S. Stirling - Against the Tide of Years

"Hello, Princess," he said. "What's new?"

"More men rally to us," she said with delight. "The Hurri-folk do accept me!" She flushed a little, and he squirmed at the look in her eyes. "I wasn't altogether sure they would, Lord Kenn'et, but you were right."

"How many does that make now?" he asked, then answered himself. "About three thousand." They came and went, but the total kept going up.

"These brought seven chariots," Raupasha said. "And a hundred footmen! You must meet their leaders when we camp tonight, Lord Kenn'et, and Lady Kat'ryn. When we reach Dur-Katlimmu, they will hear the word of the Great King concerning Mitanni, and I think they will hail it well. I go!"

She turned the chariot in a curve tight enough to bring one wheel off the ground and dashed back down the dusty column, her Marine escort swearing and thumping their heels against the ribs of their horses.

Kathryn leaned over and poked him in the ribs.

"Joan of Arc syndrome, ayup?"

"Well, she's living her daydreams," Hollard said. "What worries me is how we're going to feed all the let's-restore-the-good-old-days-of-Mitanni types she's gathering in. Even with those camel-drawn heavy wagons, we're getting a long way from where our steamboats can reach. But yeah, it'll be convenient; most of the non-Assyrian notables will be there and we can plug them into the new order. With luck we can install her at Dur-Katlimmu"-the largest approach to a city the area had, and the former seat of the Assyrian governor-"install a garrison, and then press on. We're getting real close to areas where this rebel against the Hittite king is operating, and he's in cahoots with Walker."

Kathryn nodded grimly. "Real work," she said. "Kash wishes he could be here, but he's got to consolidate back in Babylon. He said he's going to build a temple in thanks that we Nantukhtar aren't all like Walker."

"He should," her brother agreed.

A click and buzz came from the radio on the back of the tech riding next to him. He edged his camel closer, ignoring its complaints, and took the handset.

"Hollard here," he said. Kathryn watched his expression, and her own went blank.

"Great minds think alike," he said when he replaced the instrument. "Seems the Wolf Lord wants to steal a march on us. Those barbarian allies of his are moving on Troy."

"Troy VI, right enough," Ian muttered to himself.

"Councilor?" Vicki Cofflin asked.

The Emancipator was wallowing as she came in toward the city. A hundred or more hands were ready to take the released lines and guide the huge, light craft into the lee of the city's walls-the past three weeks had made them accustomed to it, even if they still tended to make warding signs and spit. He could see the harvesters at work among the fields, orchards and silvery-green olive groves among them, and tracts of bright pasture where the city's famous horses were raised. Most of the villages and all the manors of the surrounding lords were empty, though, and a last trickle of refugees was making its way into the six great gates. The grain was coming in too, as fast as it could be cut. The courtyards of houses and the rooftops had been turned into threshing floors.

"Archaeological reference, Ms. Cofflin," Ian said. "Everyone wondered which layer of the site of Troy was the Troy, of the Trojan War."

"Yes, but we still aren't sure that there would have been a Trojan War if we hadn't showed up, are we, Councilor? Maybe it was all just a story, the first time 'round?"

He snorted, and looked down. Yup. The king was waiting for him, anxious as ever.

"Sorry, Lieutenant. Don't want to bore you with this sort of thing."

"Oh, hell, no, Councilor. It's a lot more interesting than, say, listening to LG's talk about President Clinton."

He gave her bland smile a look of suspicion-"LG" stood for "Lost Geezer," a not-very-complimentary term the younger generation used for elders who couldn't get over the Event-and then chuckled before he turned and walked back toward the exit ramp with what he hoped was appropriate dignity for meeting a king.

Alaksandrus of Troy had been a surprise. He was a long-nosed, sandy-blond man who reminded Ian of Max von Sydow, as far as looks went. The language he spoke was close enough to Mycenaean Greek that he could understand it without much difficulty; and he spoke the Achaean dialect as well.

What was really surprising about him was his eagerness to cooperate, once he'd gotten over the terror of the dirigible. He cut an imposing figure in his polished bronze breastplate, boar's-tusk helmet with a tall horsehair plume nodding behind, and a metal-reinforced kilt. A few brushes with the invading host from the north-the Ringapi, they called themselves-and their thunder-weapons had knocked most of the swagger out of him. There was something slightly touching about the eagerness with which he'd greeted a chance at salvation.

And something guilt-inducing, as well, Ian thought. I hope I'm not giving him too many false hopes, just to get him to buy us time. The way the ordinary people of the city cheered him through the streets was even harder to take. Refugees from the north had described all too vividly what happened in towns and farms the Ringapi took. Even more feared was Walker the Wolf Lord.

The airship's oak landing rails touched the ground, and the rear ramp went down. Ian walked down it, thankful that he didn't have to wear the elaborate caftan that an ambassador's dignity required in Babylonia. A force of Marines directed the unloading of the cargo, with a host of Trojans working like…

Don't say it, don't say it, save it for your next chat with Doreen! Ian told himself, bowing to the king.

"When will your troops arrive?" Alaksandrus asked.

Ian sighed internally, keeping a bland smile on his face. "As soon as possible," he said. "We've brought in a good many by air."

It was a sign of how worried Alaksandrus was that he no longer marveled at that but simply accepted it-and railed against its limitations.

"Each trip brings so few," he fretted. The horses of his chariot team seemed to catch the infection and stamped and tossed their heads against the expert touch of the young driver.

"It brings powerful weapons," Arnstein soothed. And me, more often than I like, because we have to keep you sweet, you old lady in a brass breastplate, he thought, and pointed.

A heavy seven-foot tube was being lowered onto a waiting timber cradle with oxcart wheels mounted at either end. The dirigible creaked and groaned as it was relieved of the weight, straining upward against the mooring ropes. The cradle groaned as well, and the twelve yoke of oxen bellowed as they were goaded into the traces. The six-inch mortar began to creak its way across the plain of Ilion and toward the South Gate with its great square bastion. The walls of Troy didn't enclose as much ground as Hattusas or Babylon, but they were impressive in their own right, stone-built and better than four stories high, with towers higher. Unlike most he'd seen, they sloped inward slightly.

Captain Chong trotted over, gave the king a bob of the head and Ian a salute. "That's the second battery complete, sir," he said in English. "If these trained pigs of locals don't bog it down, in an hour or so we'll have it mounted."

Ian nodded; he was no expert, but he'd been impressed by the speed and competence of the Marine effort.

"Tell your captain of warriors that my own are worried about the earth ramp," Alaksandrus said. He pointed toward Troy. "They feel it is a scaling ladder that we are building for an enemy."

All around the city, thousands were laboring to build an earth berm up against the stones; thousands more piled earth and rubble from demolished homes against the interior wall, as well.

Chong shrugged when Ian interpreted. "Sir, tell him that without backing and something to absorb the shot, that curtain-wall will get converted into rubble if anyone brings some guns within range of it." He smiled, a savage expression. "Of course, that'll put them within range of my guns. Mortars, anyway."