by John Norman
“The killer will inform the enemy of our straits, our shortage of food,” said Thrasymedes.
“Doubtless,” I said.
“This will hearten the enemy,” said Thrasymedes. “He no longer need fear a long siege.”
“Nor we a long defense,” I said.
“Supplies were already quartered,” said Thrasymedes. “And little could be saved from the Grain Room and the Harbor Room.”
“You have solicited estimates,” I said.
“Night falls,” said Thrasymedes. “The vise tightens.”
“Twenty days?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” said Thrasymedes. “And then little to do but lie still, and hope to sleep, little to hope for other than the strength to climb one last time to the parapet, the strength to once more unsheathe a sword, to lift an ax.”
“Let us suppose,” I said, “such estimates seem plausible to the enemy, as well.”
“I am sure they will seem so,” said Thrasymedes, “given the information which will be supplied to them by the killer and arsonist.”
“Tarchon,” I said.
“Undoubtedly,” said Thrasymedes.
“Which information they now have at their disposal,” I said.
“I fear so,” said Thrasymedes.
“Our plans remain as before,” I said.
“We shall not wait until the end,” said Thrasymedes, “but, shortly before the end, we shall feast, and then, the next day, go forth in good cheer, go forth, singing, with a strong heart.”
“It is better to die as a well-fed larl than a starving verr,” I said.
“I am not sure I look forward to that feast,” said Thrasymedes.
“Have no fear,” I said. “You will be hungry enough then to look forward to a crust of bread at the foot of an impaling pole.”
“So let it be,” said Thrasymedes, “the feast—then, the following morning, the opening of the gate and the issuing forth.”
“Singing?” I asked.
“Why not?” said Thrasymedes.
“When all is lost,” I said, “the least one can do is to put a good end to things.”
“It would be well to finish with a final, noble gesture,” said Thrasymedes. “Such is not alone for the scarlet caste. What Merchant, what Metal Worker, what Peasant, would have it otherwise?”
“Let us do our best,” I said, “all of us, to give a good last account of ourselves.”
“How will it be represented?” asked Thrasymedes.
“One does not know,” I said.
“Our moment of glory,” said Thrasymedes, “will never be forgotten; it will be recorded in the annals of war; it will be told in a thousand camps, sung in a thousand taverns, as long as fire burns and men drink.”
“Unlikely,” I said.
“How so?” he asked.
“Those last to leave the field are those who tell the tales,” I said. “It is they who will speak, as they wish, say what they want, or not speak, at all. History is doubtless replete with acts of self-sacrifice and heroism, with last stands and doomed charges, with gestures, valiant, gracious, and noble, of which none have heard or will ever hear.”
“But we will know,” said Thrasymedes.
“And that is enough,” I said.
“Yes,” said Thrasymedes, “that is enough.”
Chapter Forty-Six
The Feast; We Reflect Upon Societies; I Will Check the Watch; An Anomaly is Brought to my Attention
“Be careful,” I warned Clitus. “Make do with the paga, not spill it on the table.”
“The cup moved when I reached for it,” said Clitus.
“Only in the last Ahn,” I said.
“More meat and cheese, gravy and coarse bread,” said Thurnock, reaching across the long table, sweeping bowls and plates toward himself.
“I have not had such a meal in weeks,” said Thrasymedes.
“It is at least large,” I said. “I doubt that it would meet with the approval of the master chefs of Ar or Turia, or Jad or Telnus.”
The great hall of Mytilene, where indoor markets, public meetings, and expositions were often held, had lost a wall and a portion of its roof, but the loose plaster, stone, wood, timbers, rafters, boards, and paneling had all been swept, or carried, aside and five long tables, two of them improvised, were laden with what, compared to the sparse rations of recent date, constituted a banquet, in quantity at least, fit for a Ubar, though, frankly, one of a somewhat modest wealth.
“The goblet moved again,” said Clitus.
“Perhaps we could nail it to the table,” I suggested.
“But then it would be difficult to drink from,” said Clitus.
“It was only a thought,” I said. “Tomorrow morning I am sure it will be content to stay where you put it.”
“Now there are three goblets,” said Clitus.
“Reach for the one in the middle,” I said.
Given the nature of this feast, and the grim prospect of the morrow, no women or children were present. The share of the feast allotted to women and children was distributed amongst some four dwellings which had been less damaged in the bombardment of the great catapults. This was not a time amongst men, the time of this banquet, for tenderness, but a time for distraction, for forgetfulness, not a time for regrets and sorrows, but a time for thrusting such things to the side, not a time for farewells and tears but a time for laughing and drinking, for the pounding of tables, the telling of stories, the singing of paga songs, boisterous songs fit for the taverns, in which no free woman may enter. In the morning, surely, there would be time enough for the weeping of women and the uneasy puzzlement of children, understanding little or nothing.
“I think,” said Thrasymedes, shaking his head, presumably to clear his vision, “we should not issue forth too early.”
“I do not think we would be in a condition to do otherwise,” I said.
“Why should verr hasten to the slaughter?” asked Thrasymedes.
“I can think of no good reason,” I said.
“We are not verr,” said Clitus.
“True,” I said.
“Let the butchers beware,” said Thurnock, “lest, in their carelessness, it be they who are butchered.”
“The wall and gate guards must be soon relieved,” I said. “They must have their share of the feast.”
“I trust that the new watch can climb the ladders to the parapets,” said Clitus slowly, considering his words carefully.
“They will manage,” I said, “given perseverance and determination.”
“What if the enemy should attack?” asked Thurnock.
“Terror and alarm conduce to sobriety,” I reassured hm.
“Tospits!” called Clitus, hailing a nearby table. Shortly thereafter an obliging citizen staggered to our table, and placed a basket of dried tospits before us.
“Thank you,” I said.
The bounding urt is fond of dried tospits, men less so.
Still a feast is a feast, or nearly so.
I feared I had had too much to drink.
“A splendid feast,” said Clitus, helping himself to a handful of tospits, his behavior forcing me, reluctantly, to reconsider my views of tospits and human beings. The tospit is a yellowish white, bitter fruit. It looks something like a peach, but is usually about the size of a plum. Some people, I knew, liked the bitter taste. Apparently Clitus was one of them. My thoughts drifted back to what some called the Plains of Turia, others the Lands of the Wagon Peoples, faraway and long ago, in the southern hemisphere. Most tospits, I knew, commonly had an uneven number of seeds, except the long-stemmed tospit which commonly has an even number of seeds.
“Yes,” said Thurnock, reaching for a pair of tospits, “a splendid feast, though somewhat plain.”
I reminded mysel
f that Clitus was of the Fishermen and Thurnock of the Peasants. What do Fishermen and Peasants know of tospits?
“We are missing one thing, surely,” said a man.
“Slaves,” said another.
“What is a man feast without slaves?” said Thurnock.
It was true that the beauty of slaves, even when scarcely noticed, contributed much to the ambience of a feast.
What true man does not enjoy being humbly served by a beautiful woman, his property, his to do with as he pleases?
“Slaves are worthless,” said a man.
“Yes,” said another, “but what is more desirable, and precious, than a worthless slave?”
“The women of the towns,” said Thurnock, “are richly garmented, arrogant, proud, and spoiled. They look down on those of my caste. We are muchly pleased then when, in one way or another, they fall into our hands. Their soft, easy life is then done. We strip, brand, and collar them. We put them to work in the fields; they hoe and dig; they bear sacks and carry water; they weed and clear land; they scratch out stumps; we turn them into draft beasts, harnessing them to our carts, yoking them to our plows.”
“Do you not use them for pleasure?” inquired a citizen.
“Certainly,” said Thurnock, “in our blankets and furs, in their kennels, in the mud of tarsk pens, in the furrows of the field, and they will soon beg for our touch.”
“Exempt the women of Mytilene,” I said. “These women are our allies.”
“Of course,” said Thurnock.
“Are not the victory feasts of generals, commanders, and Ubars,” said a man, “served by the women of the enemy, stripped, branded, and collared, terrified that they might not be found pleasing?”
“It is common practice,” I said.
“Why did we not bring Margot, Courtney, and Millicent to Mytilene?” asked Clitus. “They would be in no danger. They would be safe with their branded hides and their locked, neck-encircling collars.”
“I feared naval warfare,” I said. “Their collars would not protect them from fire or the high, cold waves of Thassa.”
“You have solicitude for them,” asked Thurnock, “such dishonest, wicked, treacherous beasts?”
“In their collars they cannot be such,” I said.
“Still,” insisted Thurnock.
“If you wish,” I said, “it is irrational to risk the loss of property, particularly when it might have some monetary value, however negligible.”
“True,” said Thurnock, “why risk the loss of even a vulo, a verr, or tarsk?”
“Females are the slave sex,” said a man. “They are never fulfilled until they are collared.”
“Beware of saying that before a free woman, particularly one of high caste,” I said.
“They know it is true, in their hearts,” said a man.
“They are no different from others,” said another, “when they are stripped and on their knees, in their collars.”
“I know a world,” I said, “where women are expected to repudiate themselves, to be pretend men, or neuters, or steriles.”
“What world is that?” asked a man.
“One you would doubt exists,” I said.
“What sickness is that?” asked Thurnock.
“An improbable malady,” said Clitus.
“I cannot believe such things are possible,” said Thrasymedes.
“One can do much with prescribing, teaching, and training, with controlling the means of communication and education, with the judicious distribution of praise and blame, with reward and punishment. If power is seized, one may do strange things, twist women into the image of men, twist men into the image of women, in effect, to outlaw biology.”
“Who would wish to do so miserable and unnatural a thing?” asked Thrasymedes.
“Some,” I said, “the restless and discontented, the miserable and unhappy, those who fear nature and perhaps themselves, those who seek social, political, and economic power by pretending that nature does not exist.”
“Even the mighty Tur tree,” said a man, “if denied sunlight, minerals, and water, if poisoned, can be stunted and enfeebled.”
“Or slain,” said another.
“Nature denied does not cease to exist,” I said. “It exacts its vengeance in a thousand ways, in plagues of confusion and guilt, in the disordering of society, in the propagation of ignorance, illness, hypocrisy, and hatred.”
“Surely no such world can exist,” said a man.
“The tyranny of pigmies does not bode well for the strong and healthy,” I said. “The suppression of free speech and thought, aside from its implicit claim of infallibility, restricts change and limits progress.”
“It would surely seem so,” said a man.
“Shackling the mind does little to improve a species,” I said, “no more than its charming concomitants, disseminating hatred and instilling guilt.”
“I find this hard to believe,” said Thurnock, “so egregious a catalog of horrors.”
“It is hard to believe,” I said.
“What is really going on there?”
“Striving for power,” I said.
“‘Power’?” asked Thurnock.
“Power,” I said, “delicious power, sought secretly.”
“The true aim of such things then,” said Thurnock, “is hidden?”
“Certainly,” I said. “The calculated inculcation and manipulation of values is a subtle technique for seizing power and ruling others.”
“I pity so troubled a world,” said a man.
“It is far away,” I said, “far away.”
“Good,” said Thurnock.
“It is late,” I said. “I shall check the watch.”
“I shall gather the relief and follow shortly,” said Thurnock.
The evening was cool, and I wrapped my cloak about myself, and looked about. I hoped the night air would clear my head. It is one thing to look ahead to the morrow, having in view the prospect of victory. It is quite another thing when the likely prospect is defeat. “But better surely,” I thought, “to go forth to meet the enemy, with determination and a good heart, be he ever so overwhelming and implacable a foe, than to stay within our walls another four or five days, clinging to life, only to subside in hunger and weakness, to the point where we could mount no more than a token resistance.”
I turned toward the gate.
“Commander,” I heard.
I stopped.
“Commander,” a man said, “an anomaly!”
“What?” I said.
“An arrow,” said the man, reaching within his cloak.
“We can use it,” I said.
“No,” said the man. “There is a strangeness here. It is blunt. It did not strike at the wall. It fell from a height. Others, too, have been found. I do not understand what is going on.”
“It is dark,” I said, “let me see it.”
“See what is fastened to it,” said the man.
“A wrapping of oil-soaked rags, not ignited,” I asked, “a message?”
“No,” he said.
“Let me see it,” I said.
He handed me the long shaft.
“Bread,” I said, “a piece of bread.”
“What does it mean?” asked the man.
“There are others, as well?” I asked.
“Yes, Commander,” he said. “What does it mean?”
“It means,” I said, “that the siege is over.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
How the Siege Came to an End
The rising of the Peasants rendered the issuing forth of the men of Mytilene and their allies unnecessary. Within two days, the mercenaries, surrounded and beleaguered, harassed, shut off from the countryside, and sustaining dreadful losses, had withdrawn to the
seven ships of the corsair fleet. Initially, in alarm and consternation, surprised by the swarming of peasants, their far camp burned, they had fled to the ground within the inner and outer ditch, taking what refuge they could within a circular shield wall. The hostile Peasantry, naturally, would not, nor would they ever intend to, attack ready infantry in such a position, descending into a steep ditch and trying to fight their way upward and out of such a ditch in the face of ensconced, armored resistance. The mercenaries, on the other hand, in such a position, were effectively pinned in place, denied access to supplies which might otherwise have been seized in the countryside. When contingents of mercenaries would leave their ditched fortress to attack the peasants, they found they could not close with them, for the peasants would withdraw before them, leading them farther from their fellows and isolating them from support, where, soon, ambushed and wearied, surrounded and outnumbered, picked off one by one, few of the would-be attackers could manage to do as little as make their way back to their fellows. Exacerbating the predicament of the mercenaries was that the range of the peasant bow exceeded that of the crossbow, allowing the peasants to, in effect, remain out of range of the shorter, heavier, quarrels while being able to discharge their own weapons with comparative impunity, and the almost indefinite quantity of ammunition at their disposal, arrows borne less in quivers than bundled into carts. This plenitude of striking force was applied both singly and randomly and, occasionally, in thick volleys, falling like a dark, torrential rain of death. I, and others, my men and the fighters of Mytilene, from the town walls, watched the mercenaries’ harried retreat to the sea, through a corridor flanked by lifted shields. The corsair ships did not risk coming within range of the peasant archery but sent forth a small fleet of longboats to ferry their mercenaries to the safety of the ships. These boats were few and overcrowded, and largely exposed to arrow fire. We saw two swamped and overturned. Men killed one another for a place on the thwarts. Several cast aside helmets, weapons, and shields and tried to swim to the waiting ships. Several may have drowned but others were clearly drawn under the water, the churning and frenzy in the water apparently having attracted marine predators, presumably sharks or the snakelike sea tharlarion. Many others, hundreds, backs to the sea, shields lifted, must stay indefinitely in place, trusting to the return of the crews of the longboats, few of which, it seemed, cared, for their fees, to hazard a second trip. Some four Ahn after the beginning of the evacuation, the beach was empty save for bodies and equipment. The last survivors, say some two or three hundred men, crowded together, abandoned by the longboats, were set upon by irate peasants, armed with staves and axes. At that point I had turned away.
