The Wildside Book of Fantasy: 20 Great Tales of Fantasy by Fritz Leiber, Gene Wolfe, Robert E. Howard, Paul di Filippo, Lin Carter, Tanith Lee, Clark Ashton Smith, E. Hoffmann Price, Thomas Burnett Swann, Brian Stableford, John Gregory Betancourt, Brian McNaughton, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Lawrence Watt-Evans, Clive Jackson, Darrell Schwetizer, Achmed Abdullah Page B
Authors: Fritz Leiber, Gene Wolfe, Robert E. Howard, Paul di Filippo, Lin Carter, Tanith Lee, Clark Ashton Smith, E. Hoffmann Price, Thomas Burnett Swann, Brian Stableford, John Gregory Betancourt, Brian McNaughton, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Lawrence Watt-Evans, Clive Jackson, Darrell Schwetizer, Achmed Abdullah
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his red domed cap, since his hair was thinning on top, but otherwise he was hardly recognizable. When he scrubbed the Halcyon ’s decks or mended her sail, his wistful eyes brightened like those of a parent. He loved her himself and knew her loved by us.
Twenty-six days after our departure from Graviscae, we docked at Massilia, the city of Artemis, and received a warm welcome from the Etruscan garrison, which had recently expelled the Greeks and captured the lucrative wine trade of the interior. Our stores replenished, our hold bulging with wineskins and our deck garlanded with acanthus leaves by the friendly inhabitants, we sailed for the Pillars of Hercules, a month’s voyage from Massilia.
* * * *
The western Pillar, like nothing human or animal, sprawled to the starboard; a thing of rock only, dry, barren, harsh, its limestone face pitted with caves. A single rock, it was said, had barred the access to Ocean till Hercules, bound for Erythea to fetch the cattle of Geryon, had burst it in two and mingled the waters of Ocean with the Inner Sea. But our way was nonetheless blocked. A formidable warship rounded the base of the rock; the lower deck bristled with oars, and the upper deck, hung with shields, glittered with helmeted warriors. Its vicious beak and glaring painted eyes lunged at us through the waves.
“It’s Carthaginian,” I said with a show of relief I did not entirely feel. “We have nothing to fear.” For many years Carthage and Etruria had joined their might by a treaty. While the powerful galleys of Carthage patrolled the Pillars and refused egress to the Greeks, they allowed Etruscans free passage to the Islands of Tin and to frozen Scandia. They had, however, to assure themselves of our identity; Greeks might sail in round-built Etruscan ship.
The galley snaked beside us. Sweat and leather, acrid and sweet at once, assaulted our nostrils. Armor winked in the sun. The shields on the gunwale burned like mirrors of polished bronze. Etruscans take pride in their armor; horsehair plumes wave proudly above their heads. The Carthaginians opposite us, bearded and heavy-browed, wore low plumeless helmets which thoroughly protected their skulls but seemed to say that war is an occupation and not an honor, a duty and not a glory. Where Etruscans temper their melancholy with a passionate zest for the moment, on the battlefield or at the banquet, Carthaginians seem always to walk in darkness, as if the black immensities of their continent have imbued their blood with shadows. They are morbid and humorless, though brilliant warriors and loyal friends.
The ships swayed together in the current. The Carthaginian oarsmen, not slaves but warriors like the men in armor, forestalled a collision with their blades. For a moment I feared that they would use their massive grappling hooks on the spotless decks of the Halcyon, and Aruns clutched a sweep as if to say, “Grapple at your risk!” But the captain was not so heartless. Standing on the upper deck, he called down to us. By now he had assured himself that Aruns and I, at least, were Etruscans. Robes could be borrowed or imitated but our almond eyes assured him of our lineage. The Scandians he seemed to take for slaves, and Astyanax he ignored.
“Bound for the Isles of Tin?” he boomed in a funereal but not unfriendly voice.
“Around Libya to the south,” I replied. It was pointless to tell him that we were following a woman who had preceded us by a hundred years. “A voyage of exploration.”
“Ah,” he said. “Etruria grows cramped at home. New colonies in the offing, eh? But you will find little to interest you in the south. Though I have never sailed there myself, the Numidians say there is nothing but monsters—pygmies and giants and,” he added ominously, “fabulous beasts. Monoceroses, camelopards,”—he eyed Astyanax and lowered his voice—“Tritons, hippogriffs, and sphinxes.”
Aruns shuddered, and even the redoubtable brothers, who
Twenty-six days after our departure from Graviscae, we docked at Massilia, the city of Artemis, and received a warm welcome from the Etruscan garrison, which had recently expelled the Greeks and captured the lucrative wine trade of the interior. Our stores replenished, our hold bulging with wineskins and our deck garlanded with acanthus leaves by the friendly inhabitants, we sailed for the Pillars of Hercules, a month’s voyage from Massilia.
* * * *
The western Pillar, like nothing human or animal, sprawled to the starboard; a thing of rock only, dry, barren, harsh, its limestone face pitted with caves. A single rock, it was said, had barred the access to Ocean till Hercules, bound for Erythea to fetch the cattle of Geryon, had burst it in two and mingled the waters of Ocean with the Inner Sea. But our way was nonetheless blocked. A formidable warship rounded the base of the rock; the lower deck bristled with oars, and the upper deck, hung with shields, glittered with helmeted warriors. Its vicious beak and glaring painted eyes lunged at us through the waves.
“It’s Carthaginian,” I said with a show of relief I did not entirely feel. “We have nothing to fear.” For many years Carthage and Etruria had joined their might by a treaty. While the powerful galleys of Carthage patrolled the Pillars and refused egress to the Greeks, they allowed Etruscans free passage to the Islands of Tin and to frozen Scandia. They had, however, to assure themselves of our identity; Greeks might sail in round-built Etruscan ship.
The galley snaked beside us. Sweat and leather, acrid and sweet at once, assaulted our nostrils. Armor winked in the sun. The shields on the gunwale burned like mirrors of polished bronze. Etruscans take pride in their armor; horsehair plumes wave proudly above their heads. The Carthaginians opposite us, bearded and heavy-browed, wore low plumeless helmets which thoroughly protected their skulls but seemed to say that war is an occupation and not an honor, a duty and not a glory. Where Etruscans temper their melancholy with a passionate zest for the moment, on the battlefield or at the banquet, Carthaginians seem always to walk in darkness, as if the black immensities of their continent have imbued their blood with shadows. They are morbid and humorless, though brilliant warriors and loyal friends.
The ships swayed together in the current. The Carthaginian oarsmen, not slaves but warriors like the men in armor, forestalled a collision with their blades. For a moment I feared that they would use their massive grappling hooks on the spotless decks of the Halcyon, and Aruns clutched a sweep as if to say, “Grapple at your risk!” But the captain was not so heartless. Standing on the upper deck, he called down to us. By now he had assured himself that Aruns and I, at least, were Etruscans. Robes could be borrowed or imitated but our almond eyes assured him of our lineage. The Scandians he seemed to take for slaves, and Astyanax he ignored.
“Bound for the Isles of Tin?” he boomed in a funereal but not unfriendly voice.
“Around Libya to the south,” I replied. It was pointless to tell him that we were following a woman who had preceded us by a hundred years. “A voyage of exploration.”
“Ah,” he said. “Etruria grows cramped at home. New colonies in the offing, eh? But you will find little to interest you in the south. Though I have never sailed there myself, the Numidians say there is nothing but monsters—pygmies and giants and,” he added ominously, “fabulous beasts. Monoceroses, camelopards,”—he eyed Astyanax and lowered his voice—“Tritons, hippogriffs, and sphinxes.”
Aruns shuddered, and even the redoubtable brothers, who
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