The gods of Mars
Early the next morning Xodar and I commenced work upon our plans for
escape. First I had him sketch upon the stone floor of our cell as
accurate a map of the south polar regions as was possible with the
crude instruments at our disposal—a buckle from my harness, and the
sharp edge of the wondrous gem I had taken from Sator Throg.
From this I computed the general direction of Helium and the distance
at which it lay from the opening which led to Omean.
Then I had him draw a map of Omean, indicating plainly the position of
Shador and of the opening in the dome which led to the outer world.
These I studied until they were indelibly imprinted in my memory. From
Xodar I learned the duties and customs of the guards who patrolled
Shador. It seemed that during the hours set aside for sleep only one
man was on duty at a time. He paced a beat that passed around the
prison, at a distance of about a hundred feet from the building.
The pace of the sentries, Xodar said, was very slow, requiring nearly
ten minutes to make a single round. This meant that for practically
five minutes at a time each side of the prison was unguarded as the
sentry pursued his snail-like pace upon the opposite side.
“This information you ask,” said Xodar, “will be all very valuable
_after_ we get out, but nothing that you have asked has any bearing on
that first and most important consideration.”
“We will get out all right,” I replied, laughing. “Leave that to me.”
“When shall we make the attempt?” he asked.
“The first night that finds a small craft moored near the shore of
Shador,” I replied.
“But how will you know that any craft is moored near Shador? The
windows are far beyond our reach.”
“Not so, friend Xodar; look!”
With a bound I sprang to the bars of the window opposite us, and took a
quick survey of the scene without.
Several small craft and two large battleships lay within a hundred
yards of Shador.
“To-night,” I thought, and was just about to voice my decision to
Xodar, when, without warning, the door of our prison opened and a guard
stepped in.
If the fellow saw me there our chances of escape might quickly go
glimmering, for I knew that they would put me in irons if they had the
slightest conception of the wonderful agility which my earthly muscles
gave me upon Mars.
The man had entered and was standing facing the centre of the room, so
that his back was toward me. Five feet above me was the top of a
partition wall separating our cell from the next.
There was my only chance to escape detection. If the fellow turned, I
was lost; nor could I have dropped to the floor undetected, since he
was so nearly below me that I would have struck him had I done so.
“Where is the white man?” cried the guard of Xodar. “Issus commands his
presence.” He started to turn to see if I were in another part of the
cell.
I scrambled up the iron grating of the window until I could catch a
good footing on the sill with one foot; then I let go my hold and
sprang for the partition top.
“What was that?” I heard the deep voice of the black bellow as my metal
grated against the stone wall as I slipped over. Then I dropped lightly
to the floor of the cell beyond.
“Where is the white slave?” again cried the guard.
“I know not,” replied Xodar. “He was here even as you entered. I am not
his keeper—go find him.”
The black grumbled something that I could not understand, and then I
heard him unlocking the door into one of the other cells on the further
side. Listening intently, I caught the sound as the door closed behind
him. Then I sprang once more to the top of the partition and dropped
into my own cell beside the astonished Xodar.
“Do you see now how we will escape?” I asked him in a whisper.
“I see how you may,” he replied, “but I am no wiser than before as to
how I am to pass these walls. Certain it is that I cannot bounce over
them as you do.”
We heard the guard moving about from cell to cell, and finally, his
rounds completed, he again entered ours. When his eyes fell upon me
they fairly bulged from his head.
“By the shell of my first ancestor!” he roared. “Where have you been?”
“I have been in prison since you put me here yesterday,” I answered. “I
was in this room when you entered. You had better look to your
eyesight.”
He glared at me in mingled rage and relief.
“Come,” he said. “Issus commands your presence.”
He conducted me outside the prison, leaving Xodar behind. There we
found several other guards, and with them the red Martian youth who
occupied another cell upon Shador.
The journey I had taken to the Temple of Issus on the preceding day was
repeated. The guards kept the red boy and myself separated, so that we
had no opportunity to continue the conversation that had been
interrupted the previous night.
The youth’s face had haunted me. Where had I seen him before. There was
something strangely familiar in every line of him; in his carriage, his
manner of speaking, his gestures. I could have sworn that I knew him,
and yet I knew too that I had never seen him before.
When we reached the gardens of Issus we were led away from the temple
instead of toward it. The way wound through enchanted parks to a mighty
wall that towered a hundred feet in air.
Massive gates gave egress upon a small plain, surrounded by the same
gorgeous forests that I had seen at the foot of the Golden Cliffs.
Crowds of blacks were strolling in the same direction that our guards
were leading us, and with them mingled my old friends the plant men and
great white apes.
The brutal beasts moved among the crowd as pet dogs might. If they were
in the way the blacks pushed them roughly to one side, or whacked them
with the flat of a sword, and the animals slunk away as in great fear.
Presently we came upon our destination, a great amphitheatre situated
at the further edge of the plain, and about half a mile beyond the
garden walls.
Through a massive arched gateway the blacks poured in to take their
seats, while our guards led us to a smaller entrance near one end of
the structure.
Through this we passed into an enclosure beneath the seats, where we
found a number of other prisoners herded together under guard. Some of
them were in irons, but for the most part they seemed sufficiently awed
by the presence of their guards to preclude any possibility of
attempted escape.
During the trip from Shador I had had no opportunity to talk with my
fellow-prisoner, but now that we were safely within the barred paddock
our guards abated their watchfulness, with the result that I found
myself able to approach the red Martian youth for whom I felt such a
strange attraction.
“What is the object of this assembly?” I asked him. “Are we to fight
for the edification of the First Born, or is it something worse than
that?”
“It is a part of the monthly rites of Issus,” he replied, “in which
black men wash the sins from their souls in the blood of men from the
outer world. If, perchance, the black is killed, it is evidence of his
disloyalty to Issus—the unpardonable sin. If he lives through the
contest he is held acquitted of the charge that forced the sentence of
the rites, as it is called, upon him.
“The forms of combat vary. A number of us may be pitted together
against an equal number, or twice the number of blacks; or singly we
may be sent forth to face wild beasts, or some famous black warrior.”
“And if we are victorious,” I asked, “what then—freedom?”
He laughed.
“Freedom, forsooth. The only freedom for us death. None who enters the
domains of the First Born ever leave. If we prove able fighters we are
permitted to fight often. If we are not mighty fighters—” He shrugged
his shoulders. “Sooner or later we die in the arena.”
“And you have fought often?” I asked.
“Very often,” he replied. “It is my only pleasure. Some hundred black
devils have I accounted for during nearly a year of the rites of Issus.
My mother would be very proud could she only know how well I have
maintained the traditions of my father’s prowess.”
“Your father must have been a mighty warrior!” I said. “I have known
most of the warriors of Barsoom in my time; doubtless I knew him. Who
was he?”
“My father was—”
“Come, calots!” cried the rough voice of a guard. “To the slaughter
with you,” and roughly we were hustled to the steep incline that led to
the chambers far below which let out upon the arena.
The amphitheatre, like all I had ever seen upon Barsoom, was built in a
large excavation. Only the highest seats, which formed the low wall
surrounding the pit, were above the level of the ground. The arena
itself was far below the surface.
Just beneath the lowest tier of seats was a series of barred cages on a
level with the surface of the arena. Into these we were herded. But,
unfortunately, my youthful friend was not of those who occupied a cage
with me.
Directly opposite my cage was the throne of Issus. Here the horrid
creature squatted, surrounded by a hundred slave maidens sparkling in
jewelled trappings. Brilliant cloths of many hues and strange patterns
formed the soft cushion covering of the dais upon which they reclined
about her.
On four sides of the throne and several feet below it stood three solid
ranks of heavily armed soldiery, elbow to elbow. In front of these were
the high dignitaries of this mock heaven—gleaming blacks bedecked with
precious stones, upon their foreheads the insignia of their rank set in
circles of gold.
On both sides of the throne stretched a solid mass of humanity from top
to bottom of the amphitheatre. There were as many women as men, and
each was clothed in the wondrously wrought harness of his station and
his house. With each black was from one to three slaves, drawn from the
domains of the therns and from the outer world. The blacks are all
“noble.” There is no peasantry among the First Born. Even the lowest
soldier is a god, and has his slaves to wait upon him.
The First Born do no work. The men fight—that is a sacred privilege and
duty; to fight and die for Issus. The women do nothing, absolutely
nothing. Slaves wash them, slaves dress them, slaves feed them. There
are some, even, who have slaves that talk for them, and I saw one who
sat during the rites with closed eyes while a slave narrated to her the
events that were transpiring within the arena.
The first event of the day was the Tribute to Issus. It marked the end
of those poor unfortunates who had looked upon the divine glory of the
goddess a full year before. There were ten of them—splendid beauties
from the proud courts of mighty Jeddaks and from the temples of the
Holy Therns. For a year they had served in the retinue of Issus; to-day
they were to pay the price of this divine preferment with their lives;
tomorrow they would grace the tables of the court functionaries.
A huge black entered the arena with the young women. Carefully he
inspected them, felt of their limbs and poked them in the ribs.
Presently he selected one of their number whom he led before the throne
of Issus. He addressed some words to the goddess which I could not
hear. Issus nodded her head. The black raised his hands above his head
in token of salute, grasped the girl by the wrist, and dragged her from
the arena through a small doorway below the throne.
“Issus will dine well to-night,” said a prisoner beside me.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“That was her dinner that old Thabis is taking to the kitchens. Didst
not note how carefully he selected the plumpest and tenderest of the
lot?”
I growled out my curses on the monster sitting opposite us on the
gorgeous throne.
“Fume not,” admonished my companion; “you will see far worse than that
if you live even a month among the First Born.”