Jerry climbed to the driver’s bench beside Killer, who had produced Venker’s silver sword, taken on the Cretan leader, and accepted an almost instantaneous surrender. The wagon lumbered up the hill at a slow pace.
“Right, friend Achilles,” Jerry said. “What was all that for?”
Grinning, Killer leaned down and produced the Cretan leader’s boar-tooth helmet. “For your collection, friend Jeremy.”
Jerry took it and thanked him solemnly; a Meriones helmet would be the pearl of any helmet collection, and he knew he would be greatly excited to own it when he had time to reflect. In the back of the wagon, Sven and Tiglath were gloating over matched sets of six swords and six shields apiece.
“What else?” Jerry demanded. “You weren’t by any chance getting practice with that silver sword, were you?” Or just testing himself after a long idleness?
Killer kept his eyes on the horses and said nothing. “You have not told me the whole truth!” Jerry insisted.
Killer put an arm around him. “You never tell lies to your friends, Jerry?”
“Of course not!” Killer grinned sideways at him, disbelieving. “I will not hold you to your promise, Jerry. That Carlo maggot is not worth a promise— you saw that he killed one? Bastard! I know that you love me as a friend and show that love as best you can. So you can forget your promise, and I shall pray to Eros for you.” Sven and Tig were now discussing possible trades to make a single matched set of twelve. Jean-Louis and Marcus were comparing helmets and greaves. Killer had no use for booty, or his house would be full of it. Killer collected bodies. Live bodies.
“That was a promise,” Jerry said. “But now it is a deal. I hold you to it; tomorrow at dusk, at your house. Now tell me the rest of the story!”
Killer still did not look straight at him, but his arm tightened. “Thanks,” he said. “That will be very nice.”
“Then tell me why you are trembling.”
“Anticipation!” Killer snapped; but he took his arm away.
Jerry had moved to sit near the back of the wagon with Ariadne, who was pale and shivering. The rest of the company sprawled along the sides, flanking a jingling, clinking jumble of tents and armor heaped in the middle. Killer had called Marcus to sit up on the driver’s bench with him, and they were deep in talk. It was strange that Killer had brought Clio and Helga along, probably an order from the Oracle, but perhaps it was only the presence of women that was subduing the raucous male buffoonery Jerry would have expected. The four great horses leaned against the yokes, and the wagon rumbled off downhill, one direction being as good as another for a trip to Mera.
Directly across from Jerry was Maisie, looking very cute in a gray Meran costume, her cap perched jauntily on her golden hair, and managing a few weak smiles when she caught his eye. She no longer seemed to be worrying that a visit to Mera would imperil her soul, not after meeting Asterios. Beside her Gillis looked absurd in his old Outside clothes, the long-suffering blue suit he had insisted on retrieving. He scowled continuously.
Carlo, beside him, still wore his customary sulky expression, bony arms protruding from his cape and crossed on uplifted knees. He had not joined in the joviality that had followed the battle, the loud release of tension. Once Jerry offered him a smile and got a hint of a one-finger gesture. The truce, if not over, was wearing very thin.
“Tell me about that red-headed man,” demanded Ariadne quietly. “Sven?” said Jerry, and told what he could remember— Denmark about tenth century. Sven had never gone aviking, being an oldest son, and had missed most of the land battles of his day; he had been rescued when he was in his sixties, although now his beard was as red again as ever, and he seemed no more than thirty at the most. He reveled in combat, making up for his wasted, peaceful youth— just a big, rowdy boy at heart, Jerry said. Helga was Norwegian, he thought, a couple of centuries later, but they were a finely matched set, those two.
Tiglath, from Nineveh, was a more interesting character, but his story would have to wait, because he was sitting next to Jerry.
The wagon rocked its way around the bend where the great battle had been fought, and the valley opened out into flatter and lusher land that had not been there before. The sun seemed to be losing its skin-removing virulence, and he thought the air was taking on a gentler, Meran flavor, an odor of nearby sea and richer grass.
Tig and Sven and the others were avoiding his eye again. Killer’s hair had turned midnight blue, and Tig’s beard. Jerry was just about to comment Then there it was.
“Look!” he said, feeling a lump in his throat as the wagon rolled out onto a green plain, and the hill city came into view on their right, gleaming rose-red behind its circling wall.
“It’s beautiful!” Ariadne said. “Just as lovely as you said— no, better. Oh, Jerry!” She seemed to have lost her craving; the paleness and quivering had vanished as fast as the Cretan landscape.
“The top of the hill is the house of the Oracle,” he said, raising his voice like a tour guide. “Do you see it, Maisie?” She smiled in astonishment. “It’s a church,” she said. “The one with the red spire, you mean?” Gillis gave Jerry a suspicious glare. “Is this another magic trick?” he asked.
Jerry laughed. ” ‘Fraid so. I see something that looks like Stonehenge, a circle of big slabs on end with others laid across them. I was stationed near Stonehenge in the war, and it impressed me. Killer, I know, sees a Greek temple, with Doric pillars. So Maisie sees a church, what do you see?” The big man snorted. “It looks like a jail to me.”
“Ariadne?”
“More like Killer’s view, I think,” she said hesitantly. “A circle of columns with an entablature?” He wasn’t at all sure what that was. “Killer’s is rectangular. Yours sounds more like my Stonehenge with a bit of culture added to it.” Carlo angrily refused to give his opinion and looked worried.
“There’s the gate,” Jerry said, feeling absurdly excited. “North Gate, of course…” The gate was closed.
He had never seen that before, and, even as the shock registered, the wagon rumbled to a halt. The men were glancing at one another, looking sick. Even Helga… only Clio caught Jerry’s eye and she was as puzzled as he, and worried.
What the hell was going on?
Then Killer rose and turned, glanced over the passengers, and said, “Jerry?” and tossed him the wand.
Jerry caught it and stood up also. “Will you please…” he said, and then Tig had risen as well, enormous Tig, and placed a blue-furred hand on his shoulder.
“We all had to promise, Jerry,” Tig murmured in his deep voice. “And we had to promise to keep you out also.” What could be seen of his face was grave and worried.
Cold shivers crawled deep inside. “Out of what?” Jerry demanded. Tig quietly pushed, and Jerry crumpled back to his seat.
Killer jumped down from the bench and walked out over the grass, carrying a sword which flashed brilliantly silver white in the sunlight. He stopped and looked back, hesitated. Then he laid the sword down and stripped off his clothes.
“Jerry?” Ariadne said. “I know he’s a show off, but what is this?” He knew now, but he wasn’t going to say. Which of them?
Killer picked up the sword again, swung it a couple of times. Then he put his hands on his hips and looked at the wagon.
“Asterios!” he roared.
“Jerry?” Ariadne demanded again, gripping his arm tightly.
“Wait and see,” Jerry said. His lips were dry, and his heart was pounding.