Yet another non-admirer of the Assyrians, Hollard thought. They have a positive gift for negative PR.

"And who are you, young gentlewoman?" Hollard said.

Someone with a lot of guts, anyway, he thought. From the looks of things she'd been about to be tortured to death, and now she was surrounded by weirdly armed strangers, yet she looked cool as a cucumber, working her shoulders without even a wince at what must be considerable pain. Probably near collapse underneath, though, he thought-he could sense the quivering intensity of her control.

"I am Raupasha daughter of Shuttarna." The girl's chin lifted. "Who would have been rightful king of Mitanni, if the gods had not thrown the realm down in the dust."

Well, shit, Hollard thought. That may complicate things.

"Ah… if your father was here…"

A bleak expression; she turned her head aside for an instant and drew a deep breath. "No. He died while I was yet in the womb; the Assyrians killed him when they destroyed the last of the kingdom, and my mother died bearing me. I saw what they did out there; they made me watch. That was the lord Tushratta, the mariannu-the warrior-retainer-who bore me southward to this last estate of his and raised me as his own."

"Er… what happened here?"

A shrug, and she turned her face away, blinking rapidly.

"The Assyrians came last night, fleeing defeat. My foster father greeted them as guests. What could he do, with twenty men only and they peasants, against more than a hundred in full armor? Then they demanded that I dance for their leader-meaning that he would rape me at his pleasure."

Her smile grew even bleaker. "And dance I did, and when he seized me-breaking the law of hospitality that all the gods hold sacred-I opened his neck with the knife in my sleeve. Then they slaughtered all here, save me-they gave over thought of ravishing me and after much argument decided that to flog me to death would be too merciful. Instead they hung me up as you saw. Not long after, I heard the thunder of your weapons. So my life was spared-Teshub, and Hepat, and Shaushga, and Indara, and Mitra, and Auruna, and the other gods and goddesses must favor me greatly."

Remind me not to get this chick mad at me, Hollard thought.

She struggled to her feet and made an imperious gesture; one of the Marines hastily picked up a long shawl, and she wrapped it around herself. Then she walked stiffly to the side of the bier and spat in the dead man's face.

"May dust be his food and salt his drink in the House of Arabu. My foster father and mother are avenged, at least."

"Who was he, anyway?" Hollard asked. Time to get back to business.

The girl smiled. It looked as if it hurt her face. "You do not know, Lord Kenn'et? That is-was-Tukulti-Ninurta. King of the Universe of Swine, King of the Four Corners of the Pigpen, King of Assyria, last of the seed of Shulmanu-asharidu, who slew my father and my people. Thus are all my kin avenged."

"Oh, shit." It was time to call the Arnsteins and pass the buck. In the meantime…

"You will be safe with us, Lady Raupasha," he said. In English: "Sergeant, see to the young lady's needs." He dropped back into Akkadian: "Your pardon. I must see to my troops."

He turned and strode out, blinking in the bright sunlight. O'Rourke had taken down the impaled bodies, and working parties were hauling bucketfuls of water to splash and sizzle on charring timbers.

"So, Colonel, I hear it's a princess we rescued," he said. "A young, beautiful princess at that."

"Paddy, for once rumor does not lie-and there's all sorts of political implications involved."

"Better you than me, sir. You'd best take a look at this, too, though."

They went up a mud-brick staircase to a section of the house roof still strong enough to bear their weight. "Over there, southwest."

The figures he pointed to were ant-tiny in the distance. Hollard raised his binoculars and turned the focusing screw; the ants became men, leaping close in the dry, clear air.

Uh-oh.

A gray-bearded man on a donkey, in a long striped robe with a fringe, a flowing headdress, and a sword belted at his waist. Several men talking to him, arguing with broad, quick gestures. More donkeys with packsaddles, and men on foot-fifty or sixty, scattered over the bare steppeland. He studied them; a few in plainer robes than the chief, many in simple goatskin kilts. None of them had swords-most of them didn't even have sandals-but they all had long knives tucked through their belts. Bows, slings, and spears were in evidence too, and a few had hide and wicker shields.

They were lean men with vast black beards, their bodies looking as if they were made out of sun-dried rawhide. Leaning on their spears, or laying them across their shoulders and resting their arms on them, or squatting at their ease. He could see one spitting thoughtfully on a rock and honing a curved bronze dagger that would do quite well as a skinning knife.

Aramaeans, right enough, he thought. Aloud: "No sheep, no goats, and no women."

"War party," O'Rourke agreed.

"Well, that solves one problem," Hollard replied and drew his pistol again as he trotted downstairs.

When he stood in front of the prisoners he gestured with it; they'd learned enough to know that it was one of the fire-weapons that had broken their kingdom, and they eyed it fearfully.

"All right, you're free to go," he said.

The spokesman who'd kissed his foot looked up from giving a dipper of water to a bandaged countryman. "Free, lord? No ransom?"

"Free and clear." He pointed to the south. "Now get going."

"Go?"

"What part of go don't you understand, you son of a bitch?" he roared, the control that had kept his voice level suddenly cracking. The Assyrian flinched as if from a blow. "Go! Thataway! Or by God, I'll shoot you down like a dog here and now. All of you-go!"

"But, lord! We have no food or water or weapons or-"

"Go!"

"But we will die!"

Hollard smiled; it felt a little like a smile, though the Assyrian flinched again. When he spoke, his voice was calm.

"We have an old saying-as a man sows, so shall he reap."

He fired into the dirt next to the Assyrian's foot. "March!"

Ibi-Addad came out and watched the departing Assyrians with a moment's mild curiosity. Then he waved a leather sack.

"Look, Lord Hollard! Packed with salt, this will be perfect for keeping the head until you lay it before King Shuriash. That all men may know your victory!"

"Oh, shit."

September-December, Year 9 A.E.

"My lord king Agamemnon!" William Walker said, his voice loud and full of concern. "I will offer a hectacomb of white oxen to Zeus the Father in thanks that you live!"

The throne room of Mycenae was less bright than usual, despite the mirrors and lamps that Walker had installed for his hegemon years ago. Many had been shattered by the same grenade fragments that had flecked the walls. Blasts had scaled off a lot of the painted plaster, and blood was splashed across much of what was left of the magnificent murals of lions and griffons and Minoan-style sea creatures that sprawled in multicolored splendor around the great room.

The smell of burnt pork came not from a feast but from the body of the guardsman who'd fallen backward into the great circular marble-rimmed hearth, half-drowning the fire with his blood. Parties of Walker's guard regiment were at work carting out the bodies. He gestured to make sure one got the corpse in the hearth before the fire there went out-that would be extremely bad mojo, to the wogs' way of thinking. The hearthfire was the luck of the house and kin.

Not that I have to pay as much attention to that now, he thought. Still, no reason not to when it didn't cost anything.