"No," I said.

"They are within the walls," he said.

"Selected, controllable contingents, probably mostly regulars," I said.

"You do not expect them to burn Ar?" he asked.

"No," I said. "Ar is a prize, surely more valuable as she is, rather than in ashes."

"Is the population not to be slaughtered?" he asked.

"I would doubt it," I said. "There is a great pool of skills and talent in Ar. Such things, too, are prizes."

"But surely they will sack the city," he said.

"Perhaps little by little," I said.

"I do not understand," he said.

"Study the campaigns of Dietrich of Tarnburg," I said.

Marcus looked at me.

"I do not doubt but what Myron, polemarkos of Cos, or his advisors, have done so."

"You speak in riddles," said Marcus.

"I can see them!" cried a man.

"Look, too, the Central Cylinder!" cried a man.

At the edge of the circular park, within which rears the lofty Central Cylinder, a platform had been erected, presumably that thousands more, gathered on the streets, could witness what was to occur. We were within a few yards of this platform. This platform could be ascended by two ramps, one in the back, on the side of the Central Cylinder, and one in front, opposite to the Central Cylinder, on the side of the Avenue of the Central Cylinder. Phoebe was close behind Marcus, clinging to him, that she not be swept from us in the throngs. "Look there, at the foot of the platform!" said a man.

"The sleen, the scoundrel, the tyrant!" cried a man.

There were cries of rage and hatred from the crowd. Being dragged along the side of the platform, conducted by a dozen chains, each attached to, and radiating out from, a heavy metal collar, each chain held by a child, was a pathetic figure, stumbling and struggling, its ankles shackled and its upper body almost swathed in chains, Gnieus Lelius. Other children too, some five of them, with switches, hung about him like sting flies. At intervals, for which they watched eagerly, receiving the permission of a supervising Taurentian, they would rush forward, striking the helpless figure. Muchly did the crowd laugh at this. Gnieus Lelius was barefoot. Too, he had been placed in motley rags, not unlike the sort that might be worn by a comedic mime upon the stage. I supposed this was just as well. Gnieus Lelius, thus, might have some hope of evading impalement on the walls of Ar. He would perhaps rather be sent to the palace of Lurius of Jad, in Telnus, to be kept there for the amusement of Lurius and his court, as a caged buffoon.

"Sleen! Tyrant!" cried men.

Some fellows rushed out to cast ostraka at him. "Take your ostraka, tyrant!" they cried. Gnieus flinched, several of these small missiles striking him. these were the same ostraka, I supposed, which, a few days ago, would have been worth their weight in gold, permits, passes, in effect, to remain in the city. After the burning of the gates, of course, one need no longer concern oneself with ostraka and permits.

"We are free now!" cried one of the men, flinging his ostrakon at Gnieus Lelius. Other men rushed out to fall upon the former regent wit blows, but Taurentians swiftly, with proddings and blows of their spears, drove them back.

Gnieus Lelius was then, by the front ramp, conducted to the surface of the platform. Many in the crowd, now first seeing him, shrieked out their hatred. There he was put on his knees, to one side, the children locking their chains to prepared rings, set in a circle, then withdrawing. The five lads with switches were given a last opportunity, to the amusement of the crowd, to strike the former regent, then they, too, were dismissed.

The sounds of the drums and trumpets to our right were now closer.

"Look!" said a fellow. He pointed in the direction of the Central Cylinder from which, but moments before, Gnieus Lelius, and his escort, had emerged.

"It is Seremides, and members of the High Council!" said a fellow.

Seremides, whom I had not seen this clearly since long ago in Ar, in the days of Minus Tentius Hinrabius, and Cernus, of Ar, with others, members of the High Council, I gathered, now, from the side of the Central Cylinder, ascended the platform.

"He is not in the robes of a penitent or suppliant!" shouted a fellow, joyfully. "No!" cried others.

"He is in uniform!" cried a man.

"Look," cried a man. "He has his sword!"

"Seremides retains his sword!" cried a man, calling back to those less near the platform.

There was much cheering greeting this announcement.

Then the High Council stood to one side, and Seremides himself returned to the point on the platform where the rear ramp, that near the Central Cylinder, ascended to its surface.

The ringing of the bars then ceased, first those of the Central Cylinder and then those near it, and then those farther away, about the city. This happened so quickly, however, that it was doubtless accomplished not by the fellows at the bells apprehending that those most inward in the city had ceased to ring but rather in virtue of some signal, presumably conveyed from the Central Cylinder, a signal doubtless relayed immediately, successively, by flags or such, to other points.

The crowd looked at one another.

No longer now, the bars now quiet, did I even hear the drums and trumpets of the approaching Cosians. Those instruments, too, were silent. I did not doubt, however, that the approach north on the Avenue of the Central Cylinder was still in progress.

Seremides now, at the rear of the platform, where the rear ramp ascended to its surface, extended his hand downward, to escort a figure clad and veiled in dazzling white to the surface of the platform. It was a graceful figure who, head down, the fingers of her left hand in the light grasp of Seremides, now came forward upon the platform.

"No! No!" cried many in the crowd. "No!"

"It is Talena!" wept a man.

The figure, to be sure, was robed in white, and veiled, but I had little doubt that it was indeed Talena, once the daughter of Marlenus of Ar, Ubar of Ubars. "She is not gloved!" cried a man.

"She is barefoot!" cried another.

Marcus looked down, sharply, at Phoebe, who clung to his arm. Instantly Phoebe looked down. In that crush she could scarcely have knelt. She might have been forced from her knees and trampled. Phoebe, of course, was much exposed in the brief slave tunic, her arms and legs. I looked at her calves, ankles and feet. She, too, was barefoot. This was appropriate for her, of course, as she was a slave. Slaves are often kept barefoot. I then looked up, continuing to regard her, she clinging to Marcus. Yes, she was quite lovely. She looked up a moment, saw my eyes upon her, and then looked down again, quickly. The slave girdle too, tied high on her, crossed, emphasized the loveliness of her small breasts. I was pleased for Marcus. He has a lovely slave. I was lonely. I wished that I, too, had a slave.

"She is in the robes of a penitent or suppliant!" cried another in dismay. "No, Talena!" cried a man.

"No, Talena," cried another, "do not."

"We will not permit it!" cried a man.

"Not our Talena!" wept a woman.

"The crowd grows ugly," observed Marcus.

"Ar is not worth such a price!" cried another.

"Better give the city to flames!" cried another.

"Let us fight! Let us fight!" cried men.

Several men broke out, into the street, where Taurentians, with spears held across their bodies, struggled to restrain them.

"Good," said Marcus. "There is going to be a riot."

"If so," I said, "let us withdraw."

"It will give me a chance to slip a knife into a few of these fellows," said Marcus.

"Phoebe might be hurt," I said.

"She is only a slave," said Marcus, but I saw him shelter her in his arms, preparing to move back through the crowd.