Navy is aiding him in the subjugation of the planet.”
The Archbishop nodded. “But you are not a Trader. Nor are any of these with you. Please, do not protest. You cannot deceive a man of my years. You are a soldier, and these others, what are they, spies? It does not matter. And here you are, on this primitive planet, having come from a world which is itself primitive … and you talk of aiding us! It is admirable, but I fail to see what you can do. Still, such courage should be rewarded, if only with information.”
He paused as servants brought wine and additional chairs for the others. “This is not very good wine,” Deluca said. “But it is all we have here. The Trader has far better on his ship.”
“Wine does not make the day,” the Archbishop told them. “It is only a vehicle. Look at them, Father Deluca. Barely able to speak the Imperial language, knowing nothing of the capital and its ways, voyaging across space in ships they cannot understand … If the Church could bring men to as much faith in her teachings as these men have in themselves!” He tasted the wine and grimaced.
“You and I have the same mission, my lord Trader,” he told MacKinnie. “We are agents provocateur, sent to aid the Imperial Traders Association. The difference is that I know it, and you do not.”
“I do not understand.”
“I did not expect you to understand. You believe you are here for some other purpose, some great mission to save your own kingdom perhaps, certainly something more important than bringing back gold for your planetary king. And we are here to bring these people back to God. But both of us will serve the ITA as surely as we would if they had hired us.”
The room was still as they waited for him to continue. “The Navy will not permit the Traders simple conquest. I am sure that you know that no good military force will fight for a standard of living — their own or anyone else’s. It takes God, not gold, to put heart in a soldier. The Navyfights for a cause, for the Emperor and the Church, for New Annapolis, for the Oath of Reunion, but never for the ITA. The Navy will not simply come in here and set up kingdoms for the Traders.
“So they use us. They get us sent here, and prevent the Navy from giving us protection … but after we are slaughtered, it will be the ITA delegates who shout the loudest for vengeance. ‘Have to teach the beggars a lesson,’ they will say. And the same for you colonials … back on your planet there is opposition to the Empire. I don’t have to know where you come from to know that. And Imperialism won’t insure much loyalty. The ITA will find them troublesome. But the really troublesome people will be the most patriotic … Do you think they will not join when the ITA recruits them for a merchant army to punish this planet? To revenge you? Neatly solving two problems, the conquest of Makassar, and the removal of leaders and soldiers from wherever you come from. It is an old and tested formula and it works.”
“Why do you permit them to use you, my lord?” MacKinnie asked.
“Whatever your reasons, would you have refused to come here if you had known?” the Archbishop answered. “I thought not. Nor could I refuse to bring the Word of God to the heathen.” The old man coughed, his thin shoulders shaking violently. “Now go back to whatever plan you have, but remember the ITA. They have large resources, and they have power, but they have no virtue. One day the Navy will tire of being used and kill them all, but others will spring up in their place. There is always the ITA.”
“I thank you for your frankness, my lord. Academician, have you anything to say?” MacKinnie added, turning to Longway.
“Not at the moment. I need time to think about all this. I am much afraid the Archbishop is right. You can see the counterparts of the ITA in King David’s court. The money-grubbers are everywhere.”
“My lord,” MacKinnie asked, “if we can aid you in bringing these people to the Church, and yet give the Traders no reason to demand Navy intervention here, can you help us?”
“With what?”
“At the moment, I can’t tell you. It isn’t my secret, and I’m not sure what you can do in any event.”
“I am not unwilling to help you in principle … but before you ask it, remember to whom you speak. I am an Archbishop of the Church. I am cynical about some of the Church’s officers and many of the Imperial advisors, but do not be deceived. I am a loyal subject of the Emperor and a servant of the Church.”
MacKinnie nodded. “I would ask nothing dishonorable. We can talk about these things later; now I had better return to my ship.”
The old man stood and offered his hand, and after a moment MacKinnie knelt to kiss the great ring. As they left the saw him raise his hand in blessing, muttering words in a language MacKinnie had never heard.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE WAR MINISTER
MacKinnie stood atop the high walls of Batav and wished for binoculars. He had bought a primitive telescope, but the lenses were not good and the images were blurred, so that it was better to study the barbarians without optical aids.
He watched for five days, looking out across the low, rolling hills and cultivated fields, watching as the maris rode swiftly from gate to gate. They had camped almost within bow-shot of the city, their tents and wagons contemptuously near the city gates, and constantly they taunted the city’s defenders, daring them to come out, shouting insults and obscenities until the Temple warriors were roused to blind fury.
On the fourth day a small party of armored men rode out of the city to attack the nearest enemy camp. The heavy Temple cavalry rode through the enemy, their war-horses trampling the light-armored enemy into the turf, their swords hewing a path through the barbarians, and they shouted triumph. Nothing could stand before them in the charge. But slowly the charge faltered. The great war-horses tired, as did the men. Maris raced to the battle, group after group as the word spread, until the Temple troops were overwhelmed, surrounded. They vanished in a sea of swarthy men, and the sounds of battle died. That night the screams of dying comrades were added to the taunts hurled at the remaining Temple troops.
The day after the disaster MacKinnie asked for audience with the Temple hierarchy, claiming that he had valuable information about the war; information which he could reveal only to a high officer. Meanwhile, Stark drilled Subao’s crew, forcing them to practice with sword, pike, and shield, marching them in formation to the beat of drums, throwing javelins and firing crossbows in volley, and always marching, holding formation as they quickstepped about the pier. Their activities attracted notice from the officers of the Temple guard, and on their tenth day in Batav, a small party approached the ship.
“We are to conduct you to the Temple,” MacKinnie was told. He was ushered to the gates by the officer, then turned over to two gaily clothed attendants who guided him through lavishly decorated halls hung with tapestries and banners. The Temple was a jumble of contrasting chambers and passages, brilliant colors suddenly becoming plain stone walls, rich furnishings and then spartan utility. They climbed stone steps to a row of cells set into the wall high above the Temple courtyard. The officer scratched respectfully at the closed door of one of the cells.
“Enter.”
The officer opened the door and stood aside. A black-robed priest sat at a small table, quill pen and inkpot before him. A litter of parchments was strewn about the room, and on the wall behind the priest hung a large map of the city and countryside, roads and villages sketched in detail to a distance of fifty kilometers from the walls.
“Father Sumbavu, the outlander you asked to see,” the Temple officer said. “He calls himself Trader Captain MacKinnie.” The man stumbled over the pronunciation but managed to say the name correctly.