Swordsmen of Gor

Chapter Thirty-Six THE PYRE

Soon, I supposed, the eyes of the great ship would be painted.

She was to ply the Alexandra.

Should she reach Thassa, the sea, I supposed, would be gifted with wine and salt, and oil would be poured into the waters, that they might be soothed in her path. Such things are traditional.

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.