“I know so little of so much,” he said.
“It is not your fault,” said Nika. “You are sheltered. You are uninformed.”
“What shall we do with you?” he asked.
“Master?” said Nika, uncertainly.
“I could kill you or have you killed,” he said.
“Your secret would then be safe,” she said.
“But I do not care to do this,” he said, “though it be compatible with, even prescribed by, weighty, sober policy.”
“A slave is pleased to hear of your reluctance in this matter,” she said.
“More generously, if less wisely, I could whine and fret,” he said, “and have you removed, as an unwanted toy. You might then be free of me.”
“I do not wish to be free of you,” she said.
“I do not understand,” he said.
She looked away, quickly.
“Keep me,” she said. “Would that not be safer? Is that not a better guarding of your secret? Keep me chained, if you wish. I am, after all, a slave. Might I not, chained if you wish, accompany you when you are taken forth from the chamber? Might I not, if unchained, be as your maid, and nurse? Might I not, if you permit it, come and go, outside, and be your eyes and ears in the palace? I might learn much, and then recount to you what I learned. Thus, by this means, you could be a thousand times better informed than you are now.”
“Why do you look to the side?” he said. “Why do you not meet my eyes?”
“Forgive me, Master,” she said.
“You would be my spy?” he said.
“Your bearer of news, your informant,” she said.
“But,” he said, “you must feign misery, and grievous sorrow over your pathetic lot.”
“Of course, Master,” she said.
“You seem delighted, even happy,” he said.
“I am a slave, on my knees, where I belong, before a free man,” she said.
He then approached her, slowly, until he stood before her, looking down at her.
“I have strange feelings,” he said.
“I am a helpless slave,” she said. “I am before my Master. I am wet, I am juicing, I am heated. I beg, as a helpless, rightless slave, to be caressed.”
“I have never had a woman,” he said.
“I am a woman, a slave,” she said, “and no woman is more a woman than a slave.”
“I feel strange things in my body, unaccountable, wild, sweeping, overpowering, unfamiliar things,” he said, wonderingly. “What feelings are these?”
“Those of a man,” she said, “with a slave at his feet.”
He reached down and drew the brief tunic from her body.
“How beautiful you are,” he said.
He then lifted her, and carried her to the couch, on which he placed her.
“Chain me,” she said. “Chain me in place.”
“Do you wish it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
Shortly thereafter she moved her shackled limbs.
There was a small sound, of the slightly stirred links.
“You are now quite helpless,” he said.
“Now do with me what you will,” she said.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ingeld lay sleeping.
Viviana lay beside him, awake.
It was early. She could see a gray bit of light, a subtle illumination, at the casement. She could hear the cry of birds outside the chamber.
She wanted to touch Ingeld, but dared not do so. Might she not be beaten for hazarding so egregious an importunity?
Surely he could not feel, he so much in sleep, a tiny kiss, pressed upon his shoulder?
She dared to touch him so.
To her fear, she felt him turn toward her. He was so much larger than she! It was like a large, feral animal had turned toward her, so close, in the half-darkness. She felt weak, helpless, and small, beside him, but alive, so alive! “Please,” she whispered, “again, again, Master.”
“You beg it?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered. “I beg it!”
Later, Ingeld chained her, by the neck, to the foot of his couch, and returned to sleep. Viviana lay there, on the chain, on the floor, at the foot of the couch, not sleeping. She recalled Huta’s warning, that she was to please Ingeld, but not too well, as he “belonged to her,” as though a free man could belong to a slave! “Well, dear Huta, mere slave,” thought Viviana, “we shall see about such matters. I think I can please Ingeld quite well. Who knows, he might soon rid himself of you. Perhaps I can see to that.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“He is strong,” said one of the four men who were struggling with Ortog.
“The straps will hold him,” said another.
“He recovered consciousness quickly,” said another, “too quickly.”
“There is much vitality in these barbarian beasts,” said another.
Ortog lifted his bloodied head, and listened.
Someone seemed to be ascending steps.
Ortog had been pursuing fleeing, terrified, blond Corelius down an alley in the Varl District, but yards in his wake, when he had turned, abruptly, suddenly aware of several men who had sprung forth from two doorways behind him, one to his right, and one to his left. He had fought like an iron-burned vi-cat driven into an arena. One man’s arm he broke, and another’s neck. A kick to the side of the leg of another splintered a knee. But then a heavy object had struck him, and he fell unconscious to the stones. In a moment he was bound tightly with broad straps, and was gagged and blindfolded. He was then placed in a closed wagon which, moments ago, had turned into the alley. Corelius had not returned to aid his confederates, but, shaken and gasping, perhaps uncertain as to the outcome of the uneven struggle behind him, or of Ortog’s possible eluding of, or escaping from, his attackers, had continued his flight.
Then the steps were no longer heard.
The individual who had ascended the steps was then, presumably, on the level with the others.
“Is he well-secured, well blindfolded?” asked a man’s voice. Ortog did not recognize the voice.
“He is like a tethered, hooded bull, large and dangerous,” said a man. “Beware, he does not plunge at you, buffeting you.”
“Hold him, tightly,” said the voice.
Ortog was grasped anew.
“The noble Corelius has served us well,” said the voice.
“At little risk, he easily led this simple, trusting, unwary barbarian brute into the trap,” said a man.
“Barbarians are stupid,” said another man.
“So,” said the voice, “you are the mighty Ortog, the renegade Drisriak, held, trussed, gagged, and blindfolded?”
“He was easily tricked,” said a man.
“He suspected nothing,” said another.
“It is as I told you,” said a fellow, “barbarians are stupid.”
“Remove the gag,” said the voice.
This was done.
“Can you speak Telnarian?” inquired the voice.
“Enough,” said Ortog, “to tell your women to strip themselves and prepare to be collared and branded as slaves.”
“Strike him,” said the voice.
Ortog scarcely moved, though fists struck him. He felt blood in his mouth, and under the blindfold, at the side of his face.
“There is work for such as you, large, simple beast,” said the voice, “on galley benches, in quarries, and in the mines, but we have other plans for you.”
“What might they be?” inquired Ortog.
“The remnants of your dissident group, the Ortungen,” said the voice, “are about. With your life in our hands, we shall be assured of their tractability.”
“Telnaria has little to fear from the Ortungen, since
their decimation on Tenguthaxichai,” said Ortog.
“True,” said the voice, “but we anticipate that your enkeepment will provide us with advantages well beyond the mere pacification of some half-armed, scattered tribesmen.”
“How is that?” asked Ortog.
“You are the son of Abrogastes, of the Aatii, called the Far-Grasper,” said the voice.
“A son,” said Ortog, “of Abrogastes, the Far-Grasper, king of the Drisriaks, hegemonic tribe of the Alemanni.”
“Your father tried to kill you, on Tenguthaxichai,” said the voice.
“It seems so,” said Ortog.
“But the blade missed its mark.”
“Not at all,” said Ortog. “It entered my body at the point, and depth, intended. Its purpose was to seem mortal, while, in reality, sparing my life.”
“Absurd,” said the voice.
“Such a stroke would require a skilled surgeon,” said a man. “It would be far beyond the skill of an uncouth, ignorant barbarian.”
“Where is your father?” asked the voice.
“I suspect you know,” said Ortog.
“Possibly,” said the voice. “Indeed, we may arrange a family reunion.”
Two men laughed, one of whom was one of the two who held Ortog.
“We will put you in separate cells,” said a man, “where you can see one another, but cannot reach one another.”
“Therefore,” said a man, “you will be unable to kill one another.”
“We may not wish to kill one another,” said Ortog.
“Why else,” asked a man, “would you have pursued the noble Corelius, if not to be led to Abrogastes, that you might enact your vengeance upon him, from Tenguthaxichai?”
“The noble Corelius is a coward and traitor,” said Ortog.
“Beware,” said a man.
“Perhaps you could put us in the same cell,” said Ortog.
“The noble Corelius?” asked a man.
“Yes,” said Ortog.
“If you do not hate one another, you and your father, and even, ideally, care for one another,” said the voice, “that is even better for us, for each may then be used to influence the other. Through you we control the Ortungen, few as they may be, and through Abrogastes, we control the Drisriaks, and, possibly, thereby, all the tribes of the Aatii. Moreover, by threatening you, we may win concessions from Abrogastes, while, by threatening Abrogastes, we may win concessions from you.”
“You are clever,” said Ortog.
“The plan is that of the wise and noble Corelius,” said a man.
“Who speaks?” asked Ortog.
“You need not know,” said Timon Safarius Rhodius, of the Telnar Rhodii, primarius of the senate of Telnaria.
“Let us take him to his cell,” said a man.
“Be careful on the steps,” said Safarius. “There are several of them.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“You are pretty,” said Atalana, the empress mother, to the kneeling slave.
“Please, gracious Mistress,” said the slave, “let another attend upon your glorious son.”
“Your hair,” said the empress mother, “is bright red, like fire, and long.”
“Please,” begged the slave.
“Dear Aesilesius likes pretty things,” said Atalana.
“I fear him,” said the slave. “I do not know what he will do. He is a creature of tantrums and moods. He cannot control his saliva. He can barely speak. It is hard to understand him, even to know what he wants. I fear even to look upon him. His body is twisted, crooked, curled in upon itself. A fly entered his chamber yesterday and I thought he would go mad with terror.”
“Poor Aesilesius,” said Atalana.
“Let another attend upon him,” said the slave.
“Surely you would not wish your trials to be visited upon another,” said Atalana.
“One stronger, one wiser, than I,” said the slave.
“He will have no other,” said Atalana. “He cries, he screams, he rolls on the floor.”
“He thinks I am a toy,” said the slave, “only a toy, only another toy.”
“Sweet, troubled Aesilesius is fond of toys,” said Atalana, “especially pretty toys.”
“I am no more to him than his blocks, his beaded strings, and colored globes, his small, stuffed, yellow torodont.”
“Beloved, unfortunate Aesilesius is so fond of his toys,” said Atalana, the empress mother, “particularly the pretty ones.”
“Mercy, great Mistress,” begged the slave.
“The one act of that barbarous lout, the arrant usurper, the so-called Ottonius, the First, who dares to sit upon my son’s throne,” said the empress mother, “his one act of which I can bring myself to approve, is his giving you to dear Aesilesius.”
“No!” cried the slave.
“I have not seen dear Aesilesius so tractable, so sweetly tempered, so pleased, in years.”
“Mercy!” said the slave.
“I am well pleased with the arrangement,” said the empress mother.
“I lift my hands to you,” said the slave. There was a tiny sound of metal from the linkage closely joining the two metal cuffs, these attractively, snugly, upon her slender wrists. “I plead, piteously, with all the helpless fervor of the slave.”
“And with the meaninglessness, as well as the helplessness, of the slave, my dear,” said the empress mother.
“Please!” cried the slave.
“I wonder that you have not, in your desperation, appealed to the boor who sits upon the throne,” said Atalana.
“I have,” said the slave.
“And?”
“He has refused to grant my plea,” said the slave. “He is adamant.”
“So, too, am I,” said the empress mother.
“Surely not, kind Mistress,” said the slave.
“I have granted this audience against my better judgment,” said the empress mother. “I think it should now be concluded.”
“No,” begged the slave.
“I do not see,” said the empress mother, “that you have so much to complain of. Outside the chamber of my grandson, outside of which you often are, you come and go much as you please, save for your braceleting, your hands commonly braceleted before you, as they are now, in the palace, and commonly braceleted behind you outside the palace. Many slaves would envy you so generous a liberty of movement, even given the braceleting.”
The slave lifted her hands, parting them, with a small sound of metal, to the tiny extent possible. “The noble Aesilesius,” she said, “will have me so.”
“Surely not in his chamber,” said the empress mother.
“Not so much then,” said the slave.
“Men are beasts, brutes, and monsters,” said the empress mother. “They enjoy having absolute power over us. If they had their way we would all be naked, squirming in chains at their feet, fearing to be whipped.”
“Am I not to be granted mercy, any mercy, great Mistress?” asked the slave.
“No,” said Atalana. “You are good for my son. He likes to have you kneeling behind him, to his left, in our audiences, your hands braceleted before you. He is more patient then, more willing to endure the tedious traffic of state, to the extent I am permitted, for the sake of appearances, to participate in it. Sometimes he even looks as though he might understand what was transpiring.”
“There is no mercy for me then?” asked the slave.
“No,” said Atalana, the empress mother.
“Please, please, noble Mistress,” begged Nika.
“No,” said the empress mother, “and do not bother me again about this matter.”
“Forgive me, great mistress,” said Nika, and stood, and backed away, and then, when it seemed appropriate, turned and left the room
.
She was smiling.
Chapter Forty
“So,” said Abrogastes, clutching the bars of his cell, glaring across the wide corridor, into the cell into which Ortog had just been thrust, “I have sired a fool.”
These cells were on the fourth basement level beneath the warehouse of Dardanis, of the Telnar Dardanii, importer of the wares of a dozen worlds.
Ortog turned about, to face his jailers and, across the corridor, his incarcerated father.
The cell door rang shut.
“I do not run from you now, monster,” said blond Corelius, archly, facing Ortog. “And I never feared you, an ignorant, untutored bumpkin, before, not in the least. I feigned flight from you, and fear, merely to lead you into the patent ambuscade in which you found yourself trapped. A young boar, his tusks scarce erupted, could not have been snared as easily. Were it not for the plan I devised, which I wished to see implemented, I would have subdued you on the street.”
“Why did you not do so?” inquired Ortog.
“My reasons were twice mighty,” said Corelius. “First, a pedestrian grappling in public would too obviously link me with you, possibly compromising my future role in certain delicate matters. Second, I feared, in such a grappling, I might inadvertently slay you, a broken back or neck, a head dashed on the pavement, such things, in which case your value to my principal would be lost, and unrecoverable.”
“I tremble,” said Ortog.
“Do not do so,” said Corelius. “It is not necessary. You are safe from me, here, where you are, and as you are, a prisoner.”
“You are clever,” said Ortog.
“I am Telnarian,” said Corelius.
“Enter the cell,” said Ortog, “that we may discuss these matters.”
“I do not have time,” said Corelius. “I give you leave to ponder such matters at your convenience.”
“Come closer to the bars,” said Ortog.
Corelius backed away.
Besides Corelius, there were five men in the corridor between the cells. Three had masked themselves before Ortog’s blindfold had been removed. First amongst these three was Timon Safarius Rhodius, of the Telnar Rhodii, primarius of the senate of Telnaria. The other two were large, dangerous men, bodyguards of Safarius, each a former gladiator who had won his freedom following ten kills. The other two, who were not masked, were jailers. It had taken four of these men, the two former gladiators and the two jailers, once Ortog’s blindfold and bonds had been removed, to get him into the cell.
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