On the Oceans of Eternity (43 page)

A vehicle drew up. Arnstein blinked again. A stagecoach, by
God
, he thought, then:
no, not quite, but Walker must have been watching
Gunsmoke
when he was a kid.
His inexperienced eye could make out a few differences; steel springs and shock absorbers, for instance. The side doors bore a blazon of Walker’s wolfshead logo, red outline on black. Handlers came behind, leading mounts for the escort.

“In,
despotes,”
Philowergos said, and followed him.

The seats were leather-padded; the Achaean officer sat across from him, drawing his revolver and keeping it in his lap. Ian Arnstein fought not to groan with relief at the cushioned softness, and wished he was as dangerous as the escort thought him.

“Thank you for your courtesy,” he said.

Teeth flashed white in the dimness, splitting the cropped black beard. “You are of the King’s people,” the Greek said.

Well, Rumanian
Jewish via New York and California vs. Scots-Irish-German via Georgia and Montana,
Arnstein
thought. Still, you’ve got
a
point.
Although personally he didn’t even like to consider himself part of the same species as William Walker, much less of the same nationality.

“And if you take service with him, you will rise high,” Philowergos said. “All you Wolf People do, with your wizard knowledge. Why should I anger one who may be a high lord, especially when the King has ordered me to treat him well?” He shrugged. “And if you won’t serve the King ... well,
Zeus Pater
sends luck to those who befriend the dying.”

T
armendtal son of Zeurkenol, squadron commander in the Royal War-Host of Tartessos, of the cavalry attached to the Hidden Fort of the West, enjoyed leading a spring patrol out to trade and take tribute and show the flag.

It was a relief to be out in open prairie—what another history would have come to call the Sacramento Valley—after the dense fogs and long rains and sameness of the winter trapped within the fort’s walls, and the deep mud of early spring. The ground was firm now, but the grass that waved chest high on the horses was still fresh and green, starred with unfamiliar flowers, thick with game. Off to the northwest were the slopes of the abrupt hills they had named
Duwakodeiztatun mem Mantzizetatuas,
the Piercers of Clouds, replacing the unpronounceable native gruntings. They were a welcome relief to the eye, in the tabletop flatness all about.

Yet underneath the differences of detail was a homelikeness. It reminded him of younger days, rambling about his father’s estate in the country between Tartessos City and the Great River to the eastward. This whole country reminded him of home, if you could imagine home with a few brown savages, and different animals, and so much
bigger.

He rode down the line, checking gear and bearing. They were good lads, but inclined to brood at being stuck here beyond the edge of the world, and some could never adjust to the strangenesses. Most weren’t
really
Tartessians, of course; they were from the new tributary provinces in Iberia, or across the Pillars.

Today, most looked cheerful. It was a change of scene from the fort and the trodden path from there to the cinnabar mines; there had been fresh girls at the hamlet of the savages they’d stayed in last night; and hunting was excellent. He nodded to a few of the file leaders; they were of the kingdom proper, though lowbom. Older than he, too—he’d seen nine rains when Isketerol returned to take the throne and begin the changes, and seventeen when assigned this post three years ago. Then he’d been angry, sure that he was half a hostage, taken to ensure that his father remained loyal to the upstart King. Now ...

Perhaps I’ll stay here,
he thought. This land was rich, rich in gold and many other things. And the dwellers so few and weak compared to the countries around the Middle Sea! More, it was much too far from Tartessos to remain tightly bound to the old country, at least a hundred days sailing and sometimes twice that. Once the settlement grew bigger and was less dependent on the yearly supply ship ...

I could be a mighty man, here, with land to the horizon. In time my sons could be Kings.
All that was needed were more people.

He pulled up beside the oxcart that carried the healer, smiling at her. She was a comely woman, perhaps eighteen winters, with olive skin stretched over high cheekbones and sharp features, but pleasantly rounded beneath her long tunic and skirt. Unwedded, too, despite being only a few years younger than he. Many men feared to take a woman dedicated to the Lady of Tartessos or the Grain Goddess to their beds, frightened by the aura of power that clung to such. But they were valued brides to men of sense and wealth, for their
mana
and connections and knowledge—especially in these days of the New Learning. Tarmendtal’s own mother had been one of Her women, in her time.

“May the Lady smile on us,” he said, bowing gallantly.

She raised a hand to the floppy brim of her woven straw hat. “May She smile indeed—and the Grain Goddess, who comes from the mountain to the plain in this month, as the Lady returns to the sea-halls of her brother Arucuttag.”

He nodded, though he had his doubts. In Tartessos, yes ... but did She rule here, or did some local spirit?
Yet the grain sprouts and ripens here, too, even though it was never planted before we came. Perhaps the Lady just has many names in many places.
Oh, well, the Sun Lord and Arucuttag of the Sea were a man’s Gods, and they reigned in all lands—as the Sun bestrode them and the oceans encompassed them, every one.

The wagon creaked along, swaying and jouncing through the tall grass; it was the big four-wheeled kind that the Eagle People made, with a round canvas tent over it and pulled by eight yoke of oxen. It carried supplies not suitable for the packhorses, and rawhide-bound chests of hard wood, to hold the gold dust and nuggets the savages brought; baskets of beads and bundles of iron tools and bottles of fierce young brandy such as the savages lusted for; and the healer’s kit. Behind it was the sacred cow of the Lady and its calf, the cow tethered to the frame of the wagon by a rope that led to its halter.

“You come among us like a cool wind in summer, lady, with your ship from the homeland,” he went on. “And you guard us with the strength. of your knowledge.”

Guard us from the Crone,
he thought but did not say-some words were unlucky.

The healer grimaced a little and took off her hat, fanning herself. “You have a real healer of the New Learning here, Lord Tarmendtal,” she said. “One who even reads En-gil-its, taught by the queen herself.”

She made a small protective gesture at the mention of the tongue of sorcery; Tarmendtal followed suit, although he used the hand resting on his right thigh, out of sight. He was glad of the blue faience bead on a string around his neck, that his mother had blessed for him when he left. A small thing, just hearth-magic, but comforting.

“Since I came here she has taught me—” the girl continued. A shout came from ahead, and the high silvery peal of the trumpet.

“Pardon!” the officer barked, wheeled his horse, and flicked it into a gallop with the long end of the reins.

Ahead, the scouts were galloping back toward the main body of the column. The signaler was sounding
enemy in sight,
over and over until Tarmendtal signaled him to stop—with a thump on the helmet. Ahead, northward, lay a dry gully leading east to the main river, a slough marked by a swatch of greener grass and brush; there were live oaks along it, enough to make passage difficult for the wagon. He’d been angling the column westward to cross it further away from the river, where it was merely a dimple in the grass. Figures were boiling out of it, armed men. He pulled the spyglass out of his saddlebag and snapped it open. The image was a little distorted and had a yellowish tinge, but it told him far more than his unaided eye could have done.

“The savages,” he snorted.

About seventy or eighty of them, naked except for a few ornaments of bone and shell and feather, leaping and yelping out their barbarous war cries, shaking spears and darts and dart-casters, some screwing their faces up into masks of ferocity and leering with lolling tongues as they danced defiance. A few pissed in mockery, or shook their penises at the Iberians, and others turned and bent and waggled their buttocks, slapping them in ridicule.

For a moment he was incredulous. Then astonished anger awoke. The unbelievable insolence of these slave bastards! Acorn eaters! From their stirring and growls behind him, the men felt the same way.

“Sound
deploy in line
,” he snapped. Then he turned in the saddle. “Second file, deploy between here and the river and keep watch.” He pointed, squinting into the rising sun.

The file leader looked about to grumble. then caught Tarmendtal’s eye and hastened to obey. They were three hundred yards from that stream; there were thick woods on the banks, and a deep current beyond. No sense in taking chances, and six mounted riflemen would be more than enough to see off any savages who tried a flank attack. The teamsters and porters and servants cowered around the wagon. They were natives, unarmed slaves and so not to be blamed for timidity, although if any tried to run he would feed them to Arucuttag.

“Warriors of Tartessos!” he went on; it was traditional to say something to the troops before an action, even as minor a fight as this. “Men of the war-host! Shall we let naked capering dogs make mock of us, we who are civilized men and dwellers in cities obedient to law, subjects of King Isketerol, he who has conquered from the Cold Mountains to the Great Desert and beyond?”

“No!”
they shouted.

“We will slaughter those who fight, chase down the rest, make eunuchs of them, and put them to work in our mines, take all that is theirs and mount their screaming daughters and wives before their eyes! Arucuttag, Hungry One, to You we dedicate the slain! Sun Lord, give us victory!”

Another shout, long and full of a cheerful bloodlust; even firing from horseback, a rifleman could count on striking from several times the range of a spear-thrower, and he could simply canter out of range to reload and repeat the process as often as needful. The horses stirred restlessly, rolling their eyes and whickering at the noise and the smells of fear and aggression. He took another look with the spyglass; the natives were keeping their position, probably planning to fall back among the trees as the horsemen advanced. Tarmendtal grinned savagely. They’d soon learn the futility of that. Such places were why they had a dozen big dogs along, the kind bred in Iberia for hunting wild bull, wolf, and lion. They were equally useful for hunting wild men.

“Rifles at the ready!” he snapped.
Lord Alantethol will be pleased. An example will cow the other tribes, and there look
to
be some strong slaves here for the mines, when they’ve been caught and beaten into meekness.

The men drew their weapons from the scabbards before their right knees and checked the priming, then buckled back the flaps of the cartridge boxes on their belts. A few added priming powder to the pans of their rifles. Tarmendtal drew his double-barreled pistol, cocked it by pushing the hammers against the side of his thigh, and gestured with it:

“At the canter—walk-march,
forward!”

 

Peter Giernas sneezed softly and swore; the pollen here by the banks of the Feather River was pretty fierce. All around him the damp soil bore great oaks and tall cottonwoods, alders and willows, laced together with wild grapevines that twisted around trees from top to bottom. Mosquitoes whined, their needlelike probes going for the bare spots, hands and back of the neck. Other insects buzzed and hopped and flew, pursued by blackbirds and buntings; the clown-faced acorn woodpeckers were at work, drilling holes in trees to a demented chorus of waka-waka-waka. This was nesting season; scores of types of birds were doing their reproductive duty, numerous enough that their noise could be nearly painful at times. Especially when the coots in the river to his back began throwing their fits.

Good camouflage,
he thought with a grim smile, training his binoculars on the Tartessian column riding unsuspectingly by. It was even better that any eyes looking this way would be sun-dazzled. Doll-tiny figures became men, close enough to see one hawk and spit, another scratch at blue stubble on his jowls, a third take a swig from a leather water bottle hung at his saddlebow.
All right, thirty horsemen.

They all looked to be soldiers, Mediterranean types mostly, some with cropped black beards, some stubbly-shaven; a few had removed their round iron helmets to reveal bowl-cut hair, often confined with a bandanna tied at the rear. They wore tunic-shirts and loose breeches of some coarse green fabric, cotton or linsey-woolsey, boots, and thigh-length leather vests buttoned up the front. Every man had a copy of the Westley-Richards breechloader in a scabbard in front of his right knee, a short broadsword like a machete or heavy cutlass at his belt along with a bayonet; one carried a yard-and-a-half-long tube of sheet bronze flared at each end slung over his back as well. That man had an assistant and a packhorse trailing him.

Uh-oh,
Giernas thought. Descriptions of those had come through before the radio fritzed.
Rocket-launcher team.
Opportunity and risk ...

A big Conestoga-style wagon drawn by oxen brought up the rear. His chest clenched at the sight of the cow and calf walking along behind it. That must be the “sacred cow” the Indians had told him of, a walking vaccine bank. Half a dozen in ragged cloth kilts or loincloths walked by the wagon, another led the oxen, and a better-dressed one sat on the buckboard with a long-hafted goad in his hand. Those would be locals, slaves. And a Tartessian woman sat in the wagon as well; the long skirts, poncholike upper garment and big straw hat were unmistakable. Two gutted pronghorn antelope carcasses hung from the rear tilt of the wagon, and a quartered Tule elk.