Monarchies Of God - Hawkwoods Voyage Part 23

"I could not play the coward again," Macrobius said. "If the d.y.k.e falls, I fall with it."

"Then help it stand! Appear before them. Give them your blessing, I beg you."

Eyeless though he was, Macrobius seemed to be studying the earnest soldier before him.

"I am not worthy of the station any more, General," he said softly. "Were I to give the men a Pontiff's blessing, it would be false. In my heart my faith wavers. I am no longer fit for this high office."

Martellus leapt up and began striding about the simply furnished apartments that were Macrobius'

quarters in the citadel.

"Old man, I'll be blunt. I don't give a d.a.m.n about your theological haverings. I care about my men and the fate of my country. This fortress is the gateway to the west. If it falls it will take a generation to push the Merduk back to the Ostian river, if we ever can. You will get up on the speakers' dais tomorrow and you will address my men, and you will put heart in them even if it means perjuring yourself. The greater good will be served, don't you see? After this battle is over you can do whatever you like, if you still live; but for now you will do this thing for me."

Macrobius smiled gently. "You are a blunt man, General. I applaud your concern for your men.""Then you will do as I ask?"

"No, but I will do as you demand. I cannot promise a rousing oration, an uplifting sermon. My own soul stands sadly in need of uplifting these days, but I will bless these worthy men, these soldiers of Ramusio.

They deserve at least that."

"They do," Martellus echoed heartily. "It's not every soldier can go into battle with the blessing of the High Pontiff upon him."

"If you are so very sure I am yet High Pontiff, my son."

Martellus frowned. "What do you mean?"

"It has been some weeks since my disappearance. A Synod of the Prelates will have been convened, and if they have not received word of my abrupt reappearance, they may well have chosen a new Pontiff already, as is their right and duty."

Martellus flapped one large hand. "Messengers have been sent both to Torunn and Charibon. Rest your mind on that score, Your Holiness. The whole world should know by now that Macrobius the Third lives and is well in the fortress of Ormann d.y.k.e."

T HE address of the High Pontiff to the a.s.sembled troops took place the next day in the marshalling yards of the fortress. The garrison knelt as one, their ranks swelled by thousands upon thousands of refugees who had come to look upon the most important survivor of Aekir. They saw an old man with a white bandage where his eyes had been, and bowed their heads to receive his blessing. There was silence throughout the fortress for a few moments as Macrobius made the Sign of the Saint over the crowds and prayed to Ramusio and the Company of Saints for victory in the forthcoming ordeal.

Scant hours later, the lead elements of the Merduk army came into view on the hills overlooking Ormann d.y.k.e.

Corfe was there on the parapets of the eastern barbican along with Martellus and a collection of senior officers. They saw the enemy van spread out with smooth discipline, the long lines of elephant-drawn drays in their midst and regiments of heavy cavalry-the famed Ferinai-spread out on the flanks.

Horsehair standards were lifted by the wind and on a knoll overlooking the deployment of the army Corfe could see a group of hors.e.m.e.n thick with standards and banners. Shahr Baraz himself and his generals.

"Those are the Hraibadar," Corfe told Martellus. "They spearhead the a.s.saults. Sometimes the Ferinai dismount and aid them, for they are heavily armoured also. They are the only troops who are issued wholesale with firearms. The rest make do with crossbows."

"How far behind the van should the main body be?" asked Martellus.

"The main levy moves more slowly, keeping pace with the baggage and siege trains. They are probably three or four miles back down the road. They will be here by nightfall."

"He keeps his men well out of culverin range," Andruw, the young ordnance officer in charge of the barbican's heavy guns said, disgruntled.

"His light cavalry found out their ranges for him in that skirmish the other day," Martellus said. "He will not have to waste good troops by inching forward to test those ranges. A thoughtful man, this Shahr Baraz. Ensign, what kind of siege works did he use before Aekir?""Fairly standard. His guns in six-weapon batteries protected by gabion-strengthed revetments. A ditch and ramp surmounted by a stockade with many sally-ports. And a rearward stockade in case of any attempt to raise the siege."

"No need for him to worry about that here," someone said darkly.

"How long did he spend in preparation before the first a.s.sault?" Martellus asked, ignoring the comment.

"Three weeks. But this was Aekir, remember, a vast city."

"I remember, Ensign. What about mines, siege towers and the like?"

"We countermined, and he gave up on that. He used enormous siege towers a hundred feet high and with five or six tercios in each. And heavy onagers to break down the gates. That's how he forced entry to the eastern bastion: a bombardment of both guns and onagers accompanied by a ladder-borne a.s.sault."

"He must have lost thousands," someone said incredulously.

"He did," Corfe went on, his eyes never leaving the group of Merduk hors.e.m.e.n that looked down on the rest out in the hills. "But he could afford to. He lost maybe eight or nine thousand in every a.s.sault, but we lost heavily too."

"Attrition then," Martellus said grimly. "If he cannot be subtle, he will simply attack head on. He may find it difficult here, with the d.y.k.e and the river to cross."

"I think he will a.s.sault with little preparation," Corfe informed them. "He knows our strength by now, and he has lost much time in the pa.s.sage of the Western Road. I think he will come at us with everything he has as soon as his host is a.s.sembled. He will want to be in possession of the d.y.k.e before the worst of winter."

"Ho, the grand strategist," one of the senior officers said. "Someone after your job there, General."

Martellus the Lion grinned, but there was little humour in the gesture. His canines were too long, the set of his face too cat-like.

"Corfe is the only one of us who has experienced a full-scale Merduk a.s.sault at first hand. He has a right to air his views."

There were some dark murmurings.

"Did the Aekir garrison sortie?" Martellus asked Corfe.

"In the beginning, yes. They hara.s.sed the enemy while he dug his siege lines, but there was always a large counterattack ready to be launched-mainly by Ferinai. We lost so many men in the sorties and they did so little damage that in the end Mogen gave up on them. We concentrated on counter-battery work, and mining. They are not so skilful with their heavy guns as we are, but they had more of them. We counted eighty-two six-gun batteries around the city."

"Sweet Saints!" Andruw the gunner exclaimed. "Here at the d.y.k.e we have less than sixty pieces, light and heavy, and we thought we were overgunned!"

"What about mortars?" Martellus asked. Everyone hated the huge, squat weapons that could throw a heavy sh.e.l.l almost vertically into the air. They rendered the stoutest protecting wall useless, firing over it.

"None. At least they used none at Aekir. They are too heavy, perhaps, to bring over the Thurians.""That is something at least," Martellus conceded. "Direct-fire weapons only, so we will be able to rely on the thickness of our walls and the refugee camps cannot be bombarded while the wall stands."

"They should be herded out of the defences at once," Corfe blurted out. "It is madness to have a crowd of civilians in the fortress at a time like this."

Martellus blinked. "Among those civilians are would-be nurses and healers, powder and shot carriers, fire-fighters, labourers and perhaps a few more soldiers. I will not cast them out wholesale before seeing what I can get out of them."

"So that's why you have tolerated their presence for so long."

"Tomorrow they will be given orders to march west once more, except for those who are willing to place themselves in the aforementioned categories. I am willing to take help from any quarter, Ensign."

Martellus' senior officers did not look too pleased at the news, but no one dared say anything.

"Yes, sir."

The group of men stared out at the deploying Merduk army again. The elephants looked like richly painted towers moving among the press of soldiers and horses, and the huge, many-wheeled wains they pulled were being unloaded with brisk efficiency. More of the animals were advancing with heavy-wheeled culverins behind them, drawing them up in batteries, and Merduk engineers were hurrying hither and thither marking out the hillsides with white ribbon and marker-flags. For fully three miles to their front, the hills were covered with men and animals and waggons. It was as if someone had kicked open a termite mound and the inhabitants had come pouring out searching for their tormentor.

"He will attack in the morning," Martellus said with cold certainty. "We can expect the first a.s.sault with the dawn. He will feel his way at first, feeding in his lesser troops as they come up. And the first blow will be here, on the eastern barbican."

"I'd have thought he'd at least spend a day or two setting up camp," one gruff officer said.

"No, Isak. That is what he expects us to think. I agree with our young strategist here. Shahr Baraz will hit us at once, to knock us off balance. If he can take the barbican in that first a.s.sault, then so much the better. But the Merduks love armed reconnaissances; this will be one such. He will watch our defence and the way we respond to his attack, and he will note our weaknesses and our strengths. When he knows those, he will commit his best troops and attempt to wipe us off the face of the earth in one ma.s.sive a.s.sault."

Martellus paused and smiled. "That is how I see it, gentlemen. Ensign, you seem to have a head on your shoulders. I hereby promote you to haptman. Remain here in the barbican and stay close to Andruw. I want a full report on the first a.s.sault, so don't get yourself killed."

Corfe found it unexpectedly difficult to speak. He nodded at the tall, feline-swift general.

The senior officers left the parapet. Corfe remained behind with Andruw, a man not much older than himself. Short hair the colour of old bra.s.s, and two dancing blue eyes. They shook hands.

"To us the honour of first blood, then, in this petty struggle," Andruw said cheerfully. "Come below with me, Haptman, and we'll celebrate your promotion with a bottle of Gaderian. If our esteemed general is right, there'll be little time for drinking after today."

SEVENTEEN 12th day of Midorion, year of the Saint 551.

Wind nor'-nor'-east by north on the starboard quarter, veering and strengthening. White-tops and six-foot swell. Course due west at seven knots, though we are making leeway I estimate at one league in twelve.

Now three weeks out of Abrusio, by dead-reckoning some 268 leagues west of North Cape in the Hebrionese. Aevil Matusian, common soldier, lost overboard in the forenoon watch, washed out of the beakhead by a green sea. May the Saints preserve his soul. Father Ortelius preached in the afternoon watch. In the first dog-watch I had hands send up extra preventer-stays and bring in the ship's boats. Shipped hawse bags over the cable-holes and tarpaulins over all the hatches.

Dirty weather on the way. The Grace of G.o.d is drawing ahead despite all Haukal does. Lost sight of her in the first dog-watch. I pray that both our vessels may survive the storm I feel is coming.

There was so much that the bald entries in the ship's log could not convey, Hawkwood thought, as he stood on the quarterdeck of the Osprey with his arm wrapped round the mizzen backstay.

They could not get across the mood of a ship's company, the indefinable tensions and comradeships that pulled it together or apart. Every ship had a personality of its own-it was one of the reasons that he loved his willing, striving carrack as she breasted the white-flecked ocean and slipped ever further westwards into the unknown. But every ship's company also had a personality of its own once it had been at sea for a while, and it was this which occupied his thoughts.

Bad feeling on board. The sailors and the soldiers seemed to have divided into the equivalent of two armed camps. It had started with the d.a.m.ned Inceptine, Ortelius. He had complained to Hawkwood that though the soldiers attended his sermons regularly-even the officers-the sailors did not, but went about their business as though he were not there. Hawkwood had tried to explain to him that the sailors had their work to do, that the running of the ship could not stop for a sermon and that those mariners not on duty were seizing four hours of well-earned rest-the most they ever had at one time, because of the watch system. Ortelius could not see the point, however. He had ended up calling Hawkwood impious, lacking in respect for the cloth. And all this at Murad's dinner-table whilst the scar-faced n.o.bleman looked on in obvious amus.e.m.e.nt.

There were other things. Some of the sailors had gone to several of the pa.s.sengers on board for cures to minor ailments-rope-burns, chilblains and the like, and the oldwives had been happy to cure them with the Dweomer they possessed. Friendships had sprung up between sailors and pa.s.sengers as a result; after all, a large proportion of the crew were, so to speak, in the same boat as the Dweomer-folk: frowned upon by the Church and the authorities. Again Ortelius had protested, and this time Murad had backed him up, more out of devilry than for any real motive, Hawkwood suspected. No good could come to a ship which tolerated the use of Dweomer on board, the priest had said. And sailors being the superst.i.tious lot they were, it had cast a pall over the entire crew. For many of them, however, the Ramusian faith was just another brand of Dweomer, and they did not stop their fraternization with the pa.s.sengers.

There was a weather-worker aboard, Billerand had informed Hawkwood, one of those rare Dweomer-folk who could influence the wind. He was a mousy little man named Pernicus and had offered his services to the ship's master, but Hawkwood had not dared to use his abilities. There was enough trouble with the priest and the soldiery already. And besides, now that the wind had veered and was screaming in over the quarter, the ship was sailing more freely. They were logging over twenty-five leagues a day, no mean feat for an overloaded carrack. If, G.o.d forbid, the Osprey found herself on a lee sh.o.r.e, then Hawkwood would not hesitate to call on Pernicus' services, but for now he felt it was better to let well alone.Especially considering what had happened today-that d.a.m.ned stupid soldier having a s.h.i.t in the beakhead while the waves were breaking over the forecastle. He had been washed out of his perch by a foaming green sea, and they could not heave-to to pick him up, not with a quartering wind roaring over the side. Murad had been furious, especially when he had learned how many ribald jokes the incident had given rise to in the crew's quarters.

There was a change about the lean n.o.bleman that Hawkwood could not quite define. He gave fewer dinners and left the drilling of the soldiers to his ensigns. He spent much of the time in his cabin. It was impossible to keep a secret on board a ship less than thirty yards long, and Hawkwood knew that Murad had taken two young girls from among the pa.s.sengers to his bed. Apart from anything else, the noises coming through the bulkhead that separated their cabins were confirmation enough of that. But he had heard the soldiers' gossip: that Murad was somehow enamoured of one of the girls. Certainly, the man had all the symptoms of one lost in love, if one believed the bards. He was snappish, distracted, and his already pale face was as white as bone. Dark rings were spreading like stains below his eyes and when he compressed his thin lips it was possible to see the very shape of the teeth behind them.

A packet of spray came aboard and drenched Hawkwood's shoulders but he hardly noticed. The wind was still freshening and there was an ugly cross-sea getting up. The waves were running contrary to the direction of the wind and streamers of spray were tearing off them like smoke. The ship staggered slightly as she hit one of them; she was rolling as well as pitching now. No doubt the gundeck was covered with prostrate, puking pa.s.sengers.

Billerand hauled himself up the ladder to the quarterdeck and staggered over to his captain.

"We'll have to take in topsails if this keeps up!" he shouted over the rising wind.

Hawkwood nodded, looking overhead to where the topsails were bellying out as tight as drumskins. The masts were creaking and complaining, but he thought they would hold for a time yet. He wanted to make the most of this glorious speed; he reckoned the carrack was tearing along at nine knots at least-nine long sea miles further west with every two turns of the gla.s.s.

"There's a bucketful on the way, too," Billerand said, glancing at the lowering sky. The clouds had thickened and darkened until they were great rolling ma.s.ses of heavy vapour that seemed to be tumbling along just above the mastheads. It might have been raining already; they could not tell because of the spray that was being hurled through the air by the wind and the swift cleavage of the ship's pa.s.sage.

"Rouse out the watch," Hawkwood said to him. "Get one of the spare topsails out across the waist. If we have a downpour I'd like to try and save some of it."

"Aye, sir," Billerand said, and wove his way back across the pitching quarterdeck.

The watch were prised from their sheltered corners by Billerand's hoa.r.s.e shouts and a sail was brought out of the locker below. The seamen made it fast across the waist just as the clouds broke open above their heads. Within a minute, the ship was engulfed in a torrential downpour of warm rain, so thick it was hard to breathe. It struck the deck with hammer-force and rebounded up again. The sail filled up almost at once, and the sailors began filling small kegs and casks from it. Noisome water, polluted by the tar and shakings on the sail itself, but they might be glad of it some day soon, and if they were not it could be used to soak clothes made harsh and rasping by being washed in seawater.

The wind picked up as the crew were unfastening the sail and sent it flapping and booming across the waist like some huge, frightened bird. The ship gave a lurch, staggering Hawkwood at his station. He looked over the side to see that the waves were transforming themselves into vast, slate-grey monsters with fringes of roaring foam at their tops. The Osprey was plunging into a great water-sided abyss everyfew seconds, then rising up and up and up the side of the next wave, the green seas choking her forecastle and pouring in a torrent all the way down her waist. And the light failed. The clouds seemed to close in overhead, bringing on an early twilight. The storm Hawkwood had expected and feared was almost upon them.

"All hands!" Hawkwood roared above the screaming wind. "All hands on deck!"

The order was echoed down in the waist by Billerand, thigh-deep in coursing water. They had the sail in a bundle and were dragging it below-decks. A forgotten keg rolled back and forth in the scuppers, crashing off the upper-deck guns. Hawkwood fought his way over to the hatch in the quarterdeck that opened on the tiller-deck below.

"Tiller there! How does she handle?"

The men were choked with the water that was rushing aft, struggling to contain the manic wrenchings of the tiller.

"She's a point off, sir! We need more hands here."

"You shall have them. Rig relieving tackles as soon as you are able, and bring her round to larboard three points. We have to get her before the wind."

"Aye, sir!"

Men were pouring out of the companionways, looking for orders.

"All hands to reduce sail!" Hawkwood shouted. "Take in those topsails, lads. Billerand, I want four more men on the tiller. Velasca, send a party below-decks to make sure the guns are bowsed up tight. I don't want any of them coming loose."

The crew splintered into fragments, each intent on his duty. Soon the rigging was black with men climbing the shrouds to the topmasts. Hawkwood squinted through the rain and the flying spray, trying to make out how much strain the topmasts were taking. He would put the ship before the wind and scud along under bare poles. It would mean they would lose leagues of their westering and be blown to the south-west, off their lat.i.tude, but that could not be helped.

A tearing rip, as violent as the crack of a gun. The foretopsail had split from top to bottom. A moment later the two halves were blasted out of their bolt-holes and were flying in rags from the yard.

Hawkwood cursed.

A man who was nothing but a screaming dark blur plunged from the rigging and vanished into the heaving turmoil of the sea.

"Man overboard!" someone yelled, uselessly. There was no way they could heave-to to pick someone up, not in this wind. For the men on the yards, a foot put wrong would mean instant death.

The men eased themselves out on the topsail yards, leaning over to grasp fistful after fistful of the madly billowing canvas. The masts themselves were describing great arcs as the ship plunged and came up again, one moment flattening the sailor's bellies against the wood of the yards, the next threatening to fling them clear of the ship and into the murderous, cliff-like waves.

The wind picked up further. It became a scream in the rigging and the spray hitting Hawkwood's face seemed as solid as sand. The ship's head came round slowly as the men on the tiller brought her to larboard, trying to put the wind behind them. Hawkwood shouted down into the waist:"You there! Mateo, get aft and make sure the deadlights are shipped in the great cabins."

"Aye, sir." The boy disappeared.

They would have to shutter the stern windows or else a following sea might burst through them, flooding the aft portion of the ship. Hawkwood railed at himself. So many things he had left undone. He had not expected the onset of the storm to be so sudden.

The waves around seemed almost as high as the mastheads, sliding mountains of water determined to swamp the carrack as though she were a rowing boat. The pitching of the ship staggered even Hawkwood's sea-legs, and he had to grasp the quarterdeck rail to steady himself. They had the topsails in now, and men were inching back down the shrouds a few feet at a time, clinging to the rough hemp with all the strength they possessed.

"Lifelines, Billerand!" Hawkwood shouted. "Get them rigged fore and aft."

The burly first mate went to and fro in the waist, shouting in men's ears. The noise of the wind was such that it was hard to make himself heard.

She was still coming round. This was the most dangerous part. For a few minutes the carrack would be broadside on to the wind and if a wave hit her then she might well capsize and take them all to the bottom.

Hawkwood wiped the spray out of his eyes and saw what he had dreaded-a gla.s.sy cliff of water roaring directly at the ship's side. He leaned down to the tiller-deck hatch.

"Hard a-port!" he screamed.

The men below threw their weight on the length of the tiller, fighting the seas that swirled around the ship's rudder. Too slowly. The wave was going to hit.