'Then there is no hope,' I said.
'No,' said Marcus. 'There is no hope.'
I regarded him.
'Ar died last summer,' he said, ' in the delta.'
I did not respond to him. I feared he was right.
We walked on then, not speaking, with rage, a helpless warrior's fury irrepressibly welling up within me.
A passer-by regarded me, startled, and hurried quickly past.
'You are angry,' said Marcus.
'Are you not angry?' I asked.
'Perhaps,' he said.
We heard then, behind us, running feet, laughter, a tearing of cloth, and a woman's cry. A group of young fellows was running past. We, too, were buffeted but I seized one of the lads by the wrist and, drawing him quickly across and about my body, and over my extended right leg, flung him to the stones, where I held him, my grip shifted now to the palm of his hand, his wrist bent, far back. He screamed with pain. Another fraction of a hort, the least additional pressure, and his wrist would be broken. Almost at the same instant I heard Marcus' sword leave its sheath, warning back the other lads, some six of them. Marcus, I noted, was suddenly, relievedly, in an eager, elated mood. He hoped for their advance. He was quite ready, even eager, for the release of shedding blood. I felt my own nostrils flare as I suddenly, excitedly, drank in the air of Ar, exhilarated, fiercely alive. The six lads backed away. I had little doubt he would have cut them down had they come with the compass of his blade. One of the lads, the leader it seemed, clutched the woman's pouch, torn from her belt, and another held her veil. I looked back tot he woman, who had been struck to her knees. She had drawn her hood about her face, that her features not be exposed publicly. Her eyes were wild in the opening within the hood.
'Do not hurt me!' screamed the lad on his knees.
I paid him little attention. He was going nowhere. At least two of the other lads had knives.
'You are 'Cosians'?' I said to them.
They looked at one another.
Certain gangs of youths, young ruffians, roamed the streets, affecting Cosian garments and haircuts. These were called 'Cosians.' Such things are common where an enemy is feared. They ape the feared enemy, and hope thereby, as though by some alchemy, to obtain his strength and success. Such charades serve, too, as a form of cowardly camouflage. Knowing they have nothing to fear from their own people, they pretend they are like the enemy, perhaps in the hope that then they will have nothing to fear from him, as well. Too, such postures, costumes and mannerisms provide an easy way to attract attention to oneself, a welcome feature to one who may otherwise be unworthy of attention. Similarly, such charades provide, in more serious cases, a way of expressing one's alienation from one's own society, one's repudiation of it, and one's contempt of it. From this point of view then, such things may constitute a comprehensible, if somewhat silly, or ineffectual, from of protest. Too, of course, such costumes can intimidate weaklings, which some would undoubtedly rate as an additional advantage.
'Do not hurt him!' said the leader.
'You are 'Cosians'?' I asked.
'No,' said their leader, 'we are of Ar.'
'I can probably reach at least two of them,' said Marcus.
The six stepped back further, preparing to take to their heels.
'We are only lads!' said the leader, keeping his distance.
I gestured with my head back toward the woman behind us. She had risen to her feet. She still clutched the folds of her hood about her face, to conceal her features.
'Do you think she is some slave girl,' I asked, 'that you may strip her on the street, for your sport?'
'No,' said one of the lads.
'She is a free woman, of your own city,' I said.
'There is no Home Stone in Ar,' he said.
'That is true,' said Marcus.
'Do you make war on boys?' asked the leader.
'Now you are 'boys,' I said.
They were silent.
'Sheath your knives,' I said.
They did so. I was now pleased that they did this. I was not certain, really, of the responses of Marcus. He was not a fellow of Earth, but a Gorean. Too, he was of the Warriors, and his codes, in a situation of this sort, their weapons drawn, entitled him, even encouraged him, to attack, and kill. Moreover I thought he could really reach at least three of them, the first with a thrust, and the second too, each with a slash to the neck, first to the right, the blade withdrawn, and then to the left, before they could adequately break and scatter. Marcus was very fast, and trained. In this way I was encouraging them to protect themselves. They were, after all, as their leader had pointed out, a bit plaintively, and somewhat belatedly, only lads. To be sure this would not mean much to Marcus, who was probably not more than three or four years older than they were.
'And bring forward the pouch and veil.'
'Release Decius,' said the leader.
'I am not bargaining,' I said.
The leader brought forward the pouch and put it down on the stones. He then signaled to the lad with the veil. That fellow then brought the veil forward, too, and put it on the stones. Both of them then backed away. I then released the hand of the other lad, Decius, it seemed, and he scrambled away, holding his wrist.
'Give me my veil!' demanded the woman, coming forward.
I handed it to her.
She turned about, adjusting it.
'Pick up my pouch,' she said, her back to us. 'Give it to me.'
I picked up the pouch. The lads had now withdrawn some forty yards or so away. They were gathered about the fellow whom I had had down on his knees, his arm behind him, the wrist bent. He was still undoubtedly in pain.
'Give me my pouch!' she demanded.
I looked at the group of youths.
The fellow's wrist had not been broken. I had not chosen to do that.
One or another of the lads, from time to time, looked back at us. I did not think they would return, however. To be sure, Marcus might have welcomed that. His sword was still unsheathed. Too, I did not think they would be interested in causing the lady further inconvenience.
I felt the woman's hand snatch at the pouch and my own hand, almost reflexively, closed on the pouch.
Her eyes flashed angrily over the veil, an opaque street veil, now readjusted. 'Give it to me!' she said.
'It was our mistake to interfere,' said Marcus, dryly. He resheathed his blade. 'Give it to me!' said the woman.
'You are rude,' I said.
She tugged at the pouch.
'Are you not grateful?' I asked.
'It demeans a free woman to express gratitude,' she said.
'I do not think so,' I said.
'Are you not paid for your work?' she asked.
'Are you not grateful? I asked.
'I am not a slave!' she asked.
'Are you not grateful?' I asked, again.
'Yes,' she said. 'I am grateful! Now, give it to me!'
'Ah,' I said. 'Perhaps you are a slave.'
'No!' she said.
'What do you think of this free woman?' I asked Marcus.
