Children of the Dragon

by Frank Robinson

  “Good evening, honored Empress Denoi,” Sarbat said.

  She bowed and bade him a good evening, as perfunctory an obeisance to form as she could make it. Sirimava meanwhile said nothing; she ignored the Empress.

  “I have something most fascinating to show you,” said Sarbat, holding out a glass cube. Inside it was a broken little statuette. “This specimen has just been unearthed on the banks of the Gnanad, near Sajnithaddhani. Come and look at it.”

  “Your Majesty, I did not come here to discuss your antiquities,” said the Empress curtly.

  “Very well.” Sarbat placed the glass box aside.

  “Nor will I speak to you with this woman present.”

  “You will speak if I command you.”

  “Or suffer the consequences—which I am willing to do. But I will not speak for her ears, especially not with her lying naked as a plum. It is an offense to me. Perhaps it pleases you to give such offense; that is precisely what I’ve come to talk about.” The graying woman spoke quietly and slowly, and her eyes held Sarbat like fishhooks. “I will no longer tolerate such offenses, starting right now, with her presence. If she does not leave this room, I will—I will leave for Laham Jat.”

  “You shall not threaten me.”

  “And you shall not bully me; you cannot, because I only care for one thing now, and it isn’t my life.”

  “What is it?”

  “My honor, and the honor of the House of Devodhrisha. Now, you send this woman away. Remember that you have the honor of the House of Satanichadh to think of, too.”

  Sarbat deliberated briefly, then snapped his fingers at Sirimava. The yellow-haired woman rose snakily from the couch and bowed to the Emperor. Then, with one hand postured at the back of her neck and the other on her hip, she pranced out of the room.

  “There, I’ve respected your wishes. Now you may speak freely.”

  “And speak I shall. No longer will I countenance offenses to my honor, nor tolerate being made a mockery, not by you nor anyone else. I will not suffer to be made a joke in your court, as I was this afternoon.”

  “But it was Halaf—”

  “Yes, and is he not your clown? And did you not join in the joke? But this matter of Sirimava is no joke.

  “I have never protested your concubines. I have never been jealous, not even when we were younger and I did share your bed. It was not my place to be jealous nor to object to your amusements. Now I’m old and dried up, and I don’t expect preferment over women like your dragoness. Not in your private quarters, not in your bed. But out there in the throne-room, I am still the Empress of Bergharra. Halaf is your clown, not me, and I won’t permit you to make me your clown.

  “I don’t begrudge you your concubines; you can fornicate with them day and night and lavish gifts upon them. But not when it makes a mockery of me. You can give your dragoness a golden chariot, a palace, but you shall not give her my place. You shall not mint coins portraying her.

  “Those coins are an insult to yourself as well as to me, and you must stop their minting at once. The palace is laughing at you for putting a slave-girl on our money. The whole world will laugh at you if these coins ever circulate.”

  “And why do you care if they laugh?”

  “Because I am your empress. You know by now my opinion of you—that I hold you a poor sovereign, in fact, that I despise you. I make no secret of it. I remain your empress only because that is my duty. And while it is my duty to be the empress to a cruel, irresponsible emperor, it is not my duty to stand by an emperor who is ridiculed as a fool. Were I not the Empress, I would not care who laughed at you. I would laugh with them.

  “You have done many vile things, Sarbat Satanichadh. My duty was silence. But if you continue like this, humiliating me and humiliating yourself, then my duty is at an end.”

  Sarbat hadn’t interrupted her save once, and sat as though impassive through her speech, staring down at the ancient statuette in the glass box. When she was finished, he remained stiff, unblinking. Then he quietly leaned forward.

  “I should behead you for such insolence.”

  “That is the response I expected,” the Empress said in a flat voice.

  “You are fortunate that I value your head more than you yourself do.”

  “Why don’t you cut my head off, once and for all?”

  “Because it would bring me contempt.”

  “Contempt? How so?”

  “Because it would be so pointless, so unnecessary.”

  “Are you sure of that? And what if I speak out at Court, as I have spoken here tonight?”

  Sarbat chuckled thinly. “It almost seems as if you want to be killed. And you’re not alone in wanting that gray head of yours cut off. My little chicken Sirimava has asked me to do it, in fact, to torture you to death, as a personal boon to her. Imagine that, the bloodthirsty little wench! Halaf didn’t know how right he was in calling her a dragoness. Sirimava knows she can’t be empress, so she wants the next best thing: the power of death over the Empress.

  “And do you know what I’ve told her? I promised my dragoness that, just to please her, I would indeed have you murdered.”

  Sarbat paused to let this sink in. The Empress did not flinch.

  “But even so, it is still unnecessary, even pointless. You will not lose your head—nor will you speak out at Court. You are going away.”

  The Empress Denoi was astonished. “I think that would be ideal, if it happens with your assent. But I never expected you—”

  “To sanction it? But why not? As you said, it would be best, and shouldn’t a wise ruler do what is best? But then, you don’t think me a wise ruler. That’s why you’re so surprised. Well, if I’m not wise, at least I am surprising.”

  “Is that a creditable quality?”

  “Yes, it is good if one’s enemies never know what to expect. At any rate, you will say your farewells at Court tomorrow and depart for Laham Jat the following morning.”

  “And what of your promise to your dragoness?”

  “She will consider it fulfilled. You see, I’ve already told her that the announcement of your trip will be my subterfuge for secretly having you killed.”

  “Will it?”

  “You think my capacity for betrayal is limitless!”

  “You will have to break your promise to one of us.”

  “Perhaps I will find a way to break neither promise— or even better, to break both. But for now, this audience is concluded. Good night, serene and honored Empress Denoi Vinga Gondwa Devodhrisha.”

  10

  THE EMPEROR KEPT his promise that Jehan Henghmani would live. And Jehan’s promise to himself was kept too —he would bear his torment, even thrive upon it.

  While the subterranean tunnels hummed with keening and gibbering, Jehan was quiet. He did not go mad like the others. Surrounded by madness, cruelty, and horror, with human flesh for food, Jehan did not go mad. He fought against the crippling of his body, and wouldn’t let his spirit be crippled either. He convinced himself that someday the ordeal would end—and then it would be like waking up from a bad dream.

  So he smiled in the faces of his torturers, the figments of his nightmare.

  The cell door opened as it had a hundred times before. Grebzreh and a squad entered. They unlocked Jehan’s chains, leaving only his hands bound behind his back.

  “There’ll be no dragging you in the muck this time,” Grebzreh said. “Today is a special day. You have visitors.”

  Jehan snickered. “The last time I had a visitor, it was Emperor Sarbat.”

  “Well, it’s not the Emperor this time. It happens to be your woman and two little girls.”

  Jehan’s insides went cold and sour. “No,” he said, “you’re lying!”

  “Why, you stupid ox, you don’t think family visits are permitted here?” Grebzreh cackle
d. “Not only is this visit permitted, but in fact, the three of them have been transported all the way from Taroloweh, at no little expense to the Bergharran treasury.”

  “Damned liar, you’re just baiting mel”

  “Ah, Man Eater, you didn’t think they could be found, is that it? But you see, the government makes special efforts to provide family visits for prisoners, and you should be grateful. It wasn’t easy locating your girls. But one of your former comrades, I’m told, was kind enough to put the authorities in touch with them. You want to know who that comrade was? I’m afraid he asked that his name not be mentioned. He’s a very modest fellow.”

  Jehan grit his teeth; he was sweating and sick with anxiety. One of his own men had betrayed Jenefa and the girls! The cur had probably sold them out to save his own skin. Most likely, once he’d revealed the hiding place, the Tnemghadi would have killed him anyway.

  They herded Jehan into the largest of the dungeon’s vaults, a spacious salon cut right out of the rock, carpeted and furnished with chairs, couches, and tables. Incongruous in the dreary dungeon surroundings, this gay-looking room was used for the entertainments of Grebzreh and his guards; wine jugs and goblets were cluttered on the tables.

  There were a score of men lounging about, some resting their feet up on the chairs, a few already slurping wine. When Jehan was shoved in, they jeered at him with their eyes. Plainly, some sort of bacchanal was in prospect.

  Nimajneb Grebzreh took a chair at the head of the room, leaned back, gulped a swallow of wine, and said, “All right, bring them in.”

  A door opened and a pair of guards pushed Jenefa and the two girls into the salon. They were thin and dirty, still dressed in the same coarse peasant smocks they’d been wearing when Jehan had left them hidden in the cave, months before.

  The woman saw Jehan and bit her hand to stifle a gasp of horror at his mutilations. The two girls clutched at her. Guards held all three from rushing toward Jehan.

  She stretched out her hand to him, straining against the guards’ grip, her eyes bulged and mouth twisted into an anguished mask.

  “Well, Man Eater, don’t you even say hello to them? Aren’t you glad to see them? Aren’t you going to thank us for bringing them here?”

  Jehan said nothing; he felt tears hot behind his eyes, and struggled against them.

  Grebzreh guffawed to Jenefa. “Look at that, woman, he doesn’t even bid you hello.”

  Now the warden rose and padded slowly toward her. He took his time. “It seems the pig doesn’t even want you any more, woman. Imagine that!” Grebzreh ran his finger lightly down her bare arm.

  Meanwhile, his men chained Jehan into a heavy steel chair that was bolted to the floor; he strained but was completely helpless.

  Grebzreh patted Jenefa’s hair and then tried to stroke her cheek; but she squirmed her head away.

  Then he drew a dagger from his belt.

  Nimajneb Grebzreh fingered the blade and his eyes glittered at Jenefa.

  He slipped the blade under her smock at the shoulder and sawed through the fabric. Then the other shoulder, and the torn garment hung loosely on the woman. Grebzreh gave it a sharp tug, baring her breasts. Then he ripped the rest of the smock from her body.

  Jenefa stood naked in full view of everyone. She did not try to cover herself or to resist; she had not flinched at being stripped, she had expected it. Her nostrils flared, but she was otherwise expressionless.

  Grebzreh sheathed the dagger, and motioned to his men. Two of them seized Jenefa by the waist and, with a rough laugh, hoisted her up onto a table.

  “Let’s see you give us an Urhemmedhin dance!” the warden said. One of the men picked up a zindala, a crescent-shaped stringed instrument, and began strumming it. The others started clapping their hands in time with the music.

  “Dance!” Grebzreh shouted; “I said dance!”

  But she stood still on the table, rigid. Someone reached up and slapped her thigh, leaving a livid hand print. The clapping died down, and the zindala was cast aside.

  “Oh, pretty woman, won’t you please dance for us,” Grebzreh satirically implored.

  A wine jug stood on Jenefa’s table at her feet, and she suddenly lashed out with a kick that sent it flying, spurting wine, to smash on the carpet.

  “Now there’s a clumsy dancer,” Grebzreh said. “We’ll teach you to be more graceful. Come down from there.”

  When Jenefa didn’t move, a man clambered up behind her and kicked her very hard on the small of her back. She was knocked off the table and across the floor, landing with a loud thump. The woman grimaced, but did not cry out.

  “Mabanl” screamed the girl Tsevni, and she began to whimper.

  Two guardsmen wrenched Jenefa up off the floor and held her pinioned with her arms twisted behind her back. Grebzreh swaggered over to her, grinning. He stared at her with his hands on his hips.

  “Let’s see what an Urhemmedhin bitch tastes like.”

  He squeezed her face between his hands and pressed his lips against her mouth. When she managed to pull away, he laughed, and the men tightened their lock on her arms. Grebzreh ran his hands slowly down the front of her body, hard, his fingers leaving deep red trails. He squeezed her breasts until she gasped and tears came to her eyes, but she chewed her lip and wouldn’t cry out.

  Then they pushed her to the floor and held her down while Grebzreh methodically raped her.

  Jehan, bound tight in the chair, shut his eyes and hoped the men would not see the throbbing at his throat and temples.

  Grebzreh finished with Jenefa and stood over her spread-eagled body; the marks of his fingers still striped her flesh. Now he pulled her up by the arm. “So, the Man Eater apparently no longer wants this woman? Ha! Maybe he prefers boys!”

  The warden shoved Jenefa to one of his men, who flung her down on the floor again like a rag doll, and raped her. The others hooted and guffawed, and when he was done, they applauded.

  Grebzreh removed his shoe. “She’s not enjoying it enough,” he said; “let’s see if we can make it better.” He thrust his bare foot between her legs and massaged her. Then he giggled, and stomped down on her, again and again, while she writhed to avert the blows, and bright blood began to flow.

  “Let’s see if that helps.”

  Another of the men mounted the prostrate woman. When he forced himself into her, she shrieked.

  “I thought that would do it,” Grebzreh chortled.

  One by one, each of the twenty guards took his turn.

  Meanwhile, the warden seized eight-year-old Tsevni, tore her clothing asunder and, pressing her small body against the seat of a chair, violated her. The child screamed, as much from a vivid sense of something awful happening as from the pain.

  All this Maiya Henghmani watched, with a guard’s grip heavy on her shoulder. She was twelve, and understood what they were doing to her mother and sister. Her eyes were bound to the scene in terror-stricken fascination, knowing that momentarily she would join it.

  Maiya wondered how it would feel: to be naked before all these strange, crude men, grabbing at her, beating her, invading her body in its most secret places. Her little sister, being passed from one to another, was howling in bewilderment, and her mother’s cries were agony. On and on it went, yet Maiya remained untouched. Were they reserving her for some special abomination?

  After what seemed like endless hours, all the men had taken their turns on Tsevni and Jenefa. The two lay on the floor, naked, dirty, bruised, hurt, with blood dripping down their thighs, breathing in gasps and not moving.

  Jenefa knew the natural aftermath of rape. It is not only satisfaction of the flesh the rapist seeks, but the subjugation of his victim and of the males who would protect her. Jenefa knew what must come now.

  Nimajneb Grebzreh lolled back on the couch, guzzling from a wine jug and splashing it red on his chin.
He stared openly at his naked victims. Neither was attractive. Jenefa had never been pretty, and now she was past thirty with wrinkles, blue veins, and sagging breasts. Tsevni was too young to be anything at all, no more than an orifice to be used. Grebzreh deemed them both worthless now— except to give Jehan Henghmani pain.

  The warden drew the dagger once more from his belt.

  11

  GREBZREH TOSSED HIS dagger at Tsevni.

  The girl flinched; the weapon clattered to a harmless stop at her feet.

  “Pick it up,” the warden commanded. Tsevni took the dagger by the blade and looked queerly at it.

  “See that tall fellow with the moustache?” He pointed out a man whose name was Jephos Kirdahi. “I want you to kill him.”

  All of the men, including Kirdahi, laughed in merriment. But Tsevni didn’t budge. What strange game were they playing now?

  “Go ahead, little girl. I want to see you duel with him.”

  Jenefa screamed and covered her face with her hands. Quaveringly, as though in a trance, Tsevni walked toward the moustachioed Kirdahi. The man towered ridiculously over the little naked child clumsily brandishing a dagger. There was a tittering of amusement as Kirdahi drew his own long knife.

  Jenefa was convulsed with sobs of shock.

  Kirdahi’s blade flashed; there was no pretence of a contest. In one deft thrust he opened Tsevni’s belly. Her cry was dry and throttled; she stumbled backward, with a stunned look. Blood poured from the slash across her abdomen.

  Kirdahi cut again. The girl’s viscera tumbled out of the gaping wound, bloody and steaming. She stared down at herself in utter shock, and this time wailed horribly out loud. Finally the guardsman thrust his knife straight into her throat. Blood spurted and her cry was cut off.

  Unable to watch any more, Jenefa leaped up and folded her child into an embrace, weeping and kissing her. But Tsevni was already dead.

  Jehan, bound to his chair, held silent. He knew Jenefa and his children were doomed. Whatever sadistic pleasure Grebzreh and his henchmen derived from this was secondary; their purpose was to torment Jehan.