Ivory, and Apes, and Peacocks tp-6 Page 6

  Patrol psychologists had invested considerable thought in Everard’s yarn. There was no way for it to be immediately convincing, nor was that desirable; the king should not be stampeded into actions that might change known history. Yet the tale must be sufficiently plausible that he would cooperate in the investigation which was Everard’s real purpose.

  “Know, then, O lord, that my father was a chieftain in a mountain land far over the waves—” the Hallstatt region” of Austria.

  Eborix went on to relate how various Celts who had been among the Sea Peoples fled back there after the shattering defeat which Rameses III inflicted on those quasi-vikings in 1149 B.C. Their descendants had maintained tenuous connection, mostly along the amber route, with the descendants of kinsmen who settled in Canaan by leave of victorious Pharaoh. Old ambitions were unforgotten; Celts have always had a long racial memory. Talk went on about reviving the great Mediterranean push. That dream strengthened as wave after wave of barbarians came down into Greece, over the wreckage of Mycenaean civilization, and chaos spread through the Adriatic and far into Anatolia.

  Eborix knew of spies who had also served as emissaries to the kings of the Philistine city-states. Tyre’s amicability toward the Jews did not exactly endear it to the Philistines; and of course the riches of Phoenicia provided ever more temptation. Schemes developed fitfully, slowly, over a period of generations. Eborix himself was not sure how far along arrangements might be, to bring south an army of Celtic adventurers.

  To Hiram he admitted frankly that he would have considered joining such a troop, his hand-fast men at his back. However, a feud between clans had ended in the overthrow and slaying of his father. Eborix had barely escaped alive. Wanting revenge as much as he wanted to mend his fortunes, he made the trek hither. A Tyre grateful for his warning might, if nothing else, give him the means to hire soldiers of his own and bring them home to reinstate him.

  “You offer me no proof,” said the king slowly, “naught but your naked word.”

  Everard nodded. “My lord sees clearly as Ra, the Falcon of Egypt. Did I not agree beforehand that I could be mistaken, that there may in truth be no real menace, just the scutterings and chatterings of vainglorious apes? Nonetheless I do urge that my lord have the matter looked into as closely as may be, for safety’s sake. In that effort, ’tis I his servant that could be of help. Not only do I know my folk and their ways, but in wandering across their continent I met many different tribes, aye, and civilized nations too. I might therefore be a better hound than most, upon this particular scent.”

  Hiram tugged his beard. “Perhaps. Such a conspiracy must needs involve more than a few wild mountaineers and Philistine magnates. Men of several origins—But foreigners come and go like vagrant breezes. Who shall track the wind?”

  Everard’s heart slugged. Here was the moment toward which he had striven. “Your highness, I’ve thought much upon this, and the gods have sent me some ideas. I’m thinking we should first search not for common merchants, skippers, and seamen, but for strangers from lands which Tyrians have seldom or never visited, strangers who ask questions that often do not pertain to trade, or even to ordinary inquisitiveness. They would be inserting themselves into high places as well as low, seeking to learn everything. Does my lord recall any such?”

  Hiram shook his head. “No, none unaccountable like that. And I would have heard about them and wanted to see them. My followers are aware of how I always hunger for new knowledge, fresh news.” He chuckled. “As witness the fact I was willing to receive you.”

  Everard swallowed his disappointment. It tasted sour. But I shouldn’t have imagined the enemy would be openly active now, this close to the time when he’s going to strike. He’d know the Patrol would be busy. No, he’d do his preliminary research, acquire his detailed information about Phoenicia and its vulnerabilities, earlier. Maybe quite a bit earlier.

  “My lord,” he said, “if there is indeed a menace, it must have been a long while in the egg. Dare I ask your highness to think back? The king in his omniscience might recollect something from years agone.”

  Hiram lowered his gaze and concentrated. Sweat prickled Everard’s skin. He forced himself to sit still. Finally, softly, he heard:

  “Well, late in the reign of my illustrious father King Abibaal… yes… he had certain guests for a spell, about whom rumors flew. They were not of any land familiar to us… Seekers of wisdom from the Far East, they said… What was the name of their country? Shee-an? No, belike not.” Hiram sighed. “Memory fades. Especially memory of mere words.”

  “My lord did not meet them himself, then?”

  “No, I was gone, spending some years in travel through our hinterlands and abroad, so as to prepare myself for the throne. And now Abibaal sleeps with his fathers. As, I fear, do well-nigh all who may have encountered those men.”

  Everard suppressed a sigh of his own and struggled to ease off. The lead was fog-tenuous, if it was a lead. But what could he expect? The enemy wouldn’t have left engraved announcements.

  Nobody here kept journals or saved letters, nor did anybody number years in the manner of later civilizations. Everard would not be able to learn precisely when Abibaal entertained his curious visitors. The Patrolman would be lucky to find one or two individuals who remembered them well. Hiram had reigned for two decades now, and life expectancy was not great.

  I’ve got to try, though. It’s the single lonely clue I’ve turned up. Or else it’s a false scent, of course. Those could have been legitimate contemporaries—explorers from Chou Dynasty China, maybe.

  He cleared his throat. “Does my lord grant permission for his servant to ask questions, in the royal household as well as in the city? I’m thinking that humble folk might speak a little more free and open before a plain fellow like me, than they would in the awe of his highness’ presence.”

  Hiram smiled. “For a plain fellow, Eborix, you’ve a smooth tongue. But—yes, you may try. Abide for a while as my guest, with your young footman whom I noticed outside. We’ll talk further. If nothing else, you are a fanciful talker.”

  A page conducted Everard and Pum through corridors to their quarters, as evening closed in. “The noble visitor will dine with the guards officers and men of like rank, unless he is bidden to the royal board,” he explained obsequiously. “His attendant is welcome at the freeborn servants’ mess. If aught be desired, let him only inform a butler or steward; his highness’ generosity knows no bounds.”

  Everard resolved not to try that generosity too far. The household seemed more status-conscious than Tyrians generally were—no doubt the presence of many out-and-out slaves reinforced that—but Hiram was probably not above thrift.

  Yet when the Patrolman reached his room, he found that the king was a thoughtful host. Hiram must have issued orders after their discussion, while the newcomers were shown the sights of the palace and given a light supper.

  The chamber was large, well-furnished, lit by several lamps. A window, which could be shuttered, overlooked a court where flowers and pomegranates grew. Doors were solid wood on bronze hinges. The interior one stood open on an adjacent cubicle, sufficient for a straw tick and a pot, where Pum would sleep.

  Everard halted. Lamplight fell soft over carpet, draperies, chairs, a table, a cedar chest, a double, bed. Shadows stirred as a young woman rose and genuflected.

  “Does my lord wish more?” asked the page. “If not, let this lowly person bid him a good night.” He bowed and departed.

  Breath hissed between Pum’s teeth. “Master, she’s beautiful!”

  Everard’s cheeks smoldered. “Uh-huh. Goodnight to you, too, lad.”

  “Noble sir-”

  “Goodnight, I said.”

  Pum rolled eyes toward the ceiling, shrugged elaborately, and trudged to his kennel. The door slammed behind him.

  “Stand straight, my dear,” Everard mumbled. “Don’t be afraid. I’d never hurt you.”

  The woman obeyed, arms crossed over bosom an
d head meekly lowered. She was tall for this milieu, slender, stacked. The wispy gown decked a fair skin. The hair knotted loosely at her nape was ruddy-brown. Feeling almost diffident, he laid a finger beneath her chin. She lifted a face that was blue-eyed, pert-nosed, full-lipped, piquantly freckled.

  “Who are you?” he wondered. His throat felt tight.

  “Your handmaiden sent to attend you, lord.” Her words bore a lilting foreign accent. “What is your pleasure?”

  “I… I asked who you are. Your name, your people.”

  “They call me Pleshti, master.”

  “Because they can’t pronounce your real name. I’ll be bound, or won’t bother to. What is it?”

  She swallowed. Tears glimmered. “I was Bron-wen once,” she whispered.

  Everard nodded to himself. Glancing around, he saw a jug of wine as well as water on the table, plus a beaker and a bowl of fruit. He took her hand. It lay small and tender in his. “Come,” he said, “let’s sit down, take refreshment, get acquainted. We’ll share yon glass.”

  She shuddered and half shrank away. Sadness touched him afresh, though he achieved a smile. “Don’t be afraid, Bronwen. I’m not leading up to anything that could hurt you. I simply wish us to be friends. You see, macushla, I think you’re of my folk.”

  She fought off the weeping, squared her shoulders, and gulped, “My lord is, is g-godlike in his kindness. How shall I ever thank him?”

  Everard led her to the table, got her seated, and poured. Before long her story came forth.

  It was all too ordinary. Though her concepts of geography were vague, he deduced that she belonged to a Celtic tribe which had migrated south from the Danubian Urheimat. Hers was a village at the head of the Adriatic Sea, and she had been the daughter of a well-to-do yeoman, as Bronze Age primitives reckoned prosperity.

  She hadn’t counted birthdays before nor years after, but he figured she was about thirteen when the Tyrians came, about a decade ago. They were in a single ship, boldly questing north in search of new trade possibilities. They camped on the shore and dickered in sign language. Evidently they decided there was nothing worth coming back for, because when they left, they kidnapped several children who had wandered near to look at the marvelous foreigners. Bronwen was among them.

  The Tyrians hadn’t raped their female captives, nor mistreated any of either sex more than they found necessary. A virgin in sound condition was worth too much on the slave market. Everard admitted that he couldn’t even call the sailors evil. They had just done what came naturally in the ancient world, and most subsequent history for that matter.

  Bronwen lucked out, everything considered. She was acquired for the palace: not the royal harem, though the king had had her unofficially a few times, but for him to lend to such house guests as he would favor. Men were seldom deliberately cruel to her. The pain that never ended lay in being captive among aliens.

  That, and her children. She had borne four over the years, of whom two died in infancy—a good record, especially when they hadn’t cost her much in the way of teeth or health. The surviving pair were still small. The girl would probably become a concubine too when she reached puberty, unless she was passed on to a brothel. (Slave women did not get deflowered as a religious rite. Who cared about their fortunes in later life?) The boy would probably be castrated at that age, since his upbringing at court would have made him a potential harem attendant.

  As for Bronwen, when she lost her looks she’d be assigned to labor. Not having been trained in skills such as weaving, she’d likeliest end in the scullery or at a quern.

  Everard had to coax all this out of her, piece by harsh little piece. She didn’t lament nor beg. Her fate was what it was. He remembered a line Thucydides would pen centuries hence, about the disastrous Athenian military expedition whose last members ended their days in the mines of Sicily. “Having done what men could, they suffered what men must.”

  And women. Especially women. He wondered if, way down inside, he had Bronwen’s courage. He doubted it.

  About himself he was short-spoken. After avoiding one Celt and then getting another thrust upon him, so to speak, he felt he’d better play very close to his vest.

  Nonetheless, at last she looked at him, flushed, aglow, and said in a slightly wine-slurred voice, “Oh, Eborix—” He couldn’t follow the rest.

  “I fear my tongue is too unlike yours, my dear,” he said.

  She returned to Punic: “Eborix, how generous of Asherat that she brought me to you for, for whatever time she grants. How wonderful. Now come, sweet lord, let your handmaiden give you back some of the joy—” She rose, came around the table, cast her warmth and suppleness into his lap.

  He had already consulted his conscience. If he didn’t do what everybody expected, word was bound to reach the king. Hiram might well take umbrage, or wonder what was wrong with his guest. Bronwen herself would be hurt, bewildered; she might get in trouble. Besides, she was lovely, and he’d been much deprived. Poor Sarai scarcely counted.

  He gathered Bronwen to him.

  Intelligent, observant, sensitive, she had well learned how to please a man. He hadn’t figured on more than once, but she changed his mind about that, more than once. Her own ardor didn’t seem faked, either. Well, he was probably the first man who had ever tried to please her. After the second round, she whispered brokenly into his ear: “I’ve… borne no further… these past three years. How I am praying the goddess will open my womb for you, Eborix, Eborix—”

  He didn’t remind her that any such child would be a slave also.

  Yet before they slept she murmured something else, which he thought she might well not have let slip if she were fully awake: “We have been one flesh tonight, my lord, and may we be so often again. But know that I know we are not of one people.”

  “What?” An iciness stabbed him. He sat bolt upright.

  She snuggled close. “Lie down, my heart. Never, never will I betray you. But… I remember enough things from home, small things, and I do not believe Geyils in the mountains can be that different from Geyils by the sea… Hush, hush, your secret is safe. Why should Bronwen Brannoch’s daughter betray the only person here who ever cared about her? Sleep, my nameless darling, sleep well in my arms.”

  At dawn a servant roused Everard—apologizing, flattering all the while—and took him away to a hot bath. Soap was for the future, but a sponge and a pumice stone scrubbed his skin, and afterward the servant gave him a rubdown with fragrant oil and a deft shave. He met the guards officers, then, for a meager breakfast and lively conversation.

  “I’m going off duty today,” proposed a man among them. “What say we ferry over to Usu, friend Eborix? I’ll show you around. Later, if daylight remains, we can go for a ride outside the walls.” Everard wasn’t sure whether that would be on donkeyback or, more swiftly if less comfortably, in a war chariot. To date, horses were almost always draught animals, too valuable for any purposes but combat and pomp.

  “Many thanks,” the Patrolman answered. “First, though, I’ve need to see a woman called Sarai. She works in the steward’s department.”

  Brows lifted. “What,” scoffed a soldier, “do you Northerners prefer grubby housekeepers to the king’s choice?”

  What a gossipy village the palace is, Everard thought. I’d better restore my reputation fast. He sat straight, cast a cold look across the table, and growled, “I am present at the king’s behest, to conduct inquiries that are no concern of anybody else’s. Is that clear, gossoon?”

  “Oh, yes, oh, yes! I did but jest, noble sir. Wait, I’ll go find somebody who’ll know where she is.” The man scrambled from his bench.

  Guided to an offside room, Everard had a few minutes alone. He spent them reflecting upon his sense of urgency. Theoretically, he had as much time as he wanted; if need be, he could always double back, provided he took care to keep people from seeing him next to himself. In practice, that entailed risks acceptable only in the worst emergencies. Besides the
chance of starting a causal, loop that might expand out of control, there was the possibility of something going wrong in the mundane course of events. The likelihood of that would increase as the operation grew more long-drawn” and complex. Then too, he had a natural impatience to get on with his job, complete it, nail down the existence of the world that begot him.

  A dumpy figure parted the door curtain. Sarai knelt before him. “Your adorer awaits her lord’s bidding,” she said in a slightly uneven voice.

  “Rise,” Everard told her. “Be at ease. I want no more than to ask a question or two of you.”

  Her eyelids fluttered. She blushed to the end of her large nose. “Whatever my lord commands, she who owes him so much shall strive to fulfill.”

  He understood she was being neither slavish nor coquettish. She neither invited nor expected forwardness on his part. Once she had made her sacrifice to the goddess, a pious Phoenician woman stayed chaste. Sarai was simply, humbly grateful to him. He felt touched.

  “Be at ease,” he repeated. “Let your mind roam free. On behalf of the king, I seek knowledge of certain men who once visited his father, late in the life of glorious Abibaal.”

  Her gaze widened. “Master, I can scarcely have been born.”

  “I know. But what of older attendants? You must know everybody on the staff. A few might remain who served in those days. Would you inquire among them?”

  She touched brow, lips, bosom, the sign of obedience. “Since my lord wills it.”

  He passed on what scant information he had. It disturbed her. “I fear—I fear naught will come of this,” she said. “My lord must have seen how much we make of foreigners. If any were as peculiar as that, the servants would talk about them for the rest of their days.” She smiled wryly. “After all, we’ve no great store of newness, we menials within the palace walls. We chew our gossip over and over again. I think I would have heard about those men, were anybody left who remembered them.”

  Everard cursed to himself in several languages. Looks like I’ll have to go back to Usu in person, twenty-odd years ago, and scratch around—regardless of the danger of my machine getting detected by the enemy and alerting him, or me getting killed. “Well,” he said, strained, “ask anyway, will you? If you learn nothing, that won’t be your fault.”