Carnelian tried to see behind Osidian’s certainty. ‘What then?’
Osidian shrugged. ‘I have not lost my power to command.’
Again, Carnelian chose not to challenge Osidian’s apparent confidence. He eyed the legionaries standing in the shadow of a pier. ‘And the legionaries?’
Osidian flung a dismissive gesture. ‘They did not hesitate to open the cothon for me. Partly this was because they sensed I was unmasked, but even without their fear of my face they would have obeyed me. Generations of subservience have trained them to serve any and all of the Chosen. I doubt if even with express instructions from a Lord of higher rank they would dare raise a hand against one of the Chosen. Nevertheless, I have made sure to display enough hauteur that they can have no doubts I outrank the Lords they have been used to serve.’
Carnelian remained unconvinced, but time would tell. ‘What now?’
Osidian raised his arms to display his filthy shrouds. ‘Would my Lord not like to be cleaned?’
Carnelian agreed enthusiastically enough to that. Whatever might come to pass, there could be no advantage in confronting it smelling of the Midden.
Marumaga legionaries were closing the shutters of the windows that looked into the courtyard. Standing with Osidian in the shade Carnelian watched their jerky movements with uncomfortable fascination. Four others kneeling nearby, hunched as they buried their faces between their knees, displayed the terror all were feeling. With his fist Carnelian held his cowl closed against his mouth and nose. He was viscerally aware a glimpse of his face would be fatal to them.
The last shutters closed, all but the four men kneeling fled.
‘What are your ranks?’ Osidian asked, though he already knew the answer because he had summoned them.
Without looking up, one whose hair was grey leaned his head to expose his collar. He pulled his sliders round. Three broken rings. ‘Quartermaster General, Master.’
‘These others…?’
There was a clinking as the younger men exposed their necks to present their service rings for inspection.
‘… they are the Dragon Quartermaster, the Master of Beasts, the Master of Towers.’
Carnelian saw that each had two zero rings and a varying number of five-bar and single-stud rings.
‘You are responsible for mobilization?’
‘We are, Master,’ said the Quartermaster.
‘Since we have no slaves of our own you shall wash us.’
Carnelian watched the colour draining from their necks. Osidian made a barrier sign that forbade Carnelian from interfering, then he glanced over to where bowls of water were steaming beside a stack of carefully folded cloth. ‘Why do you hesitate?’
The Quartermaster lifted his head a little. ‘We have not the skill, Master.’
‘Nevertheless, you will do it.’
‘Your… your faces, Master.’
‘Your closed eyes will be mask enough for us.’
Osidian turned his back on them and raised his arms from his sides for them to disrobe him. Carnelian hesitated a moment, then did the same. It had occurred to him to suggest to Osidian that they could wash themselves, each other even, but he had seen this was foolishness. He was now as subject to the Law as those poor creatures. Besides, he understood that this exercise was intended to cow them, to make these legionary officers malleable to Osidian’s will.
The feeling of being undressed was to Carnelian at the same time strange and familiar. He could not help a sigh of relief as the shrouds slid off. A legionary crept round him, eyes wedged into the crook of his elbow, carefully removing Carnelian’s loincloth. He watched, breathless with fear that the man might stumble and lose his blindfold.
When he was naked Carnelian looked down with embarrassment at how filthy he was. He was shocked at how tainted his skin had become. He had grown so accustomed to its ruddiness he had thought it white, but in this place his body seemed suddenly that of a barbarian. He glanced over at Osidian. It had been a while since he had seen him naked. His body had changed. The boy had become fully a man. Carnelian liked the barbarian tone of Osidian’s skin though it was much disfigured by the weals where the maggots had exited.
It was as Carnelian realized he was staring that Osidian caught him and registered that he was being judged. He turned away, but not before Carnelian had seen the pain of humiliation in his face. Carnelian looked across the courtyard, overwhelmed by sadness, confused. Everything there was conspiring to take him back to the time before they had been cast out of Osrakum; to a time when they had been lovers, when Carnelian had wanted nothing more than to protect Osidian. To a time before Osidian had become a monster.
The touch of wet cloth on his skin brought him out of his reverie and he realized with first surprise then horror how easily he had forgotten the legionaries. He looked down at the one cleaning him. Over forty, he had the solid face of a man used to giving orders. His eyes were scrunched tightly closed. Carnelian could smell his fear, could feel the trembling of his hand as it rubbed away the grime.
When they had finished cleaning them the legionaries retreated. Carnelian and Osidian stood naked with their backs to them, drying in the hot air.
‘Summon ammonites of the highest ranking you can find. Have them bring parchment and ink,’ Osidian said.
‘Instantly, Master,’ said one of the legionaries and then he could be heard running off.
Carnelian did not dare turn to look at Osidian lest his face be seen. ‘It is a delight is it not, my Lord, to be clean?’
‘It is,’ said Osidian.
As they waited, Carnelian found the temptation to turn to see what was behind him almost overpowering. His skin had dried when he heard a scurry of footfalls approaching.
‘Avert your eyes,’ Osidian commanded when silence had fallen.
From the corner of his eye Carnelian saw him turn and followed his lead. All four legionaries were there. Arrayed beside them on the flagstones were the purple-shrouded forms of ammonites. All had their heads buried between their knees.
Osidian approached them and, crouching, he touched two of the yellow heads, causing each of their owners to give a violent start. ‘Give me your masks.’
The creatures mumbled in confusion. Osidian waited, frowning. ‘I will not ask again.’
The ammonites fumbled their masks loose and held them, shaking, up to Osidian, who took them, then rose and offered one to Carnelian. He accepted the hollow face and cradled it in his hand. Though it was not the gold of a Master’s mask it evoked strong memories of that other life where he had worn one every day. Slowly he leaned his face into it. Of course it was too small. With the eyeslits where he could see through them, the mask’s lower edge barely covered his mouth. Still, he reached behind his head to tie it on. It was a prison for his face. He turned to look at Osidian, a hand covering his chin. The small silver face superimposed upon Osidian’s gave him a sinister cast.
‘Rise and behold us,’ Osidian intoned.
Reluctantly, the legionaries and ammonites obeyed. Carnelian judged the legionaries the braver, for they were first to dare raise their eyes. The two unmasked ammonites were the last.
Osidian addressed them. ‘You have the parchment and ink?’
‘At your command, Seraph,’ one said and they showed him some creamy sheets folded into panels, an ink jar, some styluses.
‘You will write a letter for me.’
One of the unmasked men sank cross-legged while the other ammonites laid the parchment, ink and styluses on the stone before him. He inked a stylus and turned his tattooed face up expectantly. Osidian began to dictate a summons to the Legate. It was cordial enough though all the verbs were in the requisitive mode.