Jiraha bathed me once again before escorting me through the halls of the palace up to the huge golden doors. Two guards swung them open and stood aside. I stepped in, gazing about in awe at the largest and most beautiful chamber I had ever seen.
Murals on the walls told of famous mythical events. One wall told the story of a man who rode a large white beast and battled a huge, flaming dragon. The battle continued in panels on the wall until finally the man slew the dragon, cut off its head, and held it up for all to see.
The opposite wall told of a long voyage where a man in a ship encountered many mysterious and wondrous creatures ‒ a three-headed monster, a giant with one eye in the middle of its forehead, a woman with snakes for hair.
At the far end of the room stood an enormous, white, ivory throne. Before the throne were arranged low tables in the shape of a U, and next to the tables were silken couches.
As the other slaves began to gather, Jiraha escorted me to a couch near the throne. “The king will lie on this couch,” she said, pointing to one next to where we were standing. “The prince will lie here to the king’s left while an honored guest will lie there to the king’s right. You do not speak to anybody except the prince and even then only if you are spoken to. People may call him Cantru, which is his real name, but you must never use it. Do you have questions?”
Very seriously I shook my head.
“When the Conquerors enter, all the slaves will do a deep bow on their knees until they are instructed to rise. You will all do the same when the masters depart.” With that, Jiraha wished me luck and left.
I stood silently watching as other slaves took their assigned places behind couches. Once again I wondered what I had gotten myself into. Suddenly a loud gong reverberated through the throne room. All the slaves knelt and bowed, foreheads on the floor. I heard many feet enter the room but dared not look up as I knelt, quaking. At length, the gong sounded again, and all the slaves stood. Before me lay Zwahe, who was looking forward and not at me. He wore a fine, white, silken robe embroidered with gold thread. The slaves all took their masters’ golden goblets and went to huge tables which stood to either side of the throne. There we poured wine and returned to our masters. Trembling, I leaned forward as Zwahe had taught me and very carefully placed the goblet on the low table before him. He looked up briefly and grinned before looking forward again.
One of the slaves farther down the hall stumbled, spilling some wine on his master, who roared in anger. “Take this clumsy oaf out of here and have him beaten. Bring me another slave.” The hapless man was escorted quickly out of the room, and a new man was brought in.
The meal proceeded without further incident. I never felt really comfortable, but I did become a little more confident as the meal progressed.
Finally, when the meal had ended and all the dishes except the replenished goblets and some fruit had been cleared away, the king motioned to a slave who was standing in the corner holding a beautiful inlaid lyre. At the king’s command, the man strummed his lyre for a few moments and then began a song in a high soprano voice. I thought it a beautiful song, although I did not know the language well enough to understand what it was about. The man had a lovely voice, I thought, and I wondered why it had never deepened as he became a man.
When the song ended, I observed the king say something to Zwahe, who responded, turned to me and said, “My father wishes you to sing for us.”
“But I cannot; you know I cannot,” I whispered desperately. “All I can sing are sad songs which are not appropriate for a gathering like this. Besides, I do not have my lyre.”
“Gemji, you do not refuse the king. If he says ‘sing’ then you sing. You can borrow the lyre from the man who just sang.”
“Please do not make me do this,” I begged.
“You have no choice.”
Disconsolately, I walked around the tables to the singer with the lyre, took the instrument, cradled it in my arm, and stood where the singer had stood. My hands were shaking so hard I was not sure I could even play the instrument, but I was able to strum three chords before I sang, my voice quavering at first but gaining strength as I sang. It was a song which my people sang around their fires at night and which told of the mighty god who had formed us. As the music took over my soul my voice rose in its fluid, high, soprano, which I knew was as strikingly beautiful as that of the older man.
When I finished, the men at the tables banged their goblets on the tables and called for more. Distressed, I looked at Zwahe, who only nodded to me. So I sang another folk song and then another and then another until I grew so visibly weary that the king finally allowed me to stop.
I returned the lyre to the singer, who said, “You have an outstanding, bewitching voice. May the king decide to make you a castrato so you can sing like this all of your life.”
Although I was not sure exactly what a castrato was, I did know what it meant to castrate animals, for my people sometimes did that to our bulls and boars so they would fatten. I grew cold at the thought and nearly fainted. Somehow, I managed to walk unsteadily back to my place behind Zwahe.
Finally the gong sounded once more, and all the slaves knelt, bowing again until our masters had left the hall. As the door slid closed behind them, I found myself surrounded by slaves who exclaimed over my singing and patted me on my back, assuring me that my fortune was made and I would never have to work again. I could not tell them that I did not want that, that I feared being castrated, and only wanted to live my life.
When all the food and goblets had been cleared away, I was led back to my room. It was very late, and I was extremely weary. I quickly devoured the snack that had been left for me, used my chamber pot, and fell into bed. But again my sleep was not restful. All night I dreamed of sharp knives cutting my testicles. At times I cried out in pain.
When I woke in the morning, I was still weary. Subdued, I ate my breakfast and waited for Zwahe to arrive. When he entered, I bowed from my knees.
“I thought I told you not to do that when we were alone,” Zwahe said with annoyance.
With downcast eyes, I replied, “You are my master. I am your slave. But after last night we can never be friends. I wish I had died.”
Zwahe sat staring at me. “Why? What is wrong?”
“You told your father I sang, did you not?”
“Well, yes.”
“And why did you not warn me?”
“Gemji, I had only mentioned it in passing. I never thought that would happen last night. But I still do not understand why you are upset.”
“When I finished singing last night the other singer and then some of the slaves said that I would be a castrato. I did not know exactly what that was, but I recognized that it must be one who is castrated like a farm animal. Is that why Hiwah has a high voice? Is that why the singer last night did, too?”
“Yes, Gemji, they are called ‘eunuchs’, and they have a very special place in our kingdom. My father, too, said that you should be a eunuch because of your beautiful voice. It is a gift, Gemji, a gift.”
“But I do not want my balls cut off!!! Would you?”
Zwahe thought before he answered. “No, I suppose I would not. But as a slave, you would live a rich and pampered life. You would never have to worry about anything ever again.”
“I do not want a pampered life if it means I am to be castrated. I just want to be who I am.”
“And if I ordered you to be castrated?”
I looked up through my tears. “I would hate you forever, and I would look for ways to kill you.”
Zwahe paled. He stared at me. “Do you know that threatening the life of a Conqueror means a death sentence for you?” he asked almost in a whisper.
“No, but I do not care. I would rather die than be a eunuch.”
“Oh, Ammirus. I shall have to think what to do. I promised my father that I would have it done. It never occurred to me that you would not want it done. If he learns that you said you would kill me, you will die.”
“He will not learn of it unless you tell him. If you tell him, then I am willing to die rather than be castrated.”
“All right. I shall talk with my father about it, but I won’t tell him what you said.” With that, he departed.
****
As I afterwards learned from him, a few minutes later he entered his father’s throne room, bowed from his waist and stood waiting while his father finished the business of the morning. When his father beckoned to him, he walked forward, knelt on the lowest step of the throne dais, and looked up.
“And what would you ask of me this morning, my young prince?”
“Father, I have talked with my Gemji about becoming a castrato. He is terribly upset. He does not want to do that. He wants badly to remain as he is.”
“He is a slave, Cantru; he will do as he’s told.”
“He says he would rather die, Father.”
The king looked startled. “Really? Did you tell him of all the advantages he would have?”
“I did. He still says he would rather die. He asked me if I would want to be a castrato, and I had to admit that I would not want to be.”
“He had no business asking you such an impertinent question. Very well, he will be punished. Hiwah will put him in a cell under the palace until he changes his mind. Now go. I am not pleased with this interview.”
Zwahe bowed his way out of the room and raced to my room. There he told me what was going to happen to me.
“Then I shall starve myself until I die,” I responded.
“But you must not! I shall not let you!” There were tears in his eyes.
“I can and I will.”
At that point, Hiwah came for me. He roughly dragged me out of the room, through the halls, down stairs which I had never seen before, and threw me into a small, dank, stone room. Then he closed the door and locked it.
Miserable, I looked about. The room had one small barred window very high up, much too high for me to reach. There was a dirty blanket on the floor and a chamber pot. That was all. I soon learned that the blanket stank and was full of vermin.
Days passed slowly. Because of the window I could tell whether it was day or night, but I soon lost track of how many days I was there. I wrapped myself in my blanket against the chill of the cell, though using it caused me to itch terribly. From time to time, food was brought, but I refused to eat. Water was also brought, which I drank, cursing my weakness as I did so, for I knew that I would have died faster from thirst than from hunger.
In the first days, weeping forlornly, I thought a great deal about my home, my family, my friends. But as the days and nights passed and I grew weaker, my memories deserted me, and I lay thinking of nothing, doing nothing except scratching myself and waiting to die. I knew I was growing weaker, for when I rose to get water or use the chamber pot I had increasing difficulty standing, and when I tried to walk I staggered. My eyes would not focus; my head felt light; the room appeared to spin around me. The pain in my stomach was becoming unbearable, and each day I prayed to my spirits that it would be my last.
One day I was writhing weakly in pain on my blanket. I could no longer stand to get water or to urinate. Several days before, I had given up and simply wet myself. Because of that, I was developing painful sores on my body, especially in my groin and on my buttocks. I did not realize it at the time, but I was crying out from the pain when the door opened and Zwahe walked in.
“My gods, Ammirus, what has happened to you? What have you done?!” The prince knelt beside me, felt my forehead and then brought water. “They tell me you’ve eaten nothing since you got here. Is that correct?”
I was too weak to move, but I blinked my eyes. Zwahe got some of the food off the table and tried to make me eat, forcing it into my mouth, but I spat it out and then vomited up the little water I had drunk.
“This is not right, Ammirus. I cannot let this happen. I shall go to my father and try to get him to relent.” He departed quickly and raced to the throne room.
As he later told me, when he entered, seeing that his father was not very busy, he went straight to the throne without being invited and threw himself on the floor.
“What is the meaning of this, Cantru?”
“Father, my Gemji is truly dying. He is in great pain. He cannot eat. He cannot even keep water down. He has been wetting himself because he is too weak to use the chamber pot. Father, please help him.”
“If he dies, he dies. He is only a slave. I’m sorry you wasted money on him, but I will not change my mind.”
“But Father, l…l…love him.”
The king stared in amazement. “You love a slave?”
“Yes, Father, I do.” He looked at his father, gathered his courage and said, “You don’t understand. There is no other person in this palace who is my age. There is no other person here who is my friend. While you teach me to be a man, he has taught me to be a boy ‒ to play games, to enjoy reading together, to laugh and cry together. Father, if he dies, I will not be long after him.”
Thunderstruck, the king could do nothing but stare at his son. “You love him. Do you not love me?”
“Yes, Father, but in a different way. He will never take your place, just as you will never take his.”
The king nodded slowly. “But if I relent, then he will have won.”
“Won what?”
“He will have gone against my wishes and will have won. Everybody in the palace will know that.”
“Can you not just tell them that he has been punished enough? You are the king, but usually you are a merciful king. Can you not be one now?”
The king sighed. “Cantru, you have never asked much from me. I know that ever since your mother died, I have been distant and remote. I have known love. I loved your mother dearly. I loved you very much before she died. For a time after she died, I could not bear the sight of you, for you reminded me of her, of my loss. I do not know if I can ever love again. Do you truly love this boy?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Will you vouch for his good behavior and his loyalty?”
The memory of Gemji saying he would kill him flashed through his mind, but he answered, “Yes, Father.”
“Then go to the infirmary and tell them I have ordered that the boy be taken there and healed.”
“Yes, Father. Thank you, Father!” and without even thinking, he turned and ran from the throne room. He saw neither the tear in his father’s eye nor the smile on his face.
****
I was barely conscious when the door slid open. Gentle hands lifted me onto a stretcher and carried me to the infirmary. There I was gently washed, my sores were cleansed and treated with ointment, and I was put into a bed with clean bedding.
When I awoke, Zwahe was sitting beside me. I looked around, first at Zwahe and then at the room. Although my throat was still very dry, I was able to ask, “What happened? Where am I? Am I dead? Are you keeping the watch of the dead?”
Zwahe smiled. “No, Ammirus,” he answered me gently. “My father relented and you are in the infirmary to get well.”
“Am I to be castrated?”
“No, Ammirus. That will neither happen nor be discussed ever again.”
“How did you do it?”
“I told my father I loved you.”
I was startled. “Does that mean you would give your life for me?”
“Yes, Ammirus. In fact, I told him that if you died, I would not be long in following you.”
A weak smile split my face. “Thank you,” I said and went back to sleep.