Scipio Metellus, Slaver of Ko-ro-ba (1)

 

(catch me, by Gorean Art

The little stream had been swollen into a river by spring runoff and sudden torrential rains in the surrounding hills. There was no crossing either by the ford or the small ferry until the flooding passed, which locals informed travellers would be in about three days.

As a result, the caravan of Scipio Metellus, Slaver of Ko-ro-ba was camped close to those of other travellers along the banks of the swiftly running water. The water was brown with soil washed down from the hills, and very cold due to the amount of spring runoff. Scipio Metellus and his five wagons were camped at a little distance from the other travellers. Scipio Metellus was an experienced traveller and had no intention of camping near a riverbank that might be carried away by a surge of water. Nor would he be the first to cross the stream when the water receded. When possible, the slaver was a careful man, which often deceived people who judged by surface appearances.

The man in black stood with his back against a tree, watching the camp of Scipio Metellus. His tunic and leggings and boots were the dark black of midnight, his enveloping cloak with its hood raised was of a very dark grey. He had scouted all the camps of the travellers waiting for the stream’s water to recede. Five of them, of various cities huddled close together, they were about half a pasang from the camp of the slaver, on the other side of the road. The way they had come together, although of different cities had led the man in black to conclude that they all had Free Women among their numbers. Although distrustful of each other, they were all more afraid of the Slaver and his large well-armed caravan. Like groups of tabuk from different herds, they drew closer when they scented the larl which threatened them all. His scouting had confirmed the presence of Free Women and justified his conjecture. The other four groups were more widely separated; they had no Free Women among them. They wanted to keep those slaves they had though and so did not too closely approach the camp of the Slaver of Ko-ro-ba.

The wagons of Scipio Metellus were grouped close together in a semi-circle, the open end facing the river. At night, the man in black knew, the bosk who pulled the wagons would be penned in the semi-circle. In the case of an attack, they would be safe from raiders and in a last resort, could be stampeded into the attackers, trampling them as surely as a charge of Riders of the High Thalarion. Right now the herd was grazing in the meadowlands some distance from the camp, watched over by two Riders of the High Thalarion with lances. Two more Riders patrolled the area between the camp of Scipio Metellus and the camps of the other travellers.

The wagons, the man in black had observed, using his glass of the Builders were chained together, rear wheels of one wagon to the front wheels of the next. The wagons could not be stolen one by one, nor overturned, nor pushed aside. They made then, a fine defensive barricade. In the camp of a Slaver, neither chains nor locks are in short supply.

In the open end of the camp, at the entrance, two posts, each about ten feet high had been erected. The were about six feet apart. A pole across the top connected them and marked the way an honest visitor would approach the camp. Brush had been stacked across the rest of the front to make a low barrier. From each upright pole, her hands stretched above her head to the top of the pole and secured there hung a naked slave. A small perch under her feet supported her weight, and she was secured at the knees, the waist and just below the shoulders. A glance through the glass of the Builders confirmed that each girl bore a relatively fresh brand.

Their display proclaimed Scipio’s caste and displayed his wares for sale. At intervals, a one-legged man would emerge from the camp with a tarn feather attached to a stick. With the feather he would stimulate the girls, stroking their breasts, their flanks, their bellies and ribs and most delicately the folds of their love pouches. Thus stimulated, their slave fires were stoked and they were reminded that their responses belonged to men, as did they. They moaned helplessly, shamed in their new slavery and their new unslaked desires.

Over the low barrier of stacked brush, the man in black could observe a game of girl catch commencing. A girl, naked save for slave bells attached from her ankles to her knees of each leg, and a large bell tied to her waist, was led into a circle. She had a slave hood covering her entire head. Such a hood would block sight and to a significant degree, sound. The man in black wondered why she was wearing a hood, when a blindfold was more usual. Five men, all blindfolded stood around the girl. She had red hair, the observer noted. At a shout from the one-legged man a switch touched the bottom of the hooded slave. She started moving, her bells jingling. The blindfolded men tried to locate her by the sound of bells. Every time she stopped moving for more than a few seconds, the switch impelled her to move again. Suddenly with a shout, one of the men groping wildly, secured her wrist. She spun away from him; but ended running straight into the arms of another of her pursuers. He wrapped her up in his arms and lifted the thin and lithe girl from her feet. The one-legged man called, “a winner.”

The winner removed his blindfold, and the other men did likewise. There and there, on the ground of the camp, the winner put her to use. The game would continue, the man in black knew, until four of the five men had caught the girl. The last man would miss out on her use and be the butt of jokes from his companions. The rest of the camp watched and cheered on their favourites. Bets were made on who would next catch the girl. It was a pleasant way to pass the time while waiting for the waters of the stream to recede so the caravan could cross.

**

Scipio Metellus faced the bitter result of defeat. He knew he could expect no mercy at the hands of this man. He raised his eyes and looked at the face of the assassin. The visage was impassive, the eyes cold and dark. No there would be no mercy. Scipio Metellus could hear the sounds of his men playing girl catch with Beaker, one of his slaves. Their jollity increased the bitterness of this moment. Here in his luxurious wagon, surrounded by his treasures of art, his fine food and wines, with his men within easy call there was nothing he could do to stop the assassin from completing his purpose.

“There is no hope for me now, is there?

“No hope at all, it is over for you, there is nothing at all you can do.”

The flat voice of the assassin confirmed the position. Scipio Metellus reached out his hand to the Kaissa board and tipped over his Ubar, as a sign of concession. He removed two silver coins from a pouch in the pocket of his blue and yellow robes and placed them near the man in black. He then took out two more and added them neatly to the stack in front of the assassin.

“And these two for our wager. I really did not think you could get into my camp without being seen.”

“It is my training, the skills of my caste. Much of it is to not be seen moving. It is movement which draws the eye. Standing still, relaxed, the eye will often pass right over someone, especially if standing in front of a tree or something else. I was trained since I was five years old to move smoothly as well, again in a way to not draw the eye or the conscious mind.”

Scipio Metellus asked, “But I thought my security was good; my arrangements excellent.”

“Your men are good, and your arrangements were as good as they could be with numbers you have. You had no time to build a palisade, nor enough eyes to watch for one such as I.”

He went on. “It is immodest to say so, but few even of my caste could have done it. Another game?”

The assassin replaced the pieces on the board, arranging them in their starting positions, He rotated the board, so the Scipio Metellus would this time have the first move. They played on in silence. Quietly, a blonde slave refilled their cups with ka-la-na wine, then withdrew from the wagon. At the end, Scipio Metellus added two more coins to the neat stack in from of the man in black.

“Anders, my friend, I think you have a double, a man so like you it is hard to distinguish you apart. I saw him at the Fair of En’kara, but he was dressed in brown and grey, and I know that your caste does not attend the Fair where violence is forbidden.”

“It was me, not a double. I was there by dispensation by the Initiates. I was pursuing my duties.”

“The Initiates gave you permission to commit violence at the Fair?”

“Violence is forbidden there, but it does happen. My contract was to protect, by violence if necessary, but hopefully non-lethally, a travelling Initiate from Ar. It is not widely known, except by Ubars, Administrators, and such that our caste performs other duties beside Assassination. Who is better as a bodyguard? Or as a scout for armies.”

Scipio interjected. “The other side would call you spies. And cannot Warriors scout in front of armies?”

Anders the Assassin smiled. “Surely they can and they do. Warriors though, wear bright scarlet, they march around with their chests out. We are quieter, less noisy, we draw less attention to ourselves.”

“Who would want to harm an Initiate? The bean-eaters are inoffensive parasites, for the most part.”

“There was an attempt on the road from Ar, I do not know if it was a random group of thieves or not.”

“At the Fair, he met with many high-ranking members of his caste; he also seemed very interested in your doings.”

Scipio laughed. “More interested in my wares more like. Even though the Initiates are supposed to ignore women, I am convinced that not all do so.”

“I believe it was you he was interested in. Does one of your schemes involve the business of the Initiates?”

“No, not at all. Let us play another game.”

This time, Scipio Metellus won, and two silver coins travelled back to reside beside the Slaver. The two men played on. Sometime Scipio won, more often it was the Assassin.

After one of his victories, Scipio pointed out to the Assassin,

“You protected your Ubara too long, Anders. You should have sacrificed her earlier. It is one of your very few weaknesses, your exaggerated reverence for Free Women.”

“Scipio, you know that a proper Free Woman is to be reverenced and protected. That is, if she behaves properly and appropriately. True, some of that sort do fall into the collar by war or misfortune, but in general they should be protected.”

Scipio asked, “If a ‘proper’ Free Woman fell into the collar, would you rescue and free her”

Anders smiled and quoted, “Only a fool frees a slave and I am far from a fool. Let us play again.”

The two old friends, Slaver and Assassin, played on. Anders won the next two games. He divided his winnings into two stacks lest the growing tower of silver topple from height.

“And that is one of your failings, Scipio. You took too long to develop your attack. You wanted to have an elegant and complicated attack; you would have been better suited to a more direct yet adequate and effective assault on my position, rather than wanting to employ a complicated yet elegant scheme.”

The slaver grinned. “But I like my little schemes, they amuse me, I want something that is elegant, not just something that is profitable. I want artistry as well as silver. Mostly it works out.”

“It exposes you to unnecessary danger.”

“Which makes my life worth living.”

The two men smiled. They understood each other very well. They each liked the other as much for his foibles as well as his strengths. They put the board away and dined on little pastries stuffed with meat and fruits, vulo delicately spiced and at the end sipped black wine.

Scipio put down the small delicate cup containing the hot precious liquid.

“I have heard something that concerns you,’ the slaver began. “Is there a reason that Assassins, from your own caste, would be pursuing you?”

“Not anymore. I have slain the last of those members of our guild in Victoria who betrayed my Mentor and split the guild into factions.”

“I never heard the whole story of that. Is it something you can tell?”

The slaver’s delicacy and tact was something that Anders appreciated. Still he hesitated.

“It will not do any harm for you to know, as long as you do not speak of it. The reason it will not do any harm is that I am the last of the Assassins of Victoria.

Ten years ago, the Undergrandmaster of the Assassins of Victoria was plotting against the Grand Master, my mentor. I was the last Assassin personally trained by him. At a feast, the Undergrandmaster attacked and stabbed the Grand Master, my mentor. His partisans attacked those of us loyal to the true Grand Master, or at least not loyal to the Undergrandmaster. Rivalry and faction is a great weakness of Caste.”

“That is known to me,” said Scipio Metellus.

“Yes. That is no great secret.” Anders was grim. I and a few loyalists got my Master, wounded though he was, away to safely. By that time there were very few of us left. Thanks to the Physicians, my Master lived, but he was consumed by bitterness. An internecine war was fought between us, bitter and deadly. Other guilds in other cities were almost drawn in, but that was avoided. I myself killed the arch-traitor, and our fury overcame their numbers. My master died, I believe consumed from the inside by his hated and anger. Soon I was the only loyalist left, and last year I killed the last of the traitors. I am the last Assassin of Victoria living. Not until I die can a new Victoria Guild be established. Yet I cannot add any new members myself, as three Masters of a particular Guild are needed to train and admit new members. When I die, then the Caste can establish a new Guild for Victoria.”

Scipio cleared his throat. “Then perhaps those looking for you want to kill you so a new Guild can be established in Victoria?”

“It is possible. I am not easy to kill though. Now truly I must take my leave. It was good to see you again, my friend.”

The assassin scooped his winnings from the table. “I wish you well, be careful not to get too entangled in your schemes. Keep your plans simple.”

The slaver responded warmly. “Be careful of Free Women my friend, I wish you well.”

But when Scipio Metellus looked up, the Assassin was gone.