On the Oceans of Eternity (33 page)

As the surge knocked her feet from under her, she could see the faces of the hands at the wheel, shocked and pale in the binnacle lights, sharing her own certainty that the ship would never come up again, that the monstrous weight of seawater would crush her like a barrel in the grip of a giant. There was something like a pause, and then she saw the forward end of the ship coming up, rising like a broaching whale from the depths.

“Mind your helm!”
Jenkins roared in a fine sea-bellow, cutting away the lashings on the wheel; blood from his nose ran down his face, whipping away in the blasting spray. He sprang to the steering platform, and the others heaved with him to spill wind from the sail. “Keep her so! Mr. Oxton, turn out the watch below—alt hands! Ms. Tauranasson—”

A quick glance around showed her Swindapa on the starboard line. Tauranasson was hanging limp from her safety line, probably slammed headfirst into something, and in no condition to do anything much. A middy and hand were hauling themselves toward her to take her below to the sickbay.

“Clew up the topsail—man the fore clew-garnets! Take the way off her!” He fumbled for the speaking-trumpet slung over his shoulder.

Not even a powered megaphone would do any good at present, much less an ordinary speaking-trumpet, and it had to be done
now.
“I’ll see to it!” Alston shouted into his ear, then turned and plunged forward.

Another surge took her as she grabbed for the railing of the companionway that led down from the quarterdeck to the waist. Her feet went out from under her again, the base of her spine struck something hard, and sensation vanished in a wash of white-hot ice from stomach to feet. Then Swindapa was hauling her upright; she forced paralyzed lungs to work, saw the watch still clinging to the safety lines, moved forward.

“The fore clew-garnets!”
she shouted into a CPO’s ear, grabbing him by the shoulder.
“Come on
.”

They fought their way forward, gathering up a few more dazed crewfolk. By the time they reached the foremast the petty officer had his teams moving like sentient beings and not stunned oxen. Wet hemp rasped her palms as everyone tailed on to the line, coughed sea wrack out of their lungs, scrabbled for footing on the wet, slick deck ...

“Heave—” A trained scream that cut through the wind for a few yards at least.

Alston waited until the work was well in hand before dropping out of the line team; she could feel the way coming off the ship, the bow once more rising lightly to the oncoming waves. More hands were pouring topside; few had been asleep anyway, and one of the advantages of a ship with a full fighting crew—far larger than necessary for mere sailing—was that there were always plenty of hands and strong backs around in an emergency.

Now,
she thought.
We actually may live out the night.

There was something to be said for a direct, physical risk. It took your mind off things you couldn’t do anything about. Like the rest of the fleet; or the rest of the war, for that matter.

 

I always feel ridiculous riding in a chariot,
Doreen Arnstein thought. “At least this one has springs and seats,” the Assistant Councilor for Foreign Affairs murmured to herself. “And a sunshade. With gold tassels, yet.”

The springs were from a Honda Accord, the tires solid rubber on steel, the body was wood inlay with a gilded brass rail ’round about to hang on to. It was more of a two-wheeled wagon than a copy of the war-carts the Nantucketers had encountered in the Bronze Age world. They’d run it up for purposes of swank—or public relations, if you wanted to get formal; there was plenty of room for her, the driver, and Brigadier Hollard. The horses pulling it were two precious Morgans shipped in from Nantucket, sleek black giants by local standards, drawing gasps and stares on their own. A leather-lunged Hittite herald went ahead:

Some of the crowd made way for the herald’s voice, some for the ram’s-horn trumpets blown by the two men behind him, still more for the reversed spears of the troop of Royal Guards. A guard of Marines rode behind, the butts of their rifles resting on their thighs; their saddles and stirrups still drew pointed fingers and murmurs of amazement.

Doreen fanned herself; it was a fairly warm day for late autumn, and still more so in the ceremonial robe she was wearing, fairly crusted with gold and silver thread and gems until she blazed and glittered when a ray of the bright upland sun struck her, the more so from her diadem and earrings.

Wearing this sort of thing makes me feel like I’m acting in a bad historical drama,
she thought. Glittering jeweled robes looked perfectly natural on, say, Princess Raupasha. On herself they just ...
well, I’m no princess. Not even a JAP. I’m a thirtysomething, former astronomy major from Hoboken, New Jersey.

And the roundish, curve-nosed, full-lipped face with the dark eyes and curly coarse dark hair that looked out of her mirror
really
didn’t go with this getup.

“But it impresses the yokels no end,” Kenneth Hollard said, looking indecently comfortable in his Marine khakis.

“That’s why we’re taking the long way in,” Doreen replied. “It impresses the nobility, too.”
And when the cold weather hits, pretty soon, it’s going to be worse than the heat. Oh, well.
“They’re even more status-conscious here than they are down in Babylonia.”

“
That’s
saying something,” Hollard muttered.

He had a look she recognized—extreme frustration. Getting anything done in these ancient Oriental kingdoms was difficult-to-impossible. Getting it done quickly ... Oi. But fretting about it just gives you
heartburn.

“And the people are spooked by what they’ve heard about Walker and the Ringapi,” she said. “Letting them know they’ve got wizard allies of their own bucks them up.”

She shoved the constant nagging worry about the situation in general and Ian in particular and took in the scene about her. Even after weeks in Hattusas, the capital of the Hittite Empire could still thrill her. It wasn’t as big as the largest Babylonian cities, and there was nothing as hulkingly massive as their ziggurats. Cruder and rawer; cyclopean stone walls outside, shaped beside the gates into figures of brooding warrior-Gods and pug-faced lions. The Islander party had been directed through the Gate of the Sphinxes, on the southern edge of the city. A massive rampart a hundred and fifty feet thick and twenty high supported the city wall, its earthen surface paved to make a smooth glacis. The ramp led upward past a man-high outer wall, then straight to the foot of the main ramparts; those were of huge stone blocks longer than she was tall, rough-fitted together without mortar and smoothed on the outside, thirty feet high and nearly as thick. Towers studded it at intervals of a half-bowshot, squatly massive; the crenellations on top were like teeth bared at heaven. Metal gleamed on spearheads and helmets on the walls, blinking back blinding bright in the morning sun.

“Impressive,” she said to Kenneth Hollard.

“I’ll say,” he replied; but he was weighing them with a slightly different eye. “Still, that’s really two walls with cross-bracing and the cells filled with rubble. You could knock it down into a ramp with some of our five-inch rifles. Take a while, though. A lot longer than with a brick wall and mud-brick core, the way the cities down in the Land Between the Rivers have. They really know how to use rock here, and they’ve got a lot of it. It’d take forever to force a breach if they had concrete to use to consolidate the rubble fill ...”

“Ken,” she said, a slight scolding tone in her voice, “it’s not really polite to speculate in public on how you’d destroy the capital of an allied power.”

He grinned; it turned his naturally stern face into something charmingly boyish. “Professional reflex, Madam Councilor,” he said.

“I was thinking of how much work it must have taken,” she replied.

The ramp came to the rampart and made a sharp turn to the left, throwing them into the shadow of the city wall.

“Well laid out, too. Spear side,” Hollard said, and continued at her raised eybrows: “With the ramp this way, your right side—spear side—is to the wall and you can’t use your shield to stop the sharp pointies they’re raining down from up there.”

He tossed his helmeted head to the right. Doreen looked up, and tried to imagine a roaring crush of men where she was, wrestling with battering rams as arrows slammed down in sleeting clouds like hard, hard rain... There were scorch marks on the massive stones going by at arm’s length from her. She knew from chronicles in the twentieth confirmed here that Hattusas had fallen at least once about a century before, sacked and burned by the Kaska mountain tribes from the country just to the north.

“Determined bastards, they must have been,” Kenneth Hollard said, reading her thought. “You’d pay a real butcher’s bill taking this with scaling ladders and handheld log battering rams, against any sort of opposition.”

That was one way to put it. Her mind shied away from giving her a picture of what the words meant; she’d gotten case-hardened, somewhat, since coming here, but there were limits she didn’t want to cross. Even more, she didn’t want to imagine what was happening under the walls of Troy right now, or inside them.

“And look at the pavement,” he went on.

She did. It was made of the heavy flat rocks as well, and some of
them
were scorched, too.

“How?” she said.

“Olive oil,” he said. “Possibly naphtha, but probably olive oil, heated—great big boiling tubs of it, maybe mixed with tallow or lard. Wait until the attackers are really packed in here”—he looked up and down the long ramp, estimating the space—“say fifteen hundred of them. Pour the mixture down from the wall along here, and it’d run all down this ramp and onto the glacis, under the feet of the men packed in shoulder to shoulder and nose to tail, spattering on the clothes and faces of a lot of ’em, or running under their armor—make the road surface damned slippery, too. They’d be immobilized. Then toss down a torch.”

God, she thought, fighting down queasiness. Crisco
Extra-Virgin Instant Hell
. There were times—watching the
Emancipator
bombing the Assyrian cities, for instance—when she’d felt a little guilty about helping to introduce modem weapons here. Then again, when you saw what human ingenuity could manage with low tech, did it matter?
When people want to be atrocious, they’ll find a way, even if it’s labor-intensive.

Sphinxes flanked the gate, carved into enormous masonry blocks that ran all the way from the entrance back through the thickness of the wall. The man-headed lions had little of the Egyptian grace, but plenty of power. The crowds thinned out here, no room for them, but a line of Royal Guards lined the tunnel-like way between the inner and outer gates. Those were bronze-faced wood, under arched gateways straddled by great square towers. The pointed arches themselves were something to see, each half-carved out of a block of granite that must have weighed thirty or forty tons—they didn’t know how to build arches or domes here out of blocks, but this served the same purpose.

As they moved into the streets the crowds were dense once more, and she put the scented feathers of the fan to her nose again; the stench wasn’t quite as overpowering as, say, Babylon in August, since Hattusas was both smaller and at the moment cooler, but it was bad enough—sewage, animal droppings, garbage, and old sweat soaked into wool, all activated by the fresh sweat of crowding and excitement. She swallowed; her stomach had gotten a lot more vulnerable to this sort of thing since she’d gotten pregnant. That had happened the first time, too, but she’d been back in safe, comfortable, clean Nantucket then.

The thought made her snort a little with laughter. Anyone fresh from the twentieth would find Nantucket odorous enough and to spare, these days; land tons of fish and shellfish every day, and no matter how the gulls scavenge and how zealous the recycling collectors are about potential fertilizer, the air will take on a distinct tang. Rendered whale blubber didn’t help either, or factories driven by wood-fired steam engines, or ...

It still smelled a lot better than this. There weren’t as many flies, either. She waved some of the flies away, swallowed again, and to take her mind off her stomach admired—rather dutifully—a blocky temple of dark-gray limestone. Unlike the Babylonian kind, this had big rectangular windows in the outer wall, reaching nearly to the ground. Through them she could catch a bright sideways glimpse of the Holy of Holies, where a burnished man-high silver statue of the God flashed and glittered on a pillar that rested on a golden lion. The figure was shown with shield, club, and helmet...
That’s Zababa,
she reminded herself.
I think.
The Hittites had so many damned Gods, and most of them had at least two names—here they threw every pantheon they came in contact with together, in a
mispocha
of celestial miscegenation and cheerfully incoherent syncretism.

The road inside the city was paved, which was something of a relief even if the pavement was lumpy and uneven; they worked their way up toward the stark citadel that crowned the eastern lobe of Hattusas’s figure-eight layout. They passed more temples, dozens of them; hundreds upon hundreds of blocky stone-and-timber houses and others of unplastered mud brick or combinations; carved slabs graven with rows of scimitar-wielding Gods; crowds staring or cheering or making gestures of aversion ; one bunch cut the throat of a lamb over an improvised altar as the Islanders passed, and Doreen had a horrible intuition that it was to
her
...

The King’s residence was a fortress in its own right, even more impressive than the southern wall when you factored in the steep rocky scarps below. There was another ramp for the horses to climb, more ceremonial to go through before and after they passed through the gates; there were two great Kings present and the representatives of a third, Jared Cofflin being granted that status since nobody in the ancient East knew what the hell to make of an elected head of state. Plus vassal Princess Raupasha, now that her little
faux
pas was forgiven if not forgotten. Doreen sighed as she tucked her attaché case under her arm and Hollard offered her an arm down from the chariot. Even in the Bronze Age. you couldn’t escape going to meetings....