by John Norman
I descended from the parapet and made my way to the town gate, which had now been opened, to allow the ingress of carts, filled with produce. In time, I was joined by several men, Clitus, Thurnock, Thrasymedes of Mytilene, and others.
“Commander,” said a man, “the leader of the Peasant coalition would speak with you.”
“He is a man called Aktis,” I said.
“How did you know?” asked the man.
“Sometimes,” I said, “good fortune attends one’s conjectures.”
“He is with another, one called Xanthos,” said the man.
“The son of Seleukos, of the Island of Seleukos,” I said.
“You know such a man?” asked the man.
“And proud to do so,” I said.
“Shall I bring them to you?” asked the man.
“No,” I said, “bring me to them.”
“I shall accompany you,” said Thurnock.
“And I,” said Clitus and Thrasymedes.
“My dear Thrasymedes,” I said, “it seems Mytilene owes much to the simple, rude, benighted, ignorant Peasantry.”
“Let us drink with them,” said Thrasymedes, “let us sing and feast together. The town needs the land and the land needs the town.”
“You should now think twice,” I said, “before you tell Peasant jokes.”
“Only if they think at least once before telling town jokes,” he said.
“Never,” said Thurnock. “We should lose too many of our merriest jests.”
Another cart filled with food trundled past.
“One cannot but respect one with the great bow,” said Clitus.
“I suspect that even Cos will learn to do so,” I said.
“It had better,” growled Thurnock.
“It seems,” I said, “that Aktis did not desert.”
“Of course not,” said Thurnock. “I knew he would not do so.”
“Oh?” I said.
“Certainly,” said Thurnock.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“He is of the land, the Peasantry,” said Thurnock.
“This way,” said the man who had informed us of the presence of Aktis and Xanthos.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The Field of Battle; The Feasting of Jards; Tarchon; The Lyre; We Prepare to Leave the Vicinity of Mytilene
Three days later a small party, of which I was one, examined the battleground about Mytilene. One could still smell smoke from the burned tents of the enemy. The bodies of the dead mercenaries, gathered together by men wearing scarves about their faces, had been, or would be, stripped, placed in small boats, and carried out to sea, to be disposed of in locales soon to teem with welcoming sea life. In this way, they need not be burned in gigantic pyres, costly of valuable timber, or, with a sorry expenditure of time and effort, buried in nearby, perhaps revered, land, certainly not within the pomerium of Mytilene. The wealth, valuables, coins, rings, jewelries, garments, cloaks, weapons, helmets, shields, and such, of the slain enemy would be considerable. This would be divided amongst representatives of the dozens of villages, some from as far away as Thera and Daphna, who had participated in the liberation of Mytilene. The tunnel leading from the enemy camp beneath the town walls, opening in what had been the dwelling of Tarchon, and the two ditches about Mytilene, the inner and outer ditch, would be gradually filled. The disrupted turf, seeded, refreshed by rain, would gradually renew itself as had the fairgrounds near the town.
“Some feared you had deserted,” I said to Aktis.
“Understanding the obvious peril of Mytilene, its isolation and subjection to siege, I hoped to rally relief,” said Aktis. “Accordingly, I returned to the ruins of Nicosia, where I encountered Xanthos, and others. Given the fair, that seemed the best point from which to initiate an insurgence. The attack on Nicosia and other villages had already produced outrage, and made clear the menace posed by organized, unchecked marauders. Danger was obvious, distant perhaps but real. Who could be safe? Who could be sure the storm would not fall upon them? Doubtless probabilities suggested that one’s own village would be spared, but what if it were not? Xanthos and I made our way to several villages, and soon, abetted by others recruited along the way to our cause, our message, our summons and solicitation, was conveyed to many other villages. Two incidents, considered, helped to stir thought, one, the destruction of the large, prosperous village of Seleukos on Thera itself made it clear that little, if anything, might deter the marauders. What could stand against their skills and numbers? Desperation, ugly and gloomy, fell like unlit, unwelcome night. Did not shadows encroach even upon Home Stones? And Cos remained inert, indifferent, disinterested, perhaps even intimidated by the marauders, perhaps even in league with them. Who could help villagers but villagers themselves? To whom else could they look? Then, second, a startling torch, an unexpected, glad victory, suddenly flamed in the darkness. The battle of Zeuxis proved the marauders could be not only withstood but defeated. No longer were they deemed invincible. Too, by this time, the great bow, if only in stealth, was becoming known in the villages. Had such a weapon not proved its formidable worth at Zeuxis? Might not it do so again?”
“Yet,” I said, “villages are proud, muchly autonomous, and seldom do they see beyond their own fields.”
“We expected no succor from Peasants,” said Thrasymedes. “They are tied to the cycles of the year and the seasons of custom. They are like the mighty Tur tree, rooted in place, slow to grow, and slow to change.”
“Attend to the ancient myths, the stories told about the fire pits,” said Thurnock. “Should the Tur tree anger and draw up its roots, it is much to be feared.”
“An attack on one village is an attack on no single village alone,” said Aktis. “It is an attack on the caste itself. To attack one Home Stone is to attack all Home Stones. To defend one Home Stone is to defend all Home Stones.”
“Peasants have arisen from time to time,” said Thurnock. “More than one town has awakened in terror to discover a wooden shoe nailed to its gate.”
“But at Mytilene,” said Thrasymedes, “it was otherwise. The fields came to the walls not with rage and fire, but with hope and bread.”
“It required will, organization, planning, training, arrows, hundreds of arrows, and supplies,” I said.
“Much had preceded our message,” said Aktis. “The lessons of the fair and Nicosia were better understood than we realized.”
“Victory is ours,” said a man.
“Not while corsairs rule the sea,” I said.
“The ships of the corsairs have withdrawn,” said Clitus, shading his eyes, looking out to sea.
“We know only,” I said, “that they are not now seen.”
“Surely they are bound for Sybaris,” said Clitus.
“Let us hope so,” I said.
“After the rout of Mytilene, why should they linger?” asked Clitus.
“Why, indeed?” I asked.
I might mention that I had taken my men out of Mytilene, and bivouacked them a pasang west of her walls. I had done this so that our departure for the Dorna and Tesephone, both waiting in their secret hiding place, a departure which was imminent, might be accomplished, if not in stealth, at least discreetly. Men talk, and even worthy men may be careless.
“Commander!” said a man. “Behold!”
“I see,” I said.
“What is it?” asked Thrasymedes.
“You need not look upon it,” I said.
For an instant I had not been sure what it was.
“Foul,” said Thrasymedes.
“I fear,” I said, “it was to have been expected.”
At first I had taken it to be a stunted tree, with thick, uneven branches, then a trophy pole. But it was neither.
It had been put in place several yards beyond where had sto
od the remoter tents of the enemy. One supposes they did not wish to have such a thing within their camp, a camp now little more than refuse and ashes.
When a battle has been successfully fought, and the enemy driven from the field, it is not uncommon for the victors to mark the field in such a way as to commemorate their victory. If a tree is available, suitably situated, and of an appropriate size, it is cleared of bark, leaves, and smaller branches, and then used as a mount or frame on which to hang paraphernalia proclaiming the victory, usually helmets, shields, insignia, banners, standards, broken weapons, and such, taken from the enemy. Such displays, if not destroyed, stolen, or removed, sometimes in later battles, for certain places and fields, given their location and favorable properties, have been the scene of more than one battle, can remain in place for years, even generations, until wind, rain, ageing, heat, cold, and rust have their way. If a tree is not available, a trimmed, barkless pole may serve the same purpose, which is then denominated a trophy pole.
What was before us, however, as noted, was not such an object.
When we approached the object, a clutter of small birds, scavenging jards, took flight with a reproachful burst of wings. Earlier there had been such clusters of jards elsewhere on the field, as well, from a distance looking like restless, crawling heaps.
The thin necks of the small, hook-billed birds were bare, lacking feathers. This had perhaps to do with minimizing contamination, which might be incurred in their feedings.
“He was a citizen of Mytilene,” I said.
“He betrayed his Home Stone,” said Thrasymedes.
The naked body, now much fed upon by jards, had been impaled horizontally on the short, thick pole, which was no more than some five feet in height. The body had been placed on the sharpened point of the pole, facing upward, and then dragged downward, worked downward, wrenched downward, slowly, bit by bit, perhaps by four men, until the pole’s sharpened terminus, red with blood, now a dried stain, was visible, protruding some eighteen inches above the abdomen. The eyes, what was left of them, were still open, as though staring wildly at the sky.
At the foot of the pole a lyre lay broken, its strings cut.
“It is an ugly way to die,” I said.
“An appropriate way for one such as he,” said Thrasymedes.
“It must have been extremely painful,” I said.
“Let us hope so,” said Thrasymedes.
“At least,” I said, “it would have been relatively quick.”
“Unfortunately,” he said.
“Do you hate him so?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Thrasymedes.
“It is true that he was a murderer,” I said. I recalled the guard at the tunnel opening, whom he had killed.
“He betrayed his Home Stone,” said Thrasymedes.
I shuddered, more aware at that moment than ever of the ways of Gor. I recalled another who had betrayed her Home Stone.
“Shall I close the eyes?” I asked.
“I will do so,” said Thrasymedes.
I watched him perform this action.
“Why should such eyes be open?” asked Thrasymedes. “They are unworthy to look upon the glory of the sky, even in death.”
He then, with one foot, thrust the pole down. The body half slid from it.
“He was of Mytilene,” I said. “Some wood can be found, enough for a small pyre.”
Thrasymedes turned to the side and called to two men who, their faces half covered with scarves, had been clearing the field of the dead.
“Take this carrion,” said Thrasymedes, “put it in a cart, take it to the beach, get it on a boat, and see that it is disposed of at sea.”
I lifted the broken lyre from the ground.
“He was skilled at the lyre,” I said.
“He betrayed his Home Stone,” said Thrasymedes.
I watched while the two men wearing scarves worked Tarchon’s body free of the pole. It was then added to others on a small cart. Shortly thereafter, the cart, drawn by the two men, left for the beach.
“Why would Tarchon have been killed by the mercenaries?” I asked. “He served them well, by obtaining access to Mytilene by means of the tunnel, and doubtless, too, by providing them with information as to the straits to which we were subjected.”
“One may speculate,” said Thrasymedes. “The affair of the tunnel turned out badly for the mercenaries, costing them men and, soon, by means of the same tunnel, in your attack, the loss of the great catapults. On whose side was Tarchon? How could the mercenaries know? Might he not be a patriot of Mytilene? He doubtless told them of our shortage of supplies, but their scouts doubtless, too, reported the sounds of singing and feasting from within the walls. Too, the same night, the Peasants closed in, merciless and determined. Had Tarchon known of the gathering and rising of the Peasants? Was he trying to falsely inspirit the mercenaries, lulling them into patience and quiescence, holding them in place to be slaughtered?”
“Interesting,” I said.
“I suspect that they, under the circumstances, as matters unfolded, viewed him as a spy for Mytilene, and, accordingly, to his dismay and horror, treated him as such.”
“War,” I said, “has not only its secrets, but its surprises and ironies.”
“Too,” said Thrasymedes, “who, mercenary or not, blames themselves for anything? What is more common than to blame others for one’s own faults, failures, and lacks? Why assign blame to oneself when it is so easy to ascribe it to others?”
“I fear it is common,” I said.
“And the hapless Tarchon was at hand, to be deemed responsible, at the mercy of lawless, desperate, frightened, imperiled men.”
“Such would not have been good fortune for him,” I said.
“He betrayed his Home Stone,” said Thrasymedes.
I turned the lyre about in my hands, its frame broken, its strings dangling.
“Give it to me,” said Thrasymedes. “It did not betray a Home Stone. I shall wrap it in soft folds of scented silk and have it burned in honor.”
I handed the instrument to him.
In some cities it is against the law to deface a scroll or damage a musical instrument. That is, I suppose, because Goreans respect such things.
“How shamed it was, to have been touched by a hand so unworthy of its strings,” said Thrasymedes.
“I do not think that Tarchon would have injured the instrument,” I said. “He took it with him in his escape. He loved it, if not his town, his Home Stone.”
“Mercenaries, in their vengeance, in their haste and fury,” said Thrasymedes, “did this dreadful thing.”
I did not doubt that mercenaries had been guilty of destroying the instrument, probably before Tarchon’s very eyes, before his impalement.
“It was innocent,” said Thrasymedes. “No longer will it whisper, cry, and sing.”
I was silent.
A musical instrument had been destroyed.
Goreans are unlikely to forget such things.
Many Goreans, as I understand it, though such things are seldom made explicit, being more taken for granted than proclaimed, more understood than expressed, have a view of the world and reality which might be found surprising by the average individual of Earth. It is difficult to find words for this as the feelings and attitudes tend to be pervasive, or nearly so, and thus tend to be so obvious or familiar that they are seldom articulated or named, particularly by the Goreans themselves. One sees and breathes, but seldom does one notice or state that one is seeing or breathing. In any event, I can do little more than gesture or point at such things, with some clumsy, dull, haplessly inadequate words. It does not occur to the average Gorean, for example, that nature is divided into two distinct substances which somehow, incredibly, one in space, the other not, interact with, and affect, one another. Nature is one, it is though
t, and worthy of existence. The world is what it seems to be, one place, its own place, mighty and glorious. Desire, hope, fear, and thought, though not measured in pounds or centimeters, are no less real than wind and grass, than mountains and stars. If the world is one, then the Gorean, as part of the world, is one with the world. He is not estranged from it, but is its bred and living kin. His relationship to his encountered reality is thus likely to be far more personal than that of the average individual of Earth. He is likely to see nature not as alien and different, but as congenial and animate. Do not tides come and go, and seasons change; does not water rush over rocks, and snow fall and melt; does not night follow day and day night? It is not unusual for a woodsman to ask forgiveness of the tree he intends to fell; or a hunter to respect the animal he hunts, or which hunts him. Such feelings and attitudes may be entertained, as well, even toward objects, particularly those with whom a close or personal relationship may be sustained. “Serve me well,” says the assassin to his dagger, the woodsman to his ax, the fisherman to his net and trident, the scribe to his pen, the warrior to his sword.
I looked upon the broken lyre in the grasp of Thrasymedes, and, oddly, felt sorrow, and that a wrong had been done.
“It is only an artifact,” I reminded myself, “only a meaningless object.”
“We are done here,” said Thurnock. “Let us go to our camp, gather our men, trek to our ships, and put to sea. There is dark work to be done, the work of blades, work to which we must address ourselves in Sybaris.”
“I fear so,” I said.
“Tab and Sakim will be ready,” said Clitus. “The Dorna and Tesephone wait, concealed to the south.”
I had not ordered them to the harbor at Mytilene, for I feared, despite our victory, that the harbor might yet be under surveillance.
