On the Oceans of Eternity (50 page)

Martinelli gravely shook hands with Jared Jr. and Marian, then exchanged hugs with Heather and Lucy.

“These two have been getting me in trouble for years, sir,” Martinelli said. “Imps of Satan, as the commodore puts it.”

“Only our moms can call us that, Petty Officer,” Lucy said loftily. Heather stuck out her tongue, and then all three grinned.

Jared nodded, supressing a sigh. At least looking after the kids made a face-saving excuse for having a hand-holder planted on him.

“Well, make yourself useful, young man,” Martha said briskly, handing over one of the suitcases.

Those and the picnic baskets were juggled from hand to hand.
At least I don’t have to live in a cocoon of Secret Service agents and publicity flaks,
Jared thought thankfully.
Even so, this term is the last.

Steamship Wharf was even more crammed than Broad Street above it, with ships two-deep on both sides where the ferries had docked before the Event and more waiting their turns out in the Great Harbor or heading down toward the new piers. Cargo-handlers and windlass-worked cranes labored overtime as bales and nets swung through the air. The smells got stronger here, too, fish from the drying sheds, whale from the rendery further southeast where a black plume of smoke tattered against the sky, tar and tarred wood, canvas, salt. A steam tug was pulling a three-master out into the harbor and up toward the dogleg passage to the sea, its paddles thrashing foam white against the blue water and sending a cloud of gulls skyward at the shrill scream of its whistle.

“The
Barbee,”
Martha said, looking at the big square-rigger; she had an encyclopedic memory Jared envied, almost as good as a priestess of Moon Woman. “Clearing for Westhaven, Captain Williamson commanding, under charter to Stock and Rains Exports.”

“What lading?” Jared asked. It was a good idea to keep track of things like that.

“Salt cod, two hundred and fifty tons of it,” she said.
“That
we’re not short of, and won’t be.”

Jared nodded; they’d already taken measures—minimum net-mesh sizes, quotas, a ban on dragging and drift nets—to make sure it stayed that way later. Martha went on:

“Let’s see ... spools of cotton thread, air compressors and pneumatic rock drills for the copper mines on Anglesy and the coal mines at Irondale and that new tin shaft in Cornwall; drill bits, ditto, blasting powder, ditto. Four uniflow twenty-five-horsepower steam engines from Seahaven Engineering, treadle sewing machines, glassware from the Cape Cod works, gearing, a gear-cutter, miscellaneous manufactured goods—needles, scissors, shovels, that sort of thing. Coffee, cocoa beans and manufactured chocolate, chili peppers, sugar, kill-devil rum, cochineal dye, dye-wood, indigo, Shang silk, mahogany and ebony, flamewood planks, jadeite, parakeets, furs.”

Jared nodded, conscious of the children soaking it in. It seemed every kid on the Island wanted to be a merchant venturer or explorer these days, the way they’d wanted to be astronauts or fossil-hunters when he was a boy back in the early sixties.

It certainly beats wanting to be rap stars,
he thought with an inward chuckle. Hard and dangerous as it was, there were aspects of the post-Event world he preferred, as a parent.

A deck crew were heaving on a line aboard the
Barbee,
roaring out in unison:

Neayoruk,
Ian Arnstein thought, as the ship that had carried him from Troy efficiently struck her sails and bent home the towrope a small galley tossed her. He pushed down the continual gut chill of fear, pushing his spectacles back up his nose and forcing himself to study the scene around him with a scholar’s curiosity.

The resemblance was heightened by the weather, gray and chill with a drizzling rain—not typical for southern Greece, but common enough in winter. He pulled the raw-wool cloak tighter about his shoulders and shivered slightly.

Barracks? Baracoons? Tenements?
Ian wondered, looking at the long rectangular buildings of mud-colored adobe brick that made up most of the town; each alike, standing row upon row with a terrible impersonality that reminded him of Victorian milltowns. Many of the ships at the docks had the same look of something slapped together with a maximum of haste and no concern but pure function, boxes with blunt wedges for bows and what even his landlubber’s eye saw was an almost comically simple rig, dozens of them unloading endless streams of some dark mineral. Three shoreside blast furnaces about the same height as the ships’ masts belched smoke that straggled off across the water, smelling of coal and acid. More smoke trailed from smaller smokestacks around them, and across the soot-slick water came an endless thump and rattle and clangor of metal on metal.

Not everything was quite so ugly. There were bigger houses up on the slopes of the hill overlooking the town, sleek galleys oar-striding across the water with their painted eyes glaring above the bronze rams, the greyhound grace of well-built modem sailing ships, and Bronze Age craft from all around the Middle Sea. The mountains above were dark with fir and pine, and the damp air carried a breath of them over the harsh coal smoke and metallic stinks and the tar-fish-wood smells of a harbor town.

In the twentieth this was the outskirts of the Mani, an eroded limestone wasteland where a local joke said a goat would have to bring its own provisions. Here it was more like the coast of California. Parts of Marin County, say.

All
in
all,
it doesn’t look much like Gythio, he thought—he’d visited here before the Event. On an island half a mile out was the low-slung hulking shape of a fortress, and a strong stone causeway between there and the mainland. Only the looming triangular peak of Mount Taygetos and the knife-edge ridges that fell away from it were recognizable at all, and that was like looking at a skeleton and suddenly seeing it covered in flesh.

Philowergos bent to touch the stone-block pavement and murmured a prayer after they came down the gangway; Ian thought he caught a promise of a goat to Poseidaion.

The soldiers of the escort exclaimed; Ian recognized the tone if not the slang. He’d heard much the same as men settled down to watch a baseball game on either side of him. The little group stopped, standing in the thin rain and craning to see over the shoulders and slung rifles of the troops who stood in a protective box around a gangplank.

That ship had a sour sewer-and-locker-room reek even in cool weather, and was unloading coffles of filthy near-naked men with shaved heads, wearing iron collars and chained neck to neck. A helmeted officer in Walker’s gray uniform stood beside the gangplank, a man with a scar along his jawline showing white through his beard and holding a swagger stick cut from a vinestock. He examined the slaves carefully, stopping now and then to raise a man’s chin with the stick and look into the man’s eyes.

Every tenth or fifteenth man was tapped with it, and taken out of the coffle. The same sentence was repeated to them, in half a dozen different languages. Most crowded forward eagerly. A few shook their heads, and were sent back to the coffles. One man spat in the officer’s face; he took the vinestaff across his cheek and dropped limp as an official explanation, drooling blood and spitting out a tooth on the dockside. The tough wood cracked.

“Fetch me another!” the officer snapped, kicking the man at his feet with vicious efficiency as he wiped a sleeve across his face. A soldier hurried up with another swagger stick.

“And get rid of this carrion. The rest of you, you’re the best of a bad lot—begin! Show me if you can do something besides scratch dirt for your betters!”

Ian blinked in astonishment as the rest of the slaves formed pairs and began to fight. None of them had much science by the standards of, say, Marian Alston or Kenneth Hollard, but they all went at it as if they were fighting for their lives; he could hear fists smack on flesh, screams of anger and pain. One pair fell and rolled, grappling and tearing and biting, hidden by the legs of the guards until the vanquished shrieked and the victor rose and spat out an ear, grinning amid the blood that ran down his chin. Laughter and cries of admiration came from the watchers.

The hard-eyed officer went down the row of men again, tapping this one and that—not always the winner, either, although he did take the ear-biter. The rejected were hustled away, and a man with a bolt cutter took the collars off the dozen selected.

“What was
that?”
Arnstein asked, when they were on their way again.

“First cut,” Philowergos repeated amiably. “The Achaean lands don’t have enough youths for the King of Men’s armies. If they endure through the training camps, those men may”—he tapped the two silver bars enameled on his helmet—“be—come officers, perhaps even lords with land to the horizon. Even if they’re not found worthy of the Army, they may become overseers, or police, or be trained for skilled work. Those sent on, they’ll do for the rough work of mines and fields and forges. The chosen are men of spirit, as you saw. Such men make bad slaves.”

Possibly,
Arnstein thought.
Although that guy who spat in the face of
Herr Gruppenführer
there showed plenty of spirit, in my opinion.

Past the dockyards the streets were paved with asphalt or stone blocks, with raised sidewalks on either side; there were men in green uniforms at the intersections, blowing whistles and holding up white batons to direct traffic; that was everything from Bronze Age oxcarts with solid oak wheels through rickshaws and handcarts to—he did a double take of astonishment—a Victorian-style horse-drawn omnibus. Most of the buildings seemed to be tenements, better than the row-housing he’d seen from the water, with small shops on the ground floor.

More than half the men and women who crowded the sidewalks wore collars, of iron or bronze or silver.

“I’ve seen the Bronze Age,” Ian murmured to himself, in English. “I’ve seen the changes
we
make in it. Now I’m getting a firsthand look at Walker’s idea of improvements.”

He was lost enough in his thoughts to bump into the Achaean officer’s broad back when Philowergos stopped suddenly.

Three uniformed men were blocking the way. One Ian knew immediately was from the twentieth ... something about the eyes, or the way he stood. A blocky-square man with a square slightly jowly face, in early middle age, short blond-and-gray hair, clean-shaven face with something
wrong
about it. The uniforms were much like Philowergos‘s, but with a different
waffenfarbe
on the collars; a silver death’s-head over a black numeral 1.

Uh-oh,
his mind gibbered, with a banality that surprised him even now. The lead man’s eyes flicked over him. They had none of Hong’s gleeful, gloating anticipation. That was like a depraved child waiting for some monstrous Christmas present. These were like a dead man’s, or a tired man looking at a fly on a hot day.

“Thank you, Captain Philowergos,” the man from the twentieth said, in pelucidly pure Achaean with the slightest guttural undertone. “I will take custody of this prisoner now.”

“Ah ... Lord Mittler, I don’t think ...”

“Exactly, Captain Philowergos. You are not paid to think.”

Mistake,
Ian thought, watching the flush of rage come up over the Greek’s collar. Telling an Achaean he was paid to obey was like calling him a slave.
That’s right, Philowergos, get
good
and angry,
please,
for God’s sake—

He’d had time to recover from the shock of Troy; time to get his balance back, so he could know just how frightened he should be and to start cursing himself for thinking that getting killed was the worst thing that could happen.

“Lord Mittler,” Philowergos said, “I was instructed by the King himself to take this man to Category One confinement in the palace. My head will answer for his.”

“Let me see that,” Mittler said, taking the orders the Achaean captain was waving. “Hmmm. Yes, these specify Category One confinement; but they don’t say anything about maintaining personal custody. I will carry out the King’s orders, soldier. Section One is organized for the proper supervision of prisoners. You may return to the front and fight valiantly, as I’m sure you long to do, rather than staying here with the women.”

No, no, no!
Ian thought. Walker’s tame German was being smart again, giving Philowergos an honorable excuse for obedience. And that flush was fear as much as anger.
I don’t blame you for that,
I’m
afraid of him ... yes I do blame you for it,
you cretin!
He’s manipulating you!
Philowergos wavered, until an iron clangor of horseshoes came near.

“Ah,” another voice said. “I thought you might be here, Lord Mittler.”

It was a man standing in a chariot with two others. This voice’s Achaean had a distinct accent; not a foreigner’s, but some sort of regional burr, archaic even by Mycenaean standards. Much like a Scotsman’s English.

Ian’s eyes flickered to him. He saw a stocky man, short by twentieth-century standards, medium here; old white battle scars ran up the hairy, muscular brown forearms. The Achaean was in full nobleman’s gear: long crimson cloak pinned at one shoulder; tunic; checked kilt with a fringe; linen gaiters and leather boots; gold-studded sword belt bearing a long double-edged blade. A diadem held long dark hair; trimmed beard with a few strands of gray; and a shaven upper lip. There was a very modern-looking revolver at the belt as well, and the second man in the war-car rested a hand casually on the butt of a break-open shotgun.