The Usurper Read online

  Did he linger, for conversation, matters of moment not to be discussed before women, or slaves?

  Why did he not hasten to her side?

  Why had he not put aside business and rushed, breathless and trembling, to join her?

  Did he not realize the inestimable worth of what awaited him?

  But he had not hurried.

  He had made her wait.

  How angry she was!

  Did he think she was a slave?

  Yes, of course, he thought her a slave.

  She recalled how he had put her to the polishing of his boots on the Narcona, how he bound her, kneeling, to a post at the foot of his bed, and how he had taped her mouth shut, that he might not hear from her, and then, ignoring her, had slept.

  Was she insufficiently desirable?

  Did he regret that she had been prepared? Did he prefer another? Would he put another to his pleasure?

  No, she thought. Qualius had not summoned her back to her chain in the girls’ quarters. Rather, he had delivered the whip.

  Was he making her wait?

  If so, why?

  Because he thought her nothing, only a slave?

  Did he suspect a plot?

  Did he think this delay might make her churn with fear, with an apprehension that she might be insufficiently desired?

  Did he really think this dalliance would heat her, as it might a slave, a yearning beast, hoping for the caress of its Master?

  One hurries quickly enough, she thought, to the couch of a free woman. How anxious men are to please such a lofty one! How they will tumble over themselves to win one of her smiles! Well could she remember such things, on several worlds! See them hurry! Are they fearful that a whim may change her mind, a shift of mood occur, precluding a liaison, that an alleged discomfort will cloud her mien? How skillful are free women, how well they tease and taunt, how well they play games forbidden to the slave!

  It was a craft which she had well mastered.

  Many were the favors, the invitations, the introductions, the dinners, the trips, the small loans, the perquisites of one sort or another, she had garnered in virtue of such skills, until the invitations, and such, had ceased, and she would move to another world, leaving behind her another train of debt.

  Suddenly she heard a sound.

  Someone was approaching.

  Her small hand closed on the handle of the dagger beneath the furs.

  Chapter Six

  In the cold light of the moon, amidst the black shadows of leafless branches on the snow, the two tracks of the Herul sled were fresh, deep, and sharp, and black on the side shielded from the light, and the edges of the craters left behind by the paws of what we, for want of a better word, will call horses, had not yet crumbled.

  “Might the Heruls not return by the same route?” asked Tuvo Ausonius.

  “I think not,” said Julian, of the Aureliani, putting his shoulder to the harness of the small sled. “Heruls are clever. Tracks may be seen, and a return by the same route might facilitate an ambush. Little love is lost between Heruls and Otungs.”

  “Otungs range outside the forest,” said Tuvo.

  “Undoubtedly,” said Julian, “and, I suspect, though less often, Heruls enter it.”

  The explanation for this seems to be that the Heruls are a horse people, so to speak, and ill at ease afoot, and certainly amongst the darknesses of the forest, where archers might lurk undetected in the shadows. Heruls would prefer expanses, such as the plains of Barrionuevo, or, as they will have it, the flats of Tung, venues congenial to the sudden appearances, the rapid movements, the feints, the charges and withdrawals, the encirclings, of light cavalry, seldom choosing to close with a set, prepared enemy.

  “The trees grow more frequent,” said Tuvo. “Surely the forest is near.”

  “It may be hours away,” said Julian.

  One gathers that little has prepared denizens of sparser, more open worlds, denuded worlds, so to speak, those unfamiliar with original, natural worlds, to anticipate the nature, the breadth and density, of the forests commonly found in the northern latitudes of Tangara. Indeed, the Otungs, the Wolfungs, and such, as earlier noted, were all tribes of the Vandalii, the etymology of which term is apparently related to “van land,” or “forest land.” The Vandalii, then, despite the more recent semantic accretions, perhaps unfortunate, of the word, and related words, are perhaps best understood as the “forest people,” or “people of the forest,” such things.

  The unwillingness of Heruls to penetrate the forest in large numbers, to transgress it in force, so to speak, aside from its preclusion of their common tactics, is understandable. The empire had lost divisions in such locales.

  “When the tracks turn,” said Julian, “the Heruls will have discharged their mysterious passenger. At that point, the forest, or an Otung enclave, at least, will be near.”

  “There will then be danger,” said Tuvo.

  “There is danger now,” said Julian.

  “Our most pressing need,” said Tuvo Ausonius, “is not to encounter an Otung enclave, which might prove our misfortune, but to make contact with the expedition sent to support Captain Ottonius.”

  “It is the intent of the expedition to make contact with Otungs,” said Julian. “Thus, one hopes the two matters will coincide.”

  “There may be many Otung camps, or halls, or villages,” said Tuvo.

  “True,” said Julian, grimly.

  “Presumably the imperial camp will now be in place,” said Tuvo.

  “Almost certainly,” said Julian. “And it need not search out Otungs. Otungs will recognize its presence, and, doubtless, make the first contact.”

  “A bloody one?” said Tuvo Ausonius.

  “Perhaps,” said Julian.

  “The expedition, in place, camped,” said Tuvo, “will be relatively impervious. It has armored vehicles, and hoverers. It will have a defensive perimeter. The area will be guarded, and flooded with light.”

  “One expects so,” said Julian.

  “At the camp we will be safe,” said Tuvo.

  “We do not know that,” said Julian. “The danger there may be greater than here, in the forest.”

  “We are not assured,” said Tuvo, “that we will find the camp.”

  “No,” said Julian.

  “The expedition may not have followed the course set in Venitzia.”

  “Possibly,” said Julian.

  “Perhaps we will not find it,” said Tuvo.

  “Perhaps, not,” said Julian, leaning forward, straining against the harness.

  “It might have been attacked, and overrun,” said Tuvo.

  “Pull,” said Julian. “Pull.”

  The two men continued to press forward, in the still-fresh tracks of the Herul sled.

  “Masters,” said a woman’s voice, behind them.

  “She is awake,” said Tuvo.

  “Masters draw the sled,” said the voice.

  Nika, bundled in her fur, and in her boots, slipped from the sled. She struggled to match the pace of the men.

  The shallow, brittle snow continued to crackle beneath the boots of Julian and Tuvo.

  “I remember nothing,” she said.

  “You slept,” said Julian.

  “I am awake,” she said. “Harness me.”

  For much of their journey, Nika had drawn the sled. This was appropriate, for she was a slave.

  “Remain on the sled,” said Julian.

  “Masters?” she asked.

  “Or you will be left behind,” said Julian.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, taking her place on the sled.

  Julian and Tuvo continued to follow the tracks of the Herul sled.

  “Masters!” said Nika.

  “We hear them,” snapped Julia
n.

  In the cold, frosty air, the baying, even far away, was clear. It was most dangerous when the baying stopped, for then they were close, and approaching silently.

  “They may alert others,” said Tuvo Ausonius. “They will arouse suspicion. They will mark our position.”

  “We will proceed,” said Julian.

  “Otungs, or Heruls,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

  “Or imperial troops,” said Julian, “anticipating our presence, and intent to intercept us.”

  “To bring us safely to the camp,” said Tuvo.

  “Or guarantee,” said Julian, “that we will never reach it.”

  “The baying is louder now, closer,” said Tuvo.

  “Continue on, pull,” said Julian.

  Chapter Seven

  “You are here?” asked the barbarian.

  He had just emerged from the comparative brightness of the tunnel. The chamber was not much illuminated by the two small hanging lamps.

  He looked about the chamber, and to the foot of the couch.

  Was the slave not present? Such a lapse might call for punishment. Surely then she must be in the chamber.

  “I am here, Master,” said Filene.

  “You are on the couch, concealed within the covers,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “What are you doing there?” he asked.

  “Awaiting Master,” said Filene. “In my collar I am heated, and filled with longing. Remove your robe, and join me.”

  “Do you think that you are a free woman?” he inquired.

  Filene’s heart skipped a beat. “No, Master,” she said. “Certainly not, Master!”

  “How is it, then,” he asked, “that you would have me remove my own robe?”

  “Master?” she asked.

  “I am to disrobe myself,” he asked, “and hope to be invited to your furs?”

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “You are indeed new to your collar,” he said.

  “Hurry to me, Master,” she said. “Join me, within the furs. I wait!”

  Her hand, moist, was tight on the handle of the knife.

  He must approach. He must be closer.

  “A slave,” he said, “is not a free woman, on whom one might attend in darkness, beneath covers, as though in modesty, or shame. A slave is to be seen, not hidden. Every bit of her is to be exposed, displayed for the Master’s perusal. Every one of his senses, his touch, his hearing, his sight, everything, is to be stimulated in the feast of the furs.”

  “But I am new to my collar, Master,” she said. “Take pity on me! I am afraid! Be kind! Join me here, within the furs!”

  The barbarian strode to the chest at the side of the chamber, lifted up the whip which lay upon its lid, shook out its coil, meaningfully, and snapped it once, sharply, in the chamber.

  Filene cried out in misery.

  The barbarian pointed to the floor before him. “Here,” he said.

  “Master!” she cried out, in protest.

  Again the whip cracked.

  Filene then, in consternation, loosed her grip on the oval handle of the knife, leaving it well concealed, and slipped from the furs, and hurried to kneel before the barbarian. She was not at all sure she could have, knife in hand, its menace in sight, sprung from the furs and crossed the distance between them. And what if the blow of that terrible device in his hand should arrest her progress, coiling like fire about her, perhaps binding her very arm to her side?

  “An ignorant slave begs forgiveness,” she said, head down.

  “You are very pretty,” he said. “Do you require the instruction of leather?”

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “Good,” he said.

  One regrets putting a lovely slave to the leather, but sometimes it is appropriate, quite appropriate.

  One desires perfection in the service of a slave.

  He coiled the whip, and tossed it to the foot of the couch. This action much relieved her apprehension. She did not wish to experience the excruciating pain of a punished slave, and she was not sure, were she lashed, that she could muster the strength or will to fetch the knife. She was not sure she could have managed to rise to her feet. She might have found herself foiled and defeated, before him, lying at his feet, scarcely able to move, alone and helpless, in the misery of her beating.

  “May I remove Master’s robe?” asked Filene.

  “Sandals, first,” said the barbarian, and he sat on the edge of the couch, rather near its foot.

  Filene wished that he would have taken his position closer to the head of the couch, where she might the more easily regain the knife.

  She removed the sandals, one at a time, and placed them near the couch.

  She did not know enough to put down her head and kiss each first, for they were the sandals of a free person, and then remove them, and then lift them to her lips, one at a time, and kiss them again, and then place them beside the couch.

  “Unbraid my hair,” said the barbarian.

  It had been braided in the hall of the King Naming, by the slave, Yata, whom he had earlier sold to one of his liegeman, one named Citherix, for a pig.

  Long hair is common amongst barbarians.

  It is unusual, of course, among bodyguards, gladiators, and such, and he had once been a bodyguard of Pulendius of Terennia, a rich merchant, proprietor of a gladiatorial school, and a lord of estates. It was said that four thousand coloni tilled his fields. As many rich men, he maintained a small, private army, his of some five hundred men. The barbarian had not had his hair cut even when he had fought in the arena. This length of hair was unusual, as mentioned, for bodyguards, gladiators, and such. Short hair, or hair bound back, tightly on the head, often knotted, not easy to grasp, is common. Similarly, bodyguards, gladiators, and such, men who may be involved in hand-to-hand combat, are generally smoothly shaven, or have their beards cut short. A hand knotted in long hair, or a beard, might draw a throat to a knife. Regular troops in the imperial military, incidentally, were required to be clean-shaven, but probably, mainly, for purposes of uniformity and discipline. The matter was more lax amongst troops enlisted as comitates, or those in the limitanei. In any event, wisely or not, the barbarian had commonly worn his hair long. Perhaps it was a challenge to enemies, to try to grasp it, that they might be brought within his reach. Perhaps it was a matter of a dimly sensed propriety, harking back to suspected origins. Perhaps it was merely a matter of idiosyncratic preference. In any event, it was appropriate enough, one supposes, for a projected commander of barbarian comitates, men who might follow such a leader more readily than one whose appearance reminded them of the authority and oppression of a hated empire.

  “It is done, Master,” said Filene.

  She was now behind him, kneeling on the couch, toward its foot. Given his height, had both stood, it would have been difficult for her to reach up and perform this simple task. She glanced to the place, beneath the furs, where the knife, with its transparent sheathing of poison, lay concealed. It was beyond her reach. She considered whether or not she might throw herself to the place, sweep back the furs, seize it, and put it to its dark employment. But she feared a sudden move would alert the barbarian. She might not live to reach the knife.

  She must wait.

  He stood up.

  She slipped from the couch and stood behind him.

  She feared to touch the dinner robe without permission.

  He turned to face her. She felt small and weak before him. She went to her knees as was appropriate for a slave in the presence of a free person. She castigated herself. How right she suddenly felt, placed so before him! Were there not men and women, and they were so different, so profoundly and radically different! She hoped he would not ask her to widen her knees before him. How helpless she would be then!
She was not sure she could control herself, should he do so. How conscious she was of the chain on her neck, with its dependent disk!

  “You should have waited, kneeling, at the foot of the couch,” he said. “You should not have ascended the surface of the couch without permission.”

  “Forgive an ignorant slave,” she said.

  “Nor should you have concealed your body before the Master,” he said.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said.

  “The girl kneels, that at the foot of the couch, on the left side, as the couch is faced, she waits; she might be permitted to turn back the furs,” he said.

  “The girl hopes to be found pleasing,” she said.

  “Have you earned the surface of the couch?” he asked.

  “I hope to be granted it,” she said.

  “One such as you, a new slave, a substantially worthless slave, would expect,” he said, “to be thrown to the floor at the foot of the couch, perhaps chained to the ring. You see the ring?”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “In the chest to the side,” he said, “there are thongs, and chains, in which you would be quite helpless.”

  She put her head down.

  “Have you learned to thrash in chains?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” she whispered.

  “Can you conceive of lying on your back, absolutely helpless, your limbs tied, or chained, widely apart, at the mercy of a Master?”

  “I fear to do so,” she said.

  “Are you ready for the unspeakable ecstasies your body may be forced to endure, if the Master pleases?”

  “Please be kind to me, Master,” she said.

  “You will moan, cry out, thrash, weep, and beg for more, and hope that the Master will accede to your pleas.”

  A soft cry of anguish escaped the girl.

  “He may not,” said the barbarian.

  “Could he be so cruel?” she asked.

  “Perhaps you will try to be a good slave,” he said.

  “Yes, Master!” she said.

  “I do not think that you now desire to be a good slave,” he said.

  “Oh, no, Master,” she said. “Filene desires to be a good slave!”

  “Filene is a liar,” he said.