The Day of Hearing dawned, 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.

The 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.

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.

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. He 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.

The doors through which the crowd entered were at the far end of the hall from the High Throne. 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.

Close to the throne could be seen another set of high doors. These doors suddenly opened. Twenty four tough and competent looking soldiers, clad in strange armor with 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.

Through the doors could be seen a strange sight. Wooden poles stuck upright in the ground. Some bare, some with metal attachments to attach other objects to, blocks 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 was watching called it Et sanguinis or The place of Blood. With a steady tread they marched down the center of the hall, their grim faces set stonily forward. Every one stared. The soldiers were of a race 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 picture the marchers, he got a surprise. Getting to 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 set of 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 two soldiers stepped back as Lady Dana and Lady Andrea stepped through. The soldiers fell to one knee, their heads held high. As the two leading Ladies stepped out, followed by twenty four other Ladies of the Circle, each soldier 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 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.” <We do>

Slapping his chest and raising his hand 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.

As the procession approached the end of the hall, a gasp went up. The previously empty throne now had an occupant. The Dark Lord had arrived.

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 moving onto 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 Centurion saluted, raised their spears and shouted “Ave Caesar”, <Hail Caesar>. Then turning, they left the hall, via the door they entered.

A sigh swept through the throng and the excitement grew higher. Everyone wondered who would be called first.

With the Steward stepping forward, the hearing started in earnest. With the Steward, who was dressed in formal clothes for this day, 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.

“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 foursome 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.” 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. “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.”

“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.

“Steward, next!”

From the area behind 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 and 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-defence 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.”

*********

At Flag Command School, called by some of those taking the course, ‘Funny Campus’, General Major Dennus watched stoically as the cameras played on the woman stripping. Rera was removing her own clothes, have been given that option or have them ripped off her after she was tied to the post.

One of his classmates leaned over. “Wish you were there, Dennus?”

“No.” Dennus bluntly replied. Surprising to his classmates, but not to the grizzled instructor. The instructor and Dennus exchanged glances. Dennus had done his homework. He had read up on the courses and noted that this same instructor had done a tour of duty at the Palace almost three hundred years before.

“Come on General, you don’t mean that!” Called one of the other members of the course.

“I do.”

“Ok, enough,” the instructor stepped in. “The General has good reason for his answers.” He surveyed the room. “Those few of us who have worked closely with our Master have reasons for our answers.” Then with emphasis, “And we do not discuss it.”

*********

The next petitioner looked terrified. This was a man who had brought his children along for the trip. Smirking soldiers, some in armor and some stripped to the waist, surrounded them, ready for orders. Rera, now naked, had her wrists lashed together and fastened to a rope passed through a hole in the pole. Pulled taut, the unfortunate woman was raised onto her toes while her ankles were tied to rings set into each side of the pole. She was now ready for her whipping.

*********

“You brought your family. Did you think that this was to be an amusement park?” Some of the soldiers laughed at the Dark Lord’s comment, but stopped at a harsh command from the Tribune and a snarl from the Centurion.

“Well, what do you ask of me?” the Dark Lord was being impassive.

The man launched into a tale of woe. His wife was dead, killed in an accident but the person responsible had managed to avoid all responsibility both by employing clever lawyers and outright lies. He had brought his family because he had nowhere else to put them and the special fares offered had made this the cheaper alternative.

All this narrative had been punctuated by screams from Rera as her punishment was administrated. The man could not help but glance her way and stutter while speaking.

“So, my Lord, judge me as you will, but do something for my children.” The man, Rilis Murkist, who had come all the way from the Outer Rim, knelt and bowed his head. The Ladies, who had moved forward during his tale, began to chatter to the Dark Lord in a low voice. Dennus, who listened intently, thought he picked up ‘Cami’ from at least one, possibly Lady Sydney. Rera was moaning now as she was released from the whipping post.

Not allowing a debate to start, the Dark Lord held up his hand, stopping all talk. “I agree, you have been wronged. Steward!” Followed by, “Legate!” Brought both Ardent Nespot, and Legate Mangus Lictus Garius to the throne.

“You will find my judgement here.” He handed over a roll of paper to the Steward. “Seen that the First Councillor gets it and that the family is taken care of.”

Turning to the Legate. “See that they are safely transported through to the Palace grounds.”

“By your command, sire.” Another Tribune was brought over and orders were given.

“Next.”

*********

A man came forward in chains, escorted by guards. A rumble ran through the crowd. This was the traitor, Darsis de Martis. He who had rebelled against the Dark Lord and the Empire. A rebellion that had been swiftly suppressed. Thousands had died, many innocent of anything except of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why he had not been executed at the time was beyond most people’s understanding. Few realised that the courts martial that heard his case was bound by his home planet’s laws that forbade death sentences. So he had been sentenced to life imprisonment on a world designated for that purpose. All this had taken place little more than a hundred standard years before. Considering recent events, some wondered why this broad hint had not been taken by the leaders of Ti Lepus.

No appeal had been made to the Dark Lord and he had never spoken on the subject.

“Interesting,” murmured the Dark Lord. He waved the Steward over. “You really outdid yourself here.”

“Thank you, sire. I considered that this was one you would like to deal with.” He bowed.

“You were right.” He smiled. “It will be interesting to see what he has to say.”

The Dark Lord stood, placing his hands in his pockets as he did so. His cloak flowed from his shoulders as he moved to the front of the dais.

“Speak.”

“I have come to beg relief. I have been imprisoned for many years. My record in prison has been exemplary. I have done all that has been asked of me and more. I have caused no disturbances and have assisted the authorities where I could. Many have written, condemning such a hard and harsh sentence. These will be known to you. I request that you allow me to return to my home world where I can live out my days in peace.” He smiled and bowed his head.

There was some scattered applause, even some murmured, ‘yes’. Then all turned to the Dark Lord who had been standing impassively listening. Even some of the Ladies seemed to be impressed.

The Dark Lord laughed. “Ah, but you were always good for a laugh. Never were you at a loss for words.” He wandered back to the throne. Settling back in, he looked de Martis over. “I see that some of the Ladies are impressed, all in all it was an excellent performance.” He smiled. “And here you have put yourself into our hands by your own petition.”

Darsis de Martis was still holding his smile and his composure, but there was a fire building in his eyes. “May I remind you that there exists a treaty between my world and the Empire?”

“Of course you may remind me, but in this case, it does not apply. Or perhaps you failed to fully comprehend all the conditions prior to submitting your petition?”

“There was nothing in the conditions pertaining to any treaty.”

“True, but the first condition explicitly states that I am the sole judge of all matters and I can dispense any judgement I see fit. You acknowledged all conditions before filling out your petition thereby agreeing to them. So here you are and what do we do with you?”

“I have been already tried and convicted in a court. You can’t try me again for the same crimes.” The prisoner was twisting and his true nature was starting to show through.

“Well I could, but for obvious reasons, I won’t.” The Dark Lord sighed. “But it doesn’t matter. You see, you committed many other crimes, including murder of several people on your way up, and conspired to kill many more. Steward!”

Ardent Nespot stepped to the throne. He was handed a slim folder. “Here is a breakdown of the people for whom Darsis de Martis directly killed or was responsible for killing. Send it to the First Councillor.” De Martis was snarling now, his façade crumbling.

“I protest. There has been no court and no evidence shown.”

The reply came with preternatural calm, “I am the court and you are the evidence.” He smiled and everyone wondered what sentence would be imposed.

 “Legate!”

Mangus Lictus Garius stepped to the dais. “Sire?”

“You have plenty of wood?”

“I do, sire.” Some of the soldiers who now surrounded De Martis were openly grinning. They already knew.

“Crucify him, in proper form.”

The Legate, who had followed the proceeding with sharp attention, grimly nodded. “By your command, my Lord.” The order was promptly passed. The chains holding De Martis to his prison guards were quickly released and he was marched, struggling impotently, out the doors.

“Next,” called the Dark Lord.

*********

Dragged to the same whipping post, De Martis was given the same option its previous occupant had. Believing that he would be getting his clothes back, he complied. The smirking soldier’s knew better.

Quickly, he was tied to the whipping post the same way as Rera had been. Two burly soldiers stepped to each side of the condemned man. Leather whips in their hands. Not the light whip used on Rera. These were the flagrum, a whip with a short handle and generally two or three long thick thongs, each weighted at some distance from their extremity with lead balls. The Centurion took his post between the two men and called, “Unum.” <One>, indicating the man to the left.

A sharp scream echoed across the grounds as the thongs lashed across De Martis’s back.

The Centurion indicated the soldier to his right, “Duo.” <Two>. This time the whip lashed across his buttocks. Another scream rang out. There were no less than thirty eight more calls to be made by the Centurion. For so long as he considered De Markus would survive the scourging.

Back in the hall, another petitioner was quivering before the throne. This one, a women shivered and stuttered as the screams followed each dull thud of the cords.

“Your claim is clear, woman, you have been wronged and the person who has wronged you will pay. But you were also culpable in part so only half of your claim is awarded.” The Dark Lord delivered His decision. With a nod to the Steward she was sent, together with her supporters, with an escort across the wastelands.

Another petitioner was dealt with before the whipping was over. This worthy was a criminal who sought a reduction in his sentence. Already cautious and no fool, he had taken note of what had happened to the previous individuals. Happy that he had not caused anyone to die, he did not think himself in danger of losing his head. Fully admitting his crimes, he asked for mercy, pledging to do his best to go straight. Harsh commands from the open doors announced the end of the whipping.

The Dark Lord sat and ruminated for a space. Then sat forward. “Very well I will give you mercy, but at a price. You will go to a frontier world and stay there. You will also be under sentence of death if you play Me false. Legate!”

“Sire?”

“Take this man to where De Martis is suffering. Let him view the manner of his death.”

“As you wish, sire.”

The Dark Lord turned back to the petitioner. “And you, your sentence is suspended, unless you commit another serious crime. Then you will suffer the same fate you are witnessing if you fail.” With another nod, the man left with his escort.

 Semi-conscious, De Martis was released from the whipping post, believing that his ordeal was over. He was mistaken and soon realised it. Dragged across the ground to another set of posts he was thrown onto the ground in front of one, while a notched beam, called a patibulum by the soldiers, was dragged from the pile. Raising himself to his knees he stared uncomprehendingly at the wooden beam in front of him.

One of the soldiers, wearing only a loin cloth, carrying a heavy mallet and holding a spike said something. The man who had been ordered to observe, wondered what was going to happen. He didn’t have to wait, the other soldiers flipped de Martis onto his back and pulled his arms across the beam, securing them with rope. Kneeling, the nearly naked soldier placed the point of the spike at the wrist of de Martis, raised the mallet high and brought it down without hesitation. Another scream rang across the ground.

The spike was swiftly driven in followed by the other wrist being secured to the accompaniment of more screams. With a grunt, the soldiers raised themselves up, removing the ropes first. The nearly naked soldier nodded and spoke a word of command. Two long poles, forked at one end, were produced as the beam was lifted by the solders at the foot of the upright post. This, the soldiers called a stipes. The poles were placed under the patibulum as it was pushed against the stipes. The one who had done the nailing had, in the meantime placed a ladder against the back of the upright post and guided a slot in the beam to a corresponding tongue at the top of the post. A bolt passed through a hole in both secured the beam to the upright.

De Martis hung unconscious from the spikes in his wrists and the unwilling observer thought that this was the end of the matter. But the same semi naked soldier had procured another spike. Waving to the remaining soldiers he approached de Martis again. This time he held the spike, a longer one, to the foot as the legs were bent and the feet positioned with ropes. Further blows of the mallet drove the spike through both feet and, after removing the ropes, the soldiers stepped back to admire their work. The screams this drew from de Martis showed that he was still alive.

The observer felt ill but managed to keep himself from throwing up. The Centurion clapped him on the shoulder and spoke in their own tongue.

“Boni operis, ut viveret quidem die.” <Good work, he should live for a day at least.>

With a laugh, he left to report to one of the Tribunes. The observer stood there unwilling to comprehend what he had just witnessed. After some time had passed another soldier came to him. The soldier did not speak, but indicated that he was to leave. With one last look at the body of Darsis de Martis, naked and pushing himself up and down on the cross so that he could breathe, he left. The soldiers called this movement, The Dance of Death. The lesson was now seared into the observer’s brain.

In the Hall of Hearing, the day continued.