John Norman - Rogue of Gor

“I am no longer who I once was,” he said.

“I gather you once stood high among the guardsmen of Port Cos,” I said.

“Once I was captain in Port Cos,” he said. “Indeed it was I who once drove the band of Policrates from the vicinity of Port Cos.” He looked up at me. “But that was long ago,” he said. “I no longer remember that captain. I think he is gone now.”

“What occurred?” I asked.

“He grew more fond of paga than of his codes,” he said. “Disgraced, he was dismissed. He came west upon the river, to Victoria.”

“What was his name?” I asked.

“I have forgotten,” he said, sullenly.

“Had you been upon the wharves,” I said, “things might have gone differently.”

“Why did you not lead them?” he asked, angrily.

“I am only a weakling and a fool,” I said, “and I am untrained.”

He said nothing.

“One such as you might have made a difference.”

He extended his right hand. It was large, but unsteady. It shook.

“At one time,” he said, “I could strike a thousand blows, to the accuracy of a hair, I could thrust a thousand times, within the circle of half a hort, but now, now, see what has become of me.” His hand, shaking, then fell. He closed his fist and pressed it against the stones of the dark street. He wept. “Policrates could have killed me in the tavern,” he said. “He knew my weakness. But he did not do so. For the sake of old memories, I deem, vestiges of vanished realities, he spared me.” He looked up at me. “We were youths together on the wharves of Port Cos,” he said. “Each of us turned to the trades of steel, I to that of the guardsman, he to that of the marauder.”

“What did Glyco wish of you?” I asked.

“A plan, a rallying point, a flag of memory, a leader, an assault upon the stronghold of Policrates.”

“And what did you tell him?” I asked.

“It would take a hundred siege ships, and ten thousand men to take the stronghold of Policrates,” he said.

I nodded. I did not think his estimates in error. For all practical purposes, considering the forces that could realistically be marshaled upon the river the stronghold of Policrates was impregnable. I had heard similar asseverations from others. Miss Beverly Henderson, and her beauty, the thought crossed my mind, were now locked behind those lofty, dark walls.

“The situation, then, is hopeless?” I asked.

“Yes, hopeless,” he said.

“Tomorrow,” I said, “the tribute is to be paid to Policrates.”

The man shrugged.

“It is said,” I said, “that the pirates own Victoria.”

“It is true,” he said. “It is true.”

“And are there none to gainsay them?” I asked.

“None,” said he.

“What can I do for you?” I asked, sadly.

“Give me a drink,” he said.

I turned away from him and walked up the street, to the tavern of Tasdron, which was still open, though much subdued. I entered the tavern. I did not speak to anyone, nor did any meet my eyes. I purchased a bottle of paga which I then took from that tavern, retracing my steps to the slumped, dark figure sitting against the wall. I stopped before him, and he lifted his head from his knees, and looked at me, blearily. I handed the bottle to him, which, fumbling, quickly, he reached for. He bit and pulled the cork from the bottle. He clutched the bottle with both hands. He looked up at me, sitting by the wall.

“I am sorry,” I said, “to have spoken cruelly to you. It was not my right. It was in anger, in rage, in frustration, that I spoke. I am truly sorry.”

“Do you pity me?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I pity you.”

Slowly, by an act of will, in cold fury, movement by movement, the man struggled unsteadily to his feet. There was a terrible fury in his eyes. “Pity?” he asked. “Me?”

“Yes,” I said “You have fallen. You cannot rise. You cannot help yourself. It is not your fault. I do not blame you.”

“Pity?” he asked. “Me?”

“I know that you have been disgraced,” I said. “I know that the scarlet has been taken from you.”

“No one,” said he, “can take the scarlet from me, once it is granted, unless it be by the sword.”

He tore open the tunic he wore, revealing beneath it, dark, blackish in appearance, in the moonlight, the scarlet.

“This,” said he, “can be taken from me only by the sword. Let him dare to do so who will.”

“You are finished,” I said. “Drink.”

He looked dismally, angrily, at the bottle clutched in his right hand.

“You have forgotten the name of the warrior,” I said, “who was once of Port Cos. He is no more. Drink.”

The man then held the bottle near the neck, with both hands. For a long moment he looked at it. His shoulders then hunched forward, and he moaned in pain. Then, slowly, painfully, he straightened his body. He lifted his head to the Gorean moons and, in the dark street, in anguish uttered a wild cry. It began as a cry of anguish, and pain, and ended as a howl of rage. He turned about and, with two hands, broke the bottle suddenly into a thousand fragments against the stone. In the darkness he was cut with glass and soiled with scattered paga.

“I remember him,” he said.

“What was his name?” I asked.

“Callimachus,” he said. “His name is Callimachus, of Port Cos.”

“Is he gone?” I asked.

Then the man, with two fists, struck against the wall. “No,” he said, with a terrible ferocity. There was blood on his hands, dark, running between the fingers.

“Where is he?” I asked.

Slowly the man turned to face me. “He is here,” he said. “I am he.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” I said. I reached down and picked up the fallen blade. I handed it to him. “This,” I said, “is yours.”

He sheathed the blade. He looked at me, for a long time. “You have done me service,” he said. “How can I repay you?”

“I have a plan,” I said. “Teach me the sword.”

The naked slave girl, in her bells and jewels, writhed on the scarlet tiles of the floor before us.

Policrates, sitting beside me, behind the broad, low table, musingly fitted together the two pieces of yellowish, brown stone, the two halves of the once-shattered topaz. Again I found it startling, and impressive, how the figure of a river galley emerged from the brownish discolorations in the two pieces of stone, once they were fitted together. There was no mistaking that they were the two halves of what was once an unusual, divided stone.

“Fascinating,” said Policrates. “And how is my friend, Ragnar Voskjard?”

“Well,” said I, “and he, of course, inquires after your health.”

“I am well,” said Policrates, “and you may, upon your return, assure him that I am eager to participate in our common venture.”

“In twenty days,” I said, “allowing for my return and the fitting of our ships, we shall be at your sea gate.”

“Excellent,” said Policrates.

“We shall then,” I said, “proceed to Ar’s Station, to sack the stores and burn her vessels. Following that we shall wreak similar havoc upon Port Cos. These two major ports crippled the river, then, for all practical purposes, will be ours.”

“It is amusing,” said Policrates, “that the tension between Cos and Ar prevents the linkage of their powers upon the river.”

“Their foolishness in this respect,” I said, “should redound considerably to our advantage.”

“True,” laughed Policrates. “And let us drink to that!”

He lifted his goblet and we clinked our goblets together, and I reached across, before Policrates, extending my goblet, too, to Kliomenes, who, surlily, sat on the right of Policrates. We three, then, touched goblets, and then we drank. Kliomenes eyed me narrowly.