by John Norman
“How can several hundred men, perhaps now fifteen hundred, be sustained by the looting of villages, most of them small and poor?” I said.
“Clearly they are subsidized,” said Sakim.
“But why?” I asked.
“One does not know,” said Sakim. “It is strange.”
“I fear,” said Clitus, “there is nothing to do but return to Port Kar.”
“And leave brigands free to ravage in the name of the captain?” said Thurnock.
“Given the scouring of the seas,” said Clitus, “we may not even be able to return to Port Kar.”
“Would you, dear Clitus,” I asked, “return to Port Kar?”
“I fear there is nothing else to do,” he said.
“You are doubtless correct,” I said. “But what would you do?”
“I would stay,” said Clitus. “My trident is angry and thirsty. It has not yet tasted blood.”
“This is a deep matter,” I said, “not one for a captain to decide. All shall decide, each man. Tonight we shall take a vote, the vote of two urns.”
I tried not to look into the firelight. “Have the pebbles been placed?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Thurnock.
Each of our men had filed, one at a time, behind the blanket raised and stretched on poles, on the other side of the fire.
It was late, near the nineteenth Ahn.
The men now sat, cross-legged, in rows, facing the fire. Rising and turning, I could see the firelight reflected on their faces.
Our camp was situated in the open space which had been the clearing at the center of the village of Nicosia. The somber ruins of huts were visible in the light of the two moons in the sky. Farther away were the remains of the blackened, burned palings which had constituted the village’s palisade.
The Dorna and the Tesephone were beached nearby. The ship guards, like the camp guards, had taken turns voting, that a constant guard be maintained.
Commonly Gorean votes are taken on marked ostraca deposited in urns. As ostraca, usually fragments of broken pottery, were less than practical in our present circumstances, we had resorted to the vote of two urns. In such a vote an ordinary pebble is placed in one of two urns, or containers, both of which are concealed from view. In this way the vote is kept secret.
Thurnock walked about the fire, to the blanket stretched on its poles, and tore it away.
Revealed then were two urns.
One urn was for withdrawal to Port Kar, the other was for war.
“Let the pebbles be counted,” I said.
Thurnock bent down and lifted one urn. It was heavy. He shook it and pebbles rattled within it, crowded and weighty, like hail on a metal buckler. He then lifted the other urn, and turned it upside down. He shook it vigorously. It was empty. Not a pebble fell.
“The decision,” said Thurnock, “is for war.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
I Conduct an Inquiry, in the Vicinity of Mytilene
I looked about. The fairgrounds were now barren. One could see the walls and harbor of Mytilene in the distance. In the harbor there were several small boats, but only a single large vessel, a ship-of-war, one of fifty oars.
“It is different now,” said Thurnock.
Large patches and tracks of grass were gone, patches where tents had been pitched, tracks where streets had been formed.
A wrapper, lifted by the wind, fluttered past.
I could see beyond the fairgrounds, to the west, the place where the long tent had been pitched, and later burned, the house of a meeting which, we had agreed, had never taken place.
I then returned my attention to the empty fairgrounds.
They were vast, desolate, and lonely.
A land breeze was moving toward Thassa.
In the distance a child was hunting through the grass, probably for a lost bauble or tarsk-bit.
“Next year,” I said, “the fair is to be at Pylos on Daphna.”
“Why have we come here?” asked Thurnock.
After the vote of the two urns I had withdrawn from Nicosia. To my disappointment, the islands’ Peasantry had not responded, stirred by Aktis’ pleadings, flooding to the ruins of Nicosia to organize for a common, redoubtable defense of their lives, property, and land. Only four had come, including the last, Xanthos, of the village of Seleukos. I had dispatched the Dorna to the Cove of Harpalos, which location was to be favored because of its congenial harbor authorities, no friends of Cos; its proximity to Sybaris, the apparent headquarters of the corsairs; and its precincts having been previously, fruitlessly, searched by the corsairs. I hoped that they would not return, and, should they return, it seemed their approach, as before, given the terrain, could be detected in time to clear the harbor. I had left two men at Nicosia to receive reports from our dispersed spies, and redirect their future reports to the Cove of Harpalos.
“I have come here,” I said, “thinking about the corsair fleet. Will it be here? If not, where is it? Did it return here after an unsuccessful pursuit of the three merchantmen of Brundisium, or go elsewhere? Is it still at sea? Might it not return here? Might not this be its new base?”
“The first fleet, disguised as merchantmen, lay to in the harbor at Sybaris,” said Thurnock.
“It is one thing,” I said, “for four fifty-oared ships and two thirty-oared ships to separate, assuming the appearance of innocent merchantmen, and lose themselves in the harbor at Sybaris, but it seems that seven knife ships, new and armed, might be an entirely different story.”
“True,” said Thurnock.
“At least,” I said, “we have determined that the corsair fleet is not at Mytilene.”
“Or not all of it,” said Thurnock.
“Thurnock?” I asked.
“Would not the enemy assume that some such inquiry as yours would be made?” asked Thurnock.
“Quite possibly,” I said.
“And act accordingly?”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Why?”
“Because,” said Thurnock, “that knife ship, even now, is leaving the harbor.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Flight from Mytilene
“Keep the beat, lads, keep the beat!” I called down from the stern deck.
The beat is regulated by the keleustes, commonly on a drum or bar, but sometimes by voice. Occasionally this is done, particularly on large, ornate, slow-moving vessels, by a flute. This is not as strange as it might seem, for on Gor, as in the ancient world on Earth, flute music was often used to time and regulate repetitious tasks and physical labor. Indeed, in many cities military exercises are timed and regulated by the flute. Pyrrhic dances are also known in which individuals or groups simulate combat. Such dances often involve intricate footwork and swift, if rhythmic, bodily movements. Sometimes, too, particularly when silence is important, the keleustes times the beat by means of a flag, cloth or wand; at night a shielded lantern, opened and closed, may be used. As the rowers face the stern, they have a full view of the keleustes at all times. A smooth beat, however it is timed, is important, particularly in battle, as an awkwardness or mixing of oars can lead to an impairment of maneuverability. It is a rare captain who is not particular in his choice of a keleustes.
I clutched the rail of the stern deck, looking upward, uneasily tracing the long, graceful, looping arc of the fire-streaming projectile launched from the ship in our wake. It fell into the water, with a great splash, hissing and steaming, some two or three yards abeam.
“Easy, lads, smoothly, lads,” I said.
Water from the splash had drenched several of the oarsmen.
“Be steady,” I called, “be steady.”
Under such conditions, the oarsmen, facing the stern, unable to see behind them, must resist the almost irresistible impulse to look behind them, even to leap from the be
nch. It is a horrible death to be struck by, almost enveloped by, a descending, barrel-sized, clinging ball of burning pitch.
“You know your course, do you not?” asked Sakim, next to me on the stern deck.
“Yes,” I said.
This was the same course, reversed, by means of which I had first approached Mytilene, at the time of the opening of the fair.
“The Tesephone is light, swift, and shallow-drafted,” said Sakim. “You hope that it will not be noticed?”
“That is my hope,” I said.
“I fear they are finding the range,” said Sakim.
“Helms left, four points,” I called to the helmsmen.
Most Gorean vessels are lateen-rigged and double ruddered. Commonly then they have two helmsmen. The double rudder adds an increment of water resistance, or drag, to the vessel’s passage, but this is regarded as a negligible disadvantage which is more than compensated for by the gain in maneuverability. The double rudder allows quicker, sharper turns. The dragonships of Torvaldsland, far to the north, are square-rigged and single-ruddered, the rudder, or ‘steering board’, usually on the right side, presumably because most human beings are right-handed. ‘Starboard’, referring to the right side of a ship, is presumably a contraction of ‘steering board’. If a ship has a steering board on the right side, it is most convenient to disembark cargo from the left side of a ship, and thus the left side of the ship becomes the ‘port side’ of the ship. The reader may have noted that I am occasionally reluctant to use the expressions ‘port’ and ‘starboard’ in referring to one or another side of a ship. That is because I usually associate ‘port’ and ‘starboard’ with side-ruddered vessels.
Had I kept a straight course I was reasonably confident that the next projectile, or its successor, would strike the Tesephone, perhaps crashing through the main deck, perhaps destroying a section of a rowing frame, in either case setting the ship afire.
“Helms right, two points,” I called.
It is important to make evasive action as unpredictable as possible. The catapult master conjectures and the prey conjectures. Each, in a sense, tries to anticipate the other. A duel of wits takes place. A game ensues, a guessing game, with possibly mortal consequences. Some catapult masters have an almost uncanny sense of a prey’s next move, but I trusted that the corsairs, being the hired brigands they were, would not be likely to have the services of a seasoned, skillful catapult master at their disposal. Indeed, I had not expected a naval catapult in their arsenal.
“Steady, helms,” I said, “two points more!”
“The corsair gains,” said Sakim.
That was to be expected. In deviating from a straight line one sacrifices distance for position.
“Sakim,” I said, “bring me, quickly, a marked gambling stone.”
“Captain?” he said.
“Now!” I said. “Clitus is fond of the stones. Bring me one, hurry!”
The human being is a pattern-seeking animal. Out of this springs rationality, learning, science, and usually survival.
“Left, two points!” I cried.
Another projectile, hissing and flaming, plunged into the water, not four yards astern.
I shook my head, and wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket, which was drenched.
The catapult master was seeking pattern, my pattern. What will seem right or appropriate to the prey, for whatever mysterious, perhaps unconscious, reasons, may be sensed by the predator. The prey may vary his pattern but might not the variations, too, have their pattern?
The marked stone was pressed into my hand.
“Even numbers, whatever they may be,” I said, “are right. Odd numbers, whatever they may be, are left.”
“Captain?” said Sakim.
I shook the stone in my right hand and slapped it into the palm of my left hand.
It was ‘six’.
“Helms right,” I called, “two points.”
Next it was ‘four’.
“Helms right,” I called, “two points.”
Then it was ‘four’, again.
“Right,” I called, “two points.”
At that point, another projectile struck the water, but some ten yards to the left.
“I thought,” said Sakim, “you would call to the left.”
“So, too,” I said, “did the catapult master.”
I could impose no pattern on the marked stone. It lay as it would. We could surely have been struck by a projectile, but, if so, it could then be no more than a matter of coincidence, or happenstance. It is difficult to anticipate an individual’s pattern if the individual has no pattern.
I kept the points to two or three, to keep the stern to the enemy. In that way, the ship presents a narrower target.
After a quarter of an Ahn, and some six or seven more projectiles, the catapult on the enemy ship was quiescent. By now the enemy ship was uncomfortably close, so close one could see faces at the enemy’s rail, but it was not close enough to bring either its ram or shearing blades into play.
“They are out of ammunition,” said Sakim.
“We do not know that,” I said.
Again I applied the stone.
“Helms left, two points,” I called.
An Ihn or two later a projectile hissed into the water much where we would have been had I maintained my former course.
Hair rose on the back of my neck.
I was shaken.
“The impact,” said Sakim, “would have been square and devastating.”
“We were fortunate,” I said.
“The enemy,” said Sakim, “guessed wrong.”
“He could not outguess the stone,” I said.
After a time the enemy ship was falling behind.
“We are out of range,” said Sakim.
“I think so,” I said.
“It was a fast ship,” said Sakim. “It is fortunate we were not cut off by another.”
“We will seem to set a course for Pylos on Daphna,” I said. “Then, after the fall of night, we will raise the mast and yard, resting our fellows, making our way back to Thera and the Cove of Harpalos.”
“I shall inform Thurnock and the others,” said Sakim.
“Please do so,” I said.
In passing, one might note that the ship catapult, one of several such devices, can rotate, this altering its direction of fire. It can fire aft as well as forward and to the side. It might also be mentioned that the ship catapult is, as would be expected, much smaller and lighter than the common siege catapult whose projectiles, commonly large boulders, are designed to crash through stone walls. Another point of interest, though perhaps one too obvious to mention, has to do with the platform and target of fire. The land catapult is commonly stationary and commonly has a stationary target. It is seldom used, for example, against infantry. The naval catapult, on the other hand, is mounted on a moving ship and its target is usually in motion as well.
“Captain,” said Sakim.
“Yes?” I said.
“You know the waters you have just plied?” said Sakim.
“Yes,” I said.
“You chose a bold route of flight,” he said.
“I was hoping we might deprive the enemy of one of their seven ships,” I said.
“I thought so,” he said.
“Do you think it was unwise?” I asked.
“It was surely a course fraught with danger,” he said.
“We traversed these waters safely when first we sought to attend the fair,” I said.
“Given the lightness of the Tesephone,” he said.
“Presumably,” I said.
“Its quick passage, like a shadow on the water?” he said.
“In war, one counts on such things,” I said.
“But you did not count on a
catapult,” he said.
“Not on a corsair ship,” I said.
“Perhaps it was not a corsair ship,” he said.
“It was a ship of corsairs,” I said, “even if it was not a corsair ship.” I thought of Nicomachos. “It did not attempt to contact us. There was no hailing, no signaling, no flags, no horns. It did not identify itself or demand that we identify ourselves.”
“But your plan failed,” he said.
“Clearly,” I said.
“You would have lured the enemy into a trap, having him follow you, having him pursue you, possibly to his doom, into the waters of the powerful, gigantic, territorial, aggressive hith.”
“That was my hope,” I said. “But there was no hith.”
“It does exist,” said Sakim.
“Or did exist,” I said. “It may have perished, or gone elsewhere.”
“I once saw it,” he said.
“Or once,” I said, “in the midst of travail, confusion, terror, and shipwreck, you wanted to see it, to explain a debacle to yourself, a breaking, shattering ship, and thought you saw it.”
“I did see it,” said Sakim.
“Many mariners, and others, have claimed to see strange things at sea, serpents, monsters, and such,” I said.
“Tricks of light, configurations of waves, surfacing sea sleen, tricks of the atmosphere, shapes detected in fog?” said Sakim.
“That sort of thing,” I said.
“In any event,” said Sakim, “certain waters, feared waters, waters often avoided and seldom crossed, are now behind us.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Gambling House of the Golden Urt; What Occurred Therein
“It is like a circle of fire,” said Aktis.
The colored wheel spun madly.
Men were calling out numbers, clutching colored, marked ostraca.
“And it can burn you,” I said.
Soon the wheel spun more slowly, and then its pointer stopped.
“Red, fifteen,” said the wheel master.
Red stood for day and black for night. The numbers stood for the twenty Ahn in the Gorean day.
“I have won!” cried Aktis, clutching his ostracon. “My ostracon cost me but a single tarsk-bit and I have won ten tarsk-bits!”
