“I respect the empire,” said Otto, “as I might respect the seasons or the stars, the vi-cat or the arn bear, but I do not esteem it. I do not love it.”
“Therein we differ, dear friend,” said Julian. “Understand it. See in it civilitas, the hope of a thousand species.”
“Civilitas, under the sword,” said Otto.
“Civilitas cannot survive without the sword,” said Julian.
“You are my friend,” said Otto.
“Barbaritas?” smiled Julian.
“Yes,” said Otto.
“So simply?” said Julian.
“So simply,” said Otto.
“Is it not much like the bond of the comitatus?” asked Julian.
“I think so,” said Otto.
“One would die for one’s friend,” said Julian.
“Barbaritas,” said Otto.
“Barbaritas,” said Julian.
“You pause, you muse?” said Otto.
“I sometimes fear the future is yours, my friend,” said Julian, “where the blood is hot and fresh, and flows strongly, like a scalding, rushing stream in the veins.”
“The empire has always been,” said Otto.
“Not always,” said Julian. “Once there was no empire. Once there were only nine villages along a river, on a small, unimportant world.”
“Long ago?” said Otto.
“Very long ago,” said Julian.
“It is said the empire is eternal,” said Otto.
“Let it be so,” said Julian.
“Yet I fear for your empire,” said Otto.
“And well you might,” said Julian.
“No longer,” said Otto, “are its standards borne bravely.”
“The thousand suns must flash again on them,” said Julian.
“You weep,” said Otto, puzzled.
“Men no longer seek adventure and conquest,” said Julian. “They now seek comfort and protection. Even a fortress of iron may be eaten away by the rust of neglect, and, when its walls collapse, the vermin within will be prey for the vi-cat and arn bear, or die of hunger and cold.”
“Perhaps they will merely change Masters,” said Otto.
“And their new Masters,” said Julian, “will be the lions of the future.”
“You fear for the empire,” said Otto.
“Yes,” said Julian. “I fear it is no longer loved.”
“Surely a thousand worlds will stand for the empire,” said Otto.
“On many worlds,” said Julian, “there is the loss of soil, soil drained of nutrients, borne away by the wind; there is erosion, widespread desiccation, a scarcity of water, and its contamination; there are seas enfilthed with pollution; there are swamps one cannot approach without protective gear; there is the destruction of forests; there is the abandonment of mines, the exhaustion of mineral resources, cavernous shafts emptied of ore and metals; there is the debasing of currency, famine, disease, chaos, banditry.”
“It is so, and yet the empire sleeps?” said Otto.
“It must awaken,” said Julian.
“To some nightmare,” said Otto.
“No,” said Julian. “But to a new dawn.”
“A new dawn,” said Otto, “but of whose day?”
“Let it be that of Telnaria,” said Julian.
“Resources are finite,” said Otto. “They diminish. The time will come when few will be able to step amongst stars. Engines will be cold. Radios will be silent. Worlds will be alone. The theaters and stadiums will be empty, the altars untended. The vi-cat and the arn bear will reclaim their ranges. The time will come when the forging of the steel blade will become more common than the forging of the blade of fire.”
“Let the empire be eternal,” said Julian.
“As you will,” said Otto.
“The empire is eternal,” said Julian.
“How so?” asked Otto.
“I will have it so,” said Julian.
13
The month of Igon was now long past. The snows had melted long ago from the flats of Tung, or, if you prefer, the plains of Barrionuevo. The lush cattle grass had sprung, thick and green from the black, moist soil in the spring, and the Herul herds, as was the seasonal indulgence of their herdsmen, had drifted south, wading to their knees in the long, wide river of grass flowing between the foothills of the heights of Barrionuevo on the east, and the winding Lothar River on the west. One could still see, however, even now, in the summer, from the wagons of the Herul camp, snow on the distant heights of the Barrionuevo range, amongst which, far to the east and south, might be found the allegedly schismatic festung of Sim Giadini. One could hear the lowing of cattle, the play of children, and the occasional rattle of a slave bell. The Herul wagons, in the ancient fashion, were circled, that a wall of sorts might be formed, to discourage the entry of cattle, and to give pause to nocturnal, prowling vi-cats, and any other intruders which might be so unwise as to attempt an unwelcomed entry into the camp. Now, however, during the long summer days, before nightfall, two wagons, to the Lothar side, were drawn back, affording between them, one on each side, a portal into the camp, through which an occasional rider, his watch done, might enter, or a peddler with his pack or cart, or a trader with his wagon, were he willing to risk his wagon in such a camp, such visitors usually from the provincial capital, Venitzia, or Ifeng, as the Heruls would have it, for Tangara, of course, had been claimed long ago by the empire. Many years ago the camp portal would have remained sealed, even in the daylight hours, but there was little to fear now, as the Otungen were now no longer mounted, and were no longer in a position to dispute the lush grasslands of the flats of Tung. Years ago the lance-bearing Otungen, with their heavy swords and ponderous steeds, had been defeated by the fleet, swiftly encircling, attacking and withdrawing enhorsed archers of the Herul nations, and driven west of the Lothar into the abutting forests. Heruls seldom entered the forests for they were unfamiliar, thick, dark, and dangerous, a milieu so dense that horses could scarcely penetrate, let alone maneuver or race, where branches might sweep an unwary rider from the saddle, and death might lurk undetected in the shadows at one’s stirrup. Indeed, in such places the empire, on various worlds, had lost legions. In these days, of course, a truce, or standing-off, of sorts existed between the grassland-roving Heruls and the forest-dwelling Otungs.
As is often the case with splendid enemies, the Heruls and the Otungs, or Otungen, for the most part, respected one another. Each, for the most part, with the sensitivity likely to accompany presently sheathed blades, accorded the other the respect it is common amongst warriors to accord a valuable and worthy foe. Only against the finest stone can one’s blade be best sharpened. To be sure, it remained dangerous for a Herul to enter the forest and for an Otung to cross the Lothar. Trade, and converse, amongst these two species, which sometimes occurred, usually took place on the shores of the Lothar, or on trade islands, which, here and there, divided the river. It was rumored in the camps of the Heruls that the Otungs had, within the past year, despite the injunction of the Herul council of chieftains, elected a king, not a year king, emerging from the bloody conflict of clans, which so divided the Otungen, but a king whose authority and leadership did not end with the killings following the winter solstice. This development, assuming it had actually taken place, was not likely to improve the somewhat delicate relations between the two nations.
Cornhair crouched between the wheels of one of the wagons. Her fingers held to the clapper in the bell hung about her neck. To be sure, that was forbidden, as much so as stuffing the bell with grass. It was to be free to swing, and sound, as a slave bell must. This was a large, heavy, dull, plain bell, tapering and rectangular, nothing like the tiered, locked or tied, slave bells with their charming, stimulating jangle, which might be fastened about a slave’s ankles, wrists, or neck, bells the jangle of which proclaimed the presence to all within earshot of a helpless, vulnerable pleasure object, bells designed to arouse male interest and passion, and bells cunningly designed to stir the belly of the slave herself, as well, bringing her to a state of readiness and need, a state in which she will kneel and beg for a slave’s relief, hoping to be granted the lengthy and exquisite raping which, with fortune, may be accorded to one such as she, a slave, a purchasable animal and property.