"We don't have time to be subtle," he said. "What we've got to do is put a messenger in, someone they'll listen to, and then open negotiations."
Everyone on board turned to look at the Babylonian emissary, Ibi-Addad, who turned gray and began to raise protesting hands.
There was panic in the streets of Hattusas. Tudhaliyas, Great King of Hatti, Living Sun, stood on the battlements of his palace and listened to the screams and cries below. Sweat ran down his own long, swarthy face, running into his trimmed beard.
There was reason enough for fear; years of evil news, as if the gods had deserted the land of Hatti. Three years ago he'd suffered his great defeat at the hands of Tukulti-Ninurta of Assyria. Well before that, rumors of black sorcery and menace came from beyond the Western Ocean, among the Ahhiyawa. Then the rebellion of Kurunta, possibly in league with them; just a week before rumors had come of how an army sent to bring him to obedience had been annihilated by evil magic-and on its heels, news of a barbarian invasion in the northwest. But that was nothing beside this. The thing floated over the city of the king like some great fish of the air, needing not even wings to hold it up, though it was as long as a temple square-five hundred paces, at least. The rising sun shone on its gray covering, on the blood-red slash across it, on cryptic symbols that seemed to breath menace. A sound drifted down from it, a great buzzing as of a monstrous bee.
"It is coming this way, My Sun," one of the courtiers said. "Perhaps you should…"
"Flee in terror?" Tudhaliyas said ironically.
He was a man of middle years, dressed now in garb for hunting or war-knee-length tunic covered by a cloak thrown over one shoulder, tall pointed hat, curl-toed boots, wool leggings, with a sword at his belt and the mace of sovereignty in his hands. His hair was long and black, his square, hard face shaven close and much tanned and weathered.
"If this is evil spirits, then Teshub and the Sun Goddess Arinna and Hebat and the other gods and goddesses of the land will protect us," the king said.
"Unless our sin is too heavy, unless we have incurred pollution," someone whimpered.
"If our sin is heavy, if we have incurred pollution, then running will not help us," he said. "If this is a miracle of the gods, running may bring their anger. Stand fast!"
Most did, his guards among them, even when the thing came closer and closer still amid a great hissing and buzzing. His sweat turned cold as the monster shape cut off the sun, and his eyes blurred with fear. Then they sharpened. Were those the shapes of men behind windows like those of a house? He'd assumed that whatever it was, it was alive-did anything else besides living things move with intelligent direction, of its own accord?
Yes, he thought. A ship, a cart, a chariot-all these move. But…
A voice bellowed out, making him take a step backward.
"we come in peace! have no fear! we come in peace!"
"The gods have condemned us!" someone screamed, groveling and beating his head on the flagstones. The bronze-scale armor of the warriors rattled, eyes rolled, tongues moistened lips. Tudhaliyas raised his voice in cold command:
"The gods do not speak our Nesite tongue with a Babylonian accent," the king said. "I am the One Sun, and I will answer."
He stepped forward, parting the ranks of his guards until he stood alone in an open stretch of rooftop; that would have been impossible, were they not so shaken. There he had to grab at his hat; a great wind was coming downward from the thing, as if a mighty storm blew. Closer, he could see that below the sleek gray shape was another, this shaped like a boat with windows cut into its hull… and it was made of wicker. That reassured him, despite the alienness of every detail.
He cupped his hands and shouted upward: "If you come in peace, from whom do you come?" He spoke Akkadian, which all educated men learned.
"we send an emissary! greet him in peace, according to the laws of gods and men!"
Another door opened in the boatlike structure, this one in the bottom, and he could see the shapes of men there. Suddenly the thing snapped into perspective. A man came out of the hole, dangling in a canvas chair at the end of a rope; another rope uncoiled beneath it, striking the pavement near the king.
"Please take the rope and steady it!"
The bellowing made it hard to distinguish voices, but if that was a man's voice, it was another man than the first. And it spoke Akkadian. He looked behind him and signaled two guardsmen forward. They laid down their spears and shields gingerly and came forward to take the rope. It was perfectly ordinary cord, thumb-thick, woven of fiber; perhaps that reassured them. They grasped it firmly and pulled in lengths hand over hand as the man in the canvas seat was lowered down.
Ah, thought Tudhaliyas dazedly. That is to prevent him swaying back and forth like a plumb bob.
The canvas seat came within a few feet of the rooftop, and Tudhaliyas saw a man like other men-he felt disconcerted and obscurely angry, a part of his fear flowing away. The man hopped out, and the two guardsmen released the rope with a yell as it burned through their fingers. Looking up, the king saw that the thing had bounced upward a little, bobbing in the air like a feather.
The man was of medium height, dressed in a ceremonial robe and hat of the type men wore in Kar-Duniash or Assyria. His accent was of Babylon, though, as he advanced two steps and went down in a smooth prostration.
"O King, My Sun, live forever!" he cried.
Tudhaliyas' eyebrows shot up of their own accord. That was the accent of the God-voice that had bellowed down over the city.
"Who are you?" he blurted. "You may rise," he added automatically.
"O Great King, your slave is Ibi-Addad, son of Lakti-Marduk, a servant of your brother Great King Kashtiliash of Kar-Duniash, King of Sumer and Akkad, King of the Universe, to whom there is no rival."
This is madness, thought Tudhaliyas. Nothing so… so real could have come out of that thing. And…
"King Kashtiliash?" he blurted. "What of his father, Shagarakti-Shuriash?"
"Alas, O King, the father of King Kashtiliash has been gathered to his fathers."
The sun fell across their faces. The thing was soaring upward once again, turning and droning away to the south. Tudhaliyas felt some self-possession return as it departed.
"You will explain this to me, servant of the king my brother," be said sharply.
Ibi-Addad sighed. "O King, may the gods make your days many, that is going to be a difficult task."
The cannon still reeked a little of sulfur and death. Kathryn Hollard stood by it with one hand on a barrel, the metal still warm from discharge, watching as the long line of captives shuffled out of the area beyond the barricade. She felt sandy-eyed and exhausted after the night's fighting, but still far too keyed up to think of food or sleep. Columns of smoke still rose, but they were under control now, and none were too near. The reek of burning lay across the city, mingling with the usual stench.
She did take a swig from her canteen and handed it to Prince…
No, she thought. He's the king now.
… King Kashtiliash where he stood at her side. A few of his entourage were shocked at the informality; she could hear them gasp.
She would have laughed, if it hadn't been for the endless chain of civilians shuffling forward to surrender. Each one passed through a corridor of spearmen, stopping at the end to bare an arm for the inoculation-this station was manned by one of Clemens's retrained dancing girls-many moaning or sobbing as they did so, still convinced that it was a device of demons. Others came from the riot-torn districts on stretchers, the pox pustules clear on their faces.