7 -- Morning Routine

Before I could empty my bladder I had to wait till the Servant of the Footstool brought the step for the Servant of the Slippers to place them on. And I had to stand in the slippers and put my arms out for the Draper On of the Morning Robe and wait for the Official Tie Servant secured the belt. After that I could go to the garderobe and hope the Servant of the door wasn’t slow that day. I disliked losing control of my bladder and with all the milk and water during the night my need was urgent.

My father wouldn’t bother. I’d been there on his waking when the Servant of the Imperial Garderobe Door was a breath too slow. My father had stopped and let his bladder go on the floor where He stood, staring at the Aitzas lad who had hoped to gain favour by serving Him. The boy knelt, not daring to look up, watching the yellow puddle flow across the stone to touch his knee, realizing his hopes and that of his family were now worth less than that spreading pool. Once my father was clean He’d ordered the boy to drink His urine for an eight day to teach him not to be slow.

The servant made sure I was clean after I used the garderobe and then I had every piece of my clothing and jewelry placed on me by a different person. Lots of the servants were boys my own age, Aitzas worthy of waiting on me, hoping I would grow to like them and their service. I mostly ignored them and their greedy eyes. They’d gaze at me like misers counting future gold and believed I was too stupid to see the look in their eyes.

I preferred the career servants of the Marble Palace, they had their own hierarchies and in-fights, interlocking with the Aitzas ones but it did not much depend on my favour or censure. I was just another Imperial mannequin, albeit breathing. I sat down to eat my first meal just as the Imperial Chime on the roof sounded. My father had just risen and that chime would let the whole city know their ruler’s motion through the day, the sound as regular a progression as the sun across the sky.

I ate baked crème with an undertone of spasmweed, drank two more cups of kaf with arsenic. The whipped, baked apple foam was clear of additives, as was the thick smoked bacon, and the cream sauce frothed eggs on pressed white toast. It took me a while to eat what I should, Binshala watching almost every mouthful, one of her charges being to see I kept my regal weight up. I had perhaps an hour before she would appear with another snack for me. Then would come the Middle of Day Meal with the court and my father would insist I join him after for a nursing session.

He had never weaned and kept a stable of slaves as his wet nurses. They would come to the Imperial Nursing room or the atrium balcony, naked for him and for me. At one time they had all had additives given them so their milk would taste of them but they tended to sicken and die, so father had graciously ceased poisoning them. That was much to the Chamberlain’s relief because the slaves my father favoured were very expensive, mostly blond Arkans because my father preferred their taste. There was the occasional black woman for variation but I found their milk tasted the same no matter the colour of their skin. The women’s milk was pale and scented like fanilas, sticky and too sweet, a middle day dessert too much on top of a full court meal but at least it didn’t taste of the various poisons. I also found I liked being cuddled against a woman’s breast. It was very comforting.

That routine changed on fight days, with the Middle Meal served my father and I in the Imperial box at the Mezem so we wouldn’t miss a single fight. My father loved eating while watching men die. He’d lock His eyes on the latest fight and shovel food into His mouth with gusto, licking His lips, gravy often on His chin, flowing like the blood on the sand. I preferred that over the other when He had a boy serve Him. My father seemed to be thrilled most by things spurting or pouring or gushing. Semen, blood, sauces, milk, it was all passion to Him.