CHAPTER SEVEN
In the courtyard of the High Master of the Ninth Landstead, preparations were being completed for the quarterly. Guest houses had been furnished, the kitchen was stocked, the stables were newly swept, and even the slave-quarters had been scrubbed in preparation for the many visiting slaves who would be crammed into that place. Now all that was left was the hall, and an argument had broken out amongst the lesser masters of the homestead as to the proper placement of the platform upon which the High Masters would stand. Was it better to follow tradition and have the platform face east or to take into account the undoubted fact that tradition had shown that anyone standing on a platform so placed would be blinded by the morning sun?
One of the slaves assigned to construct the platform unwisely tried to offer his thoughts. He was met with a cuff to the head and quickly stole back to the ranks of the silent slaves, who gave him knowing looks. One of them pointed up toward the tower under whose shadow they stood; the meaning of the gesture was obvious. Any slave here who was foolish enough to speak unbidden to a master would be best off taking his thoughts to Remigeus reborn as a master. There the suggestion might actually be welcomed.
The latter-day Remigeus, curled up on the windowseat in his tower, saw the gesture and winced. Ducking his head, he stared down at his pale, delicate hands. He had been ashamed of his hands once – they were not slaves' hands – but Brun had put a stop to that shame one night when he had made a slow catalogue of Celadon's body parts, touching and kissing each part as he recited its virtues. The very memory made Celadon grow warm; then he remembered, and his body returned to chillness.
A thump sounded upon one of the gold doors. Celadon decided that it must be a guard. Pentheus would not knock – not now. Celadon gave a wordless cry that could be taken for permission to enter; then he fell silent as the door opened to reveal Pentheus.
Frozen where he sat like cool water that has chilled under the moon, Celadon watched the lesser master close the door behind him, bolt it, and walk forward. His face was unreadable. He was within arm's reach when it occurred to Celadon that he ought to be kneeling. He began to slip from the windowseat, but Pentheus caught hold of him and held him where he was. Pentheus's grip was tight upon his shoulder. Celadon stared at the lesser master's boots as he swallowed and swallowed.
Pentheus spoke finally, in a low voice. "I'm sorry, Celadon."
His voice was filled with pity. Celadon closed his eyes as he whispered, "It is I who should apologize. I ought to have told you."
"It's clear why you did not. All the congratulations I gave you on not being perverse . . . My words must have been like daggers piercing the depths of your being. Little wonder that you spoke of this to no one but your bed-slave."
The first blast of fear hit him then, like a dry, hot wind. He opened his eyes and said quickly, "It wasn't Brun's fault. He did as I wished."
Pentheus made no reply. Leaning over Celadon, he shifted his gaze to the courtyard below. There, Celadon saw when he looked, the argument had been resolved between the lesser masters. Orders were being given, and the slaves were marching into the hall, though from the look on the face of the slave who had objected, the wrong decision had been made. The slave gave a quick glance up at the tower before disappearing through the doorway to the hall.
Celadon looked over at Pentheus. The lesser master's gaze had not moved, and so Celadon looked down again, to the only remaining inhabitants in the courtyard: a group of girls and boys playing master and slave amongst each other. Nearby stood a tall youth. Pentheus's youngest son was too old for such games now, but he shouted encouragement to the children as a smiling boy was forced to his knees.
"Odd," murmured Pentheus. "One's memory of childhood grows stronger as one grows older, yet I had never thought about those games, nor about the fact that I always volunteered to be a slave. 'In every master is born a bit of slave . . .' No doubt that is the method I and many other masters have used to satisfy the slave portion of us so that it could be put aside in adulthood. It had not occurred to me that, for some masters, such play might be the necessity of a lifetime."
He looked over at Celadon, who was sitting with his arms tight about his chest, his head bowed, and his eyes raised just high enough to see Pentheus's face. The lesser master smiled suddenly. "Yet I have seen for myself the results of your bed-play: the transformation you have made from a young man who was imprisoned by perverseness to one who can confine perverseness to games played at night with his slave. During the daytime you are what you have striven to be, a true master. And what man, seeing you at your work, would quarrel with the means you use to achieve that goal?"
His face grew grave. Stepping back from the window, he said, "Master, if it so please you, I will speak to your fellow High Masters in favor of the law you have proposed; I believe I can convince the other lesser masters of your landstead to join me in this matter. And I apologize for my obstinacy in not recognizing your wisdom before now."
It took all the effort he had – it was always harder to do this when Brun was not within view – but Celadon folded his hands lightly upon each other, sat up straight, and looked Pentheus directly in the eye as he said, with masterly firmness, "Your loyalty means much to me, Pentheus."
The lesser master smiled. "Hereafter, I will consider myself lucky if I match the service given you by your bed-slave. There are few slaves, you know, who would have followed the commands you gave Brun without taking advantage of the situation. Yet Brun only spoke honestly to me because you had already decided to do so; it is clear that he would otherwise have died a hard death rather than betray your secret." He reached out and touched lightly Celadon's cheek, where the mark had already faded. "I would suggest that you not order him to punish you again. That is asking too much of a slave. But in all other respects, I think that you can safely make use of him for your bed-play – and I will endeavor to serve you as well as he has in protecting your secret."
Celadon managed to stop himself in time from swallowing. Using all the training he had received, he continued to sit straight, with his head high and his eyes locked upon the master before him. He nodded to acknowledge Pentheus's words, and then, suddenly afraid that his training would break, he gave the slight gesture that indicated dismissal.
Pentheus did not seem offended. He smiled again and bowed, then walked from the chamber in the assertive stride that came naturally to him and to every true master of the Dozen Landsteads.
Celadon had his head bowed before the doors closed. He stared down at the children in the courtyard below; the boy who had been playing that he was a slave was now taking his turn as master, striding back and forth in a walk very like Pentheus's. Celadon bit his lip and closed his eyes. Through the darkness he could feel the heat of the morning sun beat upon him.
He heard a sound and opened his eyes with a jerk. Brun stood over him, looking down at him with his fiery eyes. Celadon felt a shiver run through him, and he tried to slip from the windowseat onto his knees, but like Pentheus, Brun caught hold of him. For a moment, he did nothing but keep Celadon imprisoned within his grip; then he let go and gestured. Celadon slid over on the windowseat to make room for him.
Brun sat down with a sigh, leaning back against the wall of the crevice like a much-belabored slave. His gaze met Celadon's again, and this time Celadon looked down, staring at Brun's rough hands. "Why did you lie to Pentheus?" he asked in a low voice.
"I didn't. I told him the truth: that I acted as I did at your request and for your sake. He filled in the rest of the story in accordance with his own beliefs."
"But he thinks the way I act with you is a game! The way I act with everyone else, that's the game . . ."
He stopped abruptly, his brow creasing as though in concentration. In the silence that followed, Brun said, "I know that you would have preferred that I told him the entire truth—"
"No." Still caught in concentration, Celadon replied in a firm voice; then he looked up at Brun, and his tone shifted. "No, master.
I – I've altered my mind about that."
"Oh?" Brun raised his eyebrows as he leaned forward.
Celadon's gaze dropped. "Yes, I – I had time to think, while I was waiting for Pentheus to return. I sat here thinking about what it would be like to live my life as a slave hereafter. About how, from now on, all choices in my life would be made by others. And you – you were right. I didn't really understand what it would be like to live as a slave."
"That's not what you want?" Brun's voice was too quiet for any emotion to be read in it.
Celadon's gaze flew up to him; his expression held surprise. "It's what I want more than anything! To be able to follow, to be given commands, to know that I'm valued for my ability to serve, not for my ability to think of things for other people to do for me . . . It would be a glory, it would—" He stopped, swallowed, and said, "But I hadn't thought about what it would mean for the slaves and lesser masters of this landstead. If anything happened thereafter that my intervention might have affected, I wouldn't be able to help them. I wouldn't be able to help you. If your life was in danger, I wouldn't be able to protect you. I hadn't thought of that."
"To protect others is a master's duty."
"Yes." Celadon's gaze fell. "I'm sorry, master, I know I shouldn't worry about such things. I know that the fact that you commanded me to abandon this idea ought to be enough. If you—" He looked up at Brun, whose face had turned hard, and his voice faltered. Staring down at his own clenched hands, Celadon whispered, "If you no longer wish to receive my service, I'll understand."
Down below in the courtyard, the trumpets sounded; the first of the visiting High Masters had arrived. Brun glanced briefly out the window, then looked back at Celadon, whose head remained bowed, but who was peering up through his lashes. A single tear had traced its way down Celadon's fair skin into the hair of his beard.
Brun did not move. He looked down at the slave before him, his eye travelling over the trembling body, as though for the last time. Then he said, in a matter-of-fact manner, "Pentheus will support your proposal now?"
"Yes, master." Celadon's voice was faint. "And with his support, I think the law will pass. He – he won't tell anyone about us, I'm sure of that. If you want to continue as we have . . ." His voice trailed off.
"No."
Celadon bit his lip. A second tear trickled down, following the path of the first, but he did not raise his head, nor did he make any sound. He had been trained to take even the worst punishment without protest.
Brun reached out and wiped the tear-path dry with his thumb; as Celadon lifted his head, Brun captured the other man's cheek in his hand. "Make your proposal at the quarterly," he said quietly, "and if it passes into law, command me to be brought before you. And there, if it so pleases the High Master of the Ninth Landstead, I will tell all present the full truth about us."
Celadon's blood beat hard through the veins in his neck; his chest had ceased to rise and fall. "The dream," he whispered. "That's what it meant."
"So it would seem." Brun let his hand fall from Celadon's cheek. "I would prefer that you wait until this new law passes, not only for the sake of those who will benefit from the law, but because I want it to be your choice alone whether you take the rank of a slave. Whatever your decision in that may be, you may count it as service to me."
Celadon stared at him, his tears forgotten. "I don't understand."
Brun looked down at the courtyard again, noted a line of slaves bringing forward a board for the platform, and winced as he saw the direction that the board was facing. "I see that the lesser masters are making you face east again. The fools. The outdoor slaves have been talking about it all week, trying to figure out how one of them could find a way to sneak up here and suggest to you that the platform be moved. They wanted me to talk to you, but I was too absorbed in thoughts of you. . . . You weren't the only one who failed to understand what it's like to live in one's proper rank, Celadon." He smiled at his slave.
"I wasn't?"
Celadon was so absorbed now in what Brun was saying that he failed to lower his gaze, but the other man seemed not to mind. He said, "I forgot what Remigeus said about listening to one's slave – the worst error I could make as a master. I remembered my duty in that regard only when Pentheus asked me how you had received that mark on your cheek, and it came home to me that, for the first time in my life, I alone had the power to determine my own future, as well as the future of my slave. It was a weight heavier than I had ever held, and it made me realize how great a burden I've required you to carry all these seasons. Little wonder that you should dream of having your burden eased. . . . But in the same moment, I realized something more important."
Brun's gaze drifted back to the scene in the courtyard below: the slaves carrying in the platform boards as the lesser masters crowded about the newly arrived High Master, assisting him in his arrival. Brun's smile faded as he said quietly, "I have been trained since my childhood to serve only one master, to focus all my thoughts on one man. And so, when I took you as my slave, all my thoughts were centered upon you – I thought of nothing except protecting you alone. I didn't realize that this was the result of my being raised as a slave – that if I were a true master, my thoughts would be turned toward others besides you. But you . . . you were trained as a High Master, and so it isn't surprising that your conscience has driven you to try to help the other slaves and even the masters. A true slave would have thought only of serving me, but you've wanted to do more."
Celadon tore his gaze away from Brun then, saying, "I'm sorry, master. I'll try to serve you better in the future; I'll try not to think of the others; I—"
He stopped as Brun touched his cheek again, urging his head up. The other man said solemnly, "Did I say I was angry?"
Celadon swallowed and made no reply. Brun released him, saying, "Others tried to change the desires you were given by birth; I compounded the error by trying to change the desires you were given by your childhood training. Yet it's clear enough what this odd mixture of birth-desire and training-desire has done to you, and who am I to tamper with the results?"
"Pentheus said something like that," Celadon whispered.
Brun smiled. "It's kind of you to put it that way. You might have said, 'A true master would have recognized this from the start.'"
Celadon sighed, feeling the cool morning breeze make its way across his body. Below, the young children had given up their game of master and slave and were scampering about the courtyard willy-nilly, exploring the activities of the masters, weaving in and out of the line of the slaves, heedless of which direction they took. Looking down upon them, Celadon said, "Nellwyn believes that all people have – or should have – equal desires to serve and be served."
"We know that's not true."
"It's certainly not true of me – I want more than anything to serve. It's what feels most natural to me. But I'm wondering – do you think she could be right that all of us are born as lesser masters? That there's at least a small part of me that is a master? If she's right . . . I think it would be easier for me in the daytime if I could look at it that way. I wouldn't be playing a game, pretending to be something I'm not. Instead, I'd be taking my small bit of mastership and expanding it as far as I could possibly take it. If – if that was acceptable to you, master," he added faintly, turning to look at Brun.
Brun was not looking at him; his gaze remained fixed upon the courtyard, following the trail of outdoors slaves. After a while, he replied, "Remigeus said that."
"He did?"
"More or less. I'm surprised I didn't recognize it before. But come to think on it, Remigeus was an odd sort of slave. It's hardly surprising that he died a hard death at the hands of his master."
Celadon bit his lip, uncertain what to reply. Brun said without looking his way, "Anyway, we don't need a thirteen-centuries-dead slave to tell us the truth in this matter – it's clear enough from what has happened during this past night."
"How so, master?"
Brun looked over at him then, raising his eyebrows as he did when Celadon failed to learn a lesson properly. Celadon stiffened and tried to concentrate his attention on the words coming next, that would show him his error.
The lesson was simple and clear; his master's lessons always were. Brun slid out from the windowseat and ended up on his knees before Celadon, his head bowed.
"Because you have been the true master overnight," he said quietly, "teaching me that which I did not know. And I ask your forgiveness for my slowness in receiving tonight's training."
Children's voices echoed through the air; masters shouted orders to slaves; the slaves were silent. Brun knelt motionless, his head bowed in the manner that he found so hard. Celadon reached out, touching Brun's head lightly, and then his cheek, and then Celadon had slid out from the windowseat and was kneeling beside Brun. Which of them moved first to take the other in his arms neither could remember afterwards.
"I still need you as my master," Celadon said, his voice muffled by Brun's shoulder.
"I know," Brun said softly. "And whatever may happen at the quarterly – even if the worst should happen and we are separated – that won't change. Our bond will never be broken."
Celadon raised his head to look at Brun. "Not even by death?"
Brun smiled. "Perhaps not even by that. We may meet in our next lifetime."
In the courtyard below, all continued as it had for thirteen centuries, masters and slaves dividing into groups natural to their ranks, with no sign of obvious perverseness marring the majesty of the quarterly. Only a visitor from Akbar, frowning, provided evidence that all was not well in this place, but she would soon travel back to her homeland, and all would return to normal. Tradition would continue: slaves would be true slaves, and masters would be true masters.
As though in proof of this fact, a bed-slave emerged from his nightly duties in the tower and took his place beside the other slaves. At the same moment the High Master of the Ninth Landstead began giving his lesser masters crisp orders for a change in the placement of the High Masters' platform. The commands were obeyed without hesitation. And so life continued as before in the Dozen Landsteads, and not even the whispers of the slaves surrounding the bed-slave gave the masters any warning that their world was about to change.
o—o—o
Cycle forward: 1956 Clover; an excerpt from "A Concise History of the Dozen Landsteads."
His name had been Remigeus, but when he was reborn in the fourteenth century he chose to take the name of Celadon. As Celadon, Remigeus completed the work he had started in the days of barbarity, not the least of his accomplishments being a formal alliance between the Dozen Landsteads and Akbar, which helped to make clear to the people of that time the deficiencies in both types of government.
Paradoxically, although Remigeus/Celadon was the author of the most famous and innovative law of the fourteenth century, permitting the transfer of rank under carefully defined conditions, he himself chose to remain in the rank he had been assigned as a young man, that of High Master. Since he made no secret of the fact that he was by nature a slave, his sacrifice, more than anything else, served to break down the previously rigid notions of master and slave and provide for a more complex understanding of human impulses toward service and mastership. By the fifteenth century this understanding had developed into the sophisticated psychological theory originally known as "master/slave desires," but renamed "master/servant desires" in the following century, when nonconsensual service was abolished in the Dozen Landsteads. This theory is widely acknowledged to be the Dozen Landsteads' highest contribution to the world.
In all his great works of the fourteenth century, Remigeus/Celadon was assisted by his first master, who had elected to be reborn as a slave named Brun in order to atone for his past errors. The love of Celadon and Brun, and the manner in which they served as a model for later generations of servants and masters, quickly became the stuff of legend, and it is sometimes hard for scholars to ascertain which tales about Celadon and Brun are from the original period.
Art historians, though, have provided reasonable assurance that the most famous saying of Remigeus dates from this period, for it was before the death of Remigeus/Celadon that the Dual Duty Plaque, which now appears on the walls of every homestead in the Dozen Landsteads, began to be spontaneously produced by the slaves of that time. In its earliest form, the plaque was no more than rudimentary scratchings made by slaves who were only just beginning to dare the boldness that would result in their sixteenth-century emancipation. But in all other respects, the Dual Duty Plaque looked as it does today. Below is a reproduction of the oldest plaque to have survived.
Caption: On the left side, Remigeus/Celadon, identifiable by his "master's beard" of the fourteenth century, proclaims, "The true slave must speak truth to his master, no matter what the cost." On the right side, a clean-shaven Brun responds, "The true master must listen to his slave." Below the portraits are inscribed words from an anonymous fourteenth-century source: "In every master is a slave, in every slave a master."
Master and Servant 3
UNMARKED
Cycle forward: 1962 Clover, Autumn Waning week.
"These friendships colour the life of a public school boy in the same way that love colours life for the adult male; and indeed it is love; a particular type of love; an idealistic, un-self-seeking, Platonic love; a love that is based on service and devotion . . ."
—Alec Waugh, speaking in The Early Years of Alec Waugh of his time as a student at Sherborne School, Dorset, in the 1910s.
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