Anderson, Poul - Time Patrolman

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Time Patrolman

Poul Anderson

To Victor Fernandez-Davila

IVORY, AND APES, AND PEACOCKS

Time Patrolman

While Solomon was in all his glory and the Temple was a-building, Manse Everard

came to Tyre of the purple. Almost at once, he was in peril of his life.

That mattered little in itself. An agent of the Time Patrol was expendable, the more

so if he or she enjoyed the godlike status of Unattached. Those whom Everard sought

could destroy an entire reality. He had come to help rescue it.

One afternoon, 950 B.C., the ship that bore him approached his destination. The

weather was warm, nearly windless. Sail furled, the vessel moved under manpower, creak

and splash of sweeps, drumbeat of a coxswain posted near the sailors who had the twin

steering oars. Around the broad seventy-foot hull, wavelets glittered blue, chuckled,

swirled. Farther out, dazzlement off the water blurred sight of other craft upon it. They

were numerous, ranging from lean warships to tublike rowboats. Most were Phoenician,

though many hailed from different city-states of that society. Some were quite foreign,

Philistine, Assyrian, Achaean, or stranger yet; trade through the known world flowed in

and out of Tyre.

“Well, Eborix,” said Captain Mago genially, “there you have her, queen of the sea

like I told you she is, eh? What d’you think of my town?”

He stood in the bows with his passenger, just behind a fishtail ornament that curled

upward and aft toward its mate at the stern. Lashed to that figurehead and to the

latticework rails which ran down either side was a clay jar as big as himself. The oil was

still within it; there had been no need to calm any billows, as easily as the voyage from

Sicily had gone.

Everard glanced down at the skipper. Mago was a typical Phoenician, slender,

swarthy, hooknosed, eyes large and a bit slant, cheekbones high; neatly bearded, he wore

a red-and-yellow kaftan, conical hat, sandals. The Patrolman towered over him. Since he

would be conspicuous whatever guise he assumed, Everard took the part of a Celt from

central Europe, complete with breeches, tunic, bronze sword, and sweeping mustache.

“A grand sight, indeed, indeed,” he replied in a diplomatic, heavily accented voice.

The electro-cram he had taken, uptime in his native America, could have given him

flawless Punic, but that wouldn’t have fitted his character; he settled for fluency.

“Daunting, almost, to a simple backwoodsman.”

His gaze went forward again. Truly, in its way Tyre was as impressive as New York-

perhaps more, when you recalled how much King Hiram had accomplished in how short

a span, with only the resources of an Iron Age that was not yet very old.

Starboard the mainland rose toward the Lebanon Mountains. It was summer-tawny,

save where orchards and woodlots spotted it with green or villages nestled. The

appearance was richer, more inviting than when Everard had seen it on his future travels,

before he joined the Patrol.

Usu, the original city, lay along the shore. Except for its size, it was representative of

the milieu, adobe buildings blocky and flat-roofed, streets narrow and twisty, a few vivid

fa9ades indicating temple or palace. Battlemented walls and towers ringed three sides of

it. Along the docks, gates between warehouses let those double as defenses. An aqueduct

ran in from heights beyond Everard’s view.

The new city, Tyre itself-Sor to its dwellers, meaning “Rocks” -was on an island half

a mile offshore. Rather, it covered what had been two skerries until men filled in between

and around them. Later they dug a canal straight through, from north to south, and flung

out jetties and breakwaters to make this whole region an incomparable haven. With a

burgeoning population and a bustling commerce thus crowded together, houses climbed

upward, story upon story until they loomed over the guardian walls like small

skyscrapers. They seemed to be less often of brick than of stone and cedarwood. Where

earth and plaster had been used, frescos or inlaid shells ornamented them. On the

eastward side, Everard glimpsed a huge and noble structure which the king had had built

not for himself but for civic uses. Mago’s ship was bound for the outer or southern port,

the Egyptian Harbor as he called it. Its piers bustled, men loading, unloading, fetching,

bearing off, repairing, outfitting, dickering, arguing, chaffering, a tumble and chaos that

somehow got its jobs done. Dock wallopers, donkey drivers, and other laborers, like the

seamen on this cargo-cluttered deck, wore merely loincloths, or kaftans faded and

patched. But plenty of brighter garments were in sight, some flaunting the costly colors

that were produced here. Occasional women passed among the men, and Everard’s

preliminary education told him that they weren’t all hookers. Sound rolled out to meet

him, talk, laughter, shouts, braying, neighing, footfalls, hoof-beats, hammerbeats, groan

of wheels and cranes, twanging music. The vitality was well-nigh overwhelming.

Not that this was any prettified scene in an Arabian Nights movie. Already he made

out beggars crippled, blind, starveling; he saw a lash touch up a slave who toiled too

slowly; beasts of burden fared worse. The smells of the ancient East roiled forth, smoke,

dung, offal, sweat, as well as tar, spices, and savory roastings. Added to them was a

stench of dyeworks and murex-shell middens on the mainland; but sailing along the coast

and camping ashore every night, he had gotten used to that by now.

He didn’t take the drawbacks to heart. His farings through history had cured him of

fastidiousness and case-hardened him to the cruelties of man and nature - somewhat. For

their era, these Canaanites were an enlightened and happy people. In fact, they were more

so than most of humanity almost everywhere and every when.

His task was to keep them that way.

Mago hauled his attention back. “Aye, there are those who’d shamelessly swindle an

innocent newcomer. I don’t want that to happen to you, Eborix, my friend. I’ve grown to

like you as we traveled, and I want you to think well of my town. Let me show you to an

inn that a brother-in-law of mine has -brother of my junior wife, he is. He’ll give you a

clean doss and safe storage for your valuables at a fair exchange.”

“It’s thankful to you I am,” Everard replied, “but my thought was I’d seek out that

landsman I’ve bespoken. Remember, ‘twas his presence emboldened me to fare hither.”

He smiled. “Sure, and if he’s died or moved away or whatever, glad I’ll be to take your

offer.” That was mere politeness. The impression he had gathered along the way was that

Mago was as cheerfully rapacious as any other merchant adventurer, and hoped to get

him plucked.

The captain regarded him for a moment. Everard counted as big in his own era,

which made him gigantic here. A dented nose in the heavy features added to the

impression of toughness, while blue eyes and dark-brown hair bespoke the wild North.

One had better not push Eborix too hard.

At the same time, the Celtic persona was no great wonder in this cosmopolitan place.

Not only did amber come from the Baltic littoral; tin from Iberia, condiments from

Arabia, hardwoods from Africa, occasional wares from farther still: men did.

Engaging passage, Eborix had told of leaving his mountainous homeland because of

losing out in a feud, to seek his fortune in the South. Wandering, he had hunted or

worked for his keep, when he didn’t receive hospitality in return for his tales. He fetched

up among the Umbrians of Italy, who were akin to him. (The Celts would not begin

overrunning Europe, clear to the Atlantic, for another three centuries or so, when they

had become familiar with iron; but already some had won territory far from the Danube

Valley that was the cradle of their race.) One of them, who had served as a mercenary,

described opportunities in Canaan and taught Eborix the Punic tongue. This induced the

latter to seek a bay in Sicily where Phoenician traders regularly called and buy passage

with goods he had acquired. A man from his area of birth was said to be living in Tyre,

after an adventurous career of his own, and probably willing to steer a compatriot in a

profitable direction.

This line of bull, carefully devised by Patrol specialists, did more than slake local

curiosity. It made Everard’s trip safe. Had they supposed the foreigner to be a waif with

no connections, Mago and the crew might have been tempted to set upon him while he

slept, bind him, and sell him for a slave. As was, the journey had been interesting, yes,

rather fun. Everard had come to like these rascals.

That doubled his wish to save them from ruin.

The Tyrian sighed. “As you wish,” he said. “If you do need me, my home is on the

Street of Anat’s Temple, near the Sidonian Harbor.” He brightened. “In any case, do

come look me up, you and your host. He’s in the amber trade, you mentioned? Maybe we

can work out a little deal of some kind. . . . Now, stand aside. I’ve got to bring us in.” He

shouted profane commands.

Deftly, the sailors laid their vessel along a quay, got it secured, put out a gangplank.

Folk swarmed close, yelling for news, crying for stevedore work, chanting the praises of

their wares or of their masters’ business establishments. None boarded, however. That

prerogative belonged initially to the customs officer. A guard, helmeted, scale-mailed,

armed with spear and shortsword, went before him, pushing a way through the crowd,

leaving a wake of fairly good-natured curses. At the officer’s back trotted a secretary,

who bore a stylus and waxed tablet.

Everard went below decks and fetched his baggage, which he had stowed among the

blocks of Italian marble that were the ship’s principal cargo. The officer required him to

open the two leather sacks. Nothing surprising was in them. The whole purpose of

traveling all the way from Sicily, instead of time-hopping directly here, was to pass the

Patrolman off as what he claimed to be. It was well-nigh certain that the enemy was

keeping watch on events, as they neared the moment of catastrophe.

“You can provide for yourself a while, at least.” The Phoenician official nodded his

grizzled head when Everard displayed some small ingots of bronze. Coinage would not

be invented for_several centuries, but the metal could be swapped for whatever he

wanted. “You must understand that we cannot let in one who might feel he has to turn

robber. In fact - “ He looked dubiously at the barbarian sword. “What is your purpose in

coming?”

“To find honest work, sir, as it might be a caravan guard. I’ll be seeking out Conor

the amber factor.” The existence of that resident Celt had been a major reason for

Everard’s adoption of his specific disguise. The chief of the local Patrol base had

suggested it.

The Tyrian reached a decision. “Very well, you may go ashore, your weapon too.

Remember that we crucify thieves, bandits, and murderers. If you fail to get other work,

seek out Ithobaal’s hiring house, near the Hall of the Suffetes. He can always find

something in the way of day labor for a husky fellow like you. Good luck.”

He returned to dealing with Mago. Everard lingered, awaiting a chance to bid the

captain farewell. Discussion went quickly, almost informally, and the tax to be paid in

kind would be modest. This race of businessmen had no use for the ponderous

bureaucracy of Egypt or Mesopotamia.

Having said what he wanted to, Everard picked up his bags by the cords around them

and went ashore. The crowd surged about him, staring, chattering. At first he was

amazed; after a couple of tentative approaches, nobody begged alms or beset him to buy

trinkets. Could this be the Near East?

He recalled the absence of money. A newcomer wouldn’t likely have anything

corresponding to small change. Usually you made a bargain with an innkeeper, food and

lodging for so-and-so much of the metal, or whatever else of value, you carried. For

lesser purchases, you sawed a piece off an ingot, unless some different trade was

arranged. (Everard’s fund included amber and nacre beads.) Sometimes you called in a

broker, who made your transaction part of a complicated one involving several other

individuals. If you felt charitable, you’d carry around a little grain or dried fruit and drop

it in the bowls of the indigent.

Everard soon left most of the people behind. They were mainly interested in the

crew. A few idle curiosity-seekers, and many stares, trailed him. He strode over the quay

toward an open gate.

A hand plucked his sleeve. Startled enough to miss a step, he looked down.

A brown-skinned boy grinned back. He was sixteen or so, to judge from the fuzz on

his cheeks, though small and scrawny even by local standards. Nonetheless, he moved

lithely, barefoot, clad only in a ragged and begrimed kilt at which hung a pouch. Curly

black hair fell in a queue behind a sharp-nosed, sharp-chinned face. His smile and his

eyes - big, long-lashed Levantine eyes - were brilliant.

“Hail, sir, hail to you!” he greeted. “Life, health, and strength be yours! Welcome to

Tyre! Where would you go, sir, and what can I do for you?”

He didn’t burble, but spoke very clearly, in hopes the stranger would understand.

When he got a response in his own language, he jumped for joy. “What do you want,

lad?”

“Why, sir, to be your guide, your advisor, your helper, and, yes, your guardian. Alas,

our otherwise fair city is afflicted with scoundrels who 1ike nothing better than to prey on

innocent newcomers. If they do not outright steal everything you have, the first time you

blink, they’ll at least wish the most worthless trash on you, at a cost which’ll leave you

paupered almost as fast - “

The boy broke off. He had spied a seedy-looking young man approach. At once he

sped to intercept, windmilling his fists, yelling too quickly and shrilly for Everard to

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TimePatrolmanPoulAndersonCopyright©1983ToVictorFernandez-DavilaIVORY,ANDAPES,ANDPEACOCKSTimePatrolmanWhileSolomonwasinallhisgloryandtheTemplewasa-building,ManseEverardcametoTyreofthepurple.Almostatonce,hewasinperilofhislife.Thatmatteredlittleinitself.AnagentoftheTimePatrolwasexpendable,themoresoifhe...

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Anderson, Poul - Time Patrolman

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