Macroscope

“What lies to the east?”

“A huge continent.” Ivo sketched an exceedingly crude Asia.

“And where is Merica?”

“Across the sea to the west.” He began to sketch it in, leaving inadequate space for the width of the Atlantic because of the limitation of his map-surface.

“I see,” Mattan said as Ivo’s charcoal rounded the peninsula that would later be Florida. “And in what ma

Ivo took hold of himself and gave the only answer. “I flew.”

“And can you fly for me now?”

“No.”

“I see.” Mattan thought a bit more. “And do they speak Phoenician in America?”

“No.”

“How did you master it, then?”

“I don’t know. It just seemed to come to me when I needed it.”

“I see.” The two words became more ominous with each repetition, and this time the pause was very long. “You are, then, laying claim to the godhead?”

The godhead: the attributes of deity? Ivo wondered how far he could get by breaking and ru

“America is a land of gods, then.”

“No, no! It—” But how could he explain, to this intelligent yet so ignorant man? Here there were many gods, and they were no more supernatural than the One God of Christian times. Mattan’s suspicions were quite justified, by the standards of his age. Any further attempts to clarify the nature of the divine would merely make things worse.

“Were it not for your distinctive physical makeup and your cognizance of certain matters no local could know, I would brand you a champion prevaricator,” Mattan said. “As it is, I confess to certain doubts. Your misinformation is as intriguing as your information, and I ca

There was a silence.

“I think,” Mattan said at last, “that this is properly a matter for the priesthood.”

Ivo felt cold again, and the increasing hunger he had felt while watching Mattan eat departed abruptly. “I have spoken heresy?”

“By no means. You have not remarked at all on Melqart, and in any event your Merica appears to be beyond the dominion of our Baal. But since I seem to have exhausted the procedures available to me…”

If this were the final threat, it had become subtle again. There had been no further mention of sacrifice. “I suppose I could talk to your priests, though I can’t tell them anything I haven’t told you.”

“Excellent. My men will show you the way. I’m sure you will reach an understanding with Melqart, and perhaps complete unity.”

Ivo was not entirely satisfied with that phrasing, but he accompanied the two husky guards without explicit objection. He noticed that they, like every person he had seen here and aboard the ship, were shorter than he. He was a virtual giant in this city. Though he hardly thought of himself as the physical type, his superior size and weight would give him a certain advantage if trouble came.

These soldiers were better armed than the ones he had observed in Egypt, possessing vests of metal mesh and well-fitted low helmets, as well as long spears and sharp swords. Tucked in each stout belt was a wicked battle-axe.

Ivo had a second thought about his supposed physical advantage.

“Strange,” the guard on his right remarked as they entered the slender street. “I have never seen a lamb go to the sacrifice so calmly.” He spoke a different language from Phoenician, and Ivo realized with a start that these were conscripts from some other area, mercenaries who did not realize that he could understand their dialogue.

“Mattan probably told him he was going to witness the ceremony,” the other said. “And him already shorn!”

Ivo noticed now that both men were bearded — as had been Mattan. Why, then, had the visitor been so painstakingly shaved?

“Well, he’ll get a fine view — of the fiery stomach of Baal!” the first agreed, laughing. “I thought every fool knew that no one but a priest ever leaves the temple.”

“You are mistaken,” the other replied. “Every day the urns go out to the burial ground.”

“His bones would not fit in a child’s urn, even after cremation,” the first protested. “Far too long.”

They were at the foot of the steps leading to an elegant stone building. Two mighty columns stood beside the entrance, one painted yellow, the other green. The second guard turned to Ivo and put out his calloused hand. His short sword hung from a chest harness, sheathed in leather, the hilt almost brushing Ivo’s left elbow. “Let me help you up these hallowed stairs, sir,” the man said in Phoenician.

“The priests would be very unhappy if such an honored guest were to stumble,” the other said. “And Baal would be fuming.” And, in the other language: “Yes — look at the length of that humerus!”

Ivo looked up and saw a white-robed priest coming to meet them. Several temple guards accompanied him. All looked purposeful.

He grabbed at the left guard’s sword and drew it from the scabbard before the man reacted. Then he shouldered past and turned to face the second, afraid that flight would bring a spear at his back. But that guard also had been slow to react, perhaps not expecting the lamb to turn, and stood open-mouthed, hand not even on his weapon.

The guard who had donated his sword tripped over his battle-axe and sprawled on the ground. His shield, that had been hooked in some fashion to his left hip, lay between them on the lowest step. Ivo swooped at it and picked it up with his left hand, fumbling a moment with the grip. It was surprisingly light: an oval disk of wood, padded behind the hand-strap, nocked at the rim from countless military encounters. Obviously it was intended for active defense; one had to meet the oncoming sword or spear with it and deflect or snare the barb, rather than simply hiding behind the shield.

The other guard had finally caught on that something was wrong. He drew out his sword and raised his own shield, advancing cumbersomely on Ivo. It was hard to believe that these were veterans; they were like oxen. Behind the attacking guard the priest cried out, and the temple perso

Ivo hefted his weapon. The sword was about two feet long, not counting the hilt, and tapered so that the widest part of the blade was six or eight inches from the tip. Both edges were sharp, though hardly knifelike; muscular power had to be applied to hack through opposing armor and the blade could not maintain a really good edge.

The weapon was clumsy and the handle was too small for a comfortable grip. He could hardly fight effectively with this, or, for that matter, protect himself with the shield. Not that he wanted to fight at all: violence of this sort was not in his nature. There had to be some reasonable means to—

The guard struck with his sword, and Ivo automatically blocked with the wooden disk.

It worked.

The blade collided with the notched rim and clung for an instant, held by the spongy wood. Ivo swept his own sword around in a clumsy quarter-circle, and the guard jerked back.

He had missed — but the swing had been oddly refreshing. The sword, so clumsy just to hold, became a nicely balanced instrument in motion. He saw now that its delicate taper contributed to its effectiveness, placing the greatest width and weight behind the intended point of contact.

He had already wasted too much time. During the few seconds of this action, the temple guards had continued advancing, and were now almost upon him. He could not hope to overcome them all. He would have to run, and risk the spears.

He turned — and discovered more troops coming up from the street. He was already surrounded.