
Ramses stood as erect as a granite monolith, wearing the military kilt and the drum-shaped red crown of war with the golden cobra rearing at his brows, waiting as still as the statue of a God. The officers knelt and bowed their heads to the carpet before him in the shade of the great striped canvas pavilion. There was a silence broken only by the clank of armor scales and creak of leather. Then the eunuch herald's voice ra
ng like silver in the cool air of dawn:
"He is The Horus, Strong Bull, Beloved of Ma'at; He of the Two Goddesses, Protector of Khem who Subdues the Foreign Lands; the Golden Horus, Rich in Years, Great in Victories; He is King of Upper and Lower Egypt, Strong in Right; He is User-Ma'at-Ra, Son of Ra; Ramses, Beloved of Amun."
The officers bowed again to the living God, and Pharaoh made a quick gesture with one hand. The officers bowed once more and rose.
Djehuty came to his feet with the rest. Servants pulled a cover off a long table. It was covered by a shallow-sided box, and within the box was a model made of sand mixed with Nubian gum, smelling like a temple on a festival day. Its maker stood waiting.
The outland dog, Djehuty thought. Mek-Andrus the foreigner, the one who'd risen so high in Pharaoh's service. He wore Egyptian headdress and military kilt but foreign armor-a long tunic of linked iron rings. Foreign dog. Disturber of custom.
"The servants of Pharaoh will listen to this man, now Chief of Chariots," Ramses said. "So let it be written. So let it be done."
Djehuty bowed his head again. If Pharaoh commands that I obey a baboon with a purple arse, I will obey, he thought. Mek-Andrus was obviously part Nubian, too, with skin the color of a barley loaf and a flat nose. The will of Pharaoh is as the decrees of fate.
The foreigner moved to the sand table and picked up a wooden pointer. "This is the ground on which we must fight," he said. His Egyptian was fluent, but it had a sharp nasal accent like nothing any of the Khemites had ever heard before. "As seen from far above."
All the officers had had the concept explained to them. Some were still looking blank-eyed: Djehuty nodded and looked down with keen interest. There was the straight north-south reach of the coast of Canaan, with the coastal plan narrowing to nothing where the inland hills ran almost to water's edge; a bay north of that, where a river into the sea. The river marked a long trough, between the hills and the mountains of Galilee to the north, and it was the easiest way from the sea inland to the big lake and the Jordan valley.
"The Hittites, the men of Kar-Duniash, the mariyannu of the Asiatic cities, the Armanaean tribes, and their allies are approaching from the northeast, thirty-five thousand strong not counting their auxiliaries and camp followers, according to the latest reports."
On the Oceans of Eternity Page 73