MacRoscope (36 page)

“Ivarch,” the captain repeated. “Slave, free or royal?”

“Free.” But how could he prove it, naked as a slave and without money or home-address or friends?

“Which nation?”

“America.”

“Arpad?”

“America.” Naturally they would not have heard of it, but there seemed to be no point in prevarication.

The captain hesitated, probably uncertain whether a citizen of an unknown country deserved courtesy or rebuke.

At length he made his choice. “Mattan will decide.”

Mattan: a superior? A god? Fate?

The captain wheeled neatly in military fashion. “Clothe this man and feed him.” A man of decision, he.

They brought Ivo an abrasive fiber blanket and put him belowdecks where the air was steamy from the perspiration of the naked oarsmen. The stench was terrific, but the warmth made it worthwhile. Before long the stiffness withdrew from his limbs and he felt his vigor oozing back.

He was seated in the stern just ahead of the rudder — man’s compartment. There was a center aisle about five feet across that ran the length of the hull, cluttered with boxes and buckles. On either side were the narrow benches upon which the oarsmen sat, one per oar. They heaved in unison, as they had to, for in these cramped quarters any wrong or poorly timed motion would create chaos. Every second oar projected well into the aisle, but the men did not bother with the added leverage available. They were slaves, obviously, but none was chained or, as far as he could tell, unhappy. Most of them were light-skinned.

Night, and the hold grew dark. The officer at the far end terminated the cadence and bawled out his orders. The oars were shipped, their ends pushed to the floor and fastened there with stiff leather straps. There followed a period of fifteen minutes while the slaves stood up, stretched, chatted, and relieved themselves into the available containers. The rudderman — another officer, since he wore the leather armor — tied his own oars and used the bucket. Ivo, seeing the way of it and finding himself in need, availed himself in like fashion of the facilities. More of the reason for the intense atmosphere was now evident; not all of it was sweat.

But was it any worse than the broken toilet and steaming garbage of a twentieth-century slum dwelling?

Under the supervision of the bow officer, the slaves hauled on the bottom panels of the lower deck and handed up from the bilge the supplies: rolls of hard bread, goatskins of wine. The rudderman went topside and returned shortly with two legs of smoked goatmeat, one of which he passed to the cadence officer. Rank had its privileges.

Ivo took one of the rolls and found it wooden. It had not occurred to him just how solid unleavened bread could be. He couldn’t bite it; he had to gnaw. Soon the saltiness of it inspired thirst, and he borrowed a skin. He squeezed it the way he had seen the others do, to arc a stream into his mouth without contaminating the nozzle with his saliva. The brownish stuff splashed across his face, bringing laughter from the slaves.

Ivo laughed too, sensing no enmity from these people, and wiped the burning fluid out of his eyes and off his hair. This concoction was beyond contamination! On the second attempt he managed to center on his mouth, though he did not have the technique of swallowing while squirting and had to break off quickly. Wine? This brew tasted like overripe dishwater with frogjuice in it, but it was wet.

Some of the slaves had brought out fine lines of knotted tendon and were dangling these out the oar-ports. Soon Ivo saw why: they were fishing, and not without success. The fish liked the chips of bread! There was air-space around the rising mast, and in an enormous ceramic bowl they built a smoky fire to roast their catches against. The lucky slaves might well sup better than the masters!

While this was not the life Ivo would have chosen for himself, he did find a certain appeal in it. A man here had only to pull his oar and keep the cadence, and he was adequately fed and sheltered and protected, with little to worry about (except an enemy ram?) and plenty of company.

After an hour the crude tallow candles were snuffed. The men returned to their places and slept, seemingly not discommoded by the cramped discomfort. The officer-shift changed; the two hitherto on duty went above, while a single armed soldier paced the aisle. Any slave could have grabbed him from behind, but none was interested; this was token force to keep order, nothing more. Probably the slaves had no knowledge of sailing or of navigation; mutiny was pointless.

Ivo lay down on the filthy deck and slept without difficulty, only moderately queasy from the constant rocking of the boat.

At break of day a rising wind rocked the ship more violently. The slaves grinned as they heard the sounds of the great sail being unfurled and hoisted: no rowing this morning! The breeze took hold and the sidewise rhythm subsided, making Ivo feel better. He was not ordinarily subject to motion sickness, but the combination of smell, wine, fatigue and wind had assaulted his intestinal well-being.

About noon orders began to fly above. The men came alive, taking their places and unshipping the oars, though the craft was still under sail. The alternate men who had the projecting oars stood up this time, grasping the tips. The center aisle was now filled, one man standing behind another, arms resting on wood held waist-high.

The cadence began and the oarsmen strove vigorously. The ship — still under sail! — accelerated. Then Ivo heard distant cheering, and understood.

The ship was coming home.

The cadence accelerated and the men fairly bent the oars in their effort, muscles glistening. Ivo peered through the nearest port with some difficulty and was able to make out the outlines of a walled city. Nothing like putting on a show for the homefolk!

Then
halt!
and the oars reversed as the sail dropped, braking the ship within a few feet of the dock.

The captain had not forgotten Ivo. Two soldiers came to escort him from the ship. He blinked in the brightness of day, topside, then was hustled over the gang to the dock. The harbor was in the southern section of the city; the sunlight slanted over his right shoulder as he walked.

The terrain was rocky, houses perched upon slanted foundations, and the narrow streets curved a great deal. It was a wealthy city. Some buildings were of stone and wood, built to last, though most were of many stories and crowded into very small areas, making the streets seem like mere crevices in a solid mass of residence. Almost every house had its terrace, however, which helped.

Ivo was delivered to an antechamber where an elegant assortment of bedsheets were hung. The two guards departed, but he was sure they were not far away. What next?

A girl, bare of head, foot and breast, entered and approached him with provocative confidence. He decided to go along with whatever was expected.

Efficiently she stripped the soiled blanket from him and deposited it in a corner. She brought a basin of cold water and sponged his body down and rubbed scented ointment into his muscles. Since she was obviously trained for this and competent, he maintained his composure; but it was only the continuing feeling of unreality that enabled him to put up with such familiar handling by an unfamiliar woman. The arms and legs weren’t so bad, but the buttocks—

And how had Afra felt, being handled by him?

Then she sat him down upon a bench and brought out a horrendous iron blade. While he watched with alarm, she sharpened it assiduously against a leather strap. The insecurity of his present situation impressed him strongly.

Carefully she bathed his face and shaved him, never cutting his flesh despite the irregularity and clumsiness of the razor. She finished by rubbing perfume into his hair and combing it back.

The bedsheets he had noted before turned out to be apparel: lengths of embroidered cloth. The girl took one down and wrapped it about him in a series of convolutions surely as intricate as any of the folds of macroscopic space and pinned it into place. He emerged from her ministrations in a handsome red tunic and soft leather sandals. He was sure he could never duplicate the costume by himself, should it come undone; he might even have trouble getting out of it on his own! When a citizen of this city retired at night, did he have a girl like this come to undress him properly? Hm.

Suitably prepared, he followed her to his interview with Mattan.

Mattan was mortal and courteous: an official of some importance in the city, if appearances were any guide. He reclined beside a tray of pastries and ripe fruit, dressed in a bright yellow robe and assorted jewelry. The tray was a sheet of almost-transparent glass: undoubtedly a rarity in this age, and a sign of wealth and power. He gestured Ivo to a couch opposite.

“And how do you find the Hegemony of Tyre, Ivarch of Merica?” Mattan inquired politely. His voice was soft and sure.

So it was to Tyre he had come — one of the old Phoenician cities on the coast of Asia Minor. Perhaps this was as good for his purpose as Damascus. Tyre had been a leader for many centuries, until — he strained to remember — it had finally fallen to Alexander three centuries before Christ. Had it warred with anyone else? He wasn’t sure.

“You do not choose to comment?” Mattan inquired, too gently. “One could be led to the impression that you were averse to our hospitality.”

“I have not been in this area long,” Ivo said hastily, wondering what the man’s purpose was.

“Merica is very far away, then.”

“Very far.”

“But surely not so far that its citizens have not heard of the might of Tyre?”

“Not that far.”

“And what brings you here so precipitously?”

“I — got lost on my way to Damascus.”

“Your ship was wrecked?”

“In a manner of speaking.” How could he explain what had happened? He hardly understood it himself. Somehow the world he had only watched had become physically real, and his twentieth-century existence unreal. Another macroscopic trap more subtle yet? Time travel? How could he, denuded of his equipment and thrown upon his personal resources, find his way back?

Mattan nibbled at a grape, not offering any to Ivo. “It occurs to me that we are not being entirely candid with each other, Ivarch.”

“I don’t think you would believe my story.”

“Perhaps not. Still, I would certainly like to hear it. I am informed that you were picked up thirty miles out to sea, in a region clear of enemy ships, and I can see for myself that you are not locally sired. In fact,” and he peered knowledgeably at Ivo’s face, “I am at a loss to define your ethnic heritage. Tyre is as eclectic a pot as any in the world, but you are a veritable cauldron of race! I observe traces of so many things — Mycenaean, of course, but also Egyptian, Cimmerian, Nubian and others I hesitate to mention. Yet you know the tongue of Canaan as well as any native of the Seven Cities, while professing ignorance of our ways. In fact, I do not see how your story can be anything less than incredible.”

“The tongue of Canaan?” But then, had he really expected them to speak American English? “I have no secrets, but I just don’t think my story would help you.”
Or me
, he thought.

“Perhaps I should judge that for myself. Is there any way I can facilitate the spinning of your yarn?”

“Well, yes. I need to know the date.” Or was that concern now pointless?

“You were not aware that this is the summer season in the thirty-ninth year of Hiram?”

“I was not aware. It seemed like winter when I was in the water.” And it did not help much. When was Hiram — presumably their king — on the Christian calendar? Five hundred BC? Two thousand?

“Nor that Hiram died six years ago?”

“No. But why did you number—”

“Forgive me for verifying your ignorance. It had entered my mind — purely as a matter of speculation, naturally — that you could be considered to be the representative of a hostile power.”

“A spy?”

“That was not precisely my term. But I am inclined to discredit the possibility. You are far too naïve.”

Ivo was becoming less so rapidly. “What happens to — representatives of hostile powers?”

“That depends on their, shall we say, cooperation. An incorrigible — that is, one who cannot or will not provide us with sufficient and significant information — may be offered in sacrifice to Baal Melqart. Our Baal prefers tender children or succulent infants, naturally, and this is said to be a distressing demise for an adult, since the facilities are not wholly adequate. Still—”

The threat was adequate, whatever the condition of the facilities. Human sacrifice! And he had been shocked by Brad’s revelation of the black-market in human bodies in his own time! At least that had been for a purpose, grisly as its practice was. Here it would be sheer waste. “What of a person whose story is merely unbelievable?”

“Sooner or later it must, in the nature of things,
become
believable.” Mattan shrugged away the unpleasantness. “Perhaps if I were to clarify the current situation for you, you would then find it easier to relate your framework to ours.”

“I think I would.” Was Mattan permitting him to stall for time, or was he really trying to be helpful? The Tyrean was an educated and intelligent man, but Ivo needed to know more of his attitudes before trying to explain the concept of time travel — particularly when Ivo himself did not believe in it. Did Mattan, for example, believe in magic? If so, that might be the most promising approach. He suspected the man would not put up with delay beyond a certain point; the mailed fist was only casually veiled.

Mattan settled back on his couch, looked at the cedar-paneled ceiling, and took an ample breath. This was evidently the type of dialogue he preferred. “In the days of Tyre’s origin there were three equal powers, three equivalent spheres of influence that parceled the civilized world between them. The first was Egyptian, extending from northern Africa, along the banks of the emperor of all rivers — the Nile — to the fourth cataract, and as far north as Damascus. The second was Hittite, including all of Anatolia and the region of the coast south as far as Damascus. The third was Assyrian, whose sphere was east of the other two, including the remainder of greater Syria and virtually all of Mesopotamia.