Island in the Sea of Time (24 page)

She shrugged slightly. “It’s a calculated risk. I’m afraid I must insist.”

The words were polite, and so was the tone. Behind it was a will ready to grind like millstones. He sighed and spread his hands.

 

The shouting crowd fell silent as the American approached. William Walker craned his head a little, looking over the tops of theirs; he was a tall man even by twentieth-century standards and he’d seen only one or two men bigger here. Two Iraiina warriors had been wrestling in a circle of yelling, cheering onlookers. They were stripped to their kilts, chests heaving and eyes glaring as they backed off warily, looking at him out of the corners of their eyes, panting amid a strong smell of sweat and dust.

Well, not exactly wrestling,
Walker thought. One of them—it was the wog they’d picked up at sea, Ohotolarix—was bleeding slightly where a handful of his sparse young beard had been pulled out. The other man looked roughly handled, too.
More like catch-as-catch-can.

Everyone was looking at
him,
one of the mysterious, magical strangers from across the sea. A little fear in the eyes of the men, in the women fear and . . .
Well, well,
he thought, smiling at one bold-eyed girl. She was probably not very respectable by local standards, the collar and short dress that showed her ankles indicated that, he thought. But he’d never let that bother him.

“Go ahead,” he said, backing up with an urging gesture. “Don’t let me stop the fun.”

Tentative smiles met his. He nodded and looked at the two contestants. The other warrior was black-haired, more densely bearded than Ohotolarix, and more heavily built, a few years older and sporting a couple of missing teeth. He spat something at the young blond and lunged with hairy arms spread.

Ohotolarix met him chest to chest.
Catch-as-catch-can, all right,
Walker thought.
Butting, biting and . . . yup, attempted gouging allowed. Pathetic.

They were fast and strong, but neither man seemed to have any idea what to do with his fists and feet—wild haymakers like something out of a 1930s movie, and they didn’t even attempt to kick. At last they closed again, and grappled at each other’s heavy padded belts, straining and grunting. The older man lifted Ohotolarix bodily into the air and slammed him down again on the hard-packed ground. Blood was running from his mouth and nose now too, but he doggedly began to get up. The victor waited panting until he was on his hands and knees, then delivered a solid moccasined foot to the ribs—evidently kicking wasn’t against the rules, they just didn’t know how to do it effectively.

Ohotolarix collapsed, wheezing. His opponent dropped on him and grabbed him by the braid, pounding his head on the clay. When the younger man went limp he rose, dusted himself off, and walked toward the girl who’d smiled at Walker. He collected some trinkets from the bystanders, grabbed her wrist, and began to jerk her away; all around him men were laughing or scowling as they exchanged small items, knives or ornaments.

Bets,
Walker realized.
Girlie there’s the main stake.
Ohotolarix was hauling himself up, wheezing and snarling as he clutched at his ribs.
Tsk. Not fair; he must still be weak. On the other hand, life isn’t fair.
On the other hand . . .

“Wait,” Walker said easily, putting out a hand. “Hold it, Mr. Macho. Why don’t we discuss this?”

The Iraiina flinched a little, then visibly gathered himself and began to brush past.

Maybe that was a mistake,
Walker thought.
On the third hand, the guy just dissed me.

He put a hand on the man’s face and pushed, moving his foot in a simple heel hook. The Iraiina landed on his backside in a puff of dust. There was an amazed buzz from the crowd, then a rising note of excitement as Walker stripped off his jacket and shirt, holding them out with one hand. The girl took them, moving back to the edge of the reforming circle.

“No sense in prolonging this,” Walker said easily, suddenly feeling alive.
Feeling like I’m really
here,
not watching it.

He made a gesture that he’d seen among the locals, one that evidently hadn’t changed its meaning in three thousand years.

“Mithair,” he said. It was a pity he didn’t know the word for “your” as well as “mother” yet, but the motion of arm and finger was unmistakable. The victorious warrior screamed at him and leaped.

“Well, maybe they take motherhood more seriously here,” Walker said.

He swayed aside, grabbed arm and belt, set his feet in stance, and turned with a snapping flex of his waist and shoulders. Momentum turned into velocity, and the leap turned into a windmilling arc that ended in a crowd of laughing spectators. They broke his fall, and he came up shaking his head. Eyes fixed and pupils wide to swallow the color, lips curled back from teeth, a trail of mixed drool and blood coming from one corner of his mouth.

“Uh-oh,” Walker said.
I don’t think this is a sporting contest anymore.
the belt

The Iraiina snatched a long bronze dagger from the belt of a man next to him and charged, shrieking something high-pitched. Walker’s reaction was automatic: one hand slashed upward and cracked the edge of his palm into the knifeman’s wrist. The blade flew free, twinkling in the evening sun as it spun end over end. A continuation of the same motion sent the American’s hand around the Iraiina’s arm, locking it under his armpit and torquing it up with the elbow locked against its natural bend. Walker’s other arm slammed forward, fingers curled back to present the heel of his right hand as the striking hammer on the anvil of his opponent’s breastbone.

“Disssaaa!”
he shouted, deep and loud, the focusing
kia.

He had just enough control left to pull the blow as it rammed into the Iraiina’s chest over the heart. Bone bounced it back at him, and the other man dropped, limp, rasping for breath, and clawing at his chest while his face turned purple.

Walker wheeled, crouching and dropping into stance before he realized that the crowd weren’t attacking. Instead they were cheering; men pressed forward to slap him on the shoulders and back, pressing things on him—gold bracelets, worked bronze rings, even the knife the fallen man had used to attack him. The girl handed him back his clothes and made shooing motions at the others as he dressed. He straightened, wary, then grinned and held his hands over his head.

“I’ve got to control these chivalrous impulses,” he muttered to himself.

Ohotolarix was on his feet, smiling wryly—either that or his mouth was too sore to do more. He limped over to the American and started to speak. Then he sighed, shook his head, and took the girl’s hand, laying it in Walker’s. She looked at him with another smile, this one broader and more appraising, before she cast her eyes down modestly.

“Oh, God
damn
the captain and her fucking floating Sunday school,” Walker groaned.

He took the hand and put it back in Ohotolarix’s. The Iraiina looked puzzled, then the beginnings of anger showed on his puffy, dust-and-blood smeared face.

“Uh-oh again,” Walker muttered.
Think, dude.

He mimed fighting, then stood by Ohotolarix and held a protecting arm above him. Then he stepped behind the Iraiina, taking his arm and raising it in fighting position as if to shield Walker; last of all he pulled the bronze knife he’d tucked through his belt and held it out to the warrior, hilt first.

“Listen, you dumb wog,” he said, in slow solemn tones. “I don’t have your spear-chucker’s script handy, but this is some sort of heap big medicine. You’re going to like it and not make trouble, because while I could talk my way out of this I’d rather not. You savvy, blondie?”

Something
seemed to have gotten through to the young Iraiina. He took a step back, peering at Walker’s face, then slowly went to one knee and took the knife. He grasped the American’s hands and put his between them, touching them to his forehead and heart.

“Pothis,”
the Iraiina said. A string of machine-gun-rapid syllables followed.

“Uh-oh again,” Walker muttered.
What did I just get myself into?

Ohotolarix seemed to want him to follow. He did, through the dusty tangle of the Iraiina camp, to a small hollow. Two fair-sized leather tents stood there, with a fire between them and bundles and baggage in leather sacks all around; a tripod of spears, a shield, and a long-hafted bronze tomahawk completed the picture. A swaddled infant was propped up against a heap of baskets, and a woman bent over the fire doing something with a big clay pot. She gave a small shriek at the sight of Ohotolarix, rushing forward and then halting in alarm at the sight of Walker beside him.

Wifey,
Walker decided, nodding to her as she drew her shawl over her head. The young woman was about Ohotolarix’s age, five months pregnant, and quite pretty, with dark-blond hair done up on her head with long bronze-headed bone pins and a round, cheerful face.
No collar, longer dress, more jewelry.

The young warrior spoke, and the woman went back to the fire; the other one went into the smaller horsehide tent. Walker sat at his host’s urging, and the pregnant girl brought them both bowls from the pot; it turned out to be mutton stew with barley, and hunks of rather dry bread to go with it, along with mead.

“This would be a lot more interesting if I could understand you, or knew what the hell was going on,” Walker said. “You know,” he went on, finishing his stew, “I sort of like it here. You guys have a lot to learn, and I could—”

The smaller tent’s flap came half open and a voice called. Walker looked over; the girl with the collar had shed all her other clothing, and was kneeling on a heap of sheepskins, beckoning. He let a slow grin creep over his face, looking back at Ohotolarix. The young Iraiina gave him the same expression back, with a wink, and made the same gesture Walker had used on his opponent before waving at the tent.

“But oh, context is everything,” Walker laughed, nodding and moving toward the tent, where a bare arm wiggled fingers at him. He picked up the cup of mead as he went. “And the captain
did
say we should be careful not to offend. Quickest way to offend wogs is to turn down their hospitality.”

He ducked inside and closed the flap behind him. The girl leaned back on her elbows, tossing a mane of rustcolored hair behind her; it wasn’t very clean, and she smelled fairly strongly of sweat and woodsmoke.

But I don’t give a damn,
he thought.
I
like
this place. It’s more . . . straightforward.

And God, but there was an opening for someone with his talents here. Heading back to Nantucket with a cargo of pigs and the prospect of a year spent fishing suddenly looked rather dull.

Hold on, boy,
he said, stripping and looking down at the girl.
You don’t know the languages or the customs, and you
certainly
don’t want to get marooned here by your lonesome.

“I’ll have to think,” he said, taking a breast in each hand. The woman shivered and arched her back. “Later, that is.”

 

“You can’t be serious!” Miskelefol shouted. “Has the Jester stolen your wits?”

“Quiet!” Isketerol hissed. The tent’s walls were thin, and too many ears listened outside. They were alone within save for a single native slave he’d bought from the Iraiina, crouched in the corner, but he suspected several members of the crews spied for rivals.

The senior Tartessian leaned forward on his stool and caught the neck of his cousin’s tunic, hauling him close. Firelight stole through the slit of the tent’s flap, underlighting the younger man’s face. The smells of dinner cooking came through with the reflected flame, and the voices of men preparing for the night, doing chores about the camp, or playing at stones-and-squares. A woman giggled in the hull of the ship whose horse figurehead reared above them.

“Of course I’m serious,” Isketerol went on. “All the gods and goddesses have given me this opportunity, I’d be mad
not
to take it!”

He sprang to his feet and paced in the slight room the tent allowed, his step lithe and springy as a youth’s although he’d seen nearly thirty winters.

“They
need
me, cousin. They haven’t
anyone
who can speak anything but Achaean, and that badly; and more than that, they know nothing about the lands on this side of the ocean. Forget what they’ve promised me for a summer’s stay—even though it’s ten times ten times the profit we expected on this voyage. Think of what could come of being their adviser and go-between when they come to negotiate with the king, or with Pharaoh, even! You know how our house has fallen from the wealth we once had. Why else are we here, risking our hides dickering with savages? This is our gods-given chance to do more than restore it.”

He returned to the stool, forcing calm upon himself. He leaned close, hissing in his kinsman’s ear. “Think of learning their secrets, and how to wield them!”

“Their magic?” Miskelefol whispered back, spitting aside and making the sign of the horns.

“Perhaps. A spell is a tool. But not all their secrets are magic. The Great King’s men in Hatti get iron out of the rocks and know how to work it; that’s a mystery, but not one you need to be a mage to understand. These Eagle People, these
Amurrukan,
they have arts that we don’t, just as we have knowledge the barbarians don’t. And they’re not good at keeping secrets, most of them. With what I can learn . . .”

“You think you can build a ship of iron?” his cousin said. It had taken them both days to grasp that, but two visits to the
Eagle
had made them sure.

“No, fool!” Isketerol grabbed patience. “Your pardon, cousin. I misspoke. No, but it isn’t magic that pushes her, it’s sails—better sails than we know how to make, better arranged. It’s smithcraft that forges those swords and spears. Weavers and dyers to make that cloth, artisans to make glass . . . glass shaped into pitchers, glass clear as spring water, common enough to give away when one beaker would buy riches at court! Listen, cousin . . .”