Turtledove, Harry - Anthology 07 - New Tales Of The Bronze Age - The First Heroes (with Doyle, Noreen)

by The First Heroes (anth. ) (lit)

  The Achaians have retreated to their ships, behind their rampart and ditch, but I can see no sign that they mean to retreat farther, to abandon the siege and sail away to their homeland. For Hektor, this is the chance for victory finally granted him by the gods. Tomorrow's fighting may end this war at last.

  All day the armies have battled at the earthen rampart protecting the Achaian ships. It is the invaders who are now forced onto the defensive, to fight from behind their walls. The ships—they are the prize. If the Wilusans can manage to burn the Achaian ships, Agamemnon's army will be trapped on the shore with no way of escape. But the Achaians defend them with fierce desperation.

  All day the battle has gone first one way, then the other. At least once Hektor's men broke over the wall and began to set fire to the ships, but the Achaians threw them back, at great cost in life to both sides. Savage fighting! The Wilusans have left their chariots behind in their camp. This is close combat, where a man will find his face spattered with his enemy's warm blood and trample his companion's entrails underfoot as he struggles to press forward. Men use their shattered spearshafts as clubs, they pick up rocks from t he ground to shatter the skulls of their enemies.

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  There will be no captives for sale at the end of this day's fighting. There will be no ransom, no quarter given, no mercy. No one would hear such an appeal over the din of clashing bronze, the screams of wounded and dying men.

  Such a terrible thing is war!

  Now it seems that the gods have turned against the people of Troia. Their great war-leader Hektor is dead, and once again the Achaian forces are at the walls of the citadel.

  Even before dawn, the sound of men arming for war could be heard across the battle plain. All through the night, I could hear the groaning of dying men as they lay in the dark with the stiffening corpses of companions and enemies who had gone ahead of them into death. So hard the fighting had been, so long, that the armies had not been able to gather in all the bodies.

  Then at dawn came the Achaian charge. The Wilusans had again kept their chariots in the rear, anticipating another day of close fighting. But the Achaians put their chariots at the spearhead of the attack, led by the formidable Achilleus. They cracked the Wilusan line, with the great mass of their footsoldiers rushing in behind.

  Men who have been in battles know this moment, when the line breaks, when men see their companions falling on either side, and others fighting beside them begin to look nervously toward the rear. A man can hold firm then, he can take a tighter grip on his sword or spear and call to his companions to stand fast against the enemy. He can press forward, hoping they will follow. Or he can turn and run.

  This is how armies die, when men panic, when they try to flee death. Rout is the older brother of defeat.

  At the center of his line, Hektor tried to rally his soldiers, he strode forward to meet the Achaian charge. But the force of the Achaian assault was too great. One after the other, the men who had followed him fell to the spears of the enemy, and Hektor was forced to give ground.

  The army of Troia broke and ran for the citadel, but few of them ever reached the safety of the gates. Behind them in their chariots came the vanguard of the Achaian host in bloodthirsty pursuit. One after another, men fell with Achaian spears through their backs.

  Some of the Wilusans, cut off in their retreat, turned to flee across the river called Skamandros to what they imagined was the safety of its far bank. But Achilleus pursued them, he and his men cutting down so many that the bodies dammed the sluggish summertide flow and the river became a lake of blood.

  As the panicked survivors of Troia's army fled through the gates, a small company of brave men,

  led by Hektor, made a fighting retreat, attempting to hold back the enemy. One by one they fell into

  the dust under the feet of the Achaians battling their way forward. At last, as the enemy was almost

  at the western gate, threatening at any moment to break through, the men inside managed to swing

  it shut and bar it.

  Trapped outside with the wall at their backs, Hektor and the few companions with him tried to

  flee for the south gate in hope they might still win their way through to safety. But the Achaians

  swarmed over them, stabbing with their spears and swords.

  When I heard them raise the triumphant shout: Achilleus! Achilleus! then I knew that Hektor was killed, and the hope of Troia with him. I must write to the Great King to tell him all these things. If he does not send his army, then the citadel will certainly fall, and all Wilusa will be lost. But now I see that the river has broken the dam of corpses, and a crimson floodtide is rushing to the sea, bearing the bodies of the dead on its crest.

  The remaining allies of the Troians left them at the end of the last season, and they have not returned. For a brief time then, when Paris killed the great Achaian captain Achilleus, the Troians had hope, but no more. The city's defenders still fight from its walls, yet they must know the end will come soon. Their enemies are relentless. Last month, after Paris was killed, Priamos finally sent out heralds to

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  Agamemnon offering to return the golden figure of Helene and all the treasure in his palace besides, but the Achaian king sent back word that the time to make restitution had passed.

  I observe that the battering ram moves closer to the western gate, despite all the Troians can do to prevent it. The Achaians have covered the framework with wet hides and armored it with bronze, so that the men who propel it forward are protected from weapons hurled down from the walls above. A ram is what we call such a machine in the Land of Hatti, but men here name it a horse.

  I have set my slaves to packing up my goods, everything I will be transporting back to Hattusa. There is no more reason for me to stay. The Great King has sent me his answer with a copy of his latest letter to Agamemnon:

  My brother, I am willing to accept your oath as you have written it to me. In exchange I, the Sun,

  grant you your vengeance on Priamos and his heir for the sacrilege they have done. Before all else,

  men must respect the gods.

  If you can take Priamos's citadel of Taroisa, all that is within it is yours. I will not send my army to

  prevent you or to defend the city against you. Out of respect for the gods I do this, because of the crime

  the king of Wilusa and his heir have committed against the gods.

  But as you have sworn your sacred oath, then when you have taken Taroisa and all its goods, you will go to your ships and depart from my land of Wilusa, nor will any force of yours remain there, nor will you return to the lands that are mine. And if you return to Wilusa, breaking your oath, or to any of the lands that are mine, then I, the Sun, will send my chariots and my footsoldiers to destroy you utterly without mercy.

  Now the Storm God of the Land of Haiti and the Storm God of Ah-hiya are witness to your oath, and they have seen your words. And if you fail to keep your oath, then shall the Storm God of Hatti and the thousand gods of Hatti destroy you and all your household and all your servants, and the Storm God of Ahhiya and all the gods of Ahhiya shall destroy you as an oathbreaker and a man hateful to all the gods.

  So the Great King has written. I have to suppose that Tudhaliya has relied at least in part on my own reports in making his decision. I pray to the gods that it was the truth I told him.

  Now the killing is finished, the ashes of the citadel are cooling, the taint of smoke is finally leaving the air. The Achaians have packed their tarred ships to the rails with their spoils of war, and many of them are already sailing away with weeping captive women stretching out their white arms toward their homeland as they see it fade out of sight.

  But Agamemnon, at least, is keeping his word about leaving the Great King's lands.

  I have my own goods packed and ready to leave, but I found myself first compelled to go one more time to the ruins of the citadel, to stand as a witness to all that has happened in t
his war. Men will say the end of Troia was the judgment of the gods on the crime of Paris, son of Priamos. Perhaps—yet brave men died here, men on both sides.

  But what I saw today in the ruins . . .

  Now I will not report this to the Great King. I may not ever speak of it to any man. But men do say that the golden figure of the goddess stolen by Paris was never recovered from the ashes of Priamos's citadel. Agamemnon had the palace searched before it was put to the torch, and all the city, but the golden goddess was never found.

  Yet today in the ruins of Troia, I came upon a woman, one who had survived the sack of the palace, or so at first I supposed. A golden woman, with burnished hair and skin that glowed with softness, as a man would imagine a goddess. Before I could think, I blurted out her name: "Helene?"

  The woman smiled at me, and though I am an old man, I felt the sap stirring in my veins at the sight of her. "You call me Helene? But Menelaos already has his wife again. She sits in his ship, weeping for dead Paris, sailing back to his palace in Sparta."

  I had to take a breath before I could speak. "I did not mean Helene who is the wife of Menelaos." She beckoned me closer, and her face glowed with her beauty. No man could fail to desire her. No man could not want to carry her away. Her voice, so compelling . . . "My name is Eris. I used to belong to Paris, but I can be yours now. Will you carry me away with the

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  rest of your captive women to Hattusa?" It may be that it was my old age which let me resist her temptation. If so, I am glad of it. "No, Lady. I will not." I left the ruins. I went back to my house and gathered my possessions to depart that place without looking back. For I know her. Even before I knew her name, I knew her. And now I know how poor dead Paris was deceived, the real reason the citadel of Priamos was doomed to destruction. I only pray to all the gods that the Land of Hatti is never likewise visited by Strife.

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  For the ancient Greeks, the bronze Age was the third generation of humanity: the first was the golden. Literature too has its golden ages, science fiction being no exception. During the golden age of science fiction the motifs, themes, and conventions of the genre, in forms seminal or conclusive, flourished: the imaginations of these authors, blossoming in the 1930s and '40s, were like the earth in the days of the Greek golden race, bearing fruit "abundantly and without stint." But they are, and were, science fiction's first generation, and only the gods are deathless.

  At about midnight on July 31, 2001, one of the great heroes of the golden age passed away . Poul Anderson had enjoyed a life of seventy-four years and a writing career of more than fifty. In that half century Poul's works ranged from hard science fiction to high fantasy, exploring technological and social implications on the level of society and, especially, of the individual. He did so with a wit, sincerity, and insight that we deeply miss.

  But eras rarely end with a definitive period. They tend to transform gradually, as what follows them comes from them. Poul knew this as well as any of us can.

  The Bog Sword

  Poul Anderson

  For a moment I hesitated, suddenly I half afraid. Sunlight played in the crowns of trees along this quiet residential street and spilled warmth across me. A neighboring lawn lay newly mown, not yet raked, and a breeze bore me the scent. In a few hours Jane would be through work and bring Myrtis home with her from day care. Next month we'd vacation by the sea. Just planning it was joyous. Did I really want to risk any of that?

  I'd been warned, I'd signed the waiver, but it was still possible to turn away. No. I straightened my shoulders, strode up the walk to the porch of the big old house, mounted the steps, and rang the bell.

  Rennie himself opened the door. "How do you do, Mr. Larsen," he said. "Welcome. Please come in." His formal courtesy had struck me a little strange at first, something out of another, more gracious age, coming as it did from an explorer on the frontiers of reality; but it had helped me trust him. Well, of course he was quite old by now. He led me to a living room lined with full bookcases and offered me a seat. A smile made further creases in his face. "Let me suggest we relax a bit first and get slightly better acquainted. If you don't think the hour is too early, would you care for a glass of wine?"

  "Why—" I realized that I would. "Yes, thank you." His tall form moved off. "Uh, can I help?"

  "No, no. I like to play host. Take your ease. Smoke if you wish. I'll be right back."

  Not even a maid? I wondered. And him a full professor.

  For a moment I thought that it fit the pattern. An emeritus should have the use of more university facilities than just the library, if he was still doing research. Certainly people throughout academe did who pushed ideas more controversial than his—sometimes harmful or downright crazy. Besides being a good teacher, Rennie had done respected studies of brain electrochemistry. But soon after he commenced on his psychophysics, he moved that work to his home, where it had continued ever since. I suspected pressure quietly applied. Not only did most scientists look askance at it, but a few of his subjects reported findings that didn't sit well with true believers in several creeds, especially political. And, of course, any administration would be afraid of legal liability. Thus far the dangers had been subtle, and nobody who suffered had sued, but you never knew.

  Widower. He's got to have a housekeeper who comes in and maybe cooks most of his dinners, at least. And he does apparently have friends in town, and sees the children and grandchildren once in a while. But otherwise a lonely man. Also in his work. Yes, very much so in his work. Nobody else has ever

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  managed to replicate his experiments with any consistency, no peer-reviewed professional journal has accepted any paper of his for decades, and he wants no part of the crank publications.

  He returned carrying a tray with two glasses, set it on a coffee table before me, and lowered himself into the chair opposite. "Are you Danish, Mr. Larsen?" he asked. "My father's parents were," I said, "and I've explained that I've been over there quite a bit, and hope for more." His white head nodded. "A charming country." He lifted his glass. "Let me therefore propose 'Skdl' and request that you forgive my pronunciation." We clinked rims and sipped. It was a good Beaujolais. His manner, though, did more to loosen the cold little knot of fear in me. We chatted for maybe ten minutes, then: "Let's be honest," he said. "This is a gamble on your part, with nothing whatsoever guaranteed. Do you really want to take it? You have a family."

  "Not much of a personal risk, is it?"

  "No, no physical hazard, and nobody's suffered a nervous breakdown or anything like that. However, I trust it was made quite clear to you that some of my subjects have found the experience . . . disconcerting. In a few cases, almost shattering. They've been haunted for weeks afterward, depression or nightmares or— Frankly, I suspect one or two never entirely got over it. The past is, for the most part, no more pleasant than our world today, often less. Or—emotional involvements—I respect their privacy and haven't tried to probe. But it's not like being a tourist, you know."

  "I do, sir. Generally, your people have come through all right, haven't they? Shaken up, sure. I

  expect to be, myself. However, the odds are, it should be well worth whatever it's likely to cost. My

  wife and daughter are prepared for having me broody a week or two."

  Rennie chuckled, turned serious again, and said, "And you hope to advance your career as a

  promising young archaeologist. You certainly will, if you come back with priceless clues to what to

  look for and where. But—I'm staying stubbornly honest, albeit perhaps boring—you do understand,

  don't you, the odds strike me as being against it? Hasn't Scandinavia been thoroughly picked over?"

  Eagerness stirred in me, the same that had made me apply for this. "You never know what'll turn up. Anyhow, way more important than physical objects, some insight into how people lived, thought, worshipped, everything. We have written records from southern European and Near Eastern count
ries, sort of, but nothing from the North."

  Rennie raised his brows. "I fear your colleagues won't necessarily take your word for what you witnessed. What proof will you have that it wasn't a hoax or, at best, a delusion? On the whole, mainstream science finds what I do no more acceptable than psionics in general."

  "I know that, too." I took a full swallow of the wine and leaned forward. "Sir, I didn't come in blind. I asked around, got in touch with several of your people, and—I think you're on to something. So maybe all I come home with is just an, an experience. Okay. I'll nevertheless have been there, lived it. I'll have interpretations of the evidence to offer; and what that might lead to, who can say?"

  "Ah, yes. Your application and our interviews, official though they've been, have certainly roused my interest. The Scandinavian Bronze Age, centering in what's now Denmark, was rich, extraordinarily creative, and generally fascinating, wasn't it?"

  "It had to be. Copper and tin aren't found there. So they had to trade widely across the known world, which means awareness of what was happening elsewhere. An aristocratic society, yes, like every society in its Bronze Age, but peaceful, to judge by what's been uncovered—not like the Stone Age before or, absolutely, the Iron Age afterward. How'd that come about?"

  Rennie frowned slightly. "You do realize you'll have only some hours, while your body lies unconscious for the same length of time here? Of course, the one yonder will have his or her own memories of earlier life, and many of those should come to mind. Please understand, too, that my control over the point and moment to which you return is quite uncertain. It could be off by hundreds of miles and hundreds of years. I've only groped my way gradually to any targeting at all. And, finally, under no circumstances will I ever send the same person back twice. Given the hazard in each single venture, ethics forbids."