The Emperor

by Norman, John;

“Claim it,” said Abrogastes, heartily.

  “I am unworthy, father,” said Ingeld, shaken. “I have stood first here, in right of blood, only in your absence. In this hall there are mighty warriors, chieftains and kings.”

  “Claim it,” said Abrogastes, sternly, his tone brooking no allowance for demurring or hesitation.

  Ingeld rose to his feet behind the short table, to which he clung briefly, perhaps to steady himself, and assure himself that his legs would not buckle beneath him.

  “And unsheathe your sword,” said Abrogastes.

  Ingeld unsheathed the sword. He considered turning and lunging at Abrogastes, dealing him a sudden death blow, and then claiming the high seat of the Drisriaks, but he realized the likely result of such an action would not be the high seat but being, after perhaps a moment of shock and bewilderment, cut to pieces by hundreds of swords and knives, each eager to avenge the murder of the beloved king of the Drisriaks.

  All eyes were upon Ingeld.

  “Go,” said Abrogastes.

  Ingeld, his sword unsheathed, looked about, at the tables, on both sides of the long, narrow fire pit. Assembled were chieftains, kings, princes, captains, shieldsmen, and representatives of the eleven tribes of the Alemanni, and of many of the allied tribes. Present were even Aratars, Red Vessites, and, from Safa Major, Burons.

  Ingeld tried to read faces.

  He studied the countenances of many, including those of Lars Red Sleeves and Herman Two Ax, both formidable warriors much esteemed by Abrogastes, Red Sleeves, a master of the broad sword, and Two Ax, a master of the paired axes. He even scrutinized that of Farrix, of the Long-River Borkons, with whom he had had repeated dealings, who knew perhaps too much of his plans and intrigues.

  Which, of all those present, might rise to his feet and issue a challenge, claiming for himself, doubtless at Abrogastes’ instruction or command, the hero’s portion?

  Ingeld descended from the dais and walked slowly toward the far spit, the first spit, that closest to the entryway to the hall.

  At any moment he expected to hear a voice behind him, or to the side, call out, in tones of force and might, “I claim the meat! It is mine!”

  The heavy, hot, glistening burden of meat was impaled with four spears, and then, still on its spit, was lifted by four struggling servitors from the fire and laid on one of the two cutting racks closest to the main portal of the hall. There were ten such cutting racks, each with its corresponding spit, turned from either side, five on one side of the fire pit and five on the other.

  Ingeld lifted his sword over his head, holding the hilt with two hands.

  He paused for a moment, waiting for the cry of challenge, every sense alert.

  He slashed down at the meat, again and again, and then lifted up, high, impaled on his sword, a large, cut slab of meat, hot and running with juice.

  “Ingeld! Ingeld!” cried voices. Goblets clashed. Fists pounded on the tables. “Ingeld, Ingeld!” he heard.

  He made his way back to the dais, amidst cheers and the cries of his name, ascended the dais, and took his place at the right hand of Abrogastes.

  Abrogastes rose to his feet, brandishing a horn of bror. “To the hero!” he cried, lifting the horn, toasting Ingeld.

  “The hero, the hero!” cried men.

  Ingeld looked down. This was his father’s doing, he knew. Who, uninvited, would gainsay the will of the king, who had, in effect, publicly ordered his son to claim the hero’s portion? Who would dispute this with a king? Hrothgar, if he were not Hrothgar, might have, but to Hrothgar such things meant little compared to the pleasures of food and drink, the shaking of dice, the racing of horses, the chase, and slaves.

  “Fellows, comrades, friends, brothers, and kinsmen,” cried Abrogastes, “let there be rejoicing! Let meat be cut, let bror flow!”

  There were glad cries from all the tables. Servitors addressed themselves to the replenishing of goblets and horns, and the cutting of meat.

  “Let this night be sung on other nights!” called Abrogastes. Then he called out, “Enter! Enter!”

  Into the hall, the signal given, through the opened portal, in motley-colored garbs, rushed mountebanks, jugglers, fire eaters, minstrels, and acrobats, these immediately, in their diverse ways, entertaining the guests.

  An hour sped past and still the heated bror made its rounds from table to table, to curved horn after curved horn.

  Abrogastes then dismissed these entertainers, and an awe came over the guests, as a white-haired scald, frail and bent with age, was led forward by a child to the dais, and then turned about, that he might face the hall. His hands clutched a seven-stringed lyre. He had been blinded in youth by rune priests on Kolchis IV, that he might thereby, wholly, without temptation or distraction, better serve his art.

  A single note, like a ringing arrow, left a string of the lyre.

  No other sound was heard in the great hall.

  Then the old man, who lived alone in darkness, with his music and chanting, lifted a thin, quavering voice, and warriors listened.

  He chanted of many things, of ships streaming fire, undertaking long voyages, of swift rivers with falls and churning waters, of lonely trails in dark forests, of deserts and mountains, of valleys and prairies, of animals and birds, of the wars of gods, and the battles of men, of loyalty and betrayal, of surfeit and hunger, of victory and defeat, of the sorrows of heroes and the deaths of kings.

  Men were silent, and wept.

  “Done!” cried Abrogastes. “Give him meat, and bror!”

  Then Abrogastes again rose to his feet, and signaled once more to the portal, which was again opened.

  The pounding of a drum was heard, and a medley of instruments, and six musicians came forward and took their place before the dais, sitting cross-legged.

  Ten dancers, to the music, hurried into the hall with a clash of bangles, a ringing of ankle bells, a flash of veils and silks. Five of the dancers were to one side of the fire pit and five to the other.

  The guests on the benches, behind the crowded, laden tables, cried out with pleasure, some leaping to their feet, others pounding fists and goblets on the tables.

  “These,” said Abrogastes to Ingeld, “are brought from Beyira II.”

  “From the central wastes, the sand belts,” said Ingeld.

  “Yes,” said Abrogastes.

  “Are the dancers slaves?” asked Viviana.

  “Of course,” said Abrogastes. “What free woman would dare to dance so?”

  “Necklaces conceal collars,” said Ingeld.

  “Oh,” said Viviana, and watched, awed, learning how beautiful women could be.

  “Bring me my devoted slave, Huta,” said Abrogastes to a servitor.

  “Yes, lord,” said the man, and hurried away.

  “Forgive me, father,” said Ingeld. “I did not expect you here. Had I realized you would be here, and were this not originally conceived as a Vengeance Council, I would have supplied slaves, to serve.”

  “No matter,” said Abrogastes.

  Huta was soon ushered forward. She wore a long, brown garment, of a sort common to Alemanni women. The collar, of course, close-fitting, and metal, was obvious on her neck. She seemed muchly agitated, and frightened. Ingeld, too, was muchly uneasy.

  She stood before the dais.

  Music swirled about her. The dancers were behind her.

  Viviana knew that Huta belonged to Abrogastes. Why then, she wondered, if Huta were before her master, from whom she had been long separated, was she seemingly so troubled. Too, Viviana noted the tenseness of Ingeld. Viviana felt a surge of power.

  “That is a pretty slave,” said Viviana to Abrogastes.

  “She is Huta,” said Abrogastes, “once a high priestess of the Timbri.”

  “But now, it seems,” said Viviana, “only an object, a proper
ty, a rightless chattel.”

  “Of course,” said Abrogastes.

  “It seems she is standing,” observed Viviana, smiling.

  “On your knees!” snapped Ingeld to the slave.

  Huta, startled, knelt.

  She cast a look of hatred at Viviana.

  “Huta,” said Abrogastes, “have you missed me?”

  “Very much, Master,” she said. “My heart and my body have ached for your return.”

  “Loyal and devoted slave,” said Abrogastes.

  “Yes, Master,” said Huta.

  “I trust you have been faithful to me in my absence,” said Abrogastes.

  “Surely, Master,” she said.

  Ingeld turned white.

  “Dear father of my husband and lord,” said Viviana to Abrogastes, “I know little of such things, but is she not dressed in the fashion of a Drisriak free woman?”

  “How is it,” asked Abrogastes, regarding Huta, “that you have dared to assume the garb of a free woman?”

  Huta began to tremble.

  “On Telnaria,” said Viviana, “a slave might be slain for doing such.”

  “A slave,” said Abrogastes, “should be clad, if clad, as a slave, preferably in rags, or revealingly. Her beauty is not her own, but belongs to the Master. Hence, in its way, it is as public as that of horse or dog.”

  “Forgive me, Master,” said Huta.

  “Some slaves,” said Viviana, “abuse the indulgence of a master.”

  “That is not acceptable,” said Abrogastes.

  “Perhaps,” said Viviana, “she has been too little whipped.”

  “It is good for a slave to be occasionally whipped,” said Abrogastes, “if only to remind her that she is a slave.”

  “True,” said Viviana.

  “Remove the garment,” said Abrogastes to Huta, “and ascend the dais, to be chained by the neck, naked, to the high seat, on my left, kneeling at the feet of the lovely and gracious consort of my son.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Huta, frightened.

  “And we will ponder the value of the lash on your softness,” said Abrogastes.

  “Yes, Master,” said Huta.

  “I suspect you need improvement as a slave,” said Abrogastes.

  “I shall try to be pleasing to my Master,” said Huta.

  “Pleasing as a slave is to be pleasing,” said Abrogastes, “in all ways.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Huta.

  Shortly thereafter the proud Huta, slave-bare and neck-chained, fastened to the left side of the high seat, knelt at the feet of Viviana, consort of Ingeld, prince of the Drisriaks.

  “You are the slave of Abrogastes,” whispered Viviana, bending down to Huta. “Beware that you do not please Ingeld too much.”

  Huta was silent, self-stripped, her fists clenched.

  “Yes?” said Viviana.

  “Yes,” said Huta, venomously.

  “Yes?” inquired Viviana.

  “Yes,” said Huta, “—Mistress.”

  Abrogastes, with a clapping of hands, dismissed the musicians and dancers. “Bring dice,” he called, “fifty cups of dice!”

  “For what should we gamble?” called a man from one of the tables, to the left.

  “For what, great king?” called another, from the right.

  Once again Abrogastes clapped his hands, and from without the portal there was a snapping of switches and cries of fear, misery, lamentation, and pain.

  “Ho!” cried more than one man, intrigued, looking toward the portal.

  “Move, meaningless slave beasts, pathetic, worthless animals,” called a young male voice, that of a boy, and the first slave in the long coffle appeared in the portal, naked, and exquisitely formed, a fifteen-darin girl in almost any market, blond and blue-eyed, her hands bound behind her, the coffle chain looped about her neck, the loop closed with a padlock, and the chain then extending back, behind her, to the next slave, similarly bared, bound, and secured.

  “Hold!” called Abrogastes, gesturing, and the boy held his switch against the breasts of the first slave, halting her.

  More boys, with switches, could be seen behind her.

  Boys were often put in charge of fully grown female slaves. This is thought good for boys, accustoming them to see females as no more than females, as objects suitable for controlling, herding, and mastering, and good for the slaves, as well, that they be humiliated by being held in such custody, by mere boys, this also reminding them that they are no more than females.

  “I have gathered together here,” said Abrogastes, “for your interest, delectation, perusal, and sport, two hundred choice females, captured or stolen from the empire. Few are of the humiliori. Almost all are from the honestori, and the high honestori, and some from the imperial nobility, itself. All are your inferiors, totally so, as they are of the empire, whose pampered, spoiled, decadent women are wholly without worth save as they may be spared to be the abject slaves of younger, fresher, hardier, stronger peoples.”

  “Yes, yes!” cried men.

  “Women are property and loot,” said Abrogastes. “They belong to those who are strong enough to take them and own them!”

  Approving shouts coursed about the hall.

  “Beloved father of my husband and lord,” said Viviana, “may I be excused?”

  “Surely,” said Abrogastes.

  Viviana rose to her feet.

  “Get with child, my dear,” said Abrogastes. “You would yourself look well on a sales block.”

  Viviana hurried from the hall.

  “It is the right of property and war, attested throughout history,” said Abrogastes, “that the women of a conquered enemy become the slaves of the victorious, that they are spoils of war, goods like other goods, loot, as other forms of loot. This vital, undeniable truth is acknowledged, despite lamentations and unavailing protests, by the women themselves. Women, in their hearts, know they are the property of men. The laws of nature have decreed it. They are the fitting property of men. This truth they accept and acknowledge, even as they are put to all fours and the collars are locked on their necks! They long for masters. Only in chains do they learn their womanhood. Dominate them. It is what they want. It is the key that unlocks their sex.”

  The entire coffle then, to the pleased shouts of warriors, coupled with a pounding on the tables of fists and goblets, to the striking of switches, wielded by impatient boys, was herded, whimpering and weeping, to the sound of clinking chains, to cries of pain responding to stings of supple leather, into the hall, to be bunched and knelt down before the dais.

  “Crowd, beasts,” said one of the boy herders. “Make a nice round flock. Closer together, soft, curved beasts, get your heads down, dare not, without permission, look into the eyes of a free person!”

  “Learn that you are nothing,” said another boy, striking a sobbing slave between the neck and shoulder with his switch. “You now exist only for the service of masters.”

  “Yes, Master,” she wept.

  “You will grow familiar with cages and ropes,” said another lad. “You will learn to beg and grovel for a handful of food and a caress. You are slaves.”

  “Yes, Master,” said more than one of the kneeling, bound, neck-chained, frightened slaves.

  “Send forth a delegate from each table,” called Abrogastes. “Let each delegate select three or four of these slaves and then return with them to the table and rattle the dice.”

  “May we sell one we win?” called a man.

  “Of course,” said Abrogastes, “and if you see one you like and did not win her, negotiate with her owner.”

  “Shall they serve us?” called a fellow.

  “You own them,” said Abrogastes. “Let them all be set to serving, but, too, let them not be confused as to the identity of their actual maste
r.”

  “Marking sticks, ribbons, a knot tied in the hair, a bit of cloth will do, tied about an ankle,” said a man.

  “Let some be blindfolded,” said a man, “that they may be gambled for, not seeing the dice, knowing not the players.”

  “They are slaves,” said Abrogastes, “do with them as you will.”

  A man from each table rushed to the bunched slaves, and servitors hastened to undo the padlocks which had closed the loops of chain that had held the slaves in the coffle. The selected slaves were then conducted to the tables, some thrust ahead of impatient warriors, some carried over shoulders, and, often enough, some, bent over, hurrying, endeavoring to keep up with the striding fellow whose fist was fastened in her hair.

  Soon the sounds of dice were heard on tables to the left and right.

  “It seems, dear father,” said Ingeld, “that there will be serving slaves, after all.”

  “What is a feast without slaves,” said Abrogastes.

  “What, indeed?” said Ingeld.

  Abrogastes then removed the chain from the neck of Huta. “You may now,” he said, “crawl on all fours from the hall, and to my chamber, where you will lie beside my couch on your belly, with your legs widely spread, and your wrists crossed behind your back, that they may be conveniently thronged.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Huta.

  Abrogastes and Ingeld watched her take her leave.

  “She will juice readily,” said Ingeld. “She has missed you desperately.”

  “I am sure of that,” said Abrogastes.

  As the feast continued, Ingeld grew more calm. “It seems,” he thought to himself, “that Abrogastes knows nothing, and suspects nothing.”

  Dice rattled on, sometimes spilling to the floor, and there were shouts of pleasure, and of frustration and disappointment, and screams and weepings, as slaves were seized by their new masters. Most slaves soon had their wrists freed from behind their backs that they might participate in the serving, hurrying to the fire pit for meat, and to the serving tables for kana and bror, and assorted comestibles, staples and delicacies, some from far worlds. Some masters, perhaps jealous of their new acquisitions, or fearing their loss or misappropriation by others, fastened them, kneeling, beneath their table, to the legs of their table, at their feet, by their hair or a cord about their neck. Some masters, relieving the slaves of their back-binding, tied their wrists before their bodies, and fastened them, thusly, kneeling, to a table leg, by their front-bound wrists.