Smugglers of Gor

Chapter Ten



I had expected the two ships to beach together, but they had not. Indeed, our vessel did not even beach at this point, but turned about, and rocked in place, parallel to the shore, some yards from the beach.

I had some sense of the cargo of the first ship, tools, supplies, slaves, and such, but our vessel was clearly a transport for armsmen. I kept the girl from Asperiche muchly in the first hold, as I did not wish trouble on the deck. In this decision Tyrtaios, whom I took to be first amongst the armsmen, though not amongst the mariners, concurred. “It is well,” he said, “not to lose men.” He had said this looking toward the coast, said it rather as one might have preferred not to lose pieces in a game. In Tyrtaios I sensed intelligence and power, and a prudential sense of instrumentality, unqualified by extraneous considerations. In a way he was far less dangerous to his men than an idealist or fanatic, who would sacrifice armies and continents to pursue a face in the clouds, a goal he does not even understand, an end which, if achieved, would betray the dreams in terms of which it was sought. Let the idealist and the fanatic curse the inevitable fruits of his success, the brass he took for gold, the unexamined shadow he took for substance, the bright illusion he took for reality; he does not lament the downfall of peoples and states, the carts of bones and the lakes of blood; his grief, rather, is for himself, as the innocent victim of alleged lies and treasons which, had he opened his eyes, would have been as obvious as a cliff’s edge. But Tyrtaios was neither an idealist nor fanatic; he was well aware of the balance between means and ends, between resources and their limitations. I was sure he would shepherd his men, and nourish them, but, as a dark player might, regarding not only the board, and a particular victory, but the larger game, a different game, one not played on a board. Tyrtaios would be a practical commander, whose expenditure of men and supplies would be rational, and judicious, and cold. I wondered if Tyrtaios was an Assassin. Assassins are not blinded by dreams. They do not draw their weapons irresponsibly, in righteousness, in drunkenness, in rage. They consider matters, bide their time, and, when ready, paint the dagger. They do not kill for ideals, or dreams. They kill for coin.

Unaccountably I was furious at the disappearance of the first ship. Why should that be?

What was it to me?

It was not even clear to me why I had ventured north. Ah, yes, two golden staters!

I wondered how Tyrtaios saw me. I suspected that my hire had not been purchased for the quickness of a blade, the edge of a sword, not for two staters of gold. How, I wondered, did he understand the Merchants, the Slavers? What was his caste? Was he an Assassin? I was not. I had told him so. Did he believe me? How did he understand me? I feared he saw me in terms of himself, as one might look into a dark glass.

“There,” said Tyrtaios, pointing.

“That is the signal?” I asked.

“I have it so from the captain,” said Tyrtaios.

“You were not informed?” I asked.

“We will disembark,” said Tyrtaios.

“It is a banner of sorts,” I said. I had never seen such a banner, which was narrow, and rectangular.

“It is a Pani banner,” he said.

The common military ensign is a metal standard, raised on its pole or staff, bearing its device, and, usually, identifying a unit, whether it be an army, a division, or a company. Commands may be given by means of the standards, and their motions. They may function much as drums or battle horns. On the other hand, by their means, too, one may, as in the early dawn, after a forced march, marshal and deploy troops silently. Men will die to protect their standards. If a general falls, it is expected that his standard bearer will be at his side. Wars have been fought to regain a lost standard.

“Prepare to disembark,” called Tyrtaios to the more than a hundred men on the vessel.

“I shall free a slave, and fetch her to the deck,” I said.

Several of the armsmen did not know she was on board.

Except on a round ship, and even on many of those, mariners do not welcome the presence of a free woman. Such, it is said, sow discord. Such are to be respected, but, in time, men grow hungry. It is a strain, even on a well-trained sleen, to circle meat it is forbidden to touch. The matter worsens, of course, if the free woman insists on the privileges of the deck, or, say, if she is careless of how she stands when the wind whips her robes, and matters may become intolerable indeed should she delight herself with certain pleasures not unknown to occasionally appertain to her sex, usually harmlessly, flirting with, or teasing, taunting, and tormenting men, confident in the inviolability of her freedom, perhaps in the possession of a shared Home Stone, and such. It is one thing, of course, to engage in such games in a theater, a street, or plaza, and quite another on a ship at sea, far from taverns, the relief of paga girls, and such. More than one woman began a voyage free and concluded it being sold in a distant port. Sometimes a round ship will carry slaves for the men, ship slaves. These are at the pleasure of the crew. The long ships, of course, the armed war knives of the sea, seldom depart with slaves aboard, though they may return with them.

“Master!” whispered the girl as the light of the small, shallow tharlarion-oil lamp fell upon her.

“Do not kneel,” I said.

She blinked against the light, which, in the darkness, dim as it was, must have seemed bright to her.

“The ship is still,” she said.

“We are disembarking,” I said.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“I do not know,” I said, “somewhere north of the Alexandra.”

She spoke softly as she had been warned to do, days before.

“Ankle,” I said.

She slid back, against the hull wall, and extended her left ankle.

I placed the small lamp on the planks and removed her shackle. “There are over a hundred men on board,” I said, “not counting mariners, with their officers. You are the only slave on board. Many do not know you are here. Stay close to me.”

“Surely Master can defend me, and keep me,” she said.

“It would be easier,” I said, “if you had the body of a tarsk and the face of a tharlarion.”

She stood up, and played with her hair, annoyingly, tossing and spreading it, and then, with both hands, brushing it behind her. She then stood straight and, with her small hands, smoothed down the tunic.

“But I do not have the body of a tarsk and the face of a tharlarion,” she said.

“Stay close to me,” I said, “very close.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

I had not put her to use in the hold, as I did not want her shared. Thus, for the days at sea, I had deemed that she would be available to none, not even to me, her master. I would be as deprived as the others. I did not wish to feast while others starved. I supposed an oddity of propriety, even honor, was involved in this, but, too, doubtless, a sense of prudence. Only a fool publicly counts his gold. Accordingly, I had taken pains to be muchly visible on deck, eating and sleeping there, taking my turn on the bench, and so on. In doing so, of course, I was acutely aware of the hunger of the men, and the danger it might pose, for I, too, shared their hunger.

“Behold!” cried a fellow, as, the hold hatch back, I drew her into the light, from the ladder to the open deck.

“Steady,” warned Tyrtaios.

“A vulo!” said a fellow.

“Prepare to disembark,” called the captain.

“She was loaded at Brundisium,” said a fellow.

Men crowded toward us.

The slave from Asperiche shivered, concealing herself, as she might, behind me.

“Now!” called the captain.

“Ho!” called Tyrtaios. “Over the side!”

But the men did not move.

“Who is the first to disobey?” inquired Tyrtaios.

None seemed ready to claim this distinction.

“Who concealed her?” demanded a fellow, glaring at me.

“I,” I said. Then I said to the slave, “Step away from me, back, to the left, and side.”

Instantly she obeyed.

The fellow’s blade had already departed its housing.

“I give you permission to kill him,” said Tyrtaios to me.

The exchange was extremely brief, and the fellow reeled back, grasping his slashed arm, the blade lost on the deck.

“Ahh,” said several of the men.

“Master,” breathed the girl from Asperiche, shuddering.

“Why did you not kill him?” asked Tyrtaios, interested.

“Had his blade been more dangerous,” I said, “it would have been done.”

Tyrtaios turned to the men. “Who hesitates to obey?” he asked.

He received no response.

“Over the side,” said Tyrtaios, and, one by one, they went to the rail, and leapt into the water.

When the fellow who had attacked me went to the rail, grasping his bleeding arm, Tyrtaios, with a brief stroke of his blade, cut the spinal column at the back of his neck.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“Even though a blade be weak,” he said, “a knife in the dark can be dangerous.”

“I suspect there was little risk of that,” I said.

“I have need of you,” he said. “It is a risk I chose not to take.”

“You now have one less man,” I said.

“But better discipline amongst the others,” he said.

“You did not allow him the opportunity to defend himself,” I said.

“You saw his skills,” he said. “Why prolong matters?”

“I see,” I said.

“In the future,” he said, “do not expect me to do your work.”

“I will not,” I said.

Tyrtaios then sprang over the rail, plunging into the restless, waist-high water. He paused only long enough to clean his blade, and then waded ashore. Men poured over the rail after him, and about him, making their way to the shore.

I gathered the slave into my arms, stepped to the rail, and leaped into the water.

It took only a few moments to wade ashore.

Two men, Pani, in their short, unusual robes, white, with red sashes, each with two swords thrust within the silk, one with the strange banner, waited for us by the trees.

“Where are we going?” I asked one of the Pani, he who did not carry the banner.

“Tarncamp,” he said.

I noted that the ship had already departed.