"Anderson, Poul - The Boat of a Million Years" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anderson Poul)

"What?" Pytheas stared at him through the phantom radiance. "Do you mean die heavens change?"

"Over centuries." Hanno's hand made a chopping motion. "Forget it. Like you, I spoke without thinking. I don't expect you to believe me. Call it a sailor's tall tale."

Pytheas stroked his chin. "As a matter of fact," he said, low and slow, "a correspondent of mine in Alexandria, at its great library, has mentioned that ancient records give certain intimations. . . . It requires deeper study. But you, Hanno-"

The Phoenician formed a disarming grin. "Perhaps I make lucky guesses once in a while."

"You are . . . unique in several respects. You've actually told me very tittle about yourself. Is 'Hanno' the name you were born with?"

"It serves."

"You seem without home, family, ties of any kind." Impulsively: "I hate to think of you as lonely and defenseless."

"Thank you, but I need no sympathy." Hanno mildened his manner. "You judge me by yourself. Are you already homesick?"

"Not really. Not on this quest that I've dreamt of for years." The Greek paused. "But I do have roots, wife, children. My oldest son is married. He should have grandchildren for me when I return." With a smile: "My oldest daughter is now marriageable. I left arrangements for her ia my brother's hands, with my wife's advice and consent. Yes, my little Danae too, she may well have a tittle one of her own by that time." He shook himself, as if the wind had touched him with cold. "It won't do to yearn. Well be long gone at best."

Hanno shrugged. "And meanwhile, I've found, barbarian women are usually easy."

Pytheas regarded him for a silent spell and said nothing about youths already available. Whatever Hanno's tastes ought be, he didn't expect the Phoenician would become intimate with any member of the expedition. Behind that genial front of his, how much humanity was in him?

ALL AT once, tike a blow to the belly, there the Keltoi were. A dozen tall warriors sprang from the forest and started across the grassy slope to the beach, a score, a hundred, two hundred or worse. More swarmed onto the twin headlands sheltering the cove where the ships had anchored.

Mariners yelled, dropped their work of preparing camp, snatched for their weapons, milled about. Soldiers among them, hoptites and peltasts, most still armored, pushed through the chaos to take formation. Helmets, breastplates, shields, swords, pike heads shimmered dully in a thin rain. Hanno ran to their captain, Demetrios, caught him by the wrist, and snapped, "Don't initiate hostilities. They'd love to take our heads home. Battle trophies."

The hard visage fleered. "Do you suppose if we stay peaceful, they'll embrace us?"

"That depends." Hanno squinted into the dimness before him. The hidden sun at his back had to be near the horizon. Trees made a gray wall behind the oncoming attackers. War cries went saw-edged over the boom of surf outside the little bay, echoed from cliff to cliff, sent gulls shrieking aloft. "Someone spied us, maybe days ago; sent word to his fellow clansmen; they followed our course, with the woods for a screen; they expected we'd camp at one of the places where the Carthaginians do-we'd see the burnt wood, rubbish, traces, and head in-" He was thinking aloud.

"Why didn't they wait till we were asleep, except for our sentries?"

"They must be afraid of the dark. This can't be their country. And so-Hold fast. Give me-I should have a peeled wand or a green bough, but this may suffice." Hanno turned about and tugged at the standard. Its bearer clung and cursed him,

"Make him give me this, Demetrios!" Hanno demanded.

The mercenary leader hesitated an instant before he ordered, "Let go, Kleanthes."

"Good. Now blow trumpets, bang on shields, raise all the noise you can, but stay where you are."

The emblem aloft, Hanno advanced. He moved slowly, gravely, staff in right hand, naked sword in left. At his rear, brass brayed and iron thundered.

The Carthaginians had cleared away high growth as far as the spring where they got water, a distance of about an Athenian stadion. New brush sprang up to hinder passage and make it noisy. Thus total surprise was impossible, and the Gauls were not yet hi that headlong dash which civilized men dreaded. They trotted forward as individuals or small groups, disorderly and deadly.

They were big, fair-complexioned men. Most flaunted long mustaches; none had shaved lately. Those that did not braid their hair had treated it with a material that reddened it and stiffened it into spikes. Paint and tattoos adorned bodies sometimes naked, oftener wrapped in a dyed woolen kilt-a sort of primitive himation-or attired in breeches and perhaps a tunic of gaudy hues. Their weapons were long swords, spears, dirks; some bore round shields, a few had helmets.

One huge man at the forefront of the roughly semicircular van wore a gilt helmet that flared out in horns. A bronze tore circled his throat, gold helices his arms. The warriors to his right and left were almost as flamboyant. He must be the chief. Hanno moved toward him.

The racket from among the Greeks was giving the barbarians pause, puzzling them. They slowed, looked around, damped their shouts and muttered to each other. Watching, Pytheas saw Hanno meet their leader. He heard horns blow, voices ring. Men sped about, carrying a word he could not understand. The Gauls grumbled piecemeal to a halt, withdrew a ways, squatted down or leaned on their spears, waited. The drizzle thickened, daylight faded, and he saw only shadows yonder.