"That way," said a soldier.
"You have not yet heard my entire poem," said Hurtha.
"True," I admitted, reluctantly.
Then, for several Ehn, he altering lines here and there, with a liberal abandon, subjecting the piece, it seemed, to immediate and amazing revisions, rampant and wholesale, doubtless justified by certain disputable if not heinous exploitations of poetic license, generously construed, I was regaled by Hurtha's latest creation.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"I have never experienced anything just like it," I admitted.
"Really," he asked, eagerly.
"Yes," I said, "except of course, certain of your other poems."
"Of course," he said. "Do you think it will become immortal?"
"It is hard to say," I said. "Are you worried about it?"
"Somewhat," he said.
"Why?" I inquired.
"Because it is dedicated to you, my friend," he said. "I do not understand," I said.
"Suppose it becomes immortal," he said.
"Yes?" I said.
"It well might do so," he said, "for it is a genuine Hurtha."
"Yes?" I said.
"Then you might be remembered in history as being no more than a despicable, loathsome, notorious, sleepyhead."
"I see your point," I admitted.
"And even if that should be true," he said, "you are still my dear friend, in spite of all, and I simply could not bring myself to do that to you. What am I to do?"
"Dedicate it to some mythical fellow," I said, "someone you just made up." "A splendid suggestion!" cried Hurtha. He then turned to one of our fellow refugees. "Excuse me, Sir," he said, "but what is your name?"
"Gnieus Sorissius, of Brundisium," he said.
"Thank you, Sir," said Hurtha. He then turned back to me. "I shall dedicate the poem to Gnieus Sorissius, of Brundisium."
"What?" asked Gnieus Sorissius, of that coastal city.
"Rejoice," said Hurtha to him. "You may now die, for you have just become immortal."
"What?" asked Gnieus Sorissius, somewhat alarmed. Hurtha was, after all, carrying a large ax.
"But what if you discard your poem," I asked, "feeling as you often do, that it may not be up to your incredible standards, or what if you should be struck heavily upon the head, as I could conceive happening, sometimes more readily than others, and simply forget it?"
"I see your point," said Hurtha, gravely. "I would then be denying poor Gnieus his place in history."
"Of course," I said. "It is not fair to make him so dependent on you." "Yes," said Hurtha.
"Suppose, thinking himself immortal," I said, "he then lives recklessly, fearing nothing, takes unwise risks gleefully and perhaps suffers unfortunate and grievous consequences?" "I had not thought of that," admitted Hurtha.
"You might feel terribly responsible," I said.
"Yes," said Hurtha. "I am a sensitive fellow."
"Too, he might then go through life uneasily, not knowing whether you had kept the poem not, and thus not knowing whether he was still immortal or not." "True," moaned Hurtha. "What am I to do?"
"Is this that poem about fellows who sleep late," asked Gnieus, "that one you have been carrying on about for past ten Ehn?"
"Yes," said Hurtha.
"Well," said Gnieus, "it is my habit to arise each morning by the fourth Ahn." "The fourth Ahn?" cried Hurtha, aghast. "That is rather early."
"In my opinion," snapped the fellow, who seemed in a rather disagreeable mood, perhaps still somewhat disgruntled at having been turned out of Torcadino with little more than the clothes on his back, "folks who remain longer in the furs are no better than lazy sleen."
"Oh," said Hurtha. He shuddered.
"Yes," said the fellow.
"I am afraid I cannot dedicate my poem to you," said Hurtha. "You get up just too early."
"It is just as well," said Gnieus, "for I charge a fee for having poems dedicated to me."
"What?" cried Hurtha.
I decided I liked Gnieus. He was not a bad fellow, even for coming from Brundisium.
"A silver tarsk," snapped Gnieus.
"That is very expensive," said Hurtha.
"That is what I charge," said the fellow.
"Do we have a silver tarsk?" asked Hurtha.
"You would sell your priceless dedications, for mere money?" I asked.
"Never!" cried Hurtha, resolved.
That was a close one. I had saved a silver tarsk, or its equivalent in smaller coins.
Gnieus Sorissius had now taken his leave. "What a scoundrel," growled Hurtha, looking after him.
"Indeed," I admitted. I wished that I had managed to handle my large friend as neatly as Gnieus Sorissius, even if he was from Brundisium. Perhaps he had had dealings with Alar poets before. Could that be?
"Perhaps I shall have to dedicate the poem to you, after all," said Hurtha. "We have now come to the edge of the camp," I said.
We paused, to look back. We were on a slight slope.
"How beautiful it is," said Boabissia.
The camp was a splendid sight. Torcadino was in the distance.
"I think," said Hurtha, looking back, "I shall compose a poem, a mood piece." "What about the poem about fellows who sleep late?" I asked.
"I think I shall discard it," he said. "The subject is trivial, and perhaps unworthy of my powers. Do you mind, much?"
"No," I said.
"Good fellow," said Hurtha.
"That also solves your problem about the dedication," I said.
"It does, doesn't it," he said.
"Yes," I said.
"Since I have saved us a silver tarsk then," he said, "perhaps you would be so good as to divide a silver tarsk with me, sharing and sharing alike, as always." "Very well," I said. Alars are not always adept at mathematics, but many of them are large, fearsome fellows.
"Thank you," said Hurtha.
"Think nothing of it," I said. "How often can one save a tarsk so adroitly? Had there been two fellows we might have saved two tarsks."
"No," said Hurtha. "For there was only one dedication."
"You are right of course," I said.
"Let us go," said Hurtha.
"Wait just a moment," I said.
"Yes?" he said. "Do you notice anything unusual about the camp?" I asked.
"It is very beautiful," said Hurtha, "as was observed even by Boabissia, who is only a female."
"Something else," I said.
"What?" he asked.
"We are beyond the camp," I said.
"Yes?" he said.
"There is no contravallation here," I said, "no defending, outer ditches, nothing to protect the camp against outside attack."
"Interesting," said Hurtha.
"The Cosians," I said, "apparently do not fear the arrival of a relieving force from Ar."
"That seems very strange, does it not?" asked Hurtha.
"I find it very troubling," I said. "I do not understand it. It is simply, if nothing else, a matter of routine military precaution."
"How can they be so sure that Ar will not come to the relief of Torcadino?" asked Hurtha.
"I do not know," I said. I found this detail, however, the absence of external contravallation, like may others in the past weeks, disturbing. It seemed to be a new military anomaly. It, like several of the other things, such as the absence of fortified camps and defended supply trains, seemed inexplicable, and cumulatively now, alarmingly so.
"What can explain such things," asked Hurtha.
"I do not know," I said. "I am uneasy."
"I think we should go on," said a man, another refugee with us. "If we are caught here we may be taken for loiterers, or spies."
"That is true," I granted him.
I then looked back at Feiqa, the former Lady Charlotte of Samnium. She wore a brief slave tunic, with a neckline that plunged to her belly. The soft, interior curvatures of her breasts could be seen within the opening of the garment. This is suitable for women who are only slaves. I considered her. She was lovely. I went to stand near her, the camp and the walls of Torcadino behind her. I put my hands within her garment. She looked up at me. My touch was gentle. The straps of my pack, which she bore for me, were wet and hot on her shoulders. There were bands of sweat beneath the straps, and beneath them, too, the tunic was wet and wrinkled. Some of the wrinkles would leave a mark on her skin for a time. Her breasts felt interesting, warm, full, moist with sweat. She had a collar locked on her neck. She was mine.