Six days ago a great pyre had been lit on the beach, and I had stood beside it, with Aëtius, and dozens of others, amongst them carpenters, sawyers, oar makers, and sail makers.
We stood yards back. The flames burned fiercely. Though it was night, one could scarcely look upon them. One could see them reflected redly on the countenances of the stolid, or grieving, men gathered about. Tears streamed from the eyes of some of them, hardened men, yet weeping. Pani, too, were with us, and a number of mariners, and mercenaries. The wrapped form in the canvas, sail canvas, was consumed in a torrent of flame.
It was odd, I thought, that the pyre had been lit at night. Such things are usually done in the afternoon.
“He would have liked to have seen the eyes painted,” said a man.
I supposed that this was true.
But Tersites, I knew, was a strange man.
“It was not to be,” said another.
“I would have liked to have seen him,” I said to Aëtius.
Aëtius did not look at me. “He was not well,” he said.
“What,” I asked, “was the cause of his death?”
“His health was poor, and for a long time failing,” said Aëtius.
I recalled him from years ago, at the Council of Captains. It was hard to think of that small, twisted, wiry, energetic body, the unlikely frame of so mighty and unusual a mind, belabored and weakened, succumbing to the ravages of illness. I had sought out the physicians, those of the green caste, in camp. None had been summoned. Four had been refused admittance to his presence.
“There will never be another such as he,” said Aëtius.
“Doubtless,” I said.
Aëtius regarded me, narrowly, and then looked away.
We waited until the flames had muchly subsided, and then returned to our quarters.
The next morning, at dawn, I returned to the remains of the pyre, the blackened wood, the mounds of ash.
I was not surprised to find that Aëtius had done the same.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, not pleasantly.
“Sometimes,” I said, brushing through the ash with the side of my foot, “there is a bone or two.”
“Go away,” said Aëtius.
“I see you have found some,” I said. He carried, in his left hand, a small sack.
“Come no closer,” said Aëtius.
I took his left hand at the wrist, and pulled the sack toward me.
“Away!” said Aëtius. “Stop!”
With my right hand I emptied the bones into the ash. I bent down, as Aëtius stood by, helpless. I sorted through the bones. I lifted one or two of them up, to show them to Aëtius.
“Now you know,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“You suspected,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
I then stood up.
He bent down, angrily, to gather the bones together, which he hastily returned to the sack.
I had little doubt but what they would be quickly disposed of, probably buried in the forest, without a marker.
“Your secret,” I said, “is safe with me.”
“It was thought necessary,” he said, not looking up.
“Why, by whom?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he said.
“Where is Tersites?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he said. “I do what I am told.”
“Clearly he is alive,” I said.
“I think so,” he said.
I had suspected some form of subterfuge, or hoax, from the apparent absence or inaccessibility of Tersites, from my inquiries amongst those of the green caste, and from the igniting of the vast pyre after dark.
Perhaps he had been in fear of his life.
Doubtless he would now be safe, for a time.
I then turned away.
The bones were tarsk bones.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
THE SHIP IS TO SAIL
Strangely, this unsettling me, and many others, the eyes of the great ship had not been painted.
Yet it seemed she was to ply the Alexandra, and, if all went well, reach Thassa.
Should she reach Thassa, the sea, I trusted, would be gifted with wine and salt, and oil would be poured into the waters, that they might be soothed in her path.
I would prefer that these things had been done before she would sail.
I was uneasy.
I knew little of many things.
Tersites, I knew, was a strange man.
Orders must have been given.
Aëtius, I was sure, would respect such orders, had they been delivered to him by his master, and mentor, lame, brilliant, twisted, half-mad Tersites.
I knew little of many things.
I did know that Tersites was a strange man.
Ice had crusted about the cold shore. Pieces, some large, were seen in the river, from upstream.
I drew my cloak more closely about me.
The slaves were now warmly garmented, though not, of course, as might have been free women. The robes of concealment in winter are much like those of gentler weathers, save for darker colors, more absorptive of, and retentive of, heat, heavier materials, some additional layering, and such. In the case of the slave a short, long-sleeved jacket, coming high on the hips, its length resembling that of a slave tunic, is worn over an undershirt. They are also put in trousers, belted with binding fiber. Whereas in the case of the free woman her legs are concealed within her enclosing garmenture, in the case of the slave, even in the winter, it is clear, however warmly they may be clothed, that she has legs, and that this is to be obvious to the scrutiny of men. The wrappings of the legs and calves is wool, over which leather is wrapped. The last garment is a warm, hooded cloak, which may be held closely about the body. Her face is commonly bared, except in severe weather, and, in any case, there is no mistaking her status, given her garmenture. Too, there were no free women in camp. Incidentally, there is a superstition amongst many Gorean mariners that it is bad luck to have a free woman aboard. The foundation of the superstition, I suppose, is not difficult to discern, even if the woman, in such a situation, resists to the best of her ability the manifestations of the lovely temptations natural to her sex. If the meat is not to be eaten, it is a mistake to put it before larls. They may fight amongst themselves, and such. Perhaps larls should not be carnivorous, and should never be hungry, but they are carnivorous, and do get hungry. If there are any objections here, they are best taken up not with larls, but with nature, the disposition to replicate genes, and such, without which there would be no meat and no larls. This superstition, incidentally, does not apply to slave girls, for they are such that, even if one does not get one’s hands on them, one knows they are such that, as the properties of men, they are at least in theory available, and this, interestingly, is often enough to content the male. Too, one may always look at them, tease them, flirt with them, slap them on the fundament, order them about, get them to their knees before you, as you wish, be addressed by them as “Master,” and so on. There are many ways to enjoy a woman without putting her to your pleasure. That is, after all, for her master.
Their collars, of course, even in the winter, are kept on the slaves. They remain collared. They are slaves.
I had heard nothing more of the approach of enemy forces, but I entertained no doubt as to their imminence and reality.
Even now they might be in the vicinity of the Alexandra.
The blows of great hammers were striking away the chocks that held the ship of Tersites in place, on the great sloping frame.
Hundreds of men were gathered on the beach, and slaves, too.
A signal was conveyed by a banner from the stern castle of the great ship, and the hammers struck again.