The Captain

CHAPTER 4

“Call to the attention of the emperor,” snapped Julian, turning about, angrily, in the antechamber, addressing a servitor, bearing sherbets, “that his cousin, Julian, of the Aurelianii, and Otto, first among the Wolfungs, await their audience.”

“Sherbets, milords,” said the servitor, placing two bowls on the marble table in the room, that between two couches. Elsewhere in the room were curule chairs.

Julian was on his feet, as he had been, after the first hour, striding the length of the room.

Otto, whom we have hitherto spoken of as the giant, who was chieftain of the Wolfungs, a minor tribe of the Vandals, sat, cross-legged, to one side, his back to the wall, facing the door.

He did not wish to sit upon the curule chairs. It was not that he could not sit upon such devices, or found them unfamiliar, or uncomfortable, for he had known such on Terennia, and on Tangara, and similar things on the ship. Indeed, he had stools, benches, and a throne, or high seat, of sorts, of crude wood, in the main village of the Wolfungs, which village contained the hut of the chieftain, his hut, larger than the other huts. The reason he did not wish to sit upon the curule chairs was because, lifting the corner of the small, silken rugs upon which they sat, he had detected a fine line in the floor which, subsequently traced, suggested an opening, marking a section of the floor through which, if released, a catch undone, a bolt drawn, the chair might descend.

“There are doubtless various panels in the room” had said Julian, irritably, “through which one might exit, if one were knowledgeable, eluding pursuers, avoiding unwanted meetings, through which guards might enter, surprising occupants, making arrests, and such. The traps beneath those chairs may even be benign, leading to stairwells from the room, or giving entry to it. Move the chairs, if you wish.”

“Why are you angry?” had asked Otto.

“I do not care to be kept waiting,” said Julian. He was in dress uniform, that of an ensign in the imperial navy, white, with gold braid, but, too, with three purple cords at the left shoulder, indicating the loftiness of his birth, his closeness to the imperial family itself.

“I am sorry, milord,” said the servitor.

This response had infuriated Julian.

“There is nothing untoward, nor unexpected in this,” said Julian.

“No, milord.”

“The audience has been long arranged,” said Julian.

“Yes, milord.”

“You understand clearly who I am, who we are.”

“I am sure the emperor will see you shortly,” said the servitor.

“Convey my displeasure to the arbiter of protocol,” said Julian.

The face of the servitor went white. Otto gathered that the arbiter of protocol must be a powerful man.

“Convey it,” said Julian.

“I shall commend the matter to the attention of my superior,” said the servitor.

“Go,” said Julian.

“Yes, milord.”

Julian, though one of the wealthiest men in the empire, though a member of the patricians, of the senatorial class, though kin to the imperial family itself, had, following a tradition of forebears of the Aurelianii, of service to the empire, entered the imperial navy. He had qualified for a commission, and trained, as though he might have been no more than another ambitious scion of the lower honestori. He was a gifted, dedicated officer. He performed his duties conscientiously. He accorded every due respect to his military superiors. Had he been unknown he would doubtless have been accounted, with little thought given to the matter, an excellent officer, and would have been innocently and deservedly popular with both subordinates and superiors alike, fair, if severe, with the former, expecting them to meet standards scarcely less exacting than those he set himself, and cooperative and dutiful in his relations with the latter. On the other hand, he was not unknown. He was of the Aurelianii. Accordingly men sought to enter his command, hoping to advance themselves in the service, and higher officers must view him with the keenest ambivalence. Though he was young and less experienced, his blood was among the highest and noblest in the empire, and his station was one to which one might not hope to attain save perhaps through royal marriage or through a special imperial appointment to the rank of patrician, doubtless conjoined with the gift of an auspicious post, or command, say, that of prefect, or treasurer, or master of the imperial police, or palace guard, or master of ships, master of the mobile forces, master of the borders, master of the horse, such things. One must treat such a subordinate with care. Perhaps, if one is politically astute, one may advance him in such a way as to advance oneself as well. And how uncertain a thing to have him in one’s command, such an opportunity, yet such a danger, as well. Was it not, in a sense, like being under scrutiny, like being in the capital itself?

The servitor then withdrew from the antechamber.

“You can move the chair,” had said Julian.

“Then they might suspect I had discovered the door beneath the chair,” had said Otto.

“They already know,” said Julian.

Otto had regard him, puzzled.

“You remember the screens on the ship?” asked Julian.

“Yes,” said Otto. He had eagerly learned all he could on the ship which had brought them to the summer world.

Julian had then pointed to an aperture in the wall, high, near the ceiling.

It was then that Otto had risen and gone to sit, cross-legged, to one side. It was then unlikely that he could be seen from the vantage of the aperture.

It had been shortly thereafter that the servitor had entered with sherbets, and had looked quickly about the room.

He had seen Otto in his place.

Otto did not doubt but what he had entered to ascertain his position in the room.

Shortly after they had been ushered into the room, better than two hours ago, the servitor had appeared, offering them a choice between the ices and sherbets.

“Inform the emperor we await his pleasure,” had said Julian, in fury. He had been already deeply angered, from what he interpreted as the first insult, that of the outer gate, when the herald had inquired as to the identities of those he should announce. The audience had been prearranged. Was he not anticipated? Was he not recognized? Did they not know who he was? Then, what Julian took as a second insult, he had not been immediately introduced, warmly welcomed, into the presence of his kinsman, the emperor. Rather, he had been ushered into this room, to wait, as though he might be no more than some petitioner, or sycophant, some provincial magistrate, from some minor world, some ambassador from some unimportant client world, such things.

Flavored ices, not sherbets had been brought.

The ices, in their bowls of translucent quartz, perhaps from the mines of Jaria, brought then in all likelihood through the pass, or tunnel, of Aureus, had melted, how forming soft, foamlike pools of yellow and purple.

They had not been touched by either Julian or Otto.

The sherbets were now on the table, in their shallow silver bowls, with matching silver teetos, which is perhaps best translated as ‘spoons’. They are, however, actually narrow, hollow, rodlike utensils with a small, concave, rather spatulate termination. The concave spatulate termination justifies us, I would think, in speaking of the utensil as a spoon. I should add, however, that it may also be used to draw fluids upward into the mouth, and, in this sense, can function as a straw.

Julian left the sherbets where they had been placed. He did not touch them, no more than the ices. He felt, perhaps, that the acceptance of even these trivial hospitalities might somehow seem to indicate an accommodation to his inconvenience, as though he might then seem to find it at least marginally acceptable. Otto, although he was commonly curious about many matters, did not, either, sample the ices or the sherbets. There had been openings beneath the chairs.

He recalled how the servitor, in his second visit to the room, bringing, surprisingly, unrequested, the sherbets, had looked about, and then, relievedly, marked his position. His guess had been correct then, it seemed, that he had not been visible from the aperture, not in that location.

Julian continued to pace the room.

Otto, the giant, did not betray impatience.

Yet some have lamented that greater courtesy was not shown in this matter by the imperial court, that the audience was not more promptly granted.

Otto watched a fly alight on the rim of one of the bowls of sherbet. There were flies here, too, then, even within the palace.

Then there came another fly, and another.

So there are flies in the palace, thought Otto. They were there, crawling there, like raisins, on the rim of a silver bowl, a vessel worth perhaps a rifle, even on a world where such were scarce, the possession of which could mean a magistracy. He wondered if the flies comprehended the perils of their delicious arctic? Doubtless some would become lost, perhaps even die, freezing, ensnared in the viscous trove.

Otto considered the couches about the table. On reclined on them while eating. That was something one had to learn to do, to eat in such a position. Was it so comfortable, so luxurious, so civilized, really, he wondered. They had not had such arrangements on the Alaria, he recalled. To be sure, worlds differ, customs differ, and one can get fewer people at a table with such an arrangement.

But Otto did not think he would care to get used to such an arrangement. It is difficult to rise quickly from such a couch, to unsheath a weapon, to defend oneself. Better the stool or bench, which could be kicked back, from which one could spring to one’s feet.

Julian sat down, on one of the curule chairs.

He did not move it.

That is dangerous, my friend, thought Otto.

Perhaps it is always dangerous to sit in such chairs, on the high seats, thought Otto.

But men will sit upon them, and kill to do so. Do not all thrones rest on no more than a latch, or bolt, which might, perhaps when one expects it least, be withdrawn?

Otto’s thoughts, as he waited, drifted back to the Meeting World, and a time when Julian, in virtue of complex circumstances, had been little more than his prisoner.