by John Norman
“Lout! Lout!”
Even if riches did not betoken superiority, truly, there might be some point in removing them from those who thought they did, that such might thus be denied the pretext for their pretensions, that they might see themselves as they were, truly, rather like removing clothing from a woman, that she may then understand herself as what she is, among men.
“Lout, peasant!” cried the fellow.
The giant again brushed away flies.
“Lout!”
But it might be pleasant to own such things, and to give them away, thought the giant, with a lavish hand, as rings, fit for the wrist and arm, to cup companions.
Yes, thought the giant, there are reasons to want riches, many reasons.
“What are you thinking about?” asked his companion.
“Nothing,” said the giant.
“You are impressed with the empire,” conjectured his companion.
“Yes,” said the giant.
The giant, you see, had seen much, even in his brief time on this small, mere summer world, much which had impressed him, and variously, the ships of the empire, her weapons, quite redoubtable, muchly to be feared; her riches, almost beyond his dreams; her citizenry, on the whole to be scorned, her women, many not without interest.
A shadow at his right darted toward him. In the instant of movement it had not been the most intrusive, vulgar fellow, but he who had been behind that fellow, at his shoulder, pressing in, competing for attention. It was he, the second man, rushing in, to outdo his compeer, who was suddenly lifted, croaking, eyes bulging, from the ground, his feet kicking wildly, his throat in the grasp of the giant. Instantly the tiny mob fell back. The hands of the suspended fellow pulled weakly at the hand of the giant.
“Do not kill him,” said the giant’s companion.
“Would you have dared to touch me?” asked the giant.
The kicking fellow, as he could, the hand on his throat like a vise, shook his head, negatively.
The giant then took two steps to the side and thrust the helpless prisoner of his grip into the stone of the wall. This was done with great force. He released the unconscious body. Hair was matted to the wall. A smear of blood on the wall, slowly placed there, traced the passage of the fellow to the stones of the street.
“Is he dead?” asked the officer of the guard.
“I did not choose to kill him,” said the giant.
The head of the fellow, clearly, had the giant chosen, given his grip and his power, might have been broken against the wall, as one might have shattered an egg.
The guards looked on, in awe.
Some yards away now stood he who had been the leader of the small mob which had clung to them in the streets.
He stood there, white-faced.
“Do not kill him!” cried the companion of the giant.
The giant regarded the fellow. No, he did not think he would stand up well against the ax attack.
“No,” cried the companion of the giant. “Civilitas! Civilitas!”
The ragged fellow turned about and fled.
The giant looked after him. He did not think the fellow could run far, or well. He thought he could be overtaken shortly, or, if one wished, pursued slowly, until he collapsed, panting, helpless, terrified, like the bark deer.
That might be amusing.
Then one could kill him.
“No, no! Do not kill him!” cried the companion of the giant. He, you see, knew the giant better than the others present. “Civilitas!”
But the giant did not pursue the running figure.
“What do you think would be his wergeld?” asked the giant of his companion, looking after the scurrying figure in the distance.
“In the empire there is no wergeld,” said his companion.
“I do not think it would be much,” said the giant.
The concept of wergeld is one which is familiar in many societies. It is, in a sense, a man-price, and it serves, in its primitive fashion, paradoxically, on the whole, to reduce bloodshed and crime. One may not kill with impunity, you see, for one must be prepared to pay the man-price of a victim to his people, his family, his relatives. Wergeld differs from man to man, depending on such things as lineage, standing in the community and wealth. A yeoman, you see, would have a lesser wergeld than, say, a noble, one of high family, and so on. But if the noble were to slay a yeoman he would be expected to pay the wergeld apportioned to such a deed. The wergeld may be paid in coin, in animals, and so on. Wergeld tends not only to protect men, for they thus cannot be slain with impunity, but, even more importantly, it tends to prevent the lacerations and slaughters, sometimes devastating and well nigh interminable, disastrous to communities and families, and clans alike, which otherwise would be likely to accompany the blood feud. The matter, in theory, is done when the wergeld is paid. To be sure, some advantage here lies with the rich, who can best afford to pay wergeld, but even they, as is well know, are not likely to part lightly with their horses or sheep.
“Civilitas,” said the companion of the giant, gently.
“Ah, civilitas,” said the giant.
Was it not civilitas which made the empire truly the empire? Was this not the true gift of the empire to the galaxies, that which, when all was said and done, formed the true justification of its existence, that which was most precious in it, and of it. Did this not, this shining thing, civilitas, exceed the legions and the bureaucracy, the ships, the camps, the armament; did it not exceed and redeem the imperialism and the greed, the ferocity, the incandescent worlds, the exploitation and the cruelty; that is the meaning and glory of the empire, civilitas, had taught Brother Benjamin, who, to be sure, was no champion of the empire. Understand by this term ‘civilitas’ more than it can be said to mean, for there is more within it than can be said of it. It is one of those terms, like ‘friend’ or ‘love’, which can never be adequately defined. But understand in it, in part, at least, the unity of the highest of those hopes hinted at by words such as balance, order, proportion, harmony, law, indeed, civilization itself. It can be thought of, at least in part, as what can divide peace from war, justice from fraud, law from license, enlightenment from ignorance, civilization from barbarism. It is an ideal. It would perish.
The giant looked about himself. The fellow who had been the leader of, or foremost in, the tiny mob which had accompanied them in the streets, had now disappeared, having beaten his rapid retreat away. His fellows, some ten or twelve others, hung back. He did not think they would further follow. One of their number, as we have noted, lay at the foot of a stone wall, unconscious. He lay beneath a crooked smear of blood, which he had painted with his own body, with the back of his head, on the surface of the wall.
The giant noticed, nearby, the woman, she in embroidered leel, whom he had seen earlier. She had apparently turned about and, angrily, had followed the group, for what reason he knew not.
Again their eyes met.
“Lout!” she hissed at him.
Ah, he thought, she is angry that I regarded her, at the barrier, at the guard station.
She looked about herself, contemptuously, at the fellows about her. “Cowards! Filchen!” she scorned them.
It has been our usual practice in this narrative to use familiar expressions for resembling life forms, or, perhaps better, life forms occupying similar ecological niches or being employed for similar purposes as life forms with which the reader may be presumed to be familiar; for example, we speak, unhesitantly, of cattle, of sheep, and such beasts, but it would be useful for the reader to understand that the animals so referred to would, in most cases, not count as the cattle, the sheep, and such with which he is more likely to be familiar. The primary justification for this practice is its utility in avoiding a distractive multiplication of nomenclatures and a prolix delineation, presumably not in the best interests of the narrative, and certainly not required for its general intelligibility, of specific and generic differences among dozen of types of creatures, ma
ny uniquely indigenous to their own world, though, to be sure, also, many of which may now be found, thanks to interstellar transportation, authorized or not, intended or unintended, understood or inadvertent, on many worlds. Occasionally we do use particular names for these creatures, particularly when there seems some point in doing so. The filch, for example, is a furtive, small, gnawing, rather rodentlike animal. We have not spoken of it as a rat, or mouse, however, because in alternate generations it is oviparous. When we do speak of rats, or mice, for example, as we feel free to do, those terms are used of animals which, on the whole, would be more biologically analogous, or at least somewhat more so, to the “rats” and “mice,” and such with which the reader is presumed to be familiar. The uniformity of viable habitats, given planet-star relations, distances and such of diverse types, and the principles of convergent evolution would seem to be, in such cases, relevant considerations. In such matters, we beg the reader’s indulgence.
“Filchen,” she cried to the citizens about her. “Filchen!”
She then looked boldly at the giant.
“Barbarian!” she said.
That was the first time that that expression had been used of him, in the streets.
To be sure it was doubtless because of his appearance, the manner in which he was clad, and perhaps, too, the manner in which he carried himself, so unapologetically, so unregenerately proudly, that he had been so pursued in the streets, and so belittled.
“Let us be on our way,” said the companion of the giant.
“Wait,” said the giant.
Why had the woman followed the small company, he wondered.
He took a step toward the woman, not to threaten her, but merely to approach her.
She shrank back, but then stood her ground.
The tiny group about her, the fellows on which she had heaped her scorn, fled back.
It was almost as a swarm of flies might have withdrawn from the movement of a hand.
He did lift his hand, but to brush away flies.
He took another step toward her, curious.
“I am not afraid of you!” she said.
He stood still, looking at her.
Then a small, supercilious smile played about her lips, one of amusement, of contempt.
He realized that she counted upon her sex to protect her, her station, which seemed high, the guards perhaps, his companion perhaps.
Boldly she stood her ground.
“Barbarian,” she hissed.
He said nothing.
She had followed the group. He wondered, why. What had motivated her? Was it hatred, was it a desire to prove to herself that she was not afraid of him, was it to revenge herself for having been made the subject, willing or not, of a man’s glance, was it curiosity, was it fascination, or was it all these, perhaps, and something deeper, far deeper, which she herself could only dimly sense, but which moved her with a powerful force, one she could not resist, and which, in her heart, she did not desire to resist?
“You are a handsome fellow,” she said, demeaningly. “Doubtless you turn the heads of the simple village maids.”
He did not tell her that it was not unknown for there to be women in the villages not too unlike herself, women who had once been citizens of the empire, who lived in terror of the free women in the villages, and their switches and sticks.
“Lace your tunic,” she said.
His broad chest was muchly bared, as he had undone much of the lacing.
He then approached her, to where she stood within his reach. She trembled, visibly, but did not withdraw.
Then she drew herself up, arrogantly. “I denounce you as an ape, and a barbarian,” she said.
“You do not dare to strike me,” she said.
His hand lashed out, cuffing her, sending her turning to the wall.
At the wall, half turned, she regarded him, disbelievingly, a trace of blood at her lip.
She looked wildly at the guards.
“No!” said the companion of the giant to the guards, sharply. “He is a guest of the empire!”
The giant then went to the women and pulled her out from the wall.
He stood her, trembling, before him.
“It is hot,” he said.
He then, with two hands, as she cried out, and gasped, and as utterances of surprise, or protest, emanated from the guards, who were restrained by the companion of the giant, tore open, and down, to her waist, the garments of the woman.
It is thus, on some worlds, in the most genteel of markets, that slaves are exhibited, stripped merely to the hips. Usually, of course, the woman is exhibited stark naked, save perhaps for collars or bonds, that the buyers may see, fully, and with perfection, what it is that they are buying.
He then, by her wrists, holding one in each hand, forced her down, down on her knees, before him.
He looked down upon her.
Women might have some worth, he thought, as slaves.
Then he released her.
She pulled her garments up, closely about her, holding them in place.
She remained before him, fearing to rise.
“Perhaps we shall someday meet again,” he said to her, “amidst the smell of smoke, I with a rope in my hand.”
“You are not a gentleman,” she said.
“Nor would you be a lady, naked and on a rope,” he said.
“You are a barbarian!” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said. “I am a barbarian.”
He then turned about and left her, where she knelt, clutching her clothing about her, on the street.
In a moment the giant and his companion had come to the edge of the vast plaza, within which, in its center, more than five hundred yards away, like a jewel, ensconced in more than a dozen walls, lay the palace.
At the edge of the plaza, after the private exchange of signs and countersigns, and a brief ceremony, involving salutes and drill, escorts were exchanged, and the officer of the guard, with his men, returned the way they had come, and the giant and his companion, now in the company of a contingent of the palace guard, prepared to approach the palace.
The giant looked back up the street. The men who had followed them no longer followed, but stood there, remaining at a distance. It was not that they could not have followed onto the plaza, for they were not armed, and civilians were allowed on its delightful expanse, and there were several upon it now, but that they chose not to follow. The sport, perhaps, seemed no longer so inviting. The giant could see their companion, whom he had thrust, not gently, against the wall. He still lay crumpled at the foot of the wall, senseless, in his own blood. Rather near them, but not with them, was the woman. She was now standing, still clutching her leel about her. She was looking after them, after the giant, and his companion.
There was a fresh wind that, unobstructed by buildings, swept across the plaza.
“I like it better here,” said the giant.
“Oh?” said his companion.
“It does not smell so much here,” said the giant.
“It is the wind,” said his companion.
“It does not smell so much here,” said the giant, again, amused.
“No,” said his companion.
Surely this must be an allusion to the efficacy of the aromatic herbs, crashed, strewn underfoot, renewed daily in this district, the emperor in residence, as we have remarked. Such muchly covered the smell of garbage, and offal, which was considerably more obtrusive elsewhere in the small city.
“Nor are the flies so bad here,” said the giant.
“Ah,” said his companion.
“But the woman did not smell,” said the giant.
“No,” said his companion.
“But it would be otherwise,” speculated the giant, “if she were to be naked, and knee-deep in dung, her hair bound up high on her head, fearing the whip of overseers, cleaning stables.”
“Doubtless,” said his companion.
“But she could be soaked, and then scrubbed
clean, and perfumed afterwards,” said the giant.
“Surely,” said his companion.
“I think she would soon beg the service of the hut, rather than that of the stables,” said the giant.
“I do not doubt it,” said his companion.
The giant looked back.
“They will not bother us further,” said the companion. “It is nearly time for the afternoon dole.”
“I no longer see her,” said the giant.
“Forget her,” said his companion.
“She was well curved,” said the giant.
“Yes,” said his companion.
In time the giant would breed slaves, choosing the best, from one point of view or another, for replication.
There were some fountains here and there in the plaza, and, also, here and there, some statues of gods, the old gods, revered, tutelary deities of the empire, but nothing which would afford much cover.
“Sir,” said the new officer of the guard, to the companion of the giant.
“Proceed,” said the companion of the giant.
The group then began to make its way across the plaza toward the palace.
The old pantheons were complex, and diverse on the many worlds, and even within the empire, from world to world, they often varied considerably. The general policy of the empire, elsewhere discussed, was one of toleration, not only for the many gods in its own pantheons and their devotees, but for those of other peoples, and species, as well. The theory of the empire seemed to be muchly to the effect that, as there were many worlds, and peoples, and species, so, too, it was likely that there were many gods. To be sure, there might be more or less powerful gods, and perhaps even a most powerful god, and wars among gods, and so on. The empire did, however, occasionally, and particularly when it became hard-pressed, or alarmed, insist on the right of reassuring itself of the allegiance of its subjects, and the gesture, or symbol, of allegiance commonly took the form of a sacrifice, usually of a token nature, such as a flower, a sprig of laurel, a pinch of incense, such things, on an altar, often one devoted to the genius, or spirit, of the empire. It was not clear, of course, that the genius, or spirit, of the empire was a god, at all. This sacrifice was normally found acceptable, and unobjectionable, by most of the empire’s subjects, spread over galaxies, except occasionally by the members of minor, deviant sects, whose unwillingness to perform the ceremony was commonly winked at.