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?”