Poseidon's Spear (Long War 3) (29 page)

‘Our starvelings don’t have two days,’ I said.

I should have foreseen it. I had three hundred men to feed; I needed civilization. Good farms, on good soil, and men with an abundance to sell. Even for Oiasso, my three hundred would be a heavy
burden.

On the ten-day trip north and east, my people had eaten fish in the villages every night. We’d emptied every village of meat and left silver in our wake.

I felt that it was all my fault. In the Inner Sea, it would have been easy. Or easier. Out here, it was as if we were at the edge of the world. Men were too few to support a trireme.

I thought of how smug I’d been, treating with Tara, and cursed my arrogance.

So I went back to her. With a dozen of my shepherds – now tall warriors in flashing bronze – I went to the gate of Tertikles’ palisade and shouted for admission.

Tara came and opened the gate. She was in armour.

‘So: the great hero. Planning to take our pigs with a dozen spearmen? Do they do your fighting for you?’ She laughed.

I had decided how to play this out. I owed my men; I owed my friends.

But it left a bad taste.

‘I offer gold for food and water,’ I said.

She spat. ‘You can have our flesh when you carve it from our cold bodies. And the only water you get is the water of my mouth,’ she said. That is, I assume she said that. I only got
one word in ten.

I walked forward. ‘It doesn’t need to be like this,’ I said. ‘I won. I took much plunder. You can say I’m dividing it with you. That your attack on the town was a
feint.’

She waited while Sittonax translated. Then she came forward. ‘You
used
us as a feint, didn’t you?’

I shrugged. ‘Does it matter? Your brother was going that way, no matter what I said.’

She turned her back. ‘This is over. Go.’

I took a deep breath. ‘I know you plan to attack my ships tonight,’ I said.

She whirled.

‘Give me food, or I will challenge your brother. And he will fight me in the morning, and die.’ I spoke quietly, and Sittonax paused, looked at me and shook his head. And then
translated.

‘That will make me king. But by my customs, that will also make me an oath-breaker, because we are guest friends. Listen, Tara. These starving slaves – they are my
friends
.
I told you I came here with other men. I will
not
let them die. I will kill to save them. They are my brothers. But we do not have to do it like this. Sell me food and water, and I will
slink away tomorrow, leaving a tribute of gold on the beach, and you can tell any story you like.’

Her eyes bored into mine.

‘I liked you,’ she said slowly. ‘But you are not my idea of a man.’ She shook her head ‘Too . . . greasy.’

I shrugged.

‘Very well. Don’t ever come back here. Don’t ever cross that beach.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I will see to it that you have fifty pigs and grain and
water.’

We ate, within a ring of guards.

I left her two pounds of gold, making those the most valuable pigs I’ve ever eaten.

And we sailed away north.

The coast of Gaul was kind to us. The sun kissed the water, and the breeze carried us most of the day. Demetrios tacked while we rowed towards evening, and we landed three
hundred stades north of Oiasso by my reckoning. We ate sausage cooked on driftwood, and drank water from a spring, and in the morning we rowed away, leaving a handful of terrified shepherds. We
killed twenty sheep and left them payment in silver. Pork doesn’t keep in summer, but mutton does, even if not well prepared.

I was losing my taste for piracy.

By midday we could see the islands, tall against the low, swampy coast. We knew the first one was Olario, and we found the town on the landward coast – a fine town of slate-roofed stone
houses, rising from the sea, with a good harbour, a stony beach and a natural mole of granite.

I sent Daud and Sittonax and my other Keltoi ashore with silver.

What followed was more like Sicily or Rome than what I expected from barbarians. Once again, my whole idea of barbarians was about to be stood on its head.

The Town of Olario was a Venetiae town. The warehouses were Venetiae, as were the piers and the stone roundhouses. And the enormous round ships – like a Greek merchantman built by giants.
The town wasn’t the size of Athens, or even Piraeus – but it would have been a good town in Attica or Italy.

It had sewers.

And customs officials.

They came out to our ships, and looked at my crews, at my emaciated stick figures, at my cargoes, and asked for bills of lading. This from a man in a frieze cloak with a bright saffron shirt,
gold earrings and a magnificent gold neckpiece.

‘Your slaves are in horrible condition,’ he said. ‘They might bring disease. You may not sell them here, nor may you land them.’

‘They are free men,’ I said. ‘I have rescued them from the Phoenicians.’

The man had a fine red beard, with which he fiddled often, and watery blue eyes. He wore a magnificent sword and a pair of knives mounted in gold. I assumed, incorrectly, that he was the local
warlord or king. ‘Which Phoenicians?’ he asked.

I waved at Iberia, eight hundred stades to the south by my reckoning. Really, by Vasileos’s reckoning. He’d recovered from ten days of puking, and now had one of
Lydia
’s sisters, which he had named
Adelphi
.

My chieftain stroked his beard. ‘By violence?’ he asked.

You always know when questioning begins to go wrong. ‘I have come from the Inner Sea to trade,’ I said. ‘The Phoenicians tried to take my ship on the sea. They seized my
friends. I have spent months rescuing them.’

Red Beard nodded. ‘We have no quarrel with the Phoenicians,’ he said. ‘We don’t love them either. But we trade with them.’ He looked around. ‘You are Greeks,
eh?’

I smiled. ‘Yes. I am from Greece.’

The man smiled for the first time. ‘Wonderful pots, you Greeks make. And stonework – there was a Greek man on Ratis, five years ago.’ He nodded. ‘An architect.’

It was stunning, to hear this barbarian use the Greek word for a man who built stone buildings. In fact, I was being mocked.

But then he offered me his hand. ‘Detorix,’ he said. ‘I am the inspector for Olario. I will clear your cargo for sale. You will have to write me out a list of everything you
have. Yes? Like any other port. And there will be taxes. There is a harbour fee.’ He smiled. ‘You expected painted savages, perhaps?’

I had to laugh.

It took me, Demetrios, Doola, Sittonax and Vasileos three days of sitting on the waterfront to count, number and list every item we had.

It was not entirely unpleasant.

For example, the
Amphitrite
had been inexpertly looted and left to sit on the beach. Her hull had a large patch of rot that was exposed when we careened her – where she’d
sat on the beach, fully laden on the sand. We were lucky she hadn’t sunk. On the other hand, most of her cargo was still intact, most of the bales not even broken. The bale of ostrich plumes
was the most important. But our Greek fish oil and our Greek wines were still in the bilges of
Lydia
. We had nine packets of dyes, lovingly wrapped in pigs’ bladders and then sewn in
canvas. In fact, all they’d taken off the
Amphitrite
was the copper. The
Lydia
still had hers – twenty three ‘hides’ of copper.

We also had about a hundred water amphorae, which we would have kept for fresh water except that the Gauls offered such wonderful prices for them. And the Gauls had a cheap, high-quality
substitute. The Gauls built water and wine containers of wood wrapped with cord, roots, or metal bands, called
barrels
. They made them in eight sizes – standard sizes, and every
barrel-maker had a set of patterns to follow.

I tried to imagine imposing a set of standard sizes on Greeks. Or even standard measures.

You do know that the mythemnoi varies from town to town, don’t you? And so does the dactyl and the stade. Oh, yes.

Where was I? Barrels. Wonderful. I loved to watch the Gauls build them. They were light and strong and when they were empty, you could pull the hoops off and they became a bundle of slightly
curved boards that took up no space.

The locals were especially interested in my trireme. They crowded around, looking at her construction, her rowing benches, her ram bow and all the bronze there.

After two days of intense work, my crews had beached, emptied and careened our ships. Our goods had been sorted, dried, counted and in some cases, reluctantly burned or buried.

So, to my sorrow, were six men. Fifteen days at sea, even in high summer, are not the ideal anodyne to months or years of brutal slavery. They weren’t my friends; they weren’t men I
even knew. But they had, however briefly, been my men.

We had a funeral feast for them, and we burned them. The Gaulish priests helped – they were surprisingly well-educated men, who knew the stars, and two of whom knew Greek, although the
version they spoke was comically Spartan. They must have learned from some Laconian, some wandering mercenary or trader.

Herodikles, my Aeolian, said the words. He was recovering well. He had been an aristocrat, a priest from a good family. But by his own admission he had been a slave fifteen years, and some of
that had been horrible. He flinched when Doola raised a hand in greeting. He ducked his head when Seckla let out a whoop of delight.

Demetrios was more cautious. Otherwise, he was very much himself. He smiled a great deal and didn’t talk as much as other men. He was very sure of himself at sea, and less sure on
land.

Daud had been a slave a long time. He survived the Phoenicians well enough.

Gaius was the most changed. He was deeply, passionately angry. It struck me that he’d have been the first to die if we hadn’t come back.

‘They treated us like
animals
,’ he said one night on the coast of Iberia. I didn’t bother to point out that we all treated slaves like that. But by the time we reached
the Venetiae, he was better – his smile a little more bitter, but otherwise more like himself.

Detorix and a dozen other traders came to drink wine with us after I handed in our lading lists. They were like traders all over the world, carefully controlling their reactions, looking for
advantage. Doola, who always handled these transactions, was not yet recovered from the loss of his wife. He wasn’t interested in trade, or anything else.

Demetrios stood in for him, dickering, arguing, or being silent. I stood back, watching. We had decided that I would pose as the ‘patron’. It was useful for Demetrios to say,
‘Ah. Well, I must ask the patron.’ And sometimes he would give a hurt smile, as if he wanted nothing better than to sell his ostrich feathers for a song, and he would say, ‘Ah,
but the patron—’

The food was good, and we paid in gold. We sat in actual wine shops and drank half-decent wine – too thick, unwatered, I felt, but there you go. Each to his own taste.

It was good to drink wine at all. And I bought great barrels of the stuff for the recovering men, because wine is the very best thing for a man recovering from ill health. Wine, and apple juice,
both of which were available.

And meat.

And bread.

They were getting rich off our need to feed hungry men. But they were traders, and they had the foodstuffs to sell, and we had nowhere else to buy.

I had about enough gold to keep all of them for a month. They weren’t, strictly speaking, my people. But—

The Gauls left almost immediately, after coming to me with their thanks. A dozen of them stayed: they weren’t Gauls at all, but Albans, from another one of the islands. They also came to
me, in the first days among the Venetiae, and asked if I would sail them home.

I said I’d consider it.

Our third evening on Olario was beautiful, and we sat in our wine shop on the waterfront, watching small boys fish in the harbour. Watching three young women posture for Seckla, who was diving
naked from a rock. With the exception of the African, all my friends were there, and other men, like Alexandros and Vasileos, who had earned their right to be included. It was like a mix of
democracy and oligarchy. Command always is.

Demetrios shrugged. ‘It’s a good news, bad news kind of thing,’ he said. ‘The tin doesn’t come from here.’

Sittonax shook his head. ‘Thieving bastards. I worked for them! They said the tin comes from the islands.’

I laughed. ‘Ever seen a tin mine?’ I asked. ‘I haven’t, but I know what the ore looks like. Any bronze-smith does. And it won’t come out of sea-rocks.’

‘So they don’t have tin?’ asked Gaius.

‘They do. It’s their principal export.’ Demetrios sat back and played with a loop of beads. ‘It comes from somewhere near here. I get that much.’

‘Is it worth finding the source?’ I asked.

Demetrios shrugged again. ‘I don’t know. But they drive a hard bargain. They want all our amphorae – and they offer a wonderful return. All the wine, all the oil. I think they
only want the jars, but why should we care? In each case, we make five or ten times what we paid.’

My turn to shrug. ‘A profit we might match at Marsala, and save ourselves danger and labour and travel.’

Demetrios nodded. ‘I thought the same. It is worse for our copper – they offer no better than the Inner Sea price. They say there is copper all along this coast, and in
Iberia.’

‘That’s what the Iberians said, too,’ I admitted. Heracles and Poseidon, the weariness of it, transporting copper halfway round the aspis of the world, only to find that it is
worth less there than at home.

Vasileos spoke for the first time. ‘Makes good ballast,’ he said wryly.

‘We have the gold,’ Gaius said eagerly. ‘We could just go home.’

I looked around. Seckla was drying himself with his chlamys, to the complete approval of three young Keltoi, who had never seen anyone quite so like an ebony Apollo.

‘How exactly are we getting home?’ I asked.

That set the lion among the sheep.

Demetrios nodded. ‘I wanted to talk about that, before we start trading,’ he said. He looked at me.