Mamelukes

by Jerry Pournelle

  Lucia nodded and set off with fresh determination. Before they’d gone a block, at least ten others had fallen in behind her column. She smiled in satisfaction, and her smile widened as more added themselves to it. It wasn’t much of a fighting force, but it was all hers.

  * * *

  Lucia watched with pride as her workmen constructed the fortress in front of Palazzo San Marco. The three steel containers—the best steel Lucia had ever seen—stood squarely in front of the palace, about fifteen yards apart, raised on timbers which would keep them above water even when high tide flooded the square and well back from the fortifications taking form before them. Teams of men pried up paving stones, levering them out of the Palazzo’s pavement, for other men—supervised by her father, Guido Facione, and their workmen—to heap in a shoulder-high barricade reinforced with massive, seasoned timbers from the Arsenale. Wherever possible, the timbers were protected by fireproof bronze sheets, also brought down from the Arsenale with the container that had been there.

  And that had been a fight! Even the star woman had opposed it! And Lucia had heard that much of the Signory had argued against placing all the containers in one place. The Warlord Rick had insisted, and one of the boys said he’d brought men with star weapons when he went to confront the Signory. That must have been a great scene, and Lucia would have given much to have seen it.

  But now the containers stood in their row, behind the stout parapets. Vats of water and buckets of sand stood ready to control fires, and still more men had used some of the precious gunpowder to demolish much of one of the smaller palaces. Not just for additional stone for the fortifications, either. Lucia had heard one of the star men talking about “fields of fire,” as well. It was astonishing how quickly men could work when a pirate fleet was at the door, she thought.

  “Good job, I’d say.”

  Professore Clavell had come up behind her. He didn’t look like a professore now. He was dressed in the same odd-colored clothing Lord Harrison always wore, and although his vest didn’t look much like armor, the rumor was that it would stop arrows or even spears as well as bronze would. Perhaps better, even though it looked like cloth that was flexible, not like metal at all. He carried what he called his battle rifle and wore another star weapon in a scabbard under his left arm. He also had a very wicked looking dagger, not locally made. In fact, it was unlike anything Lucia had ever seen, and it fascinated her. It would require very good steel, a lot of charcoal hammered into the blade, but her father could sell daggers like that to half the Signory.

  “Your classmate, the Councilor’s daughter—”

  “Ginarosa Torricelli,” Lucia said, a bit puzzled by the Professore’s difficulty recalling his own student’s name.

  “Yes, that’s her. She was at the Arsenale when we went up to get the container that was there. Very helpful she was. There were some who didn’t want us to take it, including your sister, but Ginarosa seemed to have a lot of people behind her when she said she supported us. And she was waving her father’s ring, like it gave her a lot of power.”

  “It would, with her father’s men,” Lucia said. “Rosa can be very determined when she’s sure she’s right.”

  “Yeah, I saw that. So did Mr. Saxon.”

  “The star man?” She tried not to let her face show her emotions, but it was hard to be calm. “Do you know him well?”

  “Not very. But he’s pretty smart. He was here earlier. After we retrieved the last container from the Senator’s house, he went inside one of them and brought out some things to help us fight the pirates.”

  “Yes.” Lucia was annoyed. The star man was here, but she’d been so busy gathering and encouraging the workers that she hadn’t seen him! Now—

  “Professore, do you know where he’s gone?”

  “Last I saw he was heading to our palace to make weapons.”

  “Oh. And Ginarosa? Signorina Torricelli?”

  “Haven’t seen her since we brought the containers here,” Professore Clavell said with a frown. He looked away, glancing around the Palazzo as if searching for her.

  “Where is the safest place to be when the fighting begins?” Lucia asked.

  “Right here,” the Professore said. “Well, in the Palace there, where arrows can’t hit you.”

  “But— Won’t the pirates be coming here?”

  “Eventually, Signorina. We hope to kill a lot of them here.”

  “But there are so many! Or so people say. What if you can’t kill enough of them?” she asked, and Professore Clavell looked serious.

  “Then nobody in the city is safe,” he said. “We’re evacuating—moving—as many citizens to the upper city as we can. They should be safe there, at least for now. But if we lose down here, they won’t be safe for long. Maybe a few can hide, but—”

  “Yes,” Lucia said. “Yes, I understand. Thank you, Professore. I will go seek my friend and be sure she stays here, also. I’ll put her in the Palace. Now where do you want me?”

  “You? You can’t fight—”

  “Do not be so sure of that, Professore. And whether I can fight or not, I can help put out fires. My father’s men obey me, or did you not notice?”

  “We all did,” Clavell said. Lucia couldn’t be sure, but she thought star man was sincere, not mocking her.

  “And Ginarosa’s father’s men will all be with her. And she’s my best friend.”

  “It will be very dangerous here when the fighting begins . . . ” The Professore looked thoughtful.

  “And you just told me that no place is safe if we lose this battle.” She shrugged. “Perhaps we can help win it.”

  “Maybe you can,” Clavell replied, still deep in thought, then looked into the distance. “Hey, isn’t that your sister?”

  Lucia looked in astonishment. It was Catarina, walking side by side and chattering with one of the star men who had arrived with the coronel. What was his name again? Ah, yes Warner! Lucia remembered hearing that he was a learned man who Lord Rick trusted and turned to for advice.

  * * *

  Lance Clavell watched Warrant Officer Larry Warner approach.

  Clavell envied Warner’s advancement and obvious connection to the Colonel, but he didn’t resent it. Warner always seemed a little embarrassed about being promoted over his peers and rarely pulled rank, even if he did have a habit of lecturing. Besides, by all accounts Warner was working his tail off at the University when he wasn’t pulled back into uniform. No soft duty for him.

  At the moment, Warner’s head was bent as he talked with the young lady walking beside him. Clavell had seen Catarina Michaeli on only a few, rare occasions. In fact, he’d seen more of her this evening than he had in all his previous time in Nikeis. Catarina was normally very shy and quickly disappeared after introductions. In fact, he’d heard she was a bit of a recluse who haunted the Arsenale and the family foundry. But tonight, she seemed enthralled by some tale Warner was spinning about a balloon ride.

  A group of workers followed them, pulling carts full of barrels and other supplies.

  “Mr. Warner,” Clavell said in greeting as he saluted.

  “Sergeant Clavell,” Warner replied with a smile.

  “Last I saw you,” Clavell said in English, “I thought Signorina Catarina was going to eat you alive. She seemed pretty pissed off that we stole her work crews to move the containers. Then we kept them to build fortifications!”

  “Good thing Signorina Torricelli was there to intervene,” Warner replied in the same language. “Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t be here talking to you. But once Catarina heard my name, she suddenly started asking questions about my balloon rides and how it worked.”

  Clavell hid a smile and nodded seriously.

  “What’s in the carts?” he asked, shifting back to the local language.

  “Oh, almost forgot. Catarina and her crew were very helpful in gathering together barrels of tar and other things. Including this.”

  Warner motioned to one of several carts
loaded down with barrels. A workmen lifted the lid from one of the barrels, and Clavell smelled the strong scent of guano.

  “God, seagull crap!” He shook his head. “If you’re looking for Saxon, he’s in my place, making bombs. Came by here to grab a copy of The Anarchist Cookbook, among other things.”

  “Really?” Warner chuckled. “Man, could we have used that earlier! Lots of good stuff in there to make things go boom. Speaking of which, were you able to get the Signory to give up some of their gunpowder?”

  “Yeah.” Clavell grimaced wryly. “I got it. And after taking the containers and asking for everything else the Colonel sent me after, they started to wonder if I was going to ask for the gold in their teeth.”

  “They do realize all of this is to help defend them, right?”

  “Sure. You didn’t expect them not to squeal about it anyway, did you?”

  “Not so much,” Warner acknowledged with a smile. “Wanna bet they don’t have spies watching to see what we do with it all so they can copy us later?”

  “Thanks, no,” Clavell said dryly.

  “Alrighty, then,” Warner said. “I’m going to go join Professore Saxon in the bomb factory.”

  “Try not to blow it up,” Clavell said, as he saluted again. “I kind of like the place.”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  Warner headed off, still talking with Catarina Michaeli, and Clavell noticed Lucia trailing along behind.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BEST LAID PLANS

  The Roman quinquireme Ferox worked its way eastward from the South Channel, followed by the rest of the Roman squadron. The wind out of the northeast was brisk, strong enough already to raise whitecaps and blow occasional spray across the decks, and it was clearly strengthening. The channel was twisty and not well marked, winding between mud flats, many of them underwater now, which made progress slow. The True Sun was barely above the horizon, and it was difficult to see channel markers in the dawn light. Most of the markers had been removed, anyway, to make life difficult for the invaders.

  Which also makes things tough for allied captains who don’t know the channel, of course, Larry Warner thought. Can’t have everything, I guess.

  They’d headed out in the predawn gloom when one of the rocket-equipped picket ships signaled that it had spotted sails on the horizon. Now they were leaving the lee of the taller islands which surrounded the inner lagoon, headed for a breakwater which marked a safe channel exit from the outer lagoon, and the leadsman on the leeward relief platform cast a line forward. Warner stood braced against the mainmast while he mentally translated the leadsman’s calls.

  “No bottom,” he chanted monotonously. Then “Fondo. Bottom at mark three. Bassofondo.”

  Mark three, Warner thought. Three fathoms. Nikeis still used the original fathom—a bit over five feet; the distance of a man’s outstretched arms—brought to Tran by the transplanted Romans. The Brits, taller than ancient Romans, used a six-foot fathom, but as far as Warner knew, the almost-five-and-a-half-foot fathom was standard on Tran, so three fathoms was fifteen feet. Actually, a little more than sixteen. Less than three real fathoms, though. They’d strayed out of the channel, and the water was shoaling, but they hadn’t run aground. Close, though. Not much water under the bottom here, he thought, and looked aft.

  Captain Pilinius wore his Roman army tunic, with neither armor and helmet nor marks of rank, but that hardly mattered. Everyone on the ship knew he was its master as he stood snarling at the Nikeisian pilot at the starboard steering oar, aft on the quarterdeck. Fleetmaster Junius stood talking to Lieutenant Martins on the babordo side, and Warner remembered some discussion about pecking order seniority and who was supposed to be upwind of whom, but—

  “Fondo. Mark three!”

  Shallow, yeah, Warner thought. But from Pilinius’ expression, I think we’re pretty far outside the channel, and it shouldn’t be this deep here. Not good. Not good at all.

  He looked up the mast.

  “Hang on good!” he shouted. “Water’s shoaling. Hang on in case we hit bottom. See anything?”

  “Not a thing, Mr. Warner,” Private Trevor Manners called down from the small platform just above the hoist block for the lateen sail. “Not a thing.”

  At least he didn’t remind me it’s been all of five minutes since the last time I asked, Warner thought.

  The ship pitched badly, and he looked up at Manners in alarm. But the private seemed to be secure enough, so he turned and peered into the wind, instead. The whitecaps even here in the outer lagoon seemed bad enough to him, but the wide entrance through the breakwater was ahead. Some of the high seas came through into the lagoon, and beyond the breakwater, the waves were higher still, many of them with whitecaps and a few of them breaking. Quite a few of those waves were breaking across the breakwater, too, despite the fact that they were still hours away from high tide, and he tried to remember the exact language of the Beaufort scale.

  Large waves begin to form; the white foam crests are more extensive everywhere; probably some spray. That seems to be happening out there. Beaufort scale six, I think. Next step up is a near gale . . . and it may not stop there. Wonderful.

  A gale would be a serious blow for ships this size. In fact, the oarsmen were already working hard to send Ferox forward with the wind off the port bow, and the quinquireme didn’t seem to care for it, even here inside the breakwater. They weren’t going to be setting any speed records once they got outside it, either.

  Martins called it “bracing weather,” Warner thought, and tried not to think about being seasick. If you don’t admit you’re seasick it’s better, he told himself firmly. What the hell am I doing out here?

  Well, if nothing else, this would make him and Martins the two officers with the most sea experience. And Martins was no engineer; he didn’t even have a college degree.

  With my experience, I should be put in charge of experimenting with the new navy we’ll be building with the stuff in those containers. Admiral Warner. Commodore, anyway. Chief of BuShips! Guns, steam engines—learn about armor and ironclads . . .

  Of course, first I have to live through this, he thought wryly.

  The shoulder mic clipped to his field jacket epaulet chirped twice. The radio itself was tucked securely inside his jacket to protect it from the salt spray, and he pressed the talk button on the shoulder unit.

  “Hunter One. Over.”

  He released the button.

  “Mason,” the radio said. “We may have a sighting on the horizon. Don’t sound any alarms yet; we’re not sure. The light’s still pretty crappy. I’ve got McAllister going up to the top of the tower to confirm. All’s well? Over.”

  “So far, so good. Pilinius hates having a pilot aboard and insists on repeating every instruction so no goddamn Nikeisian buzzard lion is giving orders to his helmsmen, but he looks happy enough. Major, if we’re facing action, I need to tell them pretty quick. We’re coming to the breakwater. Over.”

  “I can see that. Sea looks rough,” Mason replied. “But it’s going to be a while until they close. Over.”

  “You’re right. It’s not like these things are speedboats. Over.”

  “How are you doing? Over.”

  “It’s rough. We’ve already got spray coming across the bow and down the ship. And that’s here in the lagoon. Out there, I make it Beaufort six, and I think it’s getting stronger. Stiff breeze, Beaufort scale says. Next step up is a half gale, and we’ll have that in a few hours. Maybe sooner. I think it’s too risky to go outside the breakwater. Especially if we have to fight. Over.”

  “That decision is in the hands of the sailors, I’m afraid. Over.”

  “Yeah, I figured that. It sounds like they’re spoiling for a fight. Over.”

  Let sailors be sailors, Warner remembered Baker saying. And soldiers be soldiers. Turns out that limey bastard Martins speaks Latin. Learned it in some fancy boarding school in England taught by Benedictine monks. Walked the Colonel right
into that one. Might as well have had Publius in on the planning session from the start.

  “You all right out there?” Mason asked. “You’re expected to live through this. Acknowledge. Over.”

  “Acknowledged,” Warner said. “One order I’m damned happy with. But the oarsmen don’t look too scared, and they’re pulling us just fine. Captain Pilinius looks like he’s having fun, so far at least.” Of course, he’s got that damned Roman stiff upper lip, doesn’t he? “We’re all right. In here.” He thought about turning the ship broadside on to the seas out beyond the breakwater and shuddered. “We’re already being blown all over the place even in here, though. Martins says it’s because these ships have no keels, so we get blown downwind. Have to install dagger boards, real rudders or something . . . ”

  Warner let go of the transmit button as he drifted deeper into thought. But his ruminations were quickly dispersed when he heard Mason’s voice.

  “Any danger of your running aground? Over.”

  “No. In fact, the markers don’t mean a lot, because we can sail outside the channel. And if a ship this big can do that, I bet any of the pirates can, except maybe the navibus onerārius. They might still have too much draft. I think it’s storm surge. I wouldn’t expect the outer breakwaters or mud flats to channel the pirates. Over.”

  “Let me get this straight. You say the water’s deep enough that the pirates can just come straight in? Over.”

  “Not sure, Major, but I know damned well we got outside the channel a couple of times, and we didn’t run aground. How far that goes, I don’t know. I do know the pilot seemed surprised. Over.”

  “I’ll tell the Colonel,” Mason said. “Thanks. Anything else? Over.”

  “Nothing from my end, but how’s McAllister doing?” Warner tried to keep his voice calm. It was bad enough heading into a land battle, but out at sea was worse. No way to run away. “Over.”

  “Mac’s up the ladder. Got to the top. Hang on a sec—Okay, it’s official. Sails on the horizon. Stand by for the count. First count. More than ten. Bearing, dead north of the tower. At least ten sail dead north of my location in the bell tower. Over.”