Climate of Change (46 page)

The Toltecs ruled for another two centuries, but then abandoned their Yucatan capital of Chichén Itzá. The Maya regained their power in the region, but lacked political unity.

Through the centuries the fierce nomads of the Asian steppe made many inroads on the more civilized peoples to the south and west. China finally built a series of walls to try to fence them out, while Europeans tried to oppose them militarily. Neither policy was very effective.

The territory between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea, dominated by the Caucasus Mountain range, was like a way station, at the edge of civilization as we understood it. Many tribes passed there on their way to Asia Minor and Europe. Circa 2,000 BC the Cimmerians held sway to the north, the Hittites and Egyptians to the south. By 800 BC the Cimmerians remained to the north, but the Assyrians dominated south. By 600 BC the Scythians had displaced the Cimmerians, while the Assyrians were giving way to the Babylonians. By 500 BC the Sarmatians, which may have been a branch of the Scythians, dominated the Caucasus region, while the Persian Empire prevailed south. This gave way to the Empire of Alexander, then to the Roman Empire.

Meanwhile the Sarmatians split into three groups, one of which was the Alani. The Alani were to settle in the Caucasus, with the Kingdom of Armenia immediately south. Neither was able to conquer the other, both being formidable powers in their own right for many centuries. They were neighbors for two thousand years. At first relations were hostile, but later there was amelioration and intermarriage.
Theoretically the Armenians were an outpost of civilization, while the Alani were barbarians. But this was always an oversimplification, if it ever was true. Sometimes they were destined to make common cause.

The setting is just south of the Caucasus, circa 1300 AD.

Craft saw that the situation was hopeless. The enemy, more numerous and better organized than his scouts had reported, and surely better led, had a commanding position. His soldiers were about to be slaughtered. They had already taken serious losses, and the wounded would die if not brought home immediately.

It was hunger that had done them in. They were well trained and disciplined, and had fought well in the past. But the enemy had laid waste the fields, filled in wells, and removed all stores of food. Foraging had become difficult, and as time passed, nigh impossible.

Oh, they had tried. They conserved water by pissing into sand-filled buckets and drinking the filtered liquid that dripped from holes in the bottom. It tasted foul, but was actually potable. They trapped rats and other rodents and roasted them as small delicacies. They made bread from anything handy, including trapped locusts, roaches, spiders, and other bugs. The vermin were dried before fires, and their dessicated bodies ground into flour which was then baked as bread. They ground up sticks of wood and baked it similarly. It was no pleasure to eat or to try to digest, but it was better than nothing. They even roasted animal dung.

But these were temporary measures, and there was no respite. Had there been rain to make seeds sprout—but the weather blessed the enemy with a drought.

Even retreat was not feasible. They could not travel. The men were simply too fatigued and ill with opportunistic diseases. A quarter of the army was lying on straw beds, dry heaving and awaiting the relief of unconsciousness and death.

The choices seemed to be cannibalism or capitulation. Craft did not like either. But neither did he prefer the likely doom of remaining inactive. So he did what he had to do.

“Fetch the white flag,” he told his lieutenant.

“Sir!” the man protested.

“You can see as well as I can that we are in no condition to continue hostilities. We must cut our losses. I will proffer myself in lieu of my men. For food and water for them now, and forbearance from slaughter. You will see to their evacuation when I am taken hostage, when they are able to travel.”

“But we can't trust the enemy commander!”

“We have no choice. I should be worth enough to make the exchange worth his while. He has losses of his own to attend to, and he won't want to be stuck with a field full of stinking bodies to bury. It is to his advantage to make the deal.”

“I act under protest, sir.” But the lieutenant fetched the flag. And balked again. “You must consult with your brother.”

He was right. Hero was commanding the army, and this would have to be cleared with him. “Notify him of my intention.”

The lieutenant galloped off on one of their few remaining healthy horses that had not yet been eaten, while Craft attended to matters of hygiene and sustenance. He could not be sure when the enemy would allow him to eat or piss again. Not that he had much to void; he had been on urine rations too.

Hero arrived shortly. “Have you gone crazy, brother?”

“You know the situation as well as I do, brother. We have to purchase respite for our troops, lest we make a bad situation worse than it needs to be.”

“What will Crenelle say?”

That was a sharp cut. “I think I need to do it before she finds out.”

“And if it goes bad, she'll be a widow.”

Craft smiled grimly. “Then you'll have to marry her, Prince. It would not be an unkind chore.”

Hero shook his head. “I'll make Keeper do it.”

They were bantering, knowing the grimness of the situation. But it was true: Craft stood a fair chance of losing his life, and one of his brothers would then have to marry his widow, to protect his children. Both of Craft's brothers liked Crenelle, and she liked both, so it would
work out. But Crenelle would never let Craft walk into such danger if she had a choice. As it was, she would blame Hero for not stopping him. So it would be Keeper she married. But the men knew that this was a necessary sacrifice.

Hero put his hand on Craft's shoulder. “Go with God, brother. I tried to stop you.”

“You tried,” Craft agreed. That was their cover story to satisfy Crenelle.

Craft mounted his steed, held the flag aloft on its short pole beside his royal banner, and rode out to meet the enemy. This was its own gamble, because they might elect simply to cut him down. But that would throw his less-wasted troops into a despairing fury that would pointlessly cost many more lives. What else would they have to lose? It was better for the enemy to parlay.

The enemy troops gave way before him, recognizing his banner. Then the enemy commander rode out to intercept him. Craft saw with surprise that the banner was royal. They had sent a baron out to parlay, an excellent signal.

Craft halted his horse and dismounted. He was putting himself at the mercy of the other, as he could readily be cut down before he could mount and escape.

The other dismounted and strode to face him, then waited for Craft to make his case.

“I am Baronet Craft. Our army is defeated. I proffer myself in lieu of the men, as hostage. Take me, and give them water and what food you care to spare. They will depart when they can travel.”

“I am Baron Tuho. I accept your submission. Mount and accompany me to the city.”

It was that simple. Craft remounted as Tuho did and guided his horse in the indicated direction. Tuho made a signal, and his troops started falling back, allowing Craft's troops respite. Serving women emerged from behind their ranks, carrying jugs and baskets. Water and food! Obviously they had been prepared for this situation. Craft himself would be captive, imprisoned, but his men would survive.

But Tuho did not guide him to a prison site. Instead they went to
the palace. There royal servants helped Craft remove his armor and soiled clothing, washed him, and gave him a robe. They stored his sword and knife in a cabinet but did not lock them away. This was better treatment than he had anticipated. As a rule, royal hostages were not abused, but neither were they given much chance to make mischief.

When he was dressed, Tuho reappeared, similarly robed. “I thank you for courteous treatment,” Craft said.

“We have long been neighbors. You are a man of honor. You will not abuse our hospitality.”

“True. However—”

“You will meet my daughter,” Tuho said. “The heiress Tula.”

Craft paused, confused. “I don't understand.”

“First, a bit of wine and bread. You look hungry.”

“I am,” Craft said. He smiled. “I will probably be worth more ransom healthy than failing.”

Servants brought a jug and platter with flesh and bread. Craft looked at Tuho. “Eat, drink,” the man said. “It would be pointless to poison you. But perhaps take them sparingly, until your system recovers.”

Craft did so, taking a careful swig of the wine, which was excellent, and a piece of black bread. Tuho waited impassively.

When Craft had had a moderate meal, and was assured it would stay down, Tuho spoke again. “This way.” The baron guided him to an ornate suite.

There they encountered an eight-year-old child. She was of course well dressed, with a female attendant, rather pretty in her features and poise. She bowed to Tuho, then turned to Craft. “Hello, Baronet Craft.”

“Hello, Baroness Tula.”

She giggled. “I'm not. Not yet. Let me touch you.”

What was this? Craft glanced at Tuho, and was startled to find the man gone. So was the female attendant. He was alone with the little baroness, the baron's heir. Honor was honor, but this was a singular act of trust. He was an enemy commander fresh off the battlefield, and this was an innocent royal girl.

What could he do? Slowly he extended his right hand, open.

Tula took it, clasping it with both her own small hands. She remained that way for some time. What was she doing?

Then she spoke. “Your sister will come.”

Craft smiled. “I think not. I have two sisters, both fair of feature, and neither would care to risk herself in an enemy city during war-time.”

She finally released his hand. “She will come tomorrow.”

This was curious, but evidently Baron Tuho wanted the two of them to become acquainted. “Why do you think so?”

“I had a dream.”

Oh. Imagination. “Do you want her to come?”

“Yes. She will marry my father and maybe make him happy. Then I can be with Allele.”

“With whom?”

“Your niece.”

Her dream had gone wrong. “I have no niece. Only two sons.”

She looked perplexed. “But your wife had her.”

“My wife is Crenelle.”

Then she looked really confused. “But she married your brother and bore Allele!”

Craft shook his head. “I think your dream got things mixed up. Crenelle was interested in all three of us brothers, but she married me.”

“Something is strange. Where is Allele?”

“There is no Allele. Not in our family.”

Her face crumpled. “But I like her. She's my age, almost.”

Craft found himself holding her, comforting her. She was obviously mixed up, but sensitive. “I'm sorry.”

“Maybe someone will have her later.”

“Maybe,” he agreed warily. Then he essayed a question of his own. “Why am I here with you, instead of in chains?”

“I told Father to bring you to me.”

Surprises continued. “And he does what you tell him?”

“Yes.”

He thought it best to let the matter drop, but curiosity overcame him. “Why did you want to be with Allele?”

“Because her family's better than mine. Father's a widower.”

“That's why you want my sister to marry him?”

“Yes. When he's happy, he won't need me. Then I can go to a better family and be happy too.”

This child seemed physically and mentally healthy, but she had a problem emotionally. Yet how did that relate to Craft's presence here? He decided not to ask.

In due course he was ushered to an adjacent bedroom. Was he to be this girl's guardian or companion? That hardly made sense. But now it was time to sleep. He could not be sure when this remarkably polite treatment would end.