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  Laughing, Mikhail stalked out of the room. Cromwell paused for a moment, looking back at Casmar as if to say something. Kal looked at him with hatred. Cromwell's eyes hardened, and he slammed the door shut behind him.

  "Would you have agreed?" Casmar asked sadly.

  Kal stood silent, looking at the priest.

  "Would you?"

  "I'd best get back to my lines," Kal said evenly. "If they return first they might fire on me as I cross the street."

  Bowing low once again, Casmar slowly raised his hand in a blessing over Kal's head. Putting his hat back on, Kal opened the door, and with a sharp swift gait that conveyed his rage, he walked out of the room.

  The priest who had escorted him fell in alongside. Kal said nothing, though he could see in the young man's eyes a burning curiosity to know. Crossing the nave, he hurriedly genuflected and went to the door.

  "Mr. President, your gun," the priest said, shakily holding the weapon out.

  Kal snatched it away.

  "For the good of all of us, you should have let me keep it," he said coldly.

  The priest lowered his gaze. "It was forbidden by the pledge of the church," he whispered, and stepping forward he unbolted the door. The four guards dashed across the street, the skirmish line swinging out to either side.

  Kal stepped in between the men, and they started off at a run, half-carrying him along.

  Barely had they stepped out into the street when a puff of smoke erupted from the bombed-out ruins of the capitol. The volley of canister swept the street, knocking a skirmisher over. One of the men pushing Kal simply let go, collapsing behind him. A sharp volley rang out from the buildings lining the opposite side of the street, screaming over Kal's head. Within seconds he reached the open doorway before him and ducked inside, the guards pushing in after him. The skirmishers to either side rushed back to the protection of the alley.

  One of the guards looked back out to the street and saw his wounded comrade, the priest bent over him. A musket ball smacked the pavement by the side of the priest as he struggled to pick the man up.

  "Those godless Carthas," the guard roared, and he raced back out, coming up alongside the wounded man. Together with the priest he dragged the man through the door, the air around them hot with bullets.

  "Good work, soldier," Hans said, clapping the man on the back.

  "These people have little respect for priests," Kal said, looking over at the white-faced man.

  "On second thought, maybe I should have let you keep the gun after all," the priest gasped.

  "What was the offer?" Hans asked.

  Kal nodded for Hans to follow him. Pushing their way through the crowd of soldiers, they went into the back room of the house and closed the door. The senators still loyal to the republic gathered around Kal, shouting questions. He stood in silence until they finally calmed down.

  "It's as we expected," Kal announced. "Surrender, or the city will be burned. Mikhail will be president, but he'll merely be Cromwell's puppet. I should add that Cromwell admitted that he has sold himself to the Merki."

  "Then there's no hope," Vasilia groaned.

  Kal looked around the room.

  "We're going to fight it out."

  "With what?" another senator replied. "Almost all our troops are holding the entrenchments around the factory. The city's held by the militia. If the Merki, the Tugars, whatever it is they call themselves, are supporting this, we're defenseless."

  "We can fight with our bare hands if need be," Kal stormed, slamming the table.

  "And we'll die in the end anyhow."

  "Have you all gone soft?" Kal shouted. "You've tasted freedom, and after but two years of it you are becoming weak.

  "You sit in front of me and whine, 'We'll die,' " and he raised his voice to a sarcastic falsetto. "You're senators, damn you—act the part. Our people have struggled to build this country, and you, all of you, should represent what is best in them, not worst."

  "He's right," Vasilia said softly. "Have we forgotten what we are?"

  "We'll still lose," the second senator said. "We must face that fact. Cromwell has crippled us, for the Merki to finish."

  "Like hell he has."

  Startled, Kal looked up to see O'Donald standing in the doorway, cigar clenched between his teeth. O'Donald stepped back, and Kathleen came into the room. At her presence the men stood.

  "Will all of you sit back down? You know I can't stand this polite foolishness at times like this."

  "May I ask," Kal said softly, "why the two of you are here?"

  "Oh, you mean we weren't invited," O'Donald laughed.

  "Pat, you're drunk," Hans snapped.

  "Hans, you know I can drink you under the table—I've proved it often enough. It takes more than I've got in me to get me drunk."

  "Well, my senators," Kathleen said evenly, stepping before O'Donald to cut off the argument, "how did the meeting go?"

  "The offer we figured upon," Kal replied awkwardly.

  "And will you people sell out to it?" she said coldly, looking around the room.

  "I'll fight to the end," Vasilia said sharply, and a nervous chorus of agreement echoed around the room.

  "Well, I'm glad to hear that," Kathleen retorted. "I'm not in the condition to thrash any of you, but I'm sure as hell Andrew would if you should turn cowards now."

  Kal looked over at her wide-eyed.

  "I should have come here first with it," O'Donald said, going over and putting his arm around Kathleen, "but I felt her ladyship here should hear the news first."

  O'Donald held up a scrap of paper.

  "A telegram from water stop Bangor on the Volga River. 'Messenger from the army of Rus arrived here. Message is we are coming back. Tell Kathleen I love her.' Signed, 'Colonel Andrew Lawrence Keane.' "

  "Damn that boy, I knew he'd turn up," Hans roared, slamming the table. O'Donald, grinning with delight, pulled a cigar out of his pocket, walked over to Hans, and stuck it into the sergeant's mouth.

  Smiling, Hans bit the end off and started to chew. "I've been meaning to ask you. Just where the hell are you getting your tobacco?"

  O'Donald smiled. "When the Carthas stopped trade last year I got suspicious, so I bought up every cigar I could lay my hands on."

  "He even sent his love," Kal said quietly, looking straight at Kathleen.

  Kathleen looked around the room. Her hand dropped to her stomach, and a look of pain clouded her features.

  "Lassie," O'Donald cried, putting his arm around her.

  "Outside," she whispered.

  Kal came to his feet, rushing over to her, Hans following him. O'Donald reached down and scooped her up, carrying her out the door.

  "The rest of you stay here," Hans growled, slamming the door shut behind him.

  O'Donald moved swiftly down the alleyway and disappeared around a corner. Kal, pushing after him, came up short as O'Donald turned, smilingly wickedly.

  "Now put me down, you oaf," Kathleen said.

  "There's something more, isn't there," Hans said, leaning up against the wall and exhaling nervously.

  "Well, we had to get you out of there," O'Donald replied.

  "Andrew's not the type to send love notes by military telegram," Hans said quietly, "but you scared the hell out of me anyhow."

  Kal looked over at Kathleen and winked.

  "He had to code it," Kathleen said. "O'Donald suspected it too. There was another sentence: 'My love to our two new sons, Revere and Longfellow Keane.' "

  Kal looked at Kathleen in confusion.

  "But?"

  "We'd never hang names like that on our boys," Kathleen said, laughing. "It took me a couple of minutes to figure it out, though. Paul Revere and Longfellow, who wrote a poem about him."

  "Who are they?" Kal asked.

  "One if by land and two if by sea," O'Donald said, "and I'll be damned if I remember the rest of the poem."

  "It means he's coming back by sea," Kathleen said.

  "How,
in God's name?" Hans said. "The Ogunquit will blow him out of the water."

  "Maybe he's making another Ogunquit," Kal said evenly.

  "With what?" Hans replied.

  "I don't know. We might have to hold out another week, or it could be months. I don't know."

  Kal walked away from the group for a moment.

  A flurry of explosions washed across the city, rocking the ground beneath his feet. A whistling moan passed overhead, and looking straight up, he saw a mortar shell hovering above, slowly arching its way back down.

  Kal looked back at Hans even as the detonation of the shell boomed across the town.

  "What's the most important thing to hold, if we want to continue the fight?" Kal asked.

  "The factories, of course."

  "Are they in danger now?"

  "Well, it's good defensive ground surrounding them. But if they should gather all their forces in one place they might punch through."

  "Suppose we put every musket and gun we have in there."

  "It'd give us a better shot at it."

  "Then I'm abandoning the city," Kal said forcefully.

  "What?"

  "We've got to be realistic. We've got a little over twelve thousand men under arms here in the city. All the rest are with the army. The rest of our manpower is spread out across all the rest of Rus, working on the farms. I wouldn't be surprised if out in the villages they don't even know there's a war on.

  "We're spread too thin. This city is going to be burned out from under us anyhow. So let them have it. The warehouses are nearly empty anyhow—the harvest has yet to come in. The military supplies have all gone up with the army. If we give the city to Mikhail he'll think he's won."

  "It makes some sense," Hans said dryly. "I've thought of it, but politically I never figured you could do it."

  "We know he's coming. We'll put every man we have in the factories and hold out. Who knows—it will at least stop the shelling, and maybe we can capture the city back intact when the time comes."

  "It means he'll turn the guns on the factories," Hans said.

  "They don't have the range, and we hold the high ground around the works and the dam," O'Donald replied. "Except for those damn mortars. The buildings might get smashed up, but if we sandbag all the machines and tools they should be able to ride it out. The only thing that scares me is a direct hit on the powder mill, but if we sandbag that up and clean it out, it won't do much damage. Besides, I think he won't shell them—he wants the buildings and machines intact for his masters."

  "I'm going back in there now and tell those senators we're pulling out starting tonight, and if they don't like it the hell with them," Kal said grimly.

  Kal paused and looked around at his friends, a grim smile crossing his features.

  "What was it your Grant said? Andrew told me and I can't remember it."

  "That bastard Grant," O'Donald replied. " 'I intend to fight it out on this line if it takes all summer.' "

  "That's it," Kal snapped, and sticking his hand in his pocket, he stalked back down the alleyway and back into the building.

  "You know," Kathleen said with a smile, "get rid of that stovepipe hat, stick a cigar in his mouth, and I think he'd even look like the man."

  Smiling, Jubadi reached out and grabbed the horse's reins. Suvatai, commander of the Vushka Umen, stunned by the singular honor thus shown to him, bowed low from the saddle before swinging down to land by the Qar Qarth's side.

  "The people, do they feed well?" Jubadi asked, putting his arm around Suvatai's shoulder.

  "The pasture lands have been safe. The horses give milk, the game is plentiful," and Suvatai paused.

  "But?"

  "There is grumbling in the tents. The last of the cattle from Han have been consumed, and they look hungrily at the Carthas that we pass. Our diet of horse flesh is repugnant."

  Jubadi nodded thoughtfully.

  "They will have cattle again to feast upon, but for now they must be patient."

  "So they have been ordered."

  "The rest of the Vushka Hush—how fare they?"

  "A week past they camped with the horde, and there was happiness again for at least one night in some of the yurts. The next day, as you ordered, they pushed on. Even now they ride hard, but three days behind me."

  "I will give them one day here in this cattle city, but no more."

  "Is it east, then?" Suvatai asked.

  "North. I will send them against the Rus."

  "One umen?" Suvatai asked disbelievingly. "The Tugars sent over twenty, and look what became of them."

  Jubadi laughed.

  "Cattle are weak. Do you not remember the tales of our father ancestors when the Yor appeared through the tunnel of light?"

  "We were all raised upon the tales," Suvatai replied with a smile. "Did not your mother threaten you with them as did mine?"

  Jubadi laughed softly.

  "Yet there was a lesson to be learned. For the Yor came to Valennia to dispute this land our father ancestors had claimed before them. Did not the Yor have the weapons that could kill with nothing but light a hundred times farther than the bow? And we were even weaker, for the cattle had yet to appear, bringing to us the gift of their flesh and the horses upon which we ride to replace the yurts without horses upon which our fathers rode. And yet we defeated them. For all the hordes, the Merki, the Tugar, the Bantag, even the Panor stood together, for the Yor bickered among themselves over which of them would be Qar Qarth over us, and we turned them upon themselves and then slew them.

  "That is the lesson I learned from my mother, and not the fear that others might have. We have turned the cattle against themselves."

  "Still, I wish," Suvatai said softly, "that I had but one of the weapons of the Yor to use against them."

  Jubadi shook his head.

  "They were cast into the sea. Our fathers chose well with that, and I do not wish even now for them, for we would turn such evil against ourselves. The Yankee weapons at least are different, and kill but one or two and reach but little farther than the bow. The Yor could slay a hundred. With our warrior spirits we would all die in the end. There is no honor in such slaying."

  "But I have heard rumor that you violated the mound of an ancient."

  "It was permitted," Jubadi snapped in reply. "You will see what it will do for us when the time comes. But don't worry about such things. The cattle have gelded themselves— they are slaying each other even now."

  "Good, very good." Suvatai laughed. "But it is a shame to think of the meat they are wasting, which they will shove into the ground or leave rotting beneath the sun."

  "There will be more than enough to harvest, both of Rus and of Cartha, when we are done with them," Jubadi said with a grin. "But come, I have a surprise for my commander of the Vushka Hush."

  Leading the way into the tent, Jubadi stepped aside to look at the grin of delight on Suvatai's face.

  "But I thought there was an injunction against cattle."

  "Yet the Qar Qarth must keep up his health and that of his commanders."

  Grinning, Suvatai walked up to the woman chained and gagged in the center of the room. He looked over at the brazier, glowing hot, the embers cherry-red.

  He pulled the dagger out from his belt and held it up.

  "Let us cut the meat slowly," he said, his teeth glinting in the firelight. "I've always enjoyed it when they see their own flesh being devoured."

  Sitting by the fire, Jubadi leaned back and laughed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Let's get her going and turn it left!" Ferguson shouted.

  "Ah, excuse me, Chuck, it's ahead slow, full rudder to port," Bullfinch said, shaking his head as if repeating yet again a lesson to a child that would not learn.

  "Now why the hell can't you just talk English or Rus like everyone else?" Chuck said in an exasperated tone.

  "The pot calling the kettle black," Andrew said. "Chuck, half the time I don't understand a damn word you're saying."


  "It's plain enough to me," Chuck mumbled under his breath.

  "Just get the show on the road," Emil said, looking cautiously down the open hatchway to the two locomotive engines below deck.

  "Why don't we just drop this port and starboard at least?" Andrew said. "We've got only one steam sailor in the whole crowd. All the ironclad commanders are infantrymen from the 35th, and in the heat of battle it might confuse them."

  Bullfinch shock his head sadly.

  "If you insist, colonel, but it goes against tradition."

  "I insist, Admiral Bullfinch," Andrew said, still smiling, "Now come on, we're dying of curiosity."

  "I hope that doesn't become literal," Emil sniffed.

  Bullfinch uncorked the speaking tube and blew through it.

  "Ahead slow, turn hard left."

  A heavy blast of smoke shot up out of the twin funnels behind the gunhouse. A shudder ran through the ship. Ferguson winced as a loud clattering groan came up from below deck.

  From beneath the armor-covered paddlewheels astern the water foamed. Andrew could feel the deck start to shake, and then ever so slowly the Suzdal, first ironclad of the Republic of Rus, turned its bow out into the Tiber River.

  A wild cheer went up from the shore as the tens of thousands who had labored for the past thirty days stood in open-mouthed amazement at what they had created.

  Marcus looked over at Andrew, his eyes bright.

  "I never thought it possible," he shouted.

  "You know something? Neither did I," Andrew replied quietly.

  "Let it run down to the canal on the current," Bullfinch said. "I don't want to give her full steam in this channel. If we mess up, we might run her aground."

  Sitting on top of the gunhouse, Andrew felt himself relaxing for the first time in weeks. One of the new galleys, its crew wishing to show off, swung out from the opposite shore, the water foaming as their blades bit into the river. Zigzagging in a slightly erratic fashion, the boat swung up alongside the Suzdal and then sprinted ahead.

  "They're the ugliest ships I've ever seen," Marcus said, shaking his head.

  Having lived most of his life along the coast of Maine, Andrew had to agree. He was used to the sleek clipper ships coming off the ways up in Bath and his own Brunswick. The boats looked like little more than long boxes, flattened off astern. At least the bows looked businesslike, angling in forward like a sharpened tooth. The long corvuses, suspended from a single pole, hung forward and aft, the sharpened spikes atop the boards shining evilly in the sun. The green-wood ship rode low in the water, giving little freeboard. As a last-minute measure, carpenters were cobbling in another length of planking all the way around each of the ships to provide a little extra protection. He thought of Polybius, who had described the Roman fleet built in the same manner and mentioned that by the time the Romans reached Sicily the ships were barely afloat.