What Might Have Happened Part 19

"I gave you my weapon," Lawrence said. "But I did come armed with something else."

Moving slowly, praying that his hands would not tremble with the sudden, dreadful fear that chilled him, Lawrence reached into his clothing and withdrew the photos he had carried for so long. "Look at these," he said, and laid them down near Rommel's hand. He was glad to step back; he had not realized that his life still held such value for him.

The general opened the oilskin-wrapped packet and glanced at the pictures, one by one. He was a cool one, Lawrence would give him that, if he could look at those pictures and betray no reaction.

"They could be frauds, you know," said Rommel. "Since when did you become such a Zionist?" Lawrence drew himself up. "It has never been said of me that I have been a good friend to the Jews," he said carefully. Aaronsohn, he thought, would certainly testify to that. "The pictures are not important because they depict Jews," he said. "It would be the same if they showed Hottentots or Red Indians. What those pictures show is your Germany, your country to which you swore an oath, committing acts that will make its Reich last a thousand years only in infamy.

A criminal Empire! Is that what you want?"

Rommel s.n.a.t.c.hed his Luger from his holster, but Lawrence grabbed his wrist. "It's easy enough to kill me," he hissed at Rommel. "After all, I'm 'dead' already. But it won't kill the questions I've raised. And you wouldn't be ready to shoot me if they hadn't been questions you've already asked yourself. Do you approve of the way this war is being fought, or what else is going on? Can you honestly say that Hitler is a man of sanity and honor who is fit to rule the world?"

"He holds my oath!" Rommel repeated.

"I remind you. You gave your oath to Germany first. As I did to England."

"And you do this for England?" Rommel asked with heavy sarcasm.

Lawrence nodded. "So I can make peace with myself, as I have not done since the Great War ended. Then it seemed that betrayal was everywhere; and so I left service until now, when I have been offered a chance, perhaps, to even the score."

Abruptly, weariness replaced Lawrence's fear. At this very moment, Haseldon was being shoveled into a grave among his enemies, and Lawrence almost envied him. But he could not rest, not when he had more barbs to place.

"I came in here with as fine a man as ever served with me," he said. "Dead now. Look at your Afrika Korps, General. They fight like tigers. And look at your Italian soldiers. But what about the officers who command them?"

"s.h.i.ts they are and s.h.i.ts they have always been," Rommel declared.

"And is Mussolini any better? Or the drug addict Hitler has appointed as Air Marshal, who daily kills innocent English children? But you, you are a man of honor, a patriot, serving with such people. Do you truly think that, when this is all ended, they will reward you? They are likelier by far to turn on you for the very thing that makes you different."

"If I were not a man of honor, I could almost be a rat," Rommel mused. "As it is, I know I'm going to regret talking with you or telling you that you can have your life, if you get out of here now."

"I'll have my life, General," Lawrence said. "But you, you're going to die here. Unless you do what Napoleon did, and Vespasian before him: use Egypt as your bastion, and move north!"

"I said get out!"

"You, though. We could talk with you. If you headed the Reich, you and the Allies might be able to come to some agreement, push Germany's borders out to their old limits or beyond a bit.

And we'd have an end to this killing, this stupidity! Remember that, Rommel. England could deal with you. But with Hitler? We'll fight to the last man."

"I follow my orders," Rommel said once again.

"You've violated orders time and time again. Commandos are to be shot; you've let them live.

Good G.o.d, you're going to let me live. You've already broken your oath to honor a greater one.

Honor that oath, by all means! Think about what it means, and what, to honor it as it deserves, you may have to do. Just think; that's all I-all the world-ask."

Tentatively, Lawrence reached for his weapon-and the pictures. The gesture was a risk. But he could not cross Egypt unarmed, and he would not leave the photos among Germans. "I'm going now," he said.

"What will you tell your Prime Minister?" Again, the heavy sarcasm, mixed with exhaustion like Lawrence felt and something that he recognized as indecision.

"I? Nothing. I have obeyed my orders and spoken with you. He promised me that when I had done so, I should go free. You will not hear of me again."

Rommel nodded. "So that is why you want the weapon. Sometimes that is the only way out . .

. for such as we." He started to hold out his hand, then withdrew it.

"Wise of you, General," Lawrence said. "Your men will simply think that you have heard your pet spy and sent him about his business. You and I will know differently, though. And, depending on how you act, so will history."

"You have your life," Rommel said. "I will see you out of here. There are armed cars . . .

short as we are, we can say that you stole one, unless your honor"-heavy irony on the word- "forbids that."

Rommel shouted for a signals officer and a mechanic. "Get me Berlin!" he demanded. "And you, fuel up my Heinkel!"

"But the battle, Herr General-"

"Am I to be obeyed, or not?" demanded Rommel. "Get moving!

"This much," Rommel murmured, "I can do. I can ask, and I can see."

He saw Lawrence still standing there, a small man in filthy, bloodstained robes, and started perceptibly.

Lawrence almost smiled at him. Now that his work was finished, he felt curiously light, like a cartridge when its charge is spent. At Rommel's gesture, Lawrence gathered the filthy folds of his native robes about him and stepped down from Mammut.

"That way," Rommel said. "There's the car. Get moving."

Lawrence could almost feel the explosion of a bullet between his shoulderblades as he walked to the car. Behind him, he heard a shout of warning, a command to stop, then a shot-but no pain.

As he started the car, he dared to steal a glance back at Rommel, who had knocked aside the barrel of a Walther P-38 from a soldier's hand.

"I told you not to fire! I gave that man my word of honor that he would have safe-conduct out of here," Rommel raged.

The car started with a roar. If it had a full tank of petrol and luck was with him, it would be hours before he ran out of fuel. And then what? Then, somehow, he would join up with the sons of the men he had known long ago, men who would help him cross the desert, and take those d.a.m.nable pictures to a place where, finally, he might lose and forget them forever. Whether or not Rommel played Faust to his Mephistopheles and turned on Hitler, whether the war had been shortened might matter to the rest of the world, but not to him. He would have begun the penance that would occupy him for the rest of his life.

Aaronsohn's ironic "Next year in Jerusalem" had become an obsession for him. The man had wanted Jerusalem for his people; in death, these at least would rest there. That seemed like the least he could do, if he were sentenced to go on living. Rommel had been right to stop him from being shot. Life was a more cruel sentence by far ... perhaps for both of them.

A Letter from the Pope

HARRY HARRISON AND TOM SHIPPEY.

Introduction.

In the year 865, according to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, a "great army" of the Vikings landed in England, led in legend and probably in fact by the sons of Ragnar Hairy-Breeks. In the following years this army wiped out the rival dynasties of Northumbria, killed Edmund, king of East Anglia, and drove Burgred, king of Mercia overseas, replacing him with a puppet ruler. By 878 all the kingdoms of the English had been conquered-except for Wess.e.x. In Wess.e.x Alfred, the last of five brothers, continued to fight.

But then the Vikings turned their full effort on him. At Twelfth Night 878, when all Christians were still getting over Christmas and when campaigning was normally out of the question, they made a surprise attack on Wess.e.x, establishing a base at Chippenham, and according to the Chronicle again driving many Englishmen overseas and compelling others to submit. Alfred was forced to go into hiding and conduct a guerrilla campaign "with a small force, through the woods and the fastnesses of the fens." It was at this time that-so the story goes-he was reduced to sheltering in a peasant's hut, where immersed in his problems he burnt the goodwife's cakes and was violently rebuked for it.

Yet Alfred managed somehow to stay alive, keep on fighting, and arrange for the army of Wess.e.x to be gathered under the Vikings' noses. He then, quite against the odds, defeated the "great army" decisively, and finally made a master stroke of statesmanship. He treated the Viking king Guthrum with great forbearance, converted him to Christianity, and became his G.o.dfather. This set up a reasonable relationship between English and Vikings, gave Wess.e.x security, and became the basis for the later reconquest of all England by Alfred's son, grandson and later descendants (of whom Queen Elizabeth II is one).

Many historians have noted that if Alfred had not held on in the winter of early 878, England would have become a Viking state, and the international language of the world would presumably now be a form of Danish. Yet there is another possibility.

By 878 Alfred and Wess.e.x stood for Christianity, and the Vikings for paganism. The later reconquest of England was for Christ as well as for the Wess.e.x kings, and monastic chroniclers were liable to see Alfred as an early crusader. But we know, from his own words, that Alfred was already by 878 deeply dissatisfied with the inept.i.tude of his churchmen. We also know that about the same time Ethelred, archbishop of Canterbury, had written to the pope to protest about Alfred's extortions-which were very likely only a demand for further contributions to resist the pagan a.s.saults. Pope John VIII responded by sending Alfred a letter of severe reproof-at exactly the moment when Alfred was "journeying in difficulties through the woods and fens."

This letter never arrived. No doubt the letter carrier could not find the king, or thought the whole situation far too dangerous even to try. But what would have happened if the letter had been received? Would it have been the last straw for a king already isolated, almost without support even from his own subjects and his own Church? A king also with clear precedent for simply retiring to safety? Or would Alfred (as he so often did in reality) have thought of another bold, imaginative and unprecedented step to take?

This story explores that last possibility.

Alfred, Guthrum, Ethelnoth, Odda, Ubbi, Bishop Ceolred, the archbishop of Canterbury, as well as the pope, are all historical characters. The pope's letter is based on examples of his known correspondence.

A dark figure moved under the trees ahead, barely visible through the heavy mist, and King Alfred raised his sword. Behind him the last army of England-all eighteen of them- stirred with unease, weapons ready as well.

"Easy," Alfred said, lowering his sword and leaning on it wearily. "It is one of the peasants from the village." He looked down at the man who was now kneeling before him, gaping up at the gold torque and bracelets that marked the king.

"How many are there?"

"Tw-twelve, lord King," the peasant stammered.

"In the church?"

"Yes, lord King."

The Vikings were conquerors, not raiders. Guthrum's men always quartered themselves in the timber churches, leaving the peasants' huts and the larger thanes' dwellings undamaged-as long as there was no resistance. They meant to take the country over, not destroy it. The mist was rising and the lightless village was visible below.

"What are they doing now?"

As if in reply the church door swung open, a square of red light against the blackness, and struggling figures pa.s.sed across it before it slammed shut again. A female shriek hung in the air, then was drowned out by a roar of welcome.

Edbert, the king's chaplain, stirred with anger. He was lean, just string and bones, all the fat squeezed out by the pa.s.sion of his faith. His voice loud and resonant, had been formed by that same faith. "They are devils, heathen devils! Even in G.o.d's own house they practice their beastly l.u.s.ts. Surely He shall strike them in the middle of their sin, and they shall be carried to the houses of lamentation where the worm-"

"Enough, Edbert."

Alfred knew that his chaplain was vehement against the heathens, striking out strongly enough with his heavy mace, for all his leanness and apparent reluctance to shed blood against the canons of the Church. But talk of miracles could only anger men who had wished for divine a.s.sistance many times-so far without reward. He turned back to the peasant. "You're sure there are twelve?"

"Yes, lord King."

The odds were not good. He needed a two-to-one advantage to guarantee victory. And G.o.drich was still coughing, near dead with cold. He was one of the eleven king's companions who had right of precedence in every battle. But not this time. A sound reason must be concocted for leaving him behind. "I have a most important duty for you, G.o.drich. If the attack should fail we will need the horses. Take them all down the track. Guard them with your life. Take Edi to help you. All others follow me."

Alfred put his hand on the kneeling peasant's shoulder.

"How will we know the door is unbarred?"

"My wife, lord King ..."

"She is in there with the Vikings?"

"Aye, lord King."

"You have a knife in your belt? Follow, then. I grant you the throats of the wounded, to cut."

The men surged forward across the meadow, grimly eager now to end the waiting, to strike at least one nest of their enemies from the board.

This nighttime raid was a pale shadow of past encounters. Nine times now Alfred had led whole armies, real armies, thousands of men, against the drawn-up line of the enemy. With the war horns bellowing, the men drumming their spears against the hollow shields, the champions in the front rank throwing up their gold-hilted swords and catching them as they called on their ancestors to witness their deeds. And always, always the Viking line had stood watching them, unafraid. The horses' heads on poles grinning over their array, the terrible Raven banner of the sons of Ragnar spreading its wings in triumph.

How bold the attack; how bad the defeat. Only once, at Ashdown, had Alfred made the enemy fall back.

So there would be no triumph in this night encounter, no glory. But when this band of plunderers vanished, the rest of the invaders would know there was one Saxon king still left in England.

As they pushed through the gap in the thorn hedge and strode into the miserable cl.u.s.ter of wattle-and-daub huts, Alfred jerked his shield down so he could seize the handgrip, and cleared the sax knife in its sheath. In pitched battle he carried long sword and iron-mounted spear, but for these scrimmages among the houses the men of Wess.e.x had gone back to the weapons of their ancestors, the Saxons. The men of the sax: short, pointed, single-edged cleavers. He strode quickly so that the hurrying companions could not squeeze past him. Where was the Viking sentry? When they had reached the last patch of shadow before the churchyard the men stopped at his signal and pushed forward the peasant guide. Alfred looked at him once, and nodded.

"Call now to your woman."

The peasant drew in his breath, shivering with fear, then ran forward five paces into the little open square before the church. He halted and at the top of his voice uttered the long, wailing ululation of the wolf, the wild wolf of the English forests.

Instantly a harsh voice roared out from the church's tiny belfry, little more than a platform above the roof. A javelin streaked down at the howling man, but he had already leapt aside.

There was a sc.r.a.pe of metal as the Saxons drew their weapons. The door swung suddenly outwards; Alfred held his shield in front of him and charged for the center of the door.

Figures pushed furiously in front of him, Tobba on the left, Wighard, captain of the king's guard, on the right. As he burst into the room men were already down, bare-skinned bearded figures rolling in blood. A naked, screeching woman ran across his path, and behind her he saw a Viking jumping for the ax that leaned against the wall. Alfred hurled himself forward and as the Viking turned back he drove the sax in under his chin. When he spun round, shield raised in automatic defence, he realized the skirmish was already over. The English had fanned out in one furious sweep and driven from wall to wall, cutting every Viking down, stabbing savagely at the fallen; no veteran of the Athelney winter thought for an instant of honor, or display. A Viking with his back turned was all they wanted to see.

Even as relief flooded into him Alfred remembered that there was one task left undone.

Where was that Viking sentry? He had been on the belfry, awake and armed. He had had no time to come down and fall in the slaughter. Behind the altar there was a staircase leading up, little more than a ladder. Alfred called out in warning to the milling Englishmen and sprang towards it with his shield high. He was too late. Elfstan, his old companion, stared at his king without comprehension, threw up his arms, and fell forward. The javelin was bedded deep in his spine.

Slowly, deliberately, an armed Viking stepped down the ladder. He was the biggest man Alfred had ever seen, taller even than himself. His biceps swelled above gleaming bracelets, the rivets of his mail shirt straining to contain the bulk inside. Round his neck and waist shone the loot of a plundered continent. Without haste the Viking threw aside his shield and tossed a great poleax from one hand to the other.

His eyes met the king's. He nodded, and pointed the spiked head of the ax at the planked floor.

"Kom. Thou. Konungrinn. De king."

The fight's already won, thought Alfred. Lose my life now? Insane. But can I turn aside from a challenge? I should have the churls with their bows to shoot him down. That is all that any pirate deserves from England.

The Viking was already halfway down the stair, moving as fast as a cat, not stopping to whirl up the ax but stabbing straight forward with the point. Reflex hurled Alfred's shield up to push the blow aside. But behind it came two hundred and eighty pounds of driving weight. The attacker fought for a neck-break hold, s.n.a.t.c.hing at the sax in Alfred's hand. For a moment all the king could do was struggle to get free. Then he was hurled aside. As he hit the wall there was a clang of metal, a moan. He saw Wighard falling back, his useless right arm trying to cover the rent in his armor.

Tobba stepped forward, his fist a short flashing arc which ended at the Viking's temple. As the giant staggered back towards him Alfred stepped forward and drove his sax with all his strength deep into the enemy's back, twisted furiously, withdrew as the man fell.

Tobba grinned at him and displayed his right fist. Five metal rings encircled the thumb and fingers.

"I 'ad the metalsmith mek it for me," he said.

Alfred stared round the room, trying to take stock. Already the place was crowded, the men of the village pushing in, calling to each other-and to their women, now struggling into their clothes. They gaped down at the gashed and b.l.o.o.d.y corpses while a furtive figure was already rummaging beneath discarded armor for the loot all plunderers carried with them. Wulfhun saw this and knocked the man aside. Wighard was down, obviously on the point of death. The Viking's ax had almost severed his arm and driven far too deep between neck and shoulder.