It was the Day of Hearing. A lovely day, with sunshine and a few clouds to provide cover to the throngs of people herding to the Palace grounds. The ‘Dark Lords weather’, the news people were calling it.
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The front doors to the Hall of Hearing opened and the crowd surged forward, but were kept under control by the police and palace security. Uniformed members of the Legion were there for additional help. These last were unarmed apart from their uniform swords, officer’s included. The rest of the palace was sealed, including the side doors giving direct access to the palace.
In two long snaking lines, the people of the Empire moved into the Hall of Hearing. This was just for the procession. There always had to be a certain amount of ceremony. Slowly, the crowd was brought into the hall. There was a constant hum of noise, no crowd is ever completely silent and this one was extra excited. Soon they would see the Dark Lord; the legendarily, semi-mythical overlord of the Empire. Just as exciting, they would also be seeing the Circle of Ladies. Whispers flew up and down the lines of citizens speculating on what the Ladies would wear and what they would look like. There were even those who placed bets on these questions.
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The Steward of the Palace had carefully selected the first few petitioners, hoping that their minor requests would help in setting the tone of the hearing. He had, pulling his courage together, approached his Master and solicited advice in selecting those to be heard.
For his pains, he had gotten a cold stare and a brusque rebuke, both unhelpful and left, thankful for keeping his head.
Confining his fears to Remi of Doscue, he was not assuaged when she told him that she had the same concerns.
“Yes, I have been researching previous hearings.” She gave a little shudder. “The best thing for us is to be ready to run, just in case.”
Ardent Nespot stared. Remi was ex-Legion, if she was ready to run, he had better be in front.
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The doors through which the crowd entered were at the far end of the hall from the High Throne. About a third of the way from the front of the palace, to the left was another set of doors, allowing entrance from the Palace itself. The throne itself was on the left wall of the hall and was raised on several wide daises high above the crowd so its occupant could be seen. There was also room for numerous people to stand at various heights. The petitioners would be kept at a respectful distance from the throne for their safety.
As the ninth period approached, the sense of expectation grew greater. The crowd stirred and a buzz of suppressed whispers filled the hall. At a sudden noise the whispers grew louder then stopped.
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At the far end of the hall, close to the throne could be seen another set of high doors. These doors suddenly swung wide open and twenty four tough and competent looking soldiers, clad in strange armour of bronze coloured helm and breast plates, stepped through, marching two apart. Their legs were bare below a red wool kirtle partly covering leather pants and chain mail. They carried long spears and wore a short sword. Following several paces behind was a twenty-fifth soldier, a Centurion. He was dressed the same except for a tuft of feathers on his helm otherwise he looked equally hard and professional, although armed only with the short sword hung on his right hand side. The crowd wondered as he stopped three quarters of the way to the side doors.
Through the far doors, those closest to the empty throne could be seen a strange sight, wooden poles partly buried upright in the ground. Some bare, some with metal attachments to attach other objects to, stacks of wood were positioned nearby and laying on the ground were other planks of wood. The people of Tihab called this area ‘The Sandpit’ or ‘The Wastelands.’ They did not know it but the soldiers that the crowd watched marching called it ‘Et sanguinis’ or ‘The place of Blood.’
With a steady tread they marched down the centre of the hall, their grim faces set stonily forward. All the spectators stared, the soldiers were of a race they never seen before. Of various height with many different facial features all were however tanned dark, with skin tones of many shades. When one of the crowd dodged a security guard and ran to record the marchers, he got a surprise. Getting too close, the nearest soldier swung his spear without breaking stride, smacking the man on the side of the head. Tottering of to the side, the aspirant petitioner fell to the ground and was removed by emergency staff. Examination revealed that he had a fractured skull. He was lucky. No one else tempted the same fate.
Arriving at the side doors, the soldiers wheeled and began a steady beat with their spears on the floor. Precisely at the ninth hour the leading two soldiers stepped to the doors and gave a blow to the doors with the butt of their spears. Slowly the doors parted, the soldiers stepping back in line as Lady Dana and Lady Andrea stepped through, their heads held high followed by twenty four other Ladies of the Circle. As they passed each soldier, he fell to his knee. As the last of the Ladies exited the door, all the soldiers rose, wheeled and as an honour guard, began to escort the Ladies to the throne.
The crowd was not disappointed in the Ladies. Clad in long, colourful, flowing dresses with sandals on their feet, both of a unique shade of colour best suited to each Lady. Hair of many shades floated around each head. Their charisma flowed out and enveloped the crowd. Their faces were composed and they looked neither to right or left.
On reaching the Centurion, the Ladies and their escort stopped. Holding up his hand, the Centurion cried out in a loud voice, “Mens, accessurum vis?” < Ladies, do you wish to approach Caesar?>
The answer came in a body, “Facimus.”
Slapping his chest and raising his hand again now in salute, the Centurion spun on his heel and lead the procession towards the throne. The soldiers on each side now gripped their spears in a two handed stance. Their eyes flickering over the crowd and they were clearly ready to strike. Although mesmerized, none dared approach.
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As the procession approached the end of the hall, a gasp went up. The empty throne now had an occupant. The Dark Lord had arrived.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
When the Centurion reached the foot of the dais, he turned and faced his sovereign. The guards on both sides paused and waited as the Ladies passed them, mounted the Dias, turned to face outward, standing on each side of the throne. The guards moved forward, formed two lines behind the Centurion and, as the he saluted, raised their spears and shouted “Ave Caesar”,
A sigh swept through the throng and the excitement grew higher. Everyone wondered who would be called first.
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With the Steward stepping forward, the hearing started in earnest. With the Steward, who this day was dressed in the palace uniform, stood Legate Mangus Lictus Garius.
“Head Steward Ardent Nespot, approach,” the Dark Lord called him forward.
“My Lord.”
“I understand that you have picked out some cases for me?”
“I have, my Lord.” The Dark Lord regarded his Steward gravely for a space. Then turned to Garius. “Your men are ready if called upon?”
“They are, sire.” Garius confirmed.
“Then we shall proceed, Steward, call the first petitioner.”
“Sire.” He turned to the crowd. All of whom had been recorded over the last forty days as their petitions had been registered. These were all cross indexed with both local and imperial identity cards.
“I call petitioner Dera Postick of Rahama IV.” A stout women accompanied by three men, one in formal attire, the other two, younger, her sons.
The Dark Lord sat back on the throne, steepled his fingers, and waited.
The small group seemed to be uncertain of what to do next. The Steward, growing impatient, urged them to speak.
“My Lord, I speak on behalf of Dera Postick, whose partner of many years and …” That was as far as a man dressed in formal attire got. The Dark Lord leaned slightly forward and, in a voice that seemed to permeate everyone in the hall, spoke.
“Lawyers are not permitted to speak here. The person who is the petitioner will be the only one who speaks. So, Dera Postick, speak.”
“My husband, my partner of many years lies in a prison, condemned to death. Accused of a false crime.” The woman spoke, stuttering in her fear. The Dark Lord held up his hand.
“Your case is clear to me. I see all details.” The silence that filled the hall was profound. “When you come before me on this day, I see you in your entirety. You stand naked, all your deeds revealed.” He swept the small group with his chill eyes and smiled. “In the matter that brought you here, I find that your husband has been falsely accused, and that he should be freed. Incidentally, he was framed by a friend!”
Dera Postick fell to her knees and sobbed out her thanks.
“Not so fast. Your husband is guilty of multiple crimes.” There was a shocked silence. “Including several murders, in some of which you were an accomplice. Other crimes were committed by both of you as well, but I will merely note them to the local police.” He swept the group again with his eyes.
“Your sons are as shocked as others are. They never suspected. For them I am sorry.” He nodded to the Legate. At the Legate’s signal, all the four were seized by the armoured soldiers who had quietly surrounded them. The screams of terror from Dera Postick, protests erupting from her sons and from the lawyer, were all ignored as they were all hustled by the strange soldiers through the doors, out onto the bare ground.
The Legate turned to the Dark Lord. “My Lord?”
“I will be merciful. Cut off her head. The lawyer may take her sons into his protection and be escorted safely out.” A gasp swept through the crowd. “Steward.”
As the Legate spoke to the Tribune standing at the foot of the dais, Ardent Nespot stepped to the throne, obeying the Dark Lords summons. “You have the communications set up as per the standing requirements?”
“I have, sire.”
“You have all the details, including the so-called friend. Send them immediately to the Empire’s representative on Rahama IV with a copy to the First Councillor.”
“Yes, sire.” Nespot turned to an assistant with the admonition to send the data to the right place. Silently, he wished that he still had Nita De Posse as his Administrative assistant.
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Love had bloomed between Nita and Colonel Horris. As all those who worked in the palace were forbidden to marry without the Dark Lords permission, Nita had to leave the palace one she had received His approval. She went with her husband on his next assignment. The legion was happy to have her as a civilian employee, her experience as a palace employee was considered a valuable asset.
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“Steward, next!”
From the area outside the door came the cries of protest continuing from the small group. A block of wood was pulled forward and Dera Postick pushed over it. The Ladies looked on impassively. Some in the crowd sensed that they had seen such sights before.
“I call petitioner Rera Nine of Gasnoss.”
Stepping forward alone, Rera Nine was a tall woman of indeterminate age.
“Speak.” The Dark Lord commanded.
Rera gathered herself, but before she could speak, there was a high pitched scream cut off by a thud. Involuntary, she looked at the source only to see a head lifted up and then placed in a basket. A soldier to the side was washing an axe blade.
“Speak.” The Dark Lord repeated, with a hard edge to his voice.
“My Lord,” Rera gulped, “I have been accused of causing injury to another. It is my belief that I was acting in self-defenses and doing only what is necessary to defend myself. I acknowledge that the other was in the right to be angry with me, but that was no excuse for attacking me. I did her wrong with another man, but never gave her cause to attack me. I add that I have been equally wronged in the past, but never hit anyone over this.”
She stopped, “I place myself at your mercy.”
The Dark Lord smiled. “Now this is interesting. I agree, whatever the cause, the other was in the wrong to attack you. Now you did, in your act of defense, go beyond what was defensible when you protected yourself and, in doing so, caused her an unnecessary injury, and for that, you must pay.” He paused and looked at the Legate. “Whip her, five strokes. Use the light whip.”
Two of the armoured soldiers had moved up and took her arms. She gasped at the sentence. “I am giving you a token punishment. All other penalty is remitted.”
Staring silently, she was lead, almost dragged, through the doors to a series of poles standing upright like dead trees shorn of branches.
“Steward, next.”