Poul Anderson: Star of the Sea

“In spite of this, I gather, you’ve carried out a major project. I didn’t pull the file on it, expecting you’d rather tell me yourself, which would be better.” He had hinted a time or two, but she had avoided, or evaded, the topic. That wasn’t hard, when they had such a heap of material to cover.

He heard and saw her drew breath. “Yes, I must,” she agreed. “You need to know what experience I have. A long story, but I could make a start here.” She hesitated. “I have come to feel more easy with you. At first I was terrified. I, to work with an Unattached agent?”

“You hid it well,” he drawled around a puff on his pipe.

“One learns in the field to hide emotions, no? But tonight I can talk freely. You are a, a comfortable kind of man.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

“I lived fifteen years with the Frisii,” she told him.

He caught the pipe before it hit the pavement. “Huh?”

“From A.D. 22 to 37,” she continued earnestly. “The Patrol wanted knowledge, more than a sketch, of life at the far western end of the Germanic range, in the period when Roman influence was replacing Celtic. Specifically, they were concerned about the upheavals among the tribes that followed the murder of Arminius. The consequences were potentially large.”

“But nothing alarming turned up, eh? Whereas Civilis, whom the Patrol figured it could safely ignore—Well, it’s staffed by fallible humans. And, of course, a detailed report on a typical society is valuable in a lot of different contexts. Go on, please.”

“Colleagues helped me establish myself. My persona was a young woman of the Chasuarii, widowed when the Cherusci attacked. She fled to Frisian territory with some possessions and a pair of men who had served her husband and stayed faithful to her. The headman of the village we found received us generously. I did bring in gold as well as news; and to them, hospitality was sacred.”

Didn’t hurt that you were, are, almighty attractive.

“Before long, I married a younger son of his,” Floris said, resolutely matter-of-fact. “My ‘servants’ excused themselves to go on a ‘venture’ and were never heard of again. Everybody supposed they had come to grief. How many ways there were to perish!”

“And?” Everard watched her profile. Vermeer might have summoned it from the surrounding twilight, under its cap of gold.

“Those were hard years. I was often homesick, sometimes in despair. But then I would think how I was learning, discovering, exploring a whole universe of ways and beliefs, knowledge, skills, people. I became very fond of the people. They were good-hearted in their rough way—within the tribe, that is—and my Garulf and I . . . we grew close. I bore him two children, and secretly made sure they would live. He hoped for more, naturally, but that was another thing I saw to, and it was common for a woman to go barren.” Her mouth bent ruefully upward. “He had his others by a farmhand girl. She and I got along, she deferred to me and—Never mind. It was a normal, accepted thing, no slur on me, and . . . I knew that someday I would be gone.”

“How did that happen?” Everard asked low.

Her voice flattened. “Garulf died. He was hunting aurochs, and a bull gored him. I grieved, but it did simplify matters for me. I should have left well before, disappeared like my attendants, but he and our children—boys in their early teens, which meant they were nearly men. Garulf’s brothers would see to their welfare.”

Everard nodded. His studies had taught him that the ancient Germans hallowed the relationship between uncle and nephew. Among the tragedies Burhmund, Civilis, endured was a break with a sister’s son, who fought and died in the Roman army.

“Nevertheless it hurt to leave them,” Floris ended. “I said I was going away for a while to mourn alone, and let them wonder ever afterward what became of me.”

And you wonder what became of them, and no doubt always shall, Everard thought. Unless, scanning from afar, you’ve followed their lives till their deaths. But I expect you’re wiser than that. So much for the adventure and glamour of service in the Time Patrol.

Floris gulped. Swallowing a few tears? Forlorn gaiety followed. “You can imagine what a cosmetic rejuvenation I needed when I returned! And hot baths, electric lights, books, shows, airplanes, everything!”

“Not least, being equal again,” Everard added.

“Yes, yes. Women had a high standing, they were more free than they would be later until the nineteenth century, but still—oh, yes.”

“It seems Veleda was out—and-out dominant.”

“That was different. She spoke for the gods, I think.”

We need to make sure .

“The mission was terminated several years ago on my personal world line,” Floris said. “My subsequent efforts have been less ambitious. Until now.”

Everard bit hard on his pipestem. “M-m, we do have that problem of sex. I don’t want to fool around with disguises, except maybe briefly. Too many limitations.”

She halted. Perforce he did. They were close to a lamp. It gave her eyes a cat-gleam. She raised her voice. “I will not merely sit in the sky and watch you, Agent Everard. I will not.”

A bicyclist sibilated past, threw them a look, continued on his way.

“It’d be useful, having you with me on the ground,” Everard granted. “Not constantly. You must agree it’s often best if one partner stays in reserve. But when we get down to the real Sherlock Holmes work, then you, with your experience—The question is, how can we?”

Turning from angry to eager, she pressed her advantage. “I will be your wife. Or your concubine or handmaiden or whatever suits the circumstances. It is not unheard of among the Germani, that a woman accompanies a man when he travels.”

Damnation! Do my ears actually feel hot? “We dare not complicate matters for ourselves.”

Her gaze caught his and held fast. “I am not worried about that, sir. You are a professional and a gentleman.”

“Well, thanks,” he said, relieved. “I guess I can mind my manners.”

If you mind yours!

Suddenly springtime billowed over the land. Warmth and lengthening days lured forth leaves. Grass glowed. The sky filled with wings and clamor. Lambs, calves, foals rollicked through meadows. Folk came from the gloom of houses, the smoke and stink of winter; they blinked in the brightness, breathed the sweetness, and set to work readying for summer.

Yet they were hungry after last year’s niggard yields. Many a man was at war beyond the Rhine, and already few of them would ever come back. Edh and Heidhin still bore frost in their hearts.

They walked about her grounds, heedless of light or breeze. Workers in her fields saw how she went and dared not hail or come question her. Though the woods westward shone beneath the sun, the holy grove in the offing eastward seemed dark, as if her tower had cast its shadows that far.

“I am wrathful with you,” she said. “Oh, I should send you from me forever.”

“Edh—” His voice had gone harsh. Knuckles whitened above his spearshaft. “I did what I must needs do. It was clear you would have spared that Roman. The Anses had enough of a grudge against us.”

“So fools have babbled.”

“Then most of the tribe are fools. Edh, I go among them as you cannot, for I am a man, and only a man, not the chosen of a goddess. Folk tell me what they would quail to say straight to you.” Heidhin paced on while he gathered his words together. “Nerha has been taking too much of what formerly went to the sky gods. I mind well what you and I owe her, but it is otherwise for the Bructeri, and even we twain owe much to the Anses also. If we do not make our peace with them, they will withdraw victory from us. I have read this in the stars, the weather, the flight of ravens, the bones I cast. And what if I am mistaken? The fear itself is real in men’s hearts. They will begin to hang back in battle, and the foe will break them.