Lucius
originally posted August 23, 2006
It took a while to finally track him down and, in the end, it was Lucius who found me. He is a tall fellow, rail-thin, who dresses in a turban and long tunic. A mere glance tells you he is not of Tor or, indeed, even of the Tahari region in general where such garments are common. He is rather fairly complected and blue-eyed. Somehow, he does not seem out of sort in the clothing, however. He affects the mien of a comfortable man. He was once a Scribe, a man of letters, in my city, before the occupation. He is now a peddler, a merchant of found and curious goods, that travels from place to place. Most often, he is found here, in Lara. It must be difficult for him, I think from time to time, but he seems content.
"What do you have for me?" I asked him.
He rolled back the carpet as the girls Portia, Elise and Naked Slave looked on. A Glass of the Builders, cased in brass, was the most impressive of his wares, followed by a Chronograph and a Fire-Maker. There was an assortment of bina as well. Beads and bangles, bracelets and earrings, and a few necklaces crowded an edge of his carpet in a small pile. Much of it was of wood or glass, some of steel. His fingers sorted through these things until he found what he was looking for. Shiny steel. Heavy. They were small hoops that would just clear a girl's lobe, but were substantial enough to be seen.
"These are what I had in mind," he told me.
He had mentioned them to me the day prior. I was having a cup at a local tavern during the day that was, despite the reputation it earned at night, a pleasant place for one to sit and write, for example, a four or five scene musical play. I had hoped to find my brother in Lara or, barring that, to have made a reacquaintance with Lucius, once of the Scribes. As always, he seated himself next to me and picked up our previous conversation where it left off, which was at least a few years ago. I wanted to ask him about Varhan, but I knew he would volunteer the information soon enough. There was much we had to catch up on.
"I knew when I heard tale of a fellow entering the city with a collared sleen and eight beautiful women, six of them coffled at the left wrist, that it would be Szol of the Poets they spoke of," he told me with a facetious smile.
"Indeed," I said.
He was conscripted, like many of his caste, to write the propaganda to aid in the emasculation of his fellow citizens. He refused. He was beaten. Those sympathizing with the enemy, men of council and influence in Ar, treacherous vermin on their comfortable silken pillows, stripped him of caste. In order to retain one's caste, one must practice one's caste. By refusing to dip his pen in the poison well of deceipt and lies, he was found non-compliant and lacking in sufficient diligence with respect to the duties of his caste. He was beaten further, but given an opportunity to show his allegiance to the occupiers, not as a man with caste but as a man with recognized talent. Lucius was a brilliant writer and theorist. Lucius was not a traitor. He refused. They burned his personal library as he watched. They put him out. Like Gnieus Lelius, they allowed children to hit him with sticks and berate him. It was a confusing time and it still angers me immensely to recollect it, but that evening, the evening they put him out, Lucius would paint his first delka. He would make the acquaintance of a disillusioned Poet. His inestimable talents would indeed be put to work. He would not write propaganda for the State. In the dark corners of taverns in seedy districts such as the Metellan or the Anbar, he would speak of glory. He would make rememberance of Marlenus. He would tell the truth, boldly, about the men who were slaughtered at the edges of the Vosk Delta. Lucius remained of Ar. Of the true Ar.
Elise squirmed when his fingers untwisted the retaining wire from her left lobe and, with a deft touch, using the same hand, replaced it with the heavy, steel hoop. He did the same to her right ear. I must say, though I had not intended on indulging the girl with the adornments at that moment, my turbaned friend was not a poor judge of such things. They suited her. He would not accept payment for them, considering it a gift. In lieu of coins, I saw that he was well compensated regardless. Portia, slut that she is, could not contain her fascination with the goods laid out on the carpet. The cheap baubles, the found and curious things. Nor could she hide her interest in the mysterious fellow speaking to her owner. One does not take the time to make formal introductions of one's acquaintances to slave girls any more than they would to their sleen or their bosk. Let them soak up what conversation they are permitted to hear. Let them conjecture the business of men, their masters. If they become presumptuous, they can always be beaten or, at minimum, sent to kneel facing a corner. Portia need not know that Lucius is ahero of Ar. She need only know that I consider him a friend. When I offered him the convenience of her use, she need only set his furs on fire with her lewd behavior.
"Is she any good?" he asked.
"She is eager. Happily degraded. Utterly female. She enjoys it," I told him.
It took a while to finally track him down and, in the end, it was Lucius who found me. He is a tall fellow, rail-thin, who dresses in a turban and long tunic. A mere glance tells you he is not of Tor or, indeed, even of the Tahari region in general where such garments are common. He is rather fairly complected and blue-eyed. Somehow, he does not seem out of sort in the clothing, however. He affects the mien of a comfortable man. He was once a Scribe, a man of letters, in my city, before the occupation. He is now a peddler, a merchant of found and curious goods, that travels from place to place. Most often, he is found here, in Lara. It must be difficult for him, I think from time to time, but he seems content.
"What do you have for me?" I asked him.
He rolled back the carpet as the girls Portia, Elise and Naked Slave looked on. A Glass of the Builders, cased in brass, was the most impressive of his wares, followed by a Chronograph and a Fire-Maker. There was an assortment of bina as well. Beads and bangles, bracelets and earrings, and a few necklaces crowded an edge of his carpet in a small pile. Much of it was of wood or glass, some of steel. His fingers sorted through these things until he found what he was looking for. Shiny steel. Heavy. They were small hoops that would just clear a girl's lobe, but were substantial enough to be seen.
"These are what I had in mind," he told me.
He had mentioned them to me the day prior. I was having a cup at a local tavern during the day that was, despite the reputation it earned at night, a pleasant place for one to sit and write, for example, a four or five scene musical play. I had hoped to find my brother in Lara or, barring that, to have made a reacquaintance with Lucius, once of the Scribes. As always, he seated himself next to me and picked up our previous conversation where it left off, which was at least a few years ago. I wanted to ask him about Varhan, but I knew he would volunteer the information soon enough. There was much we had to catch up on.
"I knew when I heard tale of a fellow entering the city with a collared sleen and eight beautiful women, six of them coffled at the left wrist, that it would be Szol of the Poets they spoke of," he told me with a facetious smile.
"Indeed," I said.
He was conscripted, like many of his caste, to write the propaganda to aid in the emasculation of his fellow citizens. He refused. He was beaten. Those sympathizing with the enemy, men of council and influence in Ar, treacherous vermin on their comfortable silken pillows, stripped him of caste. In order to retain one's caste, one must practice one's caste. By refusing to dip his pen in the poison well of deceipt and lies, he was found non-compliant and lacking in sufficient diligence with respect to the duties of his caste. He was beaten further, but given an opportunity to show his allegiance to the occupiers, not as a man with caste but as a man with recognized talent. Lucius was a brilliant writer and theorist. Lucius was not a traitor. He refused. They burned his personal library as he watched. They put him out. Like Gnieus Lelius, they allowed children to hit him with sticks and berate him. It was a confusing time and it still angers me immensely to recollect it, but that evening, the evening they put him out, Lucius would paint his first delka. He would make the acquaintance of a disillusioned Poet. His inestimable talents would indeed be put to work. He would not write propaganda for the State. In the dark corners of taverns in seedy districts such as the Metellan or the Anbar, he would speak of glory. He would make rememberance of Marlenus. He would tell the truth, boldly, about the men who were slaughtered at the edges of the Vosk Delta. Lucius remained of Ar. Of the true Ar.
Elise squirmed when his fingers untwisted the retaining wire from her left lobe and, with a deft touch, using the same hand, replaced it with the heavy, steel hoop. He did the same to her right ear. I must say, though I had not intended on indulging the girl with the adornments at that moment, my turbaned friend was not a poor judge of such things. They suited her. He would not accept payment for them, considering it a gift. In lieu of coins, I saw that he was well compensated regardless. Portia, slut that she is, could not contain her fascination with the goods laid out on the carpet. The cheap baubles, the found and curious things. Nor could she hide her interest in the mysterious fellow speaking to her owner. One does not take the time to make formal introductions of one's acquaintances to slave girls any more than they would to their sleen or their bosk. Let them soak up what conversation they are permitted to hear. Let them conjecture the business of men, their masters. If they become presumptuous, they can always be beaten or, at minimum, sent to kneel facing a corner. Portia need not know that Lucius is ahero of Ar. She need only know that I consider him a friend. When I offered him the convenience of her use, she need only set his furs on fire with her lewd behavior.
"Is she any good?" he asked.
"She is eager. Happily degraded. Utterly female. She enjoys it," I told him.
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