THE TIDES OF TIME

by John Brunner

  The drab interior of the building had been transformed, so far as resources allowed, with limewash and bunches of late summer flowers. Bees attracted by the latter buzzed somnolently around, trying to retrace the way they had come in, sometimes evoking cries from children old enough to know they stung, too young to understand that they were a precious gift from the Pantocrator not only for their honey but as a symbol of pain hidden by the sweetness of sin.

  In general the spirits of the people were light, for it had been a good summer. There had been no sickness among either the folk or their livestock, the figs and olives were yielding bountifully, and the wild thyme on the hillsides was so fragrant it could be smelled far out to sea. Ill-clad, sunken-eyed, most of the married ones—and the young widows—hollow-cheeked from early loss of teeth, they nonetheless raised their voices loudly and cheerfully, especially in response to the special invocations the papas recited for the safety and success of those bound on the latest mission to liberate the Holy Land from domination by the Saracens. The future of the Kingdom of Jerusalem was precarious, or so rumor said, but Christian knights were gathering from all over Europe to its aid, and when they had vanquished the enemy the riches of the Orient would once more come pouring through this quarter of the Middle Sea. A fraction of that fabled wealth must surely wash up on the shore of even so petty an island as Oragalia. Fervently they prayed it would.

  And then the outer world broke in on them, sooner than and differently from what they besought the Lord to grant.

  Just as the priest was bringing the service to its end, the low main door of the church, closed against the sun’s harsh glare, was forced wide with a grating noise; it had dropped on its hinges and it scraped the flagstones. Every eye turned to see who had so belatedly come to answer the call to worship.

  Five strangers. Armed strangers. Armed and arrogant.

  All their faces were heavily scarred, by battle or disease or both, and one of them was blind on his right side; all had battered metal helmets on their heads; all carried shields and drawn swords; all wore coats of chain mail, which marked them out as knights, and the first to enter had greaves and gauntlets too; all bar one had carved wooden crosses hanging around their necks on leather thongs; and the exception, the one-eyed man, who hung back in the doorway as his comrades advanced toward the altar, had a sort of amice over his mail, white but badly soiled, with red crosses embroidered on it front and back.

  Their leader, the one in almost full armor, stared suspiciously around the little church. Then, relaxing, he sheathed his blade—with a signal that his companions should do the same—and swaggered up to the priest. The congregation shrank against the walls, the women and children seeking shelter at the backs of their menfolk. In the sudden hush could be heard shouts and banging noises from the waterfront. Many fretted for the safety of their prized possessions such as livestock, boats, barrels and fishing nets, but dared not brave the intruders’ swords to run and see what was happening.

  The knight confronting the papas now addressed him in Latin, speaking loudly and slowly as to an idiot. He made himself understood only with difficulty; the priest was a local man, scarcely more than a youth, whose command even of the Greek Testament was less than perfect. But eventually he sighed and turned to his congregation.

  “This is the Sieur de Belmaison, a great gentleman from France,” he announced. “He has come with a company of soldiers in two ships. They are bound to fight the Saracens. They were driven off course by contrary winds. They are short of food and drink. We must show them charity because theirs is a sacred mission. Even if they hold a wrong opinion concerning the Trinity, they too are Christians and all Christians must band together against the agents of the Evil One.”

  Standing beside him with a suspicious expression, the French lord surveyed the congregation. His gaze lighted on one particular young woman, and lingered. Even though she was conspicuously with child, she had a handsome face and good clear skin. Moreover, she kept apart from the rest of the people, as though they made her feel unwelcome. The rest, that was, except one… and he was a strange fellow to find hereabouts! How far was he from home? What could possibly have brought to Oragalia a blackamoor darker than the Saracens themselves?

  Instantly de Belmaison jumped to the conclusion that this outsider must be at least a spy, and possibly an agent of Satan who had come hither in the hope of subverting the faith of these simple peasant folk, undermined as it already was by the falsehoods of the Eastern Church. The priest had finished interpreting what he had said so far, and from what snatches he had been able to understand seemed to have made an honest job of it. Now he spoke up again, not only emphasizing the islanders’ obligation to show charity toward their cobelievers, but also warning them against Mussulmen, pagans, and other evildoers.

  This time, when the translation was concluded, there was a remarkable reaction among the islanders. Everywhere he saw grim nods of agreement, and many harsh glances were cast at the black man and the woman by his side. So, although it was heretical, their religion must be strong enough to resist the fellow’s wheedling and cajoling. Excellent. His ship’s chaplain would be bound to take a great interest in the matter, though.

  “Well, you can guess what we want,” he resumed. “It’s long and long since we enjoyed bread softer than the rocks of your seashore, or fresh meat, or wine any sweeter than vinegar! Get to it! Do your Christian duty! Or”—and he narrowed his eyes and let his hand stray toward his swordhilt—“we shall feel entitled to help ourselves!”

  That provoked a ripple of dismay among the worshipers. Someone said in a whisper meant to be overheard, “What’s the betting they already did?”

  But de Belmaison failed to understand the coarsely accented Greek, and the papas felt no inclination to translate it.

  The islanders made haste to disperse. Shortly, however, there were squeals from outside, followed by cries of anger. By the sound of it, someone had found a pig and promptly slaughtered it. A moment later, and a goose and several chickens went the same way. Intending to hang back as usual until everyone else had left, dreadfully conscious of de Belmaison’s interest in her and her man, Anastasia whispered to Evgenos, “Will they seize what we have, too?”

  They were poor, but they did have a dozen hens, and preserves in store against the winter.

  “Not if I can help it!” Evgenos promised. “Let’s make for home as quickly as we can!”

  And, unprecedentedly, caught her hand and pushed the remaining worshipers aside on their way to the door.

  Standing beside it, the one-eyed stranger was inspecting those who passed by, his gaze as keen as anyone’s with normal sight. The sunken pit above his right cheekbone lent him a sinister and terrifying air; parents were making their children avert their faces. Anastasia too shrank back and tried to hide behind Evgenos. But, to her and their astonishment, his face softened into half a smile when they arrived before him—half, because whatever wound had cost him his eye had also shriveled the muscles at that corner of his mouth.

  In ill-pronounced but comprehensible Greek, he said, “A blessing on your child, young friends. I’m sure he will be tall and strong and handsome.”

  Anastasia suppressed a shriek of horror and fled into the sunlight, dragging Evgenos after her. Despite their detestation of the black foreigner who had won the favors of the island’s prettiest girl, the rest of those in earshot crossed themselves or made the sign of the horns and rushed in Anastasia’s wake, leaving the church—apart from the presence of the papas—in the undisputed possession of de Belmaison and his companions.

  “They claim to be in the service of Christ, yet he said that about my child!” Anastasia moaned as soon as they were safely clear of the building.

  “I know,” Evgenos muttered grimly, for he had been well taught since his arrival about the dangers of the Evil Eye. “And look at what the rest of them are getting up to!” He pointed toward the shore.

  There, for all the local people could do to in
terfere—and they were being laughed at, or threatened, for their pains—the men from the ships which now rode at anchor in the bay had built a great fire, using whatever they could find that would burn. Not only had they taken the village’s stock of driftwood, in itself precious on an island with so few trees; those of them who possessed maces or axes had also attacked the barrels destined for this year’s wine and oil, and even the hull of the Kaloyiannis family’s boat, retrieved at the cost of so much effort after its side had been stove in against a rock in the last gale.

  Four or five of them were bloodying the sand as they hung up the slaughtered pig to drain on a pole. Even while Evgenos and Anastasia watched in horror, they gashed its belly to let out the inwards, which they promptly tossed aside. Were they insane? Why waste so much good food? It was awful to think of the sausages it would have made!

  Dogs had been brought ashore, too: hulking but ill-favored beasts that had to be kept at bay with whips. One of the soldiers, grinning satanically, used his on the wife of the pig’s owner, who was begging for at least the offal, and to emphasize his point caught up a handful of the guts and hurled them as far as he could. Instantly the dogs converged on them and began to fight, which amused the soldiers hugely. The woman, a lash mark reddening across her cheek, turned away howling louder than the dogs.

  Meantime the goose and chickens were being roughly plucked and cleaned, then spitted on whatever sticks had not yet been thrown into the fire. Laughing and joking, more of the soldiers—there must be thirty-five or forty of them altogether, Evgenos estimated—appeared carrying all the barrels and skin bottles of wine that they could find. At once they were the center of their comrades’ attention, and most of what was left from last year’s vintage was promptly spilled either down their gullets or on the ground: either way, gone to waste.

  Then someone reported his discovery of the baker’s, its oven containing not only new bread but also the stews and other dishes the better-off families had taken there to be cooked during divine service. To the utter horror of the onlookers, the soldiers instantly forgot about the pig and the poultry, leaving them to char for want of being turned, and seized on this new discovery, emptying the earthenware pots so fast they nearly choked themselves, then hurling them to smash on the rocky ground. Whenever anybody tried to stop them, they cursed and struck out, drunkenly now, sometimes only with fists, but more than once with weapons. The middle Kaloyiannis boy, braver or angrier than most, was rewarded with a gash across his thigh which felled him to the ground, and the man who had delivered the blow was restrained with difficulty from chopping at him again.

  Aghast in the doorway of the church, the papas shouted at de Belmaison, demanding why he was letting his men behave worse than pagans or Mussulmen. But, grinning cynically, the French lord and three of his companions ignored his complaints and went to claim a share of the spoils, each ordering his followers to bring him the choicest food and drink. The priest burst into unashamed sobs.

  “How can Christians act this way?” he screamed.

  The one-eyed man, who had remained in the shadow of the church door, emerged blinking into sunlight and laid a consolatory hand on his arm. In his stilted Greek he said, “They have been disappointed in their hope of fighting the Saracens. We should have reached the Holy Land a month ago. When it is ours again, you will be amply repaid for what they’re taking.”

  A little reassured, the papas wiped away his tears. Anastasia, however, still frightened because the one-eyed man might, wittingly or unwittingly, have ill-wished her unborn child, clutched at Evgenos’s arm, whimpering.

  “Yes, let’s make ourselves scarce,” the latter muttered. “Any moment now these devils are going to remember there are women here, and my guess is they’ve had to manage without any for quite some time. Of course, they will have used the boys instead, but even so… And some of them are loathsomely diseased. We’d better make for home and hope against hope that they’ll be too drunk to think about exploring the whole island before they leave.”

  Anastasia’s face twisted in horror, and despite her condition she followed him homeward at a frantic run.

  Having penned their chickens in the cave above their hut, and hidden the rest of their few possessions as best they could, they waited tensely throughout an afternoon that dragged on unendurably. Apart from the humming of bees, and as evening drew on the clicking of cicadas, there was almost no sound; yet they often fancied they could hear a scream from the direction of the village, or a harsh cruel laugh, or the echo of yet another pot or dish being casually broken by those who would be gone tomorrow, heedless of how long it would take the islanders to repair their meager fortunes.

  Even after sunset, though he allowed Anastasia to go and lie down, Evgenos did not relax his vigilance. Armed with a heavy olive branch by way of a club, he sat amid the gathering darkness, daring to dream that he, sober, might be a match for any number of soldiers fuddled with drink. Yet his belly growled, and the acid taste of hunger rose in his mouth as he thought of the good food the invaders had gobbled down or tossed aside. He hadn’t eaten meat in weeks, not since their oldest hen became too old to lay.

  It grew very late. He had almost allowed himself the luxury of imagining that, here at the distant southern tip of Oragalia, they were destined to escape the predations of the crusaders, when he caught the noise of someone slipping on the steep and pebbly path across the headland, followed by a curse and a chuckle—the latter, no doubt from someone else. So there were going to be at least two of them. Cautiously, noiselessly, he crawled into concealment among bushes so dry it cost him all his self-control to prevent their twigs from snapping. Tonight the moon was almost at its full; he could see a long way. He would be well prepared when they got here.

  He wondered whether to waken Anastasia, but decided against it. Best if she slept the sleep of exhaustion. Of course, if he failed in his defense of her—

  But he refused to let himself entertain the idea.

  Nonetheless his feigned confidence waned when he first caught a glimpse of the men heading toward him. One of the pair appeared to be a giant, with shoulders as wide as the church door! Then he realized his mistake. That was two men, both of ordinary size, supporting one another and their common burden of a clumsy ancient pottery wine jar against the rough going. A pang of relief transfixed him—only to vanish as he realized: not two men coming his way, but three.

  He sought what consolation he could in the fact that they were definitely common soldiery. They carried no shields; hence probably they did not possess swords either, although they doubtless had clubs or knives, and what passed for their armor would be nothing more than padded leather. One accurate blow to each of their heads, with all the violence at his command, and…

  But that was wishful thinking. He drove himself to the utmost pitch of concentration, and realized he was going to have to let them pass, on their way to where Anastasia lay, in order to attack them from behind. Whether they were drunk or sober, it was too risky to confront them.

  They drew level with him, cursing and complaining in a tongue he did not understand, though he could well guess what two of them were saying to the third: “It had better be worth coming all this way!” Holding his breath, he waited until their backs were turned, and poised to leap down with his improvised weapon swinging. And at that very instant there came the sound of other, hastier, footsteps, and a sharp voice raised as though issuing an order.

  He was too tense to work out the implications of that. All he could think of was that there were now four men to contend with, and the three he had been about to attack were just on the point of turning around—

  I should have been praying while I waited, Evgenos grieved to himself, and launched his onslaught with a yell.

  As well as surprise, he had the advantage of knowing every inch of this end of the island, but even so he was too late to take the trio completely aback. As befitted good soldiers—which in the proper circumstances they might be—they respond
ed with reflex speed, heedless of the antiquity of the jar they carried, and the more important fact that it was still half-full. It fell to the ground and smashed, and gave him an extra precious second to take aim, for the liquid made their footing instantly slippery, and they almost lost their balance.

  This stroke of luck provided Evgenos with time to crack the nearest of them over the head with all his might and knock him unconscious, but before his victim had measured his length the other two were charging, and it was sheer luck that enabled him to swipe them both, painfully, before having to retreat with his back against the rock. His breath rasped in his throat; the air was horribly dry and full of dust.

  From the direction of the path came another shout, full of menace. He had no time to think about that, though. He was compelled to hurl his club first this way, then that, with hands so slippery with sweat (and how could that be, when the air was so dry?) that he risked losing his grip. One or two of his blows connected; the rest were near enough to make his opponents jump aside and regroup. But those which did hit home seemed not to do any harm, and pretty soon one of the soldiers was going to hit him, maybe on the arm or hand, and there was yet another shout from behind, this time loud and angry, and—missed me, by a miracle! Help me, saints! You can’t let these brutes rape Anastasia! You can’t! Yet here they are coming at me again, and the one that I knocked flying is struggling to his feet, and I’m tiring already because it’s so long since I filled my belly with such good food as they stole from us today, and I hear the other one coming up behind me, closer and closer—Got you, you spawn of Satan!

  Fair and square on the cheek, and I felt his teeth go crunch, and there he is tripping over his own feet but here come the others both at once—Help me, St. Michael and St. George, the dragon killers! Because if you don’t…