Magicians of Gor (29 page)

Some folks stopped to watch.

“Political prisoners,” said Marcus.

That could be told by the fact that the ears and noses of the prisoners had been

painted yellow, to make them appear ridiculous.

“Interesting,” said Marcus, “that they would parade them so publicly down the

Avenue of the Central Cylinder.”

“It is to be expected,” I said. “If they were conducted out of the city in

secret there would be much inquiry, much resentment, much clamor, much

objection. It would be as though the Central Cylinder wished to conceal the fate

imposed upon them, as though they were afraid of its becoming public, as though

it might not be legitimately defensible. In this way, on the other hand, it

performs its action openly, without special attention but, too, without stealth.

It says, thusly, the action is in order, that it is acceptable, even trivial.

Too, of course, it hopes to enlist public approbation by the painting of the

ears and noses, thus suggesting that any who might disagree with its policies

must be mad or dunces, at best objects of caricature and ridicule.”

“Those in the Central Cylinder are clever,” said Marcus.

“They may miscalculate,” I said.

“Whence are these fellows bound?” asked Marcus.

“Probably the quarries of Tyros,” I said.

“There must be many in Ar who will have scores to settle with the Ubara,” he

said.

“I suspect,” I said, “that these arrests are more the work of Seremides, and

Antonius, of the High Council.”

“You would defend Talena of Ar?” he asked.

“I would not blame her for more than that for which she is responsible,” I said.

“Surely her complicity is clear,” he said.

I was silent.

“She is an arch conspirator in the downfall of Ar,” he said.

“Perhaps,” I said.

(pg. 166) “What does she mean to you?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

The men were now filing past, with their guards. Their hands, indeed, were

manacled behind their backs.

“Some of those men may have been high in the city,” said Marcus.

“Undoubtedly,” I said.

“Some even have signs about their necks,” said Marcus.

“I am not familiar with the politics of Ar,” I said, “so I do not recognize the

names.”

“I know the name of the last fellow,” said Marcus. “Mirus Torus.”

The sign about his neck had that name on it, and also the word, “Traitor.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“I assume,” said Marcus, “that he is the Mirus Torus who was the executive

officer of the High Council before Gnieus Lelius, and later held the same office

under the regency of Gnieus Lelius.”

“I think I have heard of him,” I said.

“For some months he was under house arrest,” said Marcus.

“The Central Cylinder,” I said, “seems now to be very sure of its power.”

“Doubtless it was encouraged by its success in the matter of the Home Stone,”

said Marcus.

“Undoubtedly,” I said.

“You seem troubled,” he said.

“It is nothing,” I said.

We watched the coffle of prisoners move away, south on the Avenue of the Central

Cylinder. For a long time we could hear the music of the flute girl who brought

up the rear.

“What is it?” asked Marcus.

“There seems nothing to arouse Ar,” I said.

“Forget Ar,” said Marcus. “The men of Ar have become spineless urts.”

“These men,” I said, “were once among the strongest and finest in the world.”

“Ar dies in the delta,” said Marcus.

“Perhaps,” I said. There seemed much to the sobering suggestion of the young

warrior.

“What is Ar to you?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Cos loots with impunity,” said Marcus, “tearing even the marbles from the

walls. She disguises her depredations under absurd, meretricious rhetorics. It

is as though the sleen pretended (pg. 167) to be the friend of the verr. And

what do the men of Ar do? They smile, they hasten to give up their riches, they

beat their breasts, they lament their unworthiness, they cannot sufficiently

praise those who despoil them, they rush to sacrifice at the great temples. They

burn their gates, they dismantle their walls, they hide in their houses at

night. They cheer while women who might be theirs are instead marched to Cosian

ports. Do not concern yourself with them, my friend. They are unworthy of your

concern.”

I looked at Marcus.

He smiled. “You are angry,” he said.

“Ho! One side, buffoons of Ar!” said a voice, that of a mercenary, one of two,

with blue armbands.

We stepped to one side as they swaggered past.

“I am not of Ar,” I said to Marcus.

“Nor am I,” he said.

“Thus they could not have been speaking to us,” I said.

“We could kill them,” said Marcus.

“In broad daylight?” I asked.

“Perhaps they are nice fellows,” said Marcus.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“But then one cannot always permit oneself to be deterred by such

considerations,” he said.

“True,” I said.

“They think they own the street,” he said.

“Doubtless an impression they have gathered from those of Ar,” I said.

“Surely,” he said.

“There is nothing to arouse Ar,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“If Marlenus were alive, and might return,” I said, “that might bring Ar to her

feet, angry and mighty, like an awakened larl.”

“If Marlenus were alive,” said Marcus, “he would have returned to Ar long ago.”

“Then there is no hope,” I said.

“No,” said Marcus. “There is no hope.”

I regarded him.

“Ar died last summer,” he said, “ in the delta.”

I did not respond to him. I feared he was right.

We walked on then, not speaking, with rage, a helpless warrior’s fury

irrepressibly welling up within me.

A passer-by regarded me, startled, and hurried quickly past.

(pg. 168) “You are angry,” said Marcus.

“Are you not angry?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” he said.

We heard then, behind us, running feet, laughter, a tearing of cloth, and a

woman’s cry. A group of young fellows was running past. We, too, were buffeted

but I seized one of the lads by the wrist and, drawing him quickly across and

about my body, and over my extended right leg, flung him to the stones, where I

held him, my grip shifted now to the palm of his hand, his wrist bent, far back.

He screamed with pain. Another fraction of a hort, the least additional

pressure, and his wrist would be broken. Almost at the same instant I heard

Marcus’ sword leave its sheath, warning back the other lads, some six of them.

Marcus, I noted, was suddenly, relievedly, in an eager, elated mood. He hoped

for their advance. He was quite ready, even eager, for the release of shedding

blood. I felt my own nostrils flare as I suddenly, excitedly, drank in the air

of Ar, exhilarated, fiercely alive. The six lads backed away. I had little doubt

he would have cut them down had they come with the compass of his blade. One of

the lads, the leader it seemed, clutched the woman’s pouch, torn from her belt,

and another held her veil. I looked back tot he woman, who had been struck to

her knees. She had drawn her hood about her face, that her features not be

exposed publicly. Her eyes were wild in the opening within the hood.

“Do not hurt me!” screamed the lad on his knees.

I paid him little attention. He was going nowhere. At least two of the other

lads had knives.

“You are “Cosians”?” I said to them.

They looked at one another.

Certain gangs of youths, young ruffians, roamed the streets, affecting Cosian

garments and haircuts. These were called “Cosians.” Such things are common where

an enemy is feared. They ape the feared enemy, and hope thereby, as though by

some alchemy, to obtain his strength and success. Such charades serve, too, as a

form of cowardly camouflage. Knowing they have nothing to fear from their own

people, they pretend they are like the enemy, perhaps in the hope that then they

will have nothing to fear from him, as well. Too, such postures, costumes and

mannerisms provide an easy way to attract attention to oneself, a welcome

feature to one who may otherwise be unworthy of attention. Similarly, such

charades provide, in more serious cases, a way of expressing one’s alienation

from one’s own society, one’s repudiation of it, and one’s contempt (pg. 169) of

it. From this point of view then, such things may constitute a comprehensible,

if somewhat silly, or ineffectual, from of protest. Too, of course, such

costumes can intimidate weaklings, which some would undoubtedly rate as an

additional advantage.

“Do not hurt him!” said the leader.

“You are “Cosians”?” I asked.

“No,” said their leader, “we are of Ar.”

“I can probably reach at least two of them,” said Marcus.

The six stepped back further, preparing to take to their heels.

“We are only lads!” said the leader, keeping his distance.

I gestured with my head back toward the woman behind us. She had risen to her

feet. She still clutched the folds of her hood about her face, to conceal her

features.

“Do you think she is some slave girl,” I asked, “that you may strip her on the

street, for your sport?”

“No,” said one of the lads.

“She is a free woman, of your own city,” I said.

“There is no Home Stone in Ar,” he said.

“That is true,” said Marcus.

“Do you make war on boys?” asked the leader.

“Now you are “boys,” ” I said.

They were silent.

“Sheath your knives,” I said.

They did so. I was now pleased that they did this. I was not certain, really, of

the responses of Marcus. He was not a fellow of Earth, but a Gorean. Too, he was

of the Warriors, and his codes, in a situation of this sort, their weapons

drawn, entitled him, even encouraged him, to attack, and kill. Moreover I

thought he could really reach at least three of them, the first with a thrust,

and the second too, each with a slash to the neck, first to the right, the blade

withdrawn, and then to the left, before they could adequately break and scatter.

Marcus was very fast, and trained. In this way I was encouraging them to protect

themselves. They were, after all, as their leader had pointed out, a bit

plaintively, and somewhat belatedly, only lads. To be sure this would not mean

much to Marcus, who was probably not more than three or four years older than

they were.

“And bring forward the pouch and veil.”

“Release Decius,” said the leader.

“I am not bargaining,” I said.

The leader brought forward the pouch and put it down on the stones. He then

signaled to the lad with the veil. That fellow then brought the veil forward,

too, and put it on the stones. Both of them then backed away. I then released

the (pg. 170) hand of the other lad, Decius, it seemed, and he scrambled away,

holding his wrist.

“Give me my veil!” demanded the woman, coming forward.

I handed it to her.

She turned about, adjusting it.

“Pick up my pouch,” she said, her back to us. “Give it to me.”

I picked up the pouch. The lads had now withdrawn some forty yards or so away.

They were gathered about the fellow whom I had had down on his knees, his arm

behind him, the wrist bent. He was still undoubtedly in pain.

“Give me my pouch!” she demanded.

I looked at the group of youths.

The fellow’s wrist had not been broken. I had not chosen to do that.

One or another of the lads, from time to time, looked back at us. I did not

think they would return, however. To be sure, Marcus might have welcomed that.

His sword was still unsheathed. Too, I did not think they would be interested in

causing the lady further inconvenience.

I felt the woman’s hand snatch at the pouch and my own hand, almost reflexively,

closed on the pouch.

Her eyes flashed angrily over the veil, an opaque street veil, now readjusted.

“Give it to me!” she said.

“It was our mistake to interfere,” said Marcus, dryly. He resheathed his blade.

“Give it to me!” said the woman.

“You are rude,” I said.

She tugged at the pouch.

“Are you not grateful?” I asked.

“It demeans a free woman to express gratitude,” she said.

“I do not think so,” I said.

“Are you not paid for your work?” she asked.

“Are you not grateful?’ I asked.

“I am not a slave!” she asked.

“Are you not grateful?” I asked, again.

“Yes,” she said. “I am grateful! Now, give it to me!”

“Ah,” I said. “Perhaps you are a slave.”

“No!” she said.

“What do you think of this free woman?” I asked Marcus.

She reacted angrily, but did not release the pouch.

“Do you think she might be more civil,” I asked, “if she were stripped?”

(pg. 171) “Yes,” he said, “particularly if she were also branded and collared.”

“She would then learn softness, as opposed to hardness,” I said.

“It would be in her best interest to do so,” said Marcus.

“Yes,” I said.

She released the pouch and stepped back a little.

Her eyes were now wide, over the veil.

“Perhaps she is the sort of woman who is best kept in a kennel,” I said, “to be

brought forth when one wishes, for various labors.”

“Such women are all haughty wenches,” he said. “But they quickly lose their