“Master ties a slave tightly,” said Cornhair.
“Enter the alcove,” said Phidias.
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.
Cornhair bent down, and entered the alcove. Phidias followed her, and then closed and latched the door. It was completely dark.
Cornhair was thrust back, to one side, against the wall, to the left, as one entered the alcove. She slid down, and lay on her left side, bound, her knees drawn up.
“If you are satisfactory,” said Phidias, from the darkness, “I may take some time with you.”
Cornhair sobbed and pulled futilely at the thongs which lashed her wrists together, behind her back.
“The lamp is here, in its niche,” said Phidias. “We will soon have some light.”
Shortly thereafter there was the snap of a striking stone, a bright sputter of sparks, and then, a moment later, a tiny flame, by means of which the lamp was lit. Cornhair closed her eyes against the light, which seemed cruel, tenuous though it might have been. She heard Phidias snap shut the cap on the striking stone.
“There,” said Phidias, with satisfaction, standing, facing Cornhair.
Cornhair, opening her eyes, cried out, suddenly, frightened, and, wide-eyed, twisting about, scrambled up to a sitting position, and then thrust herself back against the wall, her knees raised.
“Do not be afraid,” said Phidias. “I do not have much time, but there is no great hurry.”
Cornhair, wide-eyed, sitting up, thrust herself back, even more forcibly, against the wall.
“Of course you are afraid,” said Phidias. “But you are too intelligent to cry out, or think that you can escape.”
Cornhair, her back against the wall, her head up, her knees up, sat perfectly still. She did not speak. She could not speak. She did not move. She could not move.
“What is wrong with you?” asked Phidias, impatiently.
“She was once Calasalii,” said the figure, knife drawn, standing behind Phidias. “Is that not enough?”
Phidias dared not turn.
“One should never enter an unfamiliar, darkened chamber without light,” said the figure behind Phidias.
“Who are you?” asked Phidias, not turning.
“Particularly with your knife in its sheath,” said the figure.
“What do you want?” asked Phidias.
“I come on behalf of Sulpicius,” said the figure.
“I know no Sulpicius,” said Phidias.
“It was he from whom you obtained a numbered tag,” said the figure, at the same time putting an arm about Phidias’ throat from behind. Phidias’ hand darted to the hilt of his knife, but the arm about his throat, bent him backward, suddenly, violently, and Phidias cried out softly, his hand falling away from the hilt of his knife. A moment later the figure thrust the body of Phidias from the blade of the long, two-edged knife, reddened to the hilt.
“Master!” cried Cornhair, going to her knees, and pressing her head down to the carpeted floor of the alcove.
Rurik, Tenth Consul of Larial VII, of the Farnichi, wiped his blade on the robes of Phidias, and then returned the knife to its sheath.
“He would have dared touch you, without my permission,” said Rurik.
“He was going to kill me,” said Cornhair, daring to look up.
With a slight gesture, palm up, Rurik indicated to the slave that she might kneel up, straightly, before him.
“Of course,” said Rurik. “You could identify him as a traitor, in the matter of the silent batteries and the raid of Abrogastes.”
“Earlier,” said Cornhair, “my presence belied his asseverations that he who is now the emperor was slain on Tangara. He purchased me and gave me to agents, to be disposed of in a carnarium. There was a falling out, one was killed by the other, the survivor was slain by the raiders.”
“I heard,” said Rurik.
“I might have been cast into a carnarium,” said Cornhair.
“That would have been a waste of slave,” said Rurik, “even one who was once Calasalii.”
“Perhaps Master would have regretted the loss of a slave,” said Cornhair.
“Surely,” he said, “as of any animal of some value, however minimal.”
“I am bound,” said Cornhair, squirming a little, plaintively.
“True,” said Rurik, surveying her, in the soft light of the lamp.
“I might have been slain at the display bar,” said Cornhair.
“I thought you would be safe at the display bar,” said Rurik. “You could not be removed from the bar without the appropriate tag, and great peril would attend killing you there, so openly, in the light. Your tag, and those of Elena and Pig, were held in security. I did not anticipate the theft of a tag.”
“You thought me safe at the display bar?” said Cornhair, pleased.
“Yes,” said Rurik.
“Perhaps Master is fond of a slave,” said Cornhair.
“Do you wish to be cuffed?” he asked.
“No, Master,” said Cornhair.
“I do regard you as worth at least a few darins,” he said.
“Master saved my life,” said Cornhair.
“The house of the Farnichi is a merchant house,” he said. “Goods are goods. A darin is a darin.”
“How strange and wondrous it was,” she said, “and how fortunate for a slave, that Master lay in wait, in the darkness, in the alcove,” said Cornhair.
“Not strange and wondrous,” said Rurik. “As soon as we discovered the body of Sulpicius, and that the tag was missing, we knew Phidias would wish to remove you from the display bar, and then, as might prove possible, do away with you. He would not risk trying to remove you through the front portal, so he would utilize the corridor of alcoves, either taking you to an alcove, where the body would not be immediately found, or, less likely, risk killing you in the alley, and then attempt to escape. Clearly the alcove would seem more likely. Therefore, I waited.”
“A slave is pleased,” she said, “that you selected the right alcove.”
“It was not difficult,” he said, “nor as fortunate as it might seem. All the other alcoves were cleared, and closed, in the name of the emperor.”
“What if I had been taken to the alley?” she asked.
“Men were waiting,” said Rurik. “Too, if the alcove were passed, I would have followed, immediately.”
“Then I was not in the danger I feared,” said Cornhair.
“You were in great danger,” he said, “as soon as you were released from the display bar and entered into the corridor of alcoves.”
“Clearly Master was concerned,” said Cornhair. “Master feared for the welfare of his slave.”
“Beware,” he said.
“Had Master permitted me to be slain,” she said, “a servitor might have followed Master Phidias, and perhaps been led to Lord Abrogastes.”
“Sulpicius was killed,” said Rurik.
“But might have been later avenged,” said Cornhair.
“Have you ever been lashed?” he asked.
“Forgive me, Master,” she said.
“It is unfortunate that Phidias recognized you,” said Rurik, “rather than being himself discreetly recognized.”
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.
“He was thusly alerted,” said Rurik.
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.
“Yet all is not lost,” said Rurik. “There are two others. Either will do.”
“Elena and Pig will follow them,” said Cornhair.
“When it became clear to them that Phidias was determined to remove a slave from the display bar, they took their leave,” said Rurik. “I think they would soon be in flight. We did not anticipate, nor I think did they, the move of Phidias. In flight, neither Elena nor Pig could match their pace. I
f they attempted to do so, for a time, two running slaves behind them would surely alert them to their danger.”
“Then the emperor’s plan has failed,” said Cornhair.
“With respect to being easily, conveniently, led to Abrogates, yes,” said Rurik, “but I think the servitors who were accompanying Elena and Pig will be more than capable of bringing the other two, even fleeing, into custody. Torture, a familiar device of statecraft, may then be employed, to its usual excellent effect.”
“I would not care to be them,” said Cornhair.
“Nor will they much care to be them, either, under the circumstances,” said Rurik.
Cornhair shuddered.
“Pain may easily be avoided,” said Rurik. “They need only speak, promptly, accurately, and volubly.”
Rurik then hauled the body of Phidias from the alcove. A bit later, he returned.
“Master?” said Cornhair.
“I put our friend,” he said, “in the alley.”
“The body will be discovered,” said Cornhair.
“Yes,” said Rurik. “The blood is fresh.”
“I do not understand,” said Cornhair.
“Wild dogs roam the alleys of Telnar,” said Rurik.
“I am still bound,” said Cornhair.
The inspection tunic had slipped down her arms, and partly behind her.
“You look well,” said Rurik, “kneeling, your hands tied behind your back.”
“Should we not take our leave?” asked Cornhair.
“Presently,” said Rurik.
“I am still bound,” said Cornhair.
“We will return to the Farnichi enclave,” said Rurik.
“Master regards his slave,” said Cornhair.
A woman on her knees before a man is well aware of his scrutiny.
“Phidias had more in mind, I gather,” said Rurik, “than simply killing you in an alcove.”
“That, too, was my impression,” said Cornhair. “Perhaps Master will now unbind a slave?”
“That would be a waste of thongs and a waste of alcove,” said Rurik.
“What am I to do?” said Cornhair.
“Do you wish to be used on the carpeting of the alcove?” asked Rurik.
“I will be used whenever and however Master wishes,” said Cornhair. “I am not a free woman. I am a slave.”
“You see the cushions about,” said Rurik. “On your knees, go to them, bend down, bite into them, softly and gently, and, holding them in your teeth, one after the other, drag them here, and arrange them, before me.”
After a time, in the lamplight, Cornhair had arranged the cushions before Rurik, to his satisfaction.
“You did well, slave,” said Rurik. “You may now kiss my feet, to show your gratitude, for having been permitted to serve your master.”
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.
“Now lie on the cushions, on your belly,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.
Rurik then crouched beside her, and lifted the inspection tunic up, behind her neck, over her collar.
“I am helpless,” said Cornhair.
“Of course,” said Rurik.
Strange feelings suffused Cornhair. “I am grateful to be a slave,” she thought, “to be permitted to be a slave. I want nothing else. I want to be such that I can be bought and sold, that I am owned as goods, that I must obey, that I am subject to the whip. How lonely and miserable I was, until I was owned, until I was collared.”
Chapter Twenty
“Think further, your majesty,” expostulated Titus Gelinus, the palace’s envoy to the senate.
“Heed the envoy’s request, dear Otto,” urged Julian of the Aureliani. “There is no love for you in the darkness of the senate.”
“What think you, friend Tuvo?” asked Otto.
“For what my opinion may be worth, though it may well be worthless,” said Tuvo Ausonius, “I share the fears of the noble envoy, Titus Gelinus, and he of the Aureliani.”
Shortly before, Orontius, envoy of the senate to the palace, had smiled and backed away, respectfully, graciously, from the throne, turned, and taken his way to the great portal, by means of which he had withdrawn from the lofty, muchly draped throne room.
“You sense danger, noble Gelinus?” asked Otto.
“Very much so, your majesty,” said Titus Gelinus. “I know of nothing specific, no plot, no plan, but the proposal is fraught with menace.”
“Do you think I fear the senate?” asked Otto. “Has it an army, a navy, a thousand guardsmen at its personal call?”
“One does not need an army, a navy, a thousand guardsmen,” said Julian. “One needs only a single dagger, a single arrow, perhaps poisoned, loosed from between two men in senatorial robes, parting to permit its passage.”
“Am I not in danger within the palace itself,” asked Otto, “from a suborned servitor, a malcontent in livery, a credentialed intruder?”
“Such risks are understood, and accepted,” said Julian. “They accompany the throne, like its shadow, but it is one thing to accept inescapable peril, and quite another to seek it out.”
“How is it that such an invitation would be offered?” asked Otto.
“I fear,” said Titus Gelinus, “to lure you from the palace.”
“I see the hand of Sidonicus in this,” said Julian.
“The exarch?” said Otto.
“This professed token of concord has to me a strange taste,” said Julian. “It suggests to me the honey of the exarch’s cunning.”
“What has this to do with his strange beliefs?” asked Otto.
“Beliefs are the means, not the end,” said Julian. “The end is power. The exarch wants power and the senate wants power, and both see you as an obstacle to their ambitions. It is natural then that they should make common cause, reserving for the future their own deadly enmity, their own struggles for power.”
“Do not accept the senate’s invitation, your majesty,” said Titus Gelinus. “The honors it offers, the distinctions it seems eager to lavish upon you, may bait a trap.”
“Almost assuredly,” said Julian.
“Perhaps the offer is genuine,” said Otto. “That is possible. Can we risk that it is not so? There may be forces in the senate itself, eager for a better relationship between the palace and the senate.”
“Beware,” said Julian.
“Should I not welcome its support?” asked Otto. “Is it not better to rule with all in amity, however superficial that pose may be, than in open suspicion and division? Would the senate not be insulted, if I refused to accept its seemingly honest, well-intentioned invitation?”
“Let it be insulted,” said Julian.
“You are Otung,” said Titus Gelinus. “You occupy a throne which is foreign to you, one to which you are a stranger. There is the empire you see, and the empire you do not see. The empire you see is vast and glorious; the empire you do not see is covetous and self-seeking, subtle with intrigue, rife with danger.”
“The senate,” said Julian, “is an ambitious, corrupt, scheming, self-perpetuating cabal, formed from the oldest and richest families of the high honestori. It seeks power, not law, wealth, not justice. An emperor hoping for the welfare of the empire is not its ally, but its enemy.”
“You are an alien to the senate, a threat to its ambitions,” said Titus Gelinus. “Do not accept its invitation.”
“I cannot refuse,” said Otto. “Politics prescribes acceptance, even commands it. A refusal would be taken by many as an affront to the senate, deemed by many a venerable, honorable institution. Who would be so boorish or foolish as to decline a seeming overture of peace? Indeed, such a refusal would be understood by many as a repudiation of the senate. It could be taken as a simple brandishing of power, a contumelious gesture, the shameles
s act of an unmitigated tyranny.”
“Let it be so understood,” said Julian.
“I might be thought a coward,” said Otto.
“Ah!” said Julian. “Now it is the barbarian, the Otung, who speaks.”
“Perhaps,” said Otto.
“Be wise,” said Julian. “Do not permit yourself to be manipulated by the views of others. It is not the way of an emperor.”
“Such views, as well,” said Titus Gelinus, “might be only pretended, to draw you from the lair of the palace, like a proud, angry lion, to the nets and spears of hunters.”
“I have never seen a sitting of the senate,” said Otto. “I think I shall do so.”
“Do not,” said Titus Gelinus.
“I have given my word to Orontius,” said Otto, “envoy of the senate to the palace.”
“Deny that you have done so,” said Julian. “Who would know?”
“I would know,” said Otto.
“Do not go,” said Titus Gelinus.
“Remain in the palace,” said Julian.
“I beg you, your majesty,” said Tuvo Ausonius. “Heed the words of your friends.”
“At least consult with the Arbiter of Protocol,” said Julian. “He will oppose the measure. He will recognize the danger. A cordial veil often conceals an inhospitable blade. Consult him. He is wily, and skilled in the machinations of statecraft.”
“I have done so,” said Otto. “He advises me to attend.”
“Impossible,” said Titus Gelinus.
“It cannot be,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“Do not trust him,” said Julian.
“Ten days from now, at noon,” said Otto, “the senate meets.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“You have taken action?” asked Ortog, pacing before the broad, lacquered desk of Iaachus, the Arbiter of Protocol, like a restless vi-cat.
“Action has been taken,” said Iaachus.
“I would see Otto, king of the Otungen,” said Ortog.
“It is late,” said Iaachus. “The emperor is not to be disturbed.”
“He would see Ortog, king of the Ortungen,” said Ortog.
“Many in the empire,” said Iaachus, “confuse the Otungen, a Vandal tribe, with the Ortungen, an ill-fated tribe, I gather, once associated with the Aatii.”
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