The Boat of a Million Years

by Poul Anderson

  Hairan looked up. Tears ran into his beard. “I fear he is dying, mother,” he said.

  “I know.” She knelt, brushed his hands aside, laid her arms about Barikai and her cheek on her man’s bosom. She heard, she felt the life go away.

  Rising, she closed his eyes and tried to wipe his face. The physician arrived. “I can see to that, my lady,” he offered.

  She shook her bead. “I will lay him out,” she answered. “It is my right.”

  “Fear not, mother,” Hairan said unevenly. “I will provide well for you—you shall have a peaceful old age—“ The words trailed off. He stared, as did the physician and the slaves. Barikai, caravan master, had not reached his full threescore and ten, but he seemed as if he had, hair mostly white, visage gaunt, muscles shriveled over the bones. His widow who stood above him could have been a woman of twenty springtimes.

  4

  Unto Hairan the wine merchant was born a grandson, and great was the rejoicing in his house. The feast that he and the father gave for kinfolk and friends lasted far into the night. Aliyat withdrew early from the women’s part of it, into the rear of the building where she had a room. No one thought ill of this; after all, however much respect her years entitled her to, they were a burden.

  She did not seek rest as everybody supposed. Once alone, she straightened her back and changed her shuffling gait. Fast, supple, she went out a back door. The voluminous black garments that disguised her figure billowed with her haste. Her head was covered as usual, which hid the blackness of her locks. Family and servitors often remarked on bow amazingly youthful her face and hands were; but now she lowered a veil.

  She passed a slave going about his duties, who recognized her but simply made salutation. He would not babble about what he had seen. He too was old, and knew that one must bear with the old if sometimes they grow a trifle strange.

  The night air was blessedly cool and fresh. The street was a gut of shadow, but her feet knew every stone and she found her way easily to the Colonnade. Thence she strode toward the agora. A full moon had cleared surrounding roofs. Its brilliance hid the stars close to it, though lower down they swarmed and sparkled. The pillars lifted white. Her footfalls slithered loud in the silence. Most folk were abed.

  She took some risk, but it was slight. Mostly, the city guards had continued under the Persians to maintain law and order. Once she hid behind a column while a squad tramped past. Their pikeheads sheened like liquid in the moonlight. Had they seen her, they might well have insisted on bringing her home—unless they took her for a harlot, which would have led to questions for which she lacked answers.

  “Why do you prowl about after dark?” She could not say, she did not know, yet she must get away for a while or else begin screaming.

  This was not the first such time.

  At the Street of the Marketers she turned south. The grace of the theater fountained upward on her right. On her left, the portico and wall around the agora lay ghostly under the moon. She had heard that they were but fragments of what formerly was, before desperate men quarried them for fortification material as the Romans closed in on Zenobia. That suited her mood. She passed through an unbarred gateway onto the broad plaza.

  Remembrance of its liveliness by day made it feel all die more empty. Statues of former high officials, military commanders, senators, and, yes, caravan leaders ringed it in like sentinels around a necropolis. Aliyat walked through the moonlight to the center and stopped. Her heartbeat and breath were the only sounds she heard.

  “Miriamne, Mother of God, I thank you—“ The words died on her lips. They were as hollow as the place where she stood, they would be mockery did she finish them.

  Why was she barren of gladness and gratitude? A son had been born to the son of her son. The life that was in Barikai lived on. Could she call his dear shade out of the night, surely it would be smiling.

  A shudder went through her. She could not raise the memory. His face had become a blur; she had words for its lineaments, but no vision any-longer. Everything receded into the past, her loves died and died and died, and God would not let her follow them.

  She should praise Him with song, that she was hale and whole, untouched by age. How many, halt, gnarled, toothless, half blind, afire with pain, longed for death’s mercy? Whereas she— But the fear of her gathered year by year, the glances askance, whispers, furtive signs against evil. Hairan himself saw in the mirror his gray hair and lined brow, and wondered about his mother; she knew, she knew. She held as much apart as she could, not to remind her kin, and understood what an unspoken conspiracy was theirs, to avoid speaking of her before outsiders. And so she became the outsider, the one forever alone.

  How could she be a great-grandmother, she in whose loins burned lust? Was that why she was punished by this, or what dreadful childhood sin of hers had she forgotten?

  The moon moved onward, the stars turned their wheel. Slowly, something of heaven’s bleak tranquility came to her. She started homeward. She would not surrender. Not yet.

  5

  The war devoured a generation, but in the end Heraklios prevailed. He drove the Persians before him until they sued for peace. Two-and-twenty years after they left, the Romans re-entered Tadmor.

  On their heels was a new resident, Zabdas, a dealer in spices from Emesa. That was a somewhat larger city, nearer the seaboard, therefore wealthier and more closely governed. Zabdas’ family firm had an affiliate in Tadmor. After the chaos of battle and the latest change of overlords it needed reorganization, a cunning hand on the reins and a shrewd eye out for such opportunities as might appear. He arrived and took charge. That required making acquaintances, alliances, among local people. He was handicapped in this by being newly widowed, and therefore soon began looking for a wife.

  Nobody told Aliyat about him, and indeed when he first visited Hairan it was on business. The dignity of the house, the guest, and herself required that she be among the women who bade him welcome before the men supped. Out of sheer rebelliousness, or so she vaguely thought, she left off her shapeless grandam’s clothes and dressed in modest but becoming wise. She saw his startlement on learning who she was; eyes met eyes; a thrill that she fought to control went through her. He was a short man of about fifty, but erect, alert, the white hairs few and the visage well-molded. They exchanged ritual courtesies. She went back to her room.

  Though she often found it hard to pluck a single memory out of the multitude that crowded her, certain experiences repeated themselves frequently enough that she gained skill from them. She could well read the meaning of Hairan’s glances when he thought she didn’t notice, the words he spoke to her and the words he did not. She could sense a rising current of excitement in the wives and slaves, even the older children. Her sleep became broken, she paced and paced or stole out by dark, the comfort that she had sometimes found in books now vanished.

  It was no surprise when at length Hairan asked her to see him privately. That was in winter’s early night, after most of the household had gone to bed. He admitted her when she knocked, escorted her to a cushioned stool, sat down cross-legged on the rug behind a table on which stood wine, dates, cakes.

  For a space there was quiet. Bronze lamps sheened in the light that their flames threw soft. It picked out floral patterns of frescos, reds and blues and browns of carpet, the folds of his robe and the furrows in his face. He was wholly gray and had grown a pot belly. He blinked dimsightedly at her slimness. The brocade of green and gold that she had chosen lay close over curves; above her head covering, a wreath of gold wire enclosed the clear brows.

  “Will you take refreshment, mother?” he invited finally, very low.

  “Thank you.” She reached for a goblet. The wine glowed on her tongue. Drink and food, those were comforts too. They had not lost their savor as she aged, nor had she become fat.

  “You should not thank me.” He looked away. “It is my duty to provide for your well-being.”

  “You have been a dutiful son.
”

  “I have tried my best.” In a rush, never meeting her gaze: “You, though, you are unhappy with us. True? I am not blind or deaf so far, not quite. You seldom if ever complain, but I cannot help knowing.”

  She commanded her body to be still, her voice to be level: “True. No fault of yours, nor of anyone else.” She must force herself to hurt him. “I daresay you feel you are a young man trapped in flesh growing old. Well, I am an old woman trapped in flesh that stays young. Why this is, only God knows.”

  He twined fingers together. “You are—how old? Threescore and ten? Well, some people do carry their years well and reach great ages. If you lived for a hundred years in good health, it would not be unheard of. May God grant you do so.” She marked how he evaded mention of the fact that except for teeth showing wear she bore no trace of the time that had passed.

  Let her encourage him to say what he intended to say. “You will understand how my uselessness makes me restless.”

  “It need not!” burst from him. He lifted his eyes. She saw sweat on his skin. “Hark. Zabdas, a respectable man, a merchant, has asked for your hand in marriage.”

  I knew this, she thought; and aloud: “I know whom you speak of,” She said naught about the cautious inquiries she had contrived to make. “But he and I met just a single time.”

  “He has queried people about you, and talked repeatedly with me, and— He is, I say, an honorable man, well off and with excellent prospects for the future, a widower in need of a wife. He realizes that you are older than him, but feels this is no barrier. He has children grown, grandchildren coming, what he wants is a helpmate. Believe me, I have made sure of this.”

  “Do you wish the union, Hairan?” Aliyat asked quietly.

  She sipped while he stuttered, fumbled with his goblet, looked to and fro, before he said, “I would never compel you, mother. It simply appears to me ... it may be in your best interests. I will not deny, he offers certain business agreements that would ... help. My enterprise has fallen on hard times.”

  “I know.” He showed surprise. Aliyat whetted her tone: “Did you think me blind or deaf? I worked closely with your father, Hairan, as you never let me work with you.”

  “I—mother, I did not mean—”

  She laughed a little. “Oh, you have been as kindly as you know how. Let us put such things behind us. Tell me more.”

  6

  The wedding and the celebration that followed were an occasion small, almost subdued. Finally the bride was escorted to the groom’s bedchamber and left with a maidservant.

  The room was not large, its walls merely whitewashed, its furnishings austere. Some garlands had been hung around it. A screen blocked off one comer. A three-branched candelabrum gave light. Laid across the bed were two nightgowns.

  Aliyat knew she was expected to change into hers. Mutely, she let the attendant help her. She and Barikai had frolicked naked, with wicks burning bright. Well, times changed, or perhaps it was people who differed. She had been too long cut off from gossip to say.

  When she stood briefly unclad, Zabdas’ slave cried: “But my lady is beautiful!”

  Aliyat stroked hands down her flanks. The touch tingled. She barely stopped short of her groin. Tonight she would again know the true pleasure that had haunted her for— how many years? She smiled. “Thank you.”

  “I, I heard you were old,” the girl stammered.

  “I am.” Aliyat’s manner imposed fear and silence.

  She had an hour or two by herself in bed. Thoughts tumbled through her head, out of control. Now and then she shivered. At least her days in the house of her son had been predictable. That, though, was what had become the horror of them.

  She sat up with a start when Zabdas entered. He closed the door behind him and stood for a moment watching her. In festival garb, he was ... dapper. Her gown was of rather thick material, loosely cut, but her bosom swelled it outward. “You are more fair than I knew,” he said in his careful way.

  She lowered her lashes. “I thank my lord,” she replied around the tightness in her throat.

  He advanced. “Still, you are a woman of discretion, with the wisdom of your years,” he said. “Such a one do I require.” He halted before the icon of St. Ephraem Syrus that was the chamber’s sole fixed ornament and crossed himself. “Grant us a satisfactory life together,” he prayed.

  Taking his nightshirt, he went behind the screen. She saw how neatly he hung his clothes over the top. When he returned dressed for sleep, he bent over, cupped a hand behind each candle in turn, and blew them out. He got into bed with his usual economy of motion.

  He is my husband, pulsed in Aliyat. He is my liberation. Let me be good to him.

  She reached out. Her arms enclosed, her mouth went seeking. “What?” Zabdas exclaimed. “Be at ease. I shall not hurt you.”

  “Do, if you like.” She pressed against him. “How may I please you?”

  “Why, why— This is— Kindly lie still, my lady. Remember your years.”

  She obeyed. Sometimes she and Barikai had enjoyed playing master and slave. Or youth and whore. She felt Zabdas raise himself to an elbow. His free hand tugged at her gown. She pulled it up and spread her thighs. He climbed between. He rested his full weight on her, which Barikai had not, but then Zabdas was much lighter. She reached to guide him. Briskly, he took care of that himself, grasped her breasts through the cloth, and thrust. He did not seem to notice how her arms and legs clasped him. It was quickly over.

  He got off and lay until his breathing was again even. She could barely see him as a deeper shadow in the night. He sounded troubled: “How wet you were. You have the body of a young woman, as well as the face.”

  “For you,” she murmured.

  Through the mattress she felt him tauten. “What is your age in truth?” So Hairan had avoided saying it outright; but Zabdas had perhaps avoided asking.

  Fourscore and one, she knew. “I have never kept count,” was the safest reply. “But there has been no deception, my lord. I am Hairan’s mother. I ... was quite young when I bore him, and you have seen that I carry my years better than most.”

  “A wonder.” His voice was fiat.

  “Uncommon. A blessing. I am unworthy, but—“ It must out: “My courses have not yet ended. I can bear you children, Zabdas.”

  “This is—“ He searched for a word. “Unexpected.”

  “Let us thank God together.”

  “Yes. We should. But now best we sleep. I have much to do in the morning.”

  7

  To Zabdas came the caravan master Nebozabad. They must discuss a proposed shipment to Dannesek. A journey of that length could no longer be lightly undertaken. News was too ominous, of the Arabian onslaught against Persia and threat to New Rome.

  The merchant received his guest well, as he did all who were of consequence, and bade him dine. Aliyat insisted on serving them with her own hands. As they sat over their dessert, Zabdas excused himself and was gone for a while. He suffered from an occasional flux of the bowels. Nebozabad waited alone.

  The room was the best furnished in the house, with embroidered red hangings, four seven-branched candelabra of gilt bronze, a table of teakwood carven in foliate patterns and inlaid with nacre, the ware upon it of silver or the finest glass. A pinch of incense hi a brazier made the air, on this warm eventide, a little cloying.

  Nebozabad looked up when Aliyat came in with a tray of fruits. She stopped across from him, in dark garments that muffled sight of more than hands, countenance, the big hazel eyes. “Sit down, my lady,” he urged.

  She shook her head. “That would be unseemly,” she answered in a near whisper.

  “Then I will stand.” He rose from his stool. “Far too long has it been since last I saw you. How fares it?”

  “Well enough.” She took on expression; her words leaped. “And how is it with you? Aiid Hairan and, oh, everybody? I hear very little.”

  “You do not see much of anyone, do you, my lady?”
<
br />   “My husband feels it would be ... indiscreet ... at my age. But how goes it, Nebozabad? Tell me, I beg you!”

  He repeated her phrase: “Well enough. Another grandchild born to him, a girl, have you heard? As for myself, I have two living sons and a daughter, by the grace of God. Business—“ He shrugged. “This is what I’ve come about.”

  “Is the danger from the Arabs great?”

  “I fear so.” He paused, tugged his beard. “In your days with master Barikai, may he be happy in Heaven, you knew everything that went on. You took a hand in it yourself.”

  She bit her lip. “Zabdas feels differently.”

  “I suppose he wishes to keep rumors down, and that is why he never has Hairan, or any kinsman of yours, here— Forgive me!” He had seen what crossed her features. “I should not pry. It’s only that, that you were my master’s lady when I was a boy, and ever gracious to me, and—“ His voice trailed off.

  “You are good to be concerned.” She jerked her head as if to keep it from drooping. “But I have fewer sorrows than many do.”

  “I heard your child died. I’m sorry.”

  She sighed. “That was last year. Wounds heal. We will try again.”

  “You have not already? No, again I spoke badly. Too much wine. Forgive me. Seeing how beautiful you still are, I thought—”

  She flushed. “My husband is not too old.”

  “Yet he— No. Aliyat, my lady, if ever you should need help—”

  Zabdas returned and she, having set down her tray, said good night and departed.

  8

  While Roman and Persian bled each other to exhaustion, afar in Makkah Muhammad ibn Abdallah saw visions, preached, must flee to Yathrib, prevailed over his enemies, gave his refuge the new name Medinat Rasul Allah, the City of the Apostle of God, and died as master of Arabia. His Khalifa, Successor, Abu Bekr suppressed rebellion and launched in earnest those holy wars that united the people and carried the faith out across the world.