Poul Anderson - The Dancer from Atlantis

Weeping and laughing, Erissa took him to her.

Aegeus, King of the Athenians, had been a strong man. Age whitened his hair and beard, shrank the muscles around the big bones, dimmed his eyes, knotted his fingers with arthritis. But still he sat his throne in dignity; and when he handled the twin hemispheres of the mentator, he showed no fear.

The slave who had learned, Keftiu from it groveled on the rush-strewn clay floor. He could not speak his new language clearly, his mouth being torn and puffed from the blow of a spearbutt that overcame his first struggling, screaming terror. The warriors—Aegeus’ guards and chance visitors, about fifty altogether—stood firm; but many a tongue was moistening lips, many an eyeball rolled beneath a sweaty brow. Servants and women cowered back against the walls. The dogs, giant mastiffs and wolfhounds, sensed fear and growled.

“This is a mighty gift,” the king said

“We hope it will be of service, my lord,” Reid answered.

“It will. But the power in it is more: a guardian, an omen. Let these helmets be kept in the Python shrine. Ten days hence, let there be a sacrifice of dedication, and three days of feasting and games. As for these four who have brought the gift, know every man that they are royal guests. Let them be given suitable quarters, raiment, comely women, and whatever else they may lack. Let all pay them honor.”

Aegeus leaned forward on the lionskin that covered his marble throne. Peering to see the newcomers better, he finished less solemnly. “You must be wearied. Would you not like to be shown your rooms, be washed, take refreshment and rest? This evening we shall dine with you and hear your stories in fullness.”

His son Theseus, who occupied a lower seat on his right, nodded. “So be it,” he ordered. Otherwise the prince’s countenance remained unmoving, his gaze wary.

A slave chamberlain took over. As his party was led from the hall, Reid had a chance to look around more closely than hitherto. Athens, smaller, poorer, further from civilization, did not boast the stone architecture of a Mycenae or Tiryns. The royal palace on the heights of the Acropolis was wood. But those were enormous timbers, in this age before the deforestation of Greece. Massive columns upheld beams and rafters down a length of easily a hundred feet. Windows, their shutters now open, admitted some daylight from a clerestory, as did the smokehole in the shake roof. But it was gloomy in here; shields and weapons hung behind the benches already threw back the glimmer of stone lamps. Yet furs, tapestries, gold and silver vessels made a rude magnificence.

Three wings ran from the hall. One was for utility and servitors’ quarters, one for the royal family and its permanent freeborn attendants, one for guests. The rooms, fronting on a corridor, were cubicles, their doorways closed merely by drapes. However, those drapes were thick and lavishly patterned; the plaster walls were ornamented with more tapestries; the bedsteads were heaped with sheep-skins and furs above the straw; next to rhytons stood generous containers of wine as well as water; and in each compartment a girl made timid obeisance.

Oleg clapped his hand. “Oh, ho!” he chortled. “I like this place!”

“If we never get back,” Uldin agreed, “we could do far worse than become Aegeus’ men.”

The chamberlain indicated a room for Erissa. “Uh, she and I are together,” Reid said. “One servant will be ample.”

The other man leered. “You get one apiece, master. So ‘twas commanded. They can share the extra room. We’ve not much company, what with harvest season ashore and fall weather afloat.” He was a bald-headed Illyrian with the perkiness of any old retainer.—No, Reid thought suddenly. He’s a slave.

He behaves like a lifer who’s at last become a trusty in his prison.

The girls said they would fetch the promised garments. Was food desired? Did our lord and lady wish to be taken to the bathhouse, scrubbed, massaged, and rubbed with olive oil by their humble attendants?

“Later,” Erissa said. “In time to have us ready for the king’s feast—and the queen’s,” she added, for Achaean women did not dine formally with men. “First we would rest.”

When she and Reid were alone, she laid arms around him, cheek against his shoulder, and whispered forlornly, “What can we do?”

“I don’t know,” he replied into the sunny odor of her hair. “So far we’ve had scant choice, haven’t we? We may end our days here. As our friends said, there are worse fates.”

Her clasp tightened till the nails dug into his back. “You can’t mean that. These are the folk who burned—who will burn Knossos and end the peace of the Minos so they can be free to go pirating!”

He didn’t answer directly, for he was thinking: That’s how she looks at it. Me, I don’t know. They’re rough, the Achaeans, but aren’t they open and upright in their fashion? And what about those human victims for the Minotaur?

Aloud he said, “Well, if nothing else, I can arrange your passage to Keftiu territory.”

“Without you?” She drew apart from him. Strangeness rose in her voice. Her look caught his and would not let go. “It will not be, Duncan. You will fare to Atlantis, and love me, and in Knossos you will beget our son. Afterward—”

“Hush!” Alarmed, he laid a hand across her mouth. Diores, at least, was probably quite capable of planting spies on the king’s mysterious visitors, the more so when one of them was a Cretan of rank. And the door drape wasn’t soundproof. Too late, Reid regretted not using the mentator to give his party a language unknown here. Hunnish or Old Russian would have done quite well.

But in the desert they’d been too distracted to foresee a need; and maybe Diores would have forbidden magic on his ship; yes, doubtless he would have, if only to prevent those whom he was suspicious of from gaining that advantage.

“These are, uh, matters too sacred to speak of here,” Reid said. “Let’s seek a private place later.”

Erissa nodded. “Yes. I understand. Soon.” Her lips writhed. She blinked hard. “Too soon. However long our fate will be in taking us, it will be too soon." Drawing him toward the bed: “You are not overwearied, are you? This while that we have together?”

The slave who brought them breakfast in the morning, leftovers from last night’s roast ox, announced, “Prince Theseus asks the pleasure of my lord’s company. My lady is invited to spend the day with the queen and her girls:’ She had an accent; what homeland did she yearn for?

Erissa wrinkled her nose at Reid. She was in for a dull time, even if the girls were from noble families, learning housewifery as attendants on Aegeus’ consort. (She was his fourth in succession but would doubtless outlive him, he being too old to bring her to her grave of a dozen children beginning when she was fifteen.) Reid signed her to accept. Why give needless offense to touchy hosts?

The tunic, cloak, sandals, and Phrygian cap he donned were presents from Theseus’ wardrobe. Tall though the Achaeans were, few reached the six feet common in Reid’s well-nourished milieu. The prince actually topped the American by a couple of inches. The latter had been surprised at the degree of surprise this caused him, till he tracked down the reason: Mary Renault’s fine novels; which described Theseus as a short—man. Well, she’d made—would make—a logical interpretation of the legend; but how much of the legend would reflect truth? For that matter, had this Aegeus and Theseus any identity with the father and son of the tradition?

They must, Reid thought hopelessly. Their names are associated with the fall of Knossos and the conquest of Crete. And Knossos will fall. Crete will be overrun, in our very near future, when Atlantis goes down.