The half-inch minie balls of the muskets had done a fair bit of damage as well, leaving bodies scattered back a hundred yards or more.

Walker smiled like a wolf as he lowered his binoculars. "Steady, there," he called out. "Keep it going."

The gun teams were jumping in with swabber and rammer. Hot bronze hissed as the wet sponges were run down, twirled, and pulled free. Loaders came forward with cartridges of case shot, and the rammers pushed them down. Gunners stepped close and ran long steel pins down the touchholes to pierce the thin linen that held the gunpowder, then filled the pans with priming powder from their horns. Six men ran each gun back to its original position, and the cycle was ready to begin again. The musketeers were going through their own drill-bite open a cartridge, prime the pan of their flintlocks, put the butt between their feet, pour the rest of the powder down the barrel, follow it with the hollow-based minie bullet, ram the paper on top as wad, a thump-thump-thump sound. One man fired as soon as his weapon was ready, and an underofficer stepped up behind him and knocked him down with a blow of a baton to the back of his neck.

The rest came to the "ready" with no more than a tense grin or wiping of hands on tunics. The enemy were dribbling to a halt, stunned and bewildered. They'll need a minute or so to get the idea, he told himself. And it probably wouldn't be this easy again.

"Ready," he said. "Take aim. Fire."

Point-blank range, less than a hundred yards. Thousands of lead projectiles slammed into the Sicilians, all of them traveling at more than a thousand feet per second. Dust spurted up, and smoke drifted away. When it did, the enemy were running for the hills, or hobbling or crawling; hundreds of them lay in the dirt, and the noise of their terror was like a huge sounder of pigs squealing.

Walker laughed. "Reload, fix bayonets, prepare to advance, one round of canister in the guns and limber up to follow."

About a mile thataway was the headquarters of the paramount chief of this district, the closest thing Bronze Age Sicily had to a king- he traded with the Greeks regularly, or had, before Walker talked Agamemnon into this expedition. Why make withdrawals when you could steal the bank? Besides, if his enterprises were to expand the way they should he would need a source of raw materials, labor, and food outside the Achaean system-there was a limit to what he could commandeer before the nobles revolted.

Goddam low-surplus economy, he thought. I need to buildup on the QT, until I'm too strong even if they do realize I'm undermining the system. Luckily, the Bronze Age Greeks were-no, not stupider than their classical descendants, just not given to rational, systematic thought.

"We'll be first with the plunder," Odikweos said.

Walker nodded. I like these guys, he thought, not for the first time. Straightforward.

"And maybe a few girls worth fucking," he said; that was often fun in an athletic sort of way if they fought. "But the island itself is the real plunder."

Odikweos nodded. "If we can hold it," he said.

Yeah, this one is way above average brains-wise. Got to get him on my side.

The Achaean licked the sweat off his lips, looking sideways at the grinning, laughing riflemen and gunners. A drumbeat and the whole mass moved forward in step, bayonet points in a bristling line. "With these, we may be able to."

"If the right man is in charge," Walker said. And I certainly don't have the time for it.

Swindapa daughter of Dhinwarn, of the Star Blood line of Kurlelo, spun on the ball of her foot and paused, then sank slowly back down with both hands raised to the crescent moon in the last gesture of the dance. Her long hair floated down around her shoulders as she did, sliding over bare skin like a kiss.

"ahTOwak hdimm 'uHOtna nawakawa! " she cried.

The others in the circle echoed her: Silver starlight make a path for the children of Moon Woman.

That was the end of the most sacred part of the ceremony. The circle stood silent for a moment, then gave a soft sigh together and became individuals once more. She stood watching the glimmering trail that stretched out over Nantucket Harbor as a singing peace replaced exultation.

Coming to herself, she looked up at the sleek curve of the hull that stood on the slipway above them, smelling of cut wood and fresh paint. The English word for such a ship was "clipper." It was not a bad name-there was something of urgent speed in the sound of it-but not a great one, either; it lacked the swan-grace, the eager dancer's leap, needed. The mind-mother of this ship had been called Cutty Sark, and that had a better ring…

Marian came forward from the shadows of the slipway. She wasn't a Star-Moon Dancer, of course-you had to be born as well as trained for that-but she'd been initiated into the Spear Mark, and that made her one of Moon Woman's children, so she could be part of the end of the ceremony.

"We must sing her a soul down from the stars," Swindapa said.

Marian closed her eyes for a second-she always felt awkward about speaking in public, even more about singing; it was odd, but an endearing shyness. Then she began:

See her bow break free of our Mother's sea

In a sunlit burst of spray.

That stings the cheek while the rigging will speak,

Of sea-miles gone away!

She will range far south, from the harbor's mouth

And rejoice in every wave…

"What is it, Doc?" Cofflin asked, looking up from his desk.

Dr. Henry Coleman looked grave; but then, the head of the Island's medical efforts usually did, even on a fine fall day like this. The round-faced man beside him was grave too, although he looked like the type who usually wore a smile.

"Justin Clemens, isn't it?" Cofflin said. Twenty-five, the filing system in his mind said. In the medical apprentice program since the Event. Passed for doctor two years ago. Odd, I haven't seen him around much.

"Yes, Chief."

"Been over on the mainland-medical extension officer," Coleman said.

Clemens made a slight face; Cofflin sympathized. There had been bad problems with uptime diseases in Alba, but nothing compared to what happened among the Archaic-phase Indians. Even Alban diseases were a major problem to the Amerindians. The Islanders had been trying to help, but it was debatable whether it did anything more than soothe the Town Meeting's conscience.

"We've got a problem," Coleman said. "Nothing on the mainland. A problem for us."

"Problems, worry, and grief are my specialty here," Cofflin said, rising and pouring three cups of cocoa from the pot over the spirit-lamp by the window, then handing them around.

"Now, what's the problem?"

He sat back, stirring his cup. The kids were all in school, Martha had spent the morning teaching and was back getting some Council resolutions drawn up as legislation for the Meeting to vote on, and he'd finally gotten down to the only mildly urgent stuff. The dock-workers union meetings specifically-he was giving them some sub-rosa encouragement, and the shipowners and merchants were complaining.

"Well, let them," he muttered.

"We have cowpox," Coleman said.

Jared sat up straighter, putting aside his cup. "What's cowpox?" he said, cudgeling his memory. Doesn't sound good, whatever it is.

"Justin here spotted it, had some Alban immigrants working on a dairy farm in for their chicken-pox shots." They'd worked out a live-virus inoculation that was usually effective.

Clemens kneaded his fingers together. "Ah… it's a viral disease in cows, sometimes jumping to humans in close contact. Fever, rash of red spots sometimes leaving very faint pockmarks."

"Sound like anything familiar?" Coleman added grimly.

Cofflin frowned. "Sounds like… Christ, no!"

Coleman nodded. "Smallpox is a very close relative. Best guess, back in the twentieth, was that it was a mutation of cowpox, probably started among pastoralists somewhere. Nobody knows where, exactly. When it hit the Mediterranean basin-thousands of years before the twentieth-well, call it the Red Death. Every bit as bad as bubonic plague."