He dismissed the officers, but kept Stark back. “I need the headquarters company now,” MacKinnie said.
“Yes, sir. They’re ready. It’s all planned.”
“Good. Send them in. And send a runner for those Imperial churchmen.”
“Your reverence,” MacKinnie told Casteliano, “you are now in command of this Temple.”
The Archbishop was startled. “How is this?” he demanded.
“The only military forces left in this city are a couple of hundred archers, about that many swordsmen, the knights, and my army. Most of them — including the Temple swordsmen — are getting drunk out in the courtyard. The only comparatively sober troops are my headquarters company.”
“But — what does this mean?” Laraine asked.
“It means we own the place,” MacKinnie said. “Who’s to oppose us? The knights aren’t any match for the pikemen in a street fight, and the pikes will stay loyal to me for a while at least.”
“Surely you do not expect to make war on the Temple,” Laraine protested. “We have no wish to wade in blood to the high altar.”
“It shouldn’t come to that. We’ve sent a picked force to the key points. The Temple itself is already ours. Now we’ve got to tell their ruling council and that Pope of theirs who’s in charge.”
“Would your men really fight against the Temple?” Casteliano asked.
“Most of them would,” Stark said. “Remember who we recruited. They were mostly slaves, and peasants down on their luck. And they’ve won victories under the — the Trader. They’d fight for him.”
“We’d rather not,” MacKinnie said. “It’d be hard to control the looting, and there might be fires. Civil wars are never pretty—”
“No. They are not,” Casteliano said. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “And you have not yet informed the ruling council of the changed state of affairs? Good.” He turned to Laraine and Deluca. “Go quickly and get vestments. The best we have, and our most ornate trappings. Trader MacKinnie, will you lend us some of your men as attendants? And if you will have your most regal clothing brought to you that would help as well. I believe there is a way this can be done without bloodshed.”
“I hope so,” MacKinnie said. “Stark will see that you get what you need from us.”
“Excellent.” Casteliano went to the battlement and looked down at the courtyard. The guards at the gates had left their posts. Civilians, Temple swordsmen, archers, knights, commissary troops all danced in great circles, pausing only to scoop cups of wine from open barrels.
“Look there,” MacKinnie said quietly. He pointed to the wide battlemented walls above the courtyard. Grim-faced pikemen and shieldsmen stood in knots of five at all the crossings.
“I see.” Casteliano continued to stare down at the courtyard. “I also see that you brought back none of the Temple swordsmen, and not all of their archers. How did Father Sumbavu die?”
“He was killed with his men in an ambush,” MacKinnie said slowly.
“But you were not caught?”
“Sumbavu was bringing supplies back to the city. I went to his aid, but we were too late. We could avenge him, but we couldn’t save him.”
“I see. A thousand brave men, who served you well. A high price to pay for a city.”
“Damned high,” MacKinnie muttered. “God help me, there was no other way. You’ve seen those Temple fanatics. We’d have to kill every one of those soldiers before they’d let us inspect their holy relics.”
Casteliano turned from the wall. “The relics. What is your interest in those?” He inspected Nathan carefully. “Whatever your reason, you have done the Church a service, and we will not forget.”
“Thank you.”
“And now we must speak to their council. Your pardon, Trader, I must find a room where we can dress properly for the interview — and I would be most grateful if you would bring a dozen of your most loyal men.” He paused. “I doubt it will come to battle. Most of those on the council are practical men. As are we. Our demands will not be excessive, and we must be careful not to humiliate them. And of course the maris are not yet gone-”
“Precisely,” MacKinnie said.
“Thus we have reason with us,” Casteliano said. “And if that fails-”
MacKinnie gestured toward a group of pikemen on the battlements. “Then there is another argument.”
* * *
Two days later, MacKinnie begged audience with His Ultimate Holiness, Primate of all Makassar, Vicar of Christ, and Archbishop of New Rome. He was led into a small office behind the council room where Casteliano was seated in his shirtsleeves examining Temple records. The Archbishop looked up and smiled.
“It was easier than you thought, was it not?” he said.
“Yes, Your Reverence. I still find it hard to believe that we had no bloodshed. But my men remain on guard, just in case.”
“I told you there were few doctrinal differences, and these men are not only realists, but believers. If we had approached them from a Navy landing ship and demanded obedience to New Rome, we would have had to demonstrate our power, but it would have been managed. As it was, arriving in the city like beggars, they would never listen to us. How could they believe we were great lords of the True Church from the stars? But with you at our side, and your soldiers commanding their Temple, they had little choice but to listen.”
“You were highly persuasive. Your Reverence.”
“As were your actions. It was not difficult to make them see the hand of God in your victory, and His wrath in the death of Sumbavu. Did you foresee that as well?”
“No, Your Reverence.”
“It is as well. Now what may I do for you?”
“I don’t know how to begin. Yet I must have your help. I see no other way.”
“Colonel — do not be surprised, the title is commonly used by your soldiers — you hold this Temple, not me. You could depose me as easily as you created me, particularly if you supported the council against me. What is it I can do that you cannot do for yourself? Do you want to be crowned king of this city? They would do that for you.”
MacKinnie laughed. “Nothing that simple. But — but may I speak to you in confidence? Have I earned the right to ask something which, if you refuse, you will not thwart me from attempting another way?”
The Archbishop took a small strip of cloth from the table in front of him, kissed it, and placed it over his shoulders. “My son, for thousands of years the confessional has never been violated. By tradition, by the laws of God, and by the most stringent of Imperial edicts, what you tell me in confession can never be revealed. Have you something to confess?”
Nathan MacKinnie breathed deeply, stared at the old man, and thought for a moment before beginning. “All right. As you surmised, we are from a newly discovered planet which will be a colony world when they get around to classifying us. They won’t do that until we have a working planetary government, and King David’s advisors are managing to delay that. They won’t be able to hold up too much longer. We want to build a spaceship before they make us a colony world.”
“A spaceship! Just how advanced are you? What makes you think … no, how does this affect me?”
“Father, I came here to get copies of every technical work I can find in that library. Our people think we can do it if we know how. I’m a soldier, not a scientist, and I don’t know if they can do it or not, but we’ve got to try!”
The Archbishop nodded. “You would try. Tell me, Colonel MacKinnie, are you typical of the people of your planet?”
“I don’t know. In some ways, yes. Why?”
“Because, and I say it reverently, God help the colonists they sent to your world if you are. You don’t know when to give up. Yes, I’ll help you.” He thought for a few moments, then laughed. “And we’ll stay within the letter of the regulations. Although I doubt that would impress a Navy court martial if they found you smuggling copies of technical books. Makassar was classified before they discover
ed the library, and so far they haven’t updated it. The classification is ‘primitive.’ Therefore, any art or craft found here can be taken to any other part of the Empire.
“So, yes, we’ll help you and gladly. Think what a splendid joke on the Imperial Traders Association this will make!” He struck a small gong on the desk and told the servant who entered in response, “Go to the holy relics and bring Brother LeMoyne, if you please.”
LeMoyne was a small man with sandy hair and flashing blue eyes. He knelt perfunctorily before Casteliano, kissed his ring, and said, “And what may I do for His Ultimate Holiness other than refrain from letting New Rome know his present title?”
The Archbishop laughed. “You can see why he will never be a bishop. Tell me, can you make the holy relics speak yet?”
“The library is in amazingly good condition, Your Reverence. The Navy technicians fixed much of the equipment when they made copies of the tapes. The Old Empire used nearly indestructible plastics, and everything has been preserved with holy zeal. It only needs a power source to make it work.”
“What kind of power?” MacKinnie asked.
“Oh, any good source of current. It doesn’t take a lot. Very efficient people, the Old Imperials. They powered the whole palace from a small direct conversion unit taking heat from natural hot springs. That’s still working, but the regulators aren’t. The unit is putting out so little power now that it won’t run much of the system — but wecan get a few watts from it, after more than three hundred years! They built better than they knew in those days.”
Casteliano nodded sadly. “Their equipment was splendid. But it didn’t save them.”
“No. Anyway, in addition to the old power unit, we have a hand-powered generator the Navy left. We’ve got part of the reader working off that, and it won’t take long to get everything else in order. Uh, it would be no great trick to build a powered generator, but we couldn’t let the natives see it operate.”
“I think not for the moment,” Casteliano said. “The Church has sometimes evaded the technology transfer restrictions, but that is a serious matter, not to be done without much thought. We need the Navy’s cooperation.” He paused thoughtfully. “Trader MacKinnie would like to inspect the library if that is convenient.”
“Certainly. Now?” LeMoyne asked.
“Yes,” MacKinnie said. “And if you could send for one of my people, Kleinst—”
“Oh, he’s been down there helping me all morning,” LeMoyne said. “Does His Ultimate Holiness care to accompany us?”
Casteliano looked in dismay at the litter of parchment on his desk. “I would be delighted, but this work must be done.” He sighed. “Get thee behind me, Satan-”
LeMoyne shrugged and led MacKinnie out of the office. They went down winding stone stairways until they reached massive doorways guarded by four pikemen and a crimson-uniformed Temple officer. The pikemen snapped to attention as MacKinnie approached.
The officer looked doubtful. “He is a layman. Only the consecrated may enter—”
“Who’ll stop the colonel?” one of the pikemen asked.
“He has been sent by His Ultimate Holiness,” LeMoyne said. “Man, do you not know that if it had not been for the colonel, the maris would have the relics?”
“True,” the Temple officer said. He took torches from the wall and handed them to MacKinnie and LeMoyne, then stood aside. He did not look pleased.
There were two more guardrooms, but these were empty. Then they went down a broader stairway of marble.
“This is almost certainly Old Empire,” LeMoyne said. “After the wars, the survivors built most of the Temple structure over it. Here we are, just beyond that doorway.”
They went through. At last, MacKinnie thought. I’ve come a long way to see this—
The room was not large. It stank of fish oil from the lamps. The walls had been scrubbed unnumerable times to remove lampblack, and there was only a tiny suggestion of design or color to them.
There was not much else to see. A small box with crank handles and a seat stood in the middle of the room. Wires ran from that to a small table set against one wall. Above the table was what looked like a dark windowpane. Kleinst, wearing a dark monk’s hood, sat in front of the desk. He stood when MacKinnie entered.
Nathan looked around the room in confusion. “Where is this fabulous machinery?” he asked.
LeMoyne chuckled. “Your friend there asked the same question.” He pointed at the table. “There it is.”
“No more than that?”
LeMoyne nodded. “No more than that. You could put all the knowledge of the human race in four units like that.”
MacKinnie did not believe him, but there was no point in arguing. He turned to Kleinst. “Have you made any progress?”
The scholar’s eyes gleamed. “Yes! Would you like to see?”
“Of course-”
“The sound units?” Kleinst asked, looking to LeMoyne. When LeMoyne nodded, Kleinst sat again at the console and touched small squares on it.
A tiny voice came from the walls. MacKinnie looked around in amazement.
“And except those days be shortened, there should not be any living creature survive,” the voice said.
“Matthew,” LeMoyne said. “Whoever was last down here loaded in that. The Temple priests have been listening to it ever since. They don’t know how to change record units. The audio unit discharges the accumulators in less than an hour and the power system is so weak that it takes days to charge up again.”
MacKinnie shook his head. “Do you understand this?” he asked Kleinst.
“Yes! Or almost. It is a new concept, yet not in principle different from photographic and recording equipment we use at home. Although more compact. And I don’t understand everything about it. I don’t know if we could read the tapes and cubes if we had them back at the University.”
“And if we can’t?” MacKinnie demanded.
“Then I must learn what we need,” Kleinst said. “I have a photographic memory. It is one reason I was selected for this journey.”
“There are many blanks in storage,” LeMoyne said. “It will not be difficult to copy them. But I fear your friend is correct. The equipment needed to read these records is very complex.” He went to a small, ornately carved cabinet near the table and laughed. “They made this into a tabernacle,” he said. He opened it and took out a small block. “We could put most of what you need in two or three of these, if only you had means to read it.”
“Copying them is simple!” Kleinst exclaimed. “Once we have more electrical power we can copy — and there is everything here! Textbooks for children which tell of physical laws no one at home has understood for hundreds of years. Handbooks, maintenance manuals for equipment I can’t describe — look! Sit down there.” He pointed to the box with handles. “Sit there, and turn that crank, and I will show you marvels—”
MacKinnie shrugged and did as he was told. The box made a whining noise as he spun the handles.
The dark glass above the table came to light. A diagram of some kind of complex equipment appeared. Then words.
“See! “Kleinst shouted.
“What does it mean?” MacKinnie asked.
“I don’t know. But — with time I will. And if not, some of the younger students can be trained. We will learn.”
“We have to,” MacKinnie said.
“I don’t quite understand who you are,” LeMoyne said. “But if His Reverence is satisfied, I am.”
“How long?” MacKinnie asked. “How long until we can have copies of everything?”
LeMoyne pursed his lips. “How long can you turn that crank?”
“It’s tiring. An hour, perhaps—”
“It would be useful to build a powered unit, but that is not easily done down here. If we could move this up to where we could connect water power—”
“Impossible,” MacKinnie said. “We hold this Temple, true, but these people are volatile. If we moved the rel
ics they’d be scandalized, and God knows what they’d do.”
“Then you had better put your own officers to guard the doors,” LeMoyne said. “We can make the copies in four hours, but—”
“But indeed. But how long for you to learn?’’ MacKinnie asked Kleinst.
“I could study for years and not learn it all—”
“We don’t have years. We have weeks at most.”
“I know,” Kleinst said. “I will do the best I can. And we will make the copies …”
“Which we may not be able to read.” MacKinnie sighed. “The winter storms are coming. And we don’t know what’s happening at home. I know you’ll do your best.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
JURAMENTADO
Firelight flickered across an old man’s face.
Datu Attik’s eyes dimmed with hidden tears as he watched two juramentados complete their ritual washing. The women came forward to hold high the crimson cloths for the binding. The young men’s bodies shone in the yellow firelight.
They sang. Their death chants rang through the darkness around the camp. Otherwise there was silence. Later the others of the band, warriors and women alike, would sing death chants for these two, but for now the tribe had seen too much of death.
Eight hundred of the clan lay beneath the wheat stubble beyond the fire. Eight hundred stiffened and cold in the earth, eight hundred among the thousands who had fallen to the Temple army. How would the clan live without the young men? And now two more would join them, and one the son of the Datu.
Futile. Futile, thought Datu Attik. My son will die, and for nothing, for less than nothing, for worse than nothing. The Temple is strong. The robed fools have found new strength with their new sultan.
He ground his teeth at the memory. It had been so nearly done! The black-robed ones of the Great Temple of Batav had been defeated, done, were finished, penned into their city to starve while the maris roamed at will, ate the city’s crops, rode to the very walls in challenge and laughed at the black robes—
And then came the new sultan from the far west, a giant of a man who made walls march and destroyed the greatest force the maris had ever assembled together.
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