Book V: Chapter 7 | Agon

“Zeus Philaxenoi? That’s a little rich coming from you,” Pompanianus scowled.
Sitting in the cell, with the hay and straw all swept away, was the Roman senator. Now dressed in full armor and regalia—much of it returned to him—he sat in a chair in the corner of the cell where he once stood as a prisoner, a promise to himself. Surrounded by his guards and the forms of Castro and Pollux, they watched unmoved at the moaning and pleading eyes of the Chained Queen across from them.

Castro, Alexander, and Pollux knew their duty at this time: make their father look imposing. They performed it admirably.
Pompanianos paid no attention to the prisoner on the other side of the cell, merely speaking of her fate as he talked to his friend.
Pliny continued, “Wasn’t it you who said in this very room that the cats violated the sacred universal law of guest right? That Zeus taught us we should respect those we hold as guests, lest they be gods in disguise? Well, according to their logic, we were gods in disguise. They violated the law of sacred right. This should serve as a re-teaching of the myth.”

Pompanianos waved the idea away with a stern look.
“I do not appreciate you taking the sacred customs of Rome—the pietas we owe the gods in the Capitoline triad—and dressing them up like the cult of Vespasian you’d promote among the barbarians. If this had come from a cynical augur or maneuvering senator, I might have accepted it. But I know who you are. I’ve read your work. You mocked the gods’ involvement in men’s affairs. I will not hear this from you. Why are you making this point? Get to your actual point.”

They continued to argue.
Galle, now returned to her customary segmented lacquered armor, her face hidden by a metallic dog mask and helmet, rubbed her fingers over the large sword sheathed at her right side. She looked over at the Chained Queen behind her.
Barbara stood alongside her.

The Queen looked at her captors. “What are they saying? I don’t understand, neeya?”

Galle ignored her, gu.
Barbara said matter-of-factly, “They’re debating whether or not to enslave you and the cat people.”

“What? No, they can’t do that to us, nyaaaa!”

Galle chuckled under her mask. “And why not, kyan? Seems the snout has finally met the tail, wan.”

The Queen cried, “You can’t do this! The Great Hero forbade slavery. It was his first great act. Our ancestors were liberated by him, nyaaaa!”

Barbara cocked her head. “Then why did you enslave us?”

Galle spat, “Neither of you were part of the chosen race. It didn’t count, gau.”

Barbara shrugged. “New chosen, new rules.”

Pliny pressed, “My friend, look at how they lived. The squalor. The lack of discipline. Their festival was a nightmare of sensual pleasures. This Queen can’t even keep her own desires in check, let alone her people’s. Plato and Aristotle both speak of this leader—an erotic tyrant. Natural slaves. If we do not enslave them, they will enslave themselves to desire. We must do this as a favor to them.”

Pompanianos finally stood. “Enough! I’ve had enough of your backward Greek nonsense. Enough of your syllogisms, your peripatetic prattle. We are building a federation of noble soldiers and citizens, a proud city like our ancestors. You’d leap straight to decadence—the rot that spawned the Caesars.”

Pliny snapped back. “Are you Cicero now? Is this the Senate of the optimates? You owe your seat to Emperor Vespasian, heir to the Caesars. You mock me as a hypocrite while taking Caesar’s coin?”

The Queen protested to Barbara. “There are many of us. What would you do with 100 cats as slaves? Can’t you just rule the city, neeya?”

Another cat snapped, “Watch your tongue. This is my city.”

“It doesn’t look like your city anymore,” another muttered.

Barbara looked around. “We don’t want this city. But there’s iron here. Supplies. We have our own city, but we’ll use these materials—pipes for baths, iron for swords.”

The Queen gasped. “You would strip us bare… nyaaaa!”

Pampanianos’ voice rose. “I have no ill will towards Vespasian. But ever since Jerusalem, Rome is swarming with Greeks, Gauls, Berbers, Numidians, Syriacs—all as slaves. Our virtue drained. Noble Romans left destitute. If we repeat this here, we’ll never see a virtuous republic. I don’t even seek a republic—I seek a Rome of virtuous men. A Rome of Romulus and Aeneas, not Nero and Sulla.”

Barbara muttered to herself, “How large was this Rome?”
Galle asked what they were talking about, kun?
“They’re arguing about their homeland,” Barbara explained. “But they speak as if it had thousands, if not more. Why need so much labor for one city?”
“There’s no way,” Galle scoffed, gu. “Large organizations collapse. Look at this city—they proved my point, wan.”
“The Great Hero had cities with large populations,” Barbara said.
“Where are they now, kun? Anything larger than a tribe collapses. Truth, wan.”
“The only thing we proved,” Barbara countered, “was that cats can’t rule themselves. That’s why we’ll have them build our walls.”
“Maybe,” Galle laughed, wa. “But they’ll build your walls as poorly as they built this city, gau.”
Barbara smirked. “You might have a point.”

Pompanianus turned to Pliny. “Look at yourself. Beard, Greek philosophy, Hellenic knowledge—you’ve become a product of Greek slaves. If we let these cats in, our grandchildren will be licking bowls like Greeks. I won’t see our new Rome conquered by slaves as the old one was.”

Pliny retorted. “And what would you have us do?”

The senator drew his sword for effect and spoke in Common. “Barbara, we’re considering massacring the entire population. Pompanianus has no use for them as slaves.”

The Queen gasped. “No! Please, why would you do this? We’ll do anything. I’ll give anything, nyaaaa!”

Another cat prisoner shouted, “She’ll give anything—let us go, we’ll give you her, nyaaaa!”

Pliny turned to Pompanianus. “I’m still waiting for solutions. You criticize, but reality is this: we are undermanned, building a city, needing resources. The solution is familiar—slavery.”

Pompanianus waved him off, hands clasped behind his back. He looked at the prisoners, then Barbara, then his guards. Sitting back down, he turned to Alexander and Castro.
“Bring the Queen to me.”

They nodded, removed her shackles, and brought her before Pompanianus.
“How much is your throne worth?” he asked.

“My throne is the greatest of all cat people. The key to the inner cities. Worth thousands. Priceless, nya.”

“You’ll have to put a price.”
“This city is worth… ten thousand sacred script.”

Pompanianus turned to Barbara and Galle. “Sacred script?”
Galle explained. “Currency of the cities. A paper form. One piece feeds a family for a day. A week’s wages for a worker, wan.”

“I’ll be generous,” Pompanianus said. “You need only pay half. We’ll give back your throne.”

He snapped his fingers.
Barbara brought a wax tablet. Pompanianus dictated:
“We will return the Queen to her throne. Protect her city from invaders. In exchange, she will provide a tenth of her best men for Roman training. She will provide five thousand sacred script, payable in script or in materials—gold, wood, iron. Payment due within ten years. At least five hundred in the first year. Five hundred immediately.”

Barbara wrote it down and handed the parchment.
“You’re not going into slavery. We wouldn’t get money back for that. Now sign.”

The Queen looked at the paper. They unshackled one hand so she could hold the pen. She sobbed.
“Are our terms too harsh?”