Ik was dit boek beginnen lezen aan een slakkentempo: hier een paar pagina’s in de zetel, daar een paar pagina’s in bed. Ik ben er aan begonnen op 16 januari en ik heb het uitgelezen op 25 januari, dat geeft u een idee.

Maar dat wil eigenlijk niets zeggen over hoe ik het gelezen heb: het eerste pakweg derde tussen 16 en 25 januari, terwijl ik nog een stuk of vijf andere boeken ook aan het lezen was, en terwijl ik ook een reeks televisieseries gekeken heb die ik vorig jaar gemist had.

En dan het tweede derde in één ruk diep in de nacht van 25 januari.

Zó spannend! Zó goed! Dit is veruit het beste boek in de reeks tot nog toe.

Tarl Cabot is vermoord. Kuurus de moordenaar, van de kaste van de moordenaars, gaat naar de stad Ar om de moord op Tarl Cabot te wreken.

Maar eigenlijk — spoiler warning! — is Kuurus gewoon Tarl Cabot zélf. Die in opdracht van de Priester-Koningen komt kijken wat er aan de hand is in Ar, de grootste stad van Gor. Er is een slavenhandelaar die meer en meer invloed krijgt, die heelder contingenten ontvoerde vrouwen van de Aarde aan het trainen is, en waar de Priester-Koningen van vermoeden dat hij een agent is van de aliens waar zij al miljoenen jaren tegen vechten.

Vella — Elisabeth uit het vorige boek — doet zich voor als een Goreaanse slavin en werkt van binnenuit, terwijl Tarl zich als een gast en minofmeerbodyguard van de slavenhandelaar voordoet.

Ar is enorm duidelijk vooral op Rome geïnspireerd. Logisch: het is al eeuwen en eeuwen dat de Priester-Koningen aardlingen ontvoeren, de gebruiken van Ar zijn gewoon door échte Romeinen begonnen. Er zijn gladiatorengevechten, er zijn races op tarns die spannender zijn dan het beste dat in Ben Hur te zien was. Er zijn een hele reeks fijne personages, er zijn zowaar vrouwen met agency, en zoals ik al zei: het is machtig spannend. En een zeer schoon einde.

John Norman blijft John Norman, uiteraard. De world is al meer dan goed gebuilt, maar hij blijft enorm lange discursussen doen als het eigenlijk niet echt nodig is. Is er een slavin in een slavenhalsband? Hierzo, meer informatie over sloten op Gor:

The small, heavy lock on a girl’s slave collar, incidentally, may be of several varieties, but almost all are cylinder locks, either of the pin or disk variety. In a girl’s collar lock there would be either six pins or six disks, one each, it is said, for each letter in the Gorean word for female slave, Kajira; the male slave, or Kajirus, seldom had a locked collar; normally a band of iron is simply hammered about his neck; often he works in chains, usually with other male slaves; in some cities, including Ar, an unchained male slave is almost never seen; there are, incidentally, far fewer male slaves than female slaves; a captured female is almost invariably collared; a captured male is almost invariably put to the sword; further, the object of slave raids, carefully scouted, organized and conducted expeditions, is almost always the acquisition of females; commonly one cylinder is struck, its bridges sealed off, its compartments broken into and ransacked for gold and beauty; the men of the compartment are slain and the women stripped; those women who do not please the slavers are slain; those that do have the goods of the compartment tied about their necks and are herded to the roof, with whip and slave goad, either to be bound across tarn saddles or thrust bound into wicker slave baskets, covered and tied shut, carried beneath the great birds in flight; sometimes, after only a quarter of an Ahn, before adequate reinforcements can be summoned, the slavers depart with their booty, leaving behind a flaming cylinder; slavers can strike any city but they are particularly a scourge to those cities which have not trained the tarn, but depend on the ponderous tharlarion.

Een reis duurt misschien wel een maand? Ho! Tijd voor een korte uitleg over de kalender op Gor:

It was one day to Thentis by tarn, but in the wagon we knew the trip would take perhaps the better part of one of the twenty-five day Gorean months. There are twelve twenty-five day Gorean months, incidentally, in most of the calendars of the various cities. Each month, containing five five-day weeks, is separated by a five-day period, called the Passage Hand, and every other month, there being one exception to this, which is that of the last month of the year is separated from the first month of the year, which begins with the Vernal Equinox, not only by a Passage Hand, but by another five-day period called the Waiting Hand, during which doorways are painted white, little food is eaten, little is drunk and there is to be no singing or public rejoicing in the city; diring this time Goreans go out as little as possible; the Initiates, interestingly enough, do not make much out of the Waiting Hand in their ceremonies and preachments, which leads one to believe it is not intended to be of any sort of religious significance; it is perhaps, in its way, a period of mourning for the old year; Goreans, living much of their lives in the open, on the bridges and in the streets, are much closer to nature’s year than most humans of Earth; but on the Vernal Equinox, which marks the first day of the New Year in most Gorean cities, there is great rejoicing; the doorways are painted green, and there is song on the bridges, games, contests, visiting of friends and much feasting, which lasts for the first ten days of the first month, thereby doubling the period taken in the Waiting Hand. Month names differ, unfortunately, from city to city, but, among the civilized cities, there are four months, associated with the equinoxes and solstices, and the great fairs at the Sardar, which do have common names, the months of En-’Kara, or En-’Kara-Lar-Torvis; En-’Var, or En-’var-Lar-Torvis; Se-’Kara, or Se-’Kara-Lar-Torvis; and Se-’Var, or Se-’Var-Lar-Torvis.

En ja, de casual meer dan extreme mysoginie blijft natuurlijk wat ze was:

Elizabeth’s knot was a fifty-five turn knot. Mine was fifty-seven.

She had threatened to invent a knot with more than fifty-five turns but when I had threatened to beat her she had yielded to reason.

Maar dat kan de pret niet drukken. Ik had gehoord dat het vanaf boek zes ongeveer helemaal de dieperik in gaat. Ik ben benieuwd.

Deel vier, en ik vroeg mij af hoe het verder zou gaan na zo’n totale paradigm shift als in Priest-Kings of Gor, waar iets dat 100% min of meer standaardfantasy leek te zijn, plots met aliens en alles is.

Wel: er was een probleem met het nest van de priesterkoningen, en de koningin is dood, en dus moest Tarl Cabot op zoek naar een ei, dat bij die nomaden zou zijn.

En dat is dus wat hij doet in dit boek: op zoek gaan naar een ei bij de nomaden. Die helemaal anders van maatschappij zijn als de andere mensen op Gor. Natuurlijk nog altijd vrouwonvriendelijk en zo, maar toch ook helemaa een eigen manier van de dingen organiseren.

Uiteraard is Tarl ongelooflijk goed en slaagt hij er meteen in om het vertrouwen te winnen van één van de belangrijkste mannen van de enorme groep nomaden, en integreert hij zich meteen ook goed en alles. Er komt ook zowaar een nieuwe persoon van de Aarde in de buurt: Elizabeth Cardwell, een secretaresse uit New York die naar een jobinterview op weg was, en wakker werd op Gor.

Uiteraard dat ze een slavin wordt, uiteraard dat ze verliefd wordt op Tarl en beseft dat het veel veel beter is voor haar in het algemeen om een slavin te zijn met een degelijke meester.

Maar hey, gegeven het genre en de reeks en de verwachtingen: geen slecht boek. Ik heb me geen moment verveeld.

Misschien is dat ook wel omdat ik kan genieten van worldbuilding for the sake of worldbuilding. Heeft hij het over de Wagon Peoples en hun tijdsberekening, dan wordt dat meteen een hele uitleg:

The Wagon Peoples war among themselves, but once in every two hands of years, there is a time of gathering of the peoples, and this, I had learned, was that time. In the thinking of the Wagon Peoples it is called the Omen Year, though the Omen Year is actually a season, rather than a year, which occupies a part of two of their regular years, for the Wagon Peoples calculate the year from the Season of Snows to the Season of Snows; Turians, incidentally, figure the year from summer solstice to summer solstice; Goreans generally, on the other hand, figure the year from vernal equinox to vernal equinox, their new year beginning, like nature’s, with the spring; the Omen Year, or season, lasts several months, and consists of three phases, called the Passing of Turia, which takes place in the fall; the Wintering, which takes place north of Turia and commonly south of the Cartius, the equator of course lying to the north in this hemisphere; and the Return to Turia, in the spring, or, as the Wagon Peoples say, in the Season of Little Grass. It is near Turia, in the spring, that the Omen Year is completed, when the omens are taken usually over several days by hundreds of haruspexes, mostly readers of bosk blood and verr livers, to determine if they are favourable for a choosing of a Ubar San, a One Ubar, a Ubar who would be High Ubar, a Ubar of all the Wagons, a Ubar of all the Peoples, one who could lead them as one people.*

Oh, en dat sterretje op het einde is inderdaad een voetnoot, waar dan nog eens uitgebreid wordt:

A consequence of the chronological conventions of the Wagon Peoples, of course, is that their years tend to vary in length, but this fact, which might bother us, does not bother them, any more than the fact that some men and some animals live longer than others; the women of the Wagon Peoples, incidentally, keep a calendar based on the phases of Gor’s largest moon, but this is a calendar of fifteen moons, named for the fifteen varieties of bosk, and functions independently of the tallying of years by snows; for example, the Moon of the Brown Bosk may at one time occur in the winter, at another time, years later, in the summer; this calendar is kept by a set of coloured pegs set in the sides of some wagons, on one of which, depending on the moon, a round, wooden plate bearing the image of a bosk is fixed. The years, incidentally, are not numbered by the Wagon Peoples, but given names, toward their end, based on something or other which has occurred to distinguish the year. The year names are kept in living memory by the Year Keepers, some of whom can recall the names of several thousand consecutive years. The Wagon Peoples do not trust important matters, such as year names, to paper or parchment, subject to theft, insect and rodent damage, deterioration, etc. Most of those of the Wagon Peoples have excellent memories, trained from birth. Few can read, though some can, perhaps having acquired the skill far from the wagons, perhaps from merchants or tradesmen. The Wagon Peoples, as might be expected, have a large and complex oral literature. This is kept by and occasionally, in parts, recited by the Camp Singers. They do not have castes, as Goreans tend to think of them. For example, every male of the Wagon Peoples is expected to be a warrior, to be able to ride, to be able to hunt, to care for the bosk, and so on. When I speak of Year Keepers and Singers it must be understood that these are not, for the Wagon Peoples, castes, but more like roles, subsidiary to their main functions, which are those of the war, herding and the hunt. They do have, however, certain clans, not castes, which specialize in certain matters, for example, the clan of healers, leather workers, salt hunters, and so on. I have already mentioned the clan of torturers. The members of these clans, however, like the Year Keepers and Singers, are all expected, first and foremost, to be, as it is said, of the wagons namely to follow, tend and protect the bosk, to be superb in the saddle, and to be skilled with the weapons of both the hunt and war.

Het vrouwonvriendelijke aspect dan: Tarl Cabot wordt meer en meer een echt Goreaan. Dit is een typische interactie met Elizabeth — die, ter herinnering, iemand is van zijn eigen planeet:

“You are free,” I said firmly.

“I shall try to keep it in mind,” she said.

“Do so,” I said.

“Do I make you nervous?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

She had now picked up the yellow sheet and, with a pin or two, booty from Turia probably, fastened it gracefully about her. I considered raping her. It would not do, of course.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“There is some roast bosk left,” she said. “It is cold. It would be a bother to warm it up, so I will not do so. I am not a slave girl, you know.”

I began to regret my decision in freeing her.

Her eyes were looking at me over the rim of her bowl as she drank. “It is said,” she remarked, her eyes mischievous, “that any man who frees a slave girl is a fool.”

“It is probably true,” I said.

“You are nice, Tarl Cabot,” she said.

She seemed to me very beautiful. Again I considered raping her, but now that she was free, no longer a simple slave, I supposed that it would be improper. I did, however, measure the distance between us, an experiment in speculation, and decided I could reach her in one bound and in one motion, with luck, land her on the rug.

Ahem ja.