The young girl sang softly to herself as she filled another container.
Topping it off, she carefully stoppered the neck of the dainty clay
vase and laid it to one side with the others.
An orphan prize of the conquests of the House of Rababull, she was
small for her age, with long ebony hair nearly down to her waist in
back, and perpetually of a rather plain appearance as a child, which
safely hid her flowering beauty, unbeknownst to herself, from the
lustful eyes of others.
She liked to hum and sing while she worked, although not too loudly,
and was a painstaking, diligent servant. She had just finished filling
nine of the little clay jars. They contained a medicinal salve
comprised of rare aromatic resins and spices which were intended to be
sold by an agent of Rababull, her master, in the market place at great
profit.
Rababull kept many slaves, wives, and concubines, and had many sons and
daughters. He was a strong, wealthy gentleman of noble birth, a titled
land owner who wore much crude jewelry, together with the softest of
furs and robes, and was always dressed in the finest weaves of red and
purple.
He had long distinguished gray hair upon his head. His beard was
elaborately curled every morning on a carefully heated rod of iron
which was always cleaned and tested first with the judicious
application of a wet thumb by his personal man servant, who kept it
meticulously polished and free of rust with a dash of virgin olive oil
and a cursory, daily polishing.
Rababull had hard, no-nonsense eyes and speech, and he always drove a
hard bargain, whether it be something of as little consequence as the
selling-off of an old slave or animal too advanced in years to be of
proper use to him anymore, or the buying and selling of great tracts of
land. He also saw to the scourging of slaves and the torture and
questioning of thieves and miscreants, not infrequently even unto pain
of death itself. Life could be cheap, depending on who you were, or who
your father was.
Master Rababull was more than six hundred and fifty years old, although
by the standards of the moderns, more than four thousand years in his
future, he would have been described as an exceeding fit fifty-five.
His life experience, like his age, was vast.
He was not afflicted by an old man's failings of the mind. He was
missing no teeth, neither smitten by cavities. He was sound of stature.
He was still keen of ear, and ate and drank as freely as any rash
youth. He suffered no impairment of bone, limb, or mind, and had
suffered no ailment since the day of his birth.
His eye was not dim, nor his natural force abated, and he craved a good
physical match or a hard bet as much as any man 500 years his junior.
It was morning, and Nelatha labored steadily beside Si'Wren. Nelatha
had been originally sold into slavery at birth for the unfortunate
offense of having been a firstborn female, and her first owner had been
fond of tatoos and ritual scars, of which Nelatha had received many all
over her body.
Nelatha was accustomed to making no little ado of her mere five years
seniority over Si'Wren, though not in an unkindly way. Nelatha's limbs
were tireless and unfailing, for she was a large woman of short stature
and powerful girth. The plenteous flesh of her upper arms rippled to an
odd meter as she worked, grinding successful handfuls of spices and
herbs in the stone pestle and mortise, to be portioned out into equal
shares for each lot of balm.
The balm was made with fresh olive oil, pressed and drained out of a
great wooden casement and ram located in the back yard of the compound.
The ram was comprised of a flat, wheel-like lid, with many heavy stones
laid on over the top of the lid by two powerful male slaves, crushing
it down onto the open-topped barrel of olives. As the slaves piled on
the stones, the progressively increasing weight of the ram steadily
crushed out the fresh, strong-smelling olive oil which was drained
through a bung hole at the casque's base.
This was a most pleasant time for Si'Wren, who, not having had any
tatoos, not so much as one, applied anywhere on her body like Nelatha,
and neither desiring any, yet greatly admired and envied Nelatha for
her expert ability and wealth of worldly experience. Si'Wren always
looked on with beaming countenance as the piles of freshly sorted and
washed olives were slowly crushed down under the weight of so many
heavy stones. She would watch the pooling olive oil in the collection
bucket, diligent to pluck forth the bugs from the fresh pressing. Then
the oil would be covered to settle out any remaining bits of dust,
twigs, and dead insects.
Finally, the oil would be sieved through several layers of coarsely
woven cheese cloth, to be stored in tall slender vases with narrow
bottom ends into which the finest pollen grains and motes would
eventually settle out during storage. She knew of no other method to
obtain the olive oil, but this way worked quite well, and Si'Wren was
faithful to obey all, and question nothing that she learned.
Pharmacopoeia was a noble trade to work in, and well-praised by all for
a multitude of reasons, of which several might be mentioned.
Firstly, because of the wonderful, aromatic scents which lingered in
the spice tent and were so soothing to mind and soul.
Secondly, because of constant skin contact with the salves, balms, and
countless varieties of resins and floral concoctions used to make
incense, which were prepared by her and Nelatha on an almost daily
basis, which had a most beneficent effect, giving perpetual advantage
to good health by virtue of being so frequently in direct contact with
the ingredients.
There were but few drawbacks to the natural enjoyment of her work. The
purgative herbs, for example, could be powerful and curiously
disturbing to the bowels in their effects, and their dry powders
sometimes drifted in the air in the confines of the spice tent, having
a drastic effect upon her breathing passages and causing her to gasp,
wheeze, and sneeze in a most extraordinary fashion sometimes.
But that was only because of their natural purging qualities, and she
was soon over it with no harmful aftereffects. One of the herbs was
poisonous to consume whole, whereas the oil of the seeds, pressed out
in it's own little separate bucket and ram and imbibed in small
quantities, acted as a safe and effective purgative to the bowels.
Yet by and large, Pharmacopoeia was interesting and rewarding work, and
was pleasant enough to do. Work in the spice tent forbade the intrusion
of flies or bugs, and except for the sun-drying process, there must be
no direct exposure to the natural elements, lest the product become
spoiled.
A well-trained Pharmacopoeist was worth much money, and merited the
perpetual good favors of the Master for all of his or her days. Praise
for the worker would assure eventual success and praise for the work.
Compared to this, the backs of those working the harvest fields, the
threshing floor, and other more common or menial tasks such as
brick-making, invited the whip, because that could not impair the work
nor harm the product, and would only increase the yield of bricks or
harvest of grain.
Si'Wren was knowledgeable and proficient in almost every aspect and
phase of the work of Pharmacopoeia. She was well tutored in how to
recognize and gather fresh herbs on foraging expeditions with Nelatha
in the wilds, under the protective guardianship of an armed male slave.
Whatever other herbs were not found locally could be purchased readily
enough in the market place for a fair price. Even in this, Si'Wren was
becoming skillful in identifying, grading, and haggling over the prices
of herbs according to their several worth, and she had already gained
much knowledge and experience in this.
But sometimes when at market, she still required the presence of one
with a heavy beard and a deep voice, to help her strike a good bargain,
for many of the traders were so proud and vain of their ability to make
a profusion of crude marks on the tally slate, as 'proof' of their
ability to 'read and write' as well as to cheat and connive, as to be
unwilling to bargain in any manner except 'man to man', and could on
occasion be outright fiendish in their unwillingness to permit a mere
slave girl to get anything like a fair deal out of them.
Si'Wren did not mind. If her Master wanted something, he would see to
it that she was afforded whatever means was required to get it, and
send her out with some broken-nosed, one-eyed brawler of a slave with
cauliflower ears, a total illiterate who was willing enough to trade
'look for look' in the market place, in order to back her up in the
demeaning cut-throat little realm of the traders.
Perhaps Si'Wren's most notable challenge of all, however, was her
resolute refusal of becoming involved in any form of Sorcery, and a
natural fear and reluctance of serving it's horrible totems and mystic
signs employed publicly with such pomp and ceremony. Besides this, as a
female she was ineligible to rise to a very high rank in the priesthood
anyways.
Few women rose to such positions of power. After all, it was a man's
world. Where superior strength was needed, of what use was beauty? Woe
to the man who became physically useless, in such a world.
And so, through no fault of her own, Si'Wren had already missed out on
the basic qualifying factor in life of being born male, a crucial
qualification if one was to become a true Master of Pharmacopoeia. But
she had always shunned, in heart and deed, the vile pursuits of being a
Sorcerer, and secretly regarded it as no great loss in her young life.
Neither did Habrunt, the sage Slavemaster, take part in any Sorceries
himself, ceremonial or other, and from what she saw, Si'Wren indirectly
perceived a like sentiment in Habrunt to her own. She had never seen
him so much as partake of such dark activities, even when she saw him
off by himself at such and such a time as he felt mostly unobserved by
others.
Habrunt was an exceeding strong man, and his true age was a mystery to
all. He had a naturally weathered face, with deep, dark, friendly eyes,
which held a slight but perpetual squint, as if he were ever vigilant
against the many evils of an uncertain life. Si'Wren basically
entrusted herself body and soul to Habrunt's unassuming tutelage in the
many curiosities of the world, as if nothing could be more natural.
Habrunt was a formidable man. His tireless, muscular physique was
battle-scarred, but although she knew him to be a fearless man, she had
never seen him actually fight anyone. He had no tatoos. His dark hair,
like his beard, was slightly wavy, and like his face, very pleasing to
behold in the eyes of young Si'Wren, and he kept his hair cropped to a
proper shoulder length, but no longer than that, as befitted his low
station in life, for he was but a slave himself. Habrunt was greater in
stature and strength than Master Rababull, but unlike that other, he
was no idle boaster and displayed no jewelry upon his nearly naked
person.
Although only a slave, Slavemaster Habrunt ranked second in importance
in the House of Rababull after only the Master himself. The cast of
Habrunt's eyes was of a dutiful mein, but his normally pleasant,
preoccupied expression as he looked after his many responsibilities,
could become hard and unyielding at a moment's notice, even piercing by
aspect, such as when he was wont to evaluate a slave even unto his very
soul with a mere look. For this, and other, less notable reasons, all
of the slaves under Habrunt's fair-minded authority held him in regard
of great fear and respect, and because the mark of Habrunt was so
universally the mark of excellence throughout the House and it's
surrounds, he received much praise from Master Rababull for all that he
did.
Such widely-held acclaim for Slavemaster Habrunt, the chief agent of
Master Rababull, was in no small part maintained by his sage words of
advice, characteristically brief, unerring, and straight to the point,
and by the certain knowledge in every servant's mind that if one failed
at the fore to heed mere words from Slavemaster Habrunt, one must
harken at the last to the whip of Master Rababull.
For Master Rababull always kept a large, blood-encrusted bull whip
ready to hand for his most grievous personal judgements, when the real
punishments must be meted out.
The two girls, Nelatha and Si'Wren, being naturally shy and
industrious, counted themselves privileged to work together in the
shelter of the spice tent. The tent of animal skins was located well
off to one side in the large front courtyard of the House of Rababull,
which was surrounded on all sides by a high stone wall.
The Master's holdings consisted of but a very small portion of the
Emperor's kingdom, yet they were large tracts of land nevertheless.
They were located on a broad fertile valley plain covered by dense
scattered forest and jungle. Across this plain, the Tigris and
Euphrates rivers flowed and converged together into one. This dry land,
this lush fertile plain, would one day be known to all mankind as a
large body of salt water, named the Persian Gulf.
The wide tent was open at both ends and shielded by thin gauze veils to
keep out flying insects, and preserve the salves and other herbal
preparations. Infestation by insects could cause the finest ointment to
give forth a stinking savor, and invoke the certain displeasure of the
Master. The tent was also equipped with extra flaps so that it could be
closed up at night or during the day when it became too misty.
L'acoci, an old slave woman of the House, spoke once of seeing the
colors of a virgin's garments, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and
violet, as a banded scimitar slash in the heavens, a colored arch, a
wound in a darkened noonday sky misty enough that it wetted her
upturned face and garments, and obscured her vision most strangely.
None had ever heard of such foolishness, and all, even Si'Wren, had
laughed her to scorn. Colors in the sky? L'acoci was deluded. No one
had ever heard of such a preposterous thing, and the very suggestion
was flatly impossible.
A heavy dew came out of the ground every night and often in the day,
and caused all life to flourish. But as Si'Wren well knew from
unfortunate firsthand experience, such enshrouding mists could cause
rare herbs and spices, if they were left exposed, to quickly turn
stale, causing Master Rababull much displeasure.
To guard against such calamity, the tent was equipped to afford proper
shelter from the clammy, clinging mists, which could arise on a
moment's notice and transform the torches in men's hands into pale
blobs of moon glow, like spirits at large upon the land.
Within the sheltering confines of the tent, Si'Wren counted herself a
cherished and defended slave, safe within the walls of her Master's
House, where strange men could not ogle or frighten her. For savage,
rogue men walking in the lusts of their wicked hearts went out at all
times of day or night, seeking human prey, upon whom they might work
their unspeakable evils, men who loudly proclaimed their honor before
others, and yet were so wicked in their ways that no woman or child
dared venture alone beyond the protection of some trusted strong man or
tribe.
Sometimes a local sorcerer was rumored to have kidnaped an
unsuspecting victim for occult and sacrificial purposes. Such men were
oft upon the land by night, when swords slept in their owners' grasps,
and brave men retired upon their racks behind the stoutest walls and
doors they could manage. There was no law except the law of the pack.
The only real law was right of might and sword and the dictates of
powerful warlords and landowners, even unto the changeable whim of the
Emperor himself. Against such, mere empty words were but as the ring of
brass or a sounding cymbal, dumb bells all, and the clink of the
condemned slave's heavy chains. Too often, the ring of a sword was the
only proper answer.
The world was a place of much beauty, but even greater evil.
Si'Wren prayed oft in her bed at night, that she might one day be given
in marriage to some strong and decent man. Was it not supposed to be
one man and one wife, as had once been that great and mythical
Patriarch Adam and his helpmeet, Eve? Eve first bore Cain, then Abel,
and then after the sons of Cain were already abroad upon the land even
unto the sixth generation, Eve bore Seth. Adam and Eve were, then, one
husband and one wife in the beginning. Yet now, after fewer generations
than the fingers on one's hands, men stole, bought, and murdered for as
many wives and female slaves as cunning, sword, and gold could get.
A good husband, if Si'Wren should one day become so blessed as to find,
could be both protector and benefactor to her. She was young, and still
had her whole life ahead of her. A wise woman must overlook her man's
faults, and stand beside him, even help lift him up when he might
otherwise perish, and Si'Wren believed in the promise of the proverb
that a faithful woman who served well might hope to find such a man,
together with riches, happiness, and a houseful of many offspring.
Abruptly, as she worked, there came the crack of whips and the sound of
curses, and Si'Wren looked up in momentary astonishment as a team of
two big oxen straining against their yokes plodded slowly past the open
end flap of her tent accompanied by several dirty-looking boys and
driven by two brawny slaves who presently followed the beasts into
view. Truly, Si'Wren observed meekly, a woman's place was under a man's
protection, for what woman could match such men in the daily toil of
such backbreaking labors as this?
The oxen were dragging a stone boat. A stone boat was no boat at all,
but actually a great, wheelless, wooden sled or sledge used to
transport big building stones from the rock quarry, or round stones
from the harvest fields where they were unearthed by the plow, to be
dragged as deadweight upon a platform made with two wooden skids, and
transported across the dry land to the construction site for use in the
making of more stone walls and buildings.
The young slave boys walked alongside the grating and squealing runners
of the stone boat with goat skin bags, ready to provide grease or water
to make sludge or mud under the runners, when the sled ground to a halt
sometimes and must have something extra added to unstick it. The boys
also carried straw brooms for the same purpose, as well as staffs to
load and unload the sledge.
One of the young boys had suffered a massively crippled hand from the
carelessness of his overseers when he was ordered to apply the grease
and water and insert the end of a broom more closely beneath the
runners. Such boys must reach in and work the water and grease and dirt
together with their brooms and fingertips, because sometimes what was
poured on would merely run off as quickly again without sinking in.
The older or more experienced boys could also employ the ends of their
staffs for this purpose, but when a boy was especially young or new to
the job and had never seen a stone boat before, it sometimes pleased
the others who had the charge of such a green and inexperienced youth,
to order him into the worst labors possible, and few other boys would
give the temporary loan of their sticks and staffs, lest one of them
suffer a similar ghastly fate. Si'Wren had once heard an agonizing
episode of high-pitched screams that began so suddenly as to jolt her
right down to the very pit of her stomach. The pitiful childish screams
had gradually subsided into long dismaying moans that had continued
long into the night, and thus had she known that something of the sort
had happened, and she spent the night praying desperately on her bed
for the sufferings of the hapless young victim.
The stones comprising this particular load, broken by the stone masons
into crude blocks of two and three times the weight of a man, were for
the Master's garden wall, which Si'Wren must pass by every day on her
way to and from the spice tent. As the two sweating drivers were helped
along by the boys, many looked on disinterestedly and more than a few
openly laughed and mocked at the slowness of their progress.
One onlooker shouted gleeful insults, bringing on the inevitable vile
curses from the aggravated drivers.
The men kept the oxen at their yokes with cursings and whippings, as
they dragged the stone boat screeching over the exposed surfaces of
rocks and stones in the ground and the wooden runners scraped over them
with ear-splitting squealings. Si'Wren watched also as the team made
their way slowly past the spice tent and beyond, to where the stone
masons labored to build the new garden wall.
Si'Wren bowed her head a little, and shut her eyes gently as she softly
sang a prayer for the physical safety of the young boys. She often sang
prayers during her work, swaying gently to the rhythm of her own soft
sweetly-uttered syllables. It was not merely a prayer she sang always,
but sometimes rather, a long-favored tribal song, a song of old which
kept alive the promise about the Garden of Heaven to which all good
souls must surely one day go.
The day was warm and pleasant. It was the kind of day to lull one into
a drifting somnambulance, inviting weary slaves to seize upon the
unwatched moment now and then to pause, and wander freely with their
eyes across the inner mind and the far skies, in spite of the
ever-present risk of sudden discovery and displeasure by the Master.
Nelatha's sudden intake of air accompanied by a frightened gasp of
startlement caused Si'Wren to cease abruptly from her labors and look
up quickly.
Immediately Si'Wren shrank back in an involuntary motion as she beheld
the terrifying sight of a hairy, muscled giant of a man, easily twice
the height of any normal individual. The giant had six great fingers,
like stout wooden pegs, on each hairy, enormous hand. Because of his
size he appeared to be walking with exaggerated slowness, although the
long strides with which he covered the ground took him across the level
courtyard and up the front steps of the House of Rababull in a
surprisingly short time.
His size was truly staggering to behold, and Si'Wren counted it her
good fortune that he was already moving away from the tent entrance in
such a way that she was not so much as glimpsed by him.
Such men, if they be men, could be unpredictably violent, and who could
withstand such a one when he should happen to suddenly lose his temper?
Although they were too big to ride horses, they could run on their long
legs almost as swiftly as any horse, especially in a short sprint when
attacking in a burst of speed. When they did ride, they were fond of
more fitting steeds, such as elephants.
"Was he not terrible to behold?" Nelatha barely breathed, her voice a
terrified series of gasped utterances.
"Aye, he is possessed!" Si'Wren agreed readily.
Indeed, he looked every bit of that.
Demon-possessed men had abnormal strength. How much the more so, such a
one as this human tree?
With trembling fingers, Si'Wren carefully finished filling another tiny
bottle and stoppered it carefully, checking to ensure that it could not
possibly leak if accidentally tipped over or upended within some
traveler's pouch.
"There," she said softly, still shivering in fear. "Ten bottles."
"So soon?" asked Nelatha, looking over her shoulder and double-checking
Si'Wren's finger-count swiftly.