Mercenaries of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “Follow me,” he said. I then, and the others, followed him up the steps of the Semnium. I stopped once, at the entrance, to look back, at the bodies. I briefly recalled the girl at the chain, 437, and her mother, 261. Her mother, before her capture, I had gathered, had been important, having been the confirmation treasurer of one of Torcadino’s commercial councils, the Spice Council. She had also, in her position, I had gathered, and doubtless by her influence and acts, supported the cause of Cos. This inclination, incidentally, is not all that uncommon among individuals whose fortunes tend to be intimately involved in such matters as importation and exportation, the location and exploitation of foreign markets, and, in general, the overseas trade, the Thassa and island trade. This is understandable. The navies of Tyros and Cos, for most practical purposes, command the green waves of gleaming Thassa. They control many of the most familiar and practical oceanic trade corridors. Few coasts are free from their patrols. Few ports could scorn their blockades. 261, however, aside from all such considerations, was a citizeness of Torcadino, and Torcadino had been sworn to the cause of Ar. She had, it seemed, for whatever reason, presumably opportunism or greed, betrayed the pledge of her Home Stone. In the case of a man this can be a capital offense. She was not a man, however, but a female. It was thus, doubtless, that she had not been placed on a proscription list, but only on a seizure list. It was her sex which had saved her. Had she been a man she would have been hung.

  Within the entrance to the Semnium was a marble-floored, lofty hall. Passageways and stairways led variously from this broad vestibule. The walls were adorned with mosaics, scenes generally of civic life, prominent among them scenes of public gatherings, conferences and processions. One depicted the laying of the first stone in Torcadino’s walls, an act which presumably would have taken place more than seven hundred years ago, when, according to the legends, the first wall, only a dozen feet high, was built to encircle and protect a great, sprawling encampment at the joining of trade routes. Within the hall were several soldiers, and several officers, at tables, conducting various sorts of business. To one side, permanent fixtures, immovable and sturdy, their supports fixed in the floor, were several rows of long, low, marble benches. It was on these that clients and claimants, with their various causes, grievances, and petitions, would wait until their turn came to be called for their appointments or hearings. It was here, too, that witnesses, and such, might wait, before being summoned to give testimony on various matters before the courts.

  “It is in here, I gather,” I said, “that these letters of safety may be obtained.” I eyed the various tables.

  “Yes,” said Mincon, making his way toward a guard station at the opening to one of the long corridors leading from the vaulted vestibule.

  “Are we not to petition for these letters at one of the tables?” I asked, looking back.

  “No,” he said.

  We were then following him down the corridor. He was known, it seemed.

  “Is the city being administered from this building?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, “in most things, in most ways.”

  “The city is under martial law,” I said. “Why is it not being administered from the central cylinder, or its arsenal?”

  “This building supplies an appearance of civic normality,” he said. “Thus it is more as though one form of municipal administration had merely succeeded another.”

  “I see,” I said. “Your captain, however,” I said, “is doubtless reigning in the central cylinder.”

  “No, he is conducting business in this building,” said Mincon, continuing down the hall.

  I said nothing. This seemed to me, however, politically astute, particularly since the city was not currently under attack. I had realized for years, of course, that Dietrich of Tarnburg was a capable mercenary, and one of Gor’s finest commanders. I had not found mention, however, in the annals, or diaries, which had been generally concerned with marches and campaigns, a sufficient appreciation of this other side of his character. He was apparently not only a military genius but perhaps also a political one. Or, perhaps they are not really so separate as they are often considered to be. Territory must be held as well as won.

  “Civilians are being ejected from the city,” I said. “Surely they are not being given letters of safety.”

  “No,” said Mincon.

  “You think, however, that we might need them?” I asked.

  “It seems very likely,” said Mincon, “considering where you are going.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “I have gathered that you are familiar with the sword,” he said, “and that you are from Port Kar.”

  “I know something of the sword,” I said. “And I have a holding in Port Kar.”

  “Perhaps you are even of the scarlet caste,” he said.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “Port Kar is at war with Cos,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “We are here,” he said. We stopped before a large door. He ushered us between guards. We found ourselves in a reception room. An officer was at a table at one end of the room, with two more guards. Behind him and to his right was another door. In this fashion, to pass him, as is common, one would have to pass him on his sword-arm side.

  “Anything so simple as letters of safety could have been issued in the main hall,” I said.

  Mincon spoke to the officer at the table, who, it seemed, recognized him.

  “I would think so,” said Hurtha, righteously, adding “whatever a letter of safety might be.” He looked about, with his Alar distrust of bureaucracy and enclosed spaces. “I trust there will be no necessity for me to read such a letter,” he said, “as this would be difficult, as I cannot read.”

  “You could learn,” I said, somewhat snappishly.

  “Between now and when we receive the letters?” asked Hurtha, incredulously.

  “Alars do not read,” said Boabissia, proudly. “And we are Alars.”

  “I am an Alar,” said Hurtha.

  “Doubtless we will get the letters from that fellow,” I said, indicating the officer to whom Mincon was speaking.

  “My letter of safety would be my ax,” said Hurtha, “if I had it.”

  Mincon, however, to my surprise, went through the door behind the officer.

  “I frankly do not understand what is going on,” I said.

  “I have sometimes had that experience,” said Hurtha.

  “Mincon is behaving strangely,” I said.

  “What can you expect?” said Hurtha. “He is not an Alar.”

  “Neither am I,” I said.

  “I know,” said Hurtha.

  “This whole business makes little sense to me,” I said.

  “Civilization is bizarre,” said Hurtha.

  “Perhaps you can get a poem out of this,” I said.

  “I already have,” he said, “two. Would you care to hear them?”

  “There is no time now,” I said.

  “They are quite short,” he said. “One is a mere fifty liner.”

  “By all means, then,” I said.

  “‘Once in the municipality of Torcadino,’” he began, “‘whilst wandering pensive ’neath sacks of noosed bones—’”

  “You have composed more than one hundred lines of poetry while we have been standing here?” I asked.

  “Many more,” he said, “but I have eliminated many lines which did not meet my standards.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Do you think ‘pensive’ is right? Would ‘mirthful’ be better?”

  “‘pensive’ probably,” I said.

  “I think you are right,” said Hurtha. “A good critic is invaluable to a poet.”

  I doubted that.

  Whereas I knew little about such matters, I suspected that a critic was about as useful to a poet as a broken leg to a runner. The critic, after
all, wants the poet to please him, and a good poet has better things to do.

  “You are my harshest critic,” said Hurtha.

  “I know absolutely nothing about poetry,” I said.

  “That is why you are my harshest critic,” said Hurtha.

  I did not attempt to explore this, for I thought it might have to do with Alar logic.

  “I am not a critic, at all,” I said.

  “Perhaps that is just as well,” he mused, “as more than once I have been forced, albeit with regret, and with all due reluctance, to hone the sensitivity of such fellows with smiting.”

  “Proceed,” I said, as I did not care to dwell at length upon questions of literary assessment, and smiting.

  “‘Once in the municipality of Torcadino, whilst wandering pensive betwixt bundles of brittle bones—’”

  “Wait,” I said. “That is not the same line.”

  “I have revised it,” said Hurtha.

  At this moment, Mincon, naively, his timing, from his point of view, tragically awry, emerged from the inner office. “What news, good fellow?” I called to him.

  “Please go in,” he said to me. “The rest of you please remain here.”

  We looked at one another.

  “Please,” he said.

  “Very well,” I said, resigned.

  “Would you care to hear two poems?” asked Hurtha.

  “Of course,” said Mincon. He was a fine fellow.

  “Bara,” said Mincon to Tula. “Bara,” said I to Feiqa. Both slaves went immediately to their bellies, their heads to the left, their wrists crossed behind their backs, their ankles also crossed. It is a common binding position. We did not bother to bind them, however. It was enough that they lay there in this position. Hurtha dropped their leashes to the tiles beside them. His hands were now freed for gestures, an important contributory element in oral poetry.

  “Would you care to hear two poems?” Hurtha asked the officer at the table.

  “What?” he asked.

  Then I had entered the inner office.

  15

  The Semnium;

  What Transpired in the Inner Offices

  I whipped my head to the side. The blade moved past me and with a solid sound, followed by a sturdy vibration, lodged itself in the heavy wood of the door.

  “Excellent,” said a voice. “You have had training.” I looked down the room. At the end of the room, standing behind a functionary’s desk, some forty feet away, there stood a soldier.

  “Perhaps you are of the scarlet caste?” he asked.

  “Perhaps,” I said. I removed the blade from the wood behind me, over my shoulder, not taking my eyes off the fellow behind the desk.

  “You are quick,” he said. “Excellent. It is doubtless as Mincon has suspected. His judgment is good. You are a soldier.”

  “I have fought,” I said. “I am not now in fee.”

  “Tal, Rarius,” said he to me then. “Greetings, Warrior.”

  I regarded him. He did not seem to me the sort of fellow from whom one might expect letters of safety, licenses of passage, or bureaucratic services. He wore no insignia. His men, I gathered, must know him by sight. His presence, I suspected, whether in the camp or in the march, in the mines, on the walls, in the trenches or fields, would not be unfamiliar amongst them. They would know him. He would know them. He was a tall, spare man. He had high cheekbones and gray eyes. His dark hair was graying at the temples, unusual among Goreans. He reminded me something of Centius of Cos, though he had not the latter’s gentleness. In him I sensed practicality, and mercilessness, and intelligence and power. On the table, before him, resting on what appeared to be state papers, was a sword.

  “Tal, Rarius,” I whispered.

  “Come forward,” he said. “It was only a test. I even favored you, to your left. Do not be afraid.”

  I approached the fellow, who then took his place behind the desk.

  At the side of the desk, to its right, as you faced it, on the bare tiles, there lay a chained, naked woman. She was dark-haired, and beautiful. It was not surprising to me that such a woman should lie at the side of his desk. He was obviously a man of great strength. Many Goreans believe that woman is nature’s gift to man, that nature has designed her for his stimulation, pleasure, and service. Accordingly, they seldom hesitate to avail themselves of this gift. Too, they are sensitive to the pleasures of power. They know the pleasures of power, and they honestly and candidly seek, appreciate, and relish them. They know there is no thrill in the world comparable to having absolute power over a female. These feelings, like those of glory and victory, to which they are akin, are their own reward. Goreans do not apologize for such natural and biologically validated urges. Too, they do not feel guilty over them. Indeed, to feel guilty over such natural, profound, deep, and common urges would be, from the Gorean point of view, madness. The male is dominant, unless crippled. Without the mastery there can be no complete male fulfillment, and, interestingly, without complete male fulfillment there can be no complete female fulfillment.

  “How do you call yourself?” he asked.

  “Tarl,” I said.

  “You are from Port Kar?” he said.

  “I have a holding there,” I said.

  “Are you a spy for Ar?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Perhaps for Cos?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. I put the knife on the desk, before him.

  “Your sympathies, I assume, are with Ar,” he said.

  “I have no special love for Ar,” I said. Once I had been banished from that city, being denied there bread, salt, and fire.

  “Good,” he said. “That way it will be easier for you to retain your objectivity.”

  “You are no simple officer,” I said, “from whom may be obtained letters of safety.”

  “And you are no simple man-at-arms,” he said.

  “Oh?” I said.

  “These days,” he said, “dozens of captains are buying swords. Yet you do not seem to be in fee. Further, I gather from Mincon, my friend, that your financial resources are quite limited.”

  I said nothing.

  “It was clever of you to use the free woman with you in the manner of a rent slave. Some men will pay higher use rents for a free prisoner.”

  I shrugged.

  It was true, though hard to understand. A slave is far better. But then, again, a free woman is a free woman, and I supposed that should count for something. In Boabissia’s case, however, we had only charged a tarsk bit. Perhaps that counted for the plenitude of custom we had enjoyed yesterday evening in our desperately innovative economic venture. She was not trained, of course, but one does not expect training in a free woman. It is interesting that many free women think they are good lovers, when they know so little about it, the kisses, the caresses, the movements, such things. One supposes they would not have the temerity to regard themselves as, say, good architects or good shipwrights in the absence of suitable training and developed skills. Incidentally, what we had charged for the use of Boabissia was the same as would have been charged for the use of a slave, and a low slave. We had not, however, called that to the attention of Boabissia.

  “But you would make only a handful of copper coins in that sort of thing,” he said. “It is not like receiving the weight of your sword in gold coin.”

  “True,” I said.

  “You may also, of course, have ruined her for freedom,” he said.

  “Possibly,” I said.

  He rose from the desk and went to its side. He kicked the woman who lay there. She recoiled and whimpered, with a rattle of chain.

  “What do you think, Lady Cara?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “I think possibly, Master.”

  I saw, interestingly enough, that he seemed to be genuinely interested in her opinion. This did not, of course, in any way alter the categorical relation in which they obviously stood to one another.

  “Have you been s
poiled for freedom?” he asked her.

  “What you have done to me!” she wept. “I beg the brand! I beg it! Put the mark on me! Collar me! Confirm it on my body! Confirm it on me with fire and iron, and with the circlet of locked steel, for all the world to see, what you have done to me, what you have made me!”

  “She is still free,” I observed.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Do not shame me by keeping me free,” she said. “Mark and collar me, so that I may at last be free to be what I now know I am!”

  “Do you wish to feel the lash again, Lady Cara?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” she said, shuddering.

  “You are free,” he said, “you do to need to call me ‘Master’.”

  “Please do not mock me, Master,” she sobbed. “You are my master! You have taught it to me! I have learned it in your arms, on your chain, under your lash! You have taken me and made me your female, your slave! Surely you know that I am now yours, as much as a sleen or a tarsk! In my heart I know you as my master, and want you as my master! What is the import of a legal technicality? What more could a brand and collar give me, which I beg of you, other than the reassuring confirmation of that of which I am already thoroughly apprised! Do not insult a poor slave by denying her the brand! Do not keep her neck free of the collar which in her heart she already wears! Deprive me of this last meaningless vestige of freedom, this lingering, opprobrious technicality, which now does no more than torment and humiliate me!”

  He looked down upon her, at his feet.

  How beautiful she was!

  “As you are a free woman,” he said, “you may, of course, if you wish, call me ‘Master’.”

  “Of course, of course,” she wept. “Would that I had no choice!” she cried, bitterly. Then she whispered, her head to the tiles, “Know you not you are my master, Master?”

  I looked at him.

  He well knew, I saw, that the beauty at his feet was his.

  Why would he not put her to the iron?

  “Master,” she wept. “Master!”

  Obviously she was now ready for enslavement. To be sure, whether it was to be granted to her or not was up to her captor. At any rate, whether she was to be put legally into slavery or not she was now clearly bond, psychologically, intellectually and emotionally. She would now never be anything else.