Poseidon's Spear (Long War 3) (24 page)

‘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, to 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.

We got water. We traded copper for silver – they mined silver in the hills. And we got expert sailing advice from the local fishermen, who offered to show us the Phoenician port. I took
two locals aboard who spoke Keltoi, and we rowed at their direction, coming up on the Phoenician post with the sun behind us, so we were invisible, or so we hoped.

If it was a trade post, it was a very small one. There was what had to be a warehouse – the largest building, all heavy wooden piles and bark walls, and a slave pen – I knew what
that was. Twenty huts, a single stone tower and a lighthouse.

And a warship drawn up on the beach.

Sittonax was tired of interpreting, and I was beginning to get the hang of the local Keltoi tongue and Tara was even better, so I talked to the fishermen through her.

‘How many soldiers?’ I asked.

Let’s just say it took us some time to define what I meant by soldier.

In the end we agreed that I meant
armed men
.

‘Twenty,’ he answered. ‘And more come in the ships.’

We crept north and west to stay out of sight, and then went ashore on the opposite side of the headland from the lighthouse, in case it was manned, and made our way up a long ridge that
dominated the settlement.

It was a long time since I’d done all these things. But let me tell you, friends, it came back like the feel of a good sword in your hand.

We spent the day high on the ridge, with a woven screen of brush in front of us – me, Tara, Sittonax and two fishermen, as well as Aeneas and Alexandros, my two most reliable marines.

The warship on the beach was being repaired. I was pretty sure she was the trireme we’d damaged off the Pillars of Heracles, because her starboard cathead was a mess and there were injured
men in the slave pen.

And the rowers were either slaves, or men treated as slaves.

‘We can take them now,’ I insisted to Sittonax.

He shrugged. ‘Fine,’ he said. But despite his bored face, he quivered with excitement.

Tara’s eyes sparkled.

‘Send to the ship and get everyone and have them arm,’ I said.

Tara made a moue. ‘What do you need them for?’ she asked. ‘Go and challenge their leader to single combat!’

Keltoi.

I grinned. ‘I have my own ways,’ I said.

We struck when the sun set, but the sky was still light. Working people would have been in bed.

I went straight for the tower. I had the marines and Sittonax and Tara, who had weapons and seemed to know how to use them. The eight of us would, I hoped, be enough.

Seckla led the oarsmen to open the slave pens and cow its occupants. Seckla had been a slave – I reckoned he’d be able to tell who might make a good ally among them.

Dogs barked and men shouted, and then I was up the ladder and in through the second-storey door to the stone tower. There was a man inside.

I killed him.

It had been some time. But the motions weren’t unfamiliar, and neither were the smells.

I held the door for about twenty heartbeats, and then Alexandros was next to me, and then we were among them. I expect about half of them got to weapons before the real killing started, but they
had neither armour nor shields, and their bedmates helped us a great deal. Girls – and boys – pinned the ankles of men, or trapped their hands, or simply kicked them from behind.

All told, it didn’t take long. We slaughtered the guards and stormed the tower. There was a family living on the top floor – the only actual Phoenicians in the whole complex.
I’m proud to say that we took them prisoner. The Keltoi don’t rape, by and large, and Tara – whose right arm was covered in blood to the elbow – took the women and turned
towards Seckla, who grinned and saluted her.

And that was that. The curly-bearded overseer’s life wouldn’t have been worth a brass obol had I let go of him, but he knew the
mathematika
of his situation the moment I
took him, and he babbled out where the ship’s crew was and his store of silver.

‘Six marines! And the trireme’s deck crew!’ I shouted to my men.

‘Follow me!’

But sometimes, the gods smile. I’d missed them sneaking in – they’d been quartered in a barn beyond the slave pens, and the trireme’s helmsman had a house by the huts,
but when Seckla freed the slaves – well, they tore the helmsman limb from limb. Which wasn’t what I’d have wanted. A man who really
knew
these waters would have been a
priceless asset.

Otherwise, it was all easy.

I sent Seckla to fetch
Lydia
around the point. We’d exterminated the opposition, and we didn’t have to hurry.

We examined the stores of the little post. They were ample. The Phoenicians collected taxes from the whole district, even while taking their people as slaves. I suspect we’d have been
quite popular if we’d stayed, but on the other hand, it was always possible the locals would see us as more of the same.