CHAPTER XXIII: A Slave to One's Work
Considering the time I had spent as an indentured servant apprenticed to Master Gibiris, and my periods of enslavement under Mifhortun Dur and Marfach-Suil, most of my young life had been spent fettered by one chain or another; and yet here I was, once again a slave. Imrim ar-Cam wasted little time in ordering his caravan back on the road. He had enough fodder for Bajazet's gladiatorial spectacles, and a prize to be delivered to the Hierophant himself as well (namely, me!). Fortunately, Imrim was as good as his word, and I did not spend my time stuffed into a stiflingly overcrowded prison-wain with the other slaves. Bound once more, I spent my time shackled atop a donkey yoked to Imrim's steed as both a precaution against a valuable commodity escaping, as well as a method of amusement for the slaver on this trip down the caravan route to Bajazet.
"I have traveled this route now for five and thirty years," the slaver said proudly. "I have no home but the desert sand and this rocky road, but I have made a fortune on the caravan route!"
I frowned and replied sarcastically, "So, you are saying, the farther you travel, the further you get?"
Imrim ar-Cam chuckled quietly and replied, "Ah, my young friend, no truer words have been spoken. I am an avid collector. I have an eye for the finer things. That much of what I collect goes to feed the arenas is a secondary consideration."
I frowned at the prospect of so many men being thrown into the ring, to be mauled by fell beasts or to be spitted on another gladiator's spear. The very idea was reprehensible. Imrim, a marvel at reading men's thoughts from the slightest of facial movements, caught my distaste immediately.
"Ah then, you do not care for my trade, eh?" he said with a look of feigned slight. "But my dear Greagoir, I provide beneficial services to the community: by watching my spectacles, I sate the bloodlust of those who may otherwise turn to violence themselves; I provide entertainment for the hardworking citizens of Bajazet, perhaps the only avenue many an artisan or laborer has to relieve their work-a-day drudgery; and I cull the excess population of the empire. No one starves here, nor does anyone suffer from want, and there are those in the gladiatorial profession who have chosen to make it a career -- buying their freedom but remaining in the lists -- for the rewards and pay certainly are more appealing than life as a goatherd or rough-scrabble farmer."
Seeing that I remained unconvinced, Imrim added, "But certainly a renowned sea-power the likes of Marannan-astair has slavery? Great men such as Attar Kiryatin must have servants, yes?"
"Servants, yes, and peasants a' plenty to work his land," I replied, "but they are not slaves. Some there are, as I once was, the indentured, who pay their life-debts with a guarantee of servitude over a contracted period of years; and the peasants till their own fields, as well those of their masters. But none there are who die for the amusement of others, or toil with ball and chain."
"A very civilized land you have then, young master!" Imrim smiled down from his saddle, "but in Bajazet, it is not as much so. The people here are as hard and unforgiving as the land itself. In Bajazet, either you are owned or someone owns you. This is the method of our survival and the source of our wealth. We have survived Sauron the Great, and we shall survive the next onslaught when it eventually comes."
I knew well Imrim referred to the forces of Urzahil, the god-king of the Sidhe-Dragun, who, even in my youth, was voraciously consuming the petty kingdoms of the East like a dark fire through parched fields of straw-grass. But looking back from my time-haggard perch, I can see that Imrim ar-Cam was prescient (or perhaps he merely knew the fortitude and wiles of the people of Bajazet). For now no Eastern lands, save for Bajazet and our own island nation, Marannan-astair, have managed to stave off the grim deluge of Urzahil and his rabid legions of zealots. It is said that even the lands of the Dark Elves have fallen under his dominion, and that their great leader, MorThoiriol, has been enslaved; but proofs are few and the distances great in these war-torn lands. Yet, at that time in my life only the lands on the far side of the Orocarni Mountains were under Urzahil's sway; yet rumor of his rapid advance came unceasingly as droves of refugees sought safety further east, seeking the sanctuary they hoped the great red range would provide.
In time, I could espy the golden domes of Bajazet to our west, glittering spectrally in the waves of heat that distorted the very air before my dry and squinting eyes. The vast city sat atop an immense promontory, as if a mountain had been hewed in half as a pretext to lay the formidable foundation of this vaunted capitol. For more than a mere city it was; rather, it was a mighty kingdom in and of itself, a self-contained civilization thriving in the harshest of climes. The great emperor-khans of Tsin-Quinqan had chosen this place as an outpost of their domain wisely. It seemed fitting to me that atop such a natural defensive position Cui-Baili should choose to meet Khamul in mortal combat: the howling desert itself was the first barrier one must overcome, only to be faced by a near unassailable outcropping of unforgiving rock; above that were sheer walls, and uppermost, looming like a great golden fist of defiance, the onion-bulbed tower of the citadel itself.
The stone of the citadel and its massive walls were gleaming white, the color of bleached bones in the desert; but the opulence of the city was evident even before arriving, as luxuriant copses of palm and fig lined the great causeway that arched towards the golden gates, and exotic flora seemed to bloom inexplicably from sand and rock, showing, no doubt, the contempt Bajazet had for the sterile and arid wilderland that enveloped it. Such an extravagant and wasteful use of vital water was the outward symbol of the Hierophant's disdainful mastery of the city and its people. I could drone on and on about the opulence that surrounded me, but suffice it to say, Bajazet's splendor is unlike that of anywhere else in the East, and the Hierophant's sumptuous palace more than rivaled the grandeur of King Eldarion's hall in Minas Tirith, which, if anything, was more austere and grander in its ancient nobility, but not as brazenly gilded and ostentatious as that of the Hierophant's demesne.
After an inordinate wait behind a seemingly unending line of diplomatic embassies, advisors, capital criminals awaiting judgment, and various and sundry other supplicants, petitioners, performers and pundits, Imrim ar-Cam dragged me before the dais of the Hierophant. The slaver turned sudden sycophant in the presence of the Hierophant, and after the fawning introduction by Imrim (which I must say did not do him justice by any means), I was forced to abase myself at the Hierophant's feet (which did me no justice as well). The Hierophant, obviously bored by the endless drone of one petitioner after another, leaned on the arm of his magnificently ornate throne with his hand idly propping up his head.
He eyed me rather contemptuously and then said to Imrim, "You say this fellow was in the service of a Corsair? We are not in the habit of having criminals in our household, slaver, and a threadbare one at that. We shall be missing silver candlesticks within the first week of his employ!"
"I beg your majesty's pardon," Imrim said as he bowed awkwardly, "Greagoir of Caladh is a seasoned diplomat and a chronicler of some renown on the isle of Marannan-astair; leastwise, one needn't be a thief to work for one."
The Hierophant eyed Imrim coldly. "Mind your place, slaver," he growled. "It is one thing for the Hierophant of Bajazet to call the lord of another land a thief and a pirate, but it smacks of insolence coming from the likes of you!"
Imrim swung his fat paunch even lower to the ground, and would have begun to grovel, had the Hierophant not turned his attention to me. "Greagoir of Caladh, is it? What do you have to say for yourself?"
I gave a formal bow with a great flourish, and answered, "I have naught to say for myself, your majesty; on the contrary, it will be my function to transcribe your dictates as it pleases you. I am but the instrument for your imperial word."
"Ah, indeed you are a diplomat, fair Greagoir, and a man who knows his place; but come, lay aside the flattery and speak plainly. If what we have been told is correct, you seem to have gained the enmity of the Court of Geas-Geata, with whom we have a rather lucrative trade agreement. Why should we not send you back in shackles and thus enhance our status with them?"
Imrim gave an audible whimper and sweat began dripping from his forehead. I smiled at the slaver's discomfiture and replied, "Your majesty, they most assuredly believe I am already dead. To send me back now would merely cause turmoil between certain parties at court, and thus cause unnecessary friction with a valued trade partner; whereas, you have need of a talented scribe well versed in the politics of the East, seeing as the previous scribe to occupy such an exalted post regrettably incurred your royal wrath. Who then better to serve thee than myself?"
The Hierophant laughed aloud. "You are a sly one, Greagoir, make no mistake. To have talked your way out of a death sentence, while at the same time increasing your potential value to us is no mean feat. Very well, slaver, we shall take this Greagoir of Caladh into our service. We shall give you three-hundred gold pieces for him."
"But your majesty," Imrim sputtered with his eyes averted, "the agreed upon price was four-hundred gold pieces."
The Hierophant glared in displeasure at Imrim-ar-Cam. "Very well, slaver, two-hundred gold pieces, and that is our final offer. He was in the employ of a pirate, after all."
There was scattered laughter about the court, and Imrim fidgeted with his hands as his eyes darted nervously about. "I…he…we…yes, your majesty, two hundred gold pieces it is."
Before Imrim could scuttle from the court, I felt inclined to exact a bit of revenge on the sly old slaver myself. "Your majesty, I crave one boon from thee!" I cried aloud and bowed once more. "I had a set of books with me which chronicled the illustrious history of the Hierophants of Bajazet; however, the slaver has these in his possession currently. I would be greatly honored to have these returned to me so that I may continue this noble enterprise by chronicling your august rule as well."
Imrim spun about as if he had been slapped, and glared angrily at me, but before he could protest, the Hierophant spoke, "Greagoir, we are well pleased with your manner, and shall grant you this boon. Guards, follow the slaver to his caravan and return with these chronicles. So sayeth the Hierophant!"
I merely nodded at the scowling Imrim ar-Cam as the guards strode forward to escort him from the throne room; but surprisingly, Imrim's frown turned suddenly to a smirk, and the ever-present humor of the slaver at once returned. He winked knowingly and nodded before following the guards from the hall. I suppose the old sneak realized he had been one-upped in our little game of cat and mouse and could appreciate the irony of the situation. There is a strange saying in Bajazet, "sometimes the worm will eat you, sometimes you eat the worm." In hindsight, I assume that this was an apt adage for just such a circumstance.
I must say, that for a slave, the quarters accorded me were rather sumptuous for my austere tastes. I had a extensive library in which to conduct research, with an adjoining bedchamber adjacent to the palace so that I might be at the Hierophant's disposal whenever the mood suited him; and it suited him well and often, for I do well believe His Imperial Majesty did relish the sound of his own voice overmuch (certainly more than I did, and that is for certain). I was ever scurrying there and back again to transcribe his every last utterance. I am surprised he did not have me record which mustards he preferred to garnish his meat at table, so extensive were his demands upon me; yet I must admit I held a grudging respect for the man. Aside from his bloated self-esteem, he was in fact quite shrewd, and a marvelous manipulator of his subjects and the various diplomats who crowded his court. It is little wonder to me that, not long after, he fought the minions of Mordor to a draw, and quelled Urzahil's advance to the North. Such a leader I could well respect and pay due homage to (in my own inimitable manner), save my mind and my heart lay elsewhere.
Every waking hour my thoughts dwelt on finding a means of escape in blind hope of making my way back to Leannan; but such flights of fantasy proved elusive as the furtive figure of the Princess flitted through my waking dreams. She must by now believe that I was dead. Had she surrendered then to despair? Had she acquiesced at last and married a khan's son, and in so doing surrendered her birthright? I had to know, had to find out, if for my own sanity; yet the very guards who protected the palace from the world without, very effectively kept me in. Although I was afforded a modicum of privacy and some freedom to move from my suite to the throne room, I was still naught but a slave, and if I was accorded special favor before the Hierophant, it vanished once I left his presence. I had little doubt that to be caught in an escape attempt meant certain death, and the head of the former master-scribe spitted atop a pike along the battlements was a hideous reminder that the Hierophant was merciless if provoked. I wondered then if it were not better to have accepted the Hierophants offer to send me packing back to Geas-Geata in chains.
Days dragged on into bleary, tedium-filled weeks. I half-heartedly wrote the chronicles of the Hierophant, and bemoaned the fact it had been three months since I had left Geas-Geata. But strange are the ways of fate, as momentous events ensnared both the great and the small, and my fortunes rose with assistance from the most unlikely of quarters. It so happened that a great warlike delegation from Mordor appeared at the gates of Bajazet, demanding an immediate audience with the Hierophant. Black was the livery of their sable steeds and black were the spears that bristled above the ebon-mailed knights of the retinue; but blood red were their banners, emblazoned with a hideous death's head from which coiled the body of a serpent poised to strike. The Hierophant, unused to such bellicose pronouncements issued at his door, was not cowed. Haughty as the man was, he let the delegation bake for hours in the sun until the ambassadors within the group grew more amenable (or perhaps prostrated from the intense afternoon sun). They ordered the armed knights to retreat a goodly way from the gates, and came themselves on foot, bearing a single banner, and asking for admittance in a more civil tone. It was only then that the Hierophant obliged and allowed them entrance.
As the master-scribe, I was of course required to be present during the audience, and record the proceedings. The chief Mordorion ambassador, obviously of a priestly caste, was robed in blood red raiments like the banner his assistants carried aloft behind him, and he held a crosier with a crook carved like the icon on the banner, a serpentish death's head with lolling maw at its tip. Haughty was the pose he struck at the foot of the dais before the Hierophant, and his language was, to say the least, far from diplomatic.
"I bring thee greetings from the Lord of Mordor, Emperor of Rhun, Khand, The Harad and Hildorien," the priest spat, as if such a formality was loathsome to him. "I have come at his bidding to remind the Hierophant of Bajazet that this land was long a province of Mordor, and that my lord wishes to renew the bonds of fealty which by right are due to him."
The Hierophant glared long in angry disbelief at this pompous priest, and it appeared to me that the Hierophant was considering whether to dash the man's brains out there and then; but his hands, clutching the arms of his throne until his knuckles were white, relaxed suddenly and his posture, though erect, became less rigid. He smiled.
"A province of Mordor?" The Hierophant replied succinctly but in a mocking tone, "It would seem the arm of Mordor has grown long, grasping futilely over the centuries for a claim it had lost in another age. Furthermore, it would seem the new tenant on the throne of the Dark Lands has wrapped himself smugly in the ill-fitting cloak of kingship once worn by a lord far greater than he. Although, admittedly, we admire his brazen ambition: to steal with a word that which he could not take, save by the sword."
The priestly emissary of Mordor seemed perplexed, unused as he was to such proud words and defiant tone. "What then will be your answer to the Lord of Mordor, Hierophant?" The priest sputtered. "You speak in riddles! I have no time to bandy about words with thee. Speak plainly thy intentions."
The Hierophant merely smiled, but no further reply did he give at that time; yet it is said that the dismayed delegation of Mordor did indeed return to Mordor in haste with the Hierophant's answer: an ornate box, gilded and inlayed with precious stones – a worthy gift from one sovereign to another -- in which lay the haughty priest's severed head.