The King th-3 Read online

  That such a simpleton could command her!

  She did as she was told, feeling strange feelings.

  “I cannot eat this cold slush,” she said. “It has been brought to me by mistake. Bring me something to eat.”

  How strange sounded such words to her, in her present posture.

  He tried the cage gate, which was well locked.

  Was he trying to get in, and, if so, what for?

  Happily he did not have the key.

  He fingered a disk of wax wired about the gate and jamb of the cage. He let it drop, with an angry sound.

  It was, she had learned, the virgin seal, the rupture of which would testify to an unauthorized opening of the cage.

  He looked at her, in the half darkness, and she shrank back a bit.

  “No,” he said.

  He turned away.

  “It is late,” she said.

  This was true, in ship time.

  He turned about, to regard her, kneeling as she was.

  “The floor of the cage is hard, and metal!” she said. “I will be cold. Bring me a comforter!”

  “Curl,” said he.

  “‘Curl’?” she said.

  “Lie down, on your side, curled up,” said he.

  She did so.

  “Bring me a comforter,” she said.

  “No,” he said.

  “What is your name,” she demanded.

  “Qualius,” said he.

  “What do you do on the ship?” she asked.

  “I am a tender of pigs,” he said.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Tending a pig,” he said.

  She gasped, in fury.

  “Curl more prettily,” he said.

  She did so, angrily, her right hip high, the love cradle of her vulnerable, and tormentingly beckoning, her waist marvelously turned, and roundly descendant, then swelling upward, roundly, to the excitements of her bosom.

  It was an excellent body, even for a slave.

  “Bring me a blanket!” she said.

  “No,” he said.

  “I shall report you to the supply officer,” she said, “to the captain!”

  To be sure, she had not even seen the captain, nor had she seen the supply officer since the quay.

  He turned away.

  “Even a tiny rag, Master!” she called.

  He stopped at the door, and looked back.

  “Please, Master!” she called. “Please, Master!”

  He stood there.

  “Even a tiny rag, Master!” she called.

  “No,” he said.

  He then withdrew.

  She sat again in the cage.

  What a simpleton, and a fool he was, she thought. But she could dismiss him, she was sure, from her considerations. Iaachus would not have put a task of trust in the hands of so stolid and benighted a creature.

  But she had knelt for him, and posed for him, as he had commanded.

  Was she then, actually, a slave girl?

  Never! She was acting. But she did have strange feelings, and a sense of the radical dimorphism that separated the sexes in her species, a dimorphism that did not stop with, nor was it limited to, certain differentials of size and hardness, of smallness, of softness, and lusciousness.

  She feared she would be cold tonight.

  Ship, she thought, bring me soon to Tangara!

  She hoped that her isolation in the hold, her separation from the others, would not provoke suspicion.

  The supply officer, she thought, perhaps it is he, he who will provide me with the dagger.

  But I myself, she thought, may have to arrange the opportunity to be alone with the barbarian.

  How can I arrange that, she wondered.

  Perhaps my beauty will arrange it, she thought.

  But her beauty, it seemed, had had no great effect on the tender of pigs. But was it not extraordinary, even among slave girls, women embonded for their beauty, and, in places, she had heard, even bred for it?

  She was furious.

  She had not gotten her way.

  How she had demeaned herself, and yet had not gotten her way!

  Did they think she was a slave!

  She would think of some way to have her vengeance on the fellow. Iaachus could manage that.

  He had tried the gate of the cage. Had he merely been checking it, or had he been interested in seeing if it were securely fastened, and, if not, what might have happened then? He had seemed displeased at the discovery of the virgin seal on the gate. What if the gate had been insecure, and the seal not there? She shuddered. Too, she began to suspect the vulnerability of the female slave.

  She looked at the floor of the hold.

  She wondered what it might feel like, on her body.

  Suddenly, sitting there in the cage, she tried to slip the anklet from her left ankle. But she could not do so, and, in a few moments, she gave up the effort, angrily. It was on her, as the young officer on the quay had dryly observed.

  It was a slave anklet.

  It was part of her disguise, of course. It was not as though it was really on her. But it was, of course, really on her, at least in the sense that she could not remove it, no more than if she were in fact no more than another caged slave.

  She looked down with distaste at the now-reddish-appearing gruel in the shallow pan.

  Surely they did not expect her to eat such stuff.

  She would starve first.

  Who is the other agent, she wondered. Who has the dagger?

  She slept fitfully that night, or rest period.

  Her dreams were various.

  She dreamed of a slender, yellow-handled poniard, a black-swirled design wrought within the handle, the handle itself with a double-scrolled guard, which was important, that her hand not slip onto the blade, that lovely narrow blade, that beautifully, harmoniously narrow blade, ideal for penetration, some seven inches in length, razor-edged, needle-pointed, coated imperceptibly with some transparent substance.

  She dreamed of herself plunging it into the back of the unsuspecting giant, or perhaps, as he lay recumbent, unsuspecting, on a couch, into his chest.

  But, too, she had frightening dreams, of herself stripped, and thrown, painted and perfumed, and chained, among barbarians, with other loot, of herself on a slave block, of herself being sold in a hundred markets to a hundred masters, of Iaachus laughing, of her family laughing, of her intimate maid, whom she must now strive to dress as a lady, she herself now the intimate maid, laughing, and holding a switch, the very switch with which she had beaten the slave before, only that it was she herself who was now the slave!

  She awoke with a start.

  I am not a slave, she cried to the hold. And then she was frightened, fearing that someone might have heard. I am not a slave, she then whispered to herself, intensely.

  But then she remembered, from the dream, the fur beneath her knees, and the chains on her body, and the men about, regarding her, with a desire she had not understood that men could feel, and she knowing that she might belong to any of them and would then be his to command, she to be obedient to the least of his caprices. And she remembered the slave blocks and the cries of auctioneers and being exhibited, as a true slave.

  She shuddered.

  And, too, she remembered her indescribable thrills, knowing what she was, and how she must serve, joyfully, will-lessly compliant, how she must serve eagerly, helplessly, owned by another!

  Surely I am not a slave, she whispered to herself. Surely I cannot be a slave.

  She found herself ravenously hungry.

  There was nothing in the cage but the pan of gruel.

  I cannot eat this, she protested, tears in her eyes.

  Then she fingered it into her mouth.

  In a little while it was gone. There had not been much of it to begin with.

  Is this all we are to be fed, she asked herself.

  She touched the anklet.

  What is wrong with me,
she asked herself.

  Ship, she whispered, bring me swiftly to Tangara. Unknown confederate, put the dagger quickly into my hand. I would quickly be done with this, and would return quickly to the capitals of the empire.

  She then fell asleep again, and slept dreamlessly, until she was awakened by the young, blond officer, who released her from the cage, and conducted her, suitably, on all fours, to the common room.

  It was there that the slaves would receive some training.

  The supply officer, Lysis, who had direct charge of them, had apparently deemed this appropriate.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Surely things proceed apace, milord,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

  “I am detained here, in Lisle,” said Julian. “There seems no adequate reason for it, for my participation in these ceremonials.”

  “It is fitting that those related to the imperial family participate, milord,” said Ausonius.

  “I am troubled,” said Julian.

  “Ottonius is well on his way to Tangara,” said Tuvo Ausonius. “What does it matter if he arrives some weeks before you? He will surely wait for your assistance, and counsel.”

  “I do not think he will wait,” said Julian. “I think he has his own projects afoot.”

  “You do not doubt his loyalty to the empire, surely?” asked Ausonius.

  “One does not know,” said Julian.

  “Surely he is loyal,” said Ausonius. “He was, as I understand it, raised in a festung village, one in tithe to the festung of Sim Giadini, in the Barrionuevo Heights.”

  The festung, or fortress, of Sim Giadini was, in effect, a remote, fortified Floonian monastery, one occupied by members, or brothers, of the order of Sim Giadini, who had been an emanationist, a position now understood, following votes taken at three councils, to be heterodox.

  “He would doubtless have received instruction from the brothers of the order of Sim Giadini,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

  “I think not,” said Julian. “The relationship of the festung village to the festung is primarily economic. I suspect our Ottonius knows little more of Floon than of Orak and Umba.’’

  Orak was the king of the gods in the pantheon of the empire, and Umba was his consort.

  “But surely he will have learned the glory and wonder of the empire, and the value of civilitas,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

  “Civilitas may be crumbling,” said Julian.

  “Say ‘No,’ milord!” said Tuvo Ausonius, dismayed.

  “It may be the end of all things,” said Julian.

  “The empire is eternal, milord,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

  “Once,” brooded Julian, “there was no empire.”

  “Do you feel the empire is in jeopardy?” asked Tuvo Ausonius.

  “Yes,” said Julian.

  Tuvo Ausonius was silent.

  “The empire needs fighters,” said Julian. “Leadership fails, the aristocracy grows decadent, rabbles roam the streets, clients defect, allies become restless, borders contract, trade routes grow hazardous, outlying worlds grow indefensible, federates grow unruly.”

  “But barbarians,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

  “No children are born in golden beds,” said Julian.

  “But barbarians, milord,” protested Tuvo Ausonius.

  “Yes, barbarians,” said Julian.

  “As our Ottonius?”

  “Yes,” said Julian.

  Tuvo Ausonius was silent.

  “They may save the empire,” said Julian.

  “Or destroy it,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

  “Yes,” agreed Julian, wearily.

  “He is a peasant,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

  “No,” said Julian.

  “What is he then?” asked Tuvo Ausonius.

  “I do not know,” said Julian. “The answer to that mystery lies, I think, in the festung of Sim Giadini.”

  “Surely, milord,” said Tuvo Ausonius, “you do not think that the empire is truly in jeopardy?’’

  “No,” said Julian, slowly, after a time. “I suppose not.”

  “There is nothing to fear.”

  “No,” said Julian. “I think not.”

  “The empire is eternal,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

  “Of course,” said Julian.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Let us see if there are men here!” called Abrogastes, meaningfully, his eyes blazing, rising to his feet, from the bench, between the high-seat pillars.

  He waved to the side.

  “It is the great spear!” cried a man.

  “It is the spear of oathing!” cried another.

  “What is it doing here?” cried another.

  “How is it come to the hall?” said another.

  “Surely it is not time for the spear,” whispered others.

  “Not for a thousand years,” cried a man.

  Two men bore the great spear forth, with its ashen shaft and bronze head, bore it muchly to the center of the feasting hall, but forward, some, toward the bench of Abrogastes.

  The brownish, ashen shaft of the spear was mighty, but might, in the hands of a titan, or giant, or in those of Kragon, the god of war, one supposes, have proven supple.

  The wood was fresh.

  The head was broad, and of bronze, and forged in an ancient fashion, one dating back to a time when the Alemanni were first learning the mysteries of metals, how to smelt, and mix, and shape them.

  There had been, of course, a succession of such spears, but each, you see, had touched its predecessor, and thus, as the Alemanni would have it, had become the spear.

  “This is the spear,” the markings priest, who could read the ancient, secret signs, would say, and it had then, as it had touched its predecessor, become the spear.

  This succession of spears may have extended back farther than even the most ancient of war songs, to the first forests and storms, and wars.

  Its antiquity was not known.

  The earliest spears would have crumbled to dust but then, at such a time, they were no longer the spear, but another was the spear.

  In this sense the spear was thought to be eternal, as the Alemanni.

  It was a sacred object.

  Later the earlier spear was destroyed with axes, to cries of war. Thus it was as though it had perished in battle. The splinters were then wrapped in precious cloths, and burned in the sacred fire, in the secret place in what, by tradition, was said to be the first forest, where, as the stories had it, Kragon, the god of war, had fashioned the Alemanni, of earth, and fire, and his own blood, that in his hall he might have worthy cup companions. Kragon was usually represented as hawk-winged, this symbology presumably suggesting swiftness, ferocity, ruthlessness, unexpectedness of strike, and such things. He was also, generally, interestingly, regarded as a god of wisdom. In the syncretism of the empire he, with many alien gods, was sometimes included in the imperial pantheon. In the secret place in the forest, known only to the oldest of the markings priests, it was said that Kragon had breathed his spirit, with the breath of fire, into the Alemanni. The Vandals, too, interestingly, had such stories, which suggests the possible existence of an earlier cultural complex, perhaps an earlier cultural center, one perhaps even neolithic, or protoneolithic, underlying, in an obscure, basal fashion, the development of several of the barbarian peoples.

  “Unchain her!” roared Abrogastes, pointing to Huta, who shrank back, where she lay at the left side of his bench, as one would look toward the hall.

  One of the keepers rushed to the slave and pulled from his belt a great ring of keys, one of which he thrust into the massive padlock on her high, heavy iron collar. In an instant it was thrown in a clatter of metal to the stout planks of the dais, and Huta, whimpering, terrified, at a gesture from Abrogastes, was hurried from the dais, bent over, held by the hair, and flung to the earth, some five yards before the bench. Some three or four yards before the spear, which had now been placed, butt down, held by two men, in the rush-strewn dirt floor of the hall. She scrambled about, on all fou
rs, to face Abrogastes, and then knelt in fearful obeisance, her head down, the palms of her hands on the floor, making herself as small as possible.

  “Kneel up!” shouted Abrogastes.

  Fearfully Huta did so, back straight, back on her heels, head up, palms down on thighs, knees spread widely, pathetically, beseechingly.

  “Behold, brothers!” cried Abrogastes in fury, pointing to the slave. “Behold she who was once Huta, priestess of the Timbri!”

  Anger coursed about the tables, for it was well known that she had been implicated in the secession of Ortog, and, indeed, by many, was held accountable for that defection, that treason and rebellion.

  “What is your name?” called Abrogastes to the slave.

  “Huta!” she cried.

  “And what sort of name is that?” he demanded.

  “It is a slave name, put on me by my master!” she cried.

  “Who is your master?” he asked.

  “You are my master,” she cried, “Abrogastes, king of the Drisriaks, of the Alemanni!”

  “For what do you exist?” inquired Abrogastes.

  “To serve my masters with instant, unquestioning obedience and total perfection!” she said.

  “She it was,” cried Abrogastes, to the assembled, now-sobered feasters, “who by trickery and cajolery, by promises, and false prophecies, fanned the ambition of Ortog, who tempted him to treason, who encouraged him in heinous sedition, who led him to rend the Drisriaks, his own people, who would have had him found a divisive tribe, even the name of which no longer exists!”

  The name, of course, of the failed, secessionist tribe was the Ortungs or the Ortungen. The name did still exist, of course, though it was not wise to speak it in the presence of Abrogastes, nor, generally, in the dwelling places of the Drisriaks. The Ortungs had been, of course, defeated, and scattered, as grass to the wind, as it was said. To be sure, there were, here and there, remnants who, in hiding, and unreconciled, continued defiantly to regard themselves as Ortungs, in their own right, by the acceptance of rings, and not traitorous Drisriaks. After the slaughter in the tent on Tenguthaxichai, recounted elsewhere, Abrogastes, on the advice of his counselors, had permitted pockets of surrendering, repentant Ortungs to return to the dwelling places of the Drisriaks. The olive branch, as well as the sword, can be an instrument of policy.