Chapter 8

“Have you anything to say in your defense?” the commander asked coldly.

For a moment, the accused looked nothing but hatred at the commander, but there was fear behind that hatred. At last he found his voice. “It was mine. You promised us all a share.”

Lieutenant commander Hernan picked up a leather bag that lay on the table behind which he and the commander were sitting. With a sudden gesture, he upended it, dumping its contents on the flat, wooden surface of the table.

“Do you deny that this was found among your personal possessions?” he asked harshly.

“No,” said the accused soldier. “Why should I? It’s mine. Rightfully mine. I fought for it. I found it. I kept it. It’s mine.” He glanced to either side, towards the two guards who flanked him, then looked back at the commander.

The commander ran an idle finger through the pound or so of golden trinkets that Hernan had spilled from the bag. He knew what the trooper was thinking. A man had a right to what he had earned, didn’t he?

The commander picked up one of the heavier bits of primitive jewelry and tossed it in his hand. Then he stood up and looked around the town square.

The company had occupied the town for several weeks. The stored grains in the community warehouse, plus the relaxation the men had had, plus the relative security of the town, had put most of the men back into condition. One had died from a skin infection, and another from wounds sustained in the assault on the town, but the remainder were in good health.

And all of them, with the exception of the sentries guarding the town’s perimeter, were standing in the square, watching the court-martial. Their eyes didn’t seem to blink, and their breathing was soft and measured. They were waiting for the commander’s decision.

The commander, still tossing the crude golden earring, stood tall and straight, estimating the feeling of the men surrounding him.

“Gold,” he said finally. “Gold. That’s what we came here for, and that’s what we’re going to get. Five hundred pounds of the stuff would make any one of you wealthy for the rest of his life. Do you think I blame any one of you for wanting it? Do you think I blame this man here? Of course not.” He laughed--a short, hard bark. “Do I blame myself?”

He tossed the bauble again, caught it. “But wanting it is one thing; getting it, holding it, and taking care of it wisely are something else again.

“I gave orders. I have expected--and still expect--that they will be obeyed. But I didn’t give them just to hear myself give orders. There was a reason, and a good one.

“Suppose we let each man take what gold he could find. What would happen? The lucky ones would be wealthy, and the unlucky would still be poor. And then some of the lucky ones would wake up some morning without the gold they’d taken because someone else had relieved them of it while they slept.