Citadel: Troy Rising II

by John Ringo

  So as we passed each of the tabernas there would be a glad cry and at the outmost table (which I've come to think they deliberately kept open) would appear a bottle of retzina and, we being with her, three glasses.

  I really must try to describe retzina for the fortunate many who have never experienced it.

  Take a very bad sauvignon blanc or Graves. The sort of thing you only bring out at the very end of the party and go "well, we're out of all the good, medium and pretty bad stuff . . ."

  Mix it one part to four with Pine Sol.

  You have retzina.

  I'm serious. Pine. Sol.

  The trick to retzina is to drink a lot of it very fast right from the beginning. After that you really have no clue what you are drinking. Aqua Velva starts to taste like Domaine.

  Fortunately, we'd already had a lot of retzina. (And ouzo and chiparo and, Christ, maybe there was some Aqua Velva in there. I wouldn't know. You really don't care after you've been drinking retzina long enough.) So this was, as it were, a shower bath in a hurricane.

  However, the custom was that you could not leave the table as long as there was wine (for values of wine) left. And as soon as we got down to the bottom of the carafe of ("OH, HOLY GODS NOT MORE! (Wide happy grin, wave!) Kalispera! Kalispera!") retzina, someone would order up another carafe.

  The trick was to drink down to near bottom on the three glasses (which meant slamming two thirds as fast as possible) then pour the rest of the carafe, slam that then wave and RUN.

  To the next taberna where a glad cry would be raised.

  Thirteen.

  I don't remember making it to the top of the hill.

  The thing is, I'm not even sure that's the best story of traveling with my mother. Then there's the "traditional Danish schmorgasboard," the old Greek captain, the "incident" at the Jordanian border, the party in Bangkok, Cameron Highlands, the Swiss franc thing in Bavaria, Gletsch!, the bus tour in Italy, "All-Of-Paris-in-Twenty-Four-Hours."

  People wonder where I get my female characters.

  My mother died in her home in the Georgia hills with her son Bob and daughters Mary Jane and Sally at her side of "complications of pneumonia." She had been ready to go since the death of my father (see Gust Front). She had lost all ability to read (her passion). Sans ears, sans eyes, sans teeth. It was time and a grace and mercy. The mother I traveled with had been dead for many years. I did not, do not, grieve for the final crust that left this mortal coil. I do rather miss the bon vivant with whom I once toured the world.

  If there is a heaven my mother died in the state of perfect Grace her Catholic calling required. They say that rain is the sign of the death of a saintly woman and mother died on a rainy day. She left on this coil six children, nine grandchildren, five great-grandchildren and a trail of acquaintances who will remember her until their own passing. Through a thousand gentle mercies I cannot begin to recount, she touched the lives of tens of thousands. Even had she gotten that physics degree, I doubt she could have done more for the world had she perfected Unified Field Theory.

  If there is a heaven may it have an open road, a red roadster, her love by her side. May the roads be swift and clear. May there be fine restaurants and taverns at every crossroads and may she ride upon the wind with all the saints by her side.

  For my mother, that would truly be heaven.

  Gletsch!

  —

  John Ringo

  Chattanooga, TN

  February 2010

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE