The Bronze God of Rhodes
- Автор: Де Камп Лайон Спрэг
- Год: 1963
- Язык: английский
- Год: Bantam Books
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Bronze God of Rhodes». Краткое содержание книги:
From the sea in thousands of ships they came, the brutal legions of Antigonos, a giant lusting for the power of Alexander the Great. For endless weeks and months they battered at the tiny island city, smashing it with monstrous weapons, crushing it with the terrible weight of their numbers.
Among the handful of grim defenders was one man who fought for a dream, a vision of a great statue that would stand above the highest towers as a monument to his city's grandeur.
He was Chares, soldier, adventurer, a man tormented by passion, a wanderer in strange, deadly lands—an artist who lived to see his incredible dream become one of the seven wonders of the world.
Bias went on to tell us about dart throwers, like ours, in which the range could also be varied by changing the slope of the trough. He pointed out all the parts of a catapult; the base, the pedestal, the ranging strut, the trough, the rack, and the recoiler with its cross-head, finger, trigger knob, and pawls; the windlass, the frame, the torsion skeins, the skein shackles, the throwing arms, and the string. He told us what each part did, and how to perform each step in the cycle of operations. He showed us how to aim a catapult by moving it with crowbars and ropes and how to level it with plumb bob and wedges.
"Now," said he when we had all aimed at a distant hay-stack, "we'll—Ea! Didn't I just tell you never to step in front of a catapult? Didn't I? Do you want your fool head knocked off?"
When the offending soldier seemed properly abashed, Bias continued: "Now we'll shoot one dart each. Cockers, cock your pieces."
The catapults groaned as the six recoilers crept back down their troughs. The cockers' muscles bulged as they turned their windlasses. The pawls clicked over the notches of the racks.
"Stop at notch ten, six short of maximum," said Bias. "See that the pawls of the recoiler are firmly engaged with the racks. Slack off the windlasses. Loaders, load your pieces."
Our missiles were six-pound darts three cubits long, with iron heads, wooden shafts, and bronzen vanes at their after ends. Pronax, the loader of my squad, placed our first dart in the groove on the upper side of the recoiler.
Bias: "Trigger men, stand by to strike your trigger knobs. The commander of each catapult will give the order to shoot, and then the trigger man will hit the trigger knob with his mallet. Remember: Don't hit the knob until you've been ordered to, and then hit it quickly and smartly. And don't get any part of you in the way of the string or of the throwing arms. If you do, we'll have to break in a new recruit, and that's a lot of trouble.
"Now, does everybody understand? I don't want nobody shooting out of turn. Eros shoots first. Shoot, Eros!"
"Hit it!" cried the double-pay man in command of Eros.
Eros' trigger man was so nervous that he missed his knob and smote the bronze rack instead, denting his mallet. The man quailed as Bias scowled. The carpenter, glaring, said:
"It looks like Eros is going to-shoot last instead of first. Another thing to remember is to' use the standard words of command. When you mean 'shoot,' say 'shoot,' not 'give the polluted bastards one in the guts.' In a battle, where you can hardly hear yourself think anyway, cute little speeches like that only confuse your men. All right now, Talos, shoot!"
"Shoot!" I repeated.
Onas muttered a magical spell and smote his knob one clean blow. With a crash, the throwing arms flew forward against the frame; the dart departed with a swish. Up, up it rose, then down. It flew over the haystack and disappeared.
"Of course we missed," said Pronax. "Egyptian spells don't work here where the gods of the Hellenes reign."
"I will be fetching it, master dear!" said Kavaros, starting to run toward the haystack.
"Come back!" I shouted. But the Kelt kept on.
Bias said: "Helios, shoot!"
"E!" I cried. "Not while my man—"
Helios' trigger man struck his knob; off went the dart. It flew over Kavaros' head. He halted at its screech, looked frantically about, and threw himself on the ground. The next time I called him, he came back readily, hanging his head at the laughter of the battery.
"That," said Bias, "gives you an idea of what happens to people who go running around a shooting range without orders. Artemis, shoot!"
Kavaros said: "Is it not a terrible thing the way war is being spoilt by all these dreadful machines? Bad cess to the man who invented them!"
When each piece had shot one dart, the slaves had gone to fetch the missiles, and all the recoilers had been pulled forward into the starting position again, Bias unrolled his papyrus and spoke:
"Your next task is to calibrate your pieces for range. There's sixteen notches in each rack. You'll have to shoot sixteen darts in succession, one from each setting. Then you pace off the distance from the catapult to each dart and write it down on one of these tablets. Then you repeat this with the strut in the intermediate position.
"Such a list of ranges is called a range table, and it's very useful to the new artillery officer. After you get more experience, you won't need it. You'll learn to make allowances for windage, dampness, fatigue of the skeins, and so forth. There's more to being an artilleryman than it looks like. The spearmen and archers have to practice, sure, but the artillery's where you've got to have real intelligence.
"To save confusion, write with charcoal the number of each dart on its shaft, so there won't be no question as to which dart was shot from which setting."
I asked: "Sir, wouldn't one range table do for all six pieces?"
"No. You see, artilleryman, no two engines work just the same way, even when they're built to the same plans."
Calibration took two days. Then we began target practice. The Talos shot as well as any in the battery, despite a good deal of bickering between me and my crew.
When, after the first day of target practice, we got back to the arsenal and were being paid off, Bias took me aside and said:
"One of the generals was out watching."
"I saw him," I said.
Bias smiled. "He asked: 'Who's that good-looking little fellow, with the curly black hair, who runs around like he's crazy and screams at his men?' I thought you'd like to know."
"Look here," I said, "am I in command of them or am I not? And if I am, are they not supposed to obey my commands instantly, without dispute? And to treat me respectfully?"
"Oh, you are, you are. At least for now."
"What do you mean by that?" I shouted.
"Look, sonny, a squad that hates its commander won't be an effective, force, especially in a branch like the artillery, where intelligent co-operation is needed. So, when we higher-ups see a unit going to pieces because the men can't get along, we find another officer. And come to think of it, I'm your commander, too, and you're not speaking to me in no very respectful tone. I've known men to be flogged for less, see?"
I muttered a surly assent.
"Besides," Bias went on, "just remember that you've been given double-pay rank, not because you ever fought a battle, but because your old man is a successful businessman, and because they think your fancy education somehow qualifies you. Well, maybe it does and maybe it don't, but you'd be wise not to strut around like you was the divine Alexander until you've seen a little blood shed in anger. Do you understand me?"
I was so enraged I could hardly speak. I came near to telling Bias where he could put my position. But my guardian daimon checked my haughty spirit. (Years later it occurred to me that Bias must have found it as hard to control himself as I had.)
Swallowing my pride, I said: "Yes, sir. I'm sorry. What is it I do that seems to rub everybody the wrong way?"
Bias thought. "Put it this way. You're one of the touchiest people I ever saw when it comes to your feelings and your dignity. If anybody crosses or slights you the least bit, you want to fight him, horse, foot, and artillery. But you don't care a half-farthing whose toes you trample on. Their feelings and dignity don't mean a thing to you."