Out of the Waters (59 page)

“You're as bad as my brother and his teacher, playing at words instead of saying what you mean!” Alphena said; but as she spoke, she knew she was wrong. The gryphon had said what he meant very clearly.

“I apologize again, master,” she said, hoping he understood the sincerity with which she was speaking. “I'm tired, as I said, which isn't really an excuse. And I'm afraid my brother was the bright child of the family. I'm bright enough to take your advice, though. If you're still willing, please take me to the place you think I should be.”

The gryphon gave his throaty chuckle. “With pleasure, little warrior,” he said.

He banked toward one of the lesser blurs to which Alphena hadn't paid attention previously. She saw purple lightning crash.

I wish I had my sword,
she thought.
Or the copper axe.

But she felt excitement, not fear.

 

CHAPTER
XIX

The sprite looked in disgust from the flame projector to Corylus. “That?” she said. “It makes
fires
. Why would I know anything about that?”

She shuddered theatrically. “It's ugly,” she said. “You shouldn't use it.”

Corylus felt a wash of frustrated anger, then despair. He gripped the starboard railing hard, wondering if his gauntleted hands would leave dimples in the wood.

He had no power over the sprite, no threat to offer that could force her to do what he wanted. More to the point, the worst torture imaginable wouldn't give her knowledge that she didn't possess. He didn't imagine that she was lying when she said she didn't know anything about the apparatus. Why would a tree nymph know how to operate a flame projector?

The ship circled as it rose, banking slightly to the right so that Corylus could look straight down if he wanted to. Wholesale establishments and market gardens lined the road into Carce, interspersed with the occasional tavern for travellers.

People looked up and pointed. A sailor was lazing on his back as mules hauled his wine barge against the current. He stared at Corylus, then shouted, “Baali!” He leaped to his feet and dived overboard.

The Tiber was a textured brown flood, trailing occasional lines of bubbles. Corylus had never seen the river from high enough up to appreciate its whole presence before. It wasn't the Rhine, let alone the Danube, but it had a personality which compelled respect.

He visualized the river god rising from the stream with flowing brown locks and challenging him.
Perhaps Father Tiber would know how to use this flame projector,
Corylus thought. He felt better for the whimsy.

The Ancient spoke in a querulous, demanding voice, ending on an up note. Corylus turned, clinking the flare of his helmet against his armored shoulder.

The sprite said, “I don't want—”

The Ancient spoke again, briefly but with a snap in his tone. He was glaring at her.

The sprite made a moue. “The place that makes it work is there in the back,” she said to Corylus. She gestured with her elbow toward a six-pointed star with curving tips imprinted in the back of the apparatus. “You turn it sunwise.”

The Ancient was grinning at him. “Thank you, master,” Corylus said. He turned his attention to the flame weapon.

The ship had risen higher than it had in the past. The ground was at least a thousand feet below, and Carce spread like a mosaic of tile roofs in the northern distance.

There was an unfamiliar shimmering disk in the sky beyond the Citadel; it seemed to rest on the granite pylon which Augustus had brought from Egypt for the gnomon of his sundial. As he watched, a bump in the center of the disk grew into the bow of a ship; a moment later, the whole vessel flew free into the air above Carce.

Corylus touched the star on his weapon with the fingers of his left hand, then turned it. He felt a clicking through the gauntlets.

The device had been as rigidly fixed to the structure of the ship as the mast itself; now it quivered into life, moving with greasy obedience when Corylus touched the left handgrip. A triangle of light four inches to a side appeared over the forward-pointing spout, framing a section of sky.

“When you push down with your thumbs,” the sprite said grudgingly, “fire comes out the front.”

She looked at the deck and shook her head. In a barely audible voice she said, “I don't know how you can think of doing that, cousin. Using fire!”

Corylus closed the mesh visor of his helmet. The thin orichalc wires cast a soft blur over his vision, but they didn't blind him as he feared they might.

He thought about what the sprite had said. For a moment, he visualized a world in which men recoiled in horror from the thought of burning other men alive; a world in which the Batavian Scouts didn't dry the ears of Sarmatian raiders whom they had tracked down east of the Danube.

That world was almost real to him, but not quite. Now he sighted along the spout of the weapon as their ship slid down through the sky of Carce. A second Atlantean vessel was pressing through the disk of rainbow light.

The wings of Corylus' own ship stroked hard, lifting the bow slightly. He tugged on the handgrips to keep the first of the two Atlanteans in the lighted triangle. The weapon was perfectly balanced, but it was heavy enough that adjusting the aim took some effort.

He kept the snout swinging, judging the Atlantean's course and their own. It was a matter of figuring out where the target would
be
and aiming there.
Like launching a javelin at a Sarmatian riding across our front.
…

The decks of the Atlantean vessel were crowded with people. Most of them wore brightly colored off-the-shoulder tunics, but there were also archers and spearmen in simpler garb and a handful of exquisites—women and children—who glittered like spiderwebs frosted with dew.

Many Atlanteans stared at Corylus, but they didn't seem concerned. They must think he had come through the portal ahead of their ship, that was all.

A Servitor stood beside the armored Minos in the stern; another held the grips of the fire projector in the bow. The glass men were looking down at the plaza between the sundial and the Altar of Peace where citizens of Carce were gathering to see the wonders despite the threatening clouds. The Servitor in the bow slanted his weapon to sweep the crowd.

In another world, the Minoi would meet the Senate in peace and their people would settle in this world, another nation among the hundreds already within the boundaries of a peaceful empire.

In another world. The Atlantean ship was within fifty feet, proceeding parallel to Corylus' craft but not as swiftly.

The Ancient howled a word. Corylus didn't wait for the sprite to translate—if she intended to—before he squeezed with his thumbs. Nothing moved beneath them, but there was a loud roar, a blast of heat on his cheeks despite the mesh visor, and a throbbing vibration through the hull.

A spray of flame washed across the sails of the Atlantean ship; they vanished into puffs of ash drifting on the breeze. The vessel rolled over on its side, spilling its passengers and crew before plunging after them. The Minos dropped like a blazing meteor.

Corylus lifted his thumbs. The Ancient was keening something as he brought their ship around to engage the second Atlantean. The Servitor at the weapon of that one was no longer concerned with the civilians below, though the projector's inertia slowed him.

A third ship was squeezing through the disk. Behind it were scores of others, more than Corylus could begin to count in a brief glimpse.

He adjusted his flame projector. He thought he heard the sprite sobbing, but that was a concern for another world, a world that didn't exist today.

*   *   *

H
EDIA SAW A BRIGHTER PATCH
in the blur ahead of them. There had been an omnipresent buzzing, like that of many distant insects; now it began to congeal into voices. To her surprise, Lann first slowed, then stopped and stood erect.

Hedia made a quick choice and stepped around him, striding briskly. She couldn't hear words, but the rhythms of the speech ahead were those of Latin.

The ape-man gave a plaintive chirp. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that he was shambling along behind.

The air changed and the brightness gained texture. When Hedia looked straight ahead she saw only the flagstones, but there were other movements in the corners of her eyes: a pair of sheep, long-legged and shaggy, stared at her with their jaws working in a circular motion. Again, a young man made a half-turn to loose a discus. His muscles were so chiseled and perfect that Hedia almost missed a step.

The vision faded. The athlete was gone with the sheep.

Without conscious transition she stepped from the path onto the pavement within the marble screen of the Altar of Peace. Around her marched in low relief the sacrificial procession with which Emperor Augustus had inaugurated the altar.

A huge storm boiled in the sky around the horizon, but shimmering light held clear the air directly overhead. The light blazed from the orichalc sphere on top of the pointer of the sundial which Augustus had erected at the same time that he built the Altar of Peace.

A portal almost a hundred feet in diameter balanced above the monolith. From it, as Hedia watched, struggled a flying ship.

The Minoi were here. They had caught her.

Hedia walked out through the west doorway of the marble screen. Directly ahead, the Egyptian obelisk rose above the heads of the spectators.

She was stark naked, with nothing to hide her cuts, bruises, and general grubbiness. At least she had gotten used to going barefoot, so the hard pavement didn't bother her now.

A ripping sound, not loud but savage, drew Hedia's attention to the sky. Two Atlantean ships flew past one another in opposite directions. A cone of flame, bright orange on the edges but a lambent white at the core, spewed from the bow of the more distant ship. It bathed the sails of the nearer vessel, setting them to blaze like gossamer.

The victim turned belly up like a dead fish, then dived toward the river. The pair of Servitors clung to the bow. The Minos was flung out with his screaming retainers. His orichalc armor caught light from a thousand angles. He smashed into the facade of the Temple of Saturn and slipped down broken.

The ship that had attacked rose into the air, its sails beating strongly. Hedia looked at it sharply. An armored Minos controlled the flame weapon in the bow instead of guiding the ship as had been the case every previous time she had seen the Atlanteans flying.
What on Earth is that animal in the stern?

Lann came out of the enclosure behind Hedia, putting his knuckles to the pavement and swinging down the steps like a man on double crutches. He nuzzled her hand and made a deep moaning sound.

People nearby had begun to notice them, though the only one who seemed really frightened was a little girl who grabbed her mother's tunic and babbled in a high-pitched Eastern language. A naked woman and a huge ape must seem minor in comparison with flying ships battling in the sky.

“Make way for the noble Consul, Gaius Alphenus Saxa!” shouted a deep voice coming from behind.

Hedia spun around. She hadn't been thinking about her husband, but
of course
he would come here. Saxa wasn't what anyone would call a man of action, but he was dutiful to a fault. As consul—for another few days before his brief appointment ended—he would immediately have rushed to the site of the great wonder taking place on the Field of Mars. Household servants followed him, but his lictors led the entourage, adding official status to their husky presence.

The storm that filled the horizon rippled with nearly constant lightning, but the thunder was muted by the distance. Clouds seemed to strain at the bubble of clear air the way surf rolls against a cliff; but again like the cliff, the bubble cast them back.

Even the powerful voice of Saxa's chief lictor seemed thin against the background of crowd, storm, and the battle in the sky, but his men had opened their ceremonial bundles. Saxa's servants were carrying the loose rods and axes, but each lictor had kept out a rod which he used freely to open a path through the crowd for the consul.

The man who walked as the point of the advance, swinging his rod with both hands, saw Lann. He shouted, “Watch it there! Axes! Axes!”

“My lord husband!” Hedia said, stepping toward the procession and waving her right arm in the air. She wasn't sure that Saxa could see her through the press of his escort, and she was nearly certain that none of the lictors would recognize her in her current state. “Saxa, my heart!”

“That's her ladyship!” cried Callistus, forcing his way out through the lictors. Though soft, he was a tall man and more alert than Hedia would ordinarily have given him credit for. “Your ladyship—”

He paused to stare at her. Without a further word, he whipped off his ornate toga and settled it over her shoulders.

Lann growled and surged toward the steward. Callistus shrieked and fell back. Some of the lictors had retrieved their axes; they sprang forward. There was nothing symbolic about the axe blades now.

Hedia threw her arms around the ape-man's head and covered him. “He's a friend!” she shouted over her shoulder. Then—because in fairness to the lictors, they had every reason to be concerned for the consul's safety—she said, “Lann! No! These are my friends! Sit down and be good!”

“Dear heart?” Saxa said, forcing his way with some effort through his entourage. “What's happening here? You know, don't you? Tell me what I should do.”

By Hercules, husband, how could I possibly know!
Hedia flared; but that was exhaustion and frustration reacting, and the emotion—it wasn't thought, not really—didn't reach her lips.

The lictors had drawn back, allowing Callistus to get to his feet again. The ape-man unwrapped his head from folds of the toga, looking puzzled. His anger at the steward had passed, and he didn't seem to regard the men with axes as a danger. His only concern had been what he perceived as a threat to Hedia.