Mercenaries of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “This is the Lady Cara, of Venna,” he said, rather as though making a formal introduction. “Once she was overheard making remarks disparaging of Tarnburg. Perhaps I shall take her there one day, and keep her there as a house slave.”

  The prone woman groaned. Her chains slid a little on the tiles.

  “Or would you prefer, Lady Cara,” he asked, “to serve there only as a cleaning prisoner, simply as a confined servant, a mere housekeeper in captivity?”

  “No,” she sobbed, “as a slave, a full slave.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “It is what I am,” she sobbed.

  I regarded her. She looked luscious at our feet, in her chains. Clearly, too, she had been “ruined for freedom.” I wondered about Boabissia. I wondered if she, too, had been ruined for freedom. To be sure, she still spoke much like a proud free woman. Still, too, she often seemed bitter, selfish, frustrated, haughty, and arrogant. Too, she had never been put under slave discipline. I had noticed, however, unless it were only my imagination, that she now seemed to move her body somewhat differently under her dress than she had before, before we had utilized her to replenish our resources.

  “And so,” asked the fellow, “what of your free tart? Did her rent uses spoil her for freedom?”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “I do not know.”

  “Well, if so,” he said, “you may always sell her and be done with it.”

  “True,” I said. I thought it might be fun to sell Boabissia. She occasionally got on one’s nerves. Too, as a free woman, she could be something of a nuisance. Too, I thought she might make a fine slave. Too, like any other woman, she would look lovely in a collar.

  “If you have a holding in Port Kar,” he said, “I gather you have no fondness for Cos.”

  “No,” I said. “I have no fondness for Cos.” I had fought against her, and Tyros, at sea. I had once served on a Cosian galley. Once, in last carnival time in Port Kar, before the Waiting Hand, her Ubar, gross Lurius of Jad, had sent an assassin against me. His dagger I had thrust into his own heart.

  “Yet,” said he, “you were traveling with a Cosian supply train, using the cover of the train to move southward in troubled times. This is an act of audacity, of inventiveness, of courage.”

  I said nothing.

  “I respect such things,” he said.

  I had little doubt he did. I also had little doubt who it must be, he with whom I spoke. I had stood in awe of this man for years. I had studied his campaigns, his tactics and stratagems. Yet nothing had prepared me for the presence I felt in this room, a simple room, a bare room, with a large window behind, suitable for a minor functionary in the bureaucracy of Torcadino. How odd it seemed that I should meet this man here, in such a place, rather than in a feast of state, on the ramparts of a fortress, or on a bloodstained field. The power of this man seemed to radiate forth from him. This is a difficult thing to explain, unless one has felt it. Perhaps in another situation, or in another time I would not have felt this. I do not know. Certainly it had nothing to do with pretentiousness or any obvious demonstrations of authority on his part. If anything, he seemed on the surface little more than a simple soldier, perhaps no more than merely another unpretentious, candid, efficient officer. It was beneath the surface that I sensed more. This was perhaps a matter of subliminal cues. I had little doubt that when he chose he could be warm and charming. Too, I supposed he could be hearty and convivial. Perhaps he was fond of jokes. Perhaps one might enjoy drinking with him. His men would die for him. I thought he must be much alone. I suspected it might be death to cross his will.

  “I suspect,” he said, “that you were heading toward Ar.”

  “I have business in Ar,” I said.

  “Do you know the delta of the Vosk?” he asked.

  “I once traversed it,” I said.

  “Tell me about it,” he said.

  “It is treacherous, and trackless,” I said. “It covers thousands of square pasangs. It is infested with insects, snakes and tharlarion. Marsh sharks even swim among its reeds. In it there is little solid ground. Its waters are usually shallow, seldom rising above the chest of a tall man. The footing is unreliable. There is much quicksand. It protects Port Kar from the east. Few but rencers can find their way about in it. Too, for most practical purposes, they keep it closed to traffic and trade.”

  “That, too, is my impression,” he said.

  “Why do you ask?” I asked.

  “Do you understand much of military matters?” he asked.

  “A little,” I said.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Do you know why I have brought you here?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Why do you think Torcadino has been taken?” he asked.

  “To stall the invasion,” I said. “To give Ar time to arm. It is a powerful and decisive stroke. Torcadino is Cos’s major depot for supplies and siege equipment. You have now seized these things. They are now yours. You may remain indefinitely in Torcadino with these vast quantities of supplies. Too, though you will doubtless be invested, Cos now lacks the equipment to dislodge you. Similarly, because of their new shortage of supplies, they will have to withdraw many of their troops from this area. Presumably they will also have to be divided, marched into diverse areas to facilitate the acquisition of new supplies. You have thus scattered and disrupted your enemy. Too, I suspect your ejection of the civilian population from Torcadino is not merely political, to appear to show concern, generosity, and mercy, nor merely expedient, to remove them from the city, thus conserving supplies and removing possible Cosian sympathizers from behind your back, but to increase the intensity of Cos’s supply problems.”

  “Very good,” he said.

  “Cos will not dare let these refugees starve,” I said, “as they are citizens of a city which had declared for them, which had gone over to them. If they did not care for them, this would be a dark lesson, and one favoring Ar, to every wavering or uncommitted village, town and city within a dozen horizons.”

  “Quite,” he agreed.

  “What was done with the garrison of Torcadino?” I asked.

  “Most were surprised in their beds,” he said. “Their weapons were seized. Resistance was useless. We then expelled them, disarmed, from the city.”

  “So that they, too, like the civilians, would aggravate the problems of Cos.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Did you march them beneath a yoke?” I asked. This is usually formed of three spears, two upright and the third bound horizontally across the first two. The prisoners are then usually marched in a long line, two abreast, between the uprights. They cannot pass under the horizontal spear, a weapon of their enemy, without lowering their heads and bending their backs. Some warriors choose to die rather than do this. A similar yoke is sometimes used for the captive women of a city, but it is set much lower, usually such that they must pass under it on their belly. After all, they are not men; they are women. Too, it is usually formed not of spears but of brooms, brought from the conquering city, and the horizontal bar is hung with dangling slave beads. In this, although the original meanings are perhaps lost in antiquity, most commentators see symbolized the servility and sensuousness which, as they are to be slaves, is henceforth, upon pain of death, to be required of them. It is an impressive sight to see the women of a captive city, single file, stripped and on their bellies, in a long line winding through the streets and across the piazza, moving between soldiers with whips, crawling toward the yoke. As they crawl beneath it, the slave beads touch their back. On the other side of the yoke, while they are still on their bellies, they generally feel a collar locked on their neck. It is one of many, and it, like the others, has been attached in its turn, and at its interval, to a long chain. They are now in coffle. They will probably not be removed from this coffle until, in one way or another, they are to be, or have been, sold.

  “No,” said
the fellow with me.

  I nodded.

  “They are good fellows,” he said. “Too, perhaps one day some of them will bear arms in my company.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  He turned about and looked through the window. We could see the walls of Torcadino from the window and one of the aqueducts. He then turned about and faced me, again. “You did not try to kill me,” he commented.

  “Another test?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I thought so,” I said. “Else you would not have been likely to turn your back on an unknown stranger.”

  “True,” he smiled.

  “I considered it,” I said.

  “It would have been difficult to cross the table,” he said. “Too, it would be difficult, in the time I gave you, to pick up the knife, or sword, without rustling papers.”

  “Also you were anticipating the possibility of an attack,” I said. “It is difficult to move surreptitiously on a person under such circumstances. Also the female here, at the side of the desk, would presumably have moved, or gasped or cried out.”

  “Would you have cried out, Lady Cara?” he asked.

  “Yes!” she said.

  “In spite of all I have done to you?” he asked.

  “Because of what you have done to me!” she wept. “I would die for you!”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “A slave girl owes all to her master, her passion, her being, her life, everything. It is yours, my Master!”

  “Belly,” said he to her, and she lay then on her belly, beside the desk, in her chains.

  “But I did not think you would attack me,” he said to me. “You are too rational, I think. Too, you would have, at least now, no adequate motivation for such an attack. Also, you suspect, or are not sure, but what we may share certain common objectives.”

  “There are other reasons, too,” I said. “For one, even if I succeeded in such an attack, I would not be likely to escape from the Semnium alive.”

  “The window is a possibility,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “But you had not examined it for ledges, and such,” he said.

  “No,” I said.

  “There is no extended ledge,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “You said there were ‘reasons,’” he said.

  “Another would be,” I said, “my respect for you, as a commander, as a soldier.”

  “In many men,” he said, “emotion functions to the detriment of policy. Perhaps it is so with you.”

  “Perhaps, sometimes,” I said.

  “I shall remember that about you,” he said. “I may be able to use it sometime.”

  “Your entrance through the aqueducts, and using both, rather than one, as an insurance attack, was brilliant,” I said.

  “It is an obvious stratagem,” he said. “I have considered it for years, but I did not use it until now.”

  “Had you used it earlier,” I said, “it would now be a part of military history, of the lore associated with your name, something which all garrisons in appropriate cities would now anticipate and take steps to prevent.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “You saved it,” I smiled, “for an occasion worthy of it.”

  “For a Torcadino,” he said.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “The aqueducts have now been closed by the Cosians, and their flows diverted,” he said.

  “There is no shortage of water in the city,” I said. “You are now depending on the original wells, dating from before the aqueducts, which, with the ejection of the civilian population, are now more than ample for your needs.”

  He smiled.

  “But I fear that you may not have anticipated all things,” I said.

  “It is seldom possible to do so,” he said.

  “I am troubled by certain obvious problems,” I said.

  “Speak,” he said.

  “There is no road from Torcadino,” I said. “It would seem that you have trapped yourself here. The walls are surrounded. Your army is small. Cos will maintain a considerable force in the area, at least compared to what is at your disposal. I do not think you will be able to fight your way out. I am sure you do not have enough tarns to evacuate your men.”

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “Obviously you have made strict arrangements with Ar,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “I have no understanding with Ar.”

  “You must have!” I said.

  “No,” he said.

  “Are you not in the pay of Ar?” I asked, astonished.

  “No,” he said.

  “You have done this of your own initiative?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “The powers of Ar and Cos must be balanced. The victory of either means the end of the free companies.”

  “But you are depending on Ar to raise the siege, surely,” I said.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “What if she does not do so?” I asked.

  “I think that would be quite unfortunate,” he said.

  “You could negotiate with the Cosians,” I said. “I am sure they would agree to almost any terms, offering suitable inducements for withdrawal, guarantees of safety for yourself and your troops, and such, in order to regain Torcadino.”

  “Do you think, after what we have done here, and the considerable delays we have caused them, they would just let us walk out of Torcadino?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Nor do I,” he smiled.

  “Everything depends on Ar,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You have taken great risks for Ar,” I said.

  “For myself, and the free companies,” he said.

  “Ar would seem to have no choice but to act as you expect,” I said.

  “It would seem so,” he said.

  “Yet you seem troubled,” I said.

  “I am,” he said. “Come with me.”

  We then went out through a side door, into another room. I looked back, once. I saw Lady Cara, in her chains, beside his desk. She was still on her belly. She had not been given permission to rise. She looked after us.

  “What do you think of this little bird on her perch?” he asked me.

  “It is hard to say,” I said.

  He pulled up her head with his fist in her hair. He was not gentle with her. She cried out, whimpering, her head bent back.

  “Lovely,” I said. Her neck was encircled by a collar. She was branded. As he had her head pulled back her back was pulled back against the short, horizontal wooden post behind which her arms were hooked. This horizontal post was mounted on a short vertical post, in the manner of a “T.” She was kneeling on the platform, about a yard high, on which this “T” was fixed. Her ankles were chained together, behind and about the vertical post. Manacles, and a length of chain, running across her belly, completed the closure that kept her arms in place, holding her wrists back, at her sides. “Perhaps she is a captain’s woman.”

  “More than that,” he said. “She was a general’s woman.”

  She whimpered. Her eyes were almost glassy with terror. He released her hair. Her head fell forward, her long, dark hair before her body. I pulled the chain out a bit from her belly. There were marks in her flesh, from where it had been tight on her. She whimpered.

  I regarded her. Jewels did not bedeck her. Her silks were now gone. No cosmetics now adorned her, begging to be licked and kissed from her lips. No scent of perfume now clung to her. There were smells which were perhaps those of sweat and fear. Too, she had soiled the platform. She had been beaten, doubtless a rare experience for a high slave. If she had once worn a golden, bejeweled collar it was now gone. On her neck now was a simple iron collar, hammered shut, such as might be put on the neck of any slut picked up by any soldier in a flaming city.

  “What is your name, my dear?” he inquired.

  “I have no name, no name!” she
said, quickly.

  “How do you know?” he asked. “Perhaps I have given you one.”

  “I have no name that I know,” she said, terrified, jerking in her metal bonds, fearing that she might be being tricked into earning herself punishment. “I do not yet know my name, if I have one. If Master has named me, he has not yet informed me! If I have a name, it will be as Master pleases! I am a slave! I am his, only his! If I have a name, I beg to know it, that I may answer to it obediently and promptly!”

  “You have no name,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, weakly, putting down her head again.

  “What was your name?” he asked.

  “Lucilina,” she said.

  The fellow regarded me. “Do you know the name of the high officer of the Cosian forces in the south?” he asked.

  “Myron, Polemarkos of Temos, cousin to Lurius of Jad, Ubar of Cos,” I said.

  “And what do you think might have been the name of his preferred slave?” he asked.

  “I gather it was Lucilina,” I said.

  “She was as greedy as she is beautiful,” said the officer. “She had much freedom in the Cosian camp, given even her own quarters, in which the Polemarkos could call upon her. In these quarters, amidst her cushions and silks, surrounded by her jewel boxes, attended by female slaves assigned to her for her own use, to whom she was as absolute mistress, she held sway almost as might have a Ubara. Comfortably secure in the favor of her powerful and highborn master, esteemed and pampered, she, though only a slave, gathered power about herself.”

  I became angry hearing this. A female slave is not to have power. Rather she is to be subjected to it, totally.

  “Her influence with the Polemarkos became well known. She had his ear. A word from her, for or against a fellow, as she pleased, could found or ruin a career. In her tents she would receive visitors, callers and petitioners. Dozens, coming to understand her power, came soon to sue for her favor. There were gifts for her, naturally. Surely that was only fitting. Her jewel boxes began to brim with precious stones. Rings were brought to her worth the ransom of a Ubar. Her cosmetic cases could boast perfumes that might have been the envy of a Ubara.”