The Invisible Hands - Part 1: Gambit (20 page)
Lexyntas began to have second thoughts. He had always known what he was getting into, but now it was driven home to him that from now on he would be nothing more than chattel. Under any other circumstances he would have floored, no, killed anybody who dared touch him, let alone feel him over like this. He reminded himself that he had chosen this himself and gritted his teeth.
Yphainas held his hands under Lexyntas's balls as if he were weigh— ing them.
“Turn around,” he ordered, withdrawing his hands and wiping
them on his tunic. “Bend over,” he added when the boy had done so.
He grabbed both buttocks, squeezed them lightly and then spread them apart with his thumbs. Yphainas grunted satisfied. No warts or other blemishes.
“You can stand back up now,” he ordered. “Lift your left foot backwards… the other one.”
He went back in front of Lexyntas, rubbing his chin. He saw that the boy felt humiliated unto the core of his being and that he was on the verge of tears.
“Well, son, if this is the worst that ever will befall you the Gods
will be smiling on you,”
he thought, inwardly shrugging.
“You're lucky
my tastes don't run to pretty catamites, or I would keep you a few
months for my own use before selling you off.”
He turned to the old man.
“I can give you ten rioghal for him,” he said.
Vardas turned his eyes from the wall he was still staring at, and inadvertently saw Lexyntas standing there, still naked.
“Oh, you, you can get dressed now,” Yphainas said to the boy.
Lexyntas hastily reached for his loincloth.
“Well?” the slaver asked.
“Ten rioghal?” Vardas repeated, unsure.
“I can go as high as thirteen, but I will hardly be making a profit on him. Certainly not since you have closed the most lucrative avenues for me. Not to mention that he wasn't born a slave, and I have to give him basic training before I can sell him.”
Vardas didn't answer.
“Your decision, of course,” the slaver said as if it was of no interest
at all to him.
Vardas looked at Lexyntas, who almost imperceptibly nodded.
“We accept,” Vardas said downcast.
“They always do,” Yphainas thought. “You just have to know which price will be irresistible to them.”
“Uckmyo,” he yelled.
The head slave entered almost immediately. He had obviously been waiting in the hallway.
“Take the boy to one of the holding cells. Thirteen rioghal. Draw up a standard contract, with an additional clause that he is to be sold as a household or field slave. Pay the man and let him sign. Later let the boy sign for assent as well. That is, if they can write. Can you?”
“Yes,” Vardas answered. Lexyntas only nodded.
“Excellent. I want no trouble with a deal that promises to be not very profitable.”
When everybody had left the little room, Yphainas sat down again.
He himself wasn't in the least tempted by Lexyntas's indubitable charms, but his keen professional eye recognized top-notch wares when he saw them. The boy would fetch a fortune in Soranza, of that he was sure. Even Torantall wasn't out of reach, not even the high-class whorehouses. Who knows, maybe the king of Zyntrea would be interested in him. Kurtigaill had the reputation of liking them young.
It was not as if he hadn't the connections. There was but one snag.
His conscience. His late father had derided him for it. “An abacus is what a slave trader needs, not a conscience. Get rid of it.”
He sighed. The extra clause in the contract was utterly worthless,
and besides, who was going to enforce it once the boy was shipped to Zyntrea? Who was ever going to know? He shook his head. He had promised. As it happened Thenocras, the head of the Mennio kinship was looking for a suitable slave, and Lexyntas would do just fine. Of course, Yphainas would nowhere get the princely sum of fifty rioghal he could get in Zyntrea. Half. Maybe. A clean conscience would cost him no less than twenty-five rioghals, he reflected bitterly.
He pondered some more. The boy had done a good thing, a noble thing, putting himself up for sale like that, just to take care of his younger siblings. There was that also, by the rotten teeth of Sarradoch.
He had seemed so embarrassed when Yphainas inspected him. He clearly still had the spirit and mentality of a free man. He wished he were as hard as his father had been and could tell the boy to get rid of it. As things stood, even being a slave in the Mennio household would be quite a rude experience. The boy would learn, he decided. At least he would be spared being the plaything of every pervert, rich enough to pay for him, and later, when the first bloom of youth had withered away, of everybody who still wanted him and could rub two copper sarths together.
The boy seemed smart. If he knew what was good for him, he would keep his nose clean, do as he was told, promptly and precisely, and who knows, maybe his life would be bearable. In fact, if he applied himself it could become a whole lot more than that. Mennio senior was looking for a suitable companion-slave for Thenoklon, his only son and heir, who would become fifteen shortly. If Lexyntas was smart enough to make himself indispensable he could be set for life. Eventually — and if all went well — Thenoklon would become the head of the Mennio kinship and a senator of Naodyma. It was not unusual for childhood slaves to become trusted intimates of the master.
He decided he would render the boy one more service. He would have a good talk with him and make sure he understood all this.
Yphainas stood up to go back to his mansion, still smarting a bit
about the money he wouldn't get, but on the whole feeling very good about himself.
Problems and complications. Sometimes to Riathona that seemed all life was made of. No sooner one worry was gone, then another took its place in a perverse vicious cycle. Though she had to admit it was the first time a problem had turned into its opposite.
Antybion had settled in nicely. She had — discreetly, very discreetly — kept tabs on him. He proved to be very polite, also to the servants and slaves. That first day Yorn had taken him to the kitchens, and they had met his grandfather coming out of them in the hallway. They had said their goodbyes, both almost in tears and hugging each other, while Yorn had stood by, looking on embarrassedly. Antybion had thanked the slave who served them and he had complimented the cook profusely. It had confused them a little. He was obviously above their station, one of the kinship even as he called Yorn alternatively by his first name and cousin. Yet he didn't take them for granted. They were used to being barely acknowledged.
Riathona had considered saying something about it, but what could she reproach him with? He hadn't been too familiar with them.
He had been dignified, though maybe just a tad too friendly. The last
thing she wanted to do was put ideas into his head, so she could hardly tell him to act more like a member of an ancient, well-regarded, almost noble kinship.
Premo, the first household slave, had told her how, as the boys were leaving the kitchens, the cook had polished an apple with his apron and pressed it into Antybion's hand “for when he got thirsty.” She wondered if he had ever given an apple to Yorn.
Her son had shown Antybion his room. Since moving in was simply a matter of putting his only spare tunic on a shelf of the cupboard and his bag on another, Yorn had proposed to show him the famous landmarks of the center of the City.
When they returned it seemed Riathona's doubts about Antybion's suitability were borne out as, by accident, she witnessed them entering the hallway. Antybion was nursing a bloody nose and Yorn was guiding him, perfectly needlessly, by an elbow. The boy had been in the City for not even half a day and he had already managed to get into a fight. Of course, she had first worriedly checked if her son was all right, but nothing seemed to have happened to him. There was an explanation for that, as it turned out.
Yorn had shown Antybion the Great Market, the nerve center of the city. He had wanted to point out a feature of the majestic temple of Dorion, the God of war, and in doing so had inadvertently lightly brushed the face of a man, standing nearby on the overcrowded square. The man was about to punch Yorn in the face, but Antybion had stopped his hand and said, “Don't do this, please. It was an accident. We're sorry.” The man had punched Antybion in the face instead, grumbling, “Here's another accident for you,” and had walked away.
Riathona shivered at the thought what could have happened if Yorn had been alone and somehow provoked the anger of that brute.
She had called Premo, who had taken the boy to the kitchens again.
She and Yorn had followed. The slaves cooed over him as hens over a chick. One supported his head as he held it backwards, while another wiped the clotted blood away with a moist cloth. It was a bloody nose, for crying out loud, not a mortal wound.
So now Riathona found herself saddled with another problem, or rather the same, but in reverse. Yorn would have to lead a public life. A life in politics could very easily become dangerous, and her son was manly enough, but just too innocent. He lacked the street smarts and the agility Antybion obviously possessed in generous measure.
Therefore it was no longer a question whether Antybion could stay.
That had already been decided for her by Yorn. The question now was to do nothing that would make him consider leaving.
How had that happened?
The Rhonoman system of government was a highly evolved and intricate system of checks and balances. The executive power of the City rested in the hands of a directorate of five commanders. They were chosen for a term of five years, but the term of their mandates overlapped. Each year one of them saw his tenure come to an end, and a new one was elected by the senate. The one who was in his fifth year of office was called the supreme commander. He presided over the directorate and was technically head of state, though this office was for the greater part ceremonial. The second most senior member was responsible for the army, the third for the City, the fourth for the tribunals and the legal system, while the most junior member had the care of the taxation and the treasury. The system made it very difficult to consolidate power as jurisdictions were passed on year by year between the members. Moreover the composition of the governing body changed yearly. All this made for an ever-evolving, yet stable,
government. Ruling skills were passed on, responsibility changed
hands.
The men who came out had a wealth of experience that they were supposed to put at the service of the state. They constituted a very powerful and influential faction of their own in the senate, usually going by the informal name of the old commanders. They were the only ones who could, with any authority or hope of success, oppose acts or edicts of the directorate.
Although they most often did, the senate was under no obligation whatsoever to elect one of their own to the directorate. Regularly individuals of prefectorial rank, deemed worthy and gifted enough, were chosen for office, thus securing a seat in the senate at the end of their term, both for themselves as for their descendants. Serving as commander effectively ennobled a man, and with him his kinship.
In this manner the highest class of the City renewed itself very slowly, very gradually but also continually. A man of the people, or as the higher classes called them, the many, the breeders, could work hard and hope to acquire enough money to become a trader. Ideally he could become wealthy enough and compete for one of the many prefectorial posts on which the commanders relied to carry out their edicts. After several generations a descendant might be elected into the senate. There were a few shortcuts, but few, very few, had managed to take one of them. Extreme courage on the battlefield could catapult a man of the people into the senate. So could wisdom and knowledge, provided it was both needed and sought after.
The Rhonoman noble kinships prided themselves in their openness of mind, but the newly ennobled found out that they were a much more close knit group than they purported to be. It usually took at least three further generations before they were accepted by, or managed to intermarry with, the established aristocrats.
Riathona's ambition to have her husband Bur strive for the com—
mandership wasn't at all unrealistic. The Deynarr kinship had for generations given the City able, albeit dull, prefects. They amply met the financial requirements, certainly now that they had access to the Rhiato money, and they possessed large estates in the countryside. Owning land was not a strict requirement, but being able to call yourself landed gentry, was definitely an advantage. All it would take was the right opportunity and a bit of luck.
The chance presented itself in the form of Senator Nectall Tembar of the august and highly influential Tembar Brannicall kinship. Bur might not have the political acumen his astute wife had, but he knew a good thing when he encountered it. Being invited into the private study of the senator for an intimate talk, and being invited to call him Tembar instead of Senator, was definitely a good thing. After all, the senator was an old commander twice over.
