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You couldn't expect Isketerol to look at it that way, of course. It was a dilemma without any easy solution; one for Heather and Lucy, and their children and great-grandchildren. And Isketerol's…
"So this war must continue, until you see that we are not to be bent to your will," Isketerol said soberly.
"You tried to bend us to yours," she pointed out.
"Of course," he said, with another flash of teeth, genuinely amused. "And I would have ruled Nantucket well-I know that honey catches more flies than vinegar. But it didn't work-I underestimated you. And I can learn a lesson as well as the next man, when it's shot at me out of a ca
"Most of the lessons life teaches us are surprises," she replied. "Usually unpleasant ones."
Isketerol nodded, and paused for a moment: "You took many prisoners this spring. What is their fate?"
"Some asked us for sanctuary," she said.
The Iberian made a gesture that Swindapa murmured was acceptance and acknowledgment. Many of the officers of that force had been from the old ruling families that Isketerol distrusted, a sentiment they shared.
"The mercenaries took service with us, and we have sent them to our allies in Kar-Duniash and Hattusas. The rest are on Long Island; they live together, lightly guarded but working as they will to earn their keep. When the war is over, we will send them home; you'll find many of them have learned useful skills."
Alston paused. "We have a number of your wounded from the latest battle; we'll return the badly hurt, if you wish. Men with limbs gone, or broken bones, deep hurts in their flesh. That would mean extending the truce, though… say to sundown, day after tomorrow."
"Ah," Isketerol said shrewdly. "You do not expect this war to continue long, if you return men who will fight once more in a few months."
"No, I don't," Alston said frankly.
"But in any case, that is well-done," he said meditatively, and stood in thought for a moment. "We have some of yours, who washed ashore after the battle off Tartessos-we will return them to you when you hand over our hurt men. And for this war, I will fight according to your Eagle People laws of battle-prisoners to be treated gently." A grin. "I have found this makes opponents less likely to fight to the death, in any case."
"Good." Alston cocked an eyebrow. "You'll find that many of our notions are more practical than you might think."
A long pause, and he surprised her by offering his hand. "Sundown, day after tomorrow-fighting to start again when a black thread ca
She took it, dry and strong in hers. "It seems it must. Sundown, day after tomorrow. And may God defend the right."
"You Amurrukan, you are… how do you say… weird."'
"I've often thought so," Alston agreed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
November, 10 A.E.-Walkeropolis, Kingdom of Great Achaea
October, 10 A.E.-Great River, southern Iberia
November, 10 A.E.-Walkeropolis, Kingdom of Great Achaea
November, 10 A.E.-Cadiz Base, southern Iberia
November, 10 A.E.-Great River, southern Iberia
November, 10 A.E.-West-central Anatolia
Odikweos's mansion was a mixture of Mycenaean tradition and Walker's i
He turned down an offer of a massage with scented olive oil, accepted a clean Mycenaean tunic and kilt which he suspected a seamstress had just run up in his size. Then he sat down to a meal of garlicky grilled pork, salad, and french fried potatoes accompanied by watered wine in a room with big glass windows that overlooked the town. It was growing dark outside, sunset aggravated by thicker cloud cover.
I wonder why Odikweos is doing this, he thought. Walker had ordered him given comfortable prison quarters, not the quasi-sacred status of a guest. Not that I'm objecting. Achaean mores had altered, and swiftly, here in Walker's kingdom, but he didn't think they'd altered so much that Walker could just chop him now without a major confrontation with one of his most important supporters. But I do wonder why. He was still trying to figure that out when the servants showed him into the megaron, the great central hall.
The old traditions of the Achaean barons remained strong here. A log fire boomed and flickered in a big central hearth rimmed with blue limestone blocks, scenting the air with pine; but a copper smoke-hood stood over it. Four massive wooden pillars supported a second-story gallery and ran up to the roof, painted red and surrounded by racked bronze-headed spears. Huge figure-eight shields were clamped to the wall at intervals. Between them ran vivid native murals; one of a man in a plumed boar's-tusk helmet shaking a spear aloft as his chariot galloped into battle; another of a boar hunt; the third of a city under siege… but the siege included stylized ca
The high seat against the southern wall was empty and shadowed as he crossed the geometric pebble-mosaic of the floor. The Achaean underking was seated in a chair not far from the hearth, his cloak thrown over the chairback; a table and another seat waited, splendid with ivory and gold inlay of lions and griffins in a fashion that was centuries old.
Odikweos leaned his chin on one fist and watched as a housekeeper in a long gown showed Arnstein to his seat, set out jugs of water and wine and spun-glass goblets, a tray of bread with olive oil and honey for dipping, and departed.
Then he leaned forward, hairy muscular forearm braced on one knee, and spoke:
"You are from the days that are yet to come. You and all your people."
Ian hid his startlement by reaching for a jug and pouring wine. Unwatered, it lay sweet and thick on his tongue. Well, here's a bright boy. Isketerol had gone into hysterics for a day or two when he got the idea back on-Island in the Year 1; a lot of people just couldn't grasp the concept.
"How did you find out?" he asked.
"I… what is your word… deduced it," Odikweos went on. "Not long after the King-to-be came here to the Achaean lands. From a few things he let drop; and my guest-friend Isketerol of Tartessos is not quite as good at keeping secrets as he thinks. Now and then one or the other would say, in the time of the Eagle People, or 'in my time,'' instead of 'my land.''
"Pretty slim clues," Arnstein said.
A shrug. "And it was sensible. Legends tell of a time before men knew of bronze or tilled the earth, and of a time before Zeus let slip the secret of fire. Our bards sing of the days when the Achaeans were new in these lands, coming down from the north to rule the Shore Folk and mix their blood with them; and in those days we knew not the arts of writing, or of dwelling in towns or building in stone. Those we learned from Crete, before we overran it."
For a moment sheer scholar's greed overwhelmed Ian Arnstein. Those poems I've got to hear! Then he wrenched his mind back to present matters.