Poseidon's Spear (Long War 3)

by Christian Cameron

  I brought him a cup of wine. ‘Good ship,’ I said.

  He beamed. ‘She is, isn’t she?’ he said.

  By the morning of the third day, Sittonax had his bearings, and he drew me a chart in the sand while the oarsmen scrubbed the hull clean.

  ‘We came through the Pillars of Heracles,’ he said, an eyebrow raised, ‘as you call them, here.’

  I nodded.

  He drew a box. ‘Iberia. As I understand it from Tertikles.’

  I shrugged. No one at Marsala had ever been able to draw us even the vaguest chart of the world outside the Pillars.

  ‘We’re in this deep bay,’ he said, drawing me the point where the north-western edge of the box intersected a long line he’d drawn with his stick that ran north to south. ‘Somehow we ran all the way down this bay.’ He shrugged.

  Not a sailor. I knew exactly how it had happened. I just kept sailing east, expecting to find the coast of Iberia, and it kept escaping us.

  ‘Those mountains,’ he pointed to the long line in the south, ‘are northern Iberia.’

  ‘We sailed all the way round Iberia?’ I asked. I’m a scientific sailor, but sometimes you just have to believe that Poseidon sends you where he wants you to go.

  He shrugged again. ‘Tertikles says that there is a Phoenician trading post – south and west, four days’ rowing.’

  I grunted. ‘You think we could just sail in and trade for tin?’ I asked. Sittonax shrugged. ‘No idea. But Tertikles wants to know if you’d like to join him in attacking it.’

  ‘Attacking it?’ I must have looked foolish.

  Now, let’s remember, my young friends – I had been a pirate. But by this time, I’d lived for years – years – on my own work and my own production and trade. It makes me smile, but at the time, I believe I thought myself too mature to engage in such foolishness.

  ‘Oh, I don’t recommend it, but he insisted I ask you,’ the Kelt said. ‘For my part, the Venetiae are farther up this coast – maybe six days’ rowing. They’ll have tin.’

  ‘Are they your people?’ I asked.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Do you know them?’ I asked.

  ‘We trade with them, everyone does. They have the ships. They go to Alba. They control all the tin.’ He looked the way a man does trapped in an argument with a small child.

  ‘Will they want our copper or our wine?’ I asked.

  Sittonax shrugged. ‘How would I know?’ he answered.

  That night, we sat down to dinner in the lord’s hall. I met his sister, who was a year or two older than he – perhaps thirty. She was not beautiful, but rather strong-featured – a long, horsey face, strong teeth, a marvellous laugh. She had heavy bones like an athlete, and she was as tall as I am and perhaps as strong, too. I’d never seen a Greek woman who looked like her.

  And yet I find I do her injustice. She was slim-waisted and wide-hipped and had deep breasts – just in a larger, stronger way than Greek women. She didn’t have an ounce of fat on her. And her face looked . . . ungentle. When she laughed, which was often, she laughed with the abandon with which men laugh.

  But the longer I watched her, and the other Keltoi, the more I saw how different their women were. By the second night, their boldness had become proverbial with my crew – both for their straightforward propositions, and for forceful management when displeased. Thugater, that’s a nice way of saying that when a Kelt woman didn’t like the way you treated her, she had a way of punching you in the head.

  And the gentlewomen – the aristocrats – all wore knives. They used them to eat, but they were not eating knives. Or so it appeared to me.

  At any rate, her name was Tara, or close enough. She was far from beautiful, I suppose, but I wanted her the moment my eyes fell on her, and I suspected that the feeling was mutual. But she was the lord’s sister, and that meant I needed to be careful.

  Still, I taught her to play knucklebones our way, which was rather different from theirs. And she caught me peering down her marvellous cleavage, and she laughed. A Greek girl might have blushed, might have simpered; might have met my eyes for a moment and glanced away. Might have fled the room or gone stony cold, too. But she met my eye and roared.

  When her brother came and sat with us, and Sittonax joined us, we could converse a little.

  I have no idea what we talked about, but Sittonax became bored very quickly. Who wants to interpret for someone else’s flirting? I mean, really.

  Tertikles leaned in, then, and spoke vehemently – so strongly that I thought I was getting the ‘this is my sister’ lecture.

  But she looked at me, licked her lips and nodded enthusiastically.

  So I met her eye. She had wonderful, lively, expressive eyes. She was a person for whom the world was a fine place.

  Sittonax looked at me. ‘The lord just made a speech, and I’ll say that he proposes – formally, and with a vow – that we go and attack the trading post.’ Sittonax sat back. ‘He’s very serious.’

  I’d had all day to think about it. I knew that Doola would be against it, but the rest of my people would probably go along with it. Especially the six ‘marines’ I’d picked up from Demetrios of Phocaea. And we had nothing to show for our adventures so far but bruises and welts. Nor were we well-found enough to trade; I’d learned that. It was a bitter lesson.

  ‘What do they have in the way of defences?’ I asked.

  Sittonax raised an eyebrow at me. Again, I have to note that none of these people, except my marines, knew me as Arimnestos, Killer of Men. They knew me as Arimnestos, sometime merchant-captain and bronze-smith.

  Tertikles grinned. He made a short speech, his arms moving dramatically.

  Sittonax looked at me. ‘He says that nothing will stand before his sword.’

  About that time, Tara punched her brother in the arm.

  They glared at each other.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Tell him that I’d be happy to join him, but I’m a greasy, wily Greek and I require things like scouting, surprise and a plan – as well as an agreement on division of the spoils – before I’d think of risking my ship. And what ship does he have?’

  After some further discussion, Sittonax sat back, disgusted. ‘He thought we could all ride in our ship,’ he said. ‘He said many interesting things. The Phoenicians have raided this place twice in the last ten years, for slaves. Their father died fighting the Phoenicians. So he has every reason.’

  I nodded. I was looking at the crowd of my men and the locals who were eating communally, all intermixed. I was trying to catch Doola’s eye, but he was gazing into the eyes of a blond Kelt woman and didn’t seem to know I existed. Seckla watched him with undisguised jealousy.

  Well, other people have complex lives, too.

  Tertikles spoke again, waving his arms.

  Tara watched him when he spoke, and then went back to watching me.

  ‘How many warriors does he have?’ I asked.

  Sittonax nodded. He asked.

  After a heated conversation, Sittonax turned back to me, his face flushed.

  ‘He claims a thousand.’ He shrugged. ‘I think a hundred would be more like it. He’s a hothead.’

  This from you? I remember thinking. Sittonax had never had a practical thought in his life. He lived to eat, drink, fight and make love.

  I caught Vasileos’s eye, and he came up to the head of the hall. He looked embarrassed. It’s funny what you remember. I never found out why. Who knows what the Kelt girl asked him? Or did. Hah! They were forward, and I saw them do things that I’d put weals on your back for, thugater. No, I won’t tell you.

  Fine. I’ll tell you one. Kelt girls would, ahem, measure a man. With a stick. And then giggle.

  No, you have to guess the rest for yourself.

  I’m just an old man. Leave me alone.

  At any rate, Vasileos came to join us, blushing like a virgin at a betrothal party. He sat beside me.

  ‘Could we build a ship he
re?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘I’d have to see the timber in the hills,’ he said. ‘But if the pines up there are as fine as the two outside the fort, I’d say yes. I have my tools.’

  ‘How long to build two more like Lydia?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘A month. I assume I will get all the help I need.’

  Sittonax was shaking his head. ‘You can’t be meaning to stay here a month.’

  ‘I’d like to give Amphitrite time to catch us up,’ I said. ‘And if he’ll trade two ships for a month’s food, and then some – well, we can go raiding with him.’

  Sittonax shook his head. ‘I want to get home,’ he said.

  ‘Want to get home rich?’ I asked.

  He kept shaking his head. ‘You don’t know my people well enough to do this, Arimnestos,’ he said. ‘Next week, Tertikles could be in love with a neighbour’s daughter – or a horse – and your project will be forgotten.’ He looked at Tara. ‘And there are other complications. He’s offering you his sister, in marriage. But it’s not that simple. I need to tell you some things about the Keltoi. He’s not her lord. She’s more like his queen.’

  ‘Just like that?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re impulsive,’ he admitted.

  ‘Tell her yes.’ I looked at her and winked.

  And that, as they say, was that.

  Marriage – at least, handfast marriage between mature adults – was a fairly informal affair, among the southern Keltoi. About a week later, we put our hands together over a copper cauldron of water, and her brother stirred honey into a poultice with a dagger of bronze that looked ancient. We both agreed – rather like farmers haggling over a cow – to certain conditions about how to raise any children, and under what conditions we’d part.

  It was not a permanent union. In fact, it was more like a trade bond, or an amphictyony, as we call it – a league and covenant between neighbours. An alliance. And by the time her brother had said the words, there was a stack of big spruce trees by the beach and Vasileos had the lower strakes split. Twenty slaves and a dozen Keltoi craftsmen worked with him, and Sittonax sat on a log, translating, bored out of his head and resentful.

  Our wedding night was great fun. The Keltoi are great ones for feasting – their notion of a symposium would recommend itself to the very richest Athenians – and our wedding feast was far more heroic than the ceremony itself. We drank and drank, and then my bride placed a hand on my thigh – very high on my thigh – and said, in beautifully accented Greek, ‘Stop drinking.’

  I almost spat out my wine.

  She roared with laughter. ‘Men – when they drink too much . . .’ she said, and made a motion with her finger that I shan’t repeat.

  Sittonax sat by me to translate. ‘I’ve tried to teach her some

  Greek,’ he admitted.

  ‘You speak well,’ I said to her.

  ‘Not many things,’ she said.

  ‘She knew some Greek before,’ Sittonax added.

  ‘Ah!’ I said. ‘From traders?’

  ‘Slaves,’ she said, and shrugged.

  Sittonax leaned forward. ‘You know she’s been married before,’ he said.

  ‘So?’ I said. ‘So have I.’

  ‘They’ve all died,’ he mentioned. ‘In battle. All of them.’

  ‘How many?’ I asked.

  ‘Six,’ he said.

  She met my eyes and smiled. ‘You are a great warrior,’ she said.

  ‘She’s practised that phrase a lot,’ Sittonax said.

  ‘I’ve been married before,’ I said.

  She smiled.

  ‘My wife died in childbirth,’ I said. Suddenly, I was crying.

  She wrapped me in her arms. ‘Bad,’ she said. She was warm and kind.

  I hadn’t cried in someone’s arms in a long time. And while some of my crewmen looked askance, none of the Keltoi so much as noticed. They’re a more hot-blooded race than Greeks, and they show their emotions.

  Later, we were alone. I won’t bore you with details.

  Hah! Maybe I will, later.

  A week later, and Tara and I knew each other better.

  I had never known a woman like her, and while I’m not sure I loved her, I liked her very well indeed. When she wanted to make love, she’d make love anywhere – in a field, in among the timbers of the new ships, on the mountainside where we cut the spruce logs, on our great bed in her brother’s hall. But I swiftly found that it was her decision, not mine.

  And there are tremendous advantages when you don’t really share a language. We never argued – we didn’t have enough words. And lack of language focuses you. I paid strict attention to her, and she to me. So I knew when she was annoyed, when she was delighted, when she was frustrated.

  She was a good companion – the more so, as she was just as good a companion when we went up in the hills to cut more spruce as she was when we were using axes to cut; when we gathered firewood; when we swam; when we cooked. It’s not that she was manly. It took me months in her company to put a name to it.

  She was free.

  But I’ll talk more about that later. I like to tell these stories in order, and so I’ll say that after we’d filled the beach with spruce trees stacked like kindling, hauled by heavy horses unlike anything I’d seen in Greece, we took council with Tertikles and his steward, with Doola who was besotted with a Kelt girl and scarcely able to think straight and with Sittonax, who wore a permanent scowl. It was a disjointed, spiritless meeting. Only Tertikles, Tara and I were interested.

  In the end, I decided to take Lydia south and west, looking for the Phoenician port. Tara decided to come with me. I had a notion, too, that I might come across Demetrios and the rest of my friends. If they were alive, they were probably well to the south.

  That seemed fine. Sittonax elected to come with us as well, and Doola stayed with Vasileos. Seckla came with me.

  And off we went, into the Great Blue.

  It’s funny what you don’t think of.

  A day up the coast from Oiasso, and we hit a two-day storm. I had no Vasileos to rely on. It’s an interesting facet of command – the ways you take the load off. I knew that I wasn’t the best sea officer, and that I relied on Vasileos to take care of some of the routine ship-handling. But when I planned a four-day scout to the south, it didn’t seem that important that he wasn’t coming.

  We didn’t have Lydia off the beach before I missed him.

  And the ship’s name, Lydia. What had possessed me? Married to Tara, and a day at sea, and she asked me – between bouts of vicious seasickness – what the ship’s name meant.

  ‘Lie-dya,’ she said.

  ‘What is it?’ Sittonax grinned mirthlessly.

  She’s a woman I abandoned without marrying in my last port of call, I thought.

  ‘It’s a woman’s name,’ I said.

  Tara spat over the side. ‘What woman?’ she asked.

  I made some noises. ‘A woman I knew,’ I said. It sounded weak even as the words left the fence of my teeth.

  ‘Wife?’ she asked, in a matter-of-fact voice.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Ah,’ she said.

  I let it go, and counted myself lucky.

  I was still young, and I didn’t know much.

  Tara’s seasickness went on and on. After a two-day blow that nearly killed us – it’s not much of a story, and I don’t wish to bore you – we found the coast again, sailed south for two days, and landed – at Oiasso. How Tertikles laughed!

  We took on more water, more smoked pork, and sailed again. This time we sailed due east for a day with a perfect breeze, and made camp on an empty beach. Within an hour my marines were calling out, and a dozen locals approached carefully to sell us lobster and fish.

  They weren’t Keltoi and they weren’t Greeks, and we didn’t have anyone who could speak to them. They had an odd language, with grunts and clicks, or so it sounded to me. The men had heavy heads and muscles, and the women seemed about the same, t
o be honest.

  Tara eyed them warily. ‘Bask,’ she said. She spoke rapidly to Sittonax.

  ‘She says they are all witches, and we should be wary,’ he said.

  We were wary. We kept a good guard, but we ate their fish and paid in copper, and sailed away uninjured.

  The next day there was no wind to speak of, and we rowed. Tara seemed disappointed when I rowed, but then she stripped off her linen shirt and took the oar across from mine.

  The oarsmen whooped.

  Tara grinned.

  I’ll tell you, short of having Heracles and Orpheus in your crew, a good-looking woman rowing with breasts bared does a great deal for morale. I’m not sure it wasn’t the fastest rowing I’ve ever seen. It tired the men, but then, none of them would admit he was tired, which was useful in itself.

  I rowed for a long time. I wanted my people to see I was with them, not just commanding them. They’d put up with two weeks of my aping the manners of the Keltoi aristocracy. I felt they needed proof I could still row. And I wanted proof I was getting my body back. Damn Dagon – he had nearly broken me, and a year, more, of exercise, rowing, sword practice and boxing had still not restored me to the level I’d been at when I fought at Marathon.

  Damn him indeed.

  So I rowed. And the next day, I rowed again.

  Tara rowed every time I rowed. Well, as I say, that had positive benefits, but I realized that she would not stop until I stopped, and her arms and shoulders were strong – but not as strong as mine.

  The second day, when we put our clothes back on – it was high summer, and I rowed naked – Tara pulled me by the arm. ‘Did she row as well as I?’ she asked.

  ‘Row?’ I asked. ‘Who?’

  ‘Lydia!’ she spat. ‘Did she row?’

  Uh-oh.

  Fourth day at sea, and the coast of Iberia, which had been like the broken teeth of an old man to our south, suddenly vanished. I turned from easterly to full south, and found the coast again after two panicked hours of raising and lowering sail. We landed at a headland and spent a fruitless day prowling what proved to be a deep bay, but eventually we were rewarded with an Iberian fishing port which had three things we needed – men who spoke Keltoi, fresh water and hatred for the Phoenicians who were, it turned out, just across the bay at Elvina, a day’s row away. The Phoenicians and their local Iberian allies preyed relentlessly on Centrona, as our new friends called their village.