Against the Tide of Years (59 page)

The road itself rose on an embankment toward the city; crenellated fortress walls rose to flank it on either side, until they were marching through an artificial canyon. Great winged man-headed bulls marched in high relief along those walls, twice her height and made of molded brick, their bodies painted red, wings blue, stern hook-nosed faces with blue-black beards and golden crowns.

A lot like Kash’s father,
she thought, suppressing a grin. She shivered slightly and gripped the horse more tightly with her knees.
God, I miss Kash.

The gate itself was a massive fortress with the road running over the moat on piers and then through it; a hundred-foot tower of reddish brick at each of the four corners, with an arched passageway sixty feet high between, sky-blue rosettes in molded brick covered by polished sheet copper, flanked by bronze lions twelve feet tall. The gate doors were made of huge cedar trunks thicker than her body and taller than a four-story house, brought from Lebanon in centuries past with incredible labor and trouble. They were sheathed in bronze, and the bronze was worked in low relief with gods, demons, dragonlike creatures, heroes slaying lions.

The Marine officer looked up. There in the dim heights of the gate tunnel were bronze grilles, and she could hear the crackling of flames. If anyone smashed those gates and tried to rush through this enormous tunnellike passageway they’d get a very warm welcome—boiling oil, boiling water, red-hot sand.

Royal guardsmen in crested helmets and bronze scale armor or Nantucket-made chain mail stood to either side—mostly with their backs to her, holding back the crowd with their round shields and spear held horizontally like a fence with living posts. Three more sets of gates divided the passageway before the travelers came out blinking into the brightness beyond.

More guards cleared a way through the street, named Aibur-Shabu, No Enemy Shall Pass, the broad processional street that ran north and south parallel to the Euphrates.

The crowds behind the leveled spears gaped and shouted and pointed, or rested with aloof patience and pretended detachment; she saw a noble standing in his chariot while his leather-clad driver wrestled the team into obedience; a priest robed and spangled with silver astrological symbols waited with folded hands, surrounded by his acolytes; a scribe pridefully held his jointed, wax-covered boards and stylus; what was probably an expensive courtesan glittering with jewels lolled voluptuously in her slave-borne litter, robes filmy and colorful, eyes painted into huge dark circles, peering with interest over an ostrich-plume fan.

One thing I regret,
Kathryn thought, as she saluted the guardsmen’s bowing captain,
is that I can’t go incognito here.
It would be interesting to see the city when everyone wasn’t gaping at
her
. Not possible—her height and features would mark her out.
Pity.

The iron horseshoes of her mount rang on stone, hard white limestone thirty feet wide, flanked by ten-foot strips of red breccia veined with white on either side—unimaginable extravagance in this stone-less land. More soldiers were holding a passageway open through a tall gate in the wall, with inset brick pillars candy-cane-striped in red and blue. That was the entrance to the North Palace, where the Islanders would be quartered and the First Kar-Duniash would have their barracks.

“By the right . . . right
wheel,
” Sergeant Kinney shouted behind her.

The battalion turned like a snake, men on the inside of the turn checking their pace and those on the outside striding longer with the smoothness of endless practice. They passed through another fortress gate and into the outer courtyard of the House That Was the Marvel of Mankind, the Center of the Land, the Shining Residence—in other words, the palace of King Shagarakti-Shuriash. There were times when Akkadian grandiloquence got on her nerves.

But you’re thinking of living here permanently,
she reminded herself.
And it does have its points.

This was the outermost of five successive courtyards, paved with the same white limestone as the processional way and surrounded by three-story buildings on all sides.

“Halt!” Five hundred boots crashed down.

“ By the right . . . right . . .
face
!”

Another crash, and she rode her horse out in front of the assembled ranks, reining in and turning to face them.

“ Present . . .
arms
!”

The rifles came down off the shoulders with a slap and rattle of hands on wood and iron. Kathryn returned the salute crisply; they’d worked hard and earned it.

“Order . . .
arms
!”

Steel-shod butt plates rang on the stone paving. Her horse pawed the paving as well, curious at the unfamiliar surface. Kathryn controlled it with knees and her left hand on the reins, her right resting on her hip.

“Stand easy!” A rustle of relaxation. “Soldiers of the First Kar-Duniash, you’ve made a good beginning,” she said, pitching her voice to carry. “ You’ve also worked very hard. Dismiss to quarters!”

They gave a brief cheer and the formation dissolved as men slung their weapons, turned, chattered, hailed friends. Sergeant Kinney came up and took the bridle of her horse.

“ I’ll settle them in and see to the baggage train, ma’am,” she said. “Good to have a rest.”

“God’s truth. I’ve got to go check in with the king.”

She and her officers, including the provisional promotions from among the locals. She swung down, looking around as they fell in behind her and an usher led them on. Molded-brick shapes covered the walls up to the second story, all painted in yellow, white, red, and blue; after the predominant dun-mud-brick color of the land, it was a pleasant change. Above and on either side of the gates that linked the courtyards were huge terra-cotta faces, leering or smiling—protective spirits to frighten away demons.

A crowd of people were about, courtiers and smooth-cheeked eunuchs, soldiers swinging by with a clank and clatter, messengers, servants, scribes with their wax-covered boards and palm-size damp clay tablets for taking notes, officials, a flutter of girls from the king’s harem—they weren’t shut in there, although they were supervised fairly closely. All of them drew aside and murmured; she caught curiosity, awe, fear, the odd flat hostile glare.

The last gateway was flanked by granite lions tearing at recumbent enemies. On their backs were artificial palm trees of bronze and gold. Tall carved doors opened into the main throne room, a huge vaulted chamber fifty yards by fifteen. Here the bright light was muted to a glow through the high clerestory windows. Beams stabbed down through a mist of incense, a strong hieratic smell. The walls were hung with softly vivid tapestry rugs of kings past at war or sacrifice or the hunt, interspersed with heroes battling monsters, protective genies, flowered mountains.

Guardsmen stood at a parade rest copied from the Islanders, making a laneway down the center of the hall. The heads of their spears were steel now, reflecting more brightly than bronze would have; when sunlight caught one of the motionless blades it seemed to blaze with light. So too did the figure of the king on his throne, inlaid with lapis and gold; his crown was gold as well, shaped like a city wall. Kathryn’s party came to a halt; the Babylonian officers prostrated themselves, the Nantucketers clicked heels, saluted, and bowed their heads slightly—citizens of the Republic groveled before no man.

Shuriash smiled. “Greetings, my valiant ones, and officers of my allies,” he said. He looked at Kathryn. “My son, the prince of the House of Succession, declares that you have done well; that my soldiers learn the art of the fire-weapons.”

“Oh King, your men have labored long and hard and have learned very well,” she said.
True enough.
Not up to Corps standards by a long shot, but they’d started from a lower base.

“Know that you have the favor of the king,” Shuriash said, beaming.

He signaled, and an official glided forward to put a chain around her neck. It was fairly heavy, solid-gold links and a beautifully worked pectoral in the shape of the Bull of Marduk, with eyes of lapis lazuli and chinbeard of onyx.

“My thanks to the king,” Kathryn said, flushing in embarrassment.

“Many of your countrymen are here for the celebration of the New Year festival,” Shuriash said. “ You will feast with the King’s Majesty; may the celebrations make your heart glad. Now you have traveled far and will wish to refresh yourselves.”

The Babylonians went on their bellies again, and the Nantucketers bowed and walked backward until it was possible to turn without lèsemajesté.

“Christ, I could use a bath,” Kathryn muttered.

And Kash would be here. Tied up in ceremonial to the armpits, but they
had
to find some time.

 

“ Trachoma,” Justin Clemens said, holding back the child’s eyelids. “See, the redness and swelling, and it looks like grains of sand are stuck in the soft tissue? ”

“I am familiar with this disease,” Azzu-ena said, nodding. “Very common—usually the clear part of the eye is distorted and opaque, at the end, bringing blindness with no cure. Is it
contagious
? ”

She repeated the whole phrase in English, for the sake of practice. The sounds were hard for someone brought up to the Semitic gutturals of Akkadian, but she was slowly overcoming it.

“Very,” Clemens said. “Spread by touching, by contact with cloth that has touched the eyes, and by flies. A disease of crowding and not enough washing.”

The Babylonian’s mouth quirked. “ Like most? ”

“Like most,” Clemens said. It had become a bit of a running joke between them.

He was handling this clinic in an out-of-the-way chamber of the palace; an autoclave and water purifier were running in the next room, and an outer chamber was crowded with those waiting. He wrinkled his nose a bit at the rank smell of old sweat soaked into wool. No way around it, they hadn’t invented soap here, and the palace bathing facilities were luxuries for the elite; so were enough clothes to change and do laundry frequently. And what water these people could get would be dangerous anyway.

The patients were mostly palace laborers and their families; he reserved this day for them.
And let the nobles fume and wait,
he thought. Looking after the locals wasn’t his responsibility, but it bred goodwill . . . and the demand was overwhelming.

Some of the people waiting were from out of the city, kinfolk of the palace workers; that wasn’t supposed to happen, but he wasn’t going to turn them away, particularly the children.
I feel like someone trying to sweep back the ocean with a broom,
he thought helplessly, then forced himself to optimism.
Azzu-ena is learning—Christ, is she learning! And she isn’t the only one.

The Babylonian was taking notes, too, preparing a handbook in her native tongue—diagnosis and treatment of the most common ills, especially the ones that could be handled with local resources.

“ What treatment? ” she said.

“Well, penicillin, if we had enough,” he said, which they didn’t. “Antiseptic drops are the alternative.”

He told the mother, and she gripped the boy child’s head and tilted it back despite his squalls.
Damn, have to get deloused
again
after this,
Clemens thought, looking at the tousled black hair.

“Do you see what I do? ” he asked the woman. She was thin, dark, looked about fifty and was probably in her third decade, with a weaver’s calloused hands.

“ Yes, great one.”

He ran the dipper into the bottle, sealing the top with his index finger. Both were plain clay; if you handed out glass ones the recipients would sell them—food came first, and glass was an expensive rarity here. The solution inside was their all-purpose disinfectant, and it stung. The toddler wailed and struggled, but his mother gave him a tremulous smile.
Good teeth, at least,
Clemens thought abstractedly. Most people here did have them, at least until middle age; no sugars in the diet.

“ Three times each day,” Clemens said. “ If you do this faithfully, it will be cured. Bring the child back to me when the medicine is gone. Do you understand? ”

“Yes, holy one,” the woman said, and suddenly she gripped his hand and kissed it; her own eyes filled and tears ran down her cheeks. “Thank you for saving my son’s sight, holy one! He is our last child left alive, now he may live and father children of his own! Thank you—I have little, but what I have is yours.”

“Go, go,” Clemens said roughly, embarrassed. He went over to the table he’d set up and scrubbed his hands again.
I’m going to wear my skin off in this filthy country,
he thought.

“Lord,” the palace usher said, looking about him with contempt. “ You will miss the ceremony!”

“Just one more,” he said. “ Then we’ll clean up and go.”

It was another child, although barely so by local standards, a girl of twelve or thirteen. To Island-raised eyes she would have passed for nine—barefoot, dressed in a ragged gray shift with a shawl over her braids.

“ What is the child’s illness? ” he asked the mother. Another skinny underfed weaver.

“A demon of fever, holy one,” the woman said, bringing her shawl up under her chin in modesty; an upper-class woman might have covered her mouth as well. “ For a night and a day now. She cannot eat the good bread.”

Fever.
Well, that was the all-purpose term here. He wiped down a thermometer and stuck it in the girl’s mouth.

“Don’t bite; just hold that under your ton—”

A desperate grab saved the instrument, and he looked into the hazed, defiant black eyes. Her mother raised a hand, but stopped at a gesture.

“Here is a date stuffed with pistachios,” Clemens said. That was a treat rare enough to tempt someone with no appetite. “ If you hold this thing in your mouth as I say, you may have it.”