The Chieftain Read online

  “The emperor is under pressure from many quarters to ponder an edict of universal citizenship,” said the young naval officer.

  “That would be a military mistake of capital importance,” said the captain.

  “Assuredly,” said the young officer.

  As these allusions might not be clear I shall mention that citizenship within the empire was a prized possession. And more was involved, considerably more, than matters of prestige or social standing. Without it, for example, one could be denied the right to hold land, denied the right to bring legal actions, denied the right to legal representation in court, denied the right to make wills, to bequeath property, and such. Careers, too, and advancement within them, often depended on citizenship. Employment in the vast bureaucracy of the civil service, for example, required citizenship. Without citizenship one was, in certain respects, even if free, little more than an animal. It was not merely that certain offices, certain forms of political power, were closed to one, but that one was, in a sense, not being a citizen, not really a member of the community. One was, in effect, without standing before the law. It was only gradually, and over a period of centuries, even thousands of years, that citizenship had become more widely available. In the beginning it extended only to a given class on the first Telnarian world; it spread later to other classes on that world, and then to the population of that world, and then, in turn, similarly, gradually, to the other Telnarian worlds; then, of course, later, it began to spread to certain classes on the provincial worlds, and so on. The apprehension of the young officer and the captain had to do with the military as a route to citizenship. The enlistment for both the regular military and for the auxiliaries was for twenty years, followed by a pension. Sons commonly followed the craft of their fathers. On worlds where the bindings had taken place this was required, the sons of soldiers being required to be soldiers, and so on. A fellow who enlisted in the regular military, the regular forces, received citizenship after his first year of service; a fellow who enlisted in the auxiliaries received it at the end of nine years. The value of citizenship was such that noncitizens with energy and ambition often seized upon the military as a route to the prize of citizenship, which, of course, descended to their children. This policy provided the regular military, and, to a lesser extent, the auxiliaries, with a large pool of capable, eager recruits on which they could draw. Two further observations are in order. Men normally understand the value of, and respect, what has cost them much time and labor. One who has literally been forced to earn his citizenship has learned its value, and never thereafter takes it lightly. Similarly, such men tend to remain loyal to the empire. They make good citizens. The fear of the young officer and the captain is now clear: If citizenship were universally extended throughout the empire, this would remove one of the major enticements for men of quality to enter military service. Too, of course, obviously the universal extension of citizenship throughout the empire would cheapen it, and, in effect trivialize it. Those who do not care to earn their citizenship, of course, are muchly in favor of receiving it as free gift, like bread and entertainment in the cities. The agitation, and the riotous nature, of such elements constituted a force which could be exploited, of course, in a variety of ways by those politically adept at such matters. “Power to the people,” so to speak, is always a popular slogan with those who have plans for putting the people to their own purposes. We can begin to understand, then, something of the factionalisms involved in such matters, and certain of the pressures to which the emperor and senate were sure to be subject.

  The barbarian, Ortog, growling with rage, more like a beast than a man, attempted to struggle to his feet, but was forced down again, on his knees. His eyes roved the tiers balefully. Women shrank back.

  “Fear not, gentle ladies,” said Pulendius, “for you are safe from such monsters.”

  The barbarian looked down, and fought the chains.

  A ripple of uneasiness coursed among women in the tiers.

  “Do not fear such brutes, beautiful, gentle ladies,” said Pulendius. “The empire will protect you.”

  The barbarian suddenly, unexpectedly, cried out with rage, and, half rising, tore at the chains.

  Some women in the stands cried out in fear.

  The guards forced the barbarian once more to his knees.

  “Do not be alarmed, beautiful, gentle ladies,” said Pulendius. “The empire, invincible and eternal, stands between you and such beasts.”

  But there remained fear in the eyes of more than one. And here and there small, delicate hands fluttered at trembling breasts.

  “He is quite helpless,” said Pulendius. “He is well chained, as is appropriate for such brutes.”

  Again the barbarian cried out with rage, and attempted once more to rise to his feet.

  A woman, startled, screamed.

  Then the barbarian, sullen, his wrists bleeding, forced once more to his knees, ceased to tear at the chains.

  “You see he is quite helpless,” said Pulendius. “And he knows himself such.”

  A sound of relief escaped several in the stands.

  “Behold him, on his knees, as such should be, before the empire.”

  There was laughter in the stands.

  Suddenly again, in fury, the barbarian strove to rise to his feet.

  At a sign from the captain the two guards, with blows, brought the barbarian again to his knees.

  Blood streamed about his head.

  “An admirably dangerous man,” said the young naval officer, musingly.

  “Yes, milord,” said the captain.

  Again the barbarian tried to rise. This time, with the nod of the captain observed, Pulendius gestured for two of the gladiators, one of the pairs with blunted spears, to rush forward. They did so, and struck the kneeling, chained figure several times, brutally, with the shafts of their implements. He was then bent over, on his knees, in the bloody sand.

  When the barbarian straightened his body he, bloodied head up, sand clinging to his face and beard, regarded the captain and the young officer. In his eyes there was smoldering hatred. The young officer, he with the cords of the blood at his left shoulder, met the gaze calmly. The barbarian then looked about the tiers. Suddenly, his gaze stopped. He regarded the gladiator near the opening of the tiers, to his left, as he knelt, with a glance that was both keen, and, to some extent, of awe. This puzzled the gladiator, for he had never seen the barbarian before. After all, he was a fighter, and, before that, a mere peasant from a festung village, that of Sim Giadini, far away. The fascination of the prisoner with the features of the gladiator was noted by the young officer, who, himself, turned and regarded the gladiator. He saw nothing unusual in his features, nothing to warrant the scrutiny, apparently a fascinated, almost an unbelieving regard, of the barbarian. Then the young officer, curious, turned, again, to the gladiator. “Do you know him?” he asked.

  “No, milord,” said the gladiator.

  “You have not met before?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” said the gladiator.

  “Let the exhibition begin!” cried Pulendius, and called forth the first pair of gladiators, one of the two pairs with wooden swords. In the exhibition some rudiments of swordsmanship were demonstrated, and, in a few minutes, Pulendius himself adjudicated a mock match, one in which blows were drawn. The second pair demonstrated certain techniques of the spear, and then, as had the first, engaged in a mock match, which Pulendius again adjudicated, and expertly. The third match was again between a pair with wooden swords, only the swords were this time not the surrogates of the common wicked, short blade of the arena, but rather of the long sword, wielded with two hands, a weapon favored by certain barbarian peoples. The last exhibition was between the last pair of gladiators, also armed with spears, these formed however to resemble the long, double-headed spears of Kiros, a world in the Lidanian system. Both ends of the shaft were painted red, indicating a scoring surface. It was with these implements that the barbarian had bee
n beaten. Pulendius, in his expert commentary, mentioned various facts about diverse weapons, their strengths and weaknesses, the diverse techniques of their employment, and such. There is, of course, a lore and history of weaponry, and weapons of diverse types, like musical instruments, tend to be the result of a long period of refinement and development. And the profession of arms, like other professions, has its complexity, and its masters. Those who do not understand, or appreciate, the expertise, the effort, the long hours of practice, the days and nights of thought involved, are naive, and in an area where naiveté can be dangerous. The sport of arms is an intricate and demanding one. Too, it is a quite serious one. Its games are not such as may be lightly lost.

  From time to time the glance of the young naval officer passed musingly, thoughtfully, from the barbarian to the gladiator who crouched, intent on the exercises, near the entrance to the tiers.

  The ensign pondered, curiously, what he had earlier noted, the reaction of the barbarian upon seeing the gladiator. But the gladiator was only a paid minion of Pulendius, a common sort. Too, it was extremely unlikely their paths had crossed.

  The barbarian did not note the interest of the young officer, nor did the gladiator. The barbarian, bloodied, chained, doubtless sick from his beating, continued to regard the gladiator, whom he viewed, the officer noted, with a sort of wonder, of hostility, even of apprehension. The gladiator, on the other hand, was intent on the matches, perhaps noting how one man feinted, how another moved, how another communicated his intentions by pressing the ball of his foot into the sand, firmly, just before a thrust.

  “Score!” called Pulendius, slapping one of the last fighters on the back. That fighter stood over the prostrate form of the other, the blunt, red-painted end of the mock spear but an inch from his throat. Then the victor stepped back, and, sweating, grinning, lifted his spear, turning, before the crowd. The other fellow scrambled up from the sand, retrieved his broken weapon, and exited.

  There was applause.

  “And now,” called Pulendius, “for the climax of the evening’s entertainment!”

  The small crowd on the tiers leaned forward.

  Pulendius turned dramatically toward the barbarian. “Stand,” said Pulendius.

  The barbarian, with some difficulty, rose to his feet. He then stood there, a little unsteadily, in the sand.

  “Release him!” said Pulendius, pointing dramatically to the barbarian.

  The barbarian himself did not seem surprised at this development.

  “No!” cried a woman from the stands, frightened.

  “Keep him chained!” cried another.

  But, to the apprehension of many in the stands, and, we suspect, not merely of the women, one of the guards bent down, and undid the locks on the shackles which fettered the ankles of the barbarian.

  “You see this pistol, and you know what it can do?” said one of the guards, brandishing it before the barbarian.

  The barbarian did not deign to respond. But doubtless he was only too familiar with such devices, or devices of that sort.

  “Undo the manacles,” said Pulendius.

  “No!” cried a woman.

  But the guard who had attended to the shackles, and doubtless understood what was expected of him, and the projected course of events, unlocked the manacles. The barbarian then stood there, free, but within the scope of the fire pistols, indeed, at point-blank range.

  “We shall see what stuff these fellows are made of,” said Pulendius.

  “He is not to reach Miton,” said the minor officer to the woman in the pantsuit.

  The woman in the pantsuit looked at the minor officer reproachfully.

  “He will, of course,” said the minor officer, “have his chance for life.”

  “Who will you fight?” asked Pulendius.

  The barbarian turned toward the young naval officer, and pointed to him. “He,” he said.

  “Alas, no!” cried Pulendius, in dismay.

  “They will put the barbarian against trained men, professional killers, gladiators?” said the woman in the pantsuit angrily to the minor officer.

  “He could always be nailed to a public gate on Miton, or starved to death in a cage, thence to be thrown into a garbage pit,” said the officer.

  “Is this how the empire deals with its foes?” she asked.

  “We deal with barbarians,” said the officer, “as they deal with us, and with one another.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “You do not know the nature of these creatures,” said the officer. “They must be dealt with mercilessly.”

  “You speak as though we might be at war,” said the woman.

  “We are always at war,” said the officer.

  The woman looked at him, incredulously.

  “We have exterminated worlds of such creatures,” said the officer. “But energies become precious, and it seems there are always more.”

  ” ‘War’?” asked the woman.

  “War,” said the officer.

  “I did not know,” she said.

  “Such things occur mostly at the borders,” he said.

  “Is the empire not expanding?” asked the woman.

  “The empire has contracted its borders, for defensive purposes,” said the officer.

  There might then have seemed a glimmer of fear in the woman’s eyes.

  “It is a strategically sound move,” said the officer. “Do not fear. There is no danger. After a respite the empire will expand once more.”

  “Excellent!” she said.

  “Let us enjoy the show,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “What weapons will you choose?” inquired Pulendius of the barbarian.

  “Doubtless you have some in mind,” said the barbarian, looking about himself.

  Pulendius then mentioned some exotic weapons, that only fighters in exotic weaponry would be practiced with, the knife buckler of Ambos, the Kurasian darts, the Loranian torch, such things.

  “Perhaps, then,” said Pulendius, “the net and trident, the short sword and buckler?”

  “I do not know them,” said Ortog, prince of the Drisriaks, king of the Ortungen.

  He seemed for a moment, then, suddenly, in spite of his rather proud mien, his folded arms, and such, to sway a little. He caught his balance.

  “He seems weak,” said the woman sitting beside the minor officer.

  “He has not been overly fed,” said the minor officer.

  “You have starved him, to weaken him?” she said.

  “The line would not wish to have to compensate Pulendius for the loss of a man,” said the officer.

  “I have chosen my weapons,” said the barbarian.

  “And what are they?” asked Pulendius.

  “These,” said the barbarian, lifting his hands.

  Pulendius laughed.

  But then he looked to the young naval officer, who lifted a hand, acceding to the barbarian’s choice.

  “Hinak!” called Pulendius.

  One of the two fellows who had given the exhibition with the two-headed spears of Kiros, or the semblance of such, stepped forward. It was he who had been defeated in the mock match.

  “Now, you have an opportunity to redeem yourself, Hinak,” said Pulendius.

  But Hinak did not seem amused.

  Rather he was measuring the barbarian.

  “And now, captain,” said Pulendius, “may we not add some spice to the contest?”

  The captain signaled to two of his men, who had been standing rather back in the shadows, between the tiers.

  They retreated behind the tiers and then, after a moment, came out again. They carried what was, in effect, a sturdy metal pipe, about five feet in length, about four inches in thickness. Fixed on it were two rings, rather toward one end, one above the other, each about four inches in diameter. One of the sailors, then, with his foot, brushed sand away from a metal cap. He then removed this cap and put it to one side, outside the perimeter of th
e small arena. Revealed then, hitherto concealed by the sand and cap, was a cylindrical aperture. They set the postlike stake into this aperture, or socket, which was just within the wooden ring of the tiny arena, and to the left of the captain’s party. It sank about two feet into the socket. From the sound the bottom of the socket was metal. The two rings fastened to the object clinked against its side. They secured this object in place with a bolt and lock, and put the sand back about its shaft.

  The two men then went back again, behind the tiers.

  Those in the tiers looked upon the pipe, with its rings, locked in place, in the sand.

  One of the men in the audience slapped his knee.

  The heart of the officer of the court began to pound madly.

  In a moment she gasped, both in horror and protest, for the girl, Janina, by a chain and collar, she whose exquisiteness she had so envied the night before, was half led, half dragged into the tiny arena. From her right wrist, which was enclosed in a metal cuff, there dangled, on a short chain, another cuff, but one which was open. She was put down kneeling, behind the stake. The sailor who had not led her in took the free cuff through the lower of the two rings on the pipe, placed it about her left wrist and snapped it shut. She was then handcuffed to the pipe. Almost at the same time the other sailor locked the free end of the collar and chain about the higher ring on the stake. Janina was then fastened to the stake in two fashions, by the handcuffs and by the chain on her neck. Keys, tied together on a small cord, presumably to these devices, were laid on the surface of the wooden ring circling the sand, before the young naval officer.

  “See how she is dressed!” exclaimed the woman in the pant-suit.

  “That is called a keb ,” said the minor officer.

  The officer of the court felt weak.

  “You would think,” said the woman in the pantsuit, “that she would at least have been permitted some form of slave tunic.”

  “But she is at the stake,” said the minor officer.

  There are many varieties of slave tunics. They are commonly light, sleeveless, quite short, one-piece garments, open from the hem to the waist on both sides, thus scarcely a tunic, no more, really, than a scandalously brief, revealing rag.