by John Norman
“The decision of the emperor will be conveyed to you,” said Iaachus to Julian. “I will do my best to press for a favorable response.”
Otto angrily looked about himself, from face to face.
He looked into the face of the men, and into the faces of the women. These latter seemed to draw back, some lifting their hands to their bosom.
The eyes of the slave girls were wild.
Had Otto so much as snapped his fingers they would have hurried to him, to kneel.
He regarded the sisters of the emperor, blond Viviana, and dark-haired Alacida.
They seemed startled.
He had no doubt that now something stirred, and profoundly, beneath those robes.
They looked wildly away, flushing scarlet.
He conjectured, in his anger, in his fury, what they might look like, kneeling naked, on ropes.
They too could learn, like any other woman, to respond instantly to the snapping of a man’s fingers.
“I am afraid of him,” said the empress mother.
“There is nothing to be afraid of,” said Julian.
“Oh, oh!” suddenly cried the emperor, putting his head down, holding the colored globe close to him, as though to protect it, and striking about with his free arm.
“What is it?” cried a man.
“It is a fly,” said a man.
“Guards!” said the empress mother, she, too, leaping up from her throne, to rush to the emperor.
The emperor burst into tears.
“What is wrong?” asked Otto.
“The emperor fears insects,” said Julian, irritably.
Two guards were about the imperial throne, trying to drive away the insect.
“It is all right,” said the empress mother, holding the boy to her.
“The audience is at an end,” suggested Iaachus.
“Yes, yes!” said the empress mother. “There, there, darling,” she crooned.
The older of the emperor’s two sisters, Viviana, the blonde, regarded the emperor with ill-disguised contempt. The younger, Alacida, dark-haired, looked upon him with embarrassment, and pity.
“The audience is concluded,” said Iaachus.
Men and women began to take their leave.
“I will do my best to further the success of your business,” Iaachus said to Julian.
“My thanks, Counselor,” said Julian. “Your majesties,” said Julian, to the dais.
Julian and Otto watched the men and women leaving the room.
The slave girls had hung back, looking at Otto.
“Go!” snapped Iaachus to them and they turned about and hurried from the room.
The two sisters of the emperor, too, it seems, had dallied. But then, seeing Otto’s eyes upon them, they lifted their heads and took their leave.
“I wonder what they would look like, in collars, curled in the furs,” said Otto.
“They are of the highest class of patricians, the senatorial class,” said Julian.
“I wonder what they would look like,” said Otto.
“What do you think?” asked Julian.
“I think they would look well,” said Otto.
“So do I,” said Julian.
The emperor, clinging to his globe, was hurried from the audience chamber, in the keeping of the empress mother, followed by ladies-in-waiting, and guards.
“The emperor has not yet lost interest in his toy,” said Otto.
“It will doubtless continue to fascinate him for a long time,” said Julian.
“He is simple?” asked Otto.
“He is feebleminded,” said Julian.
“Who rules?” asked Otto.
“Iaachus,” said Julian, wearily.
“Who is Iaachus?” asked Otto.
“He is the arbiter of protocol,” said Julian.
“Do you trust him?” asked Otto.
“No,” said Julian.
CHAPTER 15
It was a light knock, a timid knock.
Tuvo Ausonius looked up from his columns.
The knock was repeated, a timid, light knock, but rapid now, pressing, urgent, as though someone might fear to remain outside in the ill-lit street.
Tuvo Ausonius gathered his papers together, arranged them, and inserted them in one of the pockets of a leather portfolio, which he then buckled shut.
Again the tiny frightened knock sounded, pleadingly.
Tuvo Ausonius rose from the table in the sparsely furnished room.
He went to the door.
He slid back a viewer and ascertained the frightened eyes of a woman, her face muchly concealed in a dark hood.
The woman was admitted, and, behind her, after looking about, outside, Tuvo Ausonius shut the door, thrusting home two bolts, then locking them in place.
In the room there was now an aroma of perfume, strong, heady. The woman thrust back her hood, revealing her loose, dark hair. She looked about, frightened. “Is this the place?” she asked, disbelievingly. The room was quite simple, quite plain, and almost bare of furnishings. There was, however, a table, a simple, worn, scratched table, once darkly varnished, with one dark, wooden chair. On the table lay Ausonius’s portfolio. There was also a heavy dresser to one side, and a heavy, massive bed, anchored to the floor. At the foot of this bed, though it could not be seen from where the woman and Tuvo Ausonius stood, there was a heavy metal ring, fixed in the floor. There were two windows, rather high, one in the same wall as the door, and the other across from it. The height of the windows was to prevent individuals peering into the room. There were no coverings for the floor, save a small throw rug, ragged and grimy, near the table. There were no hangings, or pictures, at the walls. They were unadorned, and cracked and chipped. In numerous places paint had peeled from the plaster. There was much peeling and cracking in the ceiling, as well, and several brownish circles, like rings, were overhead, where water had soaked through. There were run marks, too, of water at the walls, some from the ceiling and windows, some from tiny crevices high in the walls, stains which wended their way downward to the floor.
“Yes,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“This is your room?” she asked.
“For now,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“It is dark,” she said.
Given the nature of the room, its smallness, its lack of furnishings, its need of repair and paint, the limitations of its tiny windows, even in the daylight it would have been, at best, dingy.
“I will turn up the lamp,” he said.
He went to the wall and rotated a dial which increased the illumination of the single swivel light in the ceiling. By means of a small wheel he then adjusted the beam of the swivel light so that it fell on the woman, illuminating her, rather as though she stood in a spotlight.
She blinked a little, and stood there, in the light, clutching the cloak about her.
“I was afraid in the streets,” she said. “I had difficulty finding this place. I did not dare come in a conveyance. Men called out to me from the darkness.”
There was a tiny jangle from within the cloak.
This sound intrigued Tuvo Ausonius.
“Perhaps they smelled your perfume,” suggested Tuvo Ausonius.
“What sort of woman did they think I was?” she asked.
“Perhaps you can guess,” he said.
“Do you like it?” asked the stewardess.
“It is appropriate for you,” he said, “though perhaps it might be more obvious.”
“I am wearing it for you,” she said. “I hoped you would be pleased.”
“I think it will do nicely,” he said.
“Where are your things?” she asked, looking about.
“Do not concern yourself with them,” he said.
He noted that her hair was lustrous. It had doubtless been washed, treated, brushed, combed, such things.
“Have you no light supper prepared?” she asked.
“I see that your feet are bare,” he said.
“I thought y
ou expected such things,” she said.
He put his hands to the borders of her dark cloak, closely clutched about her.
She lifted her eyes to his, pleading.
“You are here,” he reminded her. “Surely you do not wish to be reported to the line.”
“You cannot do these things to me!” she said.
“Oh?” he asked.
“I am a same!” she said.
“We shall see,” he said.
“It was only a minor violation of the regulations,” she said, “and the ship was terribly uncomfortable.”
“Such an infraction is surely sufficient for dismissal,” he said. “And what, too, of your intolerable discourtesy, your flagrant insolence, your provocative impropriety?”
“You cannot say such things!” she said.
“Surely I shall,” said Tuvo Ausonius, “for they are all true.”
“I will do whatever you want,” she said.
“Let us see what we have here,” he said. He then parted the dark robe.
Surely it was the stewardess as none others had ever seen her.
Then he dropped the dark cloak to the floor, behind her.
“Stand straighter,” he said.
Her dark hair was lustrous, as it fell, glistening, behind her, about her shoulders. About her throat, twice twined, were beads, and a necklace of threaded, tiny coins. The lovely sweetness of her upper body was haltered high, snugly, in scarlet silk. The sheen of her beauty descended then, with perfection, to a narrow waist, sweetly slender, which was encircled closely with a tight black, cloth cord, that sustaining the two overlapping sheets, front and back, skirtlike, of scarlet silk. Beneath this silk could be sensed the rounded joy of her belly and the flare of a love cradle that might have driven men mad.
“Loosen the belt a little,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
She did so, and the rounded sweetness of her belly was then more than hinted at, and the scarlet silk then was low on her hips, held there only by the sweetness of their flare.
“Kneel!” said Tuvo Ausonius.
Immediately the stewardess knelt before him, in the pool of light.
Tuvo Ausonius then suddenly felt sensations, and feelings, which he had never felt before.
He sought to rid himself of these feelings.
They were not in his plans.
She was incredibly beautiful, kneeling before him.
There were several loose bracelets on her right wrist, and an armlet on her upper left arm.
They might appear to be of gold, but would not be so, no more than such things affected by street women, or coin slaves.
It was the jangle of these bracelets which Tuvo Ausonius had heard before, shortly after she had entered the room, that delicate sound which had earlier intrigued him. She smoothed the silk a little.
There was, again, the tiniest sound from the bracelets. Yes, it was an intriguing sound.
The silk, as she now knelt, was between her thighs, thus contrasting with their milky white softness, and, of course, that they might be bared to him.
She knelt back, her hands on her thighs, the bracelets on her right wrist, the armlet on her upper left arm.
Tuvo Ausonius was not insensitive to her charms.
“You lack only the brand and collar,” he muttered to himself.
She looked up at him, her eyes half closed against the light.
“It is nothing,” he said.
“I forget your name,” he said.
“Sesella,” she said. “Sesella Gardener.”
“Do you think you are a same?” he said, angrily.
“No,” she said. “I do not think I am a same, truly. I have never thought, really, not for years, that I was a same.”
He glared down at her, unwilling to see her, but yet unable, it seemed, to remove his eyes from her.
He had realized what a woman could be.
He must remain strong, he must remember his purpose.
“Stand up,” he said.
She complied.
“No,” he said, angrily. “I do not think you are a same.”
The only good women, he reminded himself, forcibly, were sames.
How small she was, compared to him, and her shoulders, so small, so soft, so white, so exciting.
Suddenly, to his anger, he realized that she must have some inkling of the effect she had on him.
“I had a hard time finding this place,” she said. “It is not in one of the better districts.”
“I suppose not,” he said.
“It is a poorly lit area,” she said.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“It is a shabby district,” she said.
He did not tell her what sort of district it was.
Fitting for you, he thought.
She looked about, at the room, at the floor, the walls.
She did not seem overly pleased.
She looked up, toward the ceiling, toward the peeled paint, the irregularly concentric brownish rings.
Her eyes were half closed, against the glare of the swivel light.
“It is fortunate it is not raining,” she said. “It seems the ceiling leaks.”
“Perhaps it has been repaired,” he said.
“It is a very high ceiling,” she said.
“This is a summer world,” said Tuvo Ausonius. “The rooms are often so constructed, that they may be cooler, the warmer air rising upward.”
“Of course,” she said, blinking, looking down.
“You do not seem pleased with the room,” he said.
“It was not what I expected,” she said, lightly.
Yes, she sensed her power.
He could change that, quickly enough.
“I think it will do very nicely,” he said.
This remark seemed to alarm her somewhat. Certainly it would remind her that she was here, and as he wished.
Yes, it will do very nicely, for what I have in mind, he thought.
“What do you think of the table?” he asked, pointing to it.
She regarded its worn, darkly varnished surface. “You are not going to put me on it, are you?” she asked, uneasily.
Now she was surely less certain of her power.
“Certainly not,” he said, as though he found the very thought distasteful.
Still it was surely a charming thought, pleasing himself with her on such a surface.
He almost regretted that he was a same.
Now she was again surer of her power.
He noted this with satisfaction.
“You did not bring anything to eat or drink,” she said.
“Do not concern yourself with such matters,” he said.
She looked at the bed. “Do you want me to get in bed?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“‘No’?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“I do not understand,” she said. “What am I to do?”
“Go to the foot of the bed, and stand there, and await further instructions,” he said.
“There is a ring here, in the floor,” she said.
Tuvo Ausonius went to the heavy, dark dresser against one wall and, with a sound of sliding wood, opened the top drawer. He reached within the drawer. There was a sound of heavy links of chain, moving on the wood. He drew out a sturdy, common “Y” chain, of some two feet in length, with its three rings at its terminations, each now open.
He placed the “Y” chain on the foot of the bed. He also picked up the throw rug and then placed it on the floor, at the foot of the bed, near the ring.
She looked down at it. In this way, he conjectured, she might be more comfortable.
“You will now,” he said, “remove your clothing, completely, even your necklaces, your bracelets, and such.”
“Very well,” she said.
“Why have you turned your back to me?” she asked.
He did not respond to her.
How could she ask such a foolish question? How could he look up
on her? How could he dare to look upon her? Why would he even care to look upon her? Did she not know he was above such things, that he was a same?
She put her hands to the back of her neck, to remove her necklaces. She smiled to herself. She enjoyed removing her garments. She wished to strip herself, and bare her beauty, to reveal it in all its marvelous loveliness to a male, that it might find in that its meaning and birthright, and, too, that she might, to her joy, understand something of how precious she was to men, what a treasure she was to them, what a wondrously perfect and desirable creature she was. She knew that men fought and killed for women such as she. She knew that they sought women such as she, and, ruthlessly, in markets, bought and sold them.
She laid the necklaces on the foot of the bed.
“No one knows I am here,” she said.
She thought he might wish reassurance on this matter.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“Oh,” she said.
She slipped the armlet from her upper left arm and put it on the bed. Then she removed the bracelets, and placed them there, as well, with the armlet and necklaces, Tuvo Ausonius, his back turned, heard the bracelets, moving against one another, being placed on the bed. She reached behind her back, to the closures on the halter.
“You are not looking at me,” she said.
“No,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
She placed the halter on the bed.
She reached to the narrow, black, cloth cord, now low on her hips, that sustaining the skirtlike sheets of scarlet silk. As it now was on her, so low, so provocative, so exciting, so responsive to her slightest movements, she might even have been a dancer, or tavern slave.
She hesitated.
She turned about, so that her back would be to him, if he should turn, if he should suddenly wish to see her.
Let her beauty be to him as a revelation.
She untied the cloth cord and gathered together the two sheets of flowing, sheer silk.
These things she then put behind her on the bed.
“I am naked,” she whispered.
“What?” he asked.
“I am naked,” she said.
“Absolutely?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Kneel down, on the rug, at the foot of the bed,” he said.
“I have done so,” she said.