The Emperor

by Norman, John;

  “So might be any slave without papers, and many with papers, forged papers,” said the slaver.

  “Your innocence will doubtless be established following the hearing,” said the smaller man.

  “What hearing?” asked the slaver, warily.

  “That to be called for by an appropriate administrator,” said the smaller man. “I am sure you have nothing to fear. I am sure that many of these slaves, if not this one, are fully aware of whether or not they have been stolen. And we shall suppose, in your favor, that none have been stolen. But, still, their testimony would be routinely required. Too, as you doubtless know, the testimony of slaves is taken under torture. This procedure guarantees that the slave will speak the truth, or, at least, agree quickly with whatever is suggested to them as the truth.”

  “What do you want?” asked the slaver.

  “Not your stock,” said the smaller man, “only this slave.”

  “She is yours,” said the slaver.

  Yana cried out, in misery, then put her head down, shuddering.

  “Bring chains, from the hoverer,” said the smaller man to one of his two companions. He then turned to the slaver. “When her ankles are shackled, free her of the bracelets. We will then complete her chaining.”

  In a short time, Yana’s ankles were shackled while she stood at the post. The shackling was adjusted so that her ankles were confined within six inches of one another. A new collar was then placed on her neck and the simple, plain collar removed. Her bracelets were then removed and one of the two larger men, he who seemed the lesser in status, looped the belly chain about her waist, with its two attached wrist rings. She then stood by the post, illuminated in the torchlight, her ankles shackled, her waist snugly encircled by the belly chain, her hands confined before her body, closely.

  “Excellent,” said the smaller man.

  “We shall withdraw,” said the slaver, now flanked by his two men, one bearing the torch.

  “You acknowledge, do you not,” asked the smaller man, “that I have had the best of this business?”

  “Quite so,” said the slaver.

  “Then,” said the smaller man, “I choose to buy this slave at my own price, five darins.”

  “I thought you wanted her for nothing,” said the slaver.

  “How could you think that of me?” asked the smaller man. “Do I seem one who would take advantage of an honest man? No. Certainly not. I want this to be wholly legal. There must be no question about it. I wish to own her, with a perfectly clear title.”

  “Five darins is not much,” said the slaver.

  “I think it is an exquisite, delicious price for her,” said the smaller man. “Let her remember she was sold for only five darins.”

  “Accepted,” said the slaver.

  “Pay him,” said the smaller man, handing his purse to the first of the two larger men, he who seemed higher in status.

  “Kneel, head to the grass,” said the smaller man to the slave.

  Yana remained in this position while the coins were counted out and the purse returned to the smaller man.

  To the other of the two larger men, the smaller man said, “Go to the hoverer, turn on the beam light, and bring a slave whip.”

  Yana trembled.

  In a few moments the beam light shone forth from the hoverer, across the grass, to the stakes.

  “Let me assist you to your feet,” said the smaller man to Yana, and lifted her, politely, to her feet, so that she faced the hoverer. She was unsteady for the close chaining of her ankles. The smaller man then stood near her, to the side, and held out his hand, into which one of the two larger men, he of seemingly lesser status, placed the slave whip.

  Yana then stood in the grass, facing the hoverer, shackled, wrists held close to her body, fastened to the belly chain, illuminated in the beam light.

  The smaller man then walked a few feet ahead of Yana, and stood before her. She could not then see his features, for the light was behind him. It was a darkness, an ominous darkness, silhouetted by the light. She, however, was well illuminated.

  “Stand well,” said one of the two larger men, he who seemed of the higher status.

  Yana recalled that slaves, as they were not free women, were to be lovely and graceful. How had she forgotten that? Soon such things would be part of her being, without thought, unconsciously and naturally.

  “Excellent,” said the smaller man.

  Yana knew herself savored, as a slave is savored.

  The smaller man then returned to stand near her, the whip in his hand.

  “Regard me,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” whispered Yana.

  “You do not know me, do you?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” said Yana.

  “Have you never seen me before, in your life?” he asked.

  “I do not think so, Master,” said Yana.

  “I have heard of such things,” said one of the larger men, he who seemed of highest status. “It is done by a drug. I think I know the drug.”

  “And there is an antidote, I trust,” said the smaller man.

  “Yes,” said the larger man.

  “Excellent,” said the smaller man. He then, having changed his position, spoke from behind Yana. “Slave,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  She dared not turn, unpermitted, to face him.

  “It is late and we must be on our way,” he said. “We have dallied long enough. You see the hoverer before you, some twenty yards away. Hurry to it. Run!”

  “I am shackled, Master!” wept Yana.

  “Run!” said the smaller man. “Run!”

  The lash then struck her, and Yana cried out in misery, and tried to move toward the hoverer, but almost instantly, thrown by the shackling, her ankles fastened so closely together, tumbled to the grass. The whip then struck her again, and she struggled to rise, but fell, again. “Disobedient slave,” snarled the smaller man. “Mercy Master!” she wept. She tried to rise yet again, but fell again. She was again struck. Then, unable to regain her feet, she was struck, again and again. She twisted in the grass under the rain of blows showered on her body, and she then, sobbing, helpless, stopped struggling, drew up her legs, and made herself as small as possible. She then lay there, under the blows, until they suddenly stopped.

  One of the two larger men, he of possibly greater status, had stayed the hand of the smaller man. “It is enough,” he said. “Are you mad? She strove to be pleasing. Do you wish to destroy her market value? Would you maim or blind her? Do you wish to kill her?”

  “No,” said the smaller man, breathing heavily, gasping for breath. “Of what use is a dead dog, or a dead slave?”

  He then crouched down by the huddled, beaten figure. “Do you begin to sense now, my dear,” he asked, “what it will be, to be my slave.”

  The slave nodded, weakly, miserably, her shuddering body afire, unable to speak.

  “And remember, my dear,” he said, “that you were purchased for only five darins.”

  “Have you a reason for treating her so, for hating her so?” asked one of the two larger men, he of seemingly higher status.

  “Perhaps,” said the smaller man. Then he turned to the second of the two larger men, he of possibly lower status. “My dear Grissus,” he said, “may I trouble you to stir and warm the engine of our humble craft?”

  The man turned about and strode toward the hoverer.

  “And you, my dear Buthar,” said the smaller man, “may I prevail upon you to carry this worthless cargo of collar meat to the ship?”

  The fellow addressed then lifted up the slave, went to the hoverer, which was now humming, and put her on the metal grating.

  Shortly thereafter the smaller man joined the other two aboard the small craft. While the engine was warming, he rearranged the
belly chain and wrist rings on the slave in such a way that her hands were confined behind her back. He then took a small thong and, by means of it, tying it about both the linkage of her shackling and the chaining at her wrist rings, drew her ankles up behind her, fastening them, in effect, to her wrists.

  He then picked up a tarpaulin, and bent down to the slave, his lips close to her ear. “Would you like to know where you are?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “You are on Telnaria,” he said, “near Telnar.”

  “I have heard of these places,” she said.

  “Would you like to know the name of your Master?” he asked.

  “If it pleases Master to tell me,” she said, in pain.

  “You are fortunate to belong to so important a man,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  “I am an Otung,” he said. “My name is Urta.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Does that name mean anything to you?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “It will,” he said, and covered her, completely, with the tarpaulin, which he buckled down at the edges, to recessed deck rings.

  Shortly thereafter the hoverer, as the men held to the railings, rose into the air, leaving the stakes and torches behind.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  “Hold,” said Otto, noting Nika scurrying down the corridor, toward the chamber of Aesilesius, her wrists braceleted before her. Her white tunic came to slightly above her knees. Perhaps her Master did not wish too great an extent of her to be exposed to the casual view of others. Was he so jealous of her? Did he not relish a Master’s pleasure in displaying one’s slave, so that others can realize how fortunate he is to own so lovely an animal?

  Nika immediately knelt, having been addressed by a free person.

  “You seem eager to return to your Master,” said Otto.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  A contented, loving slave commonly longs for the attention, presence, and touch of her Master. She is his slave.

  “You have been in the city,” said Otto.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “I gather that your haste betokens more than a slave’s simple desire to return to her Master’s feet,” said Otto.

  “I fear so,” she said.

  “How go things in the city,” he asked.

  “Surely you have informants, and spies, and doubtless many,” she said. “My Master has only me. I hurry to report to him.”

  “Report to me first,” said Otto.

  “I am afraid,” she said. “Things stir, the day seethes, unrest is rampant, furtive looks abound. Sticks are being sharpened, axes are being brought in from fields, who knows what is concealed beneath cloaks? Some shops are shuttered, wagons leave the city. Peasants bring less produce to the markets. Special services are being held in the temples. Ministrants march in processions, chanting and ringing bells, bearing images of burning racks and carrying pots of smoking incense. There is much talk of the infamy and tyranny of the usurper, Ottonius, the First, and of the infant emperor, born on Tenguthaxichai, and of the noble and heroic Ingeld, the benevolent Drisriak, friend to the empire, father of the child.”

  “You may return to your Master,” said Otto.

  “Thank you, Master,” she said, leaping up and speeding down the corridor.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Yana looked up, frightened, from her knees, at her Master, an Otung named Urta.

  “You are going to drink this,” he said, holding a goblet before her, half filled with a warm, foaming liquid, the chemical result of pouring a cheap wine over a mysterious white powder.

  Yana regarded the goblet, with the foaming contents.

  “I am generous,” he said. “I permit you wine.”

  Yana knelt on the tiles. She was naked. Her Master saw no reason to grant her clothing. Her ankles were shackled, allowing her some eighteen inches of play. In this way, she could walk but not run. Her wrists were chained together with a separation of a foot. About her neck was a “number collar.” Such a collar does not directly reveal, as would most collars, the slave’s owner. The number correlates with a matching number, given the collar, in one of the city’s slave registries. An anonymous collar, so to speak, is often favored by a master who, for one reason or another, does not wish to be publicly identified, at least not without research. To further conceal his identity, the collar was registered under an assumed name.

  “You are pretty for a five-darin girl,” said Urta.

  Yana wondered if this were still true.

  She was exhausted, and her body ached. She had sweated much, and had not been washed. Her hair was straggly and unkempt. She had worked hard during the day, briefly tunicked and unchained, carrying water, the paired buckets suspended from a yoke, filling street troughs at which dogs, horses, and slaves might drink, and cisterns and reservoirs on various levels of nearby tenements. She was also familiar with char work in public buildings, and, in various private domiciles, with that task and others, such as laundering and polishing. Urta rented her out, for a penny here and a penny there, as he pleased. He rented her out cheaply, so he had many offers for her services. It seemed he was less interested in making money on her than in seeing to it that she was put to tasks which, if she were a free woman, would have been regarded as arduous, lengthy, humiliating, shameful, and degrading. He himself seemed to have some source of income which far transcended the collection of pennies reaped from a slave’s labor. The source of this income was not evident.

  Urta slowly swirled the contents of the goblet before the kneeling, chained slave. The surface of the liquid still roiled.

  Yana, worn and weary, unwashed, her hair neither brushed nor combed, her body in pain, regarded the goblet, apprehensively.

  “Tomorrow,” said Urta, “is a special day, a day of which a grateful history will gladly take note. Things will change. A throne will change hands. An empire will be born anew. An official faith, to be promulgated by love, and fire and sword, as absurd as it is, will be imposed upon a thousand worlds. I will have access to the coffers of a palace. I will be recognized and promoted to high office. This is a day for celebration, and I want you, poor, simple Yana, with your truncated memory, to appreciate it fully.”

  “I am a simple slave, Master,’’ she said. “I know nothing of politics and worlds. What do I know other than work, the chain, and the whip?”

  “Your anguish, my dear,” he said, “has been largely physical, the miseries of an ill-treated, despised, abused work slave.”

  “Master has made me suffer much,” she said.

  “Not enough,” he said, “for you do not truly understand who you were, what you have lost, what has been done to you, and who has done it to you.”

  “How strangely Master speaks,” she said. “I was a simple town or village girl, taken in a town or village war, on Safa Major. I changed hands several times. I was first officially placarded in Carleton on Inez II. I have had three masters on two worlds.”

  “Lies,” said Urta, “told to you to obscure your origins, to give you a sense of self.”

  “I am a simple slave,” she said, “only that, no more. Please do not torture me further. If you would make me grievously suffer, use, as is your wont, the whip of leather, terrible as it is, not one of uncertainty, confusion, anxiety, and fear. That is too cruel.”

  “You do not yet know what cruelty is,” he said.

  She looked at him, comprehending nothing.

  He held the goblet toward her. “Drink this,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, taking the goblet in two hands.

  She looked into the liquid, which still seemed alive, coldly boiling in the cup.

  “Do not be afraid,” he said, “—not now.”

 
She lifted the goblet to her lips, put back her head, and, slowly, drained the goblet. She then looked at Urta, puzzled.

  “Master?” she said.

  “Did you enjoy the beverage?” he asked.

  “I tasted the wine,” she said, “little else.”

  “My vengeance,” he said, “will shortly be complete.”

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  He then took the goblet back, and placed it on the floor beside his chair, a simple curule chair.

  He watched the slave intently for a time.

  The body of the slave then wavered. She shut her eyes, tightly. There was a sound of chain. She put her hands, palms down, on the floor, that she not fall. Then she lowered herself to the tiles, slowly. It seemed then she lost consciousness, lying at the feet of her Master.

  Urta was patient. He waited; he rubbed his hands together; he listened to the sounds outside the tenement apartment, carts passing, the click of shod hooves on the pavement, voices, the cries of children, unaware of the morrow, the sounds of birds; he sung Otung songs to himself, and one he remembered from secret meetings in a Herul camp, that of the Herd of Chuluun, east of the Lothar, on Tangara.

  Yana made a small noise, and sought to stretch her limbs, but she could move her wrists and ankles only to the extent permitted by her chains. Her eyes opened, suddenly, startled, widely. “I am chained!” she said. “Where am I? Why am I chained? What has happened? How can this be done to me on Tenguthaxichai? Where are my slaves? I find myself unclothed, as though I might be a slave myself! Is this a dream, some madness! It seems so real!”

  “It is real, slave slut,” said Urta.

  “You!” she cried. “You, in my madness, my dream?”

  “You are not mad, nor are you dreaming, shapely pig,” said Urta.

  She sprang to her feet, naked, in her chains, furious, enraged.

  “Remove these chains,” she cried. “Take them off!”

  “Chains become beautiful slaves,” he said.

  “Cover me!” she cried. “Bring me clothing!”

  “Slaves are beasts, and they, as you know, need not be clothed, unless the Master pleases,” said Urta.