Vectors (17 page)

"Why do you think that my galleys, year after year, are faster than all the others? Because the rowers know that if they serve me well it can lead to their own freedom."

But at that point, Thais refused to speak to him at all until morning.

* * *

Cyrus' interest in Melos might have faded, little by little, but a week later Damon, nosy as ever, revived it. They had ridden (on the wagered mares, which by unspoken agreement they both had the right to ride) to the top of the dry rocky hill above the city and were looking down at the lake below them. The air was very clear and the galleys far below looked like shiny narrow pointed slippers, with toothpick oars. Damon looked at them, then at Cyrus.

"You know, I suppose, that your friend Afshar is going into the galley business? I saw him a couple of days ago, waddling about the quay with Melos in tow. He's bought a big galley and now he's going about town saying his galley can beat the fastest."

"And that's mine, right? If he's using oarsmen the size of Melos, maybe he's right."

"He isn't. He's rounded up as miserable a set of spavined, knock-kneed, consumptive specimens as I've ever seen. They'll get tired pulling away from the jetty." Damon pushed his long dark hair back from his forehead with a dusty forearm, and took a long pull from his wineskin. "But he's after you all right. I heard him say as much. No names, but he talked about the dreamers who go about with their heads full of philosophy and boast about their mediocre galleys."

Cyrus stiffened and sat upright on his horse. His galleys embodied part of his philosophy and were one of his few points of real pride.

"Well, I can settle that easily enough—a wager should scare him back to the rag trade. I'll look him up tomorrow and fix it."

Next day, Cyrus found Afshar by the quay, sniffing around the galleys. He looked at Cyrus' vessel disdainfully, and then at Cyrus, rolling a fat-sunk eye.

"All right for running pleasure orgies round the lake, I suppose. I wouldn't give much for its chances in a real race, though."

Cyrus reined his anger, "Afshar, I've won every galley race for the past eight years—as you would know, if you knew anything at all about galleys or racing. If you want to put money with your words, do so. If not, I think you should take lessons in silence."

"Oh, I think I might wager, Cyrus. Shall we say—Thais against Melos?"

"Don't be a fool, Afshar, you know I would never wager Thais."

"Then I suppose it will have to be for money. How much?"

"You are the challenger, you name the sum."

"Then let us say—a thousand pieces of gold?"

Cyrus had the sinking feeling that he had been trapped. And yet, it seemed impossible that Damon could have so misjudged Afshar's crew. The wager was set. The preparations began.

* * *

Four days before the race, Cyrus received an unusual deputation. Four green-robed priests arrived unannounced after dinner and requested a meeting. Following the usual ceremonial greetings and glass of wine, the senior priest began.

"Cyrus, we come to you as our city's most experienced traveller. You have seen more of the world than any of us. You have seen Rome, and Athens, and Egypt, and beyond." He paused and looked at his companions. There were nods of agreement. "We need your advice. There are currents running now in the city that must be stopped, and it is our duty to stop them.

"We will soon be holding a hearing. Unless the answers there are acceptable, Afshar will bear trial for sorcery."

He held up a hand, cutting off Cyrus' astonished response.

"For the actions of his slave, Melos. A Master is always responsible for his Slaves' actions. Now, what do you know of Melos, and the country of his birth?"

"Directly, nothing. I imagine he comes from somewhere north and west of the Mid-World Sea, even beyond the Tin Isles. He spoke of the movement of the ocean on the shore, at the Moon's command, and that I have seen myself, in the great ocean to the south, and also west beyond the Mid-World Sea.

"But Melos speaks also of flickering colored lights that fill the winter sky, and of summer days when the Sun never sets. I have never seen these things."

The priests nodded again. "He also says other things. He denies all knowledge of the giants and the tree-men who live in the North, and at the same time he tells other slaves of fish longer and broader than a galley, and of ice mountains that float in the sea.

"We believe that he is an instrument of demons, and the places he speaks of are not of this world. Cyrus, in your travels did you ever meet men who drink the blood of men and animals?"

"Never, but I've heard talk of it from the black people far along the great river of Egypt. Hearsay only, that was. But surely, this is hearsay of Melos too?"

Shaking heads. "He has been seen to do it. We have witnesses, reliable witnesses."

"And have you asked for explanations from Afshar and Melos?"

"No. Afshar is behaving very secretively. The questions will come at the trial, twenty days from now. We want you to bear witness then of your own travels—what you have seen and have never seen in distant lands.

"Thank you now for the help you have given us already. Goodnight, and the gods' blessings."

Again, grave bows. They departed in a rustling of stiff robes. They left behind a troubled Cyrus. The wager and the galley race were suddenly less important.

* * *

"I don't know how—to find out. Melos will—normally talk freely—about most things. But Afshar—ordered him to keep—quiet now and not—to talk to me."

Cyrus' speech came as a series of pained grunts while the slave's trained fingers probed, twisted and pummeled the muscles of his back. On the next table, also naked, Damon was enduring a similar torment from oil and a pumice scraper. He was muttering and groaning ruefully.

"Never again, Cyrus. Never again, I'm off spiced wine forever this time. He's killing me here with those hot towels."

"Only way I know of—to get rid of—a bad hangover. You shouldn't—even feel it at—your age. Ahhh."

The sigh came as a great copper cauldron of very hot water was poured over his bare back.

"You'll be drunk—again next week—Damon—I know—it. Look, I want to ask you—a question. Does Melos have—a woman?"

Damon started to shake his head, then thought better of it. "You and Melos. You're obsessed with that slave. If I didn't know you well, I'd think you had eyes for him." He leered at Cyrus across the gap between the tables. "He doesn't have a regular woman, or a boy friend either. I don't know what's wrong with him, he's a complete man all right, not a eunuch. But he's just not very interested."

Damon was being slowly turned into a steaming mummy by swathes of scalding towels.

"If you're still keen to find out what's going on in Afshar's artificer's shop, though, I can tell you how to do that."

"Some of us draw the line at dressing up as a cleaning woman, Damon."

"Yes, and I'm one of them now. All that trouble I had getting into the house, then I found she had hair on her chest and smelled of rancid fat. It shows how keen I was at eighteen, I went through with it anyway.

"Now forget my wild youth. What I'm suggesting is nothing like that and it's dead easy. The roof of Khosro's house looks over Afshar's yard, and Khosro is a friend of mine. It's a long way off for a really close look but you probably don't need that. It'll have to be at night anyway, or Afshar could see you from his upstairs window."

Cyrus sat up. "Tonight. I'll do it tonight."

Damon carefully lifted his head and shook it experimentally. "You know, I think I'll live. If you go, I'll come with you. Now, how about a small cup of wine here to complete the cure?"

* * *

Seen from above, the yard at night was a confused blur of dark metal shapes and flickering shadows from the forge. A large metal cylinder with its own fire inside it stood in the center of the yard. Melos moved round it like a fire giant, tapping, turning parts, and muttering to himself in a mixture of Greek and barbarian gutturals. Finally he seemed satisfied and turned another smaller wheel on the side of the metal container.

A steady, regular hissing began, like a thousand snakes. The yard became a darker haze of smoke, steam and flickering fire reflections. The central part of the cylinder began to turn, slowly and ponderously. Cyrus and Damon strained their eyes into the confusion and watched the speed increase steadily as the hissing rose in pitch.

That was all. After fifteen minutes Melos nodded in satisfaction and turned another wheel on the container. The turning slowed and the hissing decreased to a thread of noise. He removed part of the metal cylinder, carried it over to the forge and began to make a careful adjustment to its shape. Cyrus and Damon watched him for another hour and saw only a patient shaping at the forge, broken by long minutes of silence and thought.

"You stay here if you like, I've had enough," Damon said at last. "I couldn't make any sense out of all that."

"I'll stay a little longer. You go on and I'll wait, just in case."

"Tomorrow morning, then, at the harbor. I want to hear what you and One-Ear come up with as race terms. Think you'll win?"

"I'm more worried trying to think of any way that I could lose. I don't trust Afshar, he's got something up his sleeve. Anyway, tomorrow we should know."

* * *

The next day was still, cloudless and burning hot. Sitting on the harbor wall, Cyrus saw Damon's tall form striding towards him. In a hurry by the look of it. He spoke without the usual greetings.

"Something's funny all right. I've been looking at Afshar's galley. Is there any way he could somehow make you race over land?"

"Damon, please, try and sound rational, even if you're not."

"He's putting wheels on his galley, big ones. And he's moved out the rowers' benches near the back."

"I know the rules for the race as well as anybody. A land race is first ridiculous, second impossible. The galley would fall apart. He can use less rowers if he wants to, but he's not allowed any sort of sail."

Cyrus smiled at his worried friend.

"If he is up to something, we'll know at noon!"

Afshar was certainly pleased by something at midday. His face had a secret, superior look and his walk was self-assured and complacent. The greetings between the two men were cold and formal.

"Your choice, Afshar. Sprint, or distance race, with or against the wind? What do you choose?"

"Distance race, I want. Wind or no wind, I don't care. We'll race for a fixed time, and the one ahead at the end is the winner."

Cyrus caught Damon's look. Something fishy, it said: the one thing that Afshar can't stand with his crew of crocks is a test of endurance. He thought for a moment, then nodded to Afshar.

"Perfectly legal. And the duration? You have that choice too."

Afshar paused for effect. "Shall we say—noon to midnight, with no change of rowers?"

The bystanders gasped. One third of that time was a long race. Cyrus frowned and bit his lip.

"You want to kill your rowers, Afshar? Remember, sails are forbidden. You think you have men who can row for half a day without rest? My men can probably do it, if they must—can yours?"

"No sails, Cyrus. Don't worry about my men, just have a thousand gold pieces ready for me two days from now."

His expression was immensely self-satisfied and smug as he turned and headed for the quay. Cyrus remained on the harbor wall, deep in thought. A catch, but what? A good look at Afshar's galley was in order.

At the jetty there was great activity. Standing aloof from it and yet somehow directing it was the tall figure of Melos. His usual remote manner had gone and in its place was a tremendous concentration on all details of the labor.

The rear benches were out. In their place stood the metal cylinder from the artificer's shop. Instead of the rear oars, giant wheels twenty feet in diameter had been fixed to the galley, their centers a few feet above the water line. Slaves from Afshar's household were loading cords of wood around the cylinder, between the front benches and in every spare space in the galley. Long metal rods ran from the cylinder to the great paddle wheels.

Melos moved forward suddenly from his point of overlook. He moved in among the slaves, and an argument began. Damon, with a confirming glance at Cyrus, wandered unobtrusively over to the jetty. The argument focused around a large barrel, which Melos did not want on the galley. After a few moments, Afshar himself joined in and overruled Melos' objections. The barrel was hoisted on board. Damon sauntered back to Cyrus. He shrugged.

"Melos didn't want it on board. I don't know why, it's not so much weight. That's all the argument was about."

"What's in it?"

"I don't know. Wine for the rowers maybe—though there's more there than they need. There was some other talk between Afshar and Melos, but I couldn't get much out of it. All about demons.

"Afshar asked how the cylinder demon was feeling. Melos said something like, 'Master, there is no cylinder demon. It is the demons in the water that get the strength from the heat. They push to get away, and the hotter the fire, the stronger they become. I am afraid of the barrel because I do not know how strong they can be.'

"Then Afshar said 'The stronger the better. Put the barrel on board.' And that was that."

Cyrus looked grim. If he was right about Melos, the slave could do exceptional things. But these things made no sense. That night he spoke to Thais, hoping that explanation would bring enlightenment.

"You are sure that your rowers are fitter, stronger and keener than Afshar's?"

"I know it."

"Then you have nothing to fear. You cannot lose. All that pampering of your rowers will pay off tomorrow. What was the use of all that care and comfort if they cannot win for you when you need it?"

Cyrus rubbed his grey temples and smiled ruefully. "What good is it to say that I wish to be a philosopher, Thais, if I cannot behave philosophically? I'm a nervous fool, not a philosopher."

"If Melos is a philosopher, as you say, then I hope you are not one. I hear he does not care for man or woman."