Above him reached utter clarity, a hue that raised memories of white roses. No more than half a dozen stars could shine through it, atremble, barely seeable. Air rested cool, so quiet that he heard water lap on the bayshore. Dew gleamed on ground that slanted down to the broad argency of it. Inland the terrain climbed toward mountains whose ridges lifted blue-gray into heaven.
He left the village. Its houses nestled together, a double tow that ended at a great barn where grain was threshed, in this rainy climate, and which would serve as a fortress in case of attack. Beyond were paddocks, beehives, small fields goldening toward harvest. He drifted from them, beachward. When he came to grass he wiped off his bare feet the muck that free-running pigs and chickens had left in the lane. The moisture caressed him. Farther on he reached shingle, rocks cold and hard but worn smooth. The tide was ebbing, that mighty pulse which the Mediterranean seas scarcely felt, and kelp sprawled along the strand. It gave off odors of salt, depths, mysteries.
Some distance onward, a man stood looking aloft. Brass gleamed as he pointed his instrument. Hanno approached. “You too?” he murmured.
Pytheas started, turned about, and replied mechanically, “Rejoice.” In the luminous twilight it was clear how he must force a smile.
“Not easy to sleep under these conditions,” Hanno ventured. The natives themselves didn’t much.
Pytheas nodded. “I hate to miss a minute of the loveliness.”
“Poor for astronomy, though.”
“Um, by day I’ve been … gathering data that will yield a better value for the obliquity of the ecliptic.”
“You should have ample by now. We’re past the solstice.”
Pytheas glanced away.
“And you sound right defensive,” Hanno pursued. “Why do we linger here?”
Pytheas bit his lip. “We’ve … a wealth of discoveries still to make. It’s like a whole new world.”
Hanno’s voice crackled: “Like the land of the Lotus Eaters.”
Pytheas lifted his quadrant as if it were a shield. “No, no, these are real people, they labor and have children and grow old and die the same as us.”
Hanno regarded him. The waters whispered. Finally the Phoenician said, “It’s Vana, isn’t it?”
Pytheas stood mute.
“Many of these girls are beautiful,” Hanno went on. “Height, slenderness, skin that the summer sun kisses tawny, eyes like the sky around that sun, and those blond manes—oh, yes. And the one who’s with you, she’s the bonniest of the lot.”
“It’s more than that,” Pytheas said. “She’s … free. Unlettered, unaware, but quick and eager to learn. Proud, fearless. We cage our wives, we Greeks. I never thought of it till lately, but … is it not our doing that the poor creatures turn so dull that we’re apt to seek sweethearts male?”
“Or whores.”
“Vana is as mettlesome as the liveliest hetaira. But she’s not for sale, Hanno. She honestly loves me. A few days ago we decided she must be carrying my child. She came to my arms weeping and laughing.”
“She’s a dear person, true. But she’s a barbarian.”
“That can be changed.”
Hanno shook his head. “Don’t play tricks on yourself, my friend. It’s not like you. Do you daydream about taking her along when we leave? If she survived the voyage, she’d wither and die in Massalia, like any uprooted wildflower. What could she make herself into? What sort of life could you give her? You’re too late. Both of you.”
Again Pytheas stood mute.
“Nor can you settle here,” Hanno told him. “Only think. You, a civilized man, a philosopher, crammed cheek by jowl with other human bodies and cattle into a wretched wattle-and-dab hut. No books. No correspondence. No discourse. No sculptures, no temples, no traditions of yours, nothing of all that’s gone to form your soul. She’ll age fast, your lady, her teeth will go and her dugs will sag and you’ll loathe her because she was the bait that trapped you. Think, I say, think.”
Pytheas free hand knotted into a fist and smote his thigh, over and over. “But what can I do?”
“Leave. She’ll have no trouble getting a husband who’ll raise the child. Her father’s well off by their standards, she’s proven herself fertile, and every child is precious, as many of them as they lose. Hoist sail and go. We came in search of the Amber Island, remember? Or if it’s a myth, then we want to find whatever the reality is. We have these eastern shores and seas to learn a little about. We mean to return to Pretania and finish circumnavigating it, determine its size and shape, for it’s important to Europe in a way that Thule can’t be for centuries. And then come home to your people, city, wife, children, grandchildren. Do your duty, man!”