On the Oceans of Eternity (99 page)

Walker’s viceroy had been one of his original followers. Danny Rodriguez’s body still hung from the gallows at the edge of camp, but he’d been dead when the Marines caught him, stabbed by a member of his hareem.

Even divided as they were, the Achaeans were a miracle of unity compared to the Sicels. The slaves were as numerous as both the other groups put together, but even less organized. Still, the month of fighting had thrown up some natural leaders ...

“Greetings,” she said.

An interpreter put that in Achaean, and all the respective groups had at least one person who could turn that into whatever.

“We are all come here under sign of truce to arrange an end to this war.”

One of the Achaeans shot to his feet. “The King of Men will put an end to the war, and to you invaders!”

Alston put her hands on her webbing belt. “He hasn’t shown much interest in doing so,” she replied dryly. “His armies are in the Hittite lands, and his fleet is keeping to its bases, to defend his seat of power and his palace. He has abandoned you.”

The Achaean snarled; he was wearing the remains of Walker’s gray uniform. Some of the other Greeks around him nodded, though.

Ah. Doreen was right.

The problem with tying down a conquest by land grants was that it gave the settlers a vested interest. They’d fight to defend it, yes ... but they’d also negotiate to defend it, if fighting didn’t look too successful. These men had families and farms and homes to think of; and the first gruesome results of the uprising that had accompanied the Islander invasion were enough to make anyone thoughtful.

A Sicel chief rose next, a lean brown little man in a loincloth and cloak of goatskin, with long tangled black hair. His folk looked a lot like Tartessians, in a primitive sort of way, and spoke a language related to the Iberians’—about as close as Italian would be, would have been, to Spanish.

“Why should we talk peace when the invaders still stand on the Lady’s holy soil? Let them get gone, or die.” His eyes moved over to the slave rebels with whom he’d found himself in uneasy alliance. “The ones they have brought here, they can go, too.”

Shouts and threats boiled free. Not many of the slaves had anywhere to go. Either their homes had been overrun by Walker’s men, or they’d been sold by hostile neighbors not interested in seeing them back.

Marian waited a moment, then nodded. Swindapa picked up the powered megaphone and held the microphone near the output diaphragm. Feedback squeal stabbed into ears; forewarned, Marian kept her response to a slight flinch. Overhead the Liberator plowed the air in a slow circle, vastly more intimidating to eyes that didn’t know how much of her bulk was fabric and gasbag.

“Silence!” she said into the quiet that followed.

A strong earthy smell came up the hill to her, and a reek of fear sweat. Most of these men had been fighting for weeks now, and going in terror of their lives—of seeing their womenfolk and children raped or burned alive before their eyes, as well. It showed; and their nerve wasn’t what it might have been either.

“You—” She pointed to the Sicel. “Dakenterar. Your people are no longer numerous enough to hold this island by themselves. The Achaeans are as many as you, and their slaves twice as many.”

Those were the proportions the Intelligence people had gotten from Foreign Affairs; the Arnsteins’ numbers were pretty reliable. Of course, the whole population was a good deal smaller than it had been a month ago, but the reductions seemed to have been roughly similar all ’round.

“You Achaeans,” she said. “If you continue to fight us, you can’t hope to win. A few forts may hold out, but most of you will die; and even those who live will lose everything.” She smiled unpleasantly. “We have a saying:
If you want to
know
the enemies in your household, count your slaves
.”

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.

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 south, 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.”

T
he 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.