by John Norman
“Empty grain slips, towed, their identity concealed in the darkness, might suggest such a fleet,” mused Callisthenes.
“Accept his plan in its plausible form, my friend, Callisthenes, or let us put it entirely from our minds,” said Callimachus.
“Yes,” said Glyco.
“That is doubtless best,” agreed Callisthenes.
“I am willing to try it,” I said.
“I thought you would be,” said Callisthenes.
“What chances do you think we might have?” I asked Callimachus.
He smiled, wryly. “One or two,” he guessed, “perhaps one or two, in a thousand.”
“Surprise would be on our side,” I pointed out.
“Support would not be immediately at hand,” said Callimachus.
“The portals and walks to be defended are sufficiently narrow,” I said earnestly.
“And many in number,” said Callimachus. “Too, there may be circuitous passages, secret, of which you are unaware. In this event you might be easily outflanked.”
I thought of the slave, she who had once been Miss Beverly Henderson.
“Give me twenty men,” I said to Callisthenes.
“I think I can supply you with twenty volunteers,” he said.
I looked to Aemilianus.
“If Port Cos can give you twenty men for such a venture,” said Aemilianus, “Ar’s Station, surely, could supply no smaller a number.”
“It is now foolishness, and madness, Jason,” said Callimachus. “Do not embark upon so mad a venture.”
“You need not come, my friend,” I said.
“I shall accompany you, of course,” said Callimachus.
***
We were now beneath the high, dark walls of the stronghold of Policrates. I could see them rearing some hundred feet above us.
We nosed toward the sea gate, our oars scarcely entering the water.
I could see a lamp lit on a wall, more than three hundred feet within, inside the sea gate. The sea gate itself was fifty feet in height, large enough, when the barred latticework was lifted, to accommodate a masted cargo galley. It was reinforced on two sides with keep-like towers. The tower on the right, as I faced the gate, housed the windlass which lifted and lowered the gate. It was turned by prisoners and slaves, chained to its bars, but these men, without the assistance of the gigantic counterweights, also within the tower, could not have moved it.
“Who is there?” called a man from the wall.
“Step back,” I said to Callimachus. “You might be recognized.”
I then stood alone on the foredeck of the galley. I climbed to the foot of the prow and stood there, my left arm about the prow. I wore the mask I had worn when I had pretended to be the courier of Ragnar Voskjard.
“Who is there?” repeated the man.
“I am the courier of Ragnar Voskjard!” I called. “We are sent ahead, the scout ships of his fleet!” we had only four ships with us, and three were, substantially, empty. Tasdron had arranged them in Victoria, on the pretense of fetching a consignment of Sa-Tarna from Siba, to be brought to the Brewery of Lucian, near Fina, east of Victoria, with which brewery he occasionally did business.
“The fleet of Ragnar Voskjard is not due for ten days,” called the man.
“We are the scout ships,” I called. “It is only two days behind us!”
“The Voskjard is eager,” called the man.
“There are towns to be burned,” I called, “loots to be gathered, women to tie in our slave sacks!”
“How did you pass the chain?” called the man.
“The battle has been fought,” I said. “It has been cut!”
“I do not like it,” said Callimachus, behind me. “There are too few men on the walls.”
“I surely have no objection to that,” I said. “Hopefully most of the ships and men of Policrates are abroad.”
“Now,” asked Callimachus, “when they are waiting for Ragnar Voskjard?”
“He is not due, in their opinion, for ten days,” I said.
“Let us withdraw,” advised Callimachus.
“The cups of Cos,” I cried to the man on the wall, “are not the cups of Ar!”
“Yet each may be filled with a splendid wine,” he called down.
“The ships of Cos,” I called to the man on the wall, “are not the ships of Ar!”
“But the holds of each may contain fine treasures,” he answered.
“The Robes of Concealment of Cos are not the Robes of Concealment of Ar,” I called.
“What do they have in common?” called the man.
“Both conceal the bodies of slaves!” I called to him.
“Raise the gate!” called the man, turning about.
Slowly, creaking, foot by foot, I saw the heavy latticework of the sea gate lifting out of the water, dripping, shiny in its wet blackness, in the light of the three moons.
“It is too easy,” said Callimachus. “Let us withdraw while we can.”
“Surprise is with us,” I told him. “It is the one hope we have on it all depends.”
“Enter, Friends!” called down the man.
I, standing on the prow, motioned with my right arm to the oar master, and he, in turn, not on the stern deck, but among the benches, spoke softly to the men. He was from Port Cos. I looked upward at the high gate, now hung almost above us. We began to move slowly through the opening.
“Now!” cried a voice above us, on the wall.
I suddenly heard a gigantic, rapid, rattling sound.
“Back oars!” cried the oar master, the fellow from Port Cos. “Back oars!”
But there was no time. A few feet behind me, hurtling downward, crashing through the foredeck of the galley, fell the great gate of iron.
I was pitched upward, the prow of the galley, the forward gunnels, seeming to leap upward. There had been a horrendous sound of splintering, as the heavy gate had cut through the strakes of the galley like an ax through twigs. In that moment I had seen, through the closely set latticework of the gate, the chopped galley leaping upward. I saw Callimachus thrown into the water, and the men, suddenly, lifted up with the galley, some clinging to benches, others rolling on the deck.
Almost at the same time the walls, on the inside, seemed alive with archers, who must have been hidden behind the parapets. The prow, to which I clung, then fell back towards the water, and I leaped from it. In a moment I rose to the surface, gasping, trying to see. The debris of the forequarters of the galley was floating about me. Outside the gate I saw the rest of the galley subsiding into the water.
From the walls arrows were raining down upon its settling timbers. The men were now in the water, swimming from the scattered wood, darting arrows piercing the water about them, then bobbing upward. I swam underwater to the base of the sea gate. I could not push through the closely set latticework. There was no passage under or about the iron. Its iron posts were received by rounded holes, six inches in width, drilled in a flat, horizontal sill.
At last, lungs bursting, shaking water from my eyes, I rose to the surface and clutched at the iron latticework. It was dark outside the gate. I could see some shattered wood, floating in the moonlight. Too, there were numerous arrows, like sticks, floating about. Doubtless they would later be collected, and dried. The three galleys we had towed were now adrift, aimlessly, almost lost in the shadows. I heard laughter on the wall. I was aware then of a lantern, and a small boat, behind me. I felt, as I clung to the iron, a rope put on my neck.
Chapter 30 - I AM INTERROGATED IN THE HALL OF POLICRATES; A GIRL IS TO BE WHIPPED; I AM TAKEN TO THE CHAMBER OF THE WINDLASS
“Taunt him,” said Policrates.
The red-haired beauty, nude, began to press herself against me, in the long, sensuous, full-body caresses of the female slave. I struggled in the chains. My hair was still wet from the dark waters of the lake-like courtyard of the holding of Policrates. There were rope burns on my neck, from the coarse tether, now removed, on which I had been dragge
d, bound, into his presence, My clothes had been cut from me. I had then been chained, hand and foot, on my back, to four iron rings set in the tiles, before the dais on which reposed his curule chair. Policrates, indolent in the chair, lifted a finger and another girl, one whom I recalled was called Tais, from the feast, dark-haired, nude, knelt beside me and began to kiss and lick at my right foot and leg.
“For whom are you an operative?” inquired Policrates.
“For no one,” I said, angrily. Again Policrates signaled and this time Lita, who had once been a free woman of Victoria, pausing only to discard the bit of silk she wore on the marble steps, hurried to kneel beside me. I noticed how the bit of yellow silk lay on the steps. She had been humiliatingly and publicly stripped and knelt on the boards of the wharf at Victoria, before large numbers of her fellow citizens, inactive and frightened. She, nude, kneeling, the blade of the pirate at her throat, had tied the knot of bondage in her own hair. She had been ordered then to the galley, to be bound there as an exposed slave, to be taken to the stronghold of her masters.
The bit of yellow silk lay partly on one stair and, descending gracefully, partly on another. It took the edge of the stair beautifully, for such silk is very fine. It reveals even the subtlest lineaments of that to which it clings. It is slave silk. I could see the graining of the marble through the silk.
The girl now began to kiss at my left foot and leg. She kissed well. I saw that she belonged in a collar. It was too bad, I thought, that that discovery had first been made by pirates and not by strong free men, before whom pirates might quail. But free men, I knew, were often too simple or ignorant to gather up the unclaimed booty which might lie about them, even though such booty might beg piteously to serve, and to be taken into their homes, to be treasured.
It is not easy always, of course, to recognize a slave who wears the robes and veils of concealment; the identification becomes simple, of course, once she has been put in a collar and slave tunic. It is said on Gor that the garments of a free woman are designed to conceal a woman’s slavery, whereas the accouterments and garments of a slave, such as the brand and collar, the tunic or Ta-Teera, are made to reveal it.
“You are Jason, of Victoria, are you not?” inquired Policrates.
“Yes,” I said. Kliomenes stood beside the curule chair of Policrates. He was smiling. Four or five of Policrates’ cutthroats stood about, with their arms folded. About the curule chair of Policrates, nestling about his feet, and on the stairs about the chair, were several of his girls. Most were nude, but some were silked, or clad otherwise revealingly, as befitted the wenches of pirates. Some wore threads of leather, another a bit of rope, another only her chains. Some of these wenches I remembered from the feast. There were dark haired Relia and blond Tela, who was still kept in white silk, as a joke, though she must have served the pleasure of pirates a thousand times; and the blond sisters from Cos, Mira and Tala; short, dark-haired Bikkie; the girls who had danced at the feast, and had been thrown to the aroused men at the conclusion of their performances; and certain others. Most, however, I did not know, or recognize. Men such as Policrates are rich in women, as well as in gold.
“You are involved in the conspiracy of Tasdron, taverner of Victoria, who is in league with Glyco, of Port Cos,” said Policrates.
“No,” I said.
“We will deal with these fools soon,” said Policrates. “And we will wreak a vengeance on Victoria of which men will dare not speak for a hundred years.”
“There is no conspiracy,” I said. “It was I alone, with some few men, who thought to take and fire the holding.”
“And what of the beacon that was to be set,” asked Policrates, crates, “and of the ships waiting fruitlessly now upon the river?”
I was silent. Policrates obviously knew much.
“Relia, Tela, to him,” said Policrates. These two girls, Relia discarding her red silk and Tela opening her white silk, and throwing it back, hurried to kneel near me. Relia began to kiss and bite at the palm of my right hand, and at my right arm and shoulder, and Tela addressed herself similarly to my left hand and arm. I struggled in the chains, but could not resist.
“Did you truly think to gain access to our stronghold with so simple a ruse?” asked Policrates.
“Yes,” I said. I gasped in the chains. I could not pull away from the taunting caresses of the slave girls.
“It was the plan of a fool,” said Policrates.
“It was an excellent plan,” I said. “How did you know that we were not the scout ships of Ragnar Voskjard?” We had, after all, known the signs and countersigns, and, presumably, those of the holding of Policrates would not be familiar with all of the men or ships of Ragnar Voskjard.”
“Would not it have been clear to anyone?” smiled Policrates.
“We were betrayed,” I said.
“It would not have been necessary, of course,” smiled Policrates, “but, to be sure, you were betrayed.”
“You knew it would be I, and others?” I asked.
“Certainly,” said Policrates. What fools he had made of us. How thunderously had the great sea gate descended, destroying our first galley.
“Who was the traitor?” I asked.
“Perhaps Tasdron himself,” said Policrates, “perhaps even Glyco, posing as of your party. Perhaps your dear friend, Callimachus, secretly in our pay. Perhaps even a lowly slave, privy to your machinations.”
“It could, too, be a soldier, one even with our galleys,” I said.
“To be sure,” agreed Policrates.
I struggled in the chains.
“Oh, do not struggle so, Master,” whispered the red-haired girl at my side, soothingly, chidingly. “You cannot escape, you know. You are helpless. Be content to feel my hands and lips, and my body, against yours.”
I cried out with rage. I wondered if it had been Peggy, the Earth-girl slave, who had betrayed us. She could have overheard our doings, and well suspected our intentions. It would have been easy for her in the paga tavern to have informed on us. It could have been done with simplicity in the privacy, in the secrecy, of an alcove, her head to a pirate’s feet.
“Oh, Master,” reproved the red-haired girl, kissing me as the slave she was. I tried to pull loose the chains, but they were of Gorean iron. It seemed to me then as if it must have been Peggy who had betrayed us. She might well have known or suspected all. Too, she was a slave and a woman! Who else could it have been? She, indeed, must be the traitress, so lovely in her collar! It could have been, surely, none other than she, the branded Earth girl! I struggled, and cried out with rage. I did not envy the lovely blonde if she were caught. I wondered if she knew the fire with which she played. The vengeances taken by Gorean men on traitorous female slaves are not gentle.
“Was it you, Jason, he of Victoria,” inquired Policrates, “whom we previously entertained in our holding as the courier of Ragnar Voskjard.
“Of course,” I said, angrily.
“Liar!” said Kliomenes. It surprised me that he had said this. Surely they must know that it had been I. Their informant must have known this.
“I do not think so, Jason,” said Policrates, “though, to be sure, you wore tonight the same mask as he who posed as the courier.”
“It was I,” I said, boldly, “none other.”
“Do you maintain this mockery?” asked Policrates.
“Can you not recognize my frame,” I asked, “my voice?”
“There are surely strong similarities,” mused Policrates.
“It was I,” I said, puzzled.
“You would have been chosen precisely for these similarities,” said Policrates.
“Why do you think it was not I?” I asked. “Did your informant not make it clear to you that I it was who brought you the topaz?”
“The topaz,” said Policrates, “was delivered to us by the courier of Ragnar Voskjard.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“The true courier,” said Policrates.
&n
bsp; “Oh,” I said.
“What have you done with him?” inquired Policrates.
I was silent.
“I trust that you have not slain him,” said Policrates, “for doubtless Ragnar Voskjard would not be pleased to hear that.”
“I do not understand,” I said. I was genuinely puzzled.
“You intercepted the courier, somehow, on his way back to Ragnar Voskjard,” said Policrates. “It was from him, or perhaps from papers on his person, that you learned the signs and countersigns for admittance to the holding.”
“No,” I said, “it was you yourself who gave to me the signs and countersigns, when I posed as the courier of Ragnar Voskjard.”
“That is false,” said Policrates.
“It is true!” I cried. “True!” I moaned. I tried to move in the chains. Why would he not call off his slaves!
Two of the men of Policrates laughed.
“Bikkie, to him,” said Policrates. I saw Kliomenes smile.
“Yes, my Master,” said the short, dark-haired girl, and she, smiling, barefoot, descended the marble stairs of the dais and, taking her place on my left, lowered herself gracefully to lie on her side beside me. She began to kiss and lick at me, and caress me.
“I am pleasing him,” said the red-haired girl on my right. “I can please him more,” said the dark-haired girl. I did not cry out to Policrates for mercy. I knew he would grant me none. I suppressed a moan.
Bikkie was excellent. I had little doubt but what she was a valuable slave, and would bring a high price. Bikkie wore, like one or two of the other girls still on the dais, only threads of leather, some dozen or so, depending from a leather sheathing encasing the locked steel collar on her throat.
On the front of the leather sheathing, which opened only at the back, to admit the key to the collar lock, there was sewn a red leather patch, small, in the shape of a heart. The heart to Goreans, as to certain of those of Earth, is understood as a symbol of love. The life of a slave girl, of course, is understood; too, as a life of love. She is given no alternative.
The leather threads depending from the collar are stout enough to bind the hands of a girl, perhaps at her collar, that she may not interfere with what is done to her body, but they are not stout enough to bind a man. They may be used, of course, in pleasing a master, not only in setting off the girl’s ill-concealed beauty, but in touching him, brushing him, stimulating him, twining about him, and so on. The girl knows that the same strands which can bind her helplessly as a slave, are strong enough only to delight and please her master. This helps her to understand that he is a man, and that she is a woman.