Θ

"Have you heard the latest?" Avalanche inquired as she stretched luxuriously.

Od tried to pretend that he wasn't interested in court gossip, but he was interested in everything. "Not yet."

"A eunuch named Hyacinth has arrived from Constantinople with a message for the king. It has everyone agog, but no one is telling what the message is."

"That is interesting," he agreed. "Could it be news of another assassination plot?"

"Why would anyone send a lowly eunuch with such news?"

"Eunuchs know everything," he said. "They overhear what their masters are talking about. Still, it does seem unlikely. They can't be bribed by promise of fair women. So it must be for money. What would Attila pay handsomely for?"

"That's another thing," she said, remembering. "It is said that the eunuch isn't asking for anything except an answer to his message." Then she came and embraced him. "I'm glad you're not a eunuch."

She was warm and soft and very female. "I'm glad too," he agreed, kissing her.

One thing led to another, but before that process was fairly under way, a messenger came to their door. Od disengaged reluctantly and closed his cloak to conceal his state. "What?"

"King Attila summons Od and Avalanche to court immediately."

"Both of us?" he asked, surprised. Attila generally wanted Od when there was some technical device to be explained, and Avalanche when there was a problem with a wife. Not for sexual purpose, but to clarify the female view. Only last month a young wife had been furious with Attila, mystifying him. So he had interrupted their liaison, donned a concealing cloak, and gone to Avalanche's house, which was Od's house. This was unusual, for normally people were summoned, as was the case now. Od, learning on that occasion that it was Avalanche and not him the king wished to see, was about to depart, but Attila bade him stay with a curt gesture. So he faded back, and overheard an interesting dialogue:

"My lord," Avalanche said, alarmed. "Have I committed some offense?"

"No, dear woman. I need your private advice."

"Of course, lord." They sat on cushions, his higher than hers, closely facing each other.

"Tonight I am with the daughter of Eksam." That was the woman Attila had married last year, in a union both political and pleasant, for the girl was lovely.

"Yes, it is her night."

"She is angry with me. I can tell. I dare not ask her why."

Because it would be extremely impolitic for a lesser wife to express discontent of any nature with the king. If he asked her, she would have to deny it. Also, Attila was known as a good husband to all his wives, and it would be an embarrassment for him to be seen as otherwise. So if he had a problem, he would not publicize it. He would handle it quietly. But first he had to know what the problem was.

"Let me be sure I understand the situation," Avalanche said. "You perceived her muted ire, and broke off the liaison to come here for information?"

He nodded.

"So you must return to her soon, lest you complicate what is already difficult."

Attila nodded again.

"Then I must question you closely, and perhaps embarrassingly." She paused, but he did not react, so she took that as permission. "Were you impotent?"

"No. We have not gotten to that yet. I do not want to embrace an angry woman." That was understandable, even though she would not resist him in any way.

"Were you late? Ill garbed? Inattentive?" Avalanche paused slightly after each part, giving him a chance to express negation. "Did you notice what she wore?"

"Fine blue silk I gave her last month. She looks lovely, and I told her so."

"Is it possible she is suffering some passing malady, perhaps the time of the month, which discomfort you mistake for anger?"

"No."

Avalanche shook her head. "This is a mystery. That girl is not unduly temperamental. If she is angry, she has reason."

Attila nodded wanly.

"Did you bring her a suitable gift?"

"A figurine of silver from Byzantium."

"And what did you bring your youngest wife, last night?" By youngest, she meant most recent; age had little to do with it.

"A medallion of gold."

Avalanche pursed her lips. "Oh, my lord! You have done it. Even Od would see that."

"But it is a very fine figurine!" the king protested. "Of superb artistry. Worth more than the medallion."

"But of silver rather than gold. The symbolism is that you value her less than a more recent wife. She will be shamed before the other wives."

Attila looked stricken. "I never thought of that!"

"Men don't think of such things. She thinks she is being degraded."

"What must I do?" the king asked humbly.

"Get a statuette of jade." Jade was more precious than gold, to the Huns. "Do not delay at all. Tell her that you suddenly realized you had brought the wrong gift, so had to fetch the right one immediately. Apologize abjectly for the error. She will forgive you. In fact, you may even have a better night than you expected."

Attila leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth. It was his greatest mark of favor, because it was spontaneous rather than rehearsed. Then he rose and hurried out.

"You are a genius," Od said admiringly.

"No, just a woman. Now come to me, but do not kiss me on the mouth. Anywhere but there. I don't want to erase his mark."

Od understood. He embraced her, and found her flushed with passion. She gave him many fine other places to kiss. It wasn't merely the kiss of the king. It was that she had tackled a serious and touchy problem and successfully solved it, on short notice. She loved that.

Later that night, as they lay ready for sleep, a messenger came. "For Avalanche," he said, handing her an object wrapped in silk. Then he was gone.

She unwrapped it. There was a fine jade figurine. "Oh, lovely!" she breathed.

"But it was supposed to be for his wife," Od protested.

"This is another. It is his appreciation for good advice. It means he had a good evening."

Evidently so. They had kept their mouths shut about the matter, so that no one else ever knew. The king had trusted their discretion, and knew his trust was justified. Now Attila was summoning them both, but it couldn't be for a wifely problem. It had to relate to the arrival of that eunuch. Od was really curious.

Attila was alone when they were admitted to his presence. Before him was a small box, and in it was a gold ring. "The eunuch brought me this ring from Honoria, the sister of the Roman Emperor of the West," he said. "It appears to be genuine, with her unique seal. What do you suppose it means?"

"It's a proposal of marriage!" Avalanche said, amazed.

"Yes. But is it genuine, or is this another nasty Roman trick, like the assassination plot last year?" He looked at Od.

"Orestes would be the better one to say," Od started. But he knew that Orestes was away on other business, which was surely why Od had been summoned instead. It was up to him to answer. "If the ring is authentic, so is the proposal. Royal Roman ladies do not jest about such things."

"Tell me about her."

"She is the daughter of Galla Placidia, Rome's most powerful woman," Od said. "In her youth Placidia was captured by the Visigoths, and she married their prince Athaulf. When he was killed she was ransomed back to Rome, and married a consul. Her son is Emperor Valentinian, and her daughter is Honoria. Of the two, the daughter is far more strong willed. It is said that Honoria is much like her mother: beautiful, intelligent, spirited, and passionate. But she got pregnant by her chamberlain, and was sent to Constantinople lest her brother have her killed."

Attila nodded. "And it is from there this ring came. But why would she pass up the chance to marry a leading Roman man?"

Od remembered what he had learned of life in the East Roman palace. "Honoria would be under the wing of Pulcheria, sister of Emperor Theodosius of the East. She is a devout Christian, whose life is said to be fixed on fasting and prayer and perpetual virginity."

"And a red-blooded woman like Honoria would feel horribly stifled there," Avalanche said. "Both her natural passion and her political aspiration would be denied. I think she would do anything to break free of that cage."

"And her mother did marry a 'barbarian,' " Od said. "So she knows it can be a good life."

Attila nodded. "Would she be a good match for me?"

"Yes!" Od and Avalanche said together.

Attila looked at them, inviting clarification.

"She would represent a valid claim to the throne of West Rome," Od said.

"And she would probably give you a moderate son or a marvelous daughter," Avalanche said. "She is old—thirty—but surely as spirited in bed as any Hun."

"But of course what she most desires is power," Od said. "A regency over Rome, in the manner of her mother."

"And she would be loyal as long as you were the source of that power," Avalanche said. "I believe you could trust her."

"So you recommend that I accept her proposal?"

"Yes," they said, again together.

"This is what my advisers said. I wanted confirmation from someone who knew Rome better, and from a woman who understands women." Attila nodded. "I will marry her. And claim half the Empire of the West as her dowry. She will govern it as my vassal-wife, and have the life she desires. But I will want a woman I trust to be near her." He looked at Avalanche.

"As my lord wishes," Avalanche agreed, blushing with pleasure.

"And a man I trust as liaison, for I shall not care to dwell in Rome." He looked at Od.

"As my lord wishes," Od echoed, as deeply pleased.

"Now we shall publish the news of the betrothal," Attila said. He clapped his hands, and several of his picked men entered. Things were under way.

Thus the beautifully crafted ploy that seemed to give both Honoria and Attila what they most wanted: power over Rome. Had it been effective, it would have changed history as we know it. For Rome's strongest rival would have had reason to defend Rome from all other intrusions, and the West Roman Empire might have survived, as did the East Roman Empire.

But it was not to be, because of the jealousy of others. When Theodosius, Emperor of the East, discovered what Honoria had done, he was appalled. He could not simply hand Honoria over to the Huns, for she was the sister of the Emperor of the West. But if he did not, he was afraid that Attila would march on Constantinople, demanding Honoria as his bride. And that Honoria would raise a disturbance within the city, demanding to be given as the Hun's bride. This was, to use an anachronistic term, a potato too hot to handle. So he packed Honoria and the eunuch Hyacinth off back to Italy, with a recommendation that Honoria be handed over to the Huns, and allowed to marry Attila and give him the dowry of half of that empire. This was sensible advice, because there was no army in Rome capable of withstanding a serious Hun invasion.

But Valentinian had a different view. He realized that his own position was threatened, if not by Attila, then by his sister, who was really more competent than he was. So he had Hyacinth tortured for all the details of his mission, then executed. He was going to have Honoria killed too, but their mother Placidia interceded, and she was spared. However, Valentinian did not allow her to marry the Hun. He rejected Attila's demands for bride and dowry.

Attila then chose war. He made peace with the Empire of the East, which had really done its best to appease him after the embarrassment of the assassination plot. (The situation was a good deal more complicated, and was changing, but this was the essence of the moment.) Then he focused on the West, which had foolishly annoyed him. In 451 he invaded what is now Germany, and France (Gaul). City after city was devastated by the terrible thrust. The Empire of the West had to scramble to raise an army capable of balking him, and that wasn't easy.

The Roman general was Aetius. He had had a long and good relationship with the Huns. In 433 Aetius had been in danger for his life, and had fled to the Huns for safety. They had given him troops, enabling him to win many battles and become perhaps the most powerful figure in the West, apart from Placidia and the emperor. But recently relations between them had soured, and now Aetius would oppose Attila in the battle for Gaul. The Visigoths might well have joined Attila, but Aetius managed to persuade them to join him instead. He thus assembled an army that matched the Hun forces in size and power. In June 451 came the battle of the Catalaunian Fields, near Orleans in France. It is considered to be one of the definitive battles of history, not for what it accomplished but for what it might have accomplished. If Attila won, the West Roman Empire was probably finished as such; if Aetius won, the Huns were probably finished.

It was brutal. The Huns—actually their army was a melange of many allies—used their cavalry to break through the center. Then they wheeled and attacked the Visigoths on the left wing. The hand fighting was described as "fierce, confused, monstrous, unrelenting." A stream was said to become a torrent because of the flow of human blood, and those whose wounds made them thirsty drank water mingled with gore. Theodoric, King of the Visigoths, was killed, but his son Thorismund rallied the troops and drove back the Ostrogoths on the Hun side. By the end of the day the Huns were on the defensive. Attila faced the prospect of defeat, for the first time in his career.

But then something remarkable happened. The Visigoths departed. They abandoned their allies and went home. Without this formidable contingent, Aetius could not afford to risk pursuing the battle. So it was called off, and the opposing parties went home. Thus what could have been a victory over the Huns, and the likely end of the Hun Empire, became a draw, deciding nothing. Instead of getting killed in battle, Attila remained with his power balked but hardly diminished. In 452 he invaded and devastated Italy. In 453 he died of natural causes on his wedding night, and the Hun Empire fell apart.

One of Attila's close associates, his secretary Orestes, returned to the West Roman Empire and in time achieved considerable power. In 475 he had his son Romulus proclaimed emperor, evidently intending to rule through the child. But his Gothic mercenaries demanded a third of Italy as a sub-kingdom. He refused, and they turned against him, rebelled, and killed him. Then they required the harmless boy Romulus to abdicate, gave him a pension, and let him go to live with his family. They formed the Ostrogothic Kingdom of Italy. The Empire of the West was no more. One can only wonder whether if Honoria's ploy had been effective, and the Huns and West Romans had united, instead of dissipating their strength with continued fighting, they both might have prospered instead of perishing.

Back to the Battle of the Catalaunian Fields. Historians have struggled with the mystery of why the Visigoths deserted Rome in the hour of incipient victory, and there are several persuasive theories. But for the purpose of this narrative, there is a more personal conjecture. Beware; this is not recorded historically.

Placidia managed to save Honoria's life, but Placidia was sixty-two years old, and failing. Indeed, she died in 450, so her protection was gone. So she did what she could for her willful daughter, and secured her future safety by arranging a marriage for her to a Roman general serving in Gaul as a nominal adviser to the nominally subject Visigoths—a position of tacit impotence. Placidia knew and respected the Visigoths well, because her sole love-marriage had been to Athaulf the Visigoth. Valentinian would not be able to threaten Honoria in Gaul, but would have prevented any marriage to a Visigothic chief for the same reason he had opposed her marriage to Attila: it would lend far too much support to the competition. But a Roman who could be kept far from the centers of power—that was tolerable. The general chosen was named Pul, who was strong in battle but not bright enough to be politically ambitious. In short, safe. Honoria was hardly keen on the union to such a dull man, but realized that the alternative was almost certainly death, so she reluctantly acceded and went to Gaul. Rumors that she was bound and carried there slung over the back of a mule are surely not true. She yielded with a certain sullen grace to what had to be. More on this in a moment.

One of the other mysteries of history is why Attila invaded Gaul instead of Italy, if Honoria was in Italy. The unromantic answer is that Attila was more interested in the rich loot to be had from Gaul than in any woman; the Hunnic way of life was to invade, pillage, and return with economy-boosting booty. For such excursions it was best to vary the locale from season to season, for harvests were poor in too recently devastated regions. Attila had a good sense of resource management. The romantic answer is perhaps that Honoria was now in Gaul. Attila would probably not have cared to marry her, once she had been married to another man, but his pride was involved. At least he could free her to join the Huns, and her presence in his camp would have been awkward for the Romans. She represented another chance to shame the arrogant civilized empire. He might marry her to one of his lieutenants and put the man in charge of Italy, once it was conquered, thus giving Honoria a good situation. Or perhaps he would after all have married her himself, for the sake of their usefulness to each other. Certainly he was intrigued by this nervy and appealing woman. So, like a bold white knight, this Black Hun came, as it were, for his lady love.

His interest was returned. Honoria wanted more than ever to be rescued from the dullness of her impotence. But when it seemed that her savior was about to lose the key battle, costing her the remnant of her dream, Honoria had to act. Her Visigoth husband was not bright, which made him easy to manage, but he was well connected. Through him she schemed to get the Visigothic contingent to disengage. She managed to get her husband to spread a rumor that the younger brothers of Thorismund, who with the death of his father was in line to be king of the Visigoths, were conspiring to seize their father's possessions and gain control themselves. That meant that Thorismund might have to return to another battle at home, after a wearing campaign against Attila. That prospect did not appeal to the Visigothic heir. So, to secure his rightful heritage, Thorismund marched hastily for home. And it is quite possible that the rumor was true, for his younger brothers were ambitious types. Indeed, two years later Thorismund was assassinated and replaced by his brother Theodoric II.

In this manner Honoria may have saved her savior. But because the battle was inconclusive, Attila was not able to rescue her. Thus their merged ambitions were muted, and Honoria disappeared from history, much to her regret. But perhaps, if due credit were given, her impact on history would be recognized. This bold woman's ploy had certainly generated considerable mischief, and changed much. But for the arrogant ambitions of others, it might have changed everything.

CHAPTER 9

JUSTICE

One of the fabled ancient and splendid cities is Angkor, in southeast Asia. The name is from the Sanskrit word for "city." It was the capital of the Khmer culture, which is dated from A.D. 802 to 1431. It was known at the time as Kambujadesa, from which derives the present name for the land, Cambodia. Originally there were several regions ruled by generally independent chiefs or princes, and there was no sense of national identity. But Javarman II managed through political, familial, and military maneuvering to dominate the other princes and become the "universal monarch." His successors maintained the kingdom, notably Yasovarman (889-912), who founded the capital which was later to be called Angkor. This kingdom was heavily flavored by both Indian and Chinese influences, being very roughly between the two massive cultures, but had a unique character that has survived to the present day.

Khmer society was highly stratified from the king at the apex to the slaves at the nadir. It had a form of caste system, with the Brahmans as a noble priestly class, and the Kshatriya as noble warriors. These represented the upper tier, the equivalent of nobility, and the lines between them were not firmly fixed. The second tier had Sudra as servants and artisans, and Vaisya as farmers. Beneath these were what were called mountain savages, which perhaps were simply the outlying country folk who did not take the caste system seriously, and slaves. There were many distinctions between slaves, with perhaps as many as fourteen separate categories. Some were hereditary; some were indentured for set periods; some were captives. Some were attached to particular masters or institutions; others were bound to specific pieces of land. Field slaves were reviled, with names like "Dog" and "Foul Smelling," and had to prostrate themselves and beg permission to enter a farmer's hut. Temple slaves might be addressed by polite titles, and some even owned land and had slaves of their own.

An orderly society is vital to any kingdom, and there were mechanisms to settle disputes and ensure fairness. But what about cases in which there was no clear resolution to be had by ordinary channels? Here there could be a special art to justice. The place is just north of the Great Lake of Cambodia; time is A.D. 890.

HEATH was a healer, and a good one, so that he was in demand by princes despite being only of the artisan caste himself. He had been well rewarded for his services, and now owned choice land near the capital city. He had a comely, fertile, and devoted wife who supported him absolutely. Yet he was uncomfortable, and the problem was with his wife. He dreaded his sessions with her, though she was in no way at fault.

It was their agreed night for sex. Talena had borne him four daughters in the course of their six years of marriage, and was eager to get started on a son. She was nineteen, and still in the prime of her femininity. Her breasts and buttocks had fleshed out well with childbearing, but she remained slender overall, and pleasant of face. Sex with her was certainly no chore.

As usual, she had arranged to have the children cared for by the slaves in another chamber. As usual, she brought him his evening meal herself, prepared by her own right hand. The left hand, of course, was impure, being used exclusively for lowly chores such as admonishing slaves and washing the bottom after defecation.

She entered, bearing the wooden platter. She wore her simple sarong, stretching from her waist to her ankles, with her feet and breasts bare. Her hair was pulled back and knotted into a tight conical bun, but after the meal she would loosen it for his pleasure.

She smiled at him, and set the platter before him. It bore cooked rice, with crayfish, bananas, onions, pomegranate, milk curd, and several spices. Sauce was in leaf cups, and sweet berry drink was in clay cups.

They ate, dipping their fingers into the rice, adding sauce or spice, eating it, and rinsing their fingers in the water bowls. The food was good, as it always was. Heath wished the meal could last longer, because he knew what was coming after it was done.

But it finished in the usual time. Talena set this spent platter aside and returned to kneel before him. "How may I please you best, my husband?" She smiled with assumed hope and expectation.

Suddenly it was too much. "You know you can't ever please me enough," he said, feeling the sting at his eyes. He had avoided the truth for all of their marriage, hoping it would fade, but it hadn't faded enough. "We have always seemed to be the perfect couple; others have remarked on it. But it has always been hollow."

"But I must always try," she said bravely. "I must banish my faults and hope at last to meet your expectation."

"Talena, Talena, you have no faults! You are in all ways the perfect wife, and I know there is no better one. The fault is in me."

"No!" she protested. "There is no fault in you. Only in my failure to properly address your needs."

"I have not been fair to you from the outset. I should not have married you."

"But you were more than fair. You told me that you were not ready. I didn't heed."

"I didn't tell you that I would never be ready," he said. "I thought that in time my memory of Baya would dwindle, and finally go entirely, and then I would be able to turn wholeheartedly to you. But now I know that will never happen."

Her eyes were brightening with her own tears. "I never sought to displace your wife! Only to win a place beside her, in your esteem."

"Baya is dead. You are my wife. I do you the dishonor of placing you second to a ghost. You never deserved that."

"I consider it an honor to accept whatever you have to give me."

"I should free you while you are yet young enough to find a man who can truly love you."

"No!" she cried in alarm. "I love you, only you, Heath."

"I know you do. That makes my guilt into a mountain. You love so perfectly, and I am unworthy of it."

"I love perfectly because you are perfect! If your feeling for me is less, it is because I am less than—"

He reached forward and put his hand over her mouth, stopping her speech. "I have failed you, and I know it. I must try to make it up some other way. This is only justice. But what way can I find?"

She spoke against his hand. "Just clasp me, and maybe this time I will give you a boy."

"You haven't failed me that way either. Those girls will all grow up to be fine women like you. I don't care if we never have a boy."

"Still—"

He drew her down to the cushion with him. "And you have been a delight to embrace, from the first. But answer me: what can I do to make up, in some degree, for my failure?"

"I don't consider it a—"

"But I do. I owe you so much, Talena, and maybe I can repay you with some other satisfaction. What is there?"

"There isn't any—"

"Tell me."

She yielded. "There is something. But I have no right to ask."

"Ask."

"And it probably isn't possible to fix it, anyway."

He stroked his hand along her back. "Describe it."

"Our neighbor, Pul, has a slave wife. She is the sister of a noble who supported the wrong prince."

"Yes. That prince's estate was dissolved, and his assets distributed to the supporters of Yasovarman. That is how we got this nice property."

"I have interacted with her in the market place, and in the temple. She is dying of sadness."

"Well, she was a virtual princess, and is now an ordinary wife. It must be a considerable adjustment."

"She remains a slave. Pul takes her to bed, but the moment he tires of her, she will be a slave again, bound to the land until she dies. He hasn't freed her."

"Well, that would be expensive."

"She is a lovely, spirited woman, capable of so much more. If she could be transferred to the temple, she could surely prosper."

"Surely," he agreed. "I have seen her. But Pul would never do that."

"Yes, he would never. But if you were to obtain her—"

"I seek no woman for my bed but you!"

"Even for your bed, as a second wife, she would be better off than she is now. But the temple would be better. If you could—"

"I would never interfere in my neighbor's business."

"Of course," she agreed, hurt.

"By the great lingam of Shiva!" he swore. "How would you have me do it?"

She brightened. "There is a question of title to the land to which she is bound. I researched it in the temple records."

She was good at such things. She knew all the old stories, and the nuances of law. "A question of title?"

"Pul was to receive the land north of the stream that passes us. You received the land west of the mountain. That property is in both areas."

"It is? It never seemed so to me."

"Because perfect as you are in every other way, your sense of direction is, dare I say it, imperfect."

He had on occasion gotten lost. "So?"

"I verified the direction west of the mountain, and it is confusing because of the lay of the land. But I am sure that that piece of land is there. So you have a claim to it."

"But it is also north of the stream."

"Yes. So the issue is confused. But your claim is as good as his. You might take that piece from him. And Honoria is bound to that land. She would become yours."

This was amazing. She had found a way. "And you want me to make the issue, take the land, and transfer it and the woman to the temple."

"There are legal precedents. If the land is declared unusable, its bound slaves can be moved. It could be done, if you got the land."

"All because she is dissatisfied as the wife of Pul?"

"Wouldn't you be?"

He laughed. Pul was a dull brute. Of course she was unhappy. But for him to go to such trouble to free her was ridiculous. "Do you realize that this may require a celestial judgment?"

"Yes. I am confident that you could prevail."

Her confidence was touching, but not necessarily justified. The average person dreaded such a judgment, for good reason.

Then he looked at Talena. He owed her, for the love he was unable to give her. He had asked her a price, and she had named it. She wanted Honoria freed, if not from bondage, at least from unkind sex. Was he going to renege on his offer?

He sighed. "I will try."

"Thank you, Heath." Then she clasped him with such ardor that it was almost possible to forget that he didn't quite love her.

In the morning he went to the temple with her and verified the records. The description of the land grants was indeed ambiguous, if the direction was as she said. He was sure it would be.

Now came the unpleasant part. Heath didn't like quarreling with his neighbors, and Pul was an ugly neighbor. But if this was what it took to square his conscience about Talena, it would be worth it.

Pul's house, like Heath's own, was supported by tall posts of hard timber that reached up to brace the curved roof. The floor was attached to these posts about head-high from the ground. Below that floor were the animal stalls, chicken coops, storage space, and pallets for the field slaves: the only place where they were allowed to sit or lie down. There was an open veranda with curtains that could be raised when the day was cool.

Heath stood near the house and called to alert its inhabitants. "Ho, neighbor!"

In a moment Pul's close-cropped head showed. "Ho, neighbor," he echoed. "What's your concern?"

"I have a matter of property to discuss."

"Then come on up."

Heath put his hands and feet on the ladder leading to the veranda. It had an odd number of rungs, for evil spirits could use only even numbers. He pushed aside a curtain and stepped onto the veranda.

There were two bamboo chairs. Pul had one, and Heath took the other. Pul was a large muscular man wearing the common male skirt, the sampot, which was a rectangle of cloth wrapped around the waist and knotted in front. Heath's own apparel differed only in that he also wore a thick scarf twisted into a rope and draped over his chest and neck. This was because as a healer he often had to travel to remote dwellings and could return late, so the scarf could be unwound to form an additional wrap.

"So what's this property business?" Pul demanded. He was a wealthy farmer with a number of fertile plots, and an equivalent number of slaves to work them. The agricultural caste was parallel to the artisans caste to which Heath and Talena belonged, but there was a world of difference in outlooks. Pul was rough and crude and not overly smart. He had been a warrior, but injury had caused him to retire to less arduous work.

"It has come to my attention that one piece of land was distributed to you, but should have been given to me," Heath said.

Pul's low brow furrowed. "What piece?"

"The piece west of the mountain. That was to be part of my dispensation from the king. But it seems that it is also north of the stream, so it was given to you. It is good land, and I believe I should take possession of it."

"It's my land!" Pul snapped.

"I can have the temple surveyors establish the direction from the mountain."

"And I can have them do it for the direction from the river. I want that land."

"But you aren't even farming it."

"You wouldn't either. You're no farmer."

"True. But the land has something I want."

Suddenly Pul caught on. "The woman! You want the land-slave!"

"I want Honoria," Heath agreed. "She is attractive, talented, and smart."

"Well, she's royal. That's how they are."

Heath nodded. "Yasovarman couldn't enslave her as a captive, because she was related to him, but he needed to nullify her. So he bound her to that plot of land. That greatly enhances the value of that land. I think he meant for me to have her."

"She's mine! I married her."

Heath raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Did she consent?"

"She doesn't need to consent. She's a slave."

"And she wouldn't need to consent if I took her with the land. As you point out, she has no rights in that respect."

"She's a beautiful woman. I won't let her go. My claim on the land is as good as yours."

"Then I fear we have a difference that can't readily be settled. I shall apply to the king for a judgment."

"You do that," Pul said angrily. "Now get out of my house."

Heath made haste to comply, lest the man's temper get the better of him and he throw Heath from the veranda. The irony was that Heath had considerable sympathy for the man's position. He had gotten a wonderful break, obtaining land with a lovely female bound slave; Honoria was a higher class of wife than such a farmer could ever obtain by normal channels. Now that situation was being threatened. By Pul's reckoning the feelings of the woman concerned had no relevance; she was there simply for his use. His marriage to her was simply a declaration that he was using her in the manner of a wife, and would recognize any children she bore him. She had farmer-caste status as long as the marriage continued, so was not considered a slave. But the moment she lost the marriage, she would be a slave again. So naturally she had not protested the marriage, but neither had she consented to it; she simply accepted it as her lot.

When Heath returned home, and entered the wooden-walled interior of his elevated house, there was Honoria. Talena had brought her home from the market. "I told her what we are trying to do," Talena said.

Heath looked at Honoria. She was thirty-one years old, nominally past her prime, but her face and bare breasts remained full and smooth. Her royal heritage showed in bearing and form. "If I get the land, I will donate it to the temple in your name," Heath said. "Is this what you want?"

She stepped forward and kissed him. Then she left the house. In this manner she indicated her agreement without actually saying anything inappropriate for one whose status remained slave; she was bound to another man.

"Of course you could get the land, and simply keep her as a sex slave," Talena murmured with a smile.

"I already have one of those." They both laughed, but there was an awkward tinge, because of the imperfection of their marriage.

Heath entered the capital city. Its market street was really the center of life. Goods were on sale from China, India, Viet Nam and Siam. There were precious stones on sale, and pearls, silver, gold, cotton cloth, fine silks, slaves, livestock, household goods, incense, spices, and ceramics. The local traders had aromatic woods, elephant ivory, rhinoceros parts, kingfisher feathers, resins, lacquer, pepper, vegetable oils, and beeswax. In villages, women did the marketing, laying out their mats from morning to noon, but here in the big city the foreign merchants held sway. It was a region of endless fascination.

But today Heath had special business. He passed through the market and went to the capitol hill. This was a scene of just as much activity, but of different nature: a grandiose temple to Shiva was being constructed. There had been damage to the prior capital city during the war of succession, so the king had moved the site of government and worship here and was in the process of making it the splendor of the world. On the summit of the hill they were building a five tiered sandstone pyramid, and making a middle square with four corner temples and a central shrine, mirroring the five peaks of Mount Meru. Stairways were climbing the center of each side of the pyramid, and small chapels would adorn each corner. Forty-four brick towers surrounded the base, decorated in stucco. From the foot of any of the staircases, thirty-three temples would be visible, representing the thirty-three gods residing on Mount Meru. At the top of the stairs, looking straight at the central shrine, there would be only three temples in the field of vision, representing Shiva, Vishnu, and Brahma. But Shiva would loom above the others. Every temple would house a lingam, the stone phallus symbol of Shiva's creative potency. Each lingam actually included the three major gods, with the square base representing Brahma, the middle octagonal section Vishnu, and the circular section at the top being Shiva himself. Since all was Shiva, the lingam actually represented all other deities. Taken as a whole, it would be the greatest religious complex ever known, when finally completed. Heath found himself awed simply by the scale of the artistic vision, and was sorry that he probably would not live long enough to see the final system.

Meanwhile, the court system was housed in lesser buildings. Much of its business was the disciplining of criminals. Thieves might have one of their hands cut off, or if their thievery were great and incorrigible, a hand and a foot, and would also be branded on the chest. Adulterers might have their feet placed in a wooden vise and squeezed by the cuckolded man until the pain made them agree to give all their property to the plaintiff. Heath had had to attend a number of such cases, to provide medical treatment after the decisions were made. After all, there was no point in letting a recent amputee bleed messily all over the law offices. But the mere threat of such punishments sufficed to dissuade many criminals, and others would promptly flee the city when caught. So the general population was fairly law abiding.

He came to the civil court. There were a number of cases waiting to be settled, but because Heath was a person in favor here—he had tended the ailments of several of the judges—he was given a prompt hearing.

The judge was sympathetic, but reluctant. "The claim seems to have equal merit by both directions," he said. "It is a confusion of definition. I can not arbitrarily give the land to one party or the other."

Heath had suspected that would be the case. The title to this property was ambiguous. "Then how can this be settled?" he asked, knowing the answer.

"You will have to submit the matter to celestial judgment."

Heath nodded. "I am ready."

The notice went out. Pul was summoned to present his side of the case, and then a day was set for the judgment.

They each reported to the palace on the morning of the set day. Pul had several slaves from his household, including Honoria, to provide support during the ordeal. Heath was accompanied by Talena and a couple of child slaves to run errands. What the support crews could do was limited, in the physical sense, but essential in the social sense. This was a duel, not of weapons, but of conscience.

There were six small stone towers standing in front of the palace, with sites being prepared for several more. They were hardly comfortable as residences; indeed they had been designed to be uncomfortable. Each had a small door in the base, and a ladder up the inner wall, and an open top. Each had a rope tied to a bucket that could be lowered from the turret to the ground outside: this would suffice for all supplies and waste disposal.

No supplies could be taken inside. The men had to enter their towers naked. They were allowed no diversions and no food—only water or wine. Their time in the towers was to be deadeningly solitary. Apart from that, they were free to say or do whatever they wished. That was the problem.

"Enter," the official said. Heath and Pul stripped and squeezed into their separate towers, and the official barred the doors behind them. They were in the towers—for as long as it took.

It was dark inside the close confine of the circular wall, and it stank of stale sweat. A disk of light showed at the top. Heath spread his arms, and found that there was not enough room for that; in fact there was barely room to sit down, and not enough to lie down. He felt the stone wall, and realized that it angled slightly inward; the tower was narrower at the top than at the bottom.

Heath found the wooden rungs of the ladder, tested them carefully, and started up. The slight slope meant that he was pulling inward, as if hanging; that was not comfortable. Of course the ladder could not fall; it would merely fetch up against the other rim. But it still felt insecure.

The tower was about three times the height of a man, so it was probably possible to escape it by jumping to the ground from the top, but even if there was no injury, it would forfeit the decision. The confinement was social more than literal.

He tested each rung before trusting his weight to it, just in case, and continued to the top. The air improved as he got there, and the light brightened. At last he poked his head out over the top, reveling in the fresh air and light, though he had not been at all long in the depth.

The top of the tower was jagged, with stones pointing up irregularly. It would not be possible to sit on it or lie across it. The ladder was the only place to be. Or down below. Heath thought he knew the reason for that.

There was a rope knotted to the top rung of the ladder. It dangled down to a bucket on the ground. Ah yes, the supply system; it seemed inadequate from up here, but it would have to do.

"Hello, Heath!" Talena called, waving. There she stood, really not all that far away, but seeming to be in another realm.

He waved back. "All is well."

He looked across to the next tower. Pul's head was just appearing. His slaves applauded as if he had accomplished a victory. But Honoria stood silent. She was, after all, the object of this contest. She could not afford to shame her husband, but neither did she have to pretend devotion. She looked quite pretty, from this distance, with her demure aspect, as if it were sheer poise that motivated her.

"Who are you really interested in?" Talena inquired teasingly, noting his glance. She wasn't worried; she knew that if Heath's love for her was imperfect, it was nonexistent for any other woman. In fact, if he were able to orient fully on any woman other than his first wife, there would not be any problem between them.

"She does seem worth acquiring," he said. It was easier to let others think that it was his desire for a royal woman that motivated him, rather than his wife's desire to free that woman. For one thing, that made it his challenge, rather than hers.

"Well, while I'm here I expect you to look at me. Are you ready for water?"

"Yes." He wasn't thirsty yet, but would be in time, and it was better to get his supplies in at the outset.

She put a gourd of water in the basket, and he hauled it up hand over hand. She had wanted to put sugar palm wine in, but he had insisted on straight water. He wanted his mind fully functional, for that was the key to victory. He unloaded the gourd and perched it somewhat precariously on the wall. Then he let the basket drop down again.

He looked across the city. Dark clouds were building. They were not yet properly in the monsoon season, but it was incipient, and there could be heavy storms at any time. "Go on home," he called to Talena. "You have chores."

She glanced at the sky, knowing his reason. She blew him a kiss, and departed.

He watched her go. She was such a good wife, a perfect wife. He was idiotic not to love her. But his objective mind did not govern his deep feeling. She was not Baya, and never could be.

"Some support you're getting!" Pul called, taunting him.

"That is all right," Heath called back. "I will look at your slave, who will soon be mine."

Honoria turned her face to him, but did not smile. She had to remain neutral.

"So look at her," Pul said. "I'll help you. Slave! Take off your skirt."

Honoria looked at him, hesitating. If he was serious, she would have to do it; he owned her. He nodded, showing that he meant it. She untied her skirt and stood naked.

Heath looked. Pul looked. The court representative looked. And so did a growing collection of passers-by. Naked slave women were nothing special, though they normally covered their bifurcations with their hands or concealed them behind packages or bundles being carried, but other men's naked women were, and well-formed ones more so.

It was Pul who broke. "Cover it up, woman," he said, disgusted. He had thought to shame Heath, but it hadn't worked.

Heath's feet were tiring on the narrow rung of the ladder, so he took his water in the crook of one arm and moved down the ladder. He hated the depths, but he was not a robust man like Pul, and needed to rest his feet.

He sat on the stone floor and took a sip from his gourd. He would have to go back to the top soon, because the litigants were required to present themselves to view for anyone interested; this was a public spectacle. But for the moment he could relax.

But it was uncomfortable here, as indeed it was meant to be. He needed to divert his mind. So he pretended that his water was but the fringe of a nice meal. Suppose Talena had put in crocodile belly meat and onions with the rice, giving him a treat? It was the kind of thing she would do. She took such good care of him, in so many little ways. Any other man would be thrilled. Actually he was grateful, but still lacking. He wished he could get that off his mind, but it pressed in more closely now that he was alone. He had a guilt that would not abate, and that, in large part, had brought him here.

So much for his effort to divert his mind: the imagined meal had led inevitably to its provider, and his related guilt. Better not to think of food. The storm came. Sudden wind buffeted the tower, making it creak. Suppose it collapsed? But of course it wouldn't; it had survived many prior monsoon seasons. He was better off in here than in the open.

Then the rain came. It sluiced down inside the tower, soaking him. He had no escape, and neither did his imagined food. He tried to close his mind to it, but his unruly fancy insisted that he had to gobble the rest of his rice before it swelled with rainwater. Even in unwanted imagination, he could not let what Talena had prepared for him go to waste. It was ironic. The pretended onion, at least, would hold.

The water continued. He scrambled to his feet. It felt as if he were standing below a waterfall. It pooled around his legs, rising to the ankles. The stone contained it, not letting it flow freely away to the river. Would it fill the tower?

No, that was a false alarm. The water was seeping out around the closed door, which did not fit its frame perfectly. It was deep enough to prevent him from sitting, unless he wanted a dirty bath, but would not remain long. He let the fancied onion float—it really wasn't going anywhere, unfortunately—and climbed the ladder. The rungs were slippery, but he was careful and was in no danger of slipping. He reached the top and put his head into the blast of the storm. Now it was cleaning him, and that was good, because he normally washed several times a day, as did all people of respectable castes. Being unclean was part of what made the tower trials unpleasant.

The rain eased. He looked down and around, and saw his two errand slaves huddled against the base of the tower. "Go home," he called to them. "Tell my wife I told you to." They got up, bowed to him, and ran gratefully off. "You fool," Pul called. "Now you have nothing."

For answer, Heath looked meaningfully at Honoria, who stood bedraggled but unbowed where she had been. She had not yielded to the storm. The more he saw of her, the more she impressed him. She was a woman worth contesting for, even if he wasn't going to use or keep her. Pul, of course, thought Heath wanted her for her body. Heath's real purpose was beyond the man's understanding.

Shamed, Pul called down to her. "Go home, slave!"

Honoria bowed acknowledgment, turned, and walked away with dignity, her hips swinging with a natural and appealing cadence. She glanced quickly again at Heath, expressionless, but that was enough. She appreciated his intercession. Then she was gone.

The storm had passed. Heath's feet were fatiguing on the rung again, so he went back below. He knew that nothing would be settled on the first day, and probably not on the second. But by the third or fourth day there could be action, as hunger became urgent. Few litigants cared to starve in order to prove their point.

One thing about the rain: it had cooled the tower. But what about tomorrow? Heath wished he could stay at the top, to catch the breezes there, but unless he found some way to support his tender feet, he couldn't.

He had a notion. He felt around, looking for loose stones. He found one in the floor; the water had washed out some of its support, and it was small enough to lift out. He balanced it on the bottom rung, then put one foot on it. It was flat on top and irregular on the bottom, so tended to hold its place as long as there was weight on it. He put both feet on it, and they were crowded, but it was possible. This spread his weight out across a much wider area, making it more comfortable for him to stand.

He put the stone in the crook of his left arm, and climbed using his right hand. The stone was heavy, and he was breathing hard, but he made it. Awkwardly he set it down on the rung his feet used, and held it there with first one foot, then both feet. He stood, and was comfortable at last.

The towers were in front of the palace, which meant that they commanded a good view of palace activities. Oxen were hauling covered wagons to the back area, and several elephants were being walked around the grounds. There were squawking sounds from the wagons, and Heath realized that the palace was preparing for an entertainment, bringing in crates of fighting cocks. He wasn't sorry that he would miss that; he enjoyed seeing the wrestling matches between burly guards, and the clever acrobats and tightrope walkers and jugglers, but watching animals kill each other was not to his taste. Watching human beings kill each other was not to his taste either; it was too hard to save their lives when they were badly injured. He thought that things might be better if competitive kite flying were substituted for physical combat. It could be done; some kites had barbed strings that could sever the strings of other kites, if maneuvered into position. But that was not considered royal sport.

"I'm not going to let you have her," Pul said.

Heath shrugged. "That remains to be seen."

"Why do you want her? You have a good wife of your own."

That was actually a fair question, so Heath tried to give a fair answer. "I don't want her for myself. I want to free her for temple service."

"Ludicrous! You want a buxom mistress to supplement your thin wife."

"Have it your way. Yours is buxom."

Satisfied that he had exposed a motive, Pul was silent. He simply could not think in terms of generosity, or of doing a favor for one's wife. At least Heath had tried to explain.

The afternoon passed, and his feet did not hurt. He had solved that problem. But he could not remain here indefinitely. The curious folk had moved on; no one would care if he disappeared for a while. So he carefully lifted the stone, held it, and made his way back down to the bottom. He drank the rest of the gourd of water. He sat on the floor, getting drowsy.

There was a tapping against the tower. "Heath!" It was Talena's voice, faint through the stone.

He roused himself and climbed the ladder. Talena had brought him more water, and was putting it in the basket. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"Very well," he said. "Thank you for coming again."

"I will stay here through the night, if you wish."

"No. I want you to rest, and the children need your care. I have no problems here."

"I hope not," she said, sounding worried.

He hauled up the basket. "I will see you in the morning," he said. "It will be lonely without you in my bed."

"Go, woman," he said gruffly. "Before you weaken my resolve." Talena went, and suddenly he felt regretful, almost grief stricken. He had meant the comment half-humorously; had she taken it seriously, and thought he was rejecting her? Sending her away because he didn't like to look at her? That wasn't what he had said, but considering their imperfect relationship, she might have heard it that way. She was a good woman, such a good woman, and it wasn't her fault that he had lost Baya. She had done everything a good wife could do, and he really should have loved her.

"So is it true that you don't take your wife to bed?" Pull asked nastily. "And that's why you want mine?"

Word was getting out about his problem with Talena? Heath felt a surge of embarrassed anger. But then he realized that the man was guessing, thinking that he must want Honoria for sexual purpose and therefore must have a deficiency at home. So he went along with it, mockingly.

"I wonder who sired my daughters?" he asked. "While I was out about my business?"

"Not me!" Pul said quickly. He wasn't sharp enough to realize exactly how the insult had been turned around, or to know how to counter it.

Honoria reappeared, bringing water or wine to Pul. She looked clean and elegant. She was indeed an attractive woman, and seemed wasted on a man like Pul. But was what Heath was doing right? Taking her away from a neighbor who really had not done him harm? This whole business was less than perfect.

The woman squatted, transferring the gourd to the basket. Her breasts touched her thighs. She did not look at Heath, but he knew she was aware of him. Did she think he was only pretending to honor his wife's request, and that he actually wanted her for himself? Did she care?

He went down his ladder, removing himself from illicit notions. He settled in the dark base and sipped from the gourd. The water was cool, indicating that she had drawn it from the spring just before coming here. She was infinitely thoughtful.

Unbidden, the thought of food returned. His stomach was empty, and was making its hunger known. So he diverted it again with the thought of what food there would be, if Talena had brought any. This time it was freshly baked fish and sapodilla berries along with the rice. But it didn't assuage his hunger; it worsened it.

Now he needed to urinate. He could do it in the tower, and that must have been what prior occupants had done. The smell lingered. But his sense of cleanliness objected. Why surround himself with the stench of his own waste, breathing it? So he used the empty water gourd, then took it up the ladder to the top. He was about to pour it out, but there were people passing by. So he simply set it in the basket and lowered the basket to the ground. Talena would know what to do with it.

He returned to the base, and sat on the floor with his knees drawn up. The circle of light above faded, and the darkness became complete. It was night, and there was nothing to do but sleep. So he rested his head against the stone wall and let himself drift. Right now Talena would be putting the girls to bed, telling them one of her stories. She was good with those stories, very good; she could entertain one child or a whole community, retelling the great tales of their people. If only he could be as entranced by her narrative and person as the children were! What was the matter with him, that he clung to what could never be recovered, while not properly appreciating what was there for the taking?

He woke, feeling stifled, and realized that the air was getting bad. As a healer he understood the importance of fresh air for health. It wasn't a matter of bad spirits; there just seemed to be a quality to new air that got used up in close quarters. But how could he freshen the air? If he climbed to the top of the tower there would be plenty, but he couldn't perch there while sleeping.

He pondered, and then felt the small wooden door. Sure enough, it did not fit quite tightly; there was the faint coolness of incoming air leaking around the edges, especially the bottom. He scraped away the dirt and grime, widening the bottom crevice as well as he could. Then he curled up on his side with his head against the door, his mouth down as close to the bottom crevice as possible. The fresh air was like a diffuse stream of water, and he sucked it in avidly.

He woke several times to change his position, for he could not simply stretch and turn over in the cramped tower. But always he got his head low, down where the air was best, and that sufficed. By morning he was somewhat cramped, but well enough, considering how much worse it could have been. He wondered whether Pul had had the wit to seek fresh air, and doubted it.

He climbed the ladder. Dawn was in the east, spreading its lovely red tents across the clouds and sky. The palace guard had changed; the new one was just as stiff and distant as the other. A guard would be present throughout the ordeal, to make sure that neither man left his tower or remained out of sight too long. But the guards were under orders to interfere in no way, and to speak to none of the participants.

And there was Talena arriving with more water. No—it was Honoria, for Pul. Pul was evidently not yet up; his head did not show above his tower. The woman came to the base of the tower, set down her basket, and waited for a moment. No one was around; the guard did not count. Satisfied, she turned her face toward Heath, and smiled. Then she turned back, and knocked on the door. That would rouse her master.

Such a small gesture, that fleeting signal of gratitude, but Heath really appreciated it. Maybe what he was doing was of doubtful validity, but at least the one most concerned acknowledged it.

Now he saw Talena arriving—and she had their children with her. The eldest daughter, Lita, was five, and the next was four, and the next three. She was carrying the one-year-old. And the basket.

"Hello, Daddy!" the eldest called. "Did the nak ta get you?" She referred to the spirits that were associated with ancestors, or rivers, or trees—or towers. They were not necessarily hostile, but it was best not to offend them. "We got along well enough," Heath replied. "The spirit of the tower must know I am right." Though he himself was not sure. Between the awkwardness of challenging a neighbor, and the attractiveness of the neighbor's wife, the doubt was significant and growing.

Talena checked the tower basket, and noted the content of its gourd, sniffing. She nodded, and exchanged it for the new gourd.

Meanwhile, Pul had appeared atop his tower. He hauled roughly on his rope—and the gourd with his water slopped. The woman quickly caught and righted it, but the lost water could not be restored. "You stupid slave!" he cried at Honoria. "You spilled it!"

Honoria nodded apologetically, not deigning to argue. The guard glanced in her direction, expressionless.

Talena, about to depart, hefted the gourd she carried. "I have extra—but I think it would not be right to give you this."

The guard almost cracked a smile. It seemed he knew what was in the gourd.

"But I will walk with you, if you wish to borrow it to refill yourself."

"Thank you," Honoria said.

"Stay here," Talena told the children. "And don't tease the guard." Then the two women walked away.

Pul stared after them, then angrily took his partially filled gourd below. Heath stayed high, to keep an eye on his children. He had almost laughed when Talena pretended to consider giving her gourd to Honoria. It was full of his piss! Pul didn't even know he was the butt of the joke. And the guard would have a story to tell when he was relieved.

Soon the women returned, and Honoria was carrying the gourd. They had evidently filled it at the nearest public pool. Honoria was smiling; she must have come to understand the joke, too, as Talena emptied the gourd and rinsed it.

"Pul!" Honoria called. "More water."

After a while Pul's head showed. He didn't like taking water from one of Heath's gourds, but knew he needed it. So with bad grace he hauled it up. He did not thank anyone. He disappeared into his tower.

Talena waved to Heath. Then she and the girls departed.

Honoria remained, for Pul had not dismissed her. She sat and leaned against the tower, her knees lifted, awaiting his convenience. Heath watched her, for there was not much else to do. The morning sunlight was striking at an angle, illuminating her. Her eyes were closed, thus giving Heath leave to inspect her as closely as he wished. Her hair was loose and thick and lustrous, in the fashion of the upper castes, and it half masked her breasts, enhancing their interest. Her ankles showed below her skirt, decorous but suggestive. What might lie beyond such ankles? Surely nothing he had not seen yesterday, yet now it seemed that it must be special. She was certainly an interesting woman.

But his feet were getting tender, for he had not brought up his standing stone. So, reluctantly, he descended, letting go of the view.

He drank and rested, for there was not much else to do. Already the heat of the day was rising. If it did not rain, it would become unbearably hot. Then he would have to take his rock up and stand at the top until rain or nightfall. In fact he ought to go up now, for it was a better location than the depths. But he was lethargic. He slumped down and slept, though he didn't need it.

He woke at midday, to Talena's knock at the door. He climbed the ladder and hauled up the new basket. This time she had provided two gourds of water, so that he would not run dry in the heat. She was always thoughtful in such ways. He thanked her, and looked around before going down. Honoria was gone. He was almost disappointed.

"She will return," Talena said. "I told her to wear a shorter skirt."

"Thank you." But he had to marvel at his wife's attitude. She had no jealousy at all. She knew he would look at what was offered, but also knew that he would never do more than look.

She departed, and he went down to rest some more. He drank one gourd of water and saved the other for the worse heat coming. There was no sign of rain on this day.

It was becoming very hot. It was time for him to go to the top. But he felt weak and dizzy, and lacked the initiative to get moving. He was no longer hungry, and knew that was a bad sign; his digestive system had given up and shut down. He should at least get his head down by the crack under the door, for fresh air, but he didn't. It was just too hot to let him move at all.

His mind drifted. He stared into the opposite wall, which was really the wall he leaned against. So how was it to be defined? Was it a separate thing when across from him, though there was no break between it and the one he leaned against? He pictured the tower unwinding, its wall becoming a flat wall: all one piece. Yet surely what was opposite could not be the same.

The wall re-formed before him, dark and impenetrable. But he did not need to be confined. He concentrated, and the wall became transparent. Now he could see the palace beyond it, and part of the city, with people on the streets.

One of the people left the street and walked toward him. It was Honoria, in a shorter skirt. She sat down outside the tower and drew up her knees. This time her ankles and calves showed, and her thighs behind them, under the skirt. There was a shadowed region between the thighs, gradually coming clearer. "Do you want it?" she inquired.

It looked very interesting. "I should not," he said. "I am married."

"To whom?"

"To Baya. I have always been married to her."

"But she died."

"She died," he agreed, wincing as he saw that scene of destruction. "And I remarried." He saw young Talena, really too young to marry, but so eager to have him, and there were social and economic constraints that made it well worth his while to do it. So he had done it, but never really done it sufficiently. Because he couldn't let go of Baya.

"That is not true," Honoria said.

"How can you know that?"

"I will prove it." She got up and walked through the wall. She kneeled and embraced him. There was no room, yet it didn't matter; they were in each other's arms.

"But my wife—"

"Not true." She kissed him.

His desire flared. He returned her kiss, and embraced her, and entered her, and spent himself in her, endlessly, for the release was never quite complete.

"You always desired me, not your wife," she said. "But you couldn't have me."

"But I never knew you, before this—"

"Not true. Here is my true identity." Her face fuzzed, and became Baya. No, not Baya; a younger woman. A girl. In fact—

"Melee!" he gasped, astonished. "Baya's little sister."

"Now you know your true desire," she agreed, and faded away. The ancient woman Bata, Baya's grandmother, appeared. He had learned the essential art of healing from her, and it had changed his attitude and his life. She wasted no words. "Get your head straight before you go mad," she said.

Heath woke from his reverie, horrified. He was covered in sweat. The heat and hunger and the bad air had made him hallucinate.

He grasped the rungs of the ladder and hauled himself up. His head seemed to be floating, yet his feet were heavy. He struggled to get higher, rung by rung, concentrating to make sure each hand held on tightly.

At last his head broke out the top, and he sucked in fresh air. His mind began to clear. He had fallen afoul of the heat and stale air, but he could avoid that somewhat up here. He would have to bring up his stone and settle here until nightfall.

But the relief couldn't clear his mind completely. The hallucination had uncovered certain appalling truths. He did desire Honoria, simply because she was an attractive woman; in control of his faculties he would never act on that. But Baya—could he have been to her as he was to Talena, because his actual passion was for her sister? Melee had been a child when he had known her, eleven, twelve, thirteen, but a winsome one with fine features and intriguing manner. He had never paid her much attention. Because she was a child, and was his wife's sister.

By now Melee would be nineteen. He had not seen her since the tragedy that killed Baya, but if she lived, that would be her age. Somehow she had remained in his mind, not openly, but in the deep recesses that governed his secret passion. And he feared it was true: she had balked his love for Baya too. He had not truly loved Baya, though he had thought he did; he had loved that aspect of her that most resembled her sister. When she had died, he had thought it was her loss he most suffered, but it had been Melee, who had disappeared with her father and Bata, leaving him with nothing.

And Talena was another victim of that emotional balking. Now he knew its true nature. And knew that he was not rid of it. He could not tell her. Why torture her with the knowledge that she competed not with a dead woman, but a living one?

And what would happen if he ever encountered the adult Melee?

He had entered this contest to oblige his wife. He had hoped to win what she desired. Now he knew that he had only confirmed what she least desired. There seemed to be little point in going on; there was nothing pleasant to be had from this ordeal.

Still, he didn't call out to the guard. Pointless as this had become, it wasn't in him simply to capitulate. Pul remained in his tower, and the idea of yielding to that man did not appeal.

He climbed back down, fetched his stone, and brought it up. His lack of sustenance made him weak and faint, but he took his time and got to the top. He braced the stone in place and stood on it. He waited.

After a while he became aware of a sound. It was a series of dull thuds. It seemed to be coming from the other tower. What was Pul doing?

In due course Talena and Honoria arrived, walking together, carrying their baskets. Heath felt guilty, looking at them. He had dreamed of passion with one, and discovered the nature of his problem with the other. He could not tell either.

They stopped at the towers. "What is that?" Honoria asked.

"He must be pounding the door," Heath said, glad for the chance to shift from his thoughts.

Honoria went to the door. "Pul! What is it?"

The pounding increased in volume. Now there was an indecipherable yelling.

Suddenly Heath realized what should have been obvious. Pul had not had the wit to get fresh air, or to get out of the worst heat. He was hallucinating. Who could know what evil spirits lurked in his mind? Surely worse ones than Heath had encountered. "Let him out."

"But then he will lose," Talena protested.

"I think so," Heath agreed, realizing that he had after all won the contest. Not the way he had expected; normally it took three or four days for one party or the other to break out in boils or demonstrate his guilt for his wrongness in some other way. But this was a very hot day, and so the towers had been worse. Pul could die if not released.

Honoria was silent, realizing that the issue had been so suddenly settled. She would be donated to the temple with the land, and have a far better life.

The two women went to the guard. The guard went to Pul's tower door and unbarred it, lifting it out of the way. Suddenly Pul's screaming was louder. Then he fell through the door and lay on the ground, twitching.

Heath recognized the symptom. "Douse him with water!" he called. "Use the gourds!"

The two women poured their gourds over Pul's body and head. The one Honoria used had colored fluid. The idiot had been drinking wine! It was allowed, but foolish, without food. That would have made things that much worse.

The guard faced the palace and waved. Soon several men came, leading a horse bearing water skins. They poured more water on Pul, and soon he quieted. "You have lost the issue," the palace official told him. "The judgment of heaven has been rendered." He turned to Heath's tower. "Release that man. He must come and approve the transfer of property."

A man opened Heath's door. Heath climbed down, replaced his stone in the floor, and crawled out.

Talena met him there, and hugged him as he stood up. "I knew you could do it!" she cried. "You can do anything."

How little she knew.

The city that Yasovarman founded became a model of elegance that remains remarkable to this day. But when he died his sons soon dissipated the power and security he had made. However, the culture continued, and over the course of five centuries the Khmer kingdom became quite wealthy. Visiting Chinese were impressed, though they considered the people of this region to be barbarians. Eventually it faded, and the jungle grew over the city, and the grandeur that was Angkor was almost forgotten. Today most of what we know of it comes from Chinese reports, preserved stone inscriptions, and the phenomenal architecture. But it was great while it lasted.

CHAPTER 10

POLITICS

Some of the greatest historical moments are not phenomenal battles like Hastings in 1066 or significant decrees like the Magna Carta in 1215. Some pass almost unnoticed, yet their impact can be felt worldwide. Such as the development of a superior clock that would work on a ship. The art of politics came into play here, as elsewhere, in both positive and negative ways. The place is London, England; the time is 1772.

OD saw the king's messenger coming, and hastily straightened out his sloppy clothing. He was working on a mechanical music box, trying to get its tiny innards to work reliably, and it wasn't going well. He had the principle down well; the devil, as was said, was in the details.

"The king requests your attendance at a private audience at your convenience within the hour."

"I am ready now," Od said. He wasn't; he had been about to break for lunch, for the last hour, delaying for just one more adjustment, and another. But the king's stipend sustained his endeavors, and King George's whim was his command.

He went with the messenger. One advantage of doing that was that the messenger had a coach, so that Od could ride to the palace instead of walking the dirty crowded streets of London. The coach was bumpy, but it commanded the right of way, and that made a big difference.

The messenger guided him to one of the king's private audience chambers. George was already there, evidently having expected Od's prompt attendance. He was a relatively young man, for a monarch, thirty-four years old, and a king for twelve. He was also amiable in private, as long as his prerogatives were not crossed, and it was easy to forget his status.

Od reviewed the nature of the king quickly as he approached, because it was important to remain on George's good side if at all possible. As a boy, George had been described by his tutor as shy, backward, and lazy at his books. He was conscious of his future mission as a monarch, but diffident about his ability to fulfill it. He was known for his "censorious chastity" and sobriety, and "unforgiving piety." In short, the nobles of his court couldn't stand him. His father, George II, had been a weak king, who had lost much of his power to the nobles. George III was uncompromising in his determination to reclaim for the crown all the powers constitutionally allotted to it. This change from lazy student to rigorous persistence mystified others. But Od believed that the king had simply found his mission in life, and now applied himself to it. He was not unduly smart, and tended to take a head-on, opposition-be-damned approach to things, which could be counterproductive. Od believed that George had been neither lazy as a child nor pigheaded as an adult; he simply was not intelligent enough to finesse things, so came across poorly. But he did mean well, and did try his best. And it was Od's job to help him succeed in whatever he wished to. By being an unofficial, compatible, and competent adviser. For the king did not much like looking like a fool, and forewarning about difficult situations could help a lot.

"Ah, Od, my friend!" he said, rising to greet Od. "Just the man I need to help me with a problem." The king was royally garbed, of course, with a white powdered wig, ornate layered robe, knee stockings, and white shoes. Od suspected that George didn't really like the fancy clothing, but regarded it as protocol. Appearances were vital, for royalty. But for this private meeting, the king was dispensing with some of the protocol. He knew Od wouldn't tell.

"Whatever I can do, Your Majesty," Od said. He hoped he would be up to it, for the king's problems could be complicated.

"I have a received a letter from one William Harrison. It seems his father has made a clock, and has a problem with the Board of Longitude. This gets rather technical. I would like to know whether this matter is worthy of my attention. Could you advise me within two days?"

"I will do my best," Od agreed.

"Here is the letter. Anything you can ascertain to verify the nature of the case, and the rights of this man, and its importance to England will be appreciated."

Od accepted the letter. "In two days," he said, bowing and backing away. The messenger remained, to give him a ride home.

Back at home he found Avalanche. She was an expensive prostitute who seemed to admire his knowledge of technical things. She liked to talk to him, and she never charged him for her favors. That was just as well, because he could not have afforded their price. "The news on the street is that you went to see the king," she said.

"Yes. He pays me a modest retainer to be available when he needs me. It's the main thing that enables me to survive without giving up my diversions."

"And by diversion you don't mean women," she said. "You have the best mind I know. I don't know why you aren't famous."

"Science doesn't make people famous." They had been over this before.

"What did the king want?"

He had read much of the letter on the ride home. He already knew it was important. But he would have some quick research to do, to ascertain exactly how important. "A man has made a good clock. He wants recognition for it, but the appropriate board is putting him off."

"A clock!" she exclaimed. "What does a clock have to do with anything?"

"It could save uncountable lives, and magnify the British Empire."

She laughed. "Convince me of that, and I will give you something nice." She lifted the hem of her skirt just enough to provide a tempting flash of thigh.

He did desire her. He always desired her. She was a beautiful woman, the kind that normally paid him no attention. She was also a nice person, when not stressed. But her intellect was not technical. How could he make the point, in a way she could appreciate? It would be no good to talk about parallels of latitude and meridians of longitude as essential elements in the geographic definition of the globe; her eyes would glaze over. He cast about—and had it. An episode of history that had its drama and its irony. She should like it.

"About sixty-five years ago, Admiral Sir Clowdisley Shovell led a fleet of five gallant British warships on a victorious engagement with the French at Gibraltar, at the mouth of the Mediterranean Sea."

"Is there a woman in this story?"

He pondered a moment, and remembered. "Yes." He knew she would picture herself as the woman. It was nonsensical but that made him think of himself as the main character, the admiral. He resumed his narrative, feeling increasingly as if he were in it. He assumed the mantle of the fifty-seven-year-old admiral.

The small fleet made its way back toward England, skirting the coasts of Spain and France. For twelve days fog shrouded the region, leaving his navigators without visible bearings. That made the admiral uneasy; he did not like sailing blind. As they approached England the heavy autumn overcast became worse. So he summoned all his navigators to a conference aboard the flagship, the Association,

"This dirty weather hides everything," he said. "We dare not misjudge our position. I need not remind you of the peril of foundering if we run aground in untimely fashion. I want all of you to put your heads together and come to a consensus as to our precise location."

The navigators consulted and argued, but in due course a consensus opinion emerged: the English fleet was safely west of Ile d'Ouessant, an island outpost of the Brittany peninsula of France. That meant a clear sea to the north, crossing the English Channel.

Satisfied, the admiral ordered the fleet to proceed due north. But as they moved, a member of the Association's crew approached the admiral.

"Sir, if I may speak—"

It was highly irregular for a simple crewman to address an admiral. But Sir Clowdisley bore with it. "What is it, man?"

"Sir, I know this is forbidden in the Royal Navy. But I fear the peril is so great that I must risk it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Sir, I fear we are significantly off course, and there is great danger."

"Off course? How could a mere sailor possibly have an opinion on such a matter?"

"Sir, I have kept my own reckoning of the fleet's location during this whole cloudy passage. I believe that we are not where we think we are."

Admiral Shovell stared at the sailor. "What?"

"Sir, the danger appears so enormous that I am risking my neck to make my concern known. I believe we are near the coast of England, and will run aground if we proceed much farther north."

"You kept your own reckoning?" the admiral repeated, appalled.

"Yes, sir. I would not have spoken, but for the fear of destruction to the fleet."

"And you have the temerity to question the judgment of qualified navigators?"

"Yes, sir," the sailor said, ashamed. "I beg you, turn the fleet, lest we founder."

"This is beyond tolerance," the admiral snapped. He turned to the ship's captain, who was listening with similar outrage. "Hang this man on the spot for mutiny."

"Yes, sir!" And at the captain's gesture, other crewmen laid hands on the luckless sailor and strung him up from the mast. In a few minutes he was dead, a lesson to all others who might seek to breach the regulations of the Royal Navy so egregiously.

The fleet continued north. Until, to the admiral's horror, they suddenly sighted land. The stiff wind was blowing them right upon it; it was too late to turn aside, for the fog had allowed them no clearance.

They had, in fact, been not near the west coast of France, but near the south coast of England. They had steered north onto the chain of Scilly Isles, that projected about twenty miles west from the southwest tip of England. It was the very calamity the admiral had tried so hard to avoid. His navigators had been collectively wrong by a fatal amount.

The Association was in the lead, and struck the submerged rocks off the isle first. The men screamed, knowing doom was upon them. In just a few minutes the ship sank, casting all hands into the sea. But not before the admiral was aware that two other ships, the Eagle and the Romney, were being similarly holed by the rocks and were going down too. His fleet was being destroyed—and all because he hadn't listened to the crewman who tried to warn him.

Then Sir Clowdisley himself dived into the water, rather than be sucked down with the ship. He was a strong swimmer, unlike most of the crewmen, and knew how to handle rough waters. He got his bearings and stroked for the nearest land.

The swim was terrible. He was hampered by his clothing, and the water was chill. He was fatiguing rapidly. There came a time when he thought that he, too, would drown. But somehow he kept on, and in the end managed to drag himself out onto a beach and collapse on dry sand. He had made it!

As he lay there, too tired to do more than pant, a woman came along the beach. "Oh, a man!" she exclaimed.

He couldn't even identify himself. But at least he had been found. Help would soon come.

The woman took hold of his arm and raised his hand. "Look at that gem!" she exclaimed, staring at the precious emerald ring on his finger. "I must have it!" She grabbed his finger and twisted the ring, trying to get it off.

This roused the admiral somewhat. "Here, here!" he protested.

She was taken aback. "I thought you were dead!"

"No," he said, and lapsed into semi-consciousness.

"I must have that ring," she repeated. Then she put her hands on his feet and hauled with surprising strength. He was dragged the short distance to the water. She rolled him the last bit, until his head splashed in the surging sea.

"Woman, desist!" the admiral commanded, realizing that she was up to little if any good.

"And you'll never tell," she said. Then she took two handfuls of his hair and plunged his face under the water. She held it there until his faint struggles ceased. Then she grabbed his hand again, and wrenched the ring off.

She shoved the body the rest of the way into the sea and departed with the wonderful emerald ring. Thus did the admiral's misjudgment of his fleet's position cost him his life and the lives of two thousand of his men. Only one ship escaped, and only one other man managed to get to shore and survive.

"And so," Od concluded, "in seeking to avoid the Charibdis of the coast of France, they had blundered into the Scilla of the coast of England: the Scilly Isles. They paid the awful penalty, with the lady monster finishing off the admiral personally."

Avalanche shuddered. "But if she murdered him, and they thought he drowned naturally, how did anyone ever find out?"

"Thirty years later, on her deathbed, she confessed her crime to her clergyman," Od explained. "She even produced the admiral's emerald ring as proof of her guilt."

"And what does this have to do with clocks?"

"Everything. The latitude is easy enough to get; a simple sighting of the elevation of the sun suffices. But the longitude is a challenge akin to the mystery of perpetual motion. One of the methods of calculating it is to compare the time of the home port with the ship time; since one degree of longitude spans sixty nautical miles at the equator, an accurate comparison can theoretically enable—"

"Od, you lost me back at the word 'latitude.' I still don't see how a clock can tell you anything but time. And why should a clock on a ship tell a different time from one back at home?"

Od realized that what was a simple matter for him was not for her. She lacked his scientific training and interest. Then he realized something else: "The king! He may have the same trouble comprehending."

"Of course. That's why he asked you to explain it. But you better do a better job than this. I understand about the admiral getting lost; he should have listened to his crewman. But how a good clock would have saved him is beyond me."

"Avalanche, you may have spared me a horrible embarrassment. I must find a way to clarify the science of sea location in a way the king can readily comprehend. I don't want him to have any confusion. If I can explain it to you, then I can explain it to the king."

She assumed a pose. "Does that make me a queen?"

He laughed. "Close enough. This may take some time, but it's important."

"If you treat me like a queen, I will treat you like a king." She hoisted her skirts and sat on his lap. "The closer you get to my understanding, the closer you will get to my body. See if you can rise to the challenge."

With that inducement, Od managed to find a way. It was a remarkable and satisfying experience, in two respects.

Θ

Next morning Od tried to obtain a meeting with a man named the Reverend Nevil Maskelyne, of the Board of Longitude, the leading exponent of the Lunar Distance method of determining longitude. But he was rebuffed at the door; the reverend did not care to speak to strangers off the street.

"But I am on a mission for King George," Od protested.

"So you say." The door closed in his face.

Od did his best to control his anger. He had tried to be fair, and to obtain both sides of the issue from authorities in their fields. He would still try to be fair, but now he had sympathy for a particular side.

A day later Od was back with King George. "I believe Mr. Harrison has a case, and that this matter is worth your while," he said. "While I don't wish to bore you with material with which you may already be familiar, the matter is somewhat technical, so I thought I should review it in as simple a manner as possible."

"By all means," the king agreed, not at all deceived. "Simplicity is a virtue we do well to practice."

"Ascertaining the ship's time is easy," Od said. "Any sun dial can do it, so long as it is level and correctly oriented. A good compass and suspended platform can accomplish both, even if the ship is swaying in the waves. But the ship's time tells nothing about its location."

"For sure," George agreed. "The time changes as the ship moves. It may be morning in America while it is noon here."

"Exactly, sir. Now the ship's location has two components, latitude and longitude. The first is how far from the equator it is, and the second is how far around the world it is. I have brought a model of our globe," Od said, taking out an orange. "With the equator already marked."

"Delicious model," George said, with a bit of a smile.

"The parallels of latitude circle the globe above and below the equator," Od said, making circling motions with his finger. "Each aligns exactly with the equator. But their circles grow smaller toward the poles, until they disappear." He made smaller circles until his finger stopped at the north pole. "The farther north a ship goes, the lower in the sky the sun looks, because we must peer around the curve of the Earth to see it. Since we know how high above the horizon it should look for a given day and time, this means that a ship can tell its latitude simply by sighting accurately on the sun and reading his chart. So a ship always knows its north-south position, assuming that its navigator is competent."

"Of course," George agreed.

"But that is only the first component of its position. It must also know its east-west position, and for that the sun won't help. It would be possible to ascertain it from the moon and certain stars, comparing their precise positions with respect to each other, but as yet we have no sufficiently accurate charts of their positions for given times ahead. Also, cloudy weather interferes with celestial observations, and the phases of the moon aren't always good." Actually, such obstacles could be overcome, to an extent, by a combination of techniques. But Od was still smarting from the rudeness of the Lunar Distance man, and preferred not to go into this at this time. "So another solution is an accurate clock."

"Now we come to it," George said.

Od held up his orange. He brought out a toothpick. "Suppose the ship's home port is here in Africa," he said, sticking the pick into the equator. "And let's assume that it is noon at that home port. But the ship has sailed west until it is here." He stuck in another toothpick not far from the first. "The ship's time is eleven o'clock in the morning. So it is one hour different from the home port time."

"To be sure."

"Now we know that there are 360 degrees in a full circle, and 24 hours in a full day and night. So one hour difference must be 15 degrees west. Since we also know that there are 60 nautical miles to a degree on the equator, the ship must be 900 miles west of its port. The comparison of times provides the location. The farther west the ship goes, the greater will be the difference in times. If it goes east, the same principle applies, only the ship's time will be earlier than the port time. But no matter how far it goes, a comparison of the two times will yield the distance."

"Of course."

Od breathed a silent sigh of relief. He had clarified it so that the king remembered the basics. "So by ascertaining accurate latitude and longitude, the ship's navigator can locate the position of the ship. Of course he must calculate the miles per degree differently, the farther from the equator the ship is, because of the smaller circles. But his tables tell him that. So he has only one problem: accurate home port time."

"And there is the crux," George said.

"There it is, indeed. Because we have no clocks that can tell time reliably at sea. The constant irregular rocking of the ship disrupts any pendulum clock, and the changing temperatures play havoc with lubricating oils, and the combination of heat, cold, moisture, and salt air destroys the integrity of metal springs. All this is hell on clocks."

"I know."

"So we can't set a clock at home, and carry it on the ship, and use it. It simply will not remain accurate, if it works at all. So we can't travel far into the unknown with confidence. Thus our ships must travel through relatively narrow corridors that are known to be free of obstacles. All the other nations know this, and so do the pirates. So anyone who wants to ambush our ships or fleets knows just where to do it. The wealth carried by some merchant ships is enormous, so unless they are guarded by warships they will risk predation by hostile forces. All because they can't set their own courses with confidence."

"And a terrible burden it has been," the king agreed. "But you say this man Harrison has a clock that will remain accurate at sea?"

"I believe he does. John Harrison has a long history of making excellent clocks." Now Od's spot research came into play. He had not known of the man until given the name. "He seems to have had no formal training in clock making, and was never apprenticed to any watchmaker. He simply educated himself, and he must have had an immense thirst for knowledge. He built his first clock at the age of twenty, almost entirely of wood."

"Of wood!" the king exclaimed. "Was it a toy?"

"No, it was a fully competent clock. He went on to build others, and achieved a local reputation. In 1720 he was commissioned to build a tower clock, and in two years he completed it. From that date to this—fifty years—that clock has run continuously, without oil."

"Without oil! All clocks need oil."

"They do. But Harrison had done away with the need for additional lubricants by carving the friction-bearing parts from a tropical hardwood called lignum vitae that exudes its own grease. There is no iron or steel anywhere in the clock, since the damp climate would make it rust; the only metal he used was brass. He invented a new kind of wheel, shaped like a child's drawing of the sun, whose teeth are carved of different types of oak so as to have exceptional strength where needed, and lightness where needed. Sir, the thing is said to be a marvel of innovation and precision."

"I should think so. My knowledge of clocks is slight, but even I am impressed."

"Since then he and his brother have built other clocks, and they, too, are marvels of precision and innovation. The finest quality watches being produced anywhere in the world drift from true time by as much as a minute a day. The Harrison clocks never erred during tests by more than one second a month."

"One second a month! This is sheer genius!"

Od nodded. "I examined the design of one of them, and I think 'genius' is a suitable term. These self-taught clockmakers are the best in the world at their trade."

"Why haven't we heard more of them?"

"That is an unfortunate story, and the reason William Harrison has written to you, Your Majesty. I believe you should summon him for a personal interview."

"That I expect to do. But tell me something of the situation."

"As you know, the need for a truly accurate method of computing the position of ships is so great that in 1714, in response to a disaster of Admiral Shovell, who lost four ships and his life because of an error in calculating the location of his fleet, Parliament passed the Longitude Act. It offered a prize of twenty thousand pounds for a practical and useful means of determining longitude at sea, for accuracy to within half a degree of longitude. Many folk have struggled to win that prize, for it represents wealth beyond the means of any ordinary person, but in almost sixty years none have claimed it. The problem is simply too challenging. The clock method is only one of hundreds of approaches, and I think the most promising."

"But why didn't this man Harrison try for it?"

"He did, sir. In 1727 he decided to tackle the longitude problem. He realized that the pendulum that was so vital for maintaining the cadence of landbound clocks would have to go. It just couldn't work well on rolling seas. So he pondered an alternate mechanism, a springing set of seesaws, self-contained and counterbalanced to withstand the wildest waves. He worked with this notion for almost four years, until he was satisfied with it.

"Then in 1730 he approached Dr. Edmund Halley, the Astronomer Royal, and a member of the Board of Longitude." As he spoke, Od found himself getting into the scene, as he tended to do, identifying with the clever clockmaker.

London was a huge city, vast beyond John's home village of Barrow or the major nearby port city of Kingston upon Hull. He made his way to the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, just south of the great Thames River.

Dr. Halley was an affable man, disliked by some because he drank brandy and could swear like a sea captain, but he was well liked by most. There was a story that one night he and Peter the Great, the exiled king of Yugoslavia, had cavorted like a couple of schoolboys and took turns pushing each other through hedges in a wheelbarrow. But there was no sign of such frivolity now; he was a man in his seventies and sedate.

He received John politely, and listened intently to his concept for the sea clock. When John spread out his drawings, the astronomer was impressed, and said so. "You well may have the answer to the question of the age," he said. "But there is a problem. I fear the Board of Longitude, which is heavy with astronomers, mathematicians and navigators, will not welcome a mechanical answer to what it sees as an astronomical question. I can understand its likely skepticism, for I myself spend most of my days and nights working out the moon's motion in an effort to further the Lunar Distance method of finding longitude. But I do try to keep an open mind."

"I am glad of that," John said sincerely.

"I feel that your notion deserves serious consideration, but I am loath to send you into the lion's den that will be the skeptical Board without some additional armor. I lack sufficient knowledge of clocks to make a judgment. Suppose I send you to my friend George Graham, who is a well-known watchmaker? He is an honest man, and he will certainly be competent to judge the merit of your proposal. If he endorses it, then I will be free to give my recommendation to the Board."

John felt an ugly chill. Yes, a watchmaker would be competent to judge—but he might also be inclined to steal the notion for himself. After all, the prize was enough to make any man as rich as a baron. But what could he do? John needed Halley's support. "I will be glad to meet Mr. Graham," he said bravely.

"Excellent! I will arrange an appointment."

Graham was about twenty years older than John, in his late fifties, and he was not polite. "You suppose you have a notion for a clock that can operate efficiently at sea? Have you any notion of the difficulties?"

"Yes I do!" John retorted. He needed this man's good opinion of his clock, but he was not about to be belittled for ignorance of his profession. He then described those difficulties in fair detail.

Graham remained skeptical. "And do you similarly suppose that you have the solution?" But the edge was off; at least the man was satisfied that John was not a complete novice.

"Yes." Then John took the plunge and described his major innovation, the counterbalancing seesaw springs. He was trying to navigate the twin horrors of Scylla and Charibdis, the sea monsters who threatened ships on either side of a narrow passage. Scylla was rejection of his ideas; Charybdis was theft of them.

Graham's eyes widened. "I never dreamed of such a mechanism," he said. "I think it could actually work."

"It does work. I have made a working model at home, Mr. Graham."

"Call me George. I think you and I are going to be friends. This mechanism strikes me as genius. Tell me more about it."

So the ice was broken. But what of the man's honesty? It was a risk that had to be taken. John spread out his drawings.

The two men had met at ten in the morning. They were still talking at eight that evening. "You must stay to dinner, John. I can't get enough of your brilliance."

John was flattered. "Oh, I would not presume—I am just a village carpenter."

"And a genius. John, your notions are so brilliant, I want to become part of them."

This was the dread moment. Was he going to ask to keep the drawings, so he could pirate them? "Part of them?"

"You will need considerable support to develop your mechanism. Your genius goes well beyond mine. So I will do what I can. I will make you a generous loan, to be repaid at no interest and in no great haste. You shall have your day, John."

John was overwhelmed. He had feared rejection or theft; instead he had found crucial support. Graham was so impressed that he was becoming Harrison's patron, giving him more than mere encouragement.

In five years, Harrison completed the clock, which became known as Harrison's Number One, or H-l for short. It was like none other ever seen. It was made of brass with two dumbbell-shaped bar balances and four helical balance springs sticking out at odd angles. It looked like some weird model of a ship. Its four dials marked the seconds, minutes, hours, and days of the month. It rested in a wood cabinet four feet on a side, and it weighed seventy-five pounds.

The Harrison brothers tested it on the river Humber. Then John took it to London in 1735 and delivered it to Graham. Graham displayed it to the Royal Society. A number of authorities wrote glowing reports and urged the Board of Longitude to give it a formal trial. This was supposed to be a passage from Great Britain to any port in the West Indies. But the Admiralty hesitated for a year, then took the clock on a ship bound for Lisbon, Portugal. Harrison spent most of the trip hanging over the rail, desperately seasick, but the clock performed well. Unfortunately the captain died suddenly, before recording the account of the voyage in his ship's log. So they tried again on the return trip, which was a month-long ordeal through mixed gales and calms. The captain's reckoning, when they finally neared land, was that they were at the Start, near Dartmouth.

"But not according to the calculation done from the clock's time," Harrison protested. "That indicates that we must be more than sixty miles west of the Start."

The captain was skeptical. "Hmpf. That clock has never been to sea before."

But when they verified their position, the clock turned out to be correct. It had done its job. The captain was impressed, admitting his error and praising the clock. He added his recommendation for it.

And so the following week the Board of Longitude convened for the first time, to consider John's device. His supporters were impressive, and the general consensus was that he had every right to demand a West Indies trial, to prove H-l deserving of the £20,000 prize. Then came a surprise.

"It is not good enough," John said. "There are defects I want to correct. And I believe I can make it smaller. With another two years' work, I could produce a better timekeeper, if the Board can see its way clear to advancing me funds for further development."

The members of the Board were amazed, but it was an offer they could hardly refuse. They agreed to pay him £500, half now, half on delivery, with certain other conditions.

But by the time John completed H-2 and presented it to the Board in January 1741, he was already disgusted with it. It just wasn't good enough.

The Board disagreed. Though H-2 never went to sea, it was subjected to rigorous tests. It was a design as innovative and competent as the first, and it passed the tests, converted critics, and won full backing from the Royal Society.

But John disappeared into his workshop, which was now in London, for sixteen years, to work on H-3. This was another remarkable innovation. It used combinations of metals, whose expansion and contraction in varying temperatures canceled each other out, and a revolutionary new anti-friction device: caged ball bearings. It was two feet high, one foot wide, and weighed sixty pounds.

Yet even this did not satisfy him. He was already considering a precision watch, the H-4, which he completed in 1759. It was about five inches in diameter and weighed three pounds. Unfortunately, it was not perfect: miniaturization sacrificed the frictionless aspect, and it needed oil. If run continuously, it would lose a significant amount of precision—in three or four hundred years.

He presented H-4 to the Board of Longitude in 1760. The Board decided to test H-3 and H-4 on the same voyage. But it delayed. It seemed that a proponent of the Lunar Distance method of determining longitude wanted the prize, so was interfering with the testing of the timepieces.

Fed up, John withdrew the H-3 from the test, allowing the Watch to handle the challenge alone.

In 1762 the Watch crossed the Atlantic Ocean. John's son William accompanied it. After eighty-one days at sea, the Watch had lost only five seconds. On the return trip the weather was worse, and rough seas washed over the sides, at times swamping the deck with two feet of water, and six inches seeped into the captain's cabin where the Watch was kept. William had to keep the Watch wrapped in a blanket to keep it dry, because actual immersion would be beyond the delicate mechanism's tolerance. When the blanket soaked through, he held the cloth against his body to dry it. This protected the Watch, but not William; he had a raging fever by the time they reached England. But the Watch was healthy, and its cumulative gross error for the round trip was just under five minutes.

H-4 had passed the trial. Now at last John Harrison could claim the prize money. Or so he thought.

When the Board met to evaluate the trial it was unsatisfied. It called for three mathematicians to recheck the data for the whole trip, though the measurements had been performed by the Board's own astronomers. The Board complained that William had failed to follow certain rules set down by the Royal Society by using the moons of Jupiter. How was that, again? Why hadn't this been mentioned before? The Board concluded that the trial had not been sufficient. The Watch would have to be subjected to a new trial, under stricter scrutiny. After all, the first trial might have been a fluke, a mere chance occurrence.

So instead of the £20,000 prize, John Harrison received £1,500, with another £1,000 promised if it passed the second trial.

What was going on? Well, the composition of the Board had changed, and those now on it were not as interested in timekeeping as prior members had been. Also, the Reverend Nevil Maskelyne was an advocate of the Lunar Distance method of determining longitude. In fact, he was soon to be appointed to the Board itself. Meanwhile, the Board wanted to give his method a trial. Since Maskelyne boasted that he was certain he had clinched the prize and proven the superiority of his method, William and others challenged his fitness to judge H-4 impartially. Outraged, Maskelyne botched his own trial despite good conditions. The prize remained unclaimed.

In 1764, H-4 was retested. The mathematicians took months to compare their computations with the astronomers' observations. At last they gave their unanimous report: the Watch had passed. It had predicted the longitude to within three miles, which was three times as accurate as the Longitude Act required.

But now the Board made new demands. It offered half the money, on condition that John Harrison turn over to them all the sea clocks, plus a full disclosure of the working of H-4. To receive the full award, John would have to supervise the creation of two duplicates for H-4. In 1765 the Board made more new requirements. John was furious, but in the end agreed, and cooperated fully. And so at last he received the £10,000 half prize.

The secrets of his device began to be spread about. That was exactly what he had feared. He was losing control of his life's work. In addition, in 1766 the Board, under Maskelyne, decided to test H-4 once again, more strenuously than ever. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, he announced that it failed. Thus the Watch's actual success at sea was set aside.

John was enraged by this bad faith, and published a two-penny book attacking the trial. Maskelyne never responded; how could he?

A copy of H-4 was completed in 1770 by another watchmaker, and it was good; John praised it. Meanwhile John had been working on his own copy, the H-5. By the time it satisfied him, the year was 1772. John was seventy-nine years old, and did not see how he could build another new clock. The Board, under hostile auspices, seemed determined to delay indefinitely, so that John would be dead before achieving his proper recognition for his achievement.

"And so William wrote this letter to you," Od concluded. "He believes that his father is not being fairly treated, and he asks that H-5 be tested at the Observatory in Richmond. This would remove it from the authority of the hostile Board. If you care to intercede on John Harrison's behalf, this can be accomplished."

"I shall certainly meet with William Harrison," the king said. He now had a good understanding of the man and his works, so would be able to converse knowledgeably on the subject of the Clock.

In a few days William reported to the palace. Od was in the background as King George interviewed him at length, learning new details of the history of the timepieces. The king was well informed, and did not have any embarrassing confusions. William was surely impressed.

"These people have been cruelly treated," George muttered. Then, to William: "By God, Harrison, I will see you righted!"

The king arranged for a trial of H-5 at Richmond, with three witnesses: the observatory director, William, and the king himself. But the Watch fared poorly. It gained and lost time with abandon. Could Maskelyne have been right? Harrison's hopes were crushed.

Then Od remembered something. "Your Majesty," he whispered to the king. "What about those lodestones you have stored in the closet?"

George was surprised. "That makes a difference?"

"It could. Lodestone is magnetic, and the watch has metal parts."

George went to the closet. "We must move these lodestones away," he said.

William stared. Lodestones! No wonder!

Now H-5 performed admirably. The king extended the trial for ten weeks, anticipating objections from Harrison's enemies. At the end of that period the Watch had proven itself accurate to within one third of a second per day.

King George was satisfied. He put pressure on the Board of Longitude, and it convened before two witnesses from Parliament. This time it reexamined the entire affair of the Clocks and Watches, from beginning to end.

"And this time," George told Od, "we'll go in there and beat those bigots down. It's high time they got what's coming to them."

Oops. There was the king's doggedly blunt approach again. "Sir, while it is certain that you yourself could accomplish this, the one going on trial, as it were, is not you but the old ornery clockmaker. I think this is a case in which discretion is the better part of valor. Finesse may be more effective than force."

George was perplexed. "Eh? How so?"

Carefully, with infinite delicacy, Od explained. "If you can get this across to him," Od concluded, "he should have a better chance."

George considered. "It's a novel approach, but I'll try it. I will talk to the man."

Od hoped this worked. If it didn't, not only would the clockmaker lose his case, Od himself could be out of a job.

Three days later, clockmaker John Harrison appeared before Parliament. George himself counseled the old man in the politics of the situation. "You have a strong case, but as you have seen with the Board, that does not necessarily win the day. Drop any legal blustering; it will only make them get their backs up. Simply appeal to the hearts of the ministers. You are an old man who has devoted his life to the cause, and been denied your full reward. This is the most promising approach."

Od's knees felt weak. The king had made the correct diagnosis. Now would it succeed?

John Harrison heeded George's advice, and made his case. The members of Parliament were favorably inclined, and awarded him £8,750. The amount was almost equal to the remainder of the Longitude Prize. But it was not the prize; it was a separate sum given in spite of the Board, not because of it. It was really a slap in the face of the Board.

"And so justice has at last been done," Od told Avalanche later. "And when more copies of that Watch are made, it will transform navigation in the world."

"I'm sure it will," she agreed, kissing him.

And so it was, though the change took time. The astronomical sighting method was a good deal cheaper than the Watches, and in many cases was as effective. But as the marvel of mass production brought the price of good timepieces down, more chronometers were used on ships, and it ushered in a new standard of accuracy that was to enable far greater safety on the seas. A fair portion of Great Britain's vast global empire was surely owed to this new precision of navigation. The innovations in timekeeping made by John Harrison spread through the watchmaking industry, and his principles profoundly affected the technology that obtains today. As the clocks enabled this method of navigation to prevail, the Greenwich Meridian of Longitude became the standard by which the time of the globe is measured. Seven miles from the heart of London, it is the Prime Meridian. Today the most authoritative global maps use this standard. It might not have happened, but for John Harrison.

But though the art of science and technology was supremely important here, so was the art of politics. As long as John Harrison fought the system, his progress was mixed. The ambitions of others thwarted him despite the perfection of his clocks and the merit of his cause. When he worked with the system, by invoking the support of the king himself, he finally won his case. The king knew that even when injustice had been done, the soft approach was apt to prove more successful. So the king's sensible advice, unusual for him, may have been just as important as his royal influence in bringing the case before Parliament. In the end the king enabled justice to prevail, and his nation to profit greatly, not by fiat but by political art.

It is an irony of history that this sincere if imperfect statesman, whose understanding and fairness were in this case so appropriate, and under whose reign the kingdom of England was becoming arguably the greatest global empire ever seen, was reviled as a crazy and evil man in one quarter. He reigned for sixty years, and while it is true that he lost his sanity in the last decade, during the 1770s he was generally sensible and effective. But in the western hemisphere upstart colonists revolted, doing stupid things like throwing tea into the harbor. Yet by a combination of boldness and luck they managed to make it stick, declaring themselves the United States of America. So they ridiculed "Bad King George" and made his reputation in America somewhat akin to that of Attila the Hun, for no better reason.

CHAPTER 11

SURVIVAL

One of the major figures of history is Napoleon Bonaparte of France, who brought his nation from the verge of disaster to European dominance, then lost it. One thinks of the invasion of Russia, and of Waterloo. But there was another side of it: the drudgery of forming and maintaining an empire over scattered unwilling territories.

The notorious French Revolution occurred in 1789, remembered for the storming of the Bastille and the Reign of Terror that guillotined thousands. Napoleon was then serving in Italy, opposing the territorial ambitions of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Italy was not then a unified country, and held strategic importance as a staging ground for that conflict. He showed great competence, but the political situation in France was fluid, and as power changed, Napoleon was even arrested briefly.

Thereafter his fortunes rose, and in 1796, at age twenty-seven, he was given command of the Army of Italy. His genius as a military campaigner enabled France to drive back the Austrians and take over northern Italy. The Austrians used armies to protect terrain; Napoleon used terrain to protect armies. Thus even when outnumbered, he managed to concentrate his forces to overwhelm the enemy at key points.

But Napoleon had business elsewhere, as he maneuvered his way to supreme power in France, and during his inattention to the periphery, southern Italy was recaptured by its former rulers, Ferdinand and Marie Caroline. They were assisted by the British, who were suspicious of France's global designs. In due course, annoyed, Napoleon decided that it was time for France to secure this region once more. So one of his most able commanders, Marshal Masséna, concentrated a force of 35,000 men in the vicinity of Rome. Early in February 1806, Masséna marched south.

The arts are not necessarily pretty. During warfare in a backward region, subjugating a hostile population can make survival itself become an ugly art, and results are uncertain.

"BUT you're not a combatant," Talena protested. "You shouldn't have to march with the troops."

"I'm a doctor," Heath said. "I must go where France needs me. I can't stay forever in a soft location like Rome."

He was a good man, a perfect husband, and she knew she had nothing to complain about. But she couldn't help wondering whether he hadn't accepted this difficult position of military doctor because it tended to take him often out to the field, away from her. He didn't truly love her, and never had, though he never said this. They had six children, and she knew it wasn't the fact that they were all girls that bothered him; he was wonderful with them, when he was home. It was just that he had loved his first wife, and never could quite let go of her.

Still, he had a good position, and it paid well, and he was a hero figure to the girls. So she kept her thoughts to herself. "Well, stay out of harm's way," she said. "Your daughters and I need you."

"I'll try."

"Need you now," she murmured, glancing toward the bedroom.

"But the others—" He glanced nervously at Melee, who was cooking at the hearth, and Avalanche, who was reading a story to the children.

"Understand," she said. "We have just one private room. Whoever has a man home gets to use it. I want you, before Od gets here, or Dillon."

He laughed. "You women have things all worked out!"

"We do. We have to. We don't have much space, here in this foreign city, or time with our men. So we cover for each other."

Still he hesitated, until Avalanche looked up from her book. "Get in there, you fool!" she called. "She'll never be more ardent."

The girls burst out laughing. The eldest, Telita, was seven years old, and knew the score. The others were catching on.

Heath, discomfited, moved hastily into the bedroom. Talena shut the door. Then she met his gaze. "If you would rather not—"

"Of course not," he said quickly, meaning that he was ready.

"Because we can just stay here a while, and they won't know the difference."

"Nonsense." He took hold of her and kissed her.

She met him eagerly. It was an irony that after eight years of marriage, and six healthy children, she still knew he didn't really want her. She had done everything she could to be the best wife she could be, to fill his every need. She had eaten carefully, and exercised, struggling to restore her early figure after each pregnancy, and succeeded well enough, she thought; she really did not look older than her age of twenty-one. But she couldn't compete with a dead woman, whose image in his mind was forever pristine. As a result, most of the passion of their relationship was hers. She wished—but that was pointless.

Heath came alive as she did what was required to make him react. He did like sex, and he did like closeness; she just had to make him forget that she was not Baya. For a little while.

They were naked on the bed, and he was forgetting. He kissed her mouth, her breasts; she kissed his mouth, his neck. Soon he was into her, trying for another baby. She hoped this time it would be a boy.

Soon it was done. She stroked his hair as he relaxed.

"You are a good woman," he said. He always said that, right after. Never that he loved her.

"Thank you." She wished she had some better response, but her imagination always failed her.

Soon they were out with the others—and just in time, because Od arrived. He was no better suited to the military life than was Heath, but he was a patriot, and very intelligent, and though he was listed as a mechanic for the heavy weapons, he was actually a strategic adviser. Avalanche hustled him into the bedroom, and Talena took over the reading. Heath hesitated, glanced at Melee, and evidently decided not to stay for the meal she was preparing, because food was scarce and he could get fed at the officer's mess.

They were an unusual group. Talena and Heath knew Od and Avalanche of old; they had even once performed a play together. Od knew Dillon and Melee, who was the little sister of Heath's first wife, so when he had encountered Dillon as a musketeer captain, he had invited them to join the group. It was compatible, because the three men were all intermediate-grade officers, and the three women were nice. Actually Avalanche and Melee were beautiful, making Talena feel plain despite her hard-earned trimness of figure. Melee liked to cook, and she was an artist with food. She could convert the veriest scraps into a delectable dish. They generally did have enough food, here in Rome, but much of it wasn't very palatable in its natural state. Horse meat from animals who had been injured; wheat from commandeered peasant fields, with manure admixed; milk from sick cows.

In due course Od and Avalanche emerged. Talena knew the woman had given him a phenomenal time. She always did. Talena envied her fullness of body; she was voluptuous without being fat, and men noticed. When the three of them ran short of money, Avalanche would go out for a few hours, and return with enough to tide them through. The others did not inquire how she did it; there was really only one way. With her body, it was surely easy.

Od, too, elected to return to the officer's mess, though it was plain that he would have liked to spend more time with Avalanche. But the army was marching in the morning, and the men had to be ready. So this was adieu, for now. They were used to such temporary separations; it was the military way. They were never quite comfortable with them, though, because there was always the chance that one or more of the men would be injured or killed.

In the evening they had dinner, the three women and six girls. The children went to the their shrouded corner to sleep as it got dark, but the women stayed up a while, though they did not waste a valuable candle to make it light. Instead they just talked a while.

"I have a secret," Avalanche announced. "You must promise not to tell the men."

"We promise," Talena and Melee said almost together. Secrets were great diversion.

"I am with child."

Talena was thrilled. "You have been trying for that for ten years. Congratulations!" For Avalanche was older; Talena and Melee were both twenty-one, but Avalanche was twenty-eight, the same age as Od. She had seemed to be barren, and had wanted more than anything else to have a baby.

But Melee was sharper on a key detail. "Is it Od's?"

"I'm not sure."

Oh. Of course. Avalanche had sex with so many men, it could be difficult to know. She was with Od for preference, but had never concealed her business.

"But it could be," Melee said.

"It could be. I was with him in December. But it may not be. That's why I didn't tell him."

"But you want it to be his," Talena said.

"Yes. But I won't lie to him. I'll lie to any man but him. Our relationship—"

"Yes, of course," Talena agreed. "Love is like that."

"I can't even tell him I love him," Avalanche said sadly. "I like him, I love being with him, I wish I could marry him, but I don't think I can give my love wholly to any one man. Now—"

"Now you had better marry him," Melee said. "For the child."

"But if it isn't his—"

They saw the problem. "Tell him," Talena said. "He's a good man. I have known him almost as long as you have. He'll marry you."

"But it wouldn't be right, if—"

"It will be right if he says it is," Melee said firmly, and Talena nodded agreement. "And he will."

Avalanche gazed at them. Then the tears started flowing. They had given her a way to fulfill her dream: a baby—and a secure home for it.

Talena felt awkward, so she said something she suspected she would regret tomorrow. "I have a secret too. If—"

"We promise!" the others said together.

"My husband doesn't love me." Now it was out, and the emergence had not been as painful as that of a baby, perhaps because she had done it without giving herself time to reflect.

"But he's the most caring, decent man!" Avalanche protested. "He treats you so well."

"Indeed he does," Melee said. "He knows you are the best woman he could have. You have given him six fine children."

"But no sons," Talena said.

"He doesn't care about that!" Avalanche said. "He loves them all. He says they remind him of their mother."

"For whom he has no real desire."

Both of them laughed. "No desire," Melee said. "Then how did those babies come about? Magic?"

"He loves his first wife," Talena said, feeling her own tears starting. She had never before told this, and it was good to get it out at last, but it hurt too.

"Baya," Melee said.

"But she is dead," Avalanche said.

Talena shook her head. "He still loves her. He told me when we met that he was not ready for another love. Because of her. I thought it would pass, but it didn't. He will never let go of her."

"That's like me and Od," Avalanche said. "I know he loves me, but I can't love him. Not completely. I feel so guilty."

"I don't want his guilt," Talena said. "I want his love."

"Then we are sisters," Avalanche said. "In a way we wish we were not. Neither of us can make a perfect union."

"Sisters," Melee echoed. "I have a secret too."

"We promise!" Talena and Avalanche said together.

"Mine is similar to yours, Talena. I have a muted passion for Heath, of course never requited."

The other two stared at her. It was dark, so only the faintest shadow of her outline showed, but Talena was doing it, and she knew Avalanche was too.

"You long for your sister's husband?" Avalanche asked, as if not quite believing what she had heard.

"In my fashion. He married her, and I was only eleven, but I knew he was a good man. I had a crush on him. But of course I never let him know, and Baya wasn't concerned. He didn't know I existed, anyway. Not that way. I was a child. He was always nice to me, but it was his innate courtesy. The one he noticed, aside from Baya, was our grandmother, Bata. He studied constantly with her, for she knew so much. Later, when I met another man who respected Bata like that—" She shrugged in the darkness. "I married him."

"Dillon," Talena said, amazed by the connection.

"He was only a shadow of the image I had of Heath. But by then I knew that it was only an image spawned of the imagination of innocent youth. No one could be that wonderful. And Dillon—has merits of his own. I do love him. But I remember Heath, from that childhood image. And do you know, he is not that far from it." She turned to Talena; the sound of the voice shifted. "That is why I know how good you are, Talena. Heath would not have married you at all if he had not recognized in you the potential to replace Baya. And I know it, if he does not: you are more than her equal. You are worthy of him. In time he might have become disenchanted with her; I saw the little signs. But her death prevented that, and left him forever in love with her image."

Talena's amazement continued. "He did not truly love her, either?"

"I think not. In my juvenile fancy I thought perhaps I could take her place some day. So maybe I imagined it."

"But Baya—" Talena said, faltering. "If he did not truly love her, then why—?"

"Because he loved her little sister," Avalanche said.

"No, that's not possible," Melee said. "He did not notice me. It was all in my fancy. He never—"

"I know men," Avalanche said firmly. "They like women. Especially pretty ones. Especially young ones. You were prettier than your sister, even then, weren't you."

"I suppose I was. But—"

"You were the one he wanted. But you were too young, and you were his wife's sister. So he suppressed it. But it remained. Maybe he didn't realize it himself. But it was there."

"It was there," Talena said, an awful light dawning.

"But I never—never even indicated—and he never—"

"He is a good man," Avalanche said. "He would never cheat on his wife. But neither did he care to cheat on his true love, though he did not admit she existed. So he never touched you, Melee, or gave any open sign. But I saw the way he looked at you, before he left. I thought it was just because you are beautiful; men can't help but look. But now I know it was more. He wants you, and can't acknowledge it. Especially not in the presence of his wife. Especially not right after having sex with his wife. So he had to leave; the two of you together is too much for him to handle."

Melee looked at Talena, the outline of her head turning. "My secret was mine alone. I never—"

"I know you didn't," Talena said, glad that the darkness concealed her own troubled flush. "We all have young fancies. Mine was to find a good man and bear him many children. Maybe I tried too hard, too early."

"The two of you are the same age," Avalanche said. "When Heath lost Baya, and encountered you, the same age as his suppressed interest—"

"He married me for my age!" Talena cried, appalled.

"You have other qualities," Avalanche said. "I'm sure he had legitimate reason to marry you. But also the hidden one—the same one that ironically prevents him from fully accepting you."

"I will leave," Melee said. "I never meant for anything like this to happen."

"No," Talena said. "Your presence here is incidental. He was never mine."

"But now—we can't be together. Heath is yours, to whatever degree he can be, and I am Dillon's. There is nothing but mischief to have Heath and me in the same room any longer."

"The men are going out on the campaign," Avalanche reminded them. "So there is no problem there, for now."

"Stay," Talena said. "You need a place, and we need you. Now that we know the mischief, we can avoid it when we have to."

"Thank you." Melee was crying too; there was the sound of it in her voice.

"And we shall keep the secrets," Avalanche said. "We women are good at secrets."

Then there was a knock at the door. "Dillon!" Melee cried, jumping up. In a moment he was inside and embracing her, and in another they were in the bedroom, and the sounds of their union could not be ignored.

"She really has no designs on Heath," Avalanche said. "She told her secret to reassure you, not realizing the other side of it."

"I know. But how can anyone fight hidden passion?"

"No one can. Except to work around it, and keep it confined, in the way of a hearth with fire. Even if you didn't exist, Heath would not go to Melee, nor she to him; she's married, and both are honorable."

Talena shook her head. "I almost wish that I had a passion for Dillon. Then maybe we could exchange partners."

"He's not your type. And he absolutely loves Melee." Avalanche lay down, ready to sleep. "No, this is a secret that simply has to be kept. It has no solution other than silence. At least now we recognize it."

Talena nodded. "I am glad to have an answer to the mystery. And I can see how Heath can love her. Her beauty is matchless."

"Yet if no one else existed, in all the world, except you and Melee and Heath, and he had free choice between you, I don't think it would be easy for him."

"He'd take both," Talena said.

"Of course. He's a man. But my point is that though you are not Melee's equal in beauty—no woman is—you are more than her equal in other respects, and he recognizes that. He would not want to give you up. He is one man who is driven by more than sexual interest. So if he had to choose between you, I think he would remain with you."

"But still desire her."

"Yes." Avalanche lay still a moment. "But if, somehow, there were the two of you and him—I know you do not see things as I do—but you might be well advised to let him have the two of you."

Talena was repelled. "Her to sleep with, me to take care of the children."

"No, I think he would have sex with you too, and she would cook for the children. A man—once the edge is off his lust—he becomes more sensible. It might be a way to have his true passion, having sated the other side of it."

"You're right: you do not see things as I do."

"I apologize. It was a bad notion."

"No, just not right for me. I could never share a man. I want—I want all of him. That's my problem."

"It's hard to have all of any man. They aren't like us; they don't commit completely."

"None do?" Talena asked, appalled again.

"Oh, some can. I spoke generically. But in a general way, total commitment to one woman is as foreign to their nature as multiple commitments are to ours. I am rather like a man in that respect; I can't settle long with any one."

"What about Od?"

"I love him, I truly do, and he loves me. But I have had sex with several hundred other men since I met him, and he knows it. I suppose I love him because he still does love me, despite knowing my nature. He can commit, and so when I return to him, he always accepts me. So he seems more like a woman in that respect, always accepting, always forgiving. He is perfect for me; I wish I were perfect for him. Now he will have me completely, for I am loath to let other men plumb me when I have the baby inside. But once it is birthed, I will be returning to my wandering ways, and we both know that. I wish I could be like you; he deserves a loyal woman like you."

"What an irony," Talena said. "We are all mismatched." As women, the two of them were as different as they could be, yet they were friends and would remain so. They complemented each other, the wanderer and the homemaker. And also the passionate beauty, whose passion extended to the culinary arts. No, she did not want Melee to leave. They all made a team, helping each other endure emotionally as well as physically.

"We are all mismatched," Avalanche agreed. "But together, maybe we can survive. We can love each other."

The bonding of women. "Yes." It was commonly believed that men bonded in some special way that women didn't understand. That belief was mistaken.

Then Dillon and Melee emerged. "I must go," he said. "May all be well with all of you."

"And with you," Talena answered.

He departed. "Now we can take over the bedroom," Melee said. "I think we are done for the day." Then, after a pause: "But I still think it would be better if I—"

"No!" Talena and Avalanche said together.

"You are very generous." Melee was crying again.

"No," Avalanche said. "We just understand. We have been talking, and we just finished wishing that I were more like Talena, and that Talena could have a passion for Dillon."

"That must have been some discussion."

"It was. Come; we'll catch you up on it as we clasp each other for warmth."

And so they did, sleeping together under a common blanket. But Talena remained uneasy in her mind. The revelations had been overwhelmingly significant to her perspective on life and love. How could she resolve the conflicts within her?

Θ

There was little resistance, for the French force of 30,000 troops was overwhelming. They marched rapidly, and Dillon appreciated that. He liked exploring new territory, and he liked hunting, whether of animals or men. Of course he would rather be back in Rome with Melee, but first he had to earn his stake or get some plunder, so that they could afford to retire together to some country estate well stocked with game. They had been scrambling too long in minor roles, serving others. He had joined the army in the hope of gaining quick riches or land, and now with the march into southern Italy, it could be happening. Those who served well would be rewarded with land grants. He hoped to serve very well.

Dillon was an advance scout, accustomed to ranging far ahead and making sure that there were no ugly surprises awaiting the main force. He tried to report to General Masséna each day, before going out again.

"We are coming to a village of about eight thousand called Gaeta, on the road from Rome to Naples," the general said. He spoke in French, but knew that Dillon also spoke Italian. "We shall be there tomorrow. Scout its defenses, then see what else you can do. Go there under truce and tell their commander that if they surrender immediately, they will not be sacked, and their people will be well treated, just as has been the case with the other villages we have taken. I'd like to let my men sleep indoors for a night, if it can be arranged."

"Understood, sir." Dillon accepted the paper identifying him as a representative of Emperor Napoleon, and headed out.

He often traveled by night, because that was when others were not around, and he could spy on possible opposition. This time he went to the woods, chewed on some rations from his pack, and napped for three hours. Then, refreshed, he loped along the road, completely alone. He loved the cool of night, with the bright stars overhead and the songs of the nocturnal insects. He smelled the nearby sea, and felt the occasional caress of a breeze. He was a creature of the wilderness, and this was a reminder of it.

Well before dawn he reached Gaeta, for a man traveling alone could readily outpace an army; a day's march for the troops was just a couple of hours for him. He studied it as he approached, his eyes well adapted to the darkness. It sat on a hilly peninsula whose highest point faced the mainland. That made it readily defensible from attack by land. The neck was about thirteen hundred paces wide; he could judge such things at a glance. He saw the dark outlines of two, perhaps three lines of walls. Just beyond the neck the promontory expanded to almost twice the width. That meant that the defending forces could train twice the width of cannon on the neck as an attacking force could. They could also fire generally downward, increasing their sight and range. But every advantage had its liability; the base of the walls were exposed to cannon fire, and if the base gave way, so did the wall above it. Still, it was a remarkably good region to defend, and if it had to be taken by siege, it could be a rough campaign.

Of course it had to be taken, one way or another, because of its strategic location. Troops from Gaeta could cut off any lines of supply and communication between Rome and Naples. There was no way that such a site could safely be left in enemy hands.

He found himself a nook, and curled up like a wolf for another nap. He could use a bed readily enough, especially when Melee shared it, but the forest ground was his true home. He could hear approaching danger in his sleep. Then at dawn he got up, brushed himself off, urinated—that, too, made him think of Melee—and walked openly down to the isthmus.

"Who are you?" a guard demanded as Dillon approached the first wall.

"I am a scout for Emperor Napoleon. I come to talk with your leader."

There was a dialogue in the sentry booth. Then the guard came out again. "Under truce?"

"Yes."

"You'll have to leave your weapons here."

Dillon was traveling light, as this was not combat duty. He drew his wicked hunting knife from its sheath, flipped it over, and offered the hilt.

"The hidden dirk too."

He reached into his shirt and fetched out the little knife. He knew it wasn't any great perception on the part of the guard, just experience; no one depended on a single obvious weapon.

"I have to search you."

Dillon raised his hands and stood still for the search. Should he need a weapon inside, he would simply take it from one of the guards; he could move much more quickly and accurately than most folk suspected. Sometimes he played a game with Melee: she would blindfold him, then try to touch him somewhere on the body without having him catch her arm. If he caught her three times, he could have his will of her, pinning her to the mat without removing the blindfold. He would pretend she was an enemy princess never before plumbed by man, and she had to play along, making token resistance, begging for mercy as she spread her legs. Not that she was ever truly unwilling; she loved such games. If she touched and escaped him three times, she could have her will of him, while he remained blindfolded. Then he would be an enemy prince in need of humiliation, forced to strip naked and remain unmoving during torture, which took the form of tickling in private parts. She had an exquisitely sensitive touch, so that it could indeed become sexual torture. There were variants; the winner could choose the rules. He almost liked those sessions better, because she was an ardent lass with considerable imagination. Sometimes she pretended she was someone else, such as a scorned former lover. "You must plumb me three times in an hour, three different ways, or I'll chop it off in the guillotine," she would threaten. The guillotine was a new execution device that had recently replaced the sword for lopping the heads off royalty. Somehow he always managed to avoid the penalty, just in time. She was absolute fun, and could be very quick with her hands, but usually he won, unless he let her win, for the sake of her punishment. He would do that by grabbing her knee or hair instead of her arm, pretending confusion about the exact location of her body. So he could get a man's weapon without having to look directly, and on occasion that made a key difference. A guard conducted him to the local commander, who turned out to be a German soldier of fortune, Lieutenant-General the Prince of Hesse-Phillipsthal. Naturally he lived in the largest house in the village, but this was a hovel compared to the buildings of Rome. He was a short man with a red face and aquiline nose, and he carried a bottle with him.

"So you're from Napoleon!" he said. "Have a drink!" He proffered the bottle.

Dillon wasn't much for drink, but this was a matter of hospitality. The informality surprised him; in fact the prince's willingness to see him surprised him. The man was evidently unconventional. He accepted the bottle and took a fair swig. It was good, strong wine. He gave it back. "I see you have good taste, sir." He knew it was best to treat this man with utmost respect, for it would be just about impossible for Dillon to fight his way out of here. He could do some damage and kill some soldiers, but here in the heart of the enemy stronghold they would soon overwhelm him. Only if they broke the truce and tried to make him captive would he fight. So he was utilizing the aptness of expression he had struggled to master.

"I've got a good wine cellar. Now what does the upstart emperor want?"

"Sir, his Marshal Masséna is marching south with a formidable force. He wants you to surrender the town without hostilities."

"Oh, he does, does he?" Prince Hesse took another swig. He proffered it again to Dillon.

"No offense, sir, but I'm not used to good wine, and I need to be able to make it back to report to my commander."

The prince laughed with seeming good nature. "Well spoken, Frenchman! If I must fight your marshal, I'll have to give up my pleasures for the duration. I'll station myself on the Breach Battery and stay there until the siege ends. I'll give the key to my wine cellar to the Bishop of Gaeta and tell him to allow me only one bottle a day. Oh, I hope I don't have to do that!"

"Sir, I am not clear as to your answer."

The prince frowned. "What does your marshal offer?"

"Sir, he will refrain from looting the town, and will treat the people with courtesy. You will retain your command, but under his overseer. This is what he is doing with the villages that don't give him trouble, as your spies may have told you. He will also want housing for his troops for one or two nights before they move on to Naples."

"And what if we resist?"

"Then he will lay siege and take the town, sir, and will not treat it kindly."

The prince sobered. "Listen, I have four thousand men to defend the fort. I admit that many of them are recruits dredged from the prisons of Naples and Sicily. But they'll fight, because they'll have to. Your marshal will not be able to bring enough force to bear in the isthmus to breach my defenses, no matter how many men he has. But even if he does, it will take a long time and there will be heavy losses. I doubt it's worth it to him."

"It might not be, sir, except for its strategic location. He can't afford to have it along his supply line from Rome."

The prince nodded. "I suppose so. But neither can we afford to relinquish it. So tell your leader that we will fight to defend our town."

"He will be sorry to hear it, sir."

"He will be sorrier when he tries to attack."

That was it. "Thank you for your courtesy, sir." Dillon bowed and retreated.

"I like you," the prince called after him. "Come back for a visit, after you give up the siege."

"If my commander allows it, sir."

The guard was impressed. "He really does seem to like you."

Dillon suspected that it was his careful obsequiousness that was responsible for that. "He seems a jolly sort."

"He is. We all like him. But he will fight your marshal."

"We expect no less."

The wall crew returned his knives, and he went on his way. He was relieved; going into an enemy camp was never a sure thing, even under truce. In this case the enemy had been honorable, but that was never guaranteed. He had given as much information as he had received; now both sides knew where they stood.

By noon he met the army, marching south. He reported to Marshal Masséna. "Prince Hesse won't surrender. He says he has four thousand men from the prisons of Naples and Sicily who will have to fight."

The marshal nodded, unsurprised. "Yes, they will have to. Even scum will fight well to save their sorry lives. Well, I can't let him delay my advance on Naples; speed is of the essence, before they have a chance to organize any resistance. I'll detach a unit to handle the siege. But I'll give them one more chance, just in case the sight of my force impresses them."

He did just that. As soon as his force reached the first wall, he sent an officer to formally demand surrender. The answer was a cannon shot.

Masséna nodded, having again confirmed his diagnosis. He had given the prince two chances. "I will detach a force to see to this business, under General Lacour. Dillon, I know you would prefer to be with the vanguard, but I want you to stay here and scout out the coast, to make sure we know if the British send any help to the defense. You will serve as liaison with me or my deputy in Naples. I doubt the reduction of Gaeta will take long; then you will rejoin my force."

"Yes, sir." Dillon was indeed disappointed, but it was not his place to choose where he would serve. At any rate, the reduction of the fortress should be interesting. Certainly it would be a challenge.

Θ

Od was kept busy maintaining the equipment, for the army was moving quite rapidly. Marshal Masséna had reached Naples just one day after Gaeta, and the day after that Napoleon's older brother Joseph Bonaparte had made his official entry into the city, to be the new king of Naples. Joseph was a decent man, fair minded but not strong willed, evidently content to exist in the shadow of his little brother, and well rewarded for that loyalty. But the invasion had not stopped there. Marshal Masséna had detached two independent forces to go after the remaining territory. One went east toward the Adriatic, while the other went south toward Sicily. Od was with the southern thrust, under General Reynier. He was bunking with Pul. It wasn't that he particularly liked Pul, but he had known the man off and on for a decade, and they shared an interest in Avalanche. Od knew that the woman still slept with Pul on occasion, but it was clear that she preferred Od. She had sex with any man she chose, whenever she chose, and usually got paid for it, so it wasn't as if there were any commitment. So the two men got along, with the tacit agreement that if one of them should die, the other would let Avalanche know, in due course. Meanwhile, it was easier to associate with a familiar person than with a stranger.

They were heading for the mountains of Calabria, in south-central Italy. On the map it was in the upper portion of the toe of the Italian boot. Their route lay along a mule track that served as the "major artery" between Naples and that remote province. This was the desolate backwoods region of the country, surely no fun in any season, and worse in winter. Od was constantly directing the repair of wagons and mobile artillery pieces whose wheels got wrenched in the mud. This was the military idea of science.

The opposition, under Comte de Damas, had about 14,000 men, half of them irregulars. This was a larger force than Reynier's 10,000, but Od knew they had been recruited from local brigands and wouldn't have much discipline. So the French force was superior, and the enemy knew it. That was why the enemy was retreating. But it wouldn't retreat forever, so the French force—and its equipment—had to be ready for battle at any time.

On March 6 the French vanguard caught up with the Sicilian rearguard, at Lagonegro. The French light infantry, with Pul participating, maneuvered rapidly and skillfully, and prevailed. They inflicted losses of 300 dead, wounded, and captured, and captured four big guns. Suddenly Od was very busy. He had to convert those guns to French use, educating French artillerymen. While still traveling along the mule trail at speed.

Three days later the main forces met, at Campotanese. It was in the Apennine Mountains, and the Sicilians had had time to dig in defensively. The mountains were the best place to stop an advancing force, because they were natural walls, difficult to navigate and impossible to march around. So this was to be the battle.

Od studied the region, making small sketches. He could tell by the wind that a storm was coming. It would be brutal weather tomorrow—the day of the battle.

"God, I don't like this," Pul complained. "I've got the left flank, and there's snow up there. Worse, they're dug in. They'll mow us down as we try to charge up that slope."

"Not necessarily," Od said.

"You've got a scheme?"

"Maybe. At least, I've got a crude model of the terrain, which may be as good."

"Yeah, sure: Napoleon uses terrain to protect troops. But this time we're on the wrong side of the slope."

"Maybe not. I've been studying the lay of the land. It's not an even slope; there are ridges and defiles and cliffs. Tomorrow there may be a snowstorm."

"Are you trying to make me feel worse?"

"I'm trying to show you how to save your hide. Suppose you were a Sicilian defender?"

"I'd be safe behind those breastworks, with my jug of wine and my musket, waiting for the fools to charge in to get shot."

"Precisely. You would know that your front was completely protected by those breastworks, and your flanks by the steep mountain sides. And you'd swig a lot, to alleviate boredom and warm your toes."

"For sure. So what's your point?"

"I told you. There are ridges. Suppose you infiltrate those cliffs and narrow passages, going single file, and get behind the Sicilians?"

"Get behind them? But they'd see."

"In a snow storm?"

Pul gazed at him. Then, slowly, he smiled. He had had prior experience with surprise flanking.

Od watched it happen, next morning. There had been a heavy snowfall, and gusting winds blew toward the defenders. He knew that Pul's force was advancing only when the flying snow veiled their movements. They were sneaking up the left side, working their way along the snow-covered cliffs, silently.

Meanwhile, there was a distraction: the main French column was advancing frontally with a bayonet charge. Actually it was a walking pace, treading across the slippery snow. All enemy eyes should be on that seemingly foolish ploy. Because the moment the column came within range, it would be gunned down. Some might get through, but not in enough numbers to prevail. The losses would be formidable. The Sicilians should be smirking.

But the snow was joined by fog, masking the progress of the charge. So the Sicilians had to be tracking it mostly by sound—and the snow muffled that. So there would not be a lot of time between the clear emergence of the charge and contact with the defenders. That made the French cause seem possible.

Then Pul's detachment struck, advancing in skirmish lines from behind the Sicilian right flank. Now they made noise, shouting as they moved, deliberately attracting attention. The surprised Sicilians tried to turn their lines, but their dug-in nature made this awkward.

Now the bayonet column broke into a run, suddenly bearing down on the breastworks. There were one or two sporadic volleys as the enemy tried to re-orient, flustered. Then the undisciplined troops broke ranks, making a confused rush to escape. This was absolute foolishness on their part, because they had nowhere to go.

They fled into the constricted defile that was their only retreat, presenting their backs to the bayonets. It was a setup for slaughter. But the French called for surrender, and the rearmost Sicilians did so in masses, raising their hands, and were spared. Those farther away continued running, no threat at present—but they could become so, if allowed to escape. So the pursuit continued.

As the battle site cleared, Od and his workers moved in. The French had captured about two thousand men, including two generals and many lesser officers—and all of Damas's artillery. What a haul!

Od checked the big guns. They were in good condition, as the enemy had not had time to disable them. They would soon be serviceable in the cause of France.

Od went on, following the trail of the troops, as Reynier would want an early report. The army had evidently kept pushing through rain, snow, and mud, driving the hapless Sicilians before them.

By dusk he caught up. They had reached the small village of Morano, and the general had surely set up a temporary headquarters in a suitable building there. The village itself was an awful sight, as the French troops ravaged and pillaged it; fires were burning, women were screaming, and children were trying to hide. This was of course what many soldiers signed up for: the license to do anything they wanted, to anyone, without limit. It wasn't mere greed; it was sheer brutality.

Od was sickened, but he knew that this was part of war, where the best and worst in the species of man could be closely juxtaposed. If only men could leave each other in peace! But there was always one more band leader to grasp for more power, in turn taken by one more king, in turn defeated by one more emperor, until perhaps at last all the world would be subject to a single man. Perhaps Napoleon. Then when he died, his lieutenants would fight among themselves, each trying to take more power than he could handle, and it would all fall apart. Until the next leader amassed his burgeoning power, rising until he fell.

A man lurched out of a house, hauling a woman by her long dark hair. Her blouse was torn, revealing much of one breast, and her skirt was askew. He was familiar. "Pul!" Od called.

Pul paused. "Od! You looking for some of this?"

"No. I'm here to report to the general, when I can find him. Where is he?"

"I'll take you there." Pul yanked on the woman. "Come on, you!"

Od showed his distaste. "Must you do that? You know she's just an innocent civilian."

"There are no innocent civilians! She's booty. I'll plunge her again, soon as my soldier stiffens."

So he had raped her. What else, in war? Yet Od wanted to ease her pain if he could. "Maybe if you simply told her not to flee, on pain of death, she would behave."

"Can't. She doesn't know French."

Od addressed the woman in Italian. "You are this man's prisoner. Will you stop screaming and trying to escape, if he lets your hair go?"

The woman stared at him a moment. Then she hung her head and wept.

Pul let go of her hair. She stood there, unresisting. "Here, you take her," he said gruffly. "I'm done with her anyway; I can grab another anytime."

Od spoke to the woman again. "This man is releasing you. But it would be better if you remained with me for a while, because I can protect you from further molestation."

She nodded. She thought him another rapist, but realized that what he offered was better than the alternative. She sidled around to put Od between herself and Pul.

"You sure have a touch with women," Pul said with brutish humor. "The command post is this way." He set off through the village streets.

Od followed, and the woman followed him, adjusting her clothing. She might have been lovely, once, but now was a bit beyond youth and more than a bit beyond equilibrium. A bruise showed on her right cheek, and her eyes were puffy from crying. Od didn't even ask her name; what was the point?

They came to the command post. This was a pillaged house beside another that was still burning. There were two naked corpses at the door, and something like a dead man on the staircase inside. At least Od hoped he was dead, because the body lacked an arm and a face. "Upstairs," Pul said.

"Thank you."

"Got to be about my business. There's got to be some gold around, and some food." With that explanation, Pul departed.

Od took the woman's elbow. She made a stifled cry, drawing away.

"I am trying to help you, not molest you," Od explained in her language. "You will be safer upstairs with me."

She nodded with resignation and suffered his hand to steady her as they went up the stairs.

General Reynier was sitting in a bare room, dictating orders to exhausted staff officers who were lying on the floor. Several were making notes, though Od wasn't sure whether these records were genuine or for show.

Reynier spied him. "You brought a woman here?"

"I've been raped!" she screamed, realizing that she was being noticed.

"Well, you will not die of it, lady," one of the officers muttered, fortunately in French.

"I wanted to protect her from further brutality," Od said, somewhat stiffly.

"Put her in that corner," the general said tiredly, gesturing. "That's your bunk space."

"Yes, sir." Od spoke to the woman. "You may lie there in the corner. These men will not bother you; they are officers. I will try to get you some food and a blanket, soon."

There was ironic laughter from the officers who spoke Italian. "I would plunder too, by Jove, if I knew where to find something to eat," one said. "There is not a morsel here."

"But there is a blanket," another said, lifting one.

"My apology," Od said to the woman. "There is no food here. But there is a blanket." He accepted the proffered one. "Thank you."

He settled the woman in the corner, where she covered herself and settled down to subsiding sobs. Then he reported to the general. "All the enemy artillery pieces are undamaged and serviceable. We captured their ammunition too."

Reynier smiled. "Good. We shall surely have use for them. Now get yourself some rest."

"Thank you, sir." Od suddenly realized how tired he was; he had not been in the combat, but it had been a busy day and a long walk.

He went to join the woman, not attempting to touch her, though he would have liked a share of the blanket. He sat down and leaned his back against the wall. "Sleep," he murmured. "Tomorrow we will be moving on, and I'll release you. It should be safe for you, once we are gone.'

After a moment she stirred. She looked up at him from under the blanket. "You are not going to take me?"

"I seek only to protect you from further mischief. I—I have a woman of my own, in Rome. I don't like to see women mistreated."

She seemed to have recovered some poise. "I know where some food is."

"Then you will eat tomorrow," Od said. "Don't tell anyone."

"No. I will give it to you."

Od was surprised. "Why?"

"You have saved me from some of hell." She got to her feet. "I will show you."

"Any food I get, I will share with the other officers," Od said.

She wrapped the blanket more closely about herself and walked to the door. Od followed, bemused.

She led him to a cache concealed under the floor of her house. There were several loaves of bread, and a jug of milk. "I hid it when I heard the troops coming," she explained. "Take it. Take it all."

"But you will need it yourself, when we go," Od protested.

"I know where to find more." She dug out the loaves and put them in his hands. She carried the milk herself.

"Thank you," Od said, touched.

"You are a kind man."

They returned to the general's office. There they passed out the food, distributing it to all the officers.

The one who had first spoken stood. "What a reward there may be in innocent courtesy," he remarked in French. Then he approached the woman. "Madame, on behalf of the general and his officers, I thank you for this bounty," he said in Italian. "I am called Tree, and I too appreciate decency." He caught her limp hand, bent forward in a kind of bow, and kissed it. "In the morning you must show us your home; I believe we can guarantee that you will not be bothered by French troops again." He glanced at Reynier, who nodded.

"But I just wanted to repay the man who helped me," she said.

"But you helped all of us, and so now we repay you," Tree said. "We apologize for the brutality with which you have been treated, but we cannot undo it. This is war."

It was war. Od settled down beside the woman, sharing her warmth, careful not to make any gesture of desire for her. She was by no means recovered from her victimization. But the night had become less horrible than it had been.

Θ

By mid-March it was clear that the city of Naples and the surrounding region were secure, so some of the families of officers were allowed to go there. Personnel were rotated when feasible, so that it was possible to have some pleasant breaks despite the continuing campaign.

Melee was relieved. She wanted to see Dillon again, and not just because he was her husband. The discussion the three of them had had on the night of the army's departure from Rome still disturbed her at odd moments. The idea that her big sister's man had somehow fantasized about her in much the way she had fantasized about him—that left her with split emotions. On the one hand it was stupid; there was nothing between them, and never could have been. She had been a child, and he an honorable man. But on the other hand, there was a forbidden longing, a wish that went back before Melee was married, so that it didn't count, for these things were different for women—a wish that he might have come to her room, confessed his passion, and stroked her oh-so-delicately on breast and thigh, and kissed her willing lips, and gently entered her willing body, and jetted that divine essence so deep within her, its radiance completely suffusing her being. Then he might have departed, leaving her fulfilled, the glow slowly fading so as not to betray their illicit passion, and the secret would never be known, for neither wished to hurt Baya. One quiet liaison, known to no other living thing, yet a love fulfilled.

Now it was too late. Both of them were too old, and knew too much, and had other commitments. So the chance was gone forever, if it had ever existed. It had never existed, really, for his honor and her state of childhood prevented it. Yet again, was twelve a child? She had had nascent breasts, and feelings that, could they have been plotted on some universal cosmic scale of amplitude, should have registered well within the range of adult desire. She had discovered what it was all about, and was learning the power of her beauty. And he—suppose he had come to her before he married Baya? So that she was just another available woman, young perhaps, but able to do what maturity could. Then could their liaison have been? She knew it could not, yet her inner fancy claimed it could. And so her dream persisted, never quite letting her go.

That was why she needed Dillon, because in his arms there was no room for illicit fancies. Anything she wanted to do, she could do with him. They had had some phenomenal sessions. Maybe she could even play the game with him, of a secret liaison, he the tempted husband of another woman, she the wife's willing little sister. No, because that could make him suspect. And it was nothing, really; just a naughty thought she had no right to have. Naples was the only true city in southern Italy. It had been a metropolis of great contrasts for centuries. It had a fine harbor that was regularly visited by ships of the world, bringing exotic wares. Its central Toledo Street was famous throughout Europe for its wealthy shops and aristocratic entertainments. Yet the carriages of the wealthy had rolled past naked and starving masses, the "lazzaroni," a huge army of paupers and beggars. They were still there, though King Joseph was trying to establish policies that helped the poor. He wanted to abolish the oppressive feudal system, and foster economic growth, and curb the excessive influence of the church, and make the system of justice equitable. Some thought this showed weakness, but she thought it showed decency. He was at least trying to establish reforms, and to enforce the Napoleonic Code, though the population was resisting change, even for the better. It was hard to do things for people who refused to understand.

They were given a house near the palace, protected from the worst of the persistent underworld. This was just as well, for Avalanche was beginning to show. She could mask it when she went out, but not for much longer. So they kept her mostly inside. They had money from their men, enough to sustain them economically. Many were not so fortunate, but they were pooling their resources, and they were after all officers' wives or (in Avalanche's case) mistresses.

Meanwhile they had learned that both Heath and Dillon were actually at Gaeta, north of the city, with the contingent that was besieging it. If only they had known when they passed by! But military secrecy had shrouded the information, and maybe that was just as well. A battle site was no place for women. But the moment Gaeta fell, both men would be here in Naples, ready to be with their women. And how did Talena feel about that? It was her man whose hidden passion was in question. Melee could not reassure her about that, for it was nothing that could be spoken of. They had not mentioned it, after that one surprising night. But no matter how properly each person behaved, there was bound to be that emotional tension, like lodestone pulling against iron, between Heath and Melee. That must tear Talena up! So that incipient arrival was a thing to be feared as well as desired. At least the men would be together, so that each would be suitably occupied by the right woman.

Melee had no idea how it would all work out in the end. With luck, the campaign would finish, and the men would be sent to separate other locations, and the women, too, would have to separate. That would be sad, for she did like Avalanche and Talena, but perhaps for the best, because it would eliminate any problem of illicit lust.

Meanwhile, there was Avalanche to take care of. If only Od would return, so that Avalanche could talk to him, tell him, and make him marry her. At least that part of the problem could be solved.

Θ

On the twenty-first of March, General Lacour called again for the surrender of the fortress. Prince Hesse replied that his answer would be found in the breach. That meant combat.

The French had taken over the nearby fishing village of Mola di Gaeta, and moved in artillery pieces from Naples and Capua. The prince would soon enough discover the price of his recalcitrance.

"I don't know," Dillon said. "That's one solidly defensible site." They were bunking together in the village, as officers who knew each other socially. Heath suppressed his too-persistent awareness of the woman who was now Dillon's wife. He had realized, during a siege of another nature, that it was not his dead wife Baya, but her sister who had secret hold of his passion. He had thought never to see that woman again, and certainly he would never tell his own wife Talena, who deserved nothing like this. But fate had somehow brought Melee right into their camp, stirring ancient fancies. The proper thing to do was to bury those fancies so deep they would disappear, but somehow he hadn't been able to do that. Meanwhile, Dillon was a good man and a fine scout and soldier. Heath had developed a high respect for him. He was a good match for Melee, and there was every sign that she loved him. Heath wished them every success.

But they were talking about something else. "Our cannon should break down their walls fairly readily," Heath said.

"Not from this distance. And they have more cannon than we do. It's that narrow isthmus: we can't get around it, and they can concentrate all their pieces on it. Even if we take out the walls, they can blast us into oblivion if we try to cross. We'll just have to hope they run out of ammunition—which they won't, if they keep getting supplied by sea."

"I hope it doesn't come to that. Bullets can on occasion be survived; cannonballs are worse." As a military doctor he had seen both types more often than he cared to.

"For sure," Dillon agreed.

Lacour's artillery opened fire. But the return fire from some eighty pieces along the walls was devastating. It was just as Dillon had said: the defense had better concentration. The breastworks were blasted, and the supports for the cannon were undermined. The men had to retreat from the rain of fire.

Lacour was grim but undaunted. "This is just the first day." Even as the dust cleared, Heath got down there with his bandages and medicines. Some of the men were shell-shocked; others had suffered shrapnel injuries. Crews were already hauling away the dead.

One man was uninjured, but was burning with fever. He screamed with hallucinations. "He was bad two days ago," a comrade said. "But yesterday he was okay."

Dillon helped hold him down while Heath examined him. "What is it?"

"It looks like malaria. It has forty-eight- or seventy-two-hour cycles of fever and chills, answering the patient's description. He should recover, but will suffer later sieges of it. I have some bark he can chew on; it should help."

"Bark?"

"From a South American tree, the cinchona. It contains juices that seem to oppose the infection. We call that essence quinine. Nothing else works."

"What causes malaria? I didn't see it in France."

"I believe it is mosquitoes. They carry it in their bites. Near the coast, near swamps, at night, there are more mosquitoes, and on a campaign like this, more men get bitten. There will be other cases."

Dillon slammed his palm against his arm, flattening a mosquito. "Suddenly I am very nervous about this region."

Heath nodded. "When you are outside, stay active, so they don't land on you. Sleep under cover, so they don't get you then. That's your best protection."

The French repaired the damage to their works, and dug trenches along the hill slopes, so as to bring their guns closer to the neck of land connecting Gaeta to the mainland. More cannon were set up and trained on the walls. The enemy did not fire on the workers. Heath wasn't sure whether that was decency, or that it wasn't worth it to take out individual men. It was beyond accurate rifle range, and shells were after all valuable.

On April 5 they tried again. They opened fire—and again the return fire overpowered them. Heath had more work to do.

"We just don't have enough force," Dillon said as he helped. He had other business during the actual fighting, but not in the aftermath. "Men, guns, and ammunition are in short supply. We can't mount a siege operation on anything like the scale required to take Gaeta by force. In other sections a mere show of force has been enough, but Prince Hesse is tough. He won't yield to a bluff. We need a different strategy."

And so it happened. General Campedon, one of the best engineers in the French army, took charge of the siege works. He decided to push the trenches all the way forward to the neck.

"This is good," Dillon said. "But it means crossing the six hundred yards from the crest of the hills to the first fortress wall. That's open ground, exposed to enemy fire. It's rocky ground, that will require heavy equipment to dig. They'll have to cover the workers by constant fire from the batteries. It can be done, but it will be slow."

It was indeed slow. But Heath found himself busy regardless. There were more cases of malaria, and he did not have a big supply of the key tree bark. He tried to educate the men about the danger of mosquitoes, but they didn't credit it. They didn't see what connection there could be between a tiny pest and a horrendous recurring fever.

There were also deserters from Gaeta. The French held them in contempt, and simply returned them to prison, where most had come from. But the ill ones were funneled to Heath for treatment.

Dillon handled this aspect. He addressed a motley crew of three deserters. "You are sick. This is our medic, the best in the region. He can help you, or he can hurt you. Which is it to be?"

They got the message. "What do you want to know?"

So while Heath treated them for abrasions and fungus infections, and gave them good hot broth—guaranteed to improve their condition most rapidly—Dillon questioned them, making notes.

The news was interesting. Prince Hesse had problems of his own. He was more concerned about trouble from within than from without. His troops were so poor that he did not dare launch a sortie to disrupt the slow enemy advance toward his outer wall. Desertions were a constant problem. (Heath found this eminently believable, considering the source.) The prince feared that he would lose too many men to man the walls effectively. He had repeatedly asked for resupply and reinforcements from Sicily, but none had come. His situation was growing desperate.

This was good news for the French. Perhaps by the time they were ready to mount the third attack, the defense would be ready to crumble. But a premature attack would suffer the same fate as the first two, because the erosion of the defensive force had not yet gone far enough.

Then news of another nature came, from a combination of sources. A British fleet appeared in the waters off Naples. The British were supreme on the sea, ever since their breakthrough in navigation; they no longer feared getting lost and foundering on unsuspected rocks. On occasion they might lose a battle at sea, but overall they dominated it. If they interfered with the siege of Gaeta, the situation could become more difficult.

It seemed that Lord Collingwood had dispatched Sir Sidney Smith, with four men-of-war, to the area. Smith had been instructed to stay out of local politics, but had allowed himself to be caught up in the schemes of the fanatical Marie Caroline, Ferdinand's wife. She wanted desperately to maintain a foothold on the mainland of Italy, and Gaeta was it. So Sir Sidney had found himself carrying four guerrilla chiefs, whose purpose was to land and rouse the populace to rebel activity.

Among these brigands, the most notorious was Fra Diavolo: Brother Devil. He had come from humble birth a few miles north of Gaeta. He had spent his youth in various criminal enterprises, and had phenomenal luck. However desperate his deeds and infamous his escapades, he had always somehow escaped capture. In the popular imagination only a monk or the devil could be so gifted. Hence his nickname. In 1799, under a promise of amnesty, he had led one of the free companies whose revolutionary activity had for a time dislodged the French control of the region. He had achieved fame as leading the most undisciplined, insubordinate, and monstrously cruel band extant. As a reward, he had been made a colonel, calling himself Colonel Michele Pezza.

France was now recovering southern Italy, so Fra Diavolo had made himself scarce. He had been petitioning Sicily for money he claimed he was owed, and becoming involved in the occasional homicidal fray to terrorize the countryside. He had received instructions to form a flying corps, but like the coward he was he had fled with the others. But now, with his three brothers, and the active support of the British fleet, he was back in action. He would be landed on shore, stir up the locals, make a raid, and then be picked up again by Sir Sidney's ships. It was an ideal situation for him, because he had the perfect retreat to the one place he could not be pursued: the sea.

And he had come at last to Gaeta. He had been landed there with his squadron, and the British were unloading provisions for the besieged fortress: four heavy ship's guns, several English gunners, and stray supplies. This was bad news for the French.

Mischief was not long in coming. Dillon, ranging out as usual, spied a landing at a nearby river mouth. They were raiding the French lines of communications. News came of promises of pay and amnesty to any local folk who would join him and harry the French outside the walls. Such promises might be worthless, but some folk were enticed.

Of course in a few days the French responded with sufficient force to handle the matter. But Fra Diavolo was already retreating back to the fortress, leaving his dupes to face the consequence of their folly in believing him. After that Dillon was especially vigilant, and Fra Diavolo was unable to land without the French closing in on him within hours. So he was unable to practice his primary occupation of banditry; the locals knew that he represented nothing but trouble for them.

In early May there came another surprise. "Something for you," Dillon said. "An emissary from Fra Diavolo approached me under flag of truce, out in the field. Diavolo wants to meet you."

"Me!" Heath exclaimed, astonished and not pleased. "What have I to do with a sewer rat like that?"

Dillon smiled. "You are indeed his opposite. He is a complete scoundrel; you are a man of integrity. He is a killer; you are a doctor. He is a disciple of no nationality other than his own short-term self-interest; you are a loyal Frenchman. Why should he approach you?"

"You have a notion," Heath said, catching on. "Has he been injured, and needs medical attention without betrayal?"

"I think not. They do have medics there."

"Is he an emissary of the prince, coming to offer terms?"

"Why negotiate with a healer, instead of a siege officer?"

"I give up. What does this trash want with me?"

"I think he means to betray his master."

"And he thinks I would cooperate in that?"

"Be realistic, Heath. If you could find a way to end this siege tomorrow and get home to Talena this week, would you do it?"

"I hate realism! I see too much of it on the field after a battle." But Dillon had gotten to him. "If so, why me?"

"Because you are one officer who can go afield, especially in my company, without attracting attention. My guess is that he wants a private meeting, with someone trustworthy, that will not be bruited about."

"Then why not you?"

"I know Prince Hesse personally, from my brief meeting with him. That probably makes me suspect; I just might be his double agent."

"You are nothing of the kind!"

"I merely conjecture what a dishonest man might think."

Heath mulled the matter over. "So he wants an honest, invisible officer who can go privately to our leader. And who won't arrange an ambush at the meeting. So that he can propose treachery to his side."

"That is my assessment."

"Well, I'm not the man for this betrayal. Prince Hesse has fought a fair fight, and deserves to finish it on the open field."

"I agree. But would our commander?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe you should ask him."

Heath sighed. "I hate the position you put me in."

"I hate it myself. But I was approached, and I felt I lacked the authority to decline it on my own initiative."

"So do I." Heath got up and marched to General Campedon's office. "So the scoundrel wants to scuttle his own ship," the general said, disgusted. "Yet I am mindful of the lives on both sides to be saved by a quick ending to this business, not to mention the time. The man surely wants gold. I will authorize twenty pounds, and safe passage to a region of his choice, if he has information leading to a rapid resolution of the siege."

"You wish me to meet him, then?" Heath did not want to believe it.

"Yes. Go now."

Then Heath thought of something else. "I would not presume to imply that you would do anything dishonorable, sir, but in a case like this—"

"You will not be followed!" the general snapped. "There will be no betrayal of this man's confidence, little as he understands honor. We are French officers."

"Yes, sir," Heath said, relieved.

"Besides, he will have scouts out. He will know if we try anything like that."

Heath did not respond. He returned to Dillon. "Take me there."

Dillon took him. They walked out of the village. No one paid attention.

"There's one," Dillon said.

"One what?"

"One enemy spy, watching to ensure we are alone." He lifted his hand in a salute to the forest.

"I saw nothing."

"You are not a scout. I would not know what to do with a wounded man. We each have our specialties."

That was true. They walked on.

Soon Dillon saluted again. "You spied another? Why do you let them know you see them?"

Dillon shrugged. "I can't resist telling them that I'm a better scout than they are. But I'm not a complete fool. I did not salute the third one. So he thinks I missed him."

"And only the fourth one was truly unobserved."

Dillon laughed. "If there was a fourth, yes."

They came to an isolated shed. "He will be in there. You must go alone; he will not trust me that close."

"But suppose he just wants to kill me, so we'll be short a doctor?"

"He doesn't. But if he did, he knows that his scouts could not catch me before I killed him in retribution. He will behave. Now I will fade from the scene, until you emerge."

"Fade from the scene?"

There was no answer. He looked around. Dillon was gone. There was no sign of him.

They seemed to have thought of everything. Heath was not comfortable with it, but he walked on to the shed. He hesitated, then knocked on its door.

"Come in, healer."

He pushed open the door and stepped into the interior gloom. A grizzly man, somewhat short and fat, stood there: not at all what he had expected. "Fra—I mean, Colonel Pezza?"

"The same," the other replied in Italian. "The devil."

"I am Heath, health officer for the French detachment. I was told you wished to speak with me."

"I will open one of the gates at night, so that your men can go through. That will give you the victory with little loss."

As expected. Heath masked his disgust. "What do you want?"

"A hundred pounds of gold, and safe passage to the hinterland."

"A hundred pounds!" Heath exclaimed, outraged.

"Seventy, then."

"I'll not bargain with you, you piece of filth!"

"Fifty, then. My final offer."

Heath realized that he would have to convey this offer to the general. How much was even one life saved worth? "I will tell my leader. I can't promise his response. We shall have to meet again."

"Your scout will be told where. Bring the gold with you. Don't bother coming if he won't pay fifty. I know what it's worth."

Heath opened the door and stepped out. He walked away from the shed. Dillon was not in sight. But after a time Dillon appeared beside him. "What news?"

"He wants fifty."

"He'll probably get it."

"He says you will be told where to meet again."

"No doubt. I'll be around."

They returned to the village. Heath reported to the general. "He will open a gate at night, for safe passage and fifty pounds of gold."

Campedon nodded. "It's cheaper than another month's siege. Half in advance, half on delivery. Greed will keep him honest."

"He is sewer scum. Selling out his own side for money."

"The world requires all types. Fortunately he knows that we will keep our word, detestable as we find the necessity. I will give you the gold now, so that there need be no delay when the meeting is arranged."

"But sir!"

The general smiled. "I trust you, Heath. This way."

And so Heath found himself with a small but heavy bag of gold coins: the price of betrayal. Twenty-five pounds of filthy lucre. He remained disgusted by the whole business, but had to follow through. He reminded himself of the lives that would be saved by a quick conclusion to the siege. But still he felt dirty.

In three days Dillon received word. "Tomorrow, early. Another location. I know where."

Before dawn Heath roused himself and donned a knapsack holding the gold. Dillon led him to an empty peasant house by the sea. "This time they haven't posted scouts," he remarked, surprised. "Fra Diavolo must trust us better than his own henchmen, when there's gold being handled." He faded out.

Heath knocked on the door. There was no answer. He pushed it open. The house was empty. Fra Diavolo had stood him up.

Well, he wasn't going to leave the gold here untended. He needed proof that it was delivered to the right party. He left the house and walked back toward the village.

Dillon reappeared. "Not there? Maybe he's testing us."

"Maybe," Heath agreed shortly. He knew better than to hope the devil had changed his mind and decided to be loyal to his own side. There would just have to me another rendezvous.

But there wasn't. There was no word at all. After three days, Heath returned the gold to the general, not comfortable with it in his possession.

Then another deserter brought the answer. Fra Diavolo had been discovered and arrested. The prince was having him shipped back to Sicily in chains.

"How did they know?" Heath asked, relieved.

"Probably one of his henchmen betrayed him," Dillon said. "When he didn't agree to share enough of the gold. There is no honor among thieves. That's why they have to deal with honest men."

"Honest men!" Heath exploded. "I feel like a whore."

"This is war," Dillon reminded him. "But this increases my respect for Prince Hesse. The man is not a dullwit, and he knows what to do with traitors. Now the siege will continue. We'll have to do it the hard way."

"The siege will continue," Heath agreed, thinking of the slaughter that would mean.

Θ

By the third week of March, Reynier's lightning marches had brought him victoriously to the toe-tip of Italy. It was declared that the "comic" defense of Calabria was at an end, and some of the troops were rotated back to Naples for needed rest and recovery. The wildest province in Italy had been pacified.

Well, not quite. They had moved so swiftly that they had not had time to capture and police the hordes of deserters from the Sicilian ranks, and many of these reorganized into bandit groups that raided French-held villages. For a time Reynier's lines of communication were severed by mountain guerrillas. But it hardly mattered; a supporting column from Naples rendezvoused with them, and they gained important supplies.

But for a time their soldiers had been without rations, and they had looted without conscience. The young officers chased women, and the old officers chased money. A detachment of fifty men was left in charge of one village, and they behaved poorly, raping a woman. That wasn't supposed to happen once the fighting was done. The village rose up in fury and slaughtered most of the soldiers. Then the French had to retaliate, sacking and burning the village. Unfortunately, that led to increased bad feeling among the natives.

But now they were away from that. They learned that the women had come to Naples, so there was a warm welcome there. Pul would have liked to have had that welcome from Avalanche, but it turned out that she was pregnant, and that ended his interest. Od, the fool, was eager to marry her despite her condition. So Pul stood up for him at the quick ceremony, witnessing the occasion. Actually it wasn't so bad; she wasn't showing much yet, so would probably be good for a number of nights in bed.

King Joseph tried to enforce discipline among the troops. He insisted on shooting French soldiers when they performed criminal acts. He had made a trip to Calabria, where he ordered two commissary officials held over for courts-martial for stealing from villagers.

But then King Joseph made a mistake. Pul didn't care much about it, but Od did, and so did the three women, so Pul agreed with their outrage. That kept him welcome at their house, as long as he didn't try to make a move on any of them, and of course he didn't. There were plenty of native women in Naples who would do just about anything for some extra food, and it was his policy not to mess with a friend's woman. That accepted, he found he rather liked their company, because Heath's woman Talena was a trim item despite having borne six children, and Dillon's woman Melee was a rare piece indeed, as sultry and sexy as any he knew, and she cooked very well. He couldn't touch them, but he could revel in their company, enjoying a kind of companionship that was uncommon for him. Women did have other qualities than sex appeal; he hadn't appreciated that before. So during this time of relative idleness before they would be sent out on another punitive mission, he spent much of his time with the three women, even when Od wasn't there.

The Sicilian military leader Rodio had surrendered early in the campaign, finding himself in an untenable situation. Normally such an officer was given a token penalty and let go once the campaign had been settled. But a letter came from Napoleon ordering Joseph to make an example of Rodio, as a show of strength to the populace. So Joseph had Rodio tried by a military commission, on charges of rebellion and insurrection.

"But all he was doing was fighting for his country," Talena said as they relaxed inside on a rainy day. "That's not rebellion, is it?" She glanced at Pul.

Pul liked being consulted, and he knew the preferred answer. "No," he agreed. "He's a good officer. I'd have been satisfied to serve under him, if I'd been on that side."

"So why are they trying him, then?" Avalanche demanded rhetorically, showing some of the flair he had always liked in her. She was with child, but sitting the way she was now, swathed in a blanket that let much of her legs show, she looked good enough.

"It's because there are so many spot insurrections," Pul explained. "Just about every day there's something going on somewhere, and we have to put it down. So if we put away a top man, maybe they'll give it up."

"That's what Dillon says," Melee said. "Sometimes a show of strength makes the battle unnecessary."

"But Rodio surrendered," Talena said hotly. "And he hasn't done anything since."

"He is nevertheless a figure of respect for the other side," Pul painted out. "If anything happened here, and he got free, the people would follow him."

"So don't free him," Melee said. "But don't put him on trial for doing his duty either."

The commission did not take long to make the decision. Pul carried the news to the women as soon as he heard it. "They acquitted Rodio!"

"That's wonderful!" Talena said, clapping her hands.

"Have some bread," Melee said, bringing a freshly baked roll. "Your reward for good news." She pushed it into his mouth.

Oh, it was nice having a woman like that do something like that! It was all he could do to keep his hands idle. He hoped he would have more good news for them. Meanwhile, he chewed.

But another commission was immediately formed. "They are trying him again, and this one's stacked," Pul reported.

"Can they do that?" Talena demanded. "Trying him twice for the same thing?"

"They can do anything they decide to do," Pul said. "The winner makes the laws. Napoleon wants Rodio dead."

This time the commission understood what was expected of it, and convicted Rodio. There was a public outcry, and Pul discovered that many of the French officers felt exactly as the women did. Rodio was an honorable enemy who deserved to be treated fairly.

Nevertheless, he was shot the following day, March 30.

"This is a barbarous breach of military etiquette!" an officer muttered to Pul, who soon repeated it to the women. They were duly furious, but their fury was not at him. "I thought King Joseph was better than this," Talena said tersely through her tears.

"Joseph does what his brother decides," Avalanche said. "Joseph by himself is a weak man."

"There will be mischief because of this," Melee said.

Indeed there was. There were demonstrations in the streets, and though the French troops were sent out to quell it, many officers did not push very hard. Pul's own men hardly threatened the people, merely herding them off the main thoroughfare, and he did not reprimand them. The attitude of the three women had infected him, and he was sorry Rodio was dead.

Θ

By the end of May, considerable reinforcements arrived at the French force at Gaeta, and the siegework progressed much more quickly. Dillon was glad. He was a man of action, and he did not like being tied to one location for months. True, he had been allowed a rotation of leave, so that he had been able to spend a few days with Melee. She had been unusually ardent, even for her; it seemed that absence made the heart grow fonder. The other two women had been very good about giving up their bedroom for hours and even whole nights at a time. Heath's wife Talena was especially nice. That was odd, because once Heath had mentioned that there were times when he wished he had married elsewhere. He had the perfect wife, and wasn't satisfied? Of course she was his second wife, and it seemed he had never fully gotten over the death of the first one. Still. Meanwhile Od's wife Avalanche was fattening in the tummy, thrilled to have baby and husband. She had a reputation going way back, but she was a changed woman now.

Early in June the trenches approached to within 200 yards of the neck. More than 70 guns were in position to open fire. The defenders' guns rained down constant fire, costing the French a continual drain of casualties—but reinforcements came in even greater numbers, so the force actually gained. It was an ugly equation, but the French position was improving.

The original siege had been established by 4,000 men, but in June it swelled to 8,000. On June 28, Marshal Masséna himself arrived from Naples to take personal charge. He was fed up with the delay in taking Gaeta; it neutralized a considerable portion of his troops and artillery.

Masséna called a staff meeting, where he was blunt. "It is time for the artillery to carry the day. It has been silent for several months, while the enemy has been punishing our trench workers constantly. I believe a good barrage will break down their wall and silence enough of their pieces so that our infantry can carry the day."

That meant that Dillon's troop would finally see action. He was glad.

"Any questions?" Masséna asked.

"Sir, our ammunition is limited," the head of the gunnery said. "We were supposed to receive more, but it hasn't reached us yet. If the assault is not effective soon, we could run out."

Masséna frowned. "I will see about that. How long can we maintain a full barrage with our present supplies?"

"Perhaps a week, sir. After that it gets chancy."

"But if we prevail within that week, it won't matter. So we shall operate on that assumption, not holding back. The fortress must be ours."

"Yes, sir!" the officers agreed. They were all sick of the siege and its attrition.

Next day it began. Fifty heavy guns and 20 mortars opened fire. Dillon watched it with Heath, as neither of them had immediate jobs until there was infantry action or injuries.

It was impressive. There was a special thrill to the booming of the guns, the wafting of black smoke, and the sight of the blasts at the enemy position. It was almost like having good sex, experiencing the fury of the full barrage. Each big gun was like a spouting penis, with fire and smoke and an unstoppable discharge that blasted into the laid-out target. Boom! Boom! Boom! What a climax! And there was progress. The enemy guns returned fire, but several of them were dismounted. The walls began to crumble in places. There was a constant stream of dead and dying men falling from the ramparts. "It must be like hell, on that wall," Dillon breathed.

"I wish we had been able to end it before it came to this," Heath said.

"But we're tearing them up!"

"They are taking horrible injuries. They are doing an honorable job of their defense."

Naturally the doctor had a different perspective. But he was right. "Yes, they are doing a good job, especially considering their tight situation and losses by desertion. Prince Hesse is a good leader."

But though the defenses were severely battered, the enemy guns still answered the French barrage. As long as that was the case, they could not risk an infantry charge.

By July 1 the fortress had lost three magazines; the spectacular explosions had been visible. But the wall held.

"Damn it," Masséna swore. "We have run them through the grinder, and still they won't quit."

Dillon's respect for the prince grew. The man had to be a strong and capable leader, to wage such good war with such poor troops. But this siege was grinding to its close, and Gaeta would soon fall.

The French barrage slowed, so they could move their pieces even closer. Also because they were starting to run short of shells; half of their ammunition had been expended. But they hoped that the enemy would understand only the first reason.

Masséna offered a reward of 450 centimes for every unexploded enemy shell that was found and delivered to a French battery. That got some volunteers out on the field, braving the diminished enemy fire, and some did bring in some items. This also brought newly wounded men to Heath's infirmary, because unexploded shells were touchy things, apt to detonate whimsically. Still, the effort helped. With the guns close enough, and the salvaged ammunition, they might make it on the next push.

But on July 3 the enemy received reinforcements by sea. Then English gunboats shelled the French position. The result was indecisive, but this surely gave a boost to the morale of Prince Hesse's troops. "Damn," Dillon muttered, echoing Masséna's comment. "Every time we get close to victory, something happens to snatch it away."

The French resumed working their guns closer to the walls. The last barrage had come so close to success that the next one should do it, even with reduced ammunition.

But Dillon wasn't feeling good. He felt hot, then cold. Nursing a dreadful suspicion, he sought his friend Heath. "I want your promise to keep silent," he said.

"I don't like such promises," Heath said. "I already have more secrets than I like."

"This is important. I must have your word."

Heath spread his hands. "You have it, of course. I hope I don't regret this."

"Tell me whether I have malaria."

"Oh, no!" Heath examined him, and asked questions. "Yes, you do seem to have it. Fortunately it's not a bad case. I'll give you a medical pass for immediate layoff to Naples. That should enable you to handle it with minimal discomfort, though it won't necessarily be pleasant, regardless."

"No. I mean to remain on duty."

"But malaria is nothing to fool with! Out here, with inadequate facilities, the danger is heightened. For your own safety—"

"No. I want no report. Treat me as you can, and have me in shape to command my men for the final assault. I will see this siege through to victory."

Heath was appalled. "You are asking me to put your life unnecessarily at risk. My medical ethics—"

"You gave your word."

Heath was silent a moment. "I do regret it," he said seriously. "But I will keep it. But answer one question: If you die because of this, what should I tell Melee?"

That set Dillon back. Almost, he relented, as he knew Heath wanted him to do. But the lure of incipient victory was too great. "Tell her I love her, and I want her to get on with her life. To find another man. To be happy."

"She will blame me for your death. With justice."

"No. You will not tell her of this aspect."

"So I must lie to your widow. Damn it, man—"

"Tell her that I went the way I chose to go. She will understand."

Heath shook his head. "There is only one solution. You must not die. Now I have some medication. Get yourself to bed. I will give you a pass for a passing indisposition. The food's bad enough to account for that. You should be able to be on your feet for brief periods without betraying your condition, and with luck that will be all that will be necessary."

"That's all the luck I need." Dillon looked him in the eye. "Thank you, friend."

"This is not the act of a friend," Heath said sourly, and turned away.

But Dillon was satisfied. He didn't care how bad the illness got, after the victory was won. Just so long as he could participate.

Θ

Reynier was angry. "Just when we get the region pacified, and can think about crossing the Straits of Messina so as to wipe out the source of the Sicilian problem, the damned British interfere."

"Crossing from Scilla to Charibdis," Od remarked, with a sense of déjà vu.

"What?"

"Mere humor," he said quickly. "In ancient Greece, the legend was that in that region ships had to pass a narrow strait with the monster Scilla on one side, who would gobble seven men from the deck, and the whirlpool Charibdis on the other side, who would swallow the entire ship. So it was a region of fear that one might think it better to avoid."

"Well, stifle it. This is serious business. My sources have it that Sir John Stuart has been thinking of warding off our advance to Sicily by a preemptive strike. He is nominally in charge of six thousand Sicilian infantry, but while the officers for his regiment are in place, the actual recruits don't exist. It does take time to recruit, equip, and train a regiment. So I thought we could cross before he generated a more formidable force. But he does have a British garrison stationed on Sicily, and the advantage of sea maneuver. So he must be using those special troops to strike while we are stretched thin between these scattered local uprisings and the siege of Gaeta. The brigands we have been dealing with are as nothing to seasoned British troops. We'll have trouble, especially if he lands in a bad place for us. As he will do his best to do. What do you recommend?"

Od unrolled his map. "Where is the British fleet now, sir?"

"On the Gulf of Sant Eufemia, sailing north."

"I suspect that's a feint, sir. North of the gulf there are a hundred miles of nearly unbroken cliffs. The villages there are accessible mainly by sea, and the British control the sea, so that coast remains in a state of chronic insurrection."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"If Sir John wants to make a preemptive strike, there's little point in going to a region already friendly to him. He's more likely to land by the gulf itself, where our communications lines and supply route pass close to the coast. He may hope to cut us off between there and Sicily."

Reynier nodded. "So as you see it, he will make a significant landing there."

"Yes, sir."

"That is my sentiment. With what kind of force?"

"With his whole force, sir. His purpose would be to cut us off and destroy us. If we can destroy that force, the lion's fangs will be pulled. But it may take some doing."

"My thought again. I have already sent word to assemble every available man we have, even though it means abandoning all but two or three indispensable posts in the region. You will go and establish suitable sites for our artillery. Just as soon as we know exactly where he is landing."

The next few days were hectic. Sir John did land on the coast of the Gulf of Eufemia, near the village of Eufemia. The estimate of the spies was that there were almost 4,800 British Infantry, and sixteen guns. This was a formidable force, considering that none of it was native. The British would have excellent discipline and precise maneuvering. They were already throwing up entrenchments to the north and south of their landing site, and stirring up a popular uprising in the dense mountain forests farther north. The small French garrisons and flying columns had all they could do to contain that swell of revolt. Their main lines faced a little east of south, where they expected the main French force to appear. They were correct: that was where Reynier would have to go, if he wanted to engage them soon. And he did want to do that, before they could arouse the whole countryside against him. Calabrese were already closing in from all sides to watch the fray, and some had already marched into Sir John's camp to join the British. Time was of the essence.

And so on July 3, Reynier pitched his bivouac close by the village of Maida: 5,150 men, including a battery of horse artillery. Was this enough to do the job? It had to be, because there were no more.

The French were strongly positioned on the hill of Maida, and Od had made sure that the guns were well placed and oriented. Sir John was unlikely to force that hill, but the surrounding Calabrese would pounce if any significant weakness showed in the French.

On the morning of July 4 the two armies were camped about nine miles apart. The British were to the north of the swampy lowlands of the mouth of the Amato River, and the French were to the south of them. Sir John was well entrenched, and supported by the artillery of the ships. But the spies brought some good news: not only was the area unsuitable for any long occupation, malaria had already broken out. The British weren't used to the rigors of the open wetlands, and so were more vulnerable to an illness that had largely completed its business with the French. That is, Reynier's troops had become relatively immune to the awful malady. So now, suddenly, it was the British who had the best reason to complete the battle quickly, so they could get away from the swamp.

Od was not a direct combatant, but he needed to be on hand to handle any enemy artillery that got overrun. So he and several of his technicians got as close to the likely action as they dared, and remained hidden in the brush. As it happened they were near Reynier's left wing, commanded by General Compere, and Pul's contingent was there. It was a scrub-covered plain just north of the mouth of the Amato River.

Sir John was the first to move, advancing one column along the line of the beach. Was this a feint? To what point? There was nothing but the river ahead. So when it appeared that this was a real advance, designed to march on the French encampment, Reynier moved. For this was a chance to literally drive the British into the sea, finishing the battle almost before it started. Sir John had been foolish to allow himself to be caught in such an exposed position, with no easy retreat.

As the French approached the coastline, the British column halted and faced inland. Then it advanced to meet the French. The British right wing led—the one toward the river. The French left wing led—also the one toward the river. So the two wings met beside the river while the other units were still far apart.

This certainly seemed favorable for the French, who were seasoned and quick in maneuvers. If the leading French echelon either outflanked or broke through the British front, a rapid turning movement might roll up the entire British line. But it seemed that Sir John wasn't entirely stupid. He had protected against flanking maneuvers by anchoring the wing on the river, and further shielded it with a detachment of riflemen who had crossed to the opposite bank. If the French had realized that the rifles would be there, they could have sent their own detachment to take them out. As it was, Reynier's best chance of success depended on a breakthrough at the collision point.

Od heard the orders being bawled. The men made a rapid advance in a solid column, then broke into a bayonet charge. The British halted, awaiting the French charge. They formed the long drawn-out line that was their fashion.

Reynier used a screen of cavalry pickets to raise a cloud of dust that marked his troop movements. Only when the dust cleared would the exact location of the charge become clear. It was a lovely spectacle. A general on horseback led the way. Drums beat the rhythm for the pounding feet. Unit flags waved proudly in the wind. Surely that gallant charge would carry everything before it!

The British light infantry had no drums, no horses, no flag bearers. The men waited coolly and with unflinching discipline, muskets at the carry. Od had to admire them, for all that they were about to be swept into the sea. They were carrying through their folly without cringing at all. They certainly had discipline.

Then came the British commands for battle. With marked precision, the troops aimed and fired in a volley. The effect was devastating. Gaps opened in the French formation. General Compere and two colonels fell. Naturally the British had made sure of the enemy leaders first.

But the advance was not checked. "Charge!" Pul bawled, and his men broke into a full charge, bayonets raised for close combat. They were intent on overrunning the British position before the enemy could reload.

The British maintained their drill and discipline. They reloaded as the French bore down on them, just as if no one were threatening. The French were within thirty yards when the second volley was fired.

At that range, the entire French front disintegrated. The ground was covered with the fallen. A few brave men continued the charge, and Pul was one of them. They got within fifteen yards—and were mowed down. The French left wing had been utterly destroyed.

Now the British broke ranks to swarm over the fallen enemy and loot anything of value. That was undisciplined, and surely against orders. So the British weren't perfect. But what did it matter? They had won the battle.

Od heard a moan he recognized. Pul! He wasn't dead!

He ran out from his hiding place. The scene was now so disorganized that no one paid him any attention. Most of the British had gone well out across the French position, scrambling to loot the bodies that had fallen in the first volley.

Od dropped down beside Pul. "I've got you," he said. "I'll haul you to safety." He took hold of the man's arms.

"No," Pul groaned. "I'm done for." He paused to draw another breath. "I feel my guts leaking out." He breathed again. "Just tell them—" But then he stiffened, and his eyes opened wide.

After a moment Od realized that Pul was dead. The man's dying statement had been lost. Nothing of value remained on his body; everything had been taken.

Od had seen death before, and become somewhat inured to it. But this was, if not actually a friend, a close acquaintance. Od had known him for a long time—almost, it seemed, for millennia. Pul's courage under fire had not been enough to enable him to survive. "I'll tell them that you died with honor," he promised the corpse.

He walked away, not caring if anyone challenged him. Therefore no one did. He did not even care that he was walking back into the battle. He seemed separated from it all, as if a ghost, passing through it without being affected. He saw that the British looting had given Reynier precious time to re-form his line, and he was doing it with admirable swiftness. He wasn't willing to admit defeat, and was trying to take further advantage of the chance to outflank Sir John's left. But the wind was blowing the smoke from the battlefield directly into his troops' eyes, making their firing generally ineffective. He was clearly unwilling to make another direct charge; the British fire was too devastating. Still, he was making some progress.

Then a fresh British regiment came up to support Sir John. It advanced, covering the British left flank. That ended the last chance of the French to save the day. Reynier retreated, covering his infantry with cavalry and artillery fire. The British, evidently tired, did not pursue.

But Od knew that the craven Calabrese would crowd in like maggots to leach what they could from the retreating French. The bold British had given them the opportunity. Soon the British would depart, and the Calabrese, left to their own devices, would fade before the reorganizing French. But this day was a loss. July fourth: a day of infamy.