And my gold was spent keeping us all in Marsala while the convoy prepared.
It was only in the mouth of the Sequana, at Loluma, which is what the Venetiae called their trade town there, that we really saw the power of the Venetiae. It wasn’t just that they had ships — and they did, ships as large as our Inner Sea grain ships, capable of carrying thousands of mythemnoi of grain in a single cargo. The Keltoi built barrels — as I’ve described — to standard sizes. And they built the open boats — the ones I’d seen at the piers — also to standard sizes, so that the barrels rolled easily aboard, right down the gunwales to the stern. It was a superb design: a Gaulish riverboat could load on any bank, and unload right back up the bank with a few strong men. They could row or pole, and they drew so little water that they could run up quite a small stream, or pass a dam or a fish weir.
They had a particular flat barge for carrying tin. Each boat took three ingots, and had a crew of two. Tin was so valuable, even here, that each boat had a curiously carved log on a rope, and the log was threaded into the ingots. I asked Tellonix what it was for.
He smiled. ‘If the boat capsizes and sinks, the little piece of wood floats to the surface and shows where we can retrieve the tin,’ he said.
They usually hired out guards — men like Sittonax. Detorix wanted my oarsmen, but I wasn’t willing to sell them. I did convince him to treat them as free men, and offer them wages. Few of them were willing, at first, but after an idle week and some descriptions of the trip we were going to make, more and more of them signed to row for him — almost a third of the former slaves. None of the men from Marsala, of course. We were almost home, or so it seemed to us, and most of the fishermen assumed we had about ten days’ travel before we got there.
I spent many fine evenings in the tavernas of Loluma, talking to Venetiae captains about their routes. They were careful, circumspect, but sailors have a natural tendency to brag to each other, and Demetrios was the very prince of navigators — he had brought us through the Pillars of Heracles and all the way to Alba, and his exploits loosened their tongues. They told us fabulous tales — tales of islands west of Alba, and north, too — of islands of ice that glittered in the sun, and shoals of cod so thick a man could walk on them.
One captain had made a dozen trips to the north of Alba, for slaves and gold. He laughed at our notion that we could sail around Alba in ten days.
‘Thirty days,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘And even then you would need the gods at your helm.’
Demetrios gave me a long look.
What could I say?
We Greeks gathered in a circle of standing stones, and Herodikles said the prayers for the autumn feast of Demeter. We gave a horse race, with prizes, for Poseidon, who had favoured us and let us live. It pleased the Keltoi, too, because they loved horses, even though theirs were, to me, the ugliest horses I’d ever seen: heavy, ungainly and short-legged. But they raced them, praised them, called them names like Wind and Spirit, just like our horses at home.
We introduced them to the idea of a night-time torch race on horseback, which they liked a good deal. We paid for a feast.
Our convoy was completed. I was taking a little over two hundred men home. All I needed was Doola.
13
Ever waited for someone in the Agora?
Ever sat by a stream, waiting for a girl who promised to walk with you? Or by a door, because she said she’d be there in a minute?
Ever waited and waited, and been disappointed?
At what point do you walk away?
For me, the issue was winter. The Venetiae were unfailingly polite — even a little oily, which is not how one thinks of barbarians, is it? But they wanted us gone. They feared that the Phoenicians would come, as did I — and they feared that we would make trouble, which wasn’t so far from possible, either. And they feared that we might try to seize our ships back. They feared too that my freed slaves might eat them out of house and home.
I feared the cost. I wasn’t living on charity, but I had made a deal — for the whole journey — and I knew that sooner or later, Detorix would sidle up to me very apologetically and demand that we get under way. I didn’t really have to care, but there might come a further point where the Venetiae would simply refuse to perform their part. Or that the passes would close, and we’d be stuck for another winter in the north country.
Something had happened to me. And the longer I spent in the pretty town of Loluma, the more thoroughly it happened. I was turning back into Arimnestos. I still mourned Euphoria, but I was merely sad. I missed Athens. I missed Plataea.
I was sorry that I had made such a mess of Lydia, and Sicily, but I was determined to go back and set it right.
I was going back to being the man I had been. With, perhaps, some changes. I did not seriously consider, just for example, threatening the Venetiae with the burning of their town, just to keep them in awe.
Of course I’m smiling, thugater. Things change. People change. But some things remain the same always, as you’ll see if you stay with me another hour.
About two weeks after we landed — to be honest, the whole period is a blur of activity to me — a round ship crept up the estuary under oars — eight long sweeps handled in a fairly seamanlike manner — and I sat in my favourite of the three waterfront tavernas, drinking a wooden bowl of the excellent Gaulish wine and watching the ship come in.
She was a trader, of course — a Venetiae ship that had just made the passage to Alba. Not a tin ship, or not this trip — this ship had been far to the north along the east coast of Alba, collecting hides and selling wine.
The captain, whom I‘ll call Accles because that’s the closest I ever got to his name, sat with me for a day, recounting his adventures. He was eager to meet me, because he’d met with the Phoenicians off Vecti and spoken to them.
‘You have made them very angry,’ he said.
Detorix was sitting across from me. Spying, I think — or at least, watching. Leukas translated for me — translated some. By then, my Gaulish-Keltoi wasn’t bad.
‘The Phoenician trierarch said that you… were a pirate who came from Greece just to prey on Phoenician shipping,’ he said.
I smiled. ‘I have no love for Carthage or Tyre,’ I said. ‘I have sunk many of their ships, and killed or taken many of their men.’
Detorix and Accles exchanged a look.
‘Have they asked for you to hand me over?’ I asked.
‘They will,’ Accles answered. ‘I mean, I had no idea who you were until I came ashore here.’
I nodded. ‘Will they come here?’ I asked.
Detorix gave me an odd look. ‘We don’t allow them to come here,’ he said.
I looked at both of them. They both watched me.
I resisted the impulse to place a hand on my xiphos hilt.
While we were all staring — or perhaps glaring — at each other, a woman came in. She was a matron — a year or two older than me, I expect. Keltoi women are very fit, like Spartan women, and you can’t always read their age in their bellies. But she had the wrinkles of laughter in her eyes, and the way she carried her head spoke of dignity combined with, shall we say, experience?
She wore a sword, but that wasn’t so rare among aristocratic Kelts. She looked at me with appraisal — perhaps even challenge — and sat by Accles.
‘Is this the pirate?’ she asked.
Accles pretended to laugh.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am. But not of Keltoi. Merely of Carthaginians.’
She raised an eyebrow. She had red-brown hair and a long, straight nose and wore a gold pin on her wool cloak that was worth… hmm.. a small ship.
‘I’m Arimnestos of Plataea,’ I said.
She looked at Accles. ‘Well?’ she asked.