Disclaimer: I own nothing but my imagination.
Tavington and his forces prepare for an invading Roman fleet.
Episode 12: Tavington's Atlantis, part 8
A Voice from the Sky: August, 150 A.D.
Marcus Aurelius was not a savage, to be deceived by bright, shiny objects. Perhaps it was his intelligence and his high level of education that brought home to him most forcibly how very powerful and advanced the Atlanti actually were. There were not many of them: he had guessed as much. Their city, though beautiful and surpassingly rich, was small. However these people had come from another world, not many had actually come.
Nonetheless, it was a remarkable place, and he surmised that he was seeing only the surface. The powers that allowed them to travel from one place to another and to speak to each other from great distances were awe-inspiring. He was not a superstitious man, though punctilious in his reverence for Rome's ancient gods. Because he was not superstitious, he began to grasp that the powers of the Atlanti were not magical, but were the fruits of philosophic study. That was actually more impressive to him than magic might have been. What man had done, man could do, and the thought of bringing such wonders to enrich and beautify the Empire was intoxicating.
With the difficulties arising from their grievances with Marcus Vinicius, there was no time to inspect the city as he would like. Prince Tabitus pointed out the Library, the Auditorium where the citizens took counsel together, the School where all the children were educated regardless of station, the Museum. He tried not to dally, for the Prince of Atlantis was concerned about the attack on his ship. The Lady Diana threw him a sympathetic glance, perhaps understanding him. Perhaps later there would be time to see this wonderful place at his leisure.
An excellent thought occurred to him: Perhaps the Atlanti would allow some philosophers to study at their Library and Museum. His dear Demochares was already looking dazed and happy. That might be a point of negotiation.
Their Capitol was attractive, but small—hardly bigger than a country villa. Inside, however, it was lavishly decorated and furnished, and he and his party were shown into a reception hall with great courtesy. It was all very informal, which was for the best: It would have been an affront to his dignitas as Caesar to have been received by a enthroned foreign potentate. Instead, Tabitus made all easy between them, talking as one man to another.
He was saying, "If you like, Caesar, you can question the men themselves. When in Gades, we were set upon by some soldiers, eager to recruit more rowers for the galleys. In leaving hastily, we inadvertently brought two of them along. They have not been harmed, but we did hear them talking together, and that is what made us certain the Vinicius meant to attack."
An Atlantean soldier approached and whispered a message to the Prince. Tabitus nodded, and continued to address him, "I have just been informed that some of your wounded have arrived in Atlantis. They have been taken to our hospital—our place for medical treatment. Among them is the commander of the ships that attacked the Enterprise. The hospital is in the same building where the other two soldiers are being held. When you wish, we can go there."
"It is generous of you to treat our wounded."
"It is our custom, when possible."
"Before I question the soldiers, I would like to hear the entire tale of Vinicius, Verguso, and what you saw in Gades."
It took some time to hear the various portions of the story: the letter to Verguso, declaring Gades closed due to sickness; the journey by means of the blue light to the city, and the adventures of Tabitus, the physician Marcus, and the freeman Lysis there. The freedman was timid and stammering, but seemed honest. The subsequent letter from Vinicius, denying the evidence of the very eyes of the Atlanti; and the tale of the battle related by the philosopher Alan, who had seen it.
The philosopher stated that the Enterprise had, single-handed, defeated five triremes. While he was reluctant to explain this in detail, a nod from the Prince reassured him, and he gave a frightful narrative of death and fire. The Atlanti had apparently surpassed even the great Archimedes in their war machines. This, too, must be investigated.
Tabitus concluded the story. "As you have heard, we did not initiate the fight, but fought to defend ourselves. You must understand that we could do no less. We did not come to this place to seek war with Rome, but we will never permit a hostile force to set foot on our islands, nor to harass our people."
The Lady Diana had been present throughout the interview; since apparently the Atlanti did not distinguish between men and women, as far he could understand it. She served them all Atlantean wine with her own hands, and even Lucretius settled down a little under her kind smile.
The proprieties observed, Tabitus then led him through the building, out the back, and through some pleasure gardens. Further on, he could see a wide field, and more scarlet-clad Atlantean soldiers drilling. The buildings there looked as fine as anything in the city. Even common soldiers' barracks were luxurious by Roman standards. One would think it would weaken their fiber, but a glance at Tabitus himself did not reveal any weakness in the man.
The Roman looked about him, and was alerted by Demochares' gasp of awe. His tutor was looking to the left. Beyond yet more gardens was a huge building that caught the sun. He himself could not contain his wonder.
Demochares asked eagerly, "It is made of glass?"
"Yes," Tabitus answered, smiling oddly, "it is a greenhouse, used to grow very tender plants from all over the world. One of our philosophers is a great botanical authority, and she constantly amazes us all. The trees that produce theobroma are there. If you have time, Caesar, you might find it of interest."
"Indeed."
They were moving toward a huge structure that looked like no building the Romans had seen before. It had few windows, but was covered in shiny black tiles. It resembled nothing so much as a diagram of Euclid's gone mad.
"The Laboratory," Tabitus explained.
Marcus Aurelius considered. A place of work? What kind of work?
There was a guard at the entrance, standing before metal doors. Inside the air smelt strange, and they were surrounded by more metal—and great, unthinkably wide expanses of glass. How on earth do they make such glass? They passed down a central hall, and saw mysterious doors marked even more mysteriously. Occasionally, some one would emerge and nod politely as their party passed—strange men and women in sleeved coats of white.
"Scientists," said Tabitus. "That is our word for philosophers who study nature, matter, and its laws." He paused before another metal door, marked clearly in Roman letters, "Elevator."
"Perhaps not today," he said, and led them instead to a concrete and metal staircase. They descended a long way. It was rather nerve-wracking. Demochares was overwhelmed, and Lucretius on the edge. He himself was wondering if he had made a dreadful mistake, when they reached yet another door, and Tabitus pushed it open.
There were soldiers in the room, and they greeted their prince respectfully, standing at admirable attention. But the Caesar's attention was immediately drawn to another expanse of glass. Behind it, in a room fitted with cots, were two Roman legionaries, looking decidedly glum. The remains of a meal were on a metal table in the room.
"The decurion Proculo, and Galbinius," Tabitus indicated with a smile. "They have not enjoyed their visit, but as you see, they are unhurt."
"I wish to speak with them," Marcus Aurelius said firmly. "Permit the door to be opened, if you please."
Tabitus signed to a soldier, who pressed a button, which made a green light flicker. The door swung open, and the two Romans stood, watching the door warily.
It was a tedious interview. The soldiers immediately responded to Lucretius, who knew how to handle them. They were fairly typical specimens of their sort: ignorant, pugnacious, and both suspicious and credulous. At the moment they were also frightened, and trying to hide it. It did not take long to convince the men that they were indeed Roman officers (for Aurelius thought that claiming to be Caesar, under the circumstances, would only convince the men that he was a liar); and then they were besieged with pleas to rescue them from this terrible place.
The walls glowed with white light, though there was no fire. The water from the walls could get hot enough to scald a man's skin right off. No one had tortured them, true, but they reckoned they were being softened up for it. The people here had even fixed Galbinius' nose. What did they want to do that for? Probably so he would be healthier when they put him to death—probably in their arena. Well, they were ready to die like Romans and soldiers, but couldn't the gentlemen find a way to get them out of here?
Eventually the story of the scuffle in Gades was drawn from them. A pair of big barbarian strangers, and their sniveling weasel of a slave, had tricked them into an alley with promises of wine, and then had somehow carried them off to this place. They had figured it out though. They must be more of the Atlanti that Governor Vinicius was all in a fever about. That lot had gold and jewels, and food of the gods, and orichalcum, which was red and supposed to be better than gold, but Proculo couldn't quite make out how that was possible. They had beautiful women, too. The fleet was going to attack the Atlanti and conquer them for the Emperor, and then all of those good things would be theirs.
They were brutes, but innocent brutes, Marcus Aurelius decided. Putting their stories together with those of the Atlanti, it was becoming horribly evident that Vinicius had exceeded his authority. He had not told the Prince of the Atlanti (for it was a state secret and none of his affair), that the Emperor had given Vinicius his approval to assemble an expedition to Atlantis. A diplomatic mission, with a deep-bottomed trading ship and a trireme as protective escort. Antoninus saw nothing wrong with exploring the Encircling Ocean and finding out where the Atlanti were—and Marcus Aurelius had been in perfect accord. However, they had certainly not given their imprimatur to a lunatic exploit like this: risking an entire legion and the western fleet in dangerous seas to attempt a conquest of a land whose exact location no one knew.
He did not allow his thoughts to show, but he had more than enough to reflect upon. Vinicius will be lucky if he's allowed to fall on his sword. He's as much as helped himself to public funds, wasting Imperial resources like this. Not only the entire officer corps of the 31st, but the Iberian bureaucracy may have to be purged or reassigned. The cursed madman.
Briefly, he asked the Atlantean, "You will allow them to return?"
"Oh, certainly. We have no further use for them. If you wish, we can send them back to Gades now—or to Rome."
"Not now," Marcus Aurelius said. "But after all of this with Vinicius is resolved, then it would be a great favor if you would let them go in peace."
"Very well. Then, would you now wish to see the Roman wounded?" The wounded were being cared for in an even stranger place. It was disturbing and rather horrible to see them lying helpless, their bodies pierced with thick threads of strange materials. The physicians moved among them, plainly caring for them in a conscientious way, but the things they were doing were distressing to watch.
One of the physicians spoke to Marcus, who translated for the Romans. "We lost two of your men. They were just too badly wounded. The other sixteen should recover, in time. The officer is resting in a nearby room. He had a bad shock, but should be all right eventually. I'm told you can speak to him already."
In a plain room, in a strangely made bed with white linen, Vinicius' legate Gaius Ulpius Naso was lying in restraints. He had not recovered his nerve since the attack. He had attempted to lay hands upon the fair Uccarte, and had been struck down for it, like many another hapless mortal in ancient myth. At least she had not turned him into a beast, but had just blasted him with lightning. He was among gods, he did not doubt it for an instant. They were not at all what he had imagined, but they were certainly all-powerful. They might look like normal human beings, but gods usually looked that way, except when they were pretending to be animals themselves.
The door opened, and he trembled, wondering what humiliating and incomprehensible ordeal he would next endure. Two of the gods who entered appeared to be Roman, but Ulpius was not about to be tricked so easily. Then he looked again, and realized that they had taken the shape of men he had seen: the Praetorian Appius Lucretius, and Caesar Marcus Aurelius. They did not appear to be pleased with him.
"Spare me, divinities!" he cried.
"Shut up," snapped the god who looked like Lucretius, "Caesar has questions for you, so pull yourself together and stop your whining."
More quietly, the god who looked like Caesar said, "Answer honestly, and I will do what I can to help you. Do not attempt to deceive me."
"No, Lord! I will tell you everything!"
And with judicious prodding, he did: the Emperor's secret orders revealed to him; the commission from Vinicius; the plot to waylay the Great Iron Ship; his own impiety in attempting to use violence with a goddess (for which he expressed his profoundest remorse); his subsequent punishment; and his fate here, naked and strapped down helplessly in this strange place like Prometheus on his rock, while the gods subjected him to strange proceedings, all the while speaking softly and soothingly. He could bear no more. Let them slay him, but let it be over.
"We are wasting time," said the god-Caesar, a touch impatiently. "When did Vinicius plan to set forth for Atlantis?"
"Lord," replied Ulpius, "He has already done so. He would have left four days ago. It was my mission to stop the Iron Ship, and prevent it from assisting the Atlanti. I have failed, " he whispered.
"Yes, you have," agreed god-Lucretius, without much sympathy. "You and your precious Governor have really done yourselves proud."
"Certainly," said god-Caesar with deceptive mildness, "your ill-advised venture has created some undesirable complications. The fleet is already at sea, you say?"
It was so. Marcus Aurelius considered the matter. As far as he could see, even with the amazing powers of the Atlanti, there was no way he could turn the fleet back toward Gades. Even if he appeared in person on the deck of Vinicius' flagship, most of the soldiers would not recognize him, and Vinicius might simply have him killed. His glance slid over to Tabitus, who was talking quietly with the physicians. Perhaps the Atlanti could terrify the fleet into retreat, but Romans were no cowards, and it was likely that there would be heavy casualties in any case. It was a disaster, and he must use all his wits to salvage what he could for Rome.
"Is there any way we could travel to the fleet to dissuade Vinicius?"
Reluctantly, Tavington replied in the negative. He hated admitted any limitation; but of course, not knowing the current position of the fleet, there was no way to gate to them. "We are on the watch, Caesar, and if the fleet appears, we will attempt to turn them back. It is very possible that they will never reach us. Roman ships are ill-designed for ocean sailing. If a storm were to overtake them, as is only too likely----"
There it was, thought Marcus Aurelius with relief. There was the way to save face, to pretend that this dreadful situation had not happened, to avoid open conflict with these people from whom he hoped for so much.
He remarked, "Indeed, it is very likely that such a misfortune will occur. If the fleet were not to return, it would seem evident that that reckless man lost it to storms or high seas. Without proof, we could hardly blame the Atlanti."
Tavington smiled tightly, understanding him. He had just been given carte-blanche to destroy Vinicius' Armada. As long as Rome was not humiliated by a public defeat, they could still maintain profitable relations. So a number of things might happen: Vinicius' fleet might turn back without ever finding them; or be swamped and lost at sea. They might be overawed and turn back without engaging, in which case everyone could claim it had been simply a mission of exploration. The final possibility was that, once engaged, the fleet would be destroyed, and no one would survive or be permitted to return, at the least, to tell the tale of Roman defeat.
"And the attack at the Pillars of Hercules?" There was little chance of concealing that.
"A most regrettable and scandalous affair. Vinicius has behaved as little more than a pirate. If he survives his voyage, he will be punished as a pirate. Gaius Ulpius, I believe, was duped by a greedy superior. He will be stripped of his office, and exiled, at the very least."
Now was the time to make what he could of the affair. "Of course, innocent Roman lives were lost by the actions of the Enterprise, however understandable. Perhaps if our two peoples understood one another better, such misfortunes could be avoided in future."
"Perhaps," Tabitus replied warily.
Marcus Aurelius decided to add another hour to this visit to Atlantis. There could be no better use for his time. He would see the house of glass, and the collection of rare plants. It would please Demochares, certainly, who might wish to prolong his stay here. The Atlanti, no doubt, had secrets they would share with no one—most especially regarding their dreadful weapons and their powers of navigation—but they would not begrudge a scholar the sight of flowers, nor Caesar a visit to their magnificent School and Library. And for now, that would be enough.
-----
It was a routine flight the following morning, but Ashley DeJong was always happy for a chance to be airborne. She loved her posting on Numenor, and had a comfortable understanding with Bill Higgins, the hangar chief. People bustled in Atlantis. She was glad that there were no tell-tale signs of bustle yet in Numenor. She got in some flying, helped Bill maintain the hangar and runway, slept late, and had all the terrific sex a girl could ask for. No bustle, though. Not for her.
The patrols had changed things, though. Now that Michael Flynn had seen to it that they would have high-octane fuel for the foreseeable future, she had another excuse to fly. It did, however, mean getting up earlier.
The Colonel had met with them, and informed them that a crazy Roman had taken a fleet out of Gades to search for them. It was especially worrying, since they had had a long stretch of calm weather. The Lab had radioed that that was going to change in the next few hours, but for now, they were to keep their eyes open.
And that was why she was taking off from the Numenor runway at six-thirty that day. She banked the Cessna wide to turn north east, and headed out over the endless blue-grey water. It was not until near the end of her patrol that she caught a glimpse of something in the corner of her eye.
What the hell?
She veered right, wondering what she could have seen. Surely it couldn't be the Enterprise.
"Uh, Bill," she radioed. "I'm heading north-northeast. There's something funny out there."
"What do you mean, funny?"
"Don't know. I'll take a look." She strained her eyes, looking ahead. The sea looked—brown with white specks. "No—really, Bill. There's something out here. Oh, shit!"
"What!"
"It's the frigging Roman fleet, sport. And I'll bet they're not here to take tea. Radio the Colonel—now. I'm going to take a closer look. Over and out."
Vinicius had not received the support he had hoped for. The Emperor had only given permission to send an embassy, supported by a warship, to scout west and look for Atlantis. Vinicius had staked everything on success, and had stripped his province of resources and men. The one ship of the Atlanteans he had seen was big, but showed no sign of weaponry: he was also betting that it was the best and biggest they had. It made sense: only big vessels dared the open water of the Atlantic. With overwhelming numbers, and with surprise on their side, Atlantis and its treasures could be his. The Emperor would forgive his insubordination, were it crowned with success.
Above him, there was a distant humming in the sky, Ashley DeJong drew closer, and dipped low for a count. I don't know what they're called, but that ship in the lead is freaking huge.
Vinicius' flagship was the quinquireme Tavington had seen on his scouting adventure: five rowing decks, a huge stern cabin luxuriously furnished, two centuries of crack troops guarding the governor's person. Around him, and fanned out, scanning for land on the horizon, were eight transports, carrying the rest of the 31st Legion, all five thousand men. Three more transports were filled with supplies, weapons, and everything needed to set up a camp and wage war. Seven triremes prowled the edge of the fleet, protecting the transports.
"Come in, Bill. Come in right now! We are in so much trouble!"
"OK. What's the story?"
"One big mother in the middle—guess it's the flagship. Seven fast, pretty aerodynamic looking craft—I'd guess they're warships. And then eleven wide-hulled craft--probably troopships. This ain't no friendly visit."
"Ash, they're getting the Colonel now. I'm going put you through to him—"
"Lieutenant DeJong?"
"Yes, sir! Colonel—" Sometimes Ashley forgot that she was technically an officer of the Atlantis Armed Forces. She and Max Reinhardt were the pilots of their little Air Force. Bill could fly too, but there was no plane for him. There was a helicopter back at Atlantis, but that was used mostly by Michael Flynn on his geological expeditions. Max had told her that that it was being used for training exercises now because of the invasion threat. She took a quick breath, and made her report. "Colonel: we have nineteen vessels headed in our general direction. Their position is north east of Numenor. I can't tell if they've spotted land yet, but they must have seen me. If they continue on course, they're sure to find the islands."
The Colonel's voice, in the head set, sounded thin but calm. "All right. How much time do we have?"
"Hours, sir. Even if they continue straight on, it will be a good four hours before they can make landfall here on Numenor. No—more. They'll have to go all the way around the island to find the beach. The transports are slow, and the wind isn't in their favor. They'll have to row all the way. And I thought of something, sir. I can lead them off course. I'll head due west and hope they follow. Once I'm far enough away, I'll turn south again and head home. I should be back in an hour."
"Very good, Lieutenant. We'll look for you then."
Tavington signed off, thinking rapidly. Messengers were already on their way. One had been sent to the Laboratory to alert the staff, and others to gather his forces. He had hoped for more warning, but four hours would do. From the weather station in her observatory, Julie Kolb had notified him that heavy weather was on the way, but it might not come soon enough to distract the Romans from their attack. Lieutenant DeJong had sounded calm and composed. Her plan was sound. By the time she was back at Numenor Airport, he and the other craft would be there as well.
-----
On board the Roman vessels, pandemonium reigned. Everyone not chained below had rushed up on deck to see the source of the mysterious noise. A gigantic bird, wings spread, soared above them. Some of them, whose eyes were sharper than the rest, said that it did not look like a natural bird at all. It turned toward the west and vanished toward the horizon.
"An omen!" said Agricola, captain of the trireme Siren. He had had a bad feeling about this venture from the beginning, and was not pleased at being proved right. His sailors crowded around him, muttering.
Rumors had spread in the last few days about the target of the invasion. A decurion named Proculo had disappeared, and two soldiers under his command swore that they had witnessed a fight with a group of strangers that had ended with a flashes of blue light, and the strangers disappearing, along with Proculo and another man of the 31st.
Vinicius had sent for the men and questioned them himself. It had been a trick of course, Vinicius had declared. Perhaps the men might have been Atlanti, or perhaps not. They were likely some sort of charlatans, who had blown smoke in the men's eyes somehow. The men could have been drunk. Proculo and Galbinius might have deserted. It was hardly worth his worry. The men were punished, and he considered the matter closed.
He was wrong. The story was all over Gades, and had grown with the telling. Many in the city had seen the Atlanti on their original visit. Some believed them to be gods—and not necessarily only the poor and ignorant. Gods or not, they were tremendously clever and powerful, and it was foolish to tempt their anger without knowing more about them.
Captain Agricola was certainly of that opinion. He had given his report to Vinicius, frankly and clearly, about the chances the fleet would have on the open, uncharted seas. He had made a counterproposal: an exploratory mission, using a small ship he had under construction, incorporating some of the ideas he had gleaned from seeing the Enterprise. He was something of an engineer himself, and knew some first-class professionals. They had obtained funding from some of the merchants and wealthy entrepreneurs of southern Iberia. While there was no way to create a metal hull, they could build a ship with a much deeper bottom, and line the outside with hammered copper plates. The rigging of the Enterprise Agricola had studied with great care, and also the rudder. The Enterprise had been steered by means of a wheel, which was in turn attached to the rudder that was located in the center of the ship—unlike the steering oars on the side he was familiar with. His new ship would be far more sea-worthy than any galley. Once it was complete, they could make a series of voyages into the Ocean, each longer than the last, gradually improving their charts, and eventually hitting upon Atlantis.
All to no avail. Vinicius had shouted him down, and told him he could obey orders, or lose command of the Siren. Agricola had ground his teeth in frustration, but had had no choice. He was a loyal servant of Rome, even if his commander was a prime fool.
And now, he watched the departure of the alien flying creature—for it resembled no bird he had ever seen—and listened to the fading humming noise as it disappeared into the west.
A sailor called out to him. "Captain! A message from the Governor! We're to follow the bird. The Governor thinks it will lead us to Atlantis!"
Agricola sighed, and he flicked a wry glance at his Mucius, his second-in-command. His officer smiled somberly, understanding him. "Pity that the Governor isn't here on the Siren," he remarked.
Agricola grunted a reluctant laugh. A great pity. All sorts of things can happen at sea to a bad commander after dark. He ordered the maneuver, and the Siren fell in with its neighbors, now heading due west.
-----
Knowing the exact position of the Roman fleet certainly made Tavington's work easier. Given the approach of bad weather, the Stargazer and the Reliant would be kept safely in harbor. It would have taken them hours, even at full speed, to intercept the Romans.
This struggle would be decided by air power. Ashley DeJong had reported that the Romans had turned and appeared to be following behind her. She was swinging wide, out of their range of vision, and was heading back home. The lookouts had all been alerted. Max Reinhardt had gathered his squad of soldiers, and had taken off for Numenor, where he would refuel once more, and await events.
Tavington and his men of the helicopter force were armed and ready, and Michael was performing a last check of the craft before they would fly to Numenor themselves. And then—
He informed Enterprise of their situation, and was alarmed at Captain Urquhart's report.
"We're in a pretty fierce storm, Colonel. We'll be fine, except for a few on board who think they're going to die of sea-sickness, but we'll outlast it. It's just going to blow us home faster. If the Romans get caught in this, though, they'll go straight to the bottom."
"What of your prisoners?" There had been nearly fifty comparatively uninjured Romans left on the captured trireme.
"Well, that's just it, sir. When I found out the storm was blowing up, I knew there was no way in the world we could tow that trireme behind us all the way to New Atlantis. We took the eleven slaves on board the Enterprise, and made for the west of Africa. We put the soldiers off in the shallows along the coast. Then we scuttled the trireme. The Romans are a week's march south of the Mauretanian province, but they should make it back to civilization all right, with the water and provisions they salvaged from their ship. The Major told them which direction to travel, and they didn't like it; but they were just as glad not be enslaved, which seems to have been what they were expecting."
"Well done, Captain. They would have been an inconvenience here anyway, and it's too late for them to join Vinicius' expedition. A little wandering in the wilderness is better than they deserve." Michael was gesturing impatiently at him. "Good luck and good sailing to you, Captain. We'll take care of our own Romans now."
-----
The rendezvous in Numenor was a high-spirited one. The helicopter arrived after Reinhardt; and within a few minutes, Lt. DeJong arrived, to take on her passenger/soldier. The small population turned out to see them off: one woman held up her baby for an astonished Tavington to kiss. The skies were growing grey, and a slight freshening of the breeze hinted at bad weather to come. Tavington wanted to find the Romans, deal with them, and get his precious men and aircraft home safely before the worst of it.
The men smiled excitedly at one another as the helicopter swayed aloft. Men he had known for years, men alongside whom he had fought in another war. They were all time adventurers together, they and their friends from the 21st century. Dieter looked calm, but eager. Michael was at the controls of the helicopter, plainly enjoying himself. The two planes shot out ahead of them, on their mission to harry and confuse the Romans. But not to fire upon them: not yet.
He relaxed back into the most comfortable position he could manage, back to the sloped wall of the helicopter. The noise was horrendous, but Tavington was helped by the phones over his ears, keeping him in contact with his pilots and his captains, and with Markham back at New Atlantis with the ground patrol. They were at the Laboratory, receiving reports from the lookouts. If any Romans were sighted along the coasts, Markham and his men could be gated and deployed to the site almost instantly.
Some of the soldiers were bellowing some sort of filthy song. He rewarded them with the cool smile they wanted, and then lost himself in thought, considering all the possibilities. No captured trireme. That's no great loss, though I gathered that Lesley wanted it as some sort of toy. No fifty able-bodies prisoners to guard. That's actually a gain. I don't think Marcus Aurelius will argue with our reasoning, when he learns what we did with them. Eleven workers to be assigned duties. Lyudmilla will interview them on the Enterprise—no, probably has, if I know her—and recommend how to make the best use of their abilities. I hope there are some potential farm laborers among them.
They were such a small population, and so many of their best people were scientists, with no desire to work the land. The agronomist Jack Gronewald and his team needed more people to help produce the basic foodstuffs that were rationed to every citizen. Every one of the original settlers who wanted a farm had been given one: five hundred acres each to start. It was now policy that any subsequent grant would be based on service, with military personnel being granted preference.
Tavington himself had a very nice bit of property not far from town. He had planned out the future estate on paper with loving care, with an appealing log house to be made of some of the strong lauresilvia wood that had had to be cleared for their town. A high-ceilinged, welcoming hall, with plenty of room for a growing family. He had already planted a small orchard, but not much else had been achieved. He needed some strong backs, and he needed someone to live there all the time. Indentured labor was a possibility. A promise of land of their own in exchange for a set number of years of service…
Locke grinned at him, still bawling out his song. Tavington smiled back, thinking about Locke's new farm, Bag End. Locke was obsessed with The Lord of the Rings, and Trinity just indulged him—so much so that Locke had actually completed a house on his own farm—a house that, with the help of Atlantean engineers, was as close to a hobbit hole as possible.
It was a pleasant day in June when Trinity and Locke had invited the community to their "Open House." Everyone had hiked or ridden into the hills, or been transported by one of the heavy earthmovers, each pulling a wagon. Burdened with gifts, with picnic food, with children, a mob had descended on Locke's new home, and buzzed with excitement. Tavington had stared unbelieving when he saw it, but Doug Horn had earnestly explained that it was not a bad design, all in all.
"Earth-sheltered—keeps the temperature very regular. Being built into the hill like it is really conserved a lot on building materials. The aluminum roof is covered by a layer of sod and thick grass. We've treated the windows with microsolars. It's very functional, very earth-friendly—"
"—It has a round, green door," Tavington had replied, somewhat stupent. "It has sheep on its roof."
Locke had expanded with pride. "Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it glorious?"
From the oohings and aahings about them, it sounded like his would not be the first of these odd places. And it was not as strange, indeed, as the bizarre, dome-shaped residence of the Kolbs…
Max Reinhardt's voice interrupted his musings. "Target in sight, Colonel. Ashley and I are going to down to buzz 'em."
"Excellent. Harass and terrorize them, but do not fire any weapons—and above all, do nothing that imperils your own safety."
"Understood, Colonel."
-----
Appalled and bewildered by the return of the huge bird—now accompanied by its larger mate, it appeared—the Roman fleet froze, unsure how to proceed. The captains ordered the rowers to slow, and gradually they came to a dead stop, slapped about by the swelling waves. Vinicius had no idea what to do. The birds roared overhead, closer and closer, like monsters from the days of myth and legend. What would they do? Snatch men from the deck and rend them? There were a few archers amongst the sailors, and one of two launched futile arrows against the terrifying threat. The arrows could not reach or hit the swooping, speedy creatures, and fell back uselessly to deck or water.
The birds roared past, nearly touching the tops of the masts, and the Romans were relieved briefly, but then saw that the monsters were turning for another pass. Some of the watchers were slipping below, terrified by what they imagined would happen next. The captain of Vinicius' own flagship was urging the Governor in fierce whispers to turn the fleet around.
"Plainly, this is a place that man was never meant to see. We cannot fight against gods."
Vinicius clouted him, his obsession redoubling with the unlooked-for opposition. "They aren't dangerous!" he insisted stubbornly. "They haven't done anything! You!" he shouted below to the rowing chief, "Get those men rowing! Full speed!"
There were some grim looks behind him. His officers had begun to think for some time that their commander was not of sound mind on the subject of the Atlanti. He claimed to have orders from the Emperor, but no one had been allowed to see them. A pair of popular, well-connected military tribunes, who could have verified the orders, had been sent north. And Imperial orders or no, there were situations that soldiers should not be made to endure—especially if the situation were hopeless.
The birds were returning, with a terrible deep roar. The men on deck braced themselves, as they tore past, and felt the wind of them strike. The ships directly below faltered, the very rowers terrified by the unseen thunder.
Agricola, on the Siren, gritted his teeth, holding himself erect. It was all he could do not to collapse to his knees in fear, as men all around him were. They had traveled beyond the limits of man's knowledge and were in the land of unknown monsters. Vinicius had led them into this nightmare, and someone must lead them out. The giant birds were roaring away, but no doubt would soon return. He could signal to his friend on some other ships. It was plain that they needed to put about and make for Africa.
Before he could call the signalman to his side, another roaring sound came out of the south. This black dot moved more slowly, and was no bird. The men, terrified but curious, crowded to the rail. The ship listed slightly to port, with the uneven distribution of weight. Agricola was too intent himself on the imminent threat to order them back.
It was coming closer, a monster that looked like a huge black insect. Somehow, that made it all the more horrible. A giant bird was not so unnatural. This thing was truly dreadful, and men who had withstood the other creatures were utterly unmanned by this apparition. It approached, slowed, and descended toward them, hovering in a frightful way.
Then, unbelievably, it spoke.
"I am William Tavington, Prince of Atlantis! You are in forbidden waters! Put about and leave at once or you shall be destroyed! You have been warned!"
The voice was unearthly. It bellowed like thunder, but even the galley-slaves below decks heard it. It was the voice of a god, and even those among the Romans who had long since ceased to believe in gods knew they had just met one.
Vinicius' jaw sagged. His officers were pulling at him desperately. He stood still, shocked, unable to think or act.
Agricola could not control his own trembling. His entire body recoiled from the thunderous voice. It was no disgrace to retreat before a god. Indeed, it showed proper piety to respect the gods of any place.
He forced himself into command mode, and shouted, "Put about! Head due east for Africa!" His men who could still function obeyed, stumbling in their confusion. The turn would take time and would be dangerous, with the other ships in the fleet, but it was madness to continue as they were. The drums of the galley thudded out, and the ship began to gradually change course. Agricola looked east, and despaired. The eastern sky was a mass of thick clouds. They could not survive a severe storm in these waters. But they could not survive here, either.
He saw that his friends on the Harpy and the Syracuse were attempting the course change as well. Between them were the troopships, heavier and less maneuverable. They wallowed indecisively, struggling to move.
Above them, the Atlanteans watched the events with some satisfaction. "Well, Colonel," remarked Reinhardt. "It looks like some of the Romans are turning around."
Tavington observed the scene grimly. Some of the Roman fleet was indeed obeying. But there was confusion. Some of the ships were turning to port, other to starboard, and some were heading for collision. The transports were moving slowly, if at all. Some of the Roman ships were doggedly forging ahead. Vinicius' quinquireme was one of them. A few other ships huddled close, as if taking courage from their leader.
Tavington snarled with frustration. Michael observed, "Some people are just too stupid to live. With their current course heading, they'll be lost on the way to North America."
"And they could change course and be on our shores in hours!" Tavington snapped in reply.
He switched on the amplifier and called down to the fleet below once more. "Put about or be destroyed! Romans, this is your final warning! Marcus Vinicius, you have betrayed your men! I see you, you lunatic. You have led your men into a massacre. You have no orders to invade. Order your fleet to retreat, or their deaths will be on your head!"
Marcus Vinicius was horrified at hearing his own name in the roar of the monster. He shouted back at his men, "It's only a voice! It can't do anything to us! We are Romans, not cowards! Ignore it—it's only a trick!"
A few more ships peeled away from Vinicius' fleet. The Romans were in total disarray. A pair of transports had smashed together, breaching their hulls, and spilling their men into the water. One of the triremes was attempting to rescue the swimmers. The wind was picking up, and the seas were getting choppier.
"The weather's turning bad, Colonel," said Ashley DeJong. "We should get out of this as soon as possible."
"Yes, certainly," agreed Tavington. "I want you and Reinhardt to make one more pass and then return to Numenor at once. Reinhardt, have your bombardier target that trireme alongside the flagship. We will follow shortly."
The unfortunate trireme, loyal to the last to its commander, did not even see the bomb that destroyed it. The monster bird roared overhead, and almost instantly the world exploded in white fire. The ship blew apart, scattering itself and its crew over a broad radius.
Absolutely shocked, the rest of the flagship's last escort slowed and began to turn. The quinquireme plowed on alone. Tavington might have glimpsed Vinicius earlier, but he could not see the little struggle going on the deck of the flagship, officers trying to assassinate the governor, others trying to protect him, the troops rioting, and a mortal paralysis taking hold. Had he seen this clearly, he might not have uttered his next command.
"Fire a missile amidships."
A trail of smoke, and a gaping hole appeared in the flagship. Vinicius and the men crowding around him vanished. Friend and foe died together, and the ship broke in two before sinking. A few survivors managed to swim out enough to avoid being sucked down by the vessel, but most were lost.
The rest of the fleet was in retreat. Tavington considered his implicit bargain with Marcus Aurelius. Some of the ships might make it to Africa. Some might even survive to return to Roman lands. He considered pursuit and destruction, but decided against it for two equally sound reasons.
First, the storm was picking up and would probably do their work for them. And even if it did not, it would be reckless to remain out here, risking himself and his men to kill a defeated and demoralized enemy.
Second, while his men might obey him, and Dieter might not care, Michael would certainly not agree to a cold-blooded slaughter of the helpless Romans. He could see that the man already felt dismay that he could not rescue them. Tavington liked Michael, and valued his good opinion, and did not want to compromise their friendship by asking something of his friend that could destroy it completely. Diana, too, would not understand such a massacre.
If any of the Romans lived to tell the tale of the wrath of the Atlanti, Marcus Aurelius could make of it what he liked. The well-being of New Atlantis did not depend upon the good will of Rome. However mighty and populous the Empire, they should know that they could not threaten Tavington's people with impunity.
And so he spoke simply to Michael: "Take us back to Numenor." The helicopter surged up and turned south towards their islands, leaving behind them chaos and despair.
-----
The storm struck with full force in another hour. While it had merely pushed Enterprise homeward, it knocked the Romans ships about like driftwood. Of the fifteen ships not already destroyed, twelve were swamped and sunk in short order. One, buffeted and damaged, survived through the night, and slowly went under, despite the heroic efforts of its doomed crew.
The winds had come from the north-east, and so pushed the surviving two southwards. One, the Harpy, leaking slowly, was forced very far to the south indeed, and when the storm ended, found itself in strange waters.
Their captain, who had kept his head throughout, turned them east, knowing that he must find land eventually. He did, and he and nearly all his men arrived one day on a sunny coast. They gathered what they could from their irreparably damaged ship, and a little inland they found a small, white city of brick, engaged in a life-or-death struggle with a rival. There the Romans found adventure, and some found death, and some found romance, and some found fortune and glory; but none ever returned across the desert to Roman lands. And so they vanish from this story, and live on in their own.
The last ship left was the beleaguered Siren. Escaping collisions, rescuing swimmers, and its steering oar destroyed early on, it was swept along helplessly before the storm. The sky darkened with the coming of night, but the winds were unabated. Above them, Agricola heard a dreadful, familiar sound.
"Breakers!"
Well, Vinicius was looking for an island. We appeared to have found one.
"Unchain the rowers!" he ordered. There was no point in not giving the slaves their chance for life.
The Siren was supplied with a small rowboat. Some of the sailors looked longingly at it, but it would only hold a handful, and Agricola ordered it broken up, to make planks for as many men as possible.
There was one last order to give. Speaking up clearly, for it was no time to face death with a trembling lip, he addressed his men. "You have done all that men and Romans can do for the honor of your country, your Emperor, and your gods. It is no shame now for you to do your best to save your lives. Gentlemen: unarm."
He set the example, doffing his helmet, unbuckling his breastplate, stooping to remove his greaves, and finally dropping his sword to the heaving deck. His men, however, reluctantly, followed suit. Agricola did not flatter either himself or his men to be made of the heroic stuff of a Horatius, who could swim in full armor.
The rowers swarmed onto the deck, and looked about wildly. Some cast themselves into the sea, some clung to the rail. There was a blow, a crunch, and Agricola winced, knowing that the hull had been breached. Still, he would stay with his ship as long as possible.
Another blow, and a great lurch, and the ship tilted half over, caught in yet another rock. Men were swept overboard, crying prayers and curses. A bolt of lightning struck the mast, and it toppled forwards, smashing the bow. Another crash shook the ship and Agricola fell, his head striking the rail.
-----
In the darkness before dawn of the next day, the lookout on Weathertop, a woman named Janie Proctor, reported that there was wreckage on the north side of Numenor. Tavington grunted when he heard the news. If a ship had made it there, it would have found an inhospitable shore indeed—cliffs and rocks, and a few scraps of stony beach—and no place for any kind of ship to land.
A little later, he and a party set out in a rugged, electric-powered vehicle. The storm had done some damage to the orange groves, but the buildings had withstood it well. The aircraft in the hangars were safe, above all. Some of the inhabitants had already gone out on foot or horseback to the site of the wreck.
The vehicle reached the crest of the hills at the edge of the sea. Looking down onto the shore, Tavington saw the skeleton of a ship. The keel and some ribs remained, along with a portion of the upper deck. A small crowd of people swarmed over the rocks, searching for survivors, picking up items of interest, and shouting to each other.
"Colonel Tavington!" called out the harbormaster's wife, Mrs. Haley, seeing him climbing down the slope with his patrol.
Mark and Marisol McKenzie had come along to offer any medical assistance. The first bodies Tavington saw were beyond their help. His people had pulled them from the surf and had laid them out decently on a stretch of rocky strand.
Mrs. Haley pushed past the others and bustled over to him. "There are a few live ones. One big fellow must have swum past the rocks and made it onto the shore, but he's hurt. Must have been hit with a spar, because his scalp is bleeding like damn."
They brought him to the man. A huge fellow indeed, even by their own standards, with an immense chest and powerful arms and shoulders. Obviously a galley slave, from his musculature. He sat silent and passive, accepting the blanket thrown over his shoulders and the cloth pressed to his temple with neither thanks nor resistance. Mark went to have a look at his head, and the man flinched, probably expecting a blow. Mark muttered at him impatiently, and the man subsided, glancing about him furtively.
Two other Romans were lying on the shore. One was still unconscious, and the other simply too exhausted to get up. Marisol had a look at them, and then got them onto the stretchers for the steep climb back to the vehicle.
Mrs. Haley whispered low to Tavington. "And there's another one. He's up at Janie's cabin. I think she was trying to hide him, but I saw him sleeping in her bed when I got her message and stopped by." She pursed her lips, and said, "You should have a word with her. Charity is all right in its place, but he could be a danger to her and everyone else."
"Thank you, Mrs. Haley. I shall see to it."
A man looking out to sea, called, "There's another floater!"
A group of men waded out to catch the corpse and drag it to shore. Tavington left a sergeant to supervise the work, and climbed back up the hill.
Weathertop Lookout was a few dozen yards away.The new small stone and log cabin had endured the storm unhurt, the only casualties being the battered nasturtiums, recently transplanted, growing thick around the doorway, and some of the pole beans and tomatoes in the neat little garden. A few sheep in a little shed nearby bleated plaintively.
He knocked at the door. "Miss Proctor, it is Colonel Tavington." Abruptly, the door swung wide and Janie Proctor stood before him.
The little cabin had a tiny bedroom and a tinier bathroom off the workroom/kitchen/office with its stone fireplace. There was a litter of projects about the place, but it was essentially orderly.
So too, was Janie, a tall and independent woman who had jumped at the chance to be the lookout and have this little isolated cabin of her own. At the time, she had told Tavington, "I've had enough of being crowded together with dozens of other women in that factory. I want to be alone!" She had discharged her duties faithfully, reporting punctually on schedule. Now she could not meet his eyes, and shifted from one foot to another, obviously anxious.
Tavington said gently, "I understand that you have captured one of our invaders. May I see him?"
She shrugged wordlessly and led him to the door of the bedroom. Flinging it open, she gave a nod toward the bed.
The Roman had heard the knock, the man's voice, and the door of the hut being opened. His fate was upon him, and he struggled to get up and face it bravely. He had only a confused memory of the events when the woman had helped him up from the water last night. She had brought him to her little hut, and pulled off his sodden tunic. He had tumbled gratefully into the surprisingly large and comfortable bed without dreaming of putting up a fight. When he awakened this morning, he had seen her more clearly.
She was certainly nothing like Princess Nausicaa in the Odyssey. Even if he could remember his few lessons in the Greek classics, he wouldnot have used Homer's words to flatter her: "I pray you, lady, to tell me if you are nymph or mortal!"
No, this was certainly a woman, and not a beautiful young princess. She was tall and strong: strong enough to help him up the dimly remembered rocky climb, and to undress him and put him to bed in the cubiculum of the hut. In fact, she was an improvement over Princess Nausicaa, in that she did not bother him with high-flown poetry, but brought him a bowl of sweet and hearty oat porridge, and then a hot drink, tasting of apples.
The door to the cubiculum opened, and revealed a tall soldier of the Atlanti, dressed in the remembered red coat. The woman came in behind him, looking sullen. The soldier spoke briefly but not angrily to her, and then addressed the man sitting on the bed.
In good Latin, the soldier asked, "Who are you, Roman?"
With what dignity he could muster, naked as he was save for the good blanket, the Roman rose to his feet and replied, "I am Aulus Meridius Agricola, captain of the Siren."
The Atlantean looked at him a moment, with something like cool compassion. "Well, Aulus Meridius Agricola, your ship is destroyed. A few of your men have been rescued from the sea and are being cared for. As far as we know you are the only survivors of Governor Vinicius' foolish venture."
The Roman took this---well, thought Tavington, like a Roman. He merely asked, "And what do you plan for us? Slavery?"
Tavington laughed slightly. "No. We do not keep slaves. Nor do we torture men to death. You will remain here, for there is no way for you to return to the Empire. If you conduct yourself decently, you will be well-treated. Otherwise—" he shrugged.
He turned to Janie. "Are his clothes wearable? I should take him to New Atlantis, and we'll find some work to put him to."
The woman turned a fierce look on him. "He's hurt. He should stay here." With growing ire, she declared, "I saved him. He's my Roman, and I should get to keep him!"
Agricola could not follow the conversation, but saw the woman's displeasure.
Tavington noticed his interest, and translated with some amusement. "She feels you should be the reward of her efforts. And you do owe her your life."
"I would be her slave?"
The Atlantean tilted his head thoughtfully, and answered, "Her servant, perhaps. Her companion, if you will. She has her duties as lookout, and her garden and a small flock of sheep. I believe she also owns a small fishing boat. No doubt she would find you useful. My first thought was to take you to Atlantis and assign you to farm labor—"
Agricola shuddered. He had seen slaves worked on the great latifundia farms in the countryside, and knew it for a short life of exhausting labor and harsh punishments. Hastily, he told the soldier, "I give you my word of honor as a Roman officer that I will neither harm this woman nor attempt to escape." His strength was gone, and he sat down heavily on the bed.
Tavington assured the suspicious Janie. "He has promised to behave himself. I think he likes the idea of staying here. In a few weeks we'll talk some more, and see if it's going well. If he gives you any trouble, radio us and we'll sort him out for you."
With that, he left the pleasant little cabin, and strolled back to waiting vehicle, humming a favorite tune. It was time to go home.
-----
Notes: cubiculum—bedroom
No, I'm never going to write anything more about the adventure of the crew of the Harpy in Africa. It's a ripping yarn, but you'll just have to imagine it for yourselves.
Next chapter: The Dust Settles: October, 150 A.D. The consequences of the failed invasion, and some new undertakings. !