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The Achaeans hadn't based their whole economy on this sort of robotized forced labor. Slavery was a common institution, but societies based on slavery were rare. You had to develop elaborate control mechanisms to hold so many adult males in bondage; it just didn't pay, usually, except to mobilize labor for new uses or new lands.
A pair of green-uniformed guards went by, shotguns over their backs and billy clubs tapping against their boots; ex-slaves themselves. Walker had made it possible-not easy, but possible-for the ambitious to get manumission; that provided a safety valve and skimmed off natural leaders.
So he's a smart sociopathic scumbag.
He certainly hadn't expected John Martins to be here; all the reports agreed that he and his wife had been kidnapped by Walker back when he hijacked the Yare. They found the blacksmith telling two collarless men to lead away half a dozen with the iron rings around their necks.
"Hey, Professor," Martins said, holding out his hand. "Good to see you, man-I mean, like, it's a bummer you got to be here, but it's, like, maximum coolness for me."
Arnstein ignored the outstretched hand. Martins was in his late fifties and also tall and lanky, and balding on top. That was about the only point of resemblance; the other man's tie-dyed T-shirt and jeans and sandals, the tiny gra
"I didn't expect to find you buying slaves, John," he said quietly.
Martins's hand clenched, and the sad russet-brown eyes blinked. "You ain't been here in Mordor for ten years, man," he said, his voice equally soft. "I buy these guys so I can teach 'em and set 'em free, dude. And Barbs teaches the chicks. We've got a good hundred people between us might have been in the mines or the fucking arena without us, man!"
Arnstein felt a rush of shame. "Sorry," he said, holding out his own hand. Martins's closed on it with careful strength. "People change, you know."
"Yeah, man, I do," Martins said. He looked at Odikweos. The Achaean nodded.
"These guards speak nothing but Achaean," he said. "They are my men, also."
He turned and walked away.
Oh, yeah, Arnstein thought Yup, I've got plenty of chances to escape-with six professional soldiers guarding me, and hundreds of miles of enemy territory between me and our forces, and Mittler's goons longing to start pulling my toenails out-or hold my head underwater, if they don't want marks. And me a sixty-something desk jockey. Yup.
"C'mon, man," Martins said.
They walked out into the cool sunlight The men Martins had bought and an equal number of young women sat in a buckboard hitched to two mules; some of them looked stu
"Rivendell," Marlins said proudly.
Rivendell, California, Arnstein thought. There are places like this up in the hills, or there were.
He fought back the disorienting onset of post-Event-Syndrome once again; There were a half dozen low bungalow-style adobe buildings with wood-pillared porches, a barn, footpaths, a wooden water race turning a couple of small watermills, corrals and truck gardens… including one that looked very much like a patch of genuine weed. A smell of baking bread, hot iron, oil, and burning charcoal drifted down to them.
"Walker only let me out from under a little while ago," Martins said. "Till then I was, you know, working for the Man mostly. But I've been building this up for a while. Gotta have your own space here, man, or your head can get completely fucked up."
He pushed the small glasses back up his nose, a gesture that Arnstein copied without thinking of it, like a reflex yawn.
"So I got this place going. Sort of, like, a commune, you know? A couple of the guys I've taught stay on, and some of the chicks and their kids. The others out working on their own mostly chip in to pay us back, so we can do right by some more poor types. Gotta have the bread to pay off the ores."
The wagon pulled up, and a swarm of children came ru
A hippie squire. Now I've seen everything, Arnstein thought, dazed, as he was brought inside to a big kitchen, all whitewashed walls, copper pots and pans, and scrubbed-oak boards. The floor was brown tile, and one wall held a hand-painted mandala, hypnotic and beautiful.
"That's Barbs's work," Martins said, indicating it. "Groovy, hey?"
A comfortable-looking woman in her forties wearing an Achaean gown and a complex of painted scarves gave Arnstein a motherly hug. "Good to see an American again," she said, and pushed him down on a bench. "Hey, you don't get into my kitchen without eating."
She brought him a cup of hot herbal tea and a big bowl of…
"Granola?" he said. "This is really granola?"
"Sure, man-nuts, raisins, whole grains, natural sugars from honey," Martins said, blinking in surprise. "Keeps the minerals and fiber right. Ain't anyone making it on Nantucket? Hey, Barbs, we gotta lay on a big feed for the professor tonight. He's been having a pretty crappy trip; let's give him a good time before he has to go back to Sauronopolis."
The matronly woman in the long colored scarves nodded. "I'll get the barbeque going," she said. "We'll have the welcome-home party for the new folks at the same time." She bustled out.
Arnstein put a spoonful of the cereal in his mouth; the milk turned out to be fairly thick cream.
"Ah… John," he said, after a moment. "It is good to see you again. But why did Odikweos leave us together?"
"Oh, he ain't such a bad guy," Martins said. "You gotta take account of the state of the karmic evolutionary balance."
"Huh?" Arnstein heard himself say. I will recover my mental balance. I really will.
"Well, I mean, it stands to reason, man. See, everyone's going up or down the ladder, right? So back here in this cycle, most of the people haven't had as much time to get up or down the scale-so you don't get many people as good as say, Martin Luther King or Christ or the Buddha, and you don't get many as bad as, like, Nixon. Or Walker," he added with a grimace.
"Ah… that's logical," Arnstein said. "Ah… no offense, John, but you do realize you're still helping Walker?"
Martins laughed. "Hey, Professor, what do you think me and my guys make? We put on horseshoes, man, and repair plows, and make harrows. And we make ornamental stuff, wrought-iron grilles and gates. And yeah, I make swords and knives, like I did for the SCA and collectors back home. We make good swords; but these Achaeans, they aren't going to conquer nobody with swords, man."
Well, you've got a point, Arnstein thought, then felt something nudge his hand. He looked down.
Martins had pushed a small scrap of paper across to him. On it were a string of numbers and letters intermixed. He held it there long enough for the other man to read, then picked it up, produced a leather pouch, tapped out a brownish-green mass and rolled a cigarette with swift, deft fingers. That he lit from a candle on the table and took a long deep breath, holding it.