Mason inspected the cistern. Leaves floated on top of the water. "We trust this stuff?" he asked.
"We'll have to eventually, and we'll want to start drinking local water while we're still pumped up with gamma globulins and the other shots we got-but I think we can wait a day or so until we've got a permanent base. Got purification tablets?"
"Yeah. I'll use them. Hand me your canteen."
They filled the canteens while Rick thought about their situation. The main road would have more traffic, but it would also be easier going. Not far down the side road he could see patches of water and mud.
"Horses comin'," Mason said. He pointed back the way they came.
"Off the road," Rick ordered. He led them into the trees beyond the crossroads.
There was a click as Mason released the safety on his H amp;K battle rifle. "They're slowin' down," he said softly.
"If they don't want trouble, we don't," Rick said. Two horses came into view. One carried an elderly man in yellow robes. There was a blue circle with a stylized thunderbolt across it sewn to the breast of the robe. The other horse was ridden double. The rider in front wore kilts and an iron cap, and carried a short sword slung at his left side. The other was cloaked and hooded. They stopped at the crossroads, and the other robed man swung down easily and led his mount to the watering trough, first pausing to bow to the stone heap.
The other two dismounted.
Gwen stared interestedly. "Notice the reverent gesture," she whispered. "Hermes. Guide of the Dead. He was originally a god of crossroads. Evidently he hasn't lost that function here."
The second rider threw back the hood and removed the cloak. Mason gave a nearly inaudible whistle. "That's a looker!" he whispered.
Rick gestured for silence. Mason was right. The girl was young-about twenty, Rick would guess, with long raven-black hair. Even at this distance her eyes were startlingly blue. She had a classic Scandinavian shape to her face, and the woolen frock she wore would have brought a high price at Magnin's. Only the kilted rider seemed armed, and Rick examined his weapons carefully. A leather case was fastened to the saddle; from its shape, it probably held a longbow. Otherwise there were no missile weapons. The man's sword was quite short. He also carried a dagger about the size of Rick's Gerber Mark II combat knife.
"This may be a good chance to talk to the locals," Rick said.
"They'll probably think we're horse thieves," Gwen warned.
"So we stay away from their horses. Mason, don't start anything unless there's no other choice. And keep an eye out back the way we came. Just in case."
"Sure."
"Not just for Parsons," Rick said. "The girl looks nervous, and they all keep looking back. And notice how lathered those horses are. They didn't stop because they wanted to. Okay, let's go make contact with the locals."
The girl saw them first. She pointed and the younger man went toward his horse.
"Sling arms, Mason," Rick ordered. He spread his empty hands. "Gwen, can you tell them we're friends?"
"The last languages I was able to study from Tran were six hundred years old," she said. She raised her voice. "Amid. Fibs. Zevos. No, dammit, that doesn't get through. Rick, bow to the stone heap. At least that will show we're religious."
"Right. You too, Mason. And keep your hands clear."
"Yes, sir."
Reverence to a stone heap. It did seem to have a beneficial effect. The others watched them warily, but they did nothing as Rick came closer.
The kilted warrior stared at Rick in frank curiosity. He eyed the slung rifle as if aware that it was a weapon. He seemed very interested in the scabbarded Mark II which hung hilt-down from Rick's suspender webbing.
The older robed man dipped water with a gourd and held it out to them.
Rick hesitated, thinking of the various amoebic life-forms that probably inhabited the unpurified water.
"He's a priest," Gwen said. "Blue sky and thunderbolt. Zeus? Jupiter?"
The priest nodded in comprehension. "Yatar."
"It really is," Gwen said. She seemed delighted. "Zeus Pater, the Sky-father. See, blue for the vault of the sky, and the thunderbolt-"
Rick let the priest hand him the gourd, gulped hard, and drank, hoping that when the inevitable happened it wouldn't be at an inconvenient time. "You carrying wine, Mason?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Hand it here."
Mason took the plastic liter flask from his belt. "Wine," Rick said. "Uh — vino."
The priest looked interested, and said something to his companions. They looked interested, too.
Rick tilted up the bottle and drank a swallow. It wasn't wine at all, but Scotch. Now what have I done? he thought. The others were gesturing toward the girl, and she held out her hand expectantly.
Rick handed her the bottle. "Strong. Fuerte. Not much. Uh-take it easy-"
The girl drank, looked startled, then drank again, slowly. She didn't seem shocked, which meant they must have some kind of distillation here. She said something which Rick took to be thanks.
"Cap'n, no wonder they wanted her to have a drink," Mason said. "The back of her dress is all bloody."
"Yeah? Have a look, Gwen-"
"If she'll let me," Gwen said. "Keep an eye on her boyfriend." She went over to the girl. "Permiso? Uh, medico." She tapped herself on the breast. "Magister?"
"Magistro?" the girl said. She looked at Gwen with what seemed to be respect and stood still while Gwen tried to peel back the blouse. "Good Lord!" she muttered. "Rick, someone's abused this child badly."
Child, hell, Rick thought. "How?"
The girl reached up and unbuttoned the front of her dress and slipped it off her shoulders, leaving her back and breasts bare. Apparently they didn't believe in modesty here-at least not for the upper body. It was hard not to stare at the nearly perfect figure. She evidently didn't usually go without clothing, though; she had no tan at all.
She also had no objection to Rick looking at her, and he went over to examine herback. Someone had beaten her badly. Her back was a mass of bruises, and twice whatever had beaten her had flayed open the skin. It was going to scar. He took out his first-aid kit. "Know much about this?" he asked Gwen.
"No." She looked mildly ill.
"Better let me, then." He took out a swab. "Got to clean this and it's going to sting. Gwen, watch her boyfriend." He tapped himself on the chest. "Magistro," he said. "Medico." She winced when the swab touched the wound, but she didn't cry out. Rick painted it with Merthiolate and put a loose gauze bandage over the broken skin areas. "No tetanus inoculations," he warned. "Make sure you don't cut air off from the wounds. Better to risk aerobic infection. With all the horse crap on the roads, there's a high tetanus risk." He stepped away. "All right, you can cover yourself again." He gestured to show what he meant. "And have another drink. You earned it."
The girl smiled tentatively, then downed another slug of Scotch. She tapped herself on the chest.
"Tylara do Tamaerthon, Eqetassa do Chelm."
"You get that, Gwen?" Rick asked.
"I think so. Eqetassa. That's right out of old Mycenae. If I'm not mistaken, she's a countess. If that's right, her name would be Tylara and she's from that place with the guttural sound."
"Tylara," Rick said. The girl nodded happily. He pointed to himself. "Rick Galloway, Captain of mercenaries." If long names indicated high rank, he didn't want to claim to be a peasant.
"Rick," Tylara said tentatively. She pointed to the robed priest. "Yanulf, sacerdos pu Yatar." The priest bowed. She pointed again. "Caradoc."
"Latin and Greek all mixed up with Mycenaean," Gwen said.