To Your Scattered Bodies Go by Phillip Jose Farmer

“For us,” the other man said in English. “You forget, Hermann, dat I have gust as muck to say about disc as you.” Goring smiled, chuckled, and said, “Of course I was only using the royal I, you might.. say. Very well, we. If you swear to serve us, and it will be far better for you if you do, you will swear loyalty to me, Hermann Goring and to the one-time king of ancient Rome, Tullius Hostilius.” Burton looked closely at the man. Could he actually be the legendary king of ancient Rome? Of Rome when it was a small village threatened by the other Italic tribes, the Sabines, Aequi, and Volsci? Who, in turn, were being pressed by the Umbrians, themselves pushed by the powerful Etruscans? Was this really Tullius Hostilius, warlike successor to the peaceful Numa Pompilius? There was nothing to distinguish him from a thousand men whom Burton had seen on the streets of Siena. Yet, if he was what he claimed to be, he could be a treasure trove, historically and linguistically speaking. He would, since he was probably Etruscan himself, know that language, in addition to pre-Classical Latin, and Sabine, and perhaps Campanian Greek. He might even have been acquainted with Romulus, supposed founder of Roma. What stories that man could tell!

“Well?” Goring said.

“What do we have to do if we join you?” Burton said.

“First, I . . . we . . . have to make sure that you are the caliber of man we want. In other words, a man who will unhesitatingly and immediately do anything that we order. We will give you a little test.” He gave an order and a minute later, a group of men was brought forward. All were gaunt, and all were crippled.

“They were injured while quarrying stone or building our walls,” Goring said. “Except for two caught while trying to escape. They will have to pay the penalty. All will be killed because they are now useless. So, you should not hesitate about killing them to show your determination to serve us.” He added, “Besides, they are all Jews. Why worry about them?” Campbell, the redhead who had thrown Gwenafra into the River, held out to Burton a large club studded with chert blades. Two guards seized a slave and forced him to his knees.

He was a large blond with blue eyes and a Grecian profile; he glared at Goring and then spat at him.

Goring laughed. “He has all the arrogance of his race. I could reduce him to a quivering screaming mass begging for death if I wanted to. But I do not really care for torture. My compatriot would like to give him a taste of the fire, but I am essentially a humanitarian.”

“I will kill in defense of my life or in defense of those who need protection,” Burton said. “But I am not a murderer.”

“Killing this Jew would be an act in defense of your life,” Goring replied. “If you do not, you will die anyway. Only it will take you a long time.”

“I will not,” Burton said.

Goring sighed. “You English! Well, I would rather have you on my side. But if you don’t want to do the rational thing, so be it. What about you?” he said to Frigate.

Frigate, who was still in agony, said, “Your ashes ended in a trash heap in Dachau because of what you did and what you were. Are you going to repeat the same criminal acts on this world?” Goring laughed and said, “I know what happened to me. Enough of my Jewish slaves have told me.” He pointed at Monat. “What kind of a freak is that?” Burton explained. Goring looked grave, then said, “I couldn’t trust him. He goes into the slave camp. You, there, apeman.

What do you say?”

Kazz, to Burton’s surprise, stepped forward. “I kill for you. I don’t want to be slave.” He took the club while the guards held their spears poised to run him through if he had other ideas for using it. He glared at them from under his shelving brows, then raised the club. There was a crack, and the slave pitched forward on the dirt. Kazz returned the club to Campbell and stepped aside. He did not look at Burton.