Magicians of Gor (15 page)

the burning of the gates, of course, one need no longer concern oneself with

ostraka and permits.

“We are free now!” cried one of the men, flinging his ostrakon at Gnieus Lelius.

Other men rushed out to fall upon the former regent wit blows, but Taurentians

swiftly, with proddings and blows of their spears, drove them back.

Gnieus Lelius was then, by the front ramp, conducted to the surface of the

platform. Many in the crowd, now first seeing him, shrieked out their hatred.

There he was put on his knees, to one side, the children locking their chains to

prepared rings, set in a circle, then withdrawing. The five lads with switches

were given a last opportunity, to the amusement of the crowd, to strike the

former regent, then they, too, were dismissed.

The sounds of the drums and trumpets to our right were now closer.

“Look!” said a fellow. He pointed in the direction of the Central Cylinder from

which, but moments before, Gnieus Lelius, and his escort, had emerged.

“It is Seremides, and members of the High Council!” said a fellow.

Seremides, whom I had not seen this clearly since long ago in Ar, in the days of

Minus Tentius Hinrabius, and Cernus, of Ar, with others, members of the High

Council, I gathered, now, from the side of the Central Cylinder, ascended the

platform.

“He is not in the robes of a penitent or suppliant!” shouted a fellow, joyfully.

(pg. 86) “No!” cried others.

“He is in uniform!” cried a man.

“Look,” cried a man. “He has his sword!”

“Seremides retains his sword!” cried a man, calling back to those less near the

platform.

There was much cheering greeting this announcement.

Then the High Council stood to one side, and Seremides himself returned to the

point on the platform where the rear ramp, that near the Central Cylinder,

ascended to its surface.

The ringing of the bars then ceased, first those of the Central Cylinder and

then those near it, and then those farther away, about the city. This happened

so quickly, however, that it was doubtless accomplished not by the fellows at

the bells apprehending that those most inward in the city had ceased to ring but

rather in virtue of some signal, presumably conveyed from the Central Cylinder,

a signal doubtless relayed immediately, successively, by flags or such, to other

points.

The crowd looked at one another.

No longer now, the bars now quiet, did I even hear the drums and trumpets of the

approaching Cosians. Those instruments, too, were silent. I did not doubt,

however, that the approach north on the Avenue of the Central Cylinder was still

in progress.

Seremides now, at the rear of the platform, where the rear ramp ascended to its

surface, extended his hand downward, to escort a figure clad and veiled in

dazzling white to the surface of the platform. It was a graceful figure who,

head down, the fingers of her left hand in the light grasp of Seremides, now

came forward upon the platform.

“No! No!” cried many in the crowd. “No!”

“It is Talena!” wept a man.

The figure, to be sure, was robed in white, and veiled, but I had little doubt

that it was indeed Talena, once the daughter of Marlenus of Ar, Ubar of Ubars.

“She is not gloved!” cried a man.

“She is barefoot!” cried another.

Marcus looked down, sharply, at Phoebe, who clung to his arm. Instantly Phoebe

looked down. In that crush she could scarcely have knelt. She might have been

forced from her knees and trampled. Phoebe, of course, was much exposed in the

brief slave tunic, her arms and legs. I looked at her calves, ankles and feet.

She, too, was barefoot. This was appropriate for her, of course, as she was a

slave. Slaves are often kept barefoot. I then looked up, continuing to regard

her, she clinging (pg. 87) to Marcus. Yes, she was quite lovely. She looked up a

moment, saw my eyes upon her, and then looked down again, quickly. The slave

girdle too, tied high on her, crossed, emphasized the loveliness of her small

breasts. I was pleased for Marcus. He has a lovely slave. I was lonely. I wished

that I, too, had a slave.

“She is in the robes of a penitent or suppliant!” cried another in dismay.

“No, Talena!” cried a man.

“No, Talena,” cried another, “do not.”

“We will not permit it!” cried a man.

“Not our Talena!” wept a woman.

“The crowd grows ugly,” observed Marcus.

“Ar is not worth such a price!” cried another.

“Better give the city to flames!” cried another.

“Let us fight! Let us fight!” cried men.

Several men broke out, into the street, where Taurentians, with spears held

across their bodies, struggled to restrain them.

“Good,” said Marcus. “There is going to be a riot.”

“If so,” I said, “let us withdraw.”

“It will give me a chance to slip a knife into a few of these fellows,” said

Marcus.

“Phoebe might be hurt,” I said.

“She is only a slave,” said Marcus, but I saw him shelter her in his arms,

preparing to move back through the crowd.

“Wait,” I said.

Talena herself, on the height of the platform, had her hands out, palms up,

shaking them negatively, even desperately.

I smiled.

This behavior on her part seemed scarcely in keeping with the dignity of the

putative daughter of a Ubar, not to mention her mien as a penitent or suppliant.

“She urges us to calm!” said a man.

“She pleads with us to stand back,” said a man. “Come back.”

“Noble Talena!” wept a fellow.

The crowd wavered. Several of the men in the street backed away, returning to

the crowd.

Talena then, now that the crowd, divided and confused, seemed more tractable,

put her head down and to one side, and, lifting her arms, the palms up, made a

gesture as of resignation and nobility, pressing back the crowd.

“She does not wish succor,” said a fellow.

“She fears that we may suffer in her behalf,” moaned a man.

It had been a narrow thing, I thought. Had Talena herself not suddenly

interposed her own will, clearly, vigorously, even (pg. 88) desperately,

signaling negatively to the crowd, the platform and avenue might have swarmed

with irate citizens, intent upon her rescue. The handful of Taurentians about

would have been swept back like leaves before a hurricane.

“Do not let this be done, Seremides!” cried a fellow.

“Protect Talena!” cried several men.

But now Seremides held forth his hands, calmly, palms down, and raised and

lowered them, gently, several times.

The crowd murmured, uneasily, threateningly.

“Talena intends to sacrifice herself for us, for the city, for the Home Stone!”

wept a man.

“She must not be permitted to do so,” said a fellow.

“We will not permit it!” said another, suddenly.

“Let us act!” cried a man.

Again the crowd wavered. There was a sudden pressing forth toward the platform,

a tiny, incipient surgency. Taurentians braced themselves and pressed back

against the crowd with the shafts of their spears.

Seremides’ calming hands continued to beg for patience.

Then, again, the crowd was quiet, tense. I did not think that it would take much

to precipitate violence. Yet, for the moment, at least, it was still, if

seething. There is often a delicate balance in such things, and sometimes in

such situations even a small action, even a seemingly insignificant stimulus,

can trigger a sudden, massive response.

Seremides then, again, held out his hand to Talena. He then led her forward, as

before, toward the front ramp. As they neared the figure of Gnieus Lelius,

kneeling in his chains near the front ramp, Talena seemed to hesitate, to shrink

back with distaste. One small hand, even, extended, palm out, toward the former

regent, as though she would fend away the very sight of him, as though she could

not bear the thought of his nearness. She even turned to Seremides, doubtlessly

imploring him with all the piteous vulnerability of the penitent or suppliant,

that she not be stationed close to that odious object, which had brought such

lamentable catastrophe and misery upon her city.

Seremides seemed to hesitate for a moment and then, as though he had made a

determined decision, however unwise it might be, graciously, and with great

courtesy, conducted Talena to a place further from the kneeling Gnieus Lelius.

The crowd murmured its approval.

“Good, Seremides!” cried a man.

As Talena was conducted to her place, a few feet from Gnieus Lelius, she drew up

the white robes a little with her right hand, so that they were above her

ankles. In this way (pg. 89) those who might not have noticed this fact before

could now note that she was barefoot. I supposed this tiny act of exposure, so

apparently natural, if not inadvertent, as though merely to aid her footing,

this act so delicately politic, must have cost the modesty of the putative

daughter of Marlenus of Ar much.

A man near me put his head in his hands and wept. Marcus glanced at him,

contemptuously.

In a moment then, startling me, and doubtless many others in the crowd, there

was a blast of trumpets and a roll of drums to our right. Regulars of Cos,

regiments of them, in ordered lines, in cleaned, pressed blue, with polished

helmets and shields, preceded by numerous standard bearers, representing far

more units than were doubtless in the city at the moment, and musicians,

advanced. Tharlarion cavalrymen, of both bipedal and quadrupedal tharlarion,

flanked the lines. The street shook under the tread of these beasts. Turned on

the crowd they might, in their passage, have trampled hundreds.

The crowd, now that it had segments of the forces of Cos before it, seemed

strangely docile. These were not a handful of Taurentians that might have been

swept from their path like figures off a kaissa board. These were warriors in

serried ranks, many of whom had doubtless seen battle. To move against such

would have been like throwing themselves onto the knife walls of Tyros.

Similarly, should the troops wheel to the sides, charging, blades drawn, they

might have slaughtered thousands, harvesting the crowds, trapped by their own

numbers, like sa-tarna.

With a roll of drums and a blast of trumpets, and the distinct, uniform sound of

hundreds of men coming simultaneously to a halt, the Cosian array arrested its

march not yards from the forward ramp.

I thought I saw the figure of Talena, standing on the platform, with others,

tremble. Perhaps now she realized, I thought, what it might mean to have Cosians

in the city. Did she now, suddenly, I wondered, realize how vulnerable she

really was, and Ar, and how such fellows could now do much what they pleased.

She was in the white robes of a penitent or suppliant. The penitent or

suppliant, incidentally, is supposed to be naked beneath such robes. I doubted,

however, that Talena was naked beneath them. On the other hand, she would surely

wish the good citizens of Ar to believe that she was.

It seemed terribly quiet for a moment. If I had spoken, even softly, I am sure I

would have been heard for yards, so still were the pressed throngs.

“Myron,” I heard whispered. “Myron, polemarkos of Cos!”

(pg. 90) I saw nothing for a time but the crowd, the platform, the people on the

platform, and Cosians, for several yards to the right, standard bearers, some

even bearing the standards of mercenary companies, probably not in the march,

such as that of Raymond Rive-de-Bois, musicians, and soldiers, both foot and

cavalry.

“He is coming!” I heard.

The polemarkos, if it were indeed he, I thought, must be very confident, to so

enter Ar. I did not think that Lurius of Jad, Ubar of Cos, would have done so.

To be sure, Lurius seldom left the precincts of the palace of Telnus. More than

one triumph in a Gorean city has been spoiled by the bolt of an assassin.

“I see him!” I said to Marcus.

“Yes,” he said. Phoebe stood on her tiptoes, clinging to Marcus’ arm, her slim,

lovely body very straight. She craned her neck. She could still see, I thought,

very little. The close-fitting steel collar was lovely on her throat. The

collar, with its lock, muchly enhances a woman’s beauty.

In a moment a large bipedialian saddle tharlarion, in golden panoply, its nails

polished, its scales brushed bright, wheeled to a halt before the standard

bearers. Behind it came several other tharlarion, resplendent, too, but lesser

in size and panoply, with riders. Myron, or he who was acting on his behalf,

then, by means of a dismounting stirrup, not the foot stirrup, the rider’s

weight lowering it, descended to the ground. It was curious to see him, as I had

heard much of him. He was a tall man, in a golden helmet, plumed, too, in gold,

and a golden cloak. He was personally armed with the common gladius, the short

sword, the most common infantry weapon on Ar, and a dagger. In a saddle sheath,

remaining there, was a longer weapon, a two-handed scimitar, the two-handed

scimitarus, useful for reaching other riders on tharlarion. There was no lance

in the saddle boot. He removed his helmet and handed it to one of his fellows.

He seemed a handsome fellow, with long hair. I recalled he had once been under