by John Norman
“Excellent,” said a fellow.
Many of those women, I supposed, would have been apprehended by fellow fugitives and sold in Brundisium.
One would make a coin where one could, and, I suppose, the making of some coins, more than others, can be exceedingly pleasant.
I supposed few such women were sold as virgins.
“But,” said the newcomer, examining us, recently, rudely disembarked from the vessel, examining us as a Gorean examines slaves, “I do not find your own cargo inferior.”
The girl next to me, Eighteen, trembled.
Some of the slaves brought from the forest shrugged. They were tunicked. Why, I wondered, should they be so superior? I supposed they might well have been brought to the beach, earlier, as we, in no more than collars and chains.
As the burdens were arranged, I soon realized why our hands had not been tied behind our backs. I put my hands up, over my head, and steadied the box. It was not heavy. In the house, I had been taught to balance and carry objects in this fashion, generally bundles or baskets. A corollary of this manner of carrying an object is it immobilizes the hands and accentuates the figure, rather like the fastening of a girl’s hands behind the back of her neck.
Most of the heavier objects would be slung from the poles brought by the tunicked slaves. Many others would be borne on the backs of the armsmen.
There was no longer any sign of the ship.
I supposed it was returning to Brundisium. Perhaps it would first manage a rendezvous with the second ship, but I did not know.
Interestingly the two large boxes, which had been covered with canvas on the open deck, concerning which the mariners had been so careful, were consigned to four men each, who managed them, each box, by lashings and two poles. They were transported rather in the fashion of a palanquin.
“Gently, gently!” warned the newcomer.
One of the boxes wavered, and he rushed to it, steadying it. As the box had moved, it sounded as if objects of iron or steel might be enclosed. Its contents, I gathered, if not fragile, were of considerable importance. I did not understand its importance. Perhaps it contained tools, or materials to which tools might be pertinent. As nearly as I could tell, in any event, it was an unusual form of cargo.
The box I was carrying was not heavy.
Men do not overburden slaves, no more than they would overburden any animal of the size or weight of a slave. It would be impractical, and foolish, to do so.
“May I speak, Master?” I asked the newcomer, who stood near me.
“You are a bold slave,” he said.
“Forgive me, Master,” I said. At least I had not been cuffed.
“You may speak,” he said.
“There was a second ship,” I said.
“Its landing would be different, its route would be different,” he said.
“I feared,” I said, “it might have encountered some misfortune.”
“That is unlikely,” he said. “What is your interest?”
“Nothing,” I said.
I suddenly tensed, beneath his gaze. “Forgive me, Master,” I said. “I am only a barbarian. There was a man, a master. I saw him in the barbarian lands. I think it was he who brought me to civilization and the collar.”
“When did you last see him?” asked the newcomer.
“Before my sale, in Brundisium,” I said, “I enclosed in an exposition cage.”
“Did you see him at your sale?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “but there were torches about the block. I could not well see into the tiers. They were muchly dark.”
“But you heard the bidding,” he said. “Surely you sensed the restlessness of the men, their interest.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Would you recognize his voice?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said. How could he think that I could not tell that voice, though he had said but a few words in my presence?
“Did you hear him bid?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said.
“Forget about him,” he said.
I was silent.
“That will be difficult for you to do, I gather,” he said.
“It was at his feet that I lay bound and naked, in a warehouse, a large building, in the barbarian lands.”
“They have buildings in the barbarian lands?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Interesting,” he said. “I thought you might live in huts, or tents, or wagons, as the Kataii, or Paravachi.”
“Most of us do not,” I said, “Master.”
“I looked up at him, as I lay before him, and he looked down upon me,” I said.
“And he saw you in the exposition cage,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“But he neither bought you, nor even bid upon you?”
“No, Master,” I said.
“Forget about him,” he said.
I was again silent.
“He was a slaver, I take it,” he said.
“I gather so,” I said.
“Then,” said he, “dismiss him from your mind. To him, I assure you, you and such as you are worthless, naught but meaningless collar meat. You are no more important to such a man than one vulo amongst others, one verr amongst others, one tarsk amongst others.”
“Yes, Master,” I said. Tears formed in my eyes.
“Have no fear,” he said, “you will change hands many times, and have many masters.”
“Yes, Master,” I whispered.
“You will be muchly handled, and well used,” he said, “and as the worthless slave you are.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“And you will strive to serve each with perfection,” he said, “each with all the perfections of the female slave.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“You should hate him,” he said.
“Master?” I said.
“You were deprived of your freedom,” he said. “It was he who brought the searing iron to your flank, marking you indisputably for all to see as mere goods. It was he who arranged it that your neck would be encircled with the metal band of bondage, closed and locked in place. It was he who put you upon the block, to be sold to the highest bidder. It was he who made it such that you must kneel to men, and hope to please them. It was he who brought you to kennels, cages, and chains. How you must hate him!”
“Forgive me, Master,” I said, “but I do not.”
“Surely you resent the helpless servitude and choiceless degradation in which you have been placed.”
I lowered my head.
“Speak,” he said.
“It is my hope,” I said, “to be found pleasing by my masters.”
He stepped back a bit.
I straightened my body a little, lifted my head a little.
“You are a pretty one,” he said.
“Thank you, Master,” I said.
“What is your name?” he said.
“I have not been named,” I said. “I have been identified by my lot number, one hundred and nineteen.”
“Slaves should have names,” he said.
“It will be as masters wish,” I said.
He turned about. “Ho!” he called.
We then began to leave the beach, and approach the trees. Before we entered the trees, I looked back, briefly, at the cold beach, and the restless, shimmering expanse of Thassa, and the horizon beyond it.
As we entered the trees, I saw two fellows. They wore tunics of a mottled green and brown. As they stood very still, I did not even notice them until we were almost at their side. Each held a strung, but not drawn, bow, a large bow, with an arrow, a long arrow, light at the string, as though it might be ready for flight.
A few moments later, I heard again, this time far to my right, the mighty roar which I had heard before, that roar which seemed it might have taken leaves from the trees. It had been said to be that of a larl. Occasionally I would hear it again during t
he next few days, as we trekked to Tarncamp. The beast, somewhere, off in the forest, was apparently accompanying our march.
Chapter Ten
I had expected the two ships to beach together, but they had not. Indeed, our vessel did not even beach at this point, but turned about, and rocked in place, parallel to the shore, some yards from the beach.
I had some sense of the cargo of the first ship, tools, supplies, slaves, and such, but our vessel was clearly a transport for armsmen. I kept the girl from Asperiche muchly in the first hold, as I did not wish trouble on the deck. In this decision Tyrtaios, whom I took to be first amongst the armsmen, though not amongst the mariners, concurred. “It is well,” he said, “not to lose men.” He had said this looking toward the coast, said it rather as one might have preferred not to lose pieces in a game. In Tyrtaios I sensed intelligence and power, and a prudential sense of instrumentality, unqualified by extraneous considerations. In a way he was far less dangerous to his men than an idealist or fanatic, who would sacrifice armies and continents to pursue a face in the clouds, a goal he does not even understand, an end which, if achieved, would betray the dreams in terms of which it was sought. Let the idealist and the fanatic curse the inevitable fruits of his success, the brass he took for gold, the unexamined shadow he took for substance, the bright illusion he took for reality; he does not lament the downfall of peoples and states, the carts of bones and the lakes of blood; his grief, rather, is for himself, as the innocent victim of alleged lies and treasons which, had he opened his eyes, would have been as obvious as a cliff’s edge. But Tyrtaios was neither an idealist nor fanatic; he was well aware of the balance between means and ends, between resources and their limitations. I was sure he would shepherd his men, and nourish them, but, as a dark player might, regarding not only the board, and a particular victory, but the larger game, a different game, one not played on a board. Tyrtaios would be a practical commander, whose expenditure of men and supplies would be rational, and judicious, and cold. I wondered if Tyrtaios was an Assassin. Assassins are not blinded by dreams. They do not draw their weapons irresponsibly, in righteousness, in drunkenness, in rage. They consider matters, bide their time, and, when ready, paint the dagger. They do not kill for ideals, or dreams. They kill for coin.
Unaccountably I was furious at the disappearance of the first ship. Why should that be?
What was it to me?
It was not even clear to me why I had ventured north. Ah, yes, two golden staters!
I wondered how Tyrtaios saw me. I suspected that my hire had not been purchased for the quickness of a blade, the edge of a sword, not for two staters of gold. How, I wondered, did he understand the Merchants, the Slavers? What was his caste? Was he an Assassin? I was not. I had told him so. Did he believe me? How did he understand me? I feared he saw me in terms of himself, as one might look into a dark glass.
“There,” said Tyrtaios, pointing.
“That is the signal?” I asked.
“I have it so from the captain,” said Tyrtaios.
“You were not informed?” I asked.
“We will disembark,” said Tyrtaios.
“It is a banner of sorts,” I said. I had never seen such a banner, which was narrow, and rectangular.
“It is a Pani banner,” he said.
The common military ensign is a metal standard, raised on its pole or staff, bearing its device, and, usually, identifying a unit, whether it be an army, a division, or a company. Commands may be given by means of the standards, and their motions. They may function much as drums or battle horns. On the other hand, by their means, too, one may, as in the early dawn, after a forced march, marshal and deploy troops silently. Men will die to protect their standards. If a general falls, it is expected that his standard bearer will be at his side. Wars have been fought to regain a lost standard.
“Prepare to disembark,” called Tyrtaios to the more than a hundred men on the vessel.
“I shall free a slave, and fetch her to the deck,” I said.
Several of the armsmen did not know she was on board.
Except on a round ship, and even on many of those, mariners do not welcome the presence of a free woman. Such, it is said, sow discord. Such are to be respected, but, in time, men grow hungry. It is a strain, even on a well-trained sleen, to circle meat it is forbidden to touch. The matter worsens, of course, if the free woman insists on the privileges of the deck, or, say, if she is careless of how she stands when the wind whips her robes, and matters may become intolerable indeed should she delight herself with certain pleasures not unknown to occasionally appertain to her sex, usually harmlessly, flirting with, or teasing, taunting, and tormenting men, confident in the inviolability of her freedom, perhaps in the possession of a shared Home Stone, and such. It is one thing, of course, to engage in such games in a theater, a street, or plaza, and quite another on a ship at sea, far from taverns, the relief of paga girls, and such. More than one woman began a voyage free and concluded it being sold in a distant port. Sometimes a round ship will carry slaves for the men, ship slaves. These are at the pleasure of the crew. The long ships, of course, the armed war knives of the sea, seldom depart with slaves aboard, though they may return with them.
“Master!” whispered the girl as the light of the small, shallow tharlarion-oil lamp fell upon her.
“Do not kneel,” I said.
She blinked against the light, which, in the darkness, dim as it was, must have seemed bright to her.
“The ship is still,” she said.
“We are disembarking,” I said.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“I do not know,” I said, “somewhere north of the Alexandra.”
She spoke softly as she had been warned to do, days before.
“Ankle,” I said.
She slid back, against the hull wall, and extended her left ankle.
I placed the small lamp on the planks and removed her shackle. “There are over a hundred men on board,” I said, “not counting mariners, with their officers. You are the only slave on board. Many do not know you are here. Stay close to me.”
“Surely Master can defend me, and keep me,” she said.
“It would be easier,” I said, “if you had the body of a tarsk and the face of a tharlarion.”
She stood up, and played with her hair, annoyingly, tossing and spreading it, and then, with both hands, brushing it behind her. She then stood straight and, with her small hands, smoothed down the tunic.
“But I do not have the body of a tarsk and the face of a tharlarion,” she said.
“Stay close to me,” I said, “very close.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I had not put her to use in the hold, as I did not want her shared. Thus, for the days at sea, I had deemed that she would be available to none, not even to me, her master. I would be as deprived as the others. I did not wish to feast while others starved. I supposed an oddity of propriety, even honor, was involved in this, but, too, doubtless, a sense of prudence. Only a fool publicly counts his gold. Accordingly, I had taken pains to be muchly visible on deck, eating and sleeping there, taking my turn on the bench, and so on. In doing so, of course, I was acutely aware of the hunger of the men, and the danger it might pose, for I, too, shared their hunger.
“Behold!” cried a fellow, as, the hold hatch back, I drew her into the light, from the ladder to the open deck.
“Steady,” warned Tyrtaios.
“A vulo!” said a fellow.
“Prepare to disembark,” called the captain.
“She was loaded at Brundisium,” said a fellow.
Men crowded toward us.
The slave from Asperiche shivered, concealing herself, as she might, behind me.
“Now!” called the captain.
“Ho!” called Tyrtaios. “Over the side!”
But the men did not move.
“Who is the first to disobey?” inquired Tyrtaios.
None seemed ready to clai
m this distinction.
“Who concealed her?” demanded a fellow, glaring at me.
“I,” I said. Then I said to the slave, “Step away from me, back, to the left, and side.”
Instantly she obeyed.
The fellow’s blade had already departed its housing.
“I give you permission to kill him,” said Tyrtaios to me.
The exchange was extremely brief, and the fellow reeled back, grasping his slashed arm, the blade lost on the deck.
“Ahh,” said several of the men.
“Master,” breathed the girl from Asperiche, shuddering.
“Why did you not kill him?” asked Tyrtaios, interested.
“Had his blade been more dangerous,” I said, “it would have been done.”
Tyrtaios turned to the men. “Who hesitates to obey?” he asked.
He received no response.
“Over the side,” said Tyrtaios, and, one by one, they went to the rail, and leapt into the water.
When the fellow who had attacked me went to the rail, grasping his bleeding arm, Tyrtaios, with a brief stroke of his blade, cut the spinal column at the back of his neck.
“Why did you do that?” I asked.
“Even though a blade be weak,” he said, “a knife in the dark can be dangerous.”
“I suspect there was little risk of that,” I said.
“I have need of you,” he said. “It is a risk I chose not to take.”
“You now have one less man,” I said.
“But better discipline amongst the others,” he said.
“You did not allow him the opportunity to defend himself,” I said.
“You saw his skills,” he said. “Why prolong matters?”
“I see,” I said.
“In the future,” he said, “do not expect me to do your work.”
“I will not,” I said.
Tyrtaios then sprang over the rail, plunging into the restless, waist-high water. He paused only long enough to clean his blade, and then waded ashore. Men poured over the rail after him, and about him, making their way to the shore.