Nevertheless, the ceiling-high bronze mirror this morning showed him a man who looked like a hero. Even if he said so himself. At six feet two inches, he was the tallest man in Opar. This was due to his Klemsaasa ancestors and, no doubt, to the gods who had been his forefathers—although, now that he thought of it, there were few men of the upper classes in Opar, or in the empire itself, who could not claim from one to a score of gods as ancestors. All his foremothers had, as was their holy duty, resided in a house of god for a month as a temple prostitute. Though theoretically they must accept any male worshiper, in practice they had ensured that only a king, a hero, a great merchant or soldier, or a numatenu was admitted to their cubicle. The children of these unions, if any, were supposedly fathered by the particular god of the temple. Hadon could recite the names of twelve gods, not to mention two score of godlings, who had been many times his ancestors. Theoretically, that is. Few educated people believed that conception was due to the intervention of divine Kho Herself. It was admitted by all but the most die-hard conservatives that the human male himself was responsible for pregnancy. But this made, in theory, no difference. The male’s body was taken over by the god of the temple during the holy coupling, and the child was the god’s, not that of the man. The man was a mere vessel.
Hadon was not a temple child. His oldest brother, his mother’s first child, had been fathered by the great Resu himself. But Resu had not favored him. He had died at three of a fever, the first of seven brothers and sisters to go as children to the arms of Sisisken, grim ruler of the shadow world.
Hadon’s curly red-bronze hair indicated that the Flaming God was his grandfather. His large hazel eyes showed that he was of Klemsaasa stock. At least, they were supposed to do so, though he had observed that many of the old Khoklem stock had hazel or even blue and gray eyes. His features, which he immodestly admitted were exceptionally handsome, were those of the people who had come down from the Saasares mountains eight hundred and sixty-four years ago and seized the city of Khokarsa. His forehead was high and narrow, though swelling at the corners. His ears were small and close to his head and slightly pointed at the tips. A prominent supraorbital ridge was mounted by thick eyebrows which almost joined. His nose, though straight, was not as long as most of those supposed to be descended from the Klemsaasa. Just as well, since many also had beaked noses. And his nostrils were more flaring than the Klemsaasa’s. No doubt this was due to his Khoklem ancestry. But then, no one was pure-blooded, however much the Klemsaasa denied being mixed with the shorter, darker, heavier-bodied, snub-nosed, straight-haired aborigines.
To complete the roster of pleasing features, he had a short upper lip, full but not thick lips, and a chin strong and deeply clefted.
His body was, he told himself in his more critical moments, too lean. Still, his shoulders were very broad and heavy. His was the physique of the long-distance runner, though he had never been beaten in the dashes. His legs were extraordinarily long, and, so were his arms. The former gave him his speed, and the latter were a great advantage in swordsmanship. Indeed, they were so long that he had often been accused of having a great-ape grandfather.
Hadon thought of the many fights he had had as a child because of this insult and the many more because his playmates had jeered at his father’s missing arm and lowly status. But most of the jeerers admired and envied him now. Only Hewako among them had succeeded in becoming a contestant from Opar. Hewako still made remarks about long-armed men with monkey ancestors and about floors that needed sweeping. But he always looked away from Hadon when he said this, and he never mentioned names. So Hadon had determined to ignore him until they got to the Games. Then he would get his revenge. Of course, realistically, Hewako might be the one to get revenge. But Hadon preferred not to think about that possibility.
He combed and brushed his shoulder-length hair and shaved with one of the recently introduced iron razors. An hour later, wearing only a loincloth and a rosary of electrum beads, he was jogging along the dirt road that paralleled the shoreline for many miles. Behind him ran Taro and the three substitutes. They passed many farms where millet and sorghum were grown and many pigs and goats were raised. The farmers and their wives, clad only in conical straw hats and animal-skin loincloths, straightened from their labors to stare at them. Seeing the red-dyed hawk feather tied to the hair above the right ear of each, the mark of a Great Gamester, the farmers bowed.
Hadon felt good again. His legs were getting the stretching they needed, and his wind was not as weak as he had thought it would be after the long journey. He wasn’t as strong as he would have liked to be, but Klyhy had not let him sleep until an hour before dawn. Not that he minded.
When the four, sweating and blowing, returned to the docks, they saw Hewako working out with weights. He scowled at them, and he did not offer to join them in throwing javelins or slinging stones. Instead, he ran off to do his roadwork alone. Hadon shouted after him, “The farmers’ daughters had better look out!” but Hewako ignored him. Hadon was referring to Hewako’s rejection by a priestess. When he had bruised her with a too passionate hand, she had kicked him out—literally. Perhaps he had then gone to the totem hall of the oarsmen, the Gokako. They practiced group marriage and were free with their wives, who were not above taking money for the use of their bodies. But it would have been socially demeaning for Hewako to join them. And if some drunken Gokako happened to be in a bad mood, it could be dangerous. Once Hewako entered the hall, he would leave behind him any protection of the law. Should a Gokako stick a knife in him, that was the end of the matter. Besides which, a man would have to be hard up to bed one of those short, squat, and ugly women.
The others laughed at Hadon’s remark and resumed their exercises. They ended with a wooden-sword fight while wearing helmets, cuirasses, gloves, and armguards of leather. Hadon beat them all, though he did get a nasty whack across his forearm from Taro. Taro was almost as tall as Hadon, and more muscular. And he was, Hadon reflected, a splendid acrobat and a great javelineer, one who consistently beat him when throwing at a target. He could still be in the Games while Hadon was lying on a granite slab.
The thought that they might have to try to kill each other saddened him. They were lifelong friends, but they would soon be trying to shed each other’s blood. All for the glory of being the husband of the queen of Khokarsa.
Three more days passed. The cargoes were loaded on the morning of the second day, but the captain of the merchant vessels wished to wait until the next day. And that day had dawned, a lucky day, the first sea day of the month of Piqabes, goddess of the sea, in the Year of the Green Parrot. There was no more propitious day for starting a sea voyage unless it was in the Year of the Fish Eagle. But that would not occur for seven more years.
The day was bright and cloudless. The wind was blowing from the southwest, and the waves were not high. The sacrifices had been made, a heron flew across the ships from the right (a very good omen), and everybody filed aboard in a good mood. A drunken sailor fell off a gangplank and had to be fished out, but the fleet’s priestess, Simari, said that that wasn’t a bad omen.
The army band on shore played a song in honor of Piqabes; their drums, flutes, harps, xylophones, marimbas, and gongs boomed, shrilled, twanged, tinkled, rattled, and clanged in a similitude of rhythm and melody. Simari, the last aboard, danced around and around, whirling a booming bullroarer at the end of a cord. A tall fat woman, she wore a fish-head mask and, over her pubes, the stuffed tail of a fish. On one large breast was painted a giant sea turtle and on the other a sea otter; a crocodile and a hippo were painted above and below her navel, which was circled with blue. Hadon and Taro waved at Klyhy and Taro’s lover, the beautiful Rigo. The gangplanks were swung off, and the oarsmen dipped their blades in the shallow water and pulled. Simari, panting behind her mask, went to the prow of the ship, just above the huge bronze ram, and chanted while she poured out a libation of the best Saasares wine into the sea. The captain, Bhaseko, invited the priestess,
the first mate, and the future heroes to the poop deck for a cup of wine. Hadon could not refuse this, but he drank no more than one cup. His fellows did not feel so restrained.
Hadon felt hot in his bronze helmet and cuirass, but presently the wind became stronger and cooled him. The captain began bellowing orders. The great purple sail of the only mast, placed near the bow, was hoisted. Simari went into her cabin, set forward of the captain’s on the poop deck, to change and to wash off the paint. The others went down to the main deck and walked to the foredeck, where their quarters were in a cabin. Its roof was only two feet above the deck; they had to go down into a small room with bunks. The portholes were open except in time of storm or cold, and then they were closed with heavy wooden shutters.
Hadon stored his armor and his numatenu sword and a small chest of belongings under his bunk. Below him rose the grunting and squealing of pigs and the bleating of goats. The odor that rose from the pens was something that would have to be endured for a long time.
He went back out on deck with Taro, whose wine-flushed face was almost as red as his hair. By now the fleet was in formation, the merchant ships, the bireme, and two uniremes forming a V in the center. Ahead were two uniremes, on each side was a bireme, and behind were two uniremes. The fish-eagle-head standard of the Khokarsan navy fluttered from the mast tops of each of their escort. The gong of the coxswain clanged, the oars chunked into the sea and pulled out dripping, the oarsmen grunted and sweated and stank of sweat and millet beer, the officers shouted orders, the animals squealed and bleated, the pet fish-eagle of the priestess screamed down from the mainmast, the green waters rolled into the muddy beaches a mile off, and they were well on their way.
Their ship, the Semsin, was a long, narrow vessel with two tiers of oarsmen. The main deck ran from the poop deck to the foredeck, both of which were six feet above the main deck. Along both sides of the main deck were open portions. The heads of the oarsmen were just level with the main deck. Each tier had twelve oars on a side, two men at an oar. The lower tier was so close to the upper that the top oarsmen could touch the heads of the lower with their feet if they wished to. Below the lower tier was the deck where the cargo, the supplies, and the animals were kept. Also on this deck was the sick bay and a room where the wounded were treated during a battle.
The galley carried two catapults, one on each of the two highest decks.
The Semsin was steered by a rudder, which had recently been invented; two sturdy sailors manned the rudder handle.
The sailors, oarsmen, and marines slept on the deck or in the hold.
The quarters for the ship’s officer were forward of the cabin that the contestants shared. The galley was forward of the priestess’s cabin on the poop deck. Though it had a breezeway, smoke from the stone fireplace often filled the priestess’s and captain’s cabins unless the wind happened to be favorable.
Hadon had made one trip before, when his parents had gone to Khokarsa to live for two years, and he wasn’t looking forward to this trip.
Five days later, they passed rugged and sheer cliffs. Halfway up one was a huge and dark hole, the entrance to the caves in which Hadon and his cousin Kwasin had lived with their uncle, Phimeth. Hadon purchased and sacrificed a small boar and prayed that the ghost of his uncle would find the blood pleasing.
The days and nights passed as best they could under the conditions. Bored and wishing to get more exercise, Hadon asked the captain if he could help row. The captain replied that this would be socially degrading. Hadon said that his companions would share the oar with him. He wouldn’t be working alongside a common fellow. Besides, this was for exercise, not pay, which took it out of the category of manual labor.
The others were not eager for the task, but Hadon explained that if they did not row, they might be in a weakened condition when they arrived at their destination. After the first half-hour at the oar, Hadon wished that he had never thought of the idea. His palms were rubbed raw and bloody, and he was sure that his back was going to snap. On the other hand, he now knew that he was not in such excellent condition as he had thought. He gritted his teeth and rowed, staring at the broad, hairy, sweating back and bull neck of Hewako, working at the oar ahead of him. Hewako was the most powerful man Hadon had ever seen, but evidently he was hurting. Hewako swore for fifteen minutes, then quit to preserve his lungs. Hadon grinned through his pain and weariness and vowed that he would not give up before Hewako. He did, but only because his nerveless hands could no longer grasp the oars. Hewako fell over about three minutes later.
The oarsmen, all rude and impolite fellows, laughed at them. They asked if they were the type of heroes being sent to the Games nowadays. Now, in the old times… Too exhausted even to feel shame, Hadon staggered off to his bunk. For the first time, the uproar of the beasts below did not keep him awake.
He was back at the oar next day, though he had never hated to do anything so much. By the time they sighted the red city of Sakawuru on top of the black cliffs, he was able to row two hours at a stretch, three times a day. His hands were building up a heavy callus, and his chest and arms seemed to have added an inch. He worried that this type of labor might interfere with his swordsmanship, but he had to have the exercise. Besides, if he quit, he would be mocked by the rowers.
At the red-granite city of Sakawuru, the ships resupplied, and the crew was given four days’ liberty. Hadon spent his time either touring or running along the dirt roads outside the city. He felt tempted to drink the cool beer available in the hall of the Ant Totem, but he decided not to. Hewako apparently fell prey to his great thirst. Hadon saw him once staggering out of the hall of the Leopard Totem.
The fleet set out again. The lookouts in the crow’s nests were still alert for pirates, though the chances for encountering them were less than in the waters just crossed. They stopped at the city of Wentisuh for one day to disembark two sick sailors and hire replacements, Hadon had never been in Wentisuh, so he and Taro wandered its narrow, crooked streets, listening to the exotic tongue of the farmers in the markets and the common citizen. Hadon was a superb linguist, and in Opar he had taken the trouble to gain some fluency in Siwudawa from the family of a Wentisuh merchant. These people were a strange one, noisy and volatile among themselves, grim and silent when strangers were among them. Their skin was a brownish-yellow. Their hair was coarse and straight and black. Their noses were long, thin, and beaked, and many had a slight fold of skin in the inner corners of their eyes. Though they worshiped Kho and Resu, they had many aboriginal deities, the most prominent being Siwudawa, a parrot-headed androgyne.
The fleet left Wentisuh and traveled in a straight line for the city of Kethna. The wind changed direction then, and the sails were hauled down. Clouds, the first of the rainy season, covered the face of Resu; the seas became choppy; the rowers had to work twice as hard to maintain the same speed; the shifts were changed to an hour apiece. Then the rains struck. Simari sacrificed another pig to Piqabes. The storm, lasting for one day and night, was hell for Hadon. He got seasick and spent most of his time on the railing giving to the sea the pork that he had eaten that morning. Hewako whooped with laughter at the sight, but in half an hour he was hanging on the railing by Hadon’s side.
Hadon had recovered by the time Kethna appeared, but he swore that he would never again consider the navy as a career. Kethna was a city of high white-stoned walls and black towers and domes, perched on a cliff five hundred feet above its port. Kethna was fifty miles from the Strait of Keth, where it kept a large fleet. Its rulers paid tribute to Khokarsa, but it ran local maritime affairs with a high hand. Every merchant ship that passed through the strait had to pay a heavy tax for the privilege. Nor did Kethna officials bother to hide their arrogance. They treated the Khokarsan fleet as if it came from a conquered province.
“If our king would quit occupying himself with the building of that great tower,” the captain said, “and pay more attention to business, he’d teach the Kethnans a bloody lesson. They n
eed taking down in the worst way. It doesn’t make much sense for Kethna to send tribute to Minruth with one hand and take away from him with the other. Why should we pay a tax to these hyenas?”
Why indeed? Haddon thought. But he had more important matters to consider. Hewako’s veiled taunts and his sneaky tricks were about to set Hadon afire. He had even thought about complaining to the priestess so she would impose a ban of silence between him and Hewako. He felt, however, that this would be unmanly, even if it was the rational way out. He couldn’t challenge Hewako to a duel, because fighting between contestants for the Great Games was forbidden. This was a wise rule, since so many contestants in the old days had picked fights in order to eliminate competitors before the Games started. Even if this rule had not existed, the challenged had the right to pick the weapons, and Hewako was not fool enough to choose swords. He would want a barehanded battle, and Hadon knew that he would lose that. Of course, he might be wrestling with Hewako at the Games, but that event was for points only.
Then, the night before they were due to arrive at the strait, Hadon awoke to find himself smeared with pig dung. He sat quietly in his fury, thought, and then went outside to dip a bucket into the sea and wash himself off. On returning, he looked at Hewako. The hippopotamus-like fellow seemed to be sleeping. He certainly was snoring, but Hadon believed that he was just pretending, that he was laughing inside himself. He forced himself to lie down, and after a while he fell asleep.
He was, however, up and about before any of his bunk-mates. He went into the galley, found that the cooks were down in the hold, and ate a quick breakfast of bread, hard-boiled duck eggs, and cold okra soup. Then, taking a bucket, he disappeared into the hold. He emerged while the drums for awakening the morning shift were beating. He took all of his cabinmates aside except Hewako and spoke quietly but fiercely to them. They sniggered and promised silence and cooperation. Two of them agreed to delay Hewako a minute or so by “accidentally” spilling hot soup on him. None of them liked the surly, arrogant man. Besides, they thought it only fair that Hadon pay Hewako back in kind.