“You can provide for yourself a while, at least.” The Phoenician official nodded his grizzled head when Everard displayed some small ingots of bronze. Coinage would not be invented for_several centuries, but the metal could be swapped for whatever he wanted. “You must understand that we cannot let in one who might feel he has to turn robber. In fact—” He looked dubiously at the barbarian sword. “What is your purpose in coming?”

“To find honest work, sir, as it might be a caravan guard. I’ll be seeking out Conor the amber factor.” The existence of that resident Celt had been a major reason for Everard’s adoption of his specific disguise. The chief of the local Patrol base had suggested it.

The Tyrian reached a decision. “Very well, you may go ashore, your weapon too. Remember that we crucify thieves, bandits, and murderers. If you fail to get other work, seek out Ithobaal’s hiring house, near the Hall of the Suffetes. He can always find something in the way of day labor for a husky fellow like you. Good luck.”

He returned to dealing with Mago. Everard lingered, awaiting a chance to bid the captain farewell. Discussion went quickly, almost informally, and the tax to be paid in kind would be modest. This race of businessmen had no use for the ponderous bureaucracy of Egypt or Mesopotamia.

Having said what he wanted to, Everard picked up his bags by the cords around them and went ashore. The crowd surged about him, staring, chattering. At first he was amazed; after a couple of tentative approaches, nobody begged alms or beset him to buy trinkets. Could this be the Near East?