by John Norman
“He knows it is the end,” said Sakim.
“I would prefer to die in a field at harvest time amidst ripening, golden sa-tarna,” said Thurnock, “but this will do.”
“Where one dies is not important,” said Clitus. “What is important is how one dies.”
“It is my hope that we shall die well, with courage,” said Sakim.
“May it be so,” said Clitus.
Who knows about such things, I wondered. Sometimes the strongest, bravest man is seized in the claws of fear. I recalled an afternoon long ago, in the delta of the Vosk.
Thurnock looked down to the main deck.
“Oil is ready,” he said. “Lamps are lit.”
“See that the sail is drenched,” I said. “Aflame, we may be able to topple the mast onto the deck of an enemy.”
Thurnock gestured to the sail, loose on its yard.
I saw the sail darken, absorbing the oil.
“Captain,” said a seaman, “the enemy forward will close.”
“Keep our bow to his bow,” I said. In this fashion one presents a narrower target and allows for a swift move to either side.
“Glass of the Builders,” I said, and Sakim handed me the instrument. I trained the glass on the oncoming vessel.
“It is not circling,” said Sakim, his eyes half closed against the shimmering brightness of Thassa.
“Odd,” said Clitus.
Ideally, a ram ship takes the enemy amidships.
“It is closing,” said a seaman.
With the glass of the Builders I had no difficulty in making out individual figures on the approaching ship.
“It makes no sense,” said Sakim. “It is oncoming, at ramming speed.”
“It intends a ram stroke to the bow,” said Clitus.
“The commander must be a fool,” said Thurnock.
“He is not a fool,” I said, looking through the glass of the Builders. I could see men busied amidships on the enemy vessel.
“Prepare for impact!” called Thurnock down to the benches.
“There will be no impact,” I said.
There were cries of wonder as the enemy ship sped past to starboard. We could hear the pounding of the drum of its keleustes. It was at full ramming speed. Clitus looked after her. “She is raising her mast, her yard, unfurling her sail,” he said.
“To make greater speed,” I said.
“I do not understand,” said Sakim.
I handed him the glass of the Builders, and pointed forward. “Look,” I said.
“Sails,” he gasped.
“I count twenty,” I said, “every ship in the fleet of the Farther Islands.”
“I do not understand,” said Sakim.
“Nicomachos, Admiral of the Fleet of the Farther Islands, returned from patrol, and received my message,” I said.
“What message?” asked Sakim.
“Where he might encounter the corsair fleet,” I said.
“You have arranged this?” said Sakim.
“From as long ago as the fair at Mytilene,” I said. “But I did not know where his allegiance lay.”
“It lies, I wager,” said Sakim, “with himself.”
“That was my hope,” I said.
“That is why you kept your course directly between Mytilene and Sybaris,” said Sakim.
“I hoped Nicomachos would return sooner from his patrol and encounter the corsair fleet at Mytilene,” I said.
“The other corsair ships withdraw,” said Clitus. “They follow the first. They depart, masts now high, sails filled with the wind of fear, like terrified urts.”
“And well might they do so,” I said.
“How was this done?” asked Sakim.
“At the fair at Mytilene we arranged a mode of communication,” I said, “how intelligence, if obtained, might be shared.”
“You learned in Sybaris that the corsair fleet would attack Mytilene, naturally enough to seize the wealth accrued from the fair,” said Sakim. “But how, given the absence of Nicomachos, could this be transmitted to him?”
“One required confederates to do so, in this case plausible but unwitting confederates,” I said. “Aktis, from Nicosia, our valued oarsman and archer, was instructed to watch for a dancer on the street, one he recalled and had earlier found of interest, one who, as we learned, had been named ‘Sylvia’. She was owned by Glaukos, proprietor of the tavern, The Living Island. He then charged this slave to deliver a short, somewhat cryptic message to her master, Glaukos. This message was, “Falarian is to be found at Mytilene.” Glaukos, in turn, as I expected he would, conveyed the message to Archelaos, who, in turn, could be counted on to bring it to the attention of Nicomachos. Glaukos and Archelaos would be keen to obtain the falarian if it were at all possible. Nicomachos, on the other hand, would understand the true import of the message, which was to deliver to him the location of the corsair fleet.”
“Archelaos would expect Nicomachos to send a single ship to Mytilene, under the command of one of the governor’s loyal minions to investigate the claim,” said Sakim.
“Presumably arriving after the destruction of Mytilene and the withdrawal of the corsair fleet,” I said. “But, happily, Nicomachos departed with the entire fleet of the Farther Islands, eager to wipe the fleet of Bosk of Port Kar from the sea, and thereby restore himself to station and favor with Lurius of Jad, Ubar of Cos.”
“Aktis did well,” said Sakim.
“If all goes well,” I said, “I will give him the dancer, Sylvia. I expect she will do nicely, carrying water and hoeing in the fields shackled and naked and spending her nights chained by the neck to a floor ring in Aktis’ rebuilt hut.”
I did not think that Lais, who had been discomfited in the tavern by the dancer, would object to that. Even if she did, it would not matter, as she herself was only a slave. One does what one pleases with slaves. They are slaves.
“Look,” said Clitus, “one of the pursuing ships signals us.”
“Signal that all is well,” I said.
“It seems we are rescued,” said Thurnock.
“Let us hope they do not look too closely,” I said.
“I am pleased we painted our ships white and yellow,” said Sakim.
“What else could we do, given that we are innocent, harmless merchantmen?” I said.
“They resume the chase,” said Clitus.
“May they be successful,” said Thurnock.
“Extinguish all lamps, carefully,” I said. “Let not the least spark escape. Seal the canisters of oil. Wash the oil from the sail.”
“It will be done,” said Thurnock.
“We are safe,” said Clitus.
I suddenly began to shake with fear.
“Captain?” asked Thurnock.
“I think I am afraid,” I said.
“Do not concern yourself, Captain,” said Sakim. “Sometimes one is most afraid, when the danger is past. It is only then that one realizes, in harrowing recollection, how great it was, and what might have been.”
“Perhaps that is true,” I said.
“It is,” said Sakim.
“I understand now,” said Thurnock, “why you kept the mast raised, that we might be the more easily seen.”
“It would not have been well had the Fleet of the Farther Islands passed us, unknowingly,” I said.
“I think the Dorna has paga,” said Thurnock.
“Break it out,” I said.
“Next afternoon,” said Sakim, “when the lights are no longer too bright for the crew, when the noises are no longer too loud for them, when the slightest move no longer torments them, when the clouds no longer scream and beat on their heads, what course shall we set?”
“Sybaris,” I said, “there are dry docks there, needful for the repair of our ships.�
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“And thence to Port Kar?” asked Clitus.
“We would not wish to miss the triumph of Nicomachos, naval hero, victor over the fleet of the notorious pirate, Bosk of Port Kar,” I said.
“Surely not,” agreed Sakim.
“And thence to Port Kar?” said Clitus.
“I think not,” said Thurnock. “Do we not, Captain, have unfinished business in Sybaris?”
“That is my view,” I said.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
The Corridor; Events Have Rushed Forward; The Triumph of Nicomachos; We Chat with Glaukos, Proprietor of The Living Island
I caught the scent, in the dim corridor, lit by widely-spaced, tiny, tharlarion-oil lamps, in the back precincts of the tavern, The Living Island, of a voluptuous perfume, a slave perfume.
She was approaching.
Then, irritated, she stopped, for I blocked her path.
“Stand aside,” she said. “I have been summoned.”
“Why are you standing?” I asked.
A slave, when addressed by a free man, instantly kneels. Thus she acknowledges that she is of the submitting sex.
“Out of my way,” she said.
Speaking so is permitted to free women, who may say and do much what they wish. It is not permitted to slaves.
Freedom is for men. They are the owning sex; the female is the owned sex. Once a female is suitably mastered, she no longer desires freedom. She is grateful for, and revels in, her submission. She basks in her bondage. In the collar she has come home to herself and her sex.
Four days ago, I had stood before the public boards, set up near the palace of the governor. The gate to the governor’s palace was less than fifty yards away.
“Noble merchant,” said a short fellow, squinting up at the boards, “I am no Scribe, no learned man, nor one familiar with figures and accounts, such as yourself.”
“What would you like read?” I asked.
“You are of the white and yellow caste, the gold caste,” he said. “white for the records you keep, yellow for the gold you gain. I am a poor man. What would you charge?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“But you are of the Merchants,” he said.
“Today is a holiday,” I said.
“May the Priest-Kings look with favor on the cheating and chicanery of your caste,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Those letters,” he said, “the large ones,” pointing.
“I shall render the gist of matters,” I said. “Due to the valor and skill of the noble Nicomachos, Admiral of the Fleet of the Farther Islands, all hail to the sublime Lurius of Jad, Ubar of Cos, the fleet of the notorious pirate, Bosk of Port Kar, predator to shipping, burner of villages, ravager of towns and cities, has but recently been surprised, captured, burned, and sunk fifty pasangs off the coast of Chios.”
The matter seemed to have unfolded as follows. The Theran fleet under Nicomachos, anticipating land action on Chios near Mytilene, had embarked with numerous Cosian regulars aboard, which allowed frequent shifts of oarsmen, an advantage which the corsair fleet had itself hitherto exploited, this now, however, enabling the Theran fleet to equal, if not exceed, the speed of the corsair fleet. Further, the position of the Theran fleet cut the corsair fleet off from its base in Sybaris, and the width of its line prevented an escape to the side. The corsair fleet then, fleeing toward Chios, had either been caught near Chios or had tried to land on Chios and, encountering the hostile, armed Peasantry on the beaches, fresh from Mytilene and its vicinity, had put once more to sea, where it eventually fell to the pursuing Theran fleet, say, some fifty pasangs off the coast of Chios.
“Is there no mention of the glory and prowess of the noble Archelaos, the governor?” asked the short fellow.
“I see none,” I said.
“Surely he should claim credit for this magnificent victory,” said the man.
“Perhaps he was not there,” I said.
“What difference would that make?” asked the man.
“None, I suppose,” I said.
“He does not proclaim his involvement in large red letters?” said the man.
“It seems not,” I said.
“Nicomachos advised the scribes what to post,” said a bystander, who had overheard our conversation.
“The noble Nicomachos does not attribute victory to the wisdom, astuteness, guidance, and leadership of the governor?” asked the man.
“Apparently not,” I said.
“I think that bodes ill for the noble Nicomachos,” said the fellow. Then he pointed again to the boards. “What does it say there?” he asked.
“In two days, a triumph is to be accorded to Nicomachos,” I said.
“It could not be denied,” said my small interlocutor.
“There will be a parade,” said the bystander. “There will be banners and streamers on the houses, perfume in the air, flowers cast by free maidens in the streets.”
“Drums and trumpets,” said a fellow.
“Free ka-la-na and paga, too, I hope,” said another.
“And what there, kind and noble master?” asked my small interlocutor, again pointing.
I paused. The print was smaller, but still easily enough read.
“What?” pressed my interlocutor.
“It is another benefit of the victory,” I said. “It is the claim that prisoners of the corsairs, even some notables of Sybaris, were liberated.”
“Splendid,” said my interlocutor.
I remembered the siege of Mytilene. The corsairs did not take prisoners.
“What of the leader of the pirates,” asked my interlocutor, “the nefarious Bosk of Port Kar? Is there nothing of him there?”
“I see nothing,” I said.
“He was captured,” said one of the bystanders. “He is a jabbering fool. He claims to be an actor hired to impersonate the true Bosk of Port Kar.”
“What is to be his fate?” I asked.
“I do not know,” said the man.
“Is there more?” asked my small interlocutor.
“That is pretty much it,” I said. “I wish you well.”
“I wish you well,” he said.
I then turned away from the public boards. The repairs on the Dorna and Tesephone were nearly complete. Tomorrow both would be freshly repainted.
She stamped her small, sandaled foot, with its slim, bangled ankle.
“Out of my way,” she said. “I have been summoned!”
She did not remember me, of course, only one, and long ago, amongst the many patrons of The Living Island. And, even were I familiar to her, the dimness of the corridor might have impeded recognition. Nor did she sense Thurnock and Clitus behind her, each having emerged from the shadows. We had employed a simple, well-known stratagem for gaining admittance to the corridor. I had pushed between the two guards, intruding myself behind the curtain. Naturally the two guards, startled, affronted, and angered, followed me, to seize me and eject me from the tavern. In following me, who had monopolized their attention, they neglected to be sufficiently aware of the entire situation. Thurnock and Clitus followed them and each dealt one of the guards a heavy blow, sufficient to render them unconscious, until they should awaken, to find themselves bound, hand and foot, and gagged.
“I know you,” I said, “you are Sylvia, the comely dancer.”
“Merely dancer!” she said. “Merely comely!” she said. “I am the finest dancer in Sybaris and the most beautiful woman in all the Farther Islands!”
“You will do for the Farther Islands,” I said. “As a dancer you might not be noticed in Ar or Turia, or Brundisium, or Port Kar. And as for beauty, I know at least four, locally, who are your superior.” I was not being quite candid. She was quite pretty and might do for one of the lesser taverns in
Ar. I did think that Lais, Margot, Millicent, and Courtney were her superiors, or, might, at least, bring a better price off the block. To be sure, with respect to writhing naked at one’s feet, one’s foot pressed gently, firmly, on her belly, she would not be displeasing, no more so than other slaves.
“Out of my way, bumpkin,” she snapped.
“You might do well in a peasant’s field,” I said.
“I am not a bred slave,” she said. “I was a free woman!”
“So, too, were most slaves,” I said.
“A free woman!” she said.
“All women are slaves,” I said. “It is only that not all are fortunate enough to be put in collars.”
“Get out of my way,” she hissed.
“Of course,” I said, and stepped aside.
As she brushed past, with a flutter of silk, I seized her from behind, pulling her back against me, my right hand capped over her mouth. Shortly thereafter, with the assistance of Clitus and Thurnock, she sat on the stone floor of the corridor, gagged, looking up at us, in fury, her hands thonged behind her.
I bent down and, with one hand, my left hand, lifted her ankles up, which caused her to go to her back on the floor.
She twisted on the floor, fuming, unable to speak.
I slipped her sandals off with my right hand, and tossed them to the side.
As is well known, slaves are animals, and, as animals, need not be clothed. How slaves are clothed, if they are to be clothed, is up to the free. The slave owns nothing, not even her collar. It is she who is owned. She is dependent on the free, fully, even to be fed.
“Sandals are a privilege,” I said. “I doubt that you have earned them.”
Even to be permitted on the surface of a master’s couch, after kneeling, head down, and humbly kissing the furs, is a privilege to be earned by diligence and pleasingness.
“She has small feet,” said Thurnock.
“Yes,” I said.
“And slim, trim ankles,” said Thurnock.
“They would look well in shackles,” said Clitus.
The slave twisted angrily.
“I am not sure that this little beast has yet learned her collar,” I said.
“It might be pleasant to teach her her collar,” said Thurnock.
