It is the bitter teeth of the cold Executor Pyotr feels when he first emerges into the morning. The gnawing pain deep in his soul remind him of the task he faces today, and the unwillingness of his will to carry it through. It will test his faith.
By now, the first stalls are being opened, the weary figures appearing like misty shadows in the fog-frozen morning bending and stretching to lift shutters, pulling out heavy crates of fruit and vegetables. The flies have begun to gather, anticipating the sting of cured meats in the air.
His presence as he walks through the quiet early fog-pressed morning does not go unnoticed. The men, and their apprentices, sleepy eyed boys whose futures lie in the hands of these wizened masters of the community, all bow down to him, kneeling in the sludge of wet soil and melted snow. They stay there, their knees sinking deep into the sludge. He nods, smiles, he is accustomed to such things. Men call to their wives, and the women, old, young, come to him, smile, their faces in adoration and kneel on both knees at their feet, in the sludge and kiss his battle-weary boots.
A mother pushes her young daughter before him, barely eighteen, the girl hesitatingly looking up at the Executor's face, fear, anxiety, and a subtle tinge of awe etched on the young lips and eyes. She has the figure of a Venus, her young breasts blooming tenderly under her chemise. Her skin is alabaster, her lips full and ripe for the taking. He notices these things instinctively. It has become part of him -- women are his sole comfort in such a life as this, where day to day, he must fight to keep his tribe safe from the marauders.
Bless her with Your kindness, Executor, the mother says.
He knows what she wants. He smiles, cups the girl's cheek in his right palm, caked hard by dirt and killing, and inspects her face -- pretty, dulcet eyes, a little mole on the upper lip. His left hand circles under her arm and tucks her in closer to him, so that she stumbles forward, shyly, fearfully, and her cheeks bloom crimson. He enjoys the effect he has on the women of his community. Their men acknowledge this, accept it as fate.
He thinks to himself -- she will make a good bed companion one day.
Name? he asks.
Bethesda, Executor.
He nods at the mother, and then casting a glance at the beautiful waif of a girl, he says,
Keep yourself well, Bethesda.
He carries on his journey through the street, as the stall holders resume their tasks in his wake.
Past the borders of his tribal lands, which stretches past the River Arneo to the East, and the Pruft River to the North, and beyond the Carpathani mountain ranges that circle the Southern and Western borders, he knows they all lie in wait, all lie waiting for the opportunity to arise when they can finally defeat the indomitable Galatai. Pyotr, Executor of the Galatai, is feared by his enemies, revered by his people, adored by the women, who find their life's purpose in serving the needs of the Executor.
Already in his household, he has women who wait for his affections, young girls, women who have already been wived to husbands, but who have been tributed for his use, as if one pays penance to God in exchange for the safety and security of living a good life free from the harms of war.
He knows that the men of Galatai struggle with these tributes, and yet he also knows that tributes and sacrifices such as these, given as if one gives one's blood, one's soul, come with the responsibility of ensuring the wishes and dreams of his people are fulfilled.
One such responsibility awaits him this morning.
Soon, hopefully, the sun will break through the bitter fog, and the markets will begin their trade, though in these times of war, one is thankful for even the smallest of earnings. But by the time the market is in full swing, he will be in the Pora, the Council of Ministers, where he will meet, come face to face with the young heiress to the Pruczian throne, the tribe that inhabits the lands to the North-east.
She will be led out into the central hall of the Pora, as is the Galatai practice when displaying captives of their recent battles, the spoils of war, trophies of the famed Galatai might. She will denuded, adorned only with chains that circle her neck, and snake down to her wrists and ankles, and then made to kneel or stand or lie prostrate on the ground, according to Pyotr's whim.
The difficulty facing him will be this -- the Ministers will surely expect that she is either held as ransom, or beheaded, a dire message to the Pruczian leadership of the cost of waging war with the Galatai. His Ministers would want to use this opportunity to seal either a pact that will stipulate that the Prucz refrain from attacking ever again, or failing negotiations, an execution that will certainly weaken the Pruczian leadership. The daughter is well loved, renown for her beauty.
But it has also been Galatai tradition to keep the women captives of enemy tribes, take them as wives, enslave them, the most beautiful of whom are given to Pyotr for his personal pleasure. There are those amongst the Ministers who would want to maintain this tradition. It speaks to our Spirit, our Legacy, our prophecy that the lands surrounding us will bear the seed of our own kind, they will say. Impregnating these foreign women is a sowing of the seeds of the famed Galatai.
The Pora's structure swallows him, sucking him into its warmth, and he is relieved to step out of the foggy morning into its warm embrace. Already the dignitaries are there, all awaiting his presence, and the bodies, clamouring for a glimpse of the young captive, now begin to part, like a sea parting for its Moses.
Seated on his chair, made, legend has it, from the bones of Galatai warriors defeated in battle, he raises his hand to silence the muttering crowd. His Ministers sit in a row to his left and right, and he has a clear view of the hall now, those who have gathered in the mezzanine and upper levels, minor officials, clerks, the bureaucratic minions who walk around with their beady eyes. The hall becomes gravely silent. He knows what they all wait for. He, too, has a sense of anticipation in him, not least is the prospect of setting eyes on the famed body of Lady Gergiuze, for whom, they say, Pruczsian warriors slit their throats in wanton sacrifice. For the Pruczians, she is Goddess, divinely blessed, the One prophesied to rule the heavens and earth. He laughs at the thought. In a minute she walk into the hall in chains, his prize.
With a nuanced wave of his hand, he signals for the prisoner to be brought in. The room hums in excitement, as the heavy doors of the Hall open, and they hear bootsteps, tempered softly by the clink of chains.
Pyotr's first view of the captive woman is difficult to explain. The light streaming from the ancient windows, crafted with the love of artisans inspired, legend would have it, by the light of divinity, their high up-arching frames catching all the light of the skies, pours over the vestibule, the threshold into the great hall, and as she steps onto this threshold, she halts, her eyes scanning the crowd of men before her. She stands in this heavenly light, and for Pyotr, she seems aglow, a divine avatar, blinding his eyes, blindingly transcendent.
He must sit back in his High Chair for a moment, pulling his head back from the spectacle of her arrival.
She is cold, indomitable, her pride flying like a flag of victory, yet she is in chains. She scans the room slowly, deliberately, as if she is taking stock of each face, consigning it to memory for some future vengeance. Her eyes are ablaze, her bosom heaving with rage, her breasts, shapely pears of burnished gold, standing like emissaries from some heavenly height unknown to mankind.
Then, after her long inspection, still standing at the threshold to the Great Hall, she casts her eyes on Pyotr. The Executor cannot tell what her expression is, the light casts such a gleam, it obscures this from him. Is there a hint of a smile? Derision, perhaps? He cannot tell.
