by John Norman
Chapter Thirty
How the Desertion Failed of Its Purpose; I Realize the Danger Which is Not Spoken
Not one man had been killed.
We counted them, eight hundred and seventy of them, as they returned in the morning, making their way up the steep path, to the inner courtyard gate.
They were admitted one at a time through the narrow opening in the barricade which had been set up at the gate. Each man, as he entered, cast his weapons in the pile to the right of the barricade, as he passed through it, was searched by Pani, relieved of any unsurrendered weapon, had his left forearm stained, and was then conducted to one of the barracks which had been reinforced that it might serve as a prison.
“Lord Okimoto is generous,” said Tyrtaios to the superior with whom he was liaison, Lord Okimoto. “On the continent the desertion of a single man is usually punished by his death, the desertion of a unit, its impermissible flight from the field, not routed, its refusal to engage, or such, by decimation, putting to death every tenth man, this determined by lots.”
“It would be pleasant to crucify them all,” said Lord Okimoto, “but, unfortunately, that is impractical, for several reasons. They retain value. It is difficult to replace them. Too, their fellows, those who did not join them, those who remained loyal, questioned, object strenuously. The application of appropriate measures, thus, might precipitate a new mutiny. Too, of course, there is fear abroad, and, should customary measures be inflicted, it is recognized that the strength of our force would be considerably reduced by the elimination of these men, this in the face of the enemy, whose attack may be imminent. Too, unfortunately, several of our officers, Turgus, Pertinax, Cabot, and such, have made clear their opposition to such things. We do not know how serious they are, but we cannot risk the loss of the cavalry.”
“Lord Nishida recommends clemency,” said Tyrtaios.
“It is his way,” said Lord Okimoto.
“It is perhaps wise,” said Tyrtaios.
“It seems,” said Lord Okimoto, “that you wish to preserve the men, as well.”
“Surely they may prove useful,” said Tyrtaios.
“That will be our hope,” said Lord Okimoto.
“What is the view of Lord Temmu?” inquired Tyrtaios.
“Those who would desert have been marked,” said Lord Okimoto. “Records will be kept. Lord Temmu is patient.”
“I see,” said Tyrtaios.
“It would be pleasant, of course,” said Lord Okimoto, “to know who were the captains of this business, those who planned and organized it.”
“Surely Tereus, the oarsman,” said Tyrtaios.
“We think not,” said Lord Okimoto.
“Oh?” said Tyrtaios.
“Others,” said Lord Okimoto, “remain in the shadows.”
It will be recalled that the trail to the wharf was walled-in.
It will also be recalled that Lord Nishida had had the gate opened, rather as though he recognized the futility of defending it, as though, perforce, he recognized that the desertion could not be forestalled. Those who would desert, then, rejoicing that they were unopposed, hurried down the trail. Apparently they did not question that the two further gates lay open. When they reached the foot of the trail they found it barricaded, before the wharf, a barricade manned by several Pani, drawn from the ship, a barricade, given the narrowness of the passage, easily defended by a few against many. Outside the trail walls, Pani archers had been stationed, lest any, held inside, attempt to scale the walls. When the deserters had sped down the trail, Lord Nishida had had a similar barricade erected at the height of the trail, similarly easily defended. In short order then those intent on desertion found themselves trapped in a steep, narrow, tortuous passageway, without food and water, from which they could not easily extricate themselves. At best, from the trail, they might see the wharf, and the great ship moored there, on a dozen lines, the ship they were unable to reach. Then, presumably to make more clear the hopelessness of their position, several barrels of oil were poured onto the stone flagging flooring the trail, oil which, obviously, if desired, might be ignited. Other inflammables, pitch, and such, were cast over the walls from the outside, which, by a flung torch, a cast, flaming bundle of straw, or such, might be as easily ignited. In such a way the walled-in trail might, at selected points, as desired, be transformed into a blazing furnace. The principle points in question were the approaches to the entrance and exit of the trail. Any concerted attempt to storm the barricade at either end then, in addition to its dubious prospects at the outset, might also find itself forced to proceed through a wall of fire. Similarly, if the deserters should congregate in any part of the passage, or be forced to do so, say, by Pani entering the passage, they might be similarly discomfited. Accordingly, by morning, well apprised of the desperateness of their situation, the deserters had surrendered. Whereas the surrender was unconditional, the deserters realized, as well as others, first, that the Pani would not be likely to accept a grievous loss of armsmen which would be likely to jeopardize, if not ruin, their cause, and, second, that their brethren, their fellow armsmen, and their fellows of the ship, would not be likely, particularly under the circumstances of the desertion, to accept their wholesale slaughter, or even decimation.
When Tereus emerged from the trail, to surrender his weapons, and have his arm stained, Seremides was waiting for him, leaning on his crutch, grinning.
“Sleen,” hissed Tereus, as the stain was spread upon his left forearm.
“You would not take me with you,” said Seremides.
“Had you been with us,” said Tereus, “you would not be alive now.”
“How fortunate then,” said Seremides, “that I was not with you.”
“Treacherous tarsk,” said Tereus.
“Here, noble lord,” said Seremides to Lord Okimoto, indicating Tereus, “is the leader of the desertion.”
Seremides, prior to his crippling in the Vine Sea, had been liaison to Lord Okimoto, a post now held by Tyrtaios.
“If so, Rutilius, half of man,” said Lord Okimoto, “what should be done with him?”
“I resign that matter cheerfully, noble lord,” said Seremides, “to your judgment, or that of the great Lord Temmu.”
“It is our view,” said Lord Okimoto, “that the leader of the desertion did not participate in the desertion, but would have appeared shortly, had it proved successful.”
“Lord?” said Seremides.
“If that is so,” said Tyrtaios, “the true leader would not have been Tereus.”
“He led, clearly,” said Seremides.
“Perhaps another,” said Tyrtaios.
“Another?” said Seremides.
“Perhaps you,” said Tyrtaios.
“I?” said Seremides, startled, turning white.
“Did you not inform Lord Nishida of the conspiracy?” asked Tyrtaios. “How would you know of it, had you not been involved in the matter?”
“If I designed the matter,” said Seremides, “why would I betray it, and thus preclude its fruition?”
“Perhaps that one you fear might be thereby slain,” said Tereus.
“Ah,” said Tyrtaios, thoughtfully.
“Would it not have been simpler to strike him in the night?” asked Lord Okimoto.
“I am loyal!” said Seremides.
“To whom?” asked Tereus, his left arm dark with stain.
“If the matter carried,” said Tyrtaios, “I expect you would have profited from it.”
“You do me too much credit,” said Seremides. “How could I, no more than a worthless cripple, ridiculed and scorned, manage so great an affair?”
“Your wit is not crippled,” said Tyrtaios. “Who knows what venom you might brew?”
“I am innocent!” said Seremides.
“Perhaps,” said Tyrtaios.
“Tereus, Tereus!” insisted Seremides.
“One does not know,” said Tyrtaios.
“The matter was cleverly done,” said Lord Okimoto
, “and moved from man to man. Where it began may remain unclear.”
“Somewhere it must have begun,” said Tyrtaios, “and from somewhere been monitored and directed.”
“Doubtless,” said Lord Okimoto.
“Consider the perfidious Tereus, Lord,” said Seremides.
“Do you think, upon reflection, good Tyrtaios,” asked Lord Okimoto, “that our friend, Tereus, a simple oarsman, could have managed so much, so well?”
“He spoke for the desertion, he led the flight, he was first through the gate,” said Seremides. “His guilt is obvious!”
“Too obvious,” said Lord Okimoto.
“I do not think so, Lord,” said Tyrtaios.
“Nor I,” said Lord Okimoto.
“Then Rutilius,” said Tyrtaios.
“No!” said Seremides.
“I think it would have been difficult for Rutilius,” said Lord Okimoto.
“Then, who?” said Tyrtaios.
“Yes, who?” said Lord Okimoto. He then gestured that the disarmed, weary, disconsolate Tereus be conducted, his arm stained, his steps slow, in his turn, to a prison barracks.
Seremides, angrily, turned and hobbled awkwardly away, the crutch poking at, and dragging in, the dirt.
Various times, in the last few days, he had importuned me to kill Tereus for him.
I had, of course, refused.
“I will come again to power,” he said. “You are my only friend. You protect me. You saved my life. I will not forget that. I will come again to power. You will stand high.”
“I will not kill Tereus for you,” I said.
“Get him drunk,” said Seremides. “Provoke a quarrel. Strike. It will not be difficult.”
“No,” I said.
I thought that Tereus might be more safe in the prison barracks than free on the castle grounds, particularly at night.
It is dangerous to be feared by Seremides.
I had then turned away from him.
“Callias,” said Tyrtaios.
“Noble Tyrtaios,” I said.
“We owe you much,” he said. “Had it not been for your intervention, at the gate, the time taken, the desertion might have proceeded apace.”
“I do not think so,” I said. “I think the desertion was anticipated, and prepared for.”
“Betrayed by Rutilius?” he said.
“I suspect it was independently anticipated,” I said. “The Pani are not fools.”
“In any event,” said Tyrtaios, “it is clear you were not with the desertion.”
“That is true,” I said.
“That will be remembered,” he said.
“How so?” I said.
“Perhaps I may find a way for you to be rewarded,” he said.
“You?” I said.
“Yes, I,” he said.
“I need not be rewarded,” I said.
“That is for me to say,” he said.
“You have friends?” I said.
“Of course,” he said.
“Where?” I asked.
“Here and there,” he said.
“And they might arrange my reward?”
“Quite possibly,” he said.
I recalled seeing Tyrtaios in company with several fellows, the past few days, fellows from various decks. Some of them had been amongst the deserters, and were now incarcerated in a prison barracks.
If a snake could take human form, and the form of a warrior, I thought, would it not be much like the form of Tyrtaios?
I suspected that the machinations of Tyrtaios lay behind the abortive desertion. It would not do to say so, of course, for he stood close to Lord Okimoto.
I did not think that Seremides had planned and organized the desertion. As he had suggested, few would take him seriously, now, as a leader. I did suppose that he, unobtrusive, scarcely noticed, might have overheard revealing remarks, and thus come upon the matter. He may well have conveyed his intelligence to the Pani, particularly had he inveighed with Tereus, or others, to permit him to accompany the flight, and had had his request refused. Why should others escape the World’s End, if not Seremides? I speculated, of course, that the Pani had independently anticipated, and prepared for, such an exigency. Its likelihood would have been much increased given the miserable return of the exploratory force and the arrival of enemy troops, in force, in the vicinity. Seremides had, of course, attempted to use the failure of the desertion, naturally enough, as an opportunity to embroil Tereus, whom he feared, with the Pani.
I wondered, of course, if Lord Okimoto suspected Tyrtaios, as well. Certainly Lord Okimoto, despite his ponderous bulk, his measured, graceful movements, and such, was, like Lord Nishida, a very clever man. I supposed that one neither easily attained, nor easily retained, the status of daimyo in these strange, warlike islands. And too, I wondered, what must then be the nature of a shogun?
I was troubled by the events of the past ten Ahn or so. Much moved in my mind that I did not understand. It seemed formless, and yet on the verge of form. I think now, in retrospect, that it was clear enough to me, but that I was unwilling to let it stand before me, but that I rather kept it to one side, knowing it was there but refusing to look upon it.
I went to the inner wall, the high wall, as I had the previous night, and, standing on the parapet, again surveyed the countryside. I had seen campfires last night; this morning, or early noon, I saw a great number of tents. Where the village had been there was now debris, and darkness, and ash. When the wind shifted a bit, a hint of smoke still reached the parapet.
Some Pani were on the wall, as well, and some were equipped with a glass of the Builders. There was a drum in view, and, if there was movement below, massive movement, as opposed to tiny parties, scouting, I had no doubt a muster would sound, and the walls might be manned.
I did not know if Lord Yamada, or his generals, contemplated addressing the castle, or had come largely to destroy villages, and fields. I knew, at least according to report, the castle had never been taken. Clearly, as it was manned, and provisioned, it would be costly to attack. It seemed to have little to fear, at least for months, unless it be treachery.
I thought of the disarmed men, more than eight hundred and fifty, indeed, precisely, eight hundred and seventy, now held in the three prison barracks, hot, windows boarded, guarded by Pani. It would not do, of course, to keep them there indefinitely. At some point they would have to be released and rearmed. And then, I thought, would not the same prospects and dangers confront them as before, prospects and dangers which once encouraged them to think of flight, and might well again?
On the parapet I suddenly felt sick, and cold.
I was of the ship.
I knew what the Pani would do.
I turned about and hurried down to the courtyard. I must seek an audience with Lord Nishida.
Perhaps I would be slain, or put in the prison barracks with the fellows I had sought to deter from the rashness of desertion.
Or, perhaps there would yet be time to flight a messenger vulo to the mountains, to contact Tarl Cabot.
I knew what I must do, as I was of the ship.
Chapter Thirty-One
I Fail to Satisfy the Curiosity of Seremides
“Surely you know what they plan to do!” said Seremides.
“Yes,” I said, “but I do not think they will act until night.”
The eight hundred and seventy men were still held in the prison barracks. They would not interfere. They would be kept there until afterward, at least until tomorrow, when it would be too late.
A weapons inventory had been ordered for the loyal armsmen, and all weapons more serious than daggers were to be put into the great dojo, or training house, to be counted.
I did not think that most of the armsmen suspected what was afoot.
All morning and into the afternoon coffles of slave girls, ours, those brought on the great ship, and local girls, lovely, but of a low-Pani sort, kept in the castle for the pleasure of the Pani warriors,
roped together, had descended to the wharf and then, laden with treasure, had been conducted up the trail, not by boys now, but by Pani warriors, to the high wharf gate. More than one such trip had been made. It was made clear to our men, our armsmen and mariners, that this action was intended to be one much to their benefit, that it was intended to secure and safeguard the treasure. Most of the men, given the identificatory markings on sacks and boxes, carefully checked and recorded, accepted this explanation, and even welcomed the removal of their wealth from the ship, and its storing closer at hand, under conditions of greater security. Given the harrows of the night of desertion, it was no longer accepted, at least uncritically, that the ship constituted an impregnable, unassailable refuge or depository for one’s riches. Better that they be guarded, and by our own armsmen, within the grounds themselves. Were they not vulnerable, outside the walls? Might there not be bandits? Might not the fleet of Lord Yamada appear, unexpectedly, or might not forces be landed from it, somewhere in the vicinity, which might raid the ship? Indeed, did not soldiers of Lord Yamada even now camp within sight of our walls?
It was late afternoon.
Our girls had been returned to their kennels, in the sheds, and the Pani girls to their housings within the castle.
The treasure, I gathered, was now on the grounds.
Interestingly, the Pani girls, though slaves, and of low-Pani origin, had been much distressed that they had been neck-roped in the same coffle with our ship slaves. Some had dared to voice their objections, and had been well switched, across the backs of the calves and ankles, by the Pani warriors charged with the care of the coffle, in this instance, as indicated, a treasure coffle, one used to transport carefully sealed, and marked, sacks and boxes from the ship, containing wealth derived from the derelicts of the Vine Sea. Were some slaves, truly, as might be suggested by the protests of the Pani slaves, objections promptly rebuked by the sting of switches, so appropriately despised, and so obviously inferior to others, that it was humiliating to share a coffle with them? Certainly there were differences amongst the slaves, with respect to the nature of their eyes, the color of their skin, their accents, and such. Who could, or would wish to, gainsay that? On the other hand, beyond that, what would remain to be said? Surely they were all attractive. This is not surprising. If a woman is not attractive, she is not likely to be enslaved. Let the homely, plain ones be as free as they wish. Surely the Pani slaves and our ship slaves, despite obvious differences in appearance, had much in common. Each was attractive. Each was a purchasable beast, a domestic animal. Each was a slave. Thus, despite the concerns of the Pani collar meat, how could they be more equal? On the other hand, our ship slaves, with their generally fair skins, were neck-roped at the end of the coffle, which is often taken as a position of inferiority. This, I gather, pleased their Pani chain sisters.
