The two surviving soldiers . . . well. Muscles, he supposed. They seemed okay, though. The tall, handsome younger one that the Greeks fancied could make fires, if nothing else. And the squat gorilla of a sergeant, sitting tossing dice, seemed to have a lot of common sense.
The Achaeans weren't offering to share their wine or the meat they were roasting. The smell was enough to remind Jerry that his breakfast of cornflakes was a long, long way behind him.
Well, he'd had success so far. He decided to chance it again. He walked over to Odysseus. "The sorceress wishes to know: Where then is the famous hospitality of the Achaeans?"
Odysseus burped. "I was about to ask you about that! What sort of sorceress is it that doesn't even provide a few measly goats and maybe a fresh pig or two for the feast? We're as much her guests as she is ours. And she's got ample serfs."
Jerry blinked. One was inclined to forget that the Achaeans were rabid aristocrats. It was clearly shown in the Odyssey, and the Iliad—and the Argonautica, for that matter. But the modern eye glossed over it.
"We are not serfs or landless men!" he proclaimed, trying as best he could to put the tone of unthinking authority in his voice. "Even the least of us has great stocks of bronze and even wrought iron! We are on a holy quest, sent by magic by the gods themselves."
Speaking the language was pure murder. By the look on Odysseus' face, so was his accent. Or maybe it was the ridiculous suggestion that they were worth what the Greeks would consider a fortune.
Odysseus leaned back. The initial look of skepticism on his face was replaced by something Jerry took to be veiled interest. "A quest, is it? Any profit in it? Good looting?"
The mythographer reminded himself that, however romanticized "wily Odysseus" might have become in Homer's account, the ancient Achaean's reputation for cunning must have had some basis in fact. It wouldn't do to underestimate the man, even if he did have terrible halitosis and bear a closer resemblance to a Bronze Age gangster than a mythical hero.
Jerry tried to look wily himself. "No, no, none at all. Purely for the honor of the gods."
"Ah. Well, we could hardly refuse nobly born adventurers a bite or two," said Odysseus blandly.
* * *
The mutton they were determinedly chewing did not come under the heading of "tender." At this stage, Jerry didn't care. He was so ravenous he spared only a moment envying the cutlery advantage possessed by Liz and the paratroopers. She had a Swiss army knife. Cruz and McKenna had both nearly had fits to discover rust on their own knives. Still, it gave them something better than fingers to tear at the tough meat.
The Greeks were using their weapons for the same purpose. Seeing the casual ease with which Odysseus and his men handled the murderous-looking blades, Jerry reined in his hunger long enough to issue a low-voiced warning to the others.
"Go easy on the wine. Remember that this is the guy who got the Cyclops drunk and then put out his eye. He's half convinced we're rich and on a quest for some vast treasure with lots of loot. And for heaven's sake, Sergeant, Corporal, don't let on that you have lots of metal. You're carrying the equivalent of a million dollars in the company of a group of men who would murder you for a dime. At the moment they're not trying to kill us. Let's keep it that way. And pour a little of your wine on the flames as a libation. We're supposed to be religious types."
"I'm Episcopalian," protested Salinas.
"Somehow, Lieutenant, I knew that," Jerry said dryly. "High church, I imagine."
Sergeant Cruz stared at Salinas. From his appearance, Salinas had as much Mexican ancestry as Cruz did. Then, shaking his head, Cruz muttered: "I'm Catholic. More or less. And I got no problem with it at all." He leaned forward and splashed a dollop of wine onto the fire. "The stuff tastes like crap anyway."
Liz shook her head. "You Americans are strange. I think the wine's really not bad. Rather like a thin soetes from the Klein Karoo."
* * *
Liz swirled what was left in her cup around for a moment. Odysseus, playing the role of expansive host to the hilt, had provided all of them with the capacious objects. Very capacious, she realized.
Then, leaning over, she poured it over the fire. "My own libation. And Jerry's right—Ody's being clever again."
Immediately, Odysseus arose and came over to Liz. A moment later, he was gabbling away at her. His tone of voice combined oiliness with insistence.
"He says it is disrespectful to the gods not to chug it," translated Jerry. "He also says he'll wager you have never tasted such mellow wine as the nymph, Circe, gave them. Bit sweet for my tastes, personally."
"He's obviously never tasted Domaine Danica '98 Zinfandel," Liz snorted. "But then maybe his tastes don't run to dry red."
She eyed Odysseus skeptically. Then asked abruptly: "What's he prepared to wager, d'you think?"
Jerry shrugged. "This is a bit out of my field. I worked on Assyro-Babylonian and Phoenician mythology. I only learned Greek because so much of the source material was in that language. Of course all the mythologies are intertwined, so you pick up a fair amount along the way. In Athens, if I recall correctly, they used to play for the favors of women. A game of tossing wine at a bowl."
Liz gave a wry smile. "I'd need a clothes peg if I lost. And what the hell would I want to win?"
Jerry shook his head. "I don't know. I suspect that you wouldn't be expected to bet."
Liz looked decidedly militant. "Ha. I'm going to have to shake their ideas up a bit. If we're going to be stuck in this environment, certain things are going to have to change. Like the frequency of their bathing, for starters. Well, I suppose I could bet for transportation or food."
Jerry shook his head warningly. "I wouldn't advise it. They might win . . . "
She raised her chin. "That's my lookout, isn't it? Hey, Sergeant! How good are you with those dice I saw you fiddling with?"
Anibal Cruz looked as innocent as a lamb. Melted butter would have solidified in his mouth. "I'm not really sure of the rules."
Liz gave a crooked grin. "I was once stupid enough to play strip poker with a guy who said that to me. Once. Save your tricks for these . . . whatchacallem . . . Achaeans. Come on, Jerry. Time to explain poker dice."
She took a closer look at Cruz. "Or should I say—liar dice? Are we going to lose, Sergeant?"
"Not fucking likely," muttered McKenna.
A brief flicker of white teeth showed in Cruz's swarthy countenance. "Like McKenna says, Doctor . . . "
"Call me Liz. You're about to be gambling with my so-called virtue, after all. Don't you dare lose. I might survive his body but not his breath."
She looked at the open mouths of her companions. "You'll need some seed money too, won't you, Sergeant?" she said, evilly. "They seem pretty keen on the corporal's body. And you can throw in Salinas for good measure."
Jerry nodded. "The ancient Greeks weren't homophobic."
Salinas gaped. "Wha . . . "
"Well, Lieutenant, sir?" demanded Liz. "Surely you wouldn't expect me to take a risk which you would not dare to?" The female biologist's grin was pure vixen.
Jim McKenna chuckled. "No sweat. We're safe enough, Lieutenant Salinas. Nobody in the battalion will play with Sergeant Cruz."
The sergeant raised an eyebrow. "Try to look a little worried, willya?"
"This is a really, really bad idea," interjected Lamont, frowning. "Gambling is a sure way to lose."
McKenna shook his head. "Take it from me, mister. This isn't gambling."
"Then you can put that chunky ring of yours up as seed money too," said Cruz.
Jim McKenna dug it out of his rucksack. "What else?"
"Not too much metal," said Jerry warningly. "It's too valuable."
"It's also changed into other stuff. Even my `Leatherman' is rusty."
* * *
It was a bizarre scene in the flickering firelight. Three white oar blades did for a flat surface. Eager Achaeans surrounded the "table." Jerry should have remembered just how much of a passion gambling
had been before television. Dice had been found in Egyptian tombs. They were mentioned frequently enough in Classical Greek literature. Poker was a new concept, however. Still, the Achaeans had picked up the rules of the game pretty quickly. They were just so silent and so intent on the fall of the dice. They even stopped breathing. Only the distant surf sound disturbed the hush. And when Odysseus won . . . jubilation. And that was just while they were playing for beach pebbles. Now that Jerry had suggested making the game a little more interesting, you could cut the tension with a knife. A blunt butter knife.
The dice fell with a clatter onto the three oar blades. In Jerry's ears the surf noises were overridden by the sound of his pulse. If something went wrong, they were in dire trouble. If that corporal ever found out just what Jerry had said he was offering to do for the whole crew, then he was dead. By the worried expression on the sergeant's face, it was a real possibility. Things weren't working the way they were supposed to. Odysseus was winning with monotonous regularity and increasing glee. All that was happening was that Cruz was picking up some phrases of ancient Greek.
Finally, they were for it. Nothing left—and Cruz, having occasionally taken small pots . . . A couple of pairs, facing down a trey . . . threw a flush. And then the tide turned. But Odysseus was hooked by now. Utterly, deeply, and completely hooked. Cruz let him win just enough to keep him in the game. Finally, when Cruz had won the ship, he said: "Double or nothing."
Jerry explained.
A dangerous-looking Odysseus glowered viciously at the sergeant. Their chances of making it through the night diminished. "I have no more to bet."
Jerry shrugged. "Take us where we want to go . . . and we'll call it quits."
Odysseus' eyes narrowed. "Very well. Or you are all mine to ransom."
Jerry was overly confident of Cruz's almost magical ability with the dice. "Sure."
Odysseus threw. A pair.
He threw again. Flush . . .
Jerry swallowed. Cruz shrugged. He reached out a hand to take the dice. Odysseus caught his wrist. "No. The dice fall as you wish them to. We don't trust you. Someone else must throw. Not the sorceress, or you, speaker of execrable Greek."
"That isn't what we agreed to!" said Jerry hotly, fear drying his mouth.
"Why should it be a problem?" said Odysseus smoothly. "Unlesss," he hissed . . . "he cheats!"
"Cheat. Cheat. Cheat." It went around the watching circle, in a murmur. Each man who repeated it seemed to add a new degree of nastiness. And spoke the term more loudly.
Jerry swallowed. And he'd thought they were in trouble when it had just looked like they might lose! Swords were being drawn. Bronze gleamed evilly in the firelight. Jerry desperately tried to moisten his mouth.
"What's the problem?" asked Liz.
"They say we're cheating," he croaked.
"Oh, shit. We're in it deep," she said, as calmly as if they were discussing the weather. He noticed she was taking a firm grasp on that bag of hers.
"They want someone else to throw," Jerry said, looking at the others.
"Not me," said Lamont hastily, shaking his head violently. "I'm useless at games of chance. Got no luck. And I don't approve of gambling anyway."
"We want the Ethiopian," said Odysseus, who couldn't speak English, but wasn't blind either. He pointed at Lamont.
Jerry remembered that there'd been Ethiopians at the siege of Troy. Fighting on the Trojan side.
"I can't do this, Jerry. Talk us out of it!" pleaded Lamont.
Jerry looked at the Achaeans' faces in the firelight. "I don't think it's going to work, Lamont. Throw. At least losing's better than what we'll get for cheating."
In the firelight Jerry could see that Lamont's dark skin was beaded with sweat. He had a wine bowl in one hand and the dice in the other. "Oh, Jesus . . . "
Jerry shook his head. "Try Tyche. The Greek goddess of luck."
"Hell . . . O Tyche. Tyche. I can't do this, Jerry. If I need luck, I've never got it. I never win."
"Throw and then run. Head for the water, while they watch the dice," said Cruz.
The Achaeans began to chant. "Throw, Ethiope! Throw! Throw!"
Lamont took a deep breath. Tossed the wine on to the fire. "TYCHE!" he cried . . . the dice fell . . .
Jerry turned to join the sprint.
And stopped dead.
Divine manifestations tend to do that to you.
* * *
Jerry didn't need the deadly silence behind him to know that the ancient Greek Lady Luck had intervened. That Lamont, the extremely reluctant gambler, had thrown a royal flush.
Tyche had compelling green eyes. She also had the kind of teasing smile that leads men into dire trouble. And she could speak English. Well, she was a goddess. Ordinary people don't come in neon glow.
"Well done," she cooed seductively. "I love this game. It will bring me many, many devotees. I can see it will bring me great power. I don't care what Zeus wants us to do to you. It pleases me to smile on you."
Lamont stammered. "But . . . but . . . I'm just not lucky. Never!"
She winked at him. "You are now. To Hades with stuffy old Zeus."
Jerry swallowed. "How come you can speak to us in our language?"
"I'm a goddess, dah-ling. I can speak to anyone I want."
"What are we doing here?" demanded Liz. "And how do we get home?"
Tyche shrugged broadly and lazily. The motion sent light rippling down her arms. "Even Zeus claims not to know. Magic, he says."
And with that, the goddess of luck departed. As was her way.
12
A time for perspiration.
The thin rosy fingers of dawn speared the morning sky and Jerry's eyelids. He groaned. He wasn't a morning person. This morning, doubly so. It had been an uncomfortable night on the foredeck of the black ship. He'd managed to convince Odysseus that there were religious reasons for them sleeping on the water—and that the Americans were incapable of stealing the ship. Their language difficulties were making an accomplished liar out of him. The goddess and the Achaean superstition helped.
Still, Odysseus wasn't that trusting. He'd insisted on putting an equal number of his men onto the afterdeck, once the ship had been relaunched. Both groups had been remarkably good at setting little booby traps to try and forestall any sneaky moves during the night. And they'd kept watch, especially after Jerry had recalled Diomedes and Odysseus' slaughter of the sleeping Thracians.
Unlike young McKenna, who still seemed to be laboring under the delusion that modern soldiering gave them the edge, Jerry knew that nearly every piece of nasty military thinking had been around for a long, long time. And whatever the Achaeans lost in physical size, they made up for in environmental and combat hardening. Every Achaean on this ship was a ten-year vet from a really nasty war.
In reality, of course, these Achaeans out of legend were not supermen either. Just, as Cruz put it, "killers." Jerry was getting to like the sergeant, even if he'd never gamble with him. He'd underrated both the man's intellect and perceptiveness.
It was obvious that Anibal Cruz didn't underrate the prowess of the Achaeans. And Jerry got the feeling that the sergeant was as tough as old boots. The others, Liz in particular, tended to underestimate them. He hoped that it wouldn't get them all killed.
Despite sheer exhaustion, Jerry hadn't slept much or well. The talk on "where the hell are we?" and "how do we get home?" had gone on in his head long after they'd all gone to bed—if you could call a piece of deck "bed."
There just were no easy answers. Only Lamont seemed to really understand Jerry's principal point: This place was achronous. The Mycenaean-age Achaeans shouldn't speak classical Greek. Mind you, there shouldn't be monsters or gods either.
It was the last one that really got to Jerry. The inner skeptic was severely troubled. He just didn't believe in ancient Greek gods. It was damned awkward that they seemed to believe in him. The more he thought about it the more convinced he became that this was somehow the p
roduct of advanced alien science. It was not just a step into the myths of yesteryear. But it was the why that really mystified him. Unfortunately—no matter what it was, it seemed to be real enough to kill them. And pain seemed real enough too. So did aches from sleeping on a hard wooden deck.
He drew from the last night's divine visitation all that he could: Tyche had said they got here by magic. Well, when it came to Greek mythological magic, your mind turned automatically to Circe. They'd decided on that the night before . . . only the idea didn't make him very comfortable. Like sleeping on the deck, or the knowledge that Odysseus was peculiarly ready to take them to see her. The only person who saw that as a good sign was that ass Salinas.
"Hi. You awake?" asked Liz
"No, I always sit up with my eyes open when I'm asleep," he snapped, his irritation and courage fueled by a total absence of any chance of coffee.
"Ooh! Another one who doesn't like starting the day without caffeine," said Liz. Her voice was dry. The rest of her wasn't. She was down to a T-shirt and skirt. Wet. The wet clothing didn't leave much to Jerry's imagination. The early morning was still chilly, although the clear sky promised that it would be a scorcher later. The chill was having a marked effect on Liz's frontage.
"You've been swimming!" he stuttered.
"No, I just perspire profusely under your hot gaze."
"Well, perspiring is obviously no substitute for coffee either," he said, his dryness matching her earlier tone.
She acknowledged a hit with a small smile. "Yeah. Without coffee and a cigarette my day doesn't start. And I haven't had either. I've only got six smokes left in that packet. I'm saving them for emergencies."
"But why go swimming in your clothes?" he asked.
"If I took them off, I thought those bloody Achaeans might join me. I wanted to wash that monster's blood off properly and I wanted to get something for breakfast." She pointed to a pile of shells at her feet. "Clams. Big, beautiful clams. Hey—I can hardly believe that this is the Med. It is just so pristine."
Jerry's knowledge of seafood was at the eaten-it-when-paid-for-by-somebody-else level. That had been presented on a restaurant plate, not dripping and au naturelle on the deck of a pentekonter.