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.