The Emperor

by Norman, John;

  “It is strange,” said Flora. “Commonly masters speak freely before slaves.”

  “Yes,” said Renata. “It is as though we were not present.”

  “They do not think of us as present,” said Flora.

  “We might as well be furniture,” said Gerune, “mere objects of convenience, meaningless domestic beasts, hovering about, attentive to summoning.”

  “Of course,” said Sesella, “we are nothing, we are slaves.”

  “How is it then,” asked Flora, “that men will kill for us, that they will risk their lives to get us in their ropes, that wars are fought to bring us into collars?”

  “Men enjoy owning us,” said Renata.

  “It is fitting,” said Sesella. “We are property. We are the property sex.”

  “How outraged I would pretend to be, when I was free,” said Flora, “to hear such things, but, how, too, I secretly longed for a master, and the chains of a slave.”

  “Our fulfillment is love, service, and the collar,” said Renata.

  “It is what we are for,” said Sesella.

  Flora suddenly sobbed.

  “What is wrong?” asked Sesella.

  “I am lonely, I am needful,” said Flora. “I want my master.”

  “We all want our masters,” said Sesella.

  “Have we been forgotten?” said Renata. “Are they done with us? Are we to be sold?”

  “I would be pleased,” said Flora, “even to feel his whip, to know that he has not forgotten me, that I mean at least enough to him, as a lowly slave, to be whipped.”

  “The cruelest punishment,” said Sesella, “is to be ignored.”

  “Better a thousand times the whip,” said Renata.

  “We want to be free in our collars to love and serve our masters, with our whole being, and heart,” said Flora.

  “Yet we hear nothing!” said Renata.

  “Nothing!” said Flora.

  “Still,” said Gerune, “is that not strange, that we hear nothing, even of the empire, even of the worlds, that no political crumbs fall from the table, that no word slips from a goblet’s rim? Do armies no longer march, nor ships fly?”

  “I carried wine to grooms,” said Sesella, “and they stopped speaking.”

  “When much occurs,” said Renata, “either there is much news, or no news.”

  “If anyone should hear,” said Flora, “it is you, Gerune. You are the slave of Master Julian himself, master of this fine villa, he so notable on Vellmer, of the high patricians, cousin to the emperor, one involved intimately, I am sure, in the affairs of the empire.”

  Gerune was of barbarian origin. She was originally a member of the Drisriaks, the largest and foremost tribe of the Alemanni nation. Indeed, she was a daughter of Abrogastes himself, the Far-Grasper, king of the Drisriaks. She had joined her brother, Ortog, in his secession from the Drisriaks, to form his own tribe, the Ortungen. Ortog and many of the Ortungs, or Ortungen, were surprised on Tenguthaxichai by Abrogastes, an attack which muchly reduced and scattered the Ortungs. It was generally believed that Abrogastes had slain Ortog on Tenguthaxichai. Gerune had been captured in the same raid. On Tenguthaxichai, spared, she became the slave of a tender of pigs, a prisoner of Otto, chieftain of the Wolfungs. That prisoner had been Julian, he of the Aureliani.

  “Yet I have heard nothing,” said Gerune, thrusting back her long hair, in its two braids, done in the Alemanni fashion.

  “Why would news be kept from us?” asked Flora.

  “Hoe the vegetables,” said Sesella. “The garden master approaches.”

  Chapter Eight

  “How is it, noble lady,” said Titus Gelinus, “that you have not permitted me, until now, to call upon you?”

  “I have been occupied,” said the Lady Gia Alexia, in her silken house robe, lying back, half-reclined, her figure gracefully turned, on the couch.

  “But now?” asked Gelinus.

  “I respond at last to your notes,” she said. “I have the afternoon free.”

  “You torture me,” he said angrily.

  “Not at all,” she said. “I am unaware of your suffering, or its possible cause.”

  “Do you not know what you have done to me?” he said.

  “I have no idea what you might mean,” she said.

  “You are as cunning as a vi-cat,” he said, “and as cruel.”

  “I do not know what you mean,” she said.

  “You receive me, recumbent,” he said, “in a house robe.”

  “In my own home,” she said, “I see no need for formality.”

  “Yet, though indoors,” he said, “you greet me—veiled!”

  “Would it not be unseemly to entertain a stranger otherwise?” she inquired.

  “Are we such strangers?” he asked.

  “How we be otherwise?” she asked.

  “In the Lycon district, outside my house, on an unforgettable morning,” he said, “your veil was disengaged.”

  “An inadvertence,” she said.

  “I saw your beauty!” he said.

  “Noble sir,” she said, “do not shame me.”

  “A stroke of lightning,” he said, “a sunrise, from clouds the sun, a glimpse, a flash, of beauty.”

  “What woe for a woman,” she said, “that her beauty might wreak so mighty an effect.”

  “In particular,” he said, “when she is so innocent and unwilling.”

  “When the straw burns,” she said, “is the torch to be blamed?”

  “I have sent rich gifts, received, but unacknowledged. I have sent gold, accepted, but unnoted. I offered you rooms in my house.”

  “It is difficult to overlook the offensiveness of such an insult,” she said.

  “You want more, of course.”

  “It is so hard to understand you,” she said.

  “I cannot concentrate,” he said. “I am distracted. My work founders.”

  “What has that to do with me?” she said.

  “Vi-cat,” he said.

  “You are no longer the wonder and glory of the courts,” she said. “Your address to the senate, in the matter of the ratification, must have been dismal.”

  “I do not understand,” he said. “It was brilliant, well-­researched, prodigiously documented, argued with cogency, administered with force. There should have been a unanimous vote against ratification!”

  “Instead,” she said, “the motion to deny ratification was withdrawn, the accession of the barbarian was celebrated, and days of holiday were urged.”

  “I do not understand,” he said.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “your case was less persuasive than you supposed.”

  “It makes no sense to me,” he said. “The moderator of the senate, on behalf of the primarius himself, invited me to speak against ratification and on behalf of the senate, arguing for its primacy in Telnarian governance. As I understood it, the senate was predisposed to favor such a case. This did not call for the skills of a Titus Gelinus; a stumbling dolt could have won such a case.”

  “And yet you did not,” observed the Lady Gia Alexia.

  “I have fallen,” said Titus Gelinus. “All crumbles. I lose clients. Litigants do not petition for my services. Men laugh. My enemies rejoice.”

  “A far more serious blow is dealt to your fortunes,” said the Lady Gia Alexia.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “Judges and juries will no longer favor you,” she said. “They are afraid.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “It is feared,” she said, “that you lack the favor of the emperor.”

  “I am still wealthy,” he said.

  “For now,” she said.

  “May I call upon you again?” he asked.

  “Feel free to do so,” she said, “when m
en once more acclaim you and seek your services, when crowds fight again for space on the benches, hoping to hear you, when you again stand high in Telnar, when you are once more the wonder and glory of the courts.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I weary of signing documents,” said Otto.

  “It takes little effort to put your sign, the sword, on each,” said Iaachus.

  The hot wax would then be put in place, and imprinted with the imperial seal, with its embedded tassel or ribbon. The small imperial seal was commonly used, but on documents of greater importance the large seal was used. It was formed of three components which, when fitted together and locked, formed a single device. Each component was in the keeping of a separate person, each a trustee of the imperial seal. In this way no single person could affix the seal. Since the accession of Otto to the throne, the three individuals designated to be trustees of the seal were Julian, Iaachus, and Tuvo Ausonius. Smaller communications, instructions to officials, summonses to the imperial presence, authorizations, commendations, personal letters, and such, were commonly sealed by means of a signet ring. The use of signet rings was quite common at this point in the history of the empire and few individuals of importance, whether connected with the state or not, lacked such a ring.

  “I like,” said Otto, “to have the contents of documents made known to me.”

  “Much is routine and repetitious,” said Iaachus.

  “Even so,” said Otto.

  “Of course,” said Iaachus.

  The documents were commonly read aloud to Otto, or summarized in detail, for his consideration.

  Otto, as many in the empire, was illiterate. As a peasant of the festung village of Sim Giadini, he had never learned to read. That skill was not thought necessary for the peasantry. What had it to do with the seasons, with land, soil, seed, sunlight, and rain? Indeed, literacy was not highly prized by many in the empire, particularly in the barbarian nations. Many warriors, for example, held it in contempt, as a skill more fitting for clerks, rune readers, and spell casters than wielders of weapons. Often kings could not read. They could, of course, as men of means, hire readers, as one might hire cooks and valets. Astute leaders, sometimes brilliant and learned men, often feigned illiteracy, or indifferent literary skills, in order to retain the respect, devotion, and loyalty of rude, simple men.

  “Dear Iaachus,” said Julian, “surely it is more important to read men and deeds than words.”

  “I have no objection,” said Iaachus, “to those who can read both.”

  “How hold the borders?” asked Otto.

  “Minor incursions, small raids, threatening gestures, little outside of the ordinary,” said Julian.

  “That is not so strange,” said Iaachus. “The Aatii have for generations posed the greatest threat to the empire, and now it seems that Abrogastes, the Aatii Drisriak, is essaying a subtler assault on the empire, one of legal invasion, of alliances, of blood and nuptials. Such things risk no ships, no armies.”

  “In this way, too,” said Tuvo Ausonius, “he defers the risks of encountering imperially trained, imperially armed Otungs, blood enemies, now interposed between himself and the empire.”

  “The coup was necessary,” said Julian, “to protect the throne from the designs of Abrogastes.”

  “But not, perhaps, from those of Julian, of the Aureliani,” said Iaachus.

  “Abrogastes is clever,” said Otto, “whether at a conference table or on the bridge of a Lion Ship. Many trails lead to a mountain of gold. If one trail proves impractical, he will seek another.”

  “On a dozen worlds,” said Tuvo Ausonius, “Lion Ships are poised.”

  “Should he not have attacked, following the coup?” asked Iaachus.

  “I think he is patient, like the adder,” said Julian, “watchful, like the vi-cat.”

  “But,” said Tuvo, “it has been weeks since the coup.”

  “True,” mused Julian.

  “Where is Abrogastes?” asked Otto.

  “It is said,” said Tuvo Ausonius, “on Tenguthaxichai.”

  “Dangerous is an enemy one cannot see,” said Otto.

  “Or one you do not suspect,” said Iaachus, regarding Julian.

  “True,” said Julian, regarding Iaachus.

  “It was not my plan to enlist barbarians,” said Iaachus.

  “It was necessary,” said Julian.

  “In any event,” said Iaachus, “worlds orbit their suns, men buy and sell, the bureaucracy functions, and what has occurred in Telnar seems scarcely noticed elsewhere.”

  “It is nearly time,” said Iaachus, “to receive reports, to greet envoys, to meet with petitioners.”

  “As I understand it,” said Julian to Iaachus, “you are permitting Sidonicus, the exarch, access to the palace and he continues to instruct the empress mother in his peculiar beliefs.”

  “With the consent of Ottonius, of course,” said Iaachus. “In this way the exarch is assured that the empress mother still lives. This quells rumors that she, and the boy, Aesilesius, have been murdered in the palace.”

  “You understand of course,” said Julian, “that he hopes to rule the empire through her, by means of her influence on the retarded boy, Aesilesius, whom he hopes to restore to the throne.”

  “Certainly,” said Iaachus.

  “And if he chose to spread rumors of her murder,” said Julian, “she need merely be produced, publicly, in carefully arranged appearances.”

  “What if he, himself, should arrange her murder, by some slow acting poison, then ascribing her demise to Ottonius, the emperor?” asked Tuvo Ausonius.

  “Precautions are taken,” said Iaachus. “No foodstuffs, no pastries, fruit, candies, wines, or such. Too, he wants her alive, to serve as a tool for his own ambitions.”

  “I am afraid of his influence on the empress mother,” said Julian. “She is vain, and susceptible to flattery. We have listened, unnoticed. Sidonicus even reassures her of her attractiveness.”

  “Surely that is astonishing, for a Floonian ministant, with their views of such matters,” said Tuvo.

  “She was once a beautiful woman,” said Iaachus.

  “She is now a vain, shrewish, withered, painted hag,” said Julian.

  “Be kind,” said Iaachus. “Let her cling to her memories.”

  “Do not permit her to come under the influence of Sidonicus,” said Julian.

  “It is important that she does,” said Iaachus. “It is part of my plan.”

  “Sidonicus may be more dangerous to the empire than Abrogastes,” said Julian.

  “That is why my plan must succeed,” said Iaachus.

  Chapter Ten

  Orontius Rhodius, of the Telnar Rhodii, Envoy of the Senate to the Palace, cousin of the senate’s primarius, Timon Safarius Rhodius, of the Telnar Rhodii, his credentials proffered and accepted by Iaachus, the palace’s Arbiter of Protocol, inclined his head politely to Ottonius, the First, and backed away from the steps below the throne. He then turned and withdrew.

  “I trust that is the last of them,” said Otto, “that the audience is done.”

  “Being an emperor,” said Iaachus, “does require stamina.”

  “I know war, the hunt, the saddle,” said Otto, “not words.”

  “You did quite well,” said Iaachus, “in your blunt way.”

  “I am of the peasantry,” said Otto. “I know no other way.”

  “You may do for an emperor, my friend,” said Iaachus, “but I think you fall short as a diplomat.”

  “Abrogastes,” said Otto, “might manage both.”

  “Quite possibly,” said Iaachus. “I do not know him.”

  “And how does a diplomat speak?” asked Otto.

  “In such a way that his speech is not clear, in such a way that it might mean one thing to one fellow, and something el
se to another. In this way, the diplomat commits himself to little or nothing, and preserves his options. His assurances and promises sparkle but are so general that it is not clear what, if anything, has been assured or promised; his threats are menacing but vague. Do they portend a frown, or a war of annihilation? He moves in such a way that others are not certain of his move, even if he has moved.”

  “It is not the Otung way,” said Otto.”

  “I cannot speak, of course,” said Iaachus, “for barbarians.”

  “There were many petitioners,” said Otto.

  “Too many,” said Iaachus. “One might carry a concealed dagger.”

  “Let them be searched,” said Otto.

  “They are,” said Iaachus, “but not all blades are easily detectible, a thumbnail, the edge of a button, the side of a buckle, painted with a deadly, transparent poison, one which requires only a scratch to kill.”

  “I suspect,” said Otto, “you may be familiar with such substances.”

  “No more than many another,” said Iaachus.

  “I gather,” said Otto, “you disapproved of some of my decisions in the matter of the petitioners.”

  “You will improve in such matters with more experience,” said Iaachus.

  “I judged as seemed good to me,” said Otto.

  “That was obvious,” said Iaachus. “But you should judge as seems good to the empire. You are difficult to advise. Image is all; politics must rule. You refused to allow me to hire and coach petitioners, as is commonly done, that a show may be performed, one redounding to the charity, glory, and honor of the empire. You even ignored my most blatant signals of affirmation or negation. Do you think these things have to do with individual cases, with fairness, fittingness, right, justice, propriety, or such? All must be viewed with respect to consequences. One petitioner, seemingly penurious, is to be lavishly gifted, and another not. This demonstrates not only the generosity of the emperor but his astuteness, as the average person could see not the least difference between the two cases. And the rich or well-to-do, despite the merit of their claims, are, at least publicly, to be refused, reduced, and chastened. Thus one pleases the multitude and conceals the relationship between the throne and wealth.”