by John Norman
Cecily and Jane, at the moment, with two sacks, had been set to gathering berries. When they returned they must put their heads back, open their mouths and extend their tongues. If there was any evidence of their having tasted a berry, either on their tongue or breath, they would be beaten. The berries were for the masters. Some could always be fed by hand to the slaves later, as they knelt at hand, naked, hands clasped behind their backs, or thrown before them to the floor, which they might then delicately retrieve, heads down, on all fours, without the use of their hands.
I had refrained hitherto from directly confronting either Lord Nishida or Lord Okimoto with the matter of the supposed hold over me, in virtue of some woman. Indeed, perhaps there was no such woman, and this menace or threat was a hoax, no more than an instrument of tactical efficacy, relying on my supplying in my own imagination some particular woman, with whose welfare I might be supposed to be concerned.
Now I would put the question to either Lord Nishida, or, if necessary, to Lord Okimoto.
If they wanted to retain my sword, at least as a willing instrument in their armory, then I would have an assuagement to my provoked curiosity.
With this resolution in mind I exited the shed which had been assigned for my quarters, quarters I shared, as before, with Pertinax, a free man, and two female slaves.
Chapter Thirty-Five
what occurred in the pavilion of lord okimoto
“Though you are a barbarian,” said Lord Nishida, “you are honored.”
“I am sensitive to the honor,” I said.
My sword had been kept at the entrance to the wooden pavilion, which was the largest building in the camp.
Lord Nishida and I were now in the vestibule of this building.
“It is sometimes difficult to understand Lord Okimoto,” said Lord Nishida. “It has to do with a knife wound sustained in war.”
“I understand,” I said.
“I will try to be of assistance,” said Lord Nishida.
“Thank you,” I said.
“And I may speak more than he.”
“I understand,” I said.
“You will stand,” he said, “unless permitted to sit.”
“I understand,” I said.
I was then ushered into the presence of the large, inert shape of Lord Okimoto. He was resplendent, broad and leaden, now in a scarlet kimono, with a yellow obi, or belt. In this belt was the companion sword, blade uppermost. He sat cross-legged. There were four contract women in attendance, of unusual beauty, who withdrew, unobtrusively, as I entered. On each side of Lord Okimoto, somewhat behind, arms crossed, stood a guard.
“This is Tarl Cabot, tarnsman, commander of the tarn cavalry, victor at the battle of Tarncamp, of whom I have spoken,” said Lord Nishida.
Lord Okimoto nodded.
“May I speak?” I inquired.
Again Lord Okimoto nodded.
“The victor at Tarncamp,” I said, “was Tarncamp’s commander, your colleague, Lord Nishida. It was my honor to command his cavalry.”
Lord Okimoto smiled.
I thought he said something, for his lips moved.
“You may sit,” said Lord Nishida.
“Thank you,” I said. I gathered that this was meaningful.
“I have explained to Lord Okimoto,” said Lord Nishida, “your reservations pertaining to descending the Alexandra, the lateness of the season, the impending cold, the force of winter, the perils of the sea at this time.”
“He understands all this,” I said.
“Completely,” said Lord Nishida.
“You have then reconsidered your plans?” I asked.
Lord Okimoto smiled, a small smile, almost lost in the bloated mass of that vast countenance. It seemed he had small eyes. His raiment, of silk, stretched over that large body, was elegant.
“I see you have not reconsidered,” I said.
“No,” said Lord Nishida. “It is not practical.”
“Enemies, I gather, approach,” I said.
“Yes,” said Lord Nishida.
“They will move first to the mouth of the Alexandra,” I said, “to cut you off, and then proceed upriver.”
“That is our surmise,” said Lord Nishida.
That was certainly what I would have done.
“How close are they?” I asked.
“Perhaps you know,” smiled Lord Nishida.
“How would I know?” I asked.
“They are too close,” said Lord Nishida. “And they hasten their marches.”
“How many days?” I asked.
“Some,” said Lord Nishida.
“Break camp, and flee,” I urged.
“It is not our way,” said Lord Nishida.
“Your defeat is assured,” I said, “either by sword or sea.”
“Yet few,” said Lord Nishida, “have ventured to depart.”
“They do not understand their situation,” I said.
“Perhaps,” said Lord Nishida.
“What of those few,” I asked, “who, as you put it, ‘ventured to depart’?”
“Desertion is not acceptable,” said Lord Nishida.
“I see,” I said.
Outside I heard the wind. It was coming from the north.
“There is still time,” I said, “to break camp, to withdraw.”
“Do you understand us, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman?” asked Lord Nishida.
“I do not think so,” I said.
“How do you see us?” he asked.
“As implacable, relentless, cruel, single-minded, uncompromising, merciless,” I said.
“And so, too,” said Lord Nishida, “is the enemy. It is a war, knife to knife, a war without quarter.”
“Not here?” I said.
“No, not here,” he said.
“Flee,” I said.
“It is not our way,” he said.
“It is a war you have already lost,” I said.
“We did not have tarns,” he said.
“I think you are mad,” I said.
“We are going back,” he said.
“I did not request this audience,” I said, “to apprise you of the hopeless nature of your situation, for that is something of which you are doubtless aware, perhaps more so than I, nor to impress upon you the advisabilities of desperate strategies, nor to urge even the simplest and most modest wisdoms of sanity, such as escaping while you may, for I am cognizant of your determination here and I have no hope of swaying you to adopt a wiser or more rational course, but I have come here for another purpose altogether.”
“We are pleased,” said Lord Nishida.
Lord Okimoto looked up.
“Speak,” said Lord Nishida.
“I heard, long ago,” I said, “from a female slave, though she did not then, amusingly, know herself slave, that there was to be a hold over me of some sort, in virtue of a woman — in virtue of which I must abet your projects.”
“Interesting,” said Lord Nishida.
“It seemed so to me,” I said.
“How seriously would you take this,” asked Lord Nishida, “considering its source, as it was emitted from the doubtless lovely lips of a mere female slave?”
“I do not know,” I said.
“I see,” said Lord Nishida.
“How seriously,” I asked, “should it be taken?”
The wind was rising, outside.
“I fear,” said Lord Nishida, “very seriously.”
“What hold is this,” I asked, “and who is the woman?”
He looked to Lord Okimoto, and Lord Okimoto inclined his head, authorizing, it seemed, Lord Nishida to proceed.
“We hoped you would not hear of this,” said Lord Nishida.
“I do not understand,” I said.
How could this leverage be applied to me if I knew nothing of it?
“There is much here which you do not understand,” said Lord Nishida, “but much which we, too, I fear, do not understand. We have heard, as well, however obliquel
y, of the matter of which you speak, and doubtless, ultimately, from the same source.”
I noted he did not mention the slave, Saru, nor had I done so.
Lord Okimoto, I gathered, did not know of the existence of Saru, and of her possible value, as a gift to a shogun. Then, again, I suspected there was likely to be little in the camp of which he would be ignorant. As Lord Nishida I supposed he would have his tentacles, his informants.
“First,” said Lord Nishida, “this is not a matter of our doing, this business of a ‘hold’, and of a woman; secondly, we do not know who might be the woman in question; thirdly, it is our surmise that the hold over you is one in virtue of which you are not to serve us, but betray us.”
“You profess no such hold over me?” I said.
“Your blade,” he said, “was put freely, voluntarily, at our disposal.”
“Who, then?” I asked.
“The enemy,” he said. “The slave, misled by a spy, probably in the south, was no more than a dupe, an unwitting conduit. It was her role, it seems, merely to inform you of a menace, one she would take, naturally enough, as emanating from us, things to be made clear to you later.”
“What do they want from me?” I asked.
“Treachery,” said Lord Nishida.
“Their choice, then,” I said, “is a poor one.”
“Let us hope so,” said Lord Nishida. “But men have killed their own brothers for a city, a ship, for gold, a woman.”
“True,” I said.
“You released an attempted assassin, Licinius Lysias of Turmus,” said Lord Nishida.
“I disapprove of ugly deaths,” I said.
“He was recovered, by Ashigaru, in the forest,” he said.
“I am sorry to hear it,” I said.
“In deference to your sensibilities,” he said, “he has been spared, for chains, and the bench of a galley.”
“Good,” I said.
“Many would prefer crucifixion,” he said.
“Perhaps,” I said. Certainly it was sooner finished.
“With whom did you secretly rendezvous at night, by tarn, in the vicinity of Tarncamp?” asked Lord Nishida.
“It is a private matter,” I said.
“Do you think we should trust you?” asked Lord Nishida. “Would you, in our place?”
“No,” I said.
“Now,” said Lord Nishida, “it seems clear that others bid for your service, and would lure you from us.”
“I know little of that,” I said.
“Treachery is punishable by death,” said Lord Nishida.
“I am not surprised,” I said.
I was wondering if I would leave the pavilion of Lord Okimoto alive.
“Without you,” said Lord Nishida, “the cavalry might mutiny.”
“I doubt it,” I said.
“What do you know of this alleged matter of a hold, and a woman?” asked Lord Nishida.
“I know as little, or less, than you,” I said.
“Opacity is troubling,” said Lord Nishida.
“It is also part of life,” I said.
“Who knows,” asked Lord Nishida, “if the petals of a flower will open, and, if so, when, and which first?”
“Who, indeed,” I said. I did not care for this sort of talk on the part of the Pani.
“Our patience is not inexhaustible, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” said Lord Nishida.
“Who is the woman?” I asked.
“Tell us,” said Lord Nishida.
“I do not know,” I said. “Do you not know?”
“No,” he said.
“Have you no sense, no hint, of who the woman is?” I asked.
“Perhaps you may,” he said.
“I?” I said.
Lord Okimoto then clapped his hands, sharply, and one of his contract women, with small steps, her head bowed, ushered herself gracefully into the presence of the daimyo.
“This is Hisui, in service to Lord Okimoto,” said Lord Nishida.
The lovely creature, a comb in her hair, wore a muchly figured kimono, and a single piece of jewelry, which fell upon her breast.
“Hisui,” said Lord Nishida, “wears a bauble, which is meaningless to us, but may be meaningful to you.”
“May I?” I inquired, and Hisui lowered her head, and I lifted the pendant, in the palm of my left hand, on its light, golden chain.
“We gather,” said Lord Nishida, “it is a token of some sort. It was intended for you. We learned this from its carrier, but little else, before he died, far too soon, unfortunately, lifted and dropped, again and again, onto the sharpened sticks.”
I released the pendant, and it fell again upon the bosom of its bearer.
I turned and faced Lords Nishida and Okimoto.
“You are going back, to the ‘far shore’?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Lord Nishida.
“I will go with you,” I said.
“Of course,” said Lord Nishida.
I then turned, and left.
The pendant had been the medallion of the Ubara of Ar.
Chapter Thirty-Six
the pyre
Soon, I supposed, the eyes of the great ship would be painted.
She was to ply the Alexandra.
Should she reach Thassa, the sea, I supposed, would be gifted with wine and salt, and oil would be poured into the waters, that they might be soothed in her path. Such things are traditional.
Six days ago a great pyre had been lit on the beach, and I had stood beside it, with Aetius, and dozens of others, amongst them carpenters, sawyers, oar makers, and sail makers.
We stood yards back. The flames burned fiercely. Though it was night, one could scarcely look upon them. One could see them reflected redly on the countenances of the stolid, or grieving, men gathered about. Tears streamed from the eyes of some of them, hardened men, yet weeping. Pani, too, were with us, and a number of mariners, and mercenaries. The wrapped form in the canvas, sail canvas, was consumed in a torrent of flame.
It was odd, I thought, that the pyre had been lit at night. Such things are usually done in the afternoon.
“He would have liked to have seen the eyes painted,” said a man.
I supposed that this was true.
But Tersites, I knew, was a strange man.
“It was not to be,” said another.
“I would have liked to have seen him,” I said to Aetius.
Aetius did not look at me. “He was not well,” he said.
“What,” I asked, “was the cause of his death?”
“His health was poor, and for a long time failing,” said Aetius.
I recalled him from years ago, at the Council of Captains. It was hard to think of that small, twisted, wiry, energetic body, the unlikely frame of so mighty and unusual a mind, belabored and weakened, succumbing to the ravages of illness. I had sought out the physicians, those of the green caste, in camp. None had been summoned. Four had been refused admittance to his presence.
“There will never be another such as he,” said Aetius.
“Doubtless,” I said.
Aetius regarded me, narrowly, and then looked away.
We waited until the flames had muchly subsided, and then returned to our quarters.
The next morning, at dawn, I returned to the remains of the pyre, the blackened wood, the mounds of ash.
I was not surprised to find that Aetius had done the same.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, not pleasantly.
“Sometimes,” I said, brushing through the ash with the side of my foot, “there is a bone or two.”
“Go away,” said Aetius.
“I see you have found some,” I said. He carried, in his left hand, a small sack.
“Come no closer,” said Aetius.
I took his left hand at the wrist, and pulled the sack toward me.
“Away!” said Aetius. “Stop!”
With my right hand I emptied the bones into the ash. I bent down, as Aetius st
ood by, helpless. I sorted through the bones. I lifted one or two of them up, to show them to Aetius.
“Now you know,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“You suspected,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
I then stood up.
He bent down, angrily, to gather the bones together, which he hastily returned to the sack.
I had little doubt but what they would be quickly disposed of, probably buried in the forest, without a marker.
“Your secret,” I said, “is safe with me.”
“It was thought necessary,” he said, not looking up.
“Why, by whom?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he said.
“Where is Tersites?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he said. “I do what I am told.”
“Clearly he is alive,” I said.
“I think so,” he said.
I had suspected some form of subterfuge, or hoax, from the apparent absence or inaccessibility of Tersites, from my inquiries amongst those of the green caste, and from the igniting of the vast pyre after dark.
Perhaps he had been in fear of his life.
Doubtless he would now be safe, for a time.
I then turned away.
The bones were tarsk bones.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
the ship is to sail
Strangely, this unsettling me, and many others, the eyes of the great ship had not been painted.
Yet it seemed she was to ply the Alexandra, and, if all went well, reach Thassa.
Should she reach Thassa, the sea, I trusted, would be gifted with wine and salt, and oil would be poured into the waters, that they might be soothed in her path.
I would prefer that these things had been done before she would sail.
I was uneasy.
I knew little of many things.