An APC awkwardly turned a tight corner. Its heavy machine gun and bulletproof sides let it dominate the field-or would have, if a Moabite hadn't set it on fire with another bottle full of gasoline. Some of the Philistinians inside managed to get out. Pheidas didn't think all of them did.

"Chemosh is king!" The cry rose again and again, ever louder. So did another one: "Death to Dagon!"

Pheidas peered out from the doorway. Somebody in a dun-colored uniform like his was down. A Moabite with a Novgorodian rifle drew a bead on the wounded Philistinian from no more than three cubits away. Pheidas shot the Moabite in the back. He threw out his arms as he toppled, the rifle flying from his hands. Pheidas ran to his countryman. The Philistinian had a big chunk blown out of one calf. "Hurts," he said as Pheidas dragged him back to cover.

"I bet it does." Pheidas gave him a shot and bandaged the wound. He was glad he'd replenished his aid kit after helping the Moabite woman. He wasn't so glad he'd helped her, not any more.

"Death to Dagon!" the Moabites howled. "Chemosh is king!"

Another Moabite with a rifle ran out to try to help his friend the way Pheidas had helped the wounded Philistinian. Pheidas shot him, too. He'd never fired his own weapon in anger till this morning. One of these days, he would have to try to figure out what it all meant. Now he just wanted to stay alive.

"What a mess." Thanks to the shot, the wounded Philistinian sounded dreamy, not tormented.

"Man, you can say that again," Pheidas said. "The Arabs in Amman will be screaming about what we did to their little Semite brothers. So will the Phoenicians, and the Turks in Babylonia. We'll be lucky if we don't wind up in another real war."

"Yeah." The wounded man didn't seem to care. That was the drug talking-the drug and the fact that he wouldn't be doing any more fighting for a while no matter what.

An ambulance rolled up, lights flashing and sirens wailing. The Moabites threw rocks at it even though it had the Green Waves painted on the doors. They didn't recognize that symbol of mercy; their ambulances, like most in the Middle East, used the Green Sun instead. Parthians used the Green Lion, while most of the world preferred the Green Hammer.

Pheidas waved to the ambulance driver, who stopped the vehicle. A couple of medics got out and picked up the man who'd been shot. They both had pistols on their hips. Medics were supposed to be noncombatants, but the Moabites didn't care about leaving them alone, so they protected themselves as best they could.

The ambulance screamed away. "Over here!" somebody shouted in Philistinian. "Quick!"

Pheidas caught the slight guttural accent. "Sit tight! He's a fraud!" he yelled. What did the Moabites have waiting? Snipers? A machine gun? Grenades?

A tank fired. The boom of the cannon and the blam of the bursting sh.e.l.l came almost too close together to separate into two noises. Screams followed a moment later. Pheidas hoped some of them came from the Moabite who'd tried to trap his buddies.

"You all right?" That was Antenor's voice.

"So far, yeah. You?" Pheidas called back.

"I'm not bleeding, anyway," his friend said. "Don't know what the demon I'm supposed to do, though."

"Stay alive. Shoot the ragheads if they get too close. What else is there?" Pheidas said.

"There should be something." Antenor sounded desperately unhappy. Pheidas hoped he wouldn't think too much. If you did, you were liable to give the bad guys a chance to punch your ticket when you could have punched theirs instead.

To them, of course, you were the bad guys. The Moabites were surer they were right than Pheidas' own folk were. Now who's thinking too much? Now who's thinking too much? Pheidas wondered. Pheidas wondered.

"To me! To me!" That was an unmistakable Philistinian voice. Pheidas dashed out of the doorway. He sprayed a quick burst to make any Moabites in the neighborhood keep their heads down. The Philistinian shouted again. He was inside a grocery. Pheidas ran over and jumped through the blown-out front window.

"What's up?" he asked, flopping down flat.

The Philistinian who'd called wore a captain's three dragons on each shoulder strap. "I've got a captive here, and I want to make sure we get him out in one piece," he answered, keeping his rifle trained on a plump, most dejected-looking man. "I think he's one of those Sword Buddha maniacs from Babylonia, here to stir up the Moabites."

"Great," Pheidas said, peering out to make sure n.o.body was getting ready to rush the grocery.

"My name is Chemoshyatti," the man said in flawless Moabite. "I have run this grocery for years. By my G.o.d, Philistinian, you mistake me."

"My left one," the captain said. "I found the tracts in your register's cash drawer." He didn't turn his head away from Chemoshyatti, but addressed his next words to Pheidas: "The usual garbage."

"Uh-huh," Pheidas said. In the Middle Kingdom and Southeast Asia, Buddhism was a peaceful faith. But the variant the Turks brought down off the steppe preached that nirvana came through killing foes. You didn't even have to be a Buddhist yourself to gain it if you took enough enemies with you. Babylonia fostered terrorists as far as its acolytes could reach.

Antenor and another Philistinian soldier warily approached the grocery. Pheidas raised up enough to let them see him in helmet and uniform, then ducked down again. The captain urged them on, saying, "Now we've got enough men to make sure we can get this guy to the people who need to ask him questions."

That wouldn't be much fun, not for the fellow who had to do the answering. Chemoshyatti, or whatever his real name was, must have decided the same thing. One second, he stood there looking innocent and sorry for himself. The next, he flung himself across the five or six cubits that separated him from the Philistinian officer. He was good; nothing gave the move away till he made it.

But the captain was good, too. He hadn't let the man he'd caught come too close, and he hadn't let the fellow's nondescript appearance lull him. Before the grocer who said he was a Moabite could reach him, the captain squeezed off a neat four-round burst, just the way he'd learned to do it in basic. The rounds st.i.tched across the plump man's chest. The captain sidestepped. Chemoshyatti crashed down and didn't get up.

He choked out a few words that weren't Moabite: "Om mani . . . padme hum "Om mani . . . padme hum." Then he slumped over, dead. A latrine stink filled the grocery as his bowels let go. Then he slumped over, dead. A latrine stink filled the grocery as his bowels let go.

"Sword Buddhist, sure as demons from the afterworld," the captain said grimly.

"Why don't they leave us alone?" Pheidas said. "The Moabites would be bad enough without the Turks stirring them up."

"That's what the Turks live for, though," the officer said. "Maybe we'll have to pay some more unofficial calls on Babylonia." Philistinian planes had wrecked a Babylonian nuclear pile a few years back; the idea of Sword Buddhists with atomic bombs gave politicians all over the world the galloping jimjams. None of the big powers wanted to do anything about it, though, for fear of offending others and starting the war they wanted to head off. The Philistinians, in a tradition that dated back to the days of Crete, took the bull by the horns. Babylonian bonzes often came down with sudden and unexplained cases of loss of life, too. Officially, Philistinia denied everything. But the captain hadn't talked about anything official.

He scooped out the propaganda pamphlets he'd mentioned. They were of the usual sort, preaching the glories of murder and martyrdom in punchy text and bright pictures. One headline grabbed Pheidas' eyes and didn't want to let go. CHEMOSH WANTS PHILISTINIANS DEAD! it screamed.

"Know what I heard, sir?" Pheidas said.

"What's that?" the captain asked.

"That there are Sword Buddhists in Philistinia, too. They want to get us to murder Moabites. They don't care who kills who, as long as somebody's killing somebody."

"I've heard the same thing. You wouldn't want to think that kind of nonsense could take hold in modern, educated people, but it does, curse it. It does." The captain scowled. "I'll bet some of them get driven round the bend because of the things the Moabites do."

"Wouldn't be surprised." Pheidas nodded. Another burst of gunfire not far away made him spin back toward the window, but he decided halfway through the motion that the shooting wasn't close enough to be dangerous. He went on, "And the ragheads say the same thing about us. How did it all get started? How do we make it stop?"

"It goes back to the days when we first came to Philistinia," the captain said, "all those years ago. Maybe it'd be different now if things were different back then. I don't know. I don't know how to get off the wheel, either, any more than anybody else does. And as long as we're on it, we'd better keep winning."

"Yes, sir," Pheidas said.

THE HORSE OF BRONZE.

This one came out in The First Heroes The First Heroes, an anthology of Bronze Age stories I was lucky enough to coedit with the scholar, writer, and underwater archaeologist Noreen Doyle. I wrote it in the spring of 2002. The timing was serendipitous. I had been invited as guest of honor to the British national SF convention that year. After the con was over, my wife and I stayed in England for a week to explore. We made a day trip from London to Stonehenge, not least because I knew it would figure in the story here. I think the writing, which came only a few days later, is unusually fresh because of that. The jackdaws and the wind are authentic. Stonehenge itself, of course, is rather fresher in the story than for real. Too bad!

I knew, the last time we fought the sphinxes, this dearth of tin would trouble us. I knew, and I was right, and I had the privilege-if that is what you want to call it-of saying as much beforehand, so that a good many of the hes in the warband heard me being clever. And much grief and labor and danger and fear my cleverness won for me, too, though I could not know that that ahead of time. ahead of time.

"Oh, copper will serve well enough," said Oreus, who is a he who needs no wine to run wild. He brandished an ax. It gleamed red as blood in the firelight of our encampment, for he had polished it with loving care.

"Too soft," Hylaeus said. He carried a fine old sword, leaf-shaped, as green with patina as growing wheat save for the cutting edge, which gleamed a little darker than Oreus' axe blade. "Bronze is better, and the sphinxes, G.o.ds curse them, are bound to have a great plenty of it."

Oreus brandished the ax once more. "Just have to hit harder, then," he said cheerfully. "Hit hard enough, and anything will fall over."

With a snort, Hylaeus turned to me. "Will you listen to him, Cheiron? Will you just listen? All b.a.l.l.s and no sense."

If this does not describe half our folk-oh, far more than half, by the Cloud-Mother from whom we are sprung-then never have I heard a phrase that does. "Hylaeus is right," I told Oreus. "With tin to harden their weapons properly, the sphinxes will cause us more trouble than they usually do."

And Oreus turned his back on me and made as if to lash out with his hinder hooves. All b.a.l.l.s and no brains, sure enough, as Hylaeus had said. I s.n.a.t.c.hed up my own spear-a new one, worse luck, with a head of copper unalloyed-and would have skewered him as he deserved had he provoked me even a little more. He must have realized as much, for he flinched away and said, "We'll give the sphinxes some of this this, too." Then he did kick, but not right in my direction.

In worried tones, Hylaeus said, "I wonder if what they say about the Tin Isle is true."

"Well, to the crows with me if I believe it's been overrun by monsters," I replied. "Some things are natural, and some just aren't. But something's something's gone wrong, or we wouldn't have had to do without tin shipments for so long." gone wrong, or we wouldn't have had to do without tin shipments for so long."

Looking back on it, thinking about the Tin Isle while we were camped out not far from the sphinxes' stronghold, in the debatable land north and east of their river-valley homeland, seems strange. This is a country of broiling sun, and one that will never match or even approach the river valley in wealth, for it is as dry as baked straw. Only a few paltry folk dwell therein, and they pay tribute to the sphinxes who hold the land as a shield for their better country. Those folk would pay tribute to us, too, if only we could drive away the sphinxes.

They found us the next morning. Keeping our camp secret from them for as long as we had struck me as something of a miracle. With their eagle-feathered wings, they can soar high over a battlefield, looking for a fight. And so this one did. Hideous, screeching laughter came from it as it spied us. They have faces that put me in mind of our own shes, but lengthened and twisted into a foxlike muzzle, and full of hatred-to say nothing of fangs.

"Now we're for it," I said, watching the accursed thing wing off to southward, listening to its wails fade in the distance. "They'll come by land and air, bedeviling us till we're like to go mad."

Nessus strung his great bow. When he thrummed the bow-string, he got a note like the ones he draws from a harp with a sound box made from the sh.e.l.l of a tortoise. "Some of them will be sorry they tried," he said. Nessus can send an arrow farther than any male I know.

"Some of us will be sorry they tried, too," I answered. I had not liked this expedition from the beginning, and never would have consented to it had I not hoped we might get on the scent of a new source of tin. That seemed more unlikely with each league farther south we traveled. Wherever the sphinxes got the metal to harden their bronze, it was not there.

But we were there, and we were about to pay the price for it. I had put out sentries, though our folk are far from fond of being so forethoughtful. One of them cried, "The sphinxes! The sphinxes come!"

We had enough time to s.n.a.t.c.h up our weapons and form the roughest sort of line before they swarmed upon us like so many lions. They are smaller and swifter than we. We are stronger. Who is fiercer . . . Well, that is why they have battles: to find out who is fiercer.

Sometimes the sphinxes will not close with us at all, but content themselves with shooting arrows and dropping stones and screeching curses from afar. That day, though, they proved eager enough to fight. Our warbands seldom penetrate so far into their land. I suppose they thought to punish us for our arrogance-as if they have none of their own.

The riddle of the sphinxes is why, with their wings and fangs and talons, they do not rule far more of the land around the Inner Sea than in fact they hold. The answer to the riddle is simplicity itself: they are sphinxes, and so savage and vile and hateful they can seldom decide what to do next or make any other folk obey them save through force and fear. On the one hand, they hold the richest river valley the G.o.ds ever made. On the other, they could be so much more than they are. As well they do not see it themselves, I suppose.

But whether they see it or not, they had enough and to spare that day to send us home with our plumed tails hanging down in dismay. Along with their ferocity and their wings, their bronze weapons won the fight for them. Oreus practiced his philosophy, if you care to dignify it with such a word, when he hit one of the sphinxes' shields as hard as he could with his copper-headed axe. The metal that faced the shield was well laced with tin, and so much harder than the blade that smote it that the ax head bent to uselessness from the blow. Hit something hard enough and . . . This possibility had not entered into Oreus' calculations. Of course, Oreus is not one who can count above fourteen without polluting himself.

Which is not to say I was sorry he was part of our warband. On the contrary. The ax failing of the purpose for which it was intended, he hurled it in the startled sphinx's face. The sphinx yowled in pain and rage. Before it could do more than yowl, Oreus stood high on his hinder pair of legs and lashed out with his forehooves. Blood flew. The sphinx, screaming now rather than yammering, tried to take wing. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it out of the air with his hands, threw it down, and trampled it in the dirt with all four feet.

"Who's next?" he cried, and none of the sphinxes had the nerve to challenge him.

Elsewhere in the field, though, we did not do so well. I would it were otherwise, but no. Before the day was even half done, we streamed north in full retreat, our hopes as dead as that lake of wildly salty water lying not far inland from where we were. The sphinxes pursued, jeering us on. I posted three hes beneath an overhanging rock, so they might not be easily seen from the air. They ambushed the sphinxes leading the chase as prettily as you might want. That, unfortunately, was a trick we could play only once, and one that salved the sore of our defeat without curing it.

When evening came, I took Oreus aside and said, "Now do you see why we need tin for our weapons?"

He nodded, his great chest heaving with the exertion of the fight and the long gallop afterwards and the shame he knew that that gallop had been away from the foe. "Aye, by the G.o.ds who made us, I do," he replied. "It is because I am too strong for copper alone."

I laughed. Despite the sting of a battle lost, I could not help laughing. "So you are, my dear," I said. "And what do you propose to do about that?"

He frowned. Thought never came easy for him. At length, he said, "We need tin, Cheiron, as you say. If I'm going to smash the sphinxes, we need tin." His thought might not have come easy, but it came straight.

I nodded. "You're right. We do. And where do you propose to get it?"

Again, he had to think. Again, he made heavy going of it. Again, he managed. "Well, we will not get it from the sphinxes. That's all too plain. They've got their supply, whatever it is, and they aren't about to give it up. Only one other place I can think of that has it."

"The Tin Isle?" I said.

Now he nodded. "The Tin Isle. I wonder what's become of it. We paid the folk there a pretty price for their miserable metal. Why don't their traders come down to us any more?"

"I don't know the answer to that, either," I said. "If we go there-and if the G.o.ds are kind-we'll find out, and bring home word along with the tin."

Oreus frowned at that. "And if the G.o.ds are unkind?"

With a shrug, I answered, "If the G.o.ds are unkind, we won't come back ourselves. It's a long way to the Tin Isle, with many strange folk between hither and yon." That only made Oreus snort and throw up his tail like a banner. He has his faults, does Oreus, and no one knows them better than I-certainly not he, for lack of self-knowledge is conspicuous among them-but only a fool would call him craven. I went on, "And whatever has befallen the folk who grub the tin from the ground may meet us, too."

His hands folded into fists. He made as if to rear, to stamp something into submission with his forehooves. But there was nothing he could smite. He scowled. He wanted to smash frustration, as he wants to smash everything. Another fault, without a doubt, but a brave fault, let it be said. "Anything that tries to befall me will rue the day," he declared. Idiocy and arrogance, you are thinking. No doubt. Yet somehow idiocy and arrogance of a sort that cheered me.

And so we built a ship, something centaurs seldom undertake. The Chalcippus Chalcippus, we named her-the Horse of Bronze Horse of Bronze. She was a big, st.u.r.dy craft, for centaurs are a big, st.u.r.dy folk. We need more s.p.a.ce to hold enough rowers to drive a ship at a respectable turn of speed. Sphinxes, now, can pack themselves more tightly than we would dream of doing.

But the valley in which the sphinxes dwell has no timber worth the name. They build their ships from bundled sheaves of papyrus plants. These strange vessels serve them well enough on their tame river, less so when they venture out onto the open waters of the Inner Sea.

We have fine timber in our country. The hills are green with pine and oak. We would have to cut and burn for years on end to despoil them of their trees. I do not like to think the dryads would ever thus be robbed of their homes. Not while the world remains as it is, I daresay, shall they be.

Once the wood was cut into boards and seasoned, we built the hull, joining planks edge to edge with mortise and tenon work and adding a skeleton of ribs at the end of the job for the sake of stiffening against the insults of wave and wind. We painted bright eyes, laughing eyes, at the bow that the ship might see her way through any danger, and the shes wove her a sail of linen they dyed a saffron the color of the sun.

Finding a crew was not the difficult matter I had feared it might be. Rather, my trouble was picking and choosing from among the swarm of hes who sought to sail in search of the Tin Isle. Had I not named Oreus among their number, I am sure he would have come after me with all the wild strength in him. Thus are feuds born. But choose him I did, and Hylaeus, and Nessus, and enough others to row the Chalcippus Chalcippus and to fight her: for I felt we would need to fight her before all was said and done. and to fight her: for I felt we would need to fight her before all was said and done.

Sail west to the mouth of the Inner Sea, then north along the coast of the strange lands fronting Ocean the Great-thus in reverse, it was said, the tin came down from the far northwest. What folk dwelt along much of the way, what dangers we would meet-well, why did we make the voyage, if not to learn such things?

Not long before we set out, Oreus sidled up to me. In a low voice, he said, "What do you think, Cheiron? On our travels, do you suppose we'll find-wine?" He whispered the last word.

Even if he had spoke more softly still, it would have been too loud. Wine is . . . Wine is the most wonderful poison in all the world, as any of us who have tasted it will attest. It is a madness, a fire, a delight beyond compare. I know nothing hes or shes would not do to possess it, and I know nothing they might not do after possessing it. As well we have never learned the secret of making the marvelous, deadly stuff for ourselves. G.o.ds only know what might become of us if we could poison ourselves whenever and however we chose.

I said, "I know not. I do not want to find out. And I tell you this, Oreus: if you seek to sail on the Horse of Bronze Horse of Bronze for the sake of wine and not for the sake of tin, sail you shall not." for the sake of wine and not for the sake of tin, sail you shall not."

A flush climbed from where his torso rose above his forelegs all the way to the top of his head. "Not I, Cheiron. I swear it. Not I," he said. "But a he cannot keep from wondering. ..."

"Well, may we all keep wondering through the whole of the voyage," I said. "I have known the madness of wine, known it and wish I had not. What we do when we have tasted of it-some I do not remember, and some I wish I did not remember. Past that, I will say no more."

"Neither will I, then," Oreus promised. But he did not promise to forget. I wish I could have forced such a vow from him, but the only thing worse than a promise broken is a promise made or forced that is certain to be broken.

We set out on a fine spring day, the sun shining down brightly from the sky. A wind off the hills filled my nostrils with the spicy fragrance of pines. It also filled the saffron sail, which pulled the Horse of Bronze Horse of Bronze across the wine-dark sea (an omen I should have taken, but I did not, I did not) fast enough to cut a creamy wake in the water. across the wine-dark sea (an omen I should have taken, but I did not, I did not) fast enough to cut a creamy wake in the water.

The Inner Sea was calm. In spring and summer, the Inner Sea usually is. The Chalcippus Chalcippus' motion was as smooth and gentle as an easy trot across a meadow. This notwithstanding, several strong hes leaned over the rail and puked up their guts all the way to the horse in them. Some simply cannot take the sea, do what they will.

I am not one who suffers so. I stood at the stern, one hand on each steering oar. Another he called the stroke. He set the speed at my direction, but I did not have to do it myself. I was captain aboard the Chalcippus Chalcippus, yes, but among us he who leads must have a light hand, or those he presumes to lead will follow no more. Not all hes see this clearly, which is one reason we have been known-oh, yes, we have been known-to fight among ourselves.

But all was well when we first set out. The wind blew strongly, and from a favorable direction. We did not have to row long or row hard. But I wanted the hes to get some notion of what they would need to do later, if the wind faltered or if we fell in with enemies. They still reckoned rowing a sport and not a drudgery, and so they worked with a will. I knew that was liable to change as readily as the wind, but I made the most of it while it lasted.