Quiet fell once they were within the throne chamber; it was big and dim, with spears of light coming from windows and openings in the flat roof above. Other pillars of vividly painted wood upheld the high ceiling; Royal Guards around the edges of the room stood motionless as the idols in their wall niches and the painted figures of dead Kings making offerings. The soldiers’ weapons and bronze-scale armor glittered, and so did the images, their eyes seeming to move and follow her with a glisten of onyx and lapis lazuli. Tudhaliyas sat motionless on his throne, with
Tawannannas
Zuduhepa beside him.
Doreen sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Hittites had that institution. Zuduhepa was queen in her own right; if she outlived her husband, she’d carry the title and very real power that went with it into the reign of her son until her own death. That made them more accustomed than most peoples in this era to taking a woman seriously. Her predecessor, Tudhaliyas’s mother, had been a holy terror all her long life, and had hand-picked her successor; that young woman had even taken Zuduhepa as a throne-name on her accession.
Of course, local custom was getting a bit bent out of shape, just lately. Kathryn Hollard was there, too, beside King Kashtiliash, and in Marine khakis that clashed horribly with the Oriental-rococo splendor of the chair; by the terms of her marriage contract she was commander in chief of the New Troops of Kar-Duniash.
And she’s looking disgustingly sleek and satisfied,
Doreen thought with friendly amusement.
I guess the Bull of Marduk lives up to expectations
. She couldn’t imagine sharing a husband with the hareem as local custom required, or for that matter marrying a local at all, but those two were apparently happy enough with the relationship. Princess Raupasha sat to one side on a lower, slightly plainer throne; she was wearing trousers and boots, set off by a gold-washed tunic of chain mail.
Must have had some local artisans do that,
Doreen thought. The polished Fritz helmet with the gold diadem around the brows and the purple-dyed ostrich plumes was rather striking, too.
Say what you like, that kid has style
.
The two Islanders drew near to the throne, saluted and bowed respectively, and repeated the gesture to the other monarchs.
God, I’m getting good control of my facial muscles
, she thought, fighting down a giggle. Court dress for a Hittite King looked very much like a gaudily embroidered mid-Victorian dress with a flounced skirt, combined with a skullcap ... Like everything else here, the greetings involved endless ritual, mostly religious. Hierophants set out tables before each of the participants in the conference, with dishes covered in embroidered linen cloths. Doreen’s nose twitched—it was lunchtime, by her clock—but she waited patiently.
Musicians in ragged motley came in. They carried instruments;
arkanmmi, huhupal and galgaturi
, none of which could be described in terms of Western analogues, except that they involved blowing, plucking, and percussion. The
thump-tweedleplink
sounded low and not unpleasant. Other ragged men
danced
in, holding their hands above their heads and twirling gently in circles until the skirts of their robes flared out and clinking finger-cymbals sounded. Doreen’s eyes went wider; evidently the tradition of the whirling dervish was a lot older in this part of the world than anyone had suspected.
At last the various rituals were completed (the dish turned out to be strips of beef with onions in a garlic sauce) and the Kings and principals were seated around a table in a smaller room. Doreen recognized it with a twinge of nostalgia; it was where Ian and she had had their first audience with the Hittite rulers... God, only a few months ago.
Ian
...
“I and the Seg
Kallui
have brought forward as many of our troops as we can,” Kashtiliash said at last. “More await the command in Babylon. Lord Kenn’et, when do we strike the
Ahhiyawa
?”
“We don’t,” Kenneth Hollard said. “We wait for them to strike us.”
Kashtiliash looked unhappy, or possibly angry. “You did not wait for the Assyrians to strike,” he pointed out. “We advanced together and crushed them,
thus.”
He was speaking Akkadian; everyone in the room understood it, more or less. Absolutely everyone understood the gripping, mangling gesture of his great scarred hands.
“That was in Kar-Duniash,” Kenneth said. “In Kar-Duniash, we had the Land of the Two Rivers to draw on for food—land more fertile than any other in this part of the world except for Egypt. And we had the Two Rivers themselves, and the canals, and our steamboats. Rarely did we operate more than a week’s travel from water transport.”
He went over to a map drawn on a whitewashed wall; a light well in the ceiling above made it seem to glow.
“Here, we are six hundred miles as the bird flies from the head of navigation on the Euphrates. More than a thousand as the roads go, and they’re very bad roads over mountains. On good roads with our wagons, the practical limit on hauling food by animal traction is about one hundred and twenty miles. On these roads, with your wagons, it’s sixty miles. After that, the wagoneers and their animals have eaten all the cargo. All our transport capacity has to go to weapons and supplies, because we haven’t had time to teach the Hittite—Nesite—folk how to make anything we need. It’s been hard getting in enough rifles and ammunition to reequip your Royal Guards.”
Tudhaliyas nodded somberly, rubbing his fingers over the arms of his chair. He was an able man, in Doreen’s opinion, but something of a worrywart. He’d also insisted on getting at least a few thousand rifles and some cannon as a condition of the alliance; which made sense, when you looked at it from his point of view, but was an infernal nuisance.
“I can summon a hundred thousand men to my banner,” he said. “If I call in all my garrisons, all my own troops, all those of my nobles and Royal Kin and holders-of-land-on-service, and the contingents of my vassal rulers. But if I call them all to the same place, they will starve to death in short order.”
Kashtiliash looked at him somberly, tugging at his curled beard. “Surely you have royal storehouses in each region,” he said. “Surely your city-governors and provincial overlords and the nobles of the lands each have their own reserves of food. In my land, there is never less than three years’ supplies for court, armies, and cities in storage, at least of grain and dates, onions and salt fish.”
The Hittite nodded. “Oh, yes; we too take precautions. But remember, every
iku
of my lands yields perhaps half of what yours does; my brother, yet takes as much labor of men and oxen to cultivate. And I cannot ship the grain of that
iku
of land from place to place by barge, as you do; our rivers are rivers of rock and spray, not broad paths. If I call too many beasts and carts and men from the fields, the harvest will fail and we will all starve. Then most of the soldiers must be home for planting, and still more for the harvest. Our harvests have been poor for four years, as well—not enough rain in most of Hatti-land. Stores are low.”
Kashtiliash tugged at his beard again. “How is Walker better-suited than we?” he asked the Islander commander.
“He can bring in his supplies by water, as you can in your land, my kinsman,” Kenneth said, moving his hand down the western coast of Anatolia. “Water transport is quick and cheap. And he can draw on the whole of Great Achaea’s surpluses, which are greater than Hatti-land’s, because he has had years to spread new methods and crops and tools, and to build roads and grain stores.”
“But he cannot sail his ships inland ... ah, my kinsman, I see,” Kashtiliash said, grinning in his blue-black beard. “That is what you mean.”
“Yeah,” Kenneth said, nodding. “We’ve got to get him away from his base of supply and closer to ours.” A grim smile. “Let’s call it the
Attaturk
Plan. We’ve been stockpiling food and fodder in selected locations since the harvest”—he tapped points marked on the routes inland from the coast toward Hattusas—“ and we’ve got to be prepared to deny him local replenishment.”
“You mean we must be prepared to burn my own lands and turn my own people out onto the roads of the winter,” Tudhaliyas said. “Lest Walker feed from their storehouses and flocks.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Kathryn Hollard said gently. “Or they will be Walker’s lands and Walker’s people—his slaves, rather.”
Kashtiliash gave her a fond glance and went on: “What I can do for you after this war, my brother, I will do. As my allies say, we cannot move grain enough to feed many from Kar-Duniash to Hatti-land, but silver, plow oxen, seed-grain, cloth, these I will send.”
“The Republic will help all it can as well for rebuilding after the war,” Doreen said. “We can ship in, and show you how to make, new tools for farming—how to build better roads to spread harvests around, and how to preserve food better. We can show your healers how to stop epidemics. If we can get command of the sea, we can help feed the coastal zones, as well.”
Tudhaliyas nodded, looking as if his stomach pained him. “Silver and cloth are well, but we cannot eat them, and if we eat the seed corn now and do
not
get more ...” A deep sigh. “Let it be so. You have given me the head of the rebel Kurunta, and Walker was behind him. More, the Wolf Lord is all that you say in the way of greed and evil, from what the refugees tell.”
Doreen put her hand on her stomach. They were talking about deliberately creating famine.
She shivered. A hell of a lot of people were going to die because of what was decided in this room, without ever knowing why. An anvil from orbit falling and shattering their lives without purpose or cause they could see.
No, she scolded herself.
A hell of a lot of people are going to die because of what
Walker
decided to do. He’s responsible, nobody else. Self-defense
is
self-defense, even if it means
...
drastic measures.
“Perhaps only troops equipped with the fire-weapons should be called up,” Tudhaliyas said. “That would help in the matter of supplies.”
Kathryn shook her head. “O One Sun, we need troops of the old kind as well. They can checkmate Walker’s savage allies, and they can harass his men when they spread out to forage. And the chariots can also be useful, if they are used in a new way with new weapons.”
She looked at Princess Raupasha. The Mitannian girl began to speak, growing enthusiastic, her hands tracing accompaniment through the air. Tudhaliyas grew thoughtful.
“That would please my nobles,” he said at the end. “They have seen the power of the new weapons, but a landed man grows with his feet in a chariot; it is not meet or seemly for him to go to war like a peasant spearman.”
Kenneth Hollard gave a grim smile. “In the Republic, we have a saying: ‘The flies have conquered the honey.’ We want Walker’s conquests to be like that.” His hand moved west. “Our fleet is moving to the Pillars, here, as well. If they can break the Tartessian hold on the straits, they can move into the Middle Sea. Much of Walker’s supplies come from Sicily, this large island here. Denying it to him will strike him a heavy blow.”
“If
is a word like a pig covered in olive oil, tasty if you can pin it down and set it on fire,” Zuduhepa said, tilting her elaborate, golden-bedecked headdress as she turned to watch Kenneth Hollard. “Let us speak further of that which your fleet can do.”
“Here, ma’am,” the steward said. “Galley stove’s working again.”
Marian Alston-Kurlelo took the cup and sipped cautiously through the drinking hole in the cover. The storm was over, technically, although the sky above was covered in scudding gray tendrils and the light of noon was a muted glow, like being inside a giant frosted-glass globe. The wind was strong out of the northwest, but no longer a gale; still cold and raw, though, and she was grateful as she felt the aching need for rest being driven back by the strong harsh coffee, and a welcome warmth spreading in her stomach.
“Thank you, Seaman Puarkelo,” she said, and the boy blushed. Alston gave an inward sigh. Commander Jenkins was forward, surveying the damage. There was a fair amount of it, the bowsprit rolling loose, foretopsail yard carried away, dangling ends of broken rigging, but none of it was fundamental. One of the ships scudding along southward in company had lost her foremast just above the tops, and Alston’s eyes narrowed as she saw the busy chaos on her foredeck. Then it settled down, and a long spar began to rise needlelike through the rigging—a jury-rig, but a sound one. Jenkins was deep in conversation with his XO and the ship’s carpenter as he came back to the wheels, sounding remarkably cheerful.
Well, he didn’t lose any of his people
, she thought.
Do Jesus, it would be nice to have only one ship to worry about again.
“Ma’am,” he said, saluting. She returned the gesture. “There’s nothing up ahead that we can’t have fixed in a day or two.”
“Very satsifactory, Captain,” she said. Raising her voice slightly: “A very satisfactory piece of seamanship last night, in fact, Mr. Jenkins. The
Chamberlain
showed very well indeed. Well done.”
The exhausted, red-eyed face flushed with pleasure. Then he grew grave: “Anything from the rest of the fleet, ma’am?”
“I was just expecting—ah.” Swindapa came up; she looked wearied as well, with a bandage across her forehead where a flailing line had lashed her. “Any news?”
“Total casualties are twenty-seven dead, confirmed,” she said.
Damn it to hell.
To be expected, in a blow that violent, in a fleet that included thousands of troops packed in like sardines. Light casualties, really.
And I hate losing every God-damned one
.
“Two hundred seven seriously wounded, mostly broken bones and concussions,” the Fiernan went on seriously. “Not counting walking wounded fit for duty.” She looked up, the cerulean-blue eyes sad. “That’s from ships in contact. All ships have reported except for the
Farragut
, the
Severna Park
, and the
Merrimac
,” she said.