The Emperor

by Norman, John;

  “I am not a slave!” she cried.

  “Who do you think you are?” asked Urta.

  “Viviana,” she cried, looking down upon him, where he sat in the simple curule chair, “sister of the emperor, Aesilesius, daughter of Atalana, the empress mother, spouse of Ingeld, prince of the Drisriaks!”

  “Viviana,” said Urta, looking up, “died in childbirth, and her offspring, tomorrow or the next day, will be recognized as the heir to the throne of Telnaria.”

  “I have borne no child!” said Viviana.

  “Records and testimony,” said Urta, “will say otherwise.”

  “Filch! Filch!” she cried.

  “Beware,” he said.

  “I know you!” she cried.

  “I hoped you would,” he said.

  “You are Urta, the Otung, who brought poison to Tenguthaxichai!”

  “And one whom you did not treat well,” he said.

  “I demand to see Abrogastes!” said Yana.

  “You are no longer on Tenguthaxichai,” said Urta, “and Abrogastes believes the reports.”

  “Where am I?” asked Yana.

  “In Telnar,” said Urta.

  “Take me to the palace!” demanded Yana.

  “On what grounds would one take a low slave to such a place?” asked Urta.

  “Where is Ingeld, prince of the Drisriaks, my husband and lord?” asked Yana.

  “You do not have a husband and lord,” said Urta. “You are a slave, and have only a Master, and I am he.”

  “No, no!” she cried, recoiling in horror. “I must not belong to you! I cannot belong to you!”

  “But you do,” he said, pleasantly.

  “Where is Ingeld?” she said.

  “In Telnar,” said Urta.

  “Contact him,” she said.

  “What interest might a prince of the Drisriaks have in a lowly slave?” he asked.

  “Contact him,” she said.

  “I think that would be unwise,” said Urta. “Viviana of Telnaria supposedly died in childbirth. Indeed, I am surprised that you were not succinctly done away with. Would that not have been politically judicious? Would it not be embarrassing if you were now to appear? Your life would not be worth the penny I have been renting you out for. I suspect that Ingeld did not wish to waste a slave, and, in consequence, disposed of you, presumably in a far location, and did not expect to see you again.”

  “Surely not!” she said.

  “Surely so,” said he.

  “I am free,” she said.

  “You are mistaken,” he said. “Feel your neck.”

  She lifted her chained hands. “I am collared!” she said.

  “Appropriately so,” he said.

  “I, collared?” she said, disbelievingly.

  “You did not even notice, did you?” he said. “But have no fear. It is locked on your neck.”

  “Remove it, immediately!” she said.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “Law prescribes collars for slaves.”

  “I am not a slave!” she said.

  “Consider your left thigh,” he said.

  “No, no!” she cried, in disbelief and dismay.

  “The Slave Rose,” he said, “nicely incised in your lovely thigh.”

  “I cannot be a slave!” she cried.

  “You are suitably branded and collared,” he said. “All is fully legal, pretty slave.”

  “No, no, no,” she wept.

  “I note you are standing,” he said.

  She sank to her knees.

  He then rose from the simple curule chair, and went to a sideboard, from which he removed an implement, a slave whip.

  “I have many scores to settle with you, slut,” he said.

  “Please do not whip me,” she said.

  “Have you not forgotten something?” he asked.

  “Please do not whip me—Master,” she said.

  He resumed his seat, the whip in hand.

  “As you learn your collar,” he said, “which you must do quickly, thoroughly, and perfectly, that word, ‘Master’, so difficult to you now, will come more easily to you, and, soon, even in your own mind, it will be addressed appropriately, rightly, and naturally, to all free men.”

  “Yes Master,” she whispered, her eyes wide, and frightened.

  “As Viviana of Telnaria reputedly died in childbirth,” said Urta, “should you be so unwise as to proclaim yourself Viviana of Telnaria, you would be dismissed as an insane slave. Too, should you come to the attention of certain parties, you would be done away with quickly, and quietly. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Have you the memories of Yana, the slave?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “I remember Tenguthaxichai, and awakening here.”

  “The name ‘Yana’ will do for now,” he said. “We can always change it later.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  It might be observed, in passing, that many slaves, from time to time, may have different names. As is the case with other pets and beasts, their names are at the discretion of their Masters.

  “Whereas,” he said, “you do not now have the memories of the interlude between Tenguthaxichai and your coming to consciousness here, after imbibing the drink I proffered to you, that will change.”

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “Let me explain the whole,” he said. “There is a drug which produces a loss of many personal memories. It produces effects which sometimes occur following an injury or a psychological trauma. You can well imagine the value of such a drug in certain hands, for certain purposes, for example, expunging the recollections of a crucial witness, wiping away the memory of a crime or transaction, benignly incapacitating a rival or foe, and so on. I was recently apprised of the likelihood that you had been subjected to this drug, and that an antidote existed. Accordingly, supposing you had indeed been administered the drug, I obtained the antidote and administered it to you. It was in the wine you drank. My supposition turned out to be correct, and, by means of the antidote, I counteracted the effects of the original drug, restoring your memory.”

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  “Then,” said he, “your memories of the interlude between Tenguthaxichai and few minutes ago were lost.”

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  “But that, as I mentioned,” he said, “will change.”

  “I remember nothing of that time,” she said.

  “I inquired into the matter,” he said. “It takes time, usually a few hours after the antidote is administered, for the mind to readjust. Then the interlude memories, so to speak, will come back. You will then remember both your former memories, which were blocked from consciousness by the drug, and your interlude memories, as well, which were temporarily rejected, as they seemed incompatible with your former memories.”

  “A part of my life was lost,” she said.

  “Not irrevocably,” he said.

  “There was a red carpet, in a strange room, two men,” she said.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “It is a beginning,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Do you remember being brought to the stakes, the road, the hoverer, such things?”

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “Still,” said he, “you have made a beginning.”

  “I am afraid,” she said, “to recognize what was done to me, what I did, how I was.”

  “The memories will come back to you,” he said, “whether you wish them to or not. Perhaps now you will be horrified and offended, but you should not be. As a slave you were a slave, and behaved as a slave. What choice had you? In bondage a woman
learns what she is, and wants to be. She is forced to face needs in herself which she may have fought for years to deny and suppress. Collared, she is liberated; collared, she is free to be the truest, deepest, and most female of women, the slave. In the collar she learns herself, finds herself, and becomes herself.”

  “I dare not think such thoughts,” she said.

  “I do not now wish you to do so,” he said. “I prefer that you think back now on what you were.”

  “Master?” she said.

  “Think back,” he said. “Remember yourself as you were. Remember how you were so fine, so superior, so lofty, in your rich, costly gowns and jewels, so far above others, not merely the humiliori, but even the high honestori, you, of noble blood, indeed, the sister of an emperor, how you were so imperious, so proud, so vain, so petty, so shallow, so spoiled, so securely ensconced in your status and station.”

  “Please be kind,” she said.

  “Now look at you,” he said. “She who was Viviana of Telnaria is now a common slave, filthy and unkempt, collared, branded, naked and chained, the helpless property of a man she dared once look down upon and despise.”

  “Please do not whip me, Master,” she said.

  “On your belly, slut,” he said.

  She who had once been Viviana of Telnar went to her belly on the tiles before her Master.

  “Now you are where you belong,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Behold,” he said, “how merciful I am. I cast aside the slave whip.”

  “Thank you, Master,” she breathed.

  “Now,” he said, “get up, on all fours, and, head down, fetch it. Pick it up in your teeth and bring it back to me.”

  “Please, no,” she said.

  “Now,” he said.

  In a bit, Yana, on all fours, lifted the whip, held between her teeth, to Urta.

  He took the whip, and stood up. She remained on all fours, as she had not been permitted to break position.

  She looked up at him, miserable.

  “Now,” he said, “kneel before me, with your head to the floor.”

  She assumed this position, with the palms of her hands on the floor.

  “You may now,” he said, “beg to be whipped.”

  “Surely not!” she said.

  “Beg,” he said.

  “Do not whip me,” she begged.

  “Beg to be whipped,” he said.

  “I beg to be whipped,” she whispered.

  “If you wish it,” he said.

  “I do not wish it, Master,” she said.

  “But you begged,” he said.

  “What if I had not begged?” she asked.

  “Then,” said he, “you would have disobeyed a command, for which I, being a kindly Master, would let you off, this time, with no more than a sound whipping.”

  “But,” she said, “I must beg or not beg!”

  “And thus,” he said, “you have made your choice, to be whipped or whipped.”

  The slave trembled, moaned, and kept her head to the floor.

  “Before I generously accede to your request to be whipped,” he said. “I shall explain something to you. As Yana was used as the lowest and most negligible of work slaves, despised, frequently beaten, and rented for pennies, so, too, will be you, only now, Yana anew, you will have the memories of your former existence, as Viviana of Telnaria. I think you can guess at the pleasure that this will give me. Your misery, physical and psychological, realizing what has been done to you and who has done it to you, all this contrasting your former state with your present state, should be consistently and keenly felt, particularly when you appreciate the deliciousness of my vengeance, given your former pride, disdain, and effrontery.”

  “Please do not whip me, Master,” she said.

  “You will be pleased to learn that you will have tomorrow to rest, for I think tomorrow would be a good day to remain indoors. The streets may be dangerous. After you have had your well-­deserved session with the whistling leather, to be shortly delivered, you will be chained by the neck to a floor ring. The reason for this is that when your memories as the slave, Yana, return, as they should by morning, you will recall certain things I said to you, pertaining to thrones and empires, these things said before you drank the antidote. Recalling such things, with your present consciousness of the former Viviana of Telnaria, might tempt you to do foolish things, like rushing into the streets and, at all hazards, attempting to reach the palace before dawn.”

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “Of course not,” he said, “not now.”

  He then rose to his feet, the whip in hand.

  “Please do not whip me, Master,” she said.

  “Remember how you treated me badly,” he said.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she begged.

  “The former Viviana of Telnaria,” he said, “now at my mercy, my slave. Excellent.”

  The slave trembled, and wept.

  She was then beaten.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  “It has begun!” cried Fulvius.

  “It should not begin before noon,” said Sidonicus, blinking, and sitting up amongst the heaped cushions on the broad couch in the private chambers of the exarchical palace.

  Bells could be heard throughout the city and distant shouts.

  “The signal is premature,” said Fulvius.

  “Impatient fools,” said Sidonicus. “They cannot wait, so eager they are for blood and treasure.”

  “Garb yourself, your blessedness!” said Fulvius. “Hurry into the streets. Lead the resisters of tyranny! Inspirit them!”

  “Do not be foolish, beloved deputy exarch,” said Sidonicus. “It will be dangerous in the streets. After attiring myself, and enjoying breakfast, breaking my fast with the exarchical chocolate, I will march solemnly to the temple and do my part for the revolution, praying for its success. That is the appropriate role for a holy man.”

  “Indeed,” said Fulvius. “Why court martyrdom?”

  “Martyrdom is for others,” said Sidonicus, “for the simple and the blind, for the zealous and deluded, for our implements and tools, those we have taught to believe our contrived nonsense.”

  “Many thousands take the faith, honestly and deeply, profoundly, with great seriousness,” said Fulvius.

  “Of course,” said Sidonicus. “Fortunately for us, simple souls are abundant.”

  “They are prepared to die for it,” said Fulvius.

  “Excellent,” said Sidonicus.

  “Expecting their koos to flutter off, up to the table of Karch,” said Fulvius.

  “Happily, as they will be dead,” said Sidonicus, “they will never experience the least disappointment in the matter.”

  “Could you not at least make a public appearance,” said Fulvius, “locate the fore, rush to it, cry “Follow me!” and then step discreetly aside?”

  “My place is in the temple,” said Sidonicus. “I authorize you, if you wish, to carry a golden image of the burning rack bravely into the streets.”

  “I do not understand how the bells have rung early,” said Fulvius.

  “Perhaps the signal was betrayed,” said Sidonicus.

  “Some knew the signal and the day,” said Fulvius. “But few knew the hour.”

  “Eagerness,” said Sidonicus. “A premature act, a hungering to begin the festival of destruction.”

  “We are not utilizing soldiers, equipped and trained, with an accepted chain of command,” said Fulvius. “It is not certain how things will turn out, what will occur. There is always danger implicit in the unleashing of crowds.”

  “Who can stop the wind?” said Sidonicus. “It blows as it will. It is not easy to divert the flood, quench the raging conflagration, convince trembling, opening, breaking,
heaving ground to lie still.”

  “And what if the storm destroys those who have called it into being?” asked Fulvius.

  “Do not fear,” said Sidonicus. “Those who have called the storm into being are wise enough to shelter themselves from it. After the storm is done, they will emerge, interpret the ruins, pronounce on their meaning, and arrange a new reality.”

  “Where is Ingeld?” asked Fulvius.

  “In a place of safety, I trust,” said Sidonicus.

  “He is to be part of the new reality?” asked Fulvius.

  “Of course,” said Sidonicus, “he and the putative child of poor Viviana, who, supposedly, perished in his delivery.”

  “I trust she was done away with,” said Fulvius.

  “Ingeld will have seen to it,” said Sidonicus.

  “Good,” said Fulvius.

  Chapter Seventy

  “It has begun,” said Urta, stepping back from the narrow window in his tenement domicile, looking down into the street. Men were rushing about, below. “Hear the bells. But it seems early.”

  “Please release me, Master!” begged Yana, lying on her side, her neck fastened closely to a floor ring.”

  “Be silent,” said Urta, turning about. “I have heard enough of your inane whining and begging, after midnight and early this morning. If I must tie your hands behind you and gag you, I will do so.”

  After her beating the preceding evening, Urta had fastened her to the floor ring, and then removed her wrist and ankle chains. It was his practice keep her so at night, on the floor, on her thin scrap of a blanket, though commonly he had permitted her somewhat more slack in her neck chain. He had shortened the chain, so that it now held her head closer to the floor, that after she had learned that she was the former Viviana of Telnaria. In this way she was further instructed in her slavery. She had pulled the small scrap of a blanket about her. It was somewhat about midnight when Yana had awakened with a scream of misery, as a thousand memories had suddenly flooded back to her, irresistibly, harrowingly, washing about her, of the time between the room with the red carpet and the drinking of the wine-diluted, foaming contents of a goblet proffered to her by her Master, Urta, the Otung. Among these memories were those in which Urta had alluded to thrones and empires. She had jerked futilely at the chain which held her to the floor ring. Allusions which last night had been meaningless or incomprehensible to Yana, the slave, had been alarmingly, excruciatingly meaningful to the former Viviana of Telnaria. “Please, Master,” she had begged. “Release me! Let me run naked through the streets, if you wish to deny me the kindness of a tunic, or rag. Let me attempt to reach the palace! Let me attempt to warn the palace of the impending rising! Perhaps my brother, poor, helpless Aesilesius, and my dear mother could be sped to safety! Let me warn the palace, lest all perish in some wild, mad, misbegotten insurgency. Please, please, Master!”