Men wavered, and looked to one another.
“He is Cosian,” said a fellow of Ar.
“You cannot stop us with words,” said a fellow, “you and four behind you.”
“You may stay here to die,” said a fellow. “We will not!”
“We came for gold, and we have it,” said another. “There is nothing to keep us here.”
“Honor!” I cried.
“Do not speak of honor,” said a fellow. “Many here have betrayed Home Stones.”
“Or been cast from our gates in the name of Home Stones,” snarled another.
“You cannot take the ship,” I said. “The galley nests are not open. The bulwarks are high. The ropes and nets will not be lowered.”
I saw more than one fellow in the crowd with loops of rope. I saw more than one grappling iron, and, I supposed, there were others, which had been smuggled from the ship. I knew, as well, that mooring ropes might be climbed, and that spikes might be hammered into the side of the ship, by means of which men might climb the sides. Even so I doubted that the assault on the ship would be successful. Although the Pani on the ship would be much outnumbered, they would have the advantage of position. Arrow fire would flow from the ship to the wharf, and from the wharf to the ship. Hundreds might be slain.
“Go back,” I begged the men. “Go back! There will be much killing. Remember the mutiny! Nothing will be accomplished. Much will be lost. The wharf will run with blood. Go back!”
“Step aside, friend of Rutilius,” said Tereus, “or meet our steel.”
“Kill him!” said more than one man.
“We are going to open the gate,” said Tereus.
“That will not be necessary,” said a quiet, polite voice, but one which somehow carried.
“Lord Nishida,” said men.
This high officer had approached, unnoticed, from the side.
Not one Pani warrior was with him.
I thought he must be a fellow of great courage. Surely he must understand the men were frightened, resolved, and desperate.
As Lord Nishida turned, benignly, toward me, I bowed, not knowing anything else to do, which bow he returned, politely. His hands were in his sleeves.
“Noble Callias,” he said, “your effort at the gate is commendable, if somewhat foolish. Nonetheless, it is appreciated, and it will not be forgotten.”
“Noble Lord,” said Tereus, “open the gate.”
“You are the oarsman, Tereus, are you not?” inquired Lord Nishida.
“Yes,” said Tereus.
“I find it surprising,” said Lord Nishida, “that you, an oarsman, should be the captain of this enterprise.”
“Open the gate!” called a man.
“There must be men here from several decks,” said Lord Nishida. “Something like this must have taken careful planning, thorough preparation, and meticulous organization. The expeditious marshaling of the men here, from diverse locations, and the timing of their confluence at the gate is also impressive.”
“Lord Temmu will be mustering Pani!” said a fellow.
“Not at all,” said Lord Nishida, quietly.
“Open the gate!” called another man, frightened, angrily.
“I request,” said Lord Nishida, “that you Tereus, and your friends, return to the feast.”
“Lord Nishida,” said Tereus, “open the gate.”
“Certainly,” said Lord Nishida, indicating that the Pani guards open the gate. I stood to the side, bewildered.
I was more startled when I saw the other two gates between the courtyard and the steep, downward trail to the wharf already stood open.
The men, led by Tereus, rushed past us, through the opened gate. In moments Lord Nishida, the four Pani guards, myself, and two or three armsmen in the vicinity, were alone, by the gate.
“There will be terrible bloodshed on the wharf,” I said to Lord Nishida.
“I think not,” he said.
Chapter Thirty
Not one man had been killed.
We counted them, eight hundred and seventy of them, as they returned in the morning, making their way up the steep path, to the inner courtyard gate.
They were admitted one at a time through the narrow opening in the barricade which had been set up at the gate. Each man, as he entered, cast his weapons in the pile to the right of the barricade, as he passed through it, was searched by Pani, relieved of any unsurrendered weapon, had his left forearm stained, and was then conducted to one of the barracks which had been reinforced that it might serve as a prison.
“Lord Okimoto is generous,” said Tyrtaios to the superior with whom he was liaison, Lord Okimoto. “On the continent the desertion of a single man is usually punished by his death, the desertion of a unit, its impermissible flight from the field, not routed, its refusal to engage, or such, by decimation, putting to death every tenth man, this determined by lots.”
“It would be pleasant to crucify them all,” said Lord Okimoto, “but, unfortunately, that is impractical, for several reasons. They retain value. It is difficult to replace them. Too, their fellows, those who did not join them, those who remained loyal, questioned, object strenuously. The application of appropriate measures, thus, might precipitate a new mutiny. Too, of course, there is fear abroad, and, should customary measures be inflicted, it is recognized that the strength of our force would be considerably reduced by the elimination of these men, this in the face of the enemy, whose attack may be imminent. Too, unfortunately, several of our officers, Turgus, Pertinax, Cabot, and such, have made clear their opposition to such things. We do not know how serious they are, but we cannot risk the loss of the cavalry.”
“Lord Nishida recommends clemency,” said Tyrtaios.
“It is his way,” said Lord Okimoto.
“It is perhaps wise,” said Tyrtaios.
“It seems,” said Lord Okimoto, “that you wish to preserve the men, as well.”
“Surely they may prove useful,” said Tyrtaios.
“That will be our hope,” said Lord Okimoto.
“What is the view of Lord Temmu?” inquired Tyrtaios.
“Those who would desert have been marked,” said Lord Okimoto. “Records will be kept. Lord Temmu is patient.”
“I see,” said Tyrtaios.
“It would be pleasant, of course,” said Lord Okimoto, “to know who were the captains of this business, those who planned and organized it.”
“Surely Tereus, the oarsman,” said Tyrtaios.
“We think not,” said Lord Okimoto.
“Oh?” said Tyrtaios.
“Others,” said Lord Okimoto, “remain in the shadows.”
It will be recalled that the trail to the wharf was walled-in.
It will also be recalled that Lord Nishida had had the gate opened, rather as though he recognized the futility of defending it, as though, perforce, he recognized that the desertion could not be forestalled. Those who would desert, then, rejoicing that they were unopposed, hurried down the trail. Apparently they did not question that the two further gates lay open. When they reached the foot of the trail they found it barricaded, before the wharf, a barricade manned by several Pani, drawn from the ship, a barricade, given the narrowness of the passage, easily defended by a few against many. Outside the trail walls, Pani archers had been stationed, lest any, held inside, attempt to scale the walls. When the deserters had sped down the trail, Lord Nishida had had a similar barricade erected at the height of the trail, similarly easily defended. In short order then those intent on desertion found themselves trapped in a steep, narrow, tortuous passageway, without food and water, from which they could not easily extricate themselves. At best, from the trail, they might see the wharf, and the great ship moored there, on a dozen lines, the ship they were unable to reach. Then, presumably to make more clear the hopelessness of their position, several barrels of oil were poured onto the stone flagging flooring the trail, oil which, obviously, if desired, might be ignited. Other inflammables, pitch, and such, were cast over the walls from the outside, which, by a flung torch, a cast, flaming bundle of straw, or such, might be as easily ignited. In such a way the walled-in trail might, at selected points, as desired, be transformed into a blazing furnace. The principle points in question were the approaches to the entrance and exit of the trail. Any concerted attempt to storm the barricade at either end then, in addition to its dubious prospects at the outset, might also find itself forced to proceed through a wall of fire. Similarly, if the deserters should congregate in any part of the passage, or be forced to do so, say, by Pani entering the passage, they might be similarly discomfited. Accordingly, by morning, well apprised of the desperateness of their situation, the deserters had surrendered. Whereas the surrender was unconditional, the deserters realized, as well as others, first, that the Pani would not be likely to accept a grievous loss of armsmen which would be likely to jeopardize, if not ruin, their cause, and, second, that their brethren, their fellow armsmen, and their fellows of the ship, would not be likely, particularly under the circumstances of the desertion, to accept their wholesale slaughter, or even decimation.