The Brazen Bull

The Tyrant King’s terrible gift was pushed into the great hall the day before the feast by slaves who thereafter gave the thing a wide berth as they made preparations around it. That evening a dignitary from The Peninsula arrived to practice the speech he intended to deliver the following morning. Inquiring about the draped object and the cords of firewood stacked beside it he asked whom the gift was from. Upon hearing the answer he blanched and sailed back home under the moonlight.

The King’s Curia Regis arrived at dawn and had The Majordomo remove the drape. It was a brass bull larger than any beast in the kingdom with gleaming horns pointed skyward above a face contorted with rage, its mouth agape in a roar. They discussed the young man who had built it, whom the king had begun referring to as The Engineer. He was the upstart son of The Dungeonmaster who had impressed The King with designs for new harbor defenses that had been erected the previous year. The Peninsula had seen this as an act of war, but so far no blood had been shed, though prisoners had been taken on both sides. The King was known deep into the mainland for His cruelty and His dungeon was full of people from The Peninsula and the surrounding islands.

The King’s younger brother fingered the insignia of office pinned to his chest. The steel fist was heavy and he’d taken to securing his robes back so they didn’t sag. He now sagged, thinking about the bandits on Rat Island he had been unable to dislodge. The Majordomo twisted the bull’s tail and pulled open a door exposing a chamber inside.

The King’s Wizard felt his bowels turn to water, The Crimson Tide had returned, despite the sacrifice of many virgins. He had recently been approached by The Engineer and shown designs for a new type of ship that could circle the island collecting the red algae. As he’d walked past the head table The Wizard had noticed the little prick’s placard directly to the king’s right. More firewood was brought in.

The King’s Engineer fainted. There had been a distinct chill in the air since He’d seen the maps demonstrating the advantages of diverting the waste aqueducts into pools. The little bastard had been born in a cell to a Peninsula noblewoman. How could The King have such faith in him?

The King’s Astrologer and all of His Ministers felt their fear grow as the pile of firewood was stacked so high that scaffolds were erected. The Majordomo clapped his hands and slaves pulled the limp body of The King’s Engineer aside to make way for The King’s Painter as well as a live bull for reference.

The heavy beast sniffed at his brazen brother, regarding the fury-frozen face with docile curiosity. He’d been castrated long ago and eaten nothing but beer-soaked grain since being taken, young and fat, away from his mother’s teat. There was nothing to be angry about. Life was about trotting in the sun and laying in the grass and not an hour ago he’d been draped with sacred fabrics before they’d been whisked away for final tailoring. They’d even put bells on his horns. Imagine that. They’d tinkled so joyfully.

The King’s Painter cried out that he must see the beast's eyes and the bull’s horns were wrenched towards the easel, his gaze passing over the long blade The King would pass through him to set off the feast. He thought nothing of the future even with the scent of spices in the air.

The King’s Dungeonmaster wandered up mid-morning in the hopes of arranging a mass-execution during the festivities. The cells were jammed with prisoners from The Peninsula and with more Tributes arriving monthly he was running out of ideas. He’d hoped to talk to The King’s Engineer about adding some cells, but the old drunk was already on the floor. He made up his mind to talk to the new Engineer.

The Dungeonmaster thought it was funny how he now needed the help of a man he had delivered as a baby. That Princess had cursed up a storm the whole time. He realized he must be getting on in years. Maybe it was time to take his pension and go sit in the sun, maybe it was time to let the packed cells, full of misery and disease, become someone else’s problem.

He looked at The Brazen Bull. He’d heard that its throat was full of acoustic pipes and resonating chambers that made the wails of those in the beast’s belly sound indistinguishable from the bellows of a real bull. It was high art, certainly, but the practicality escaped him.

A choir of castrati was brought in and as their sweet song filled the air The Dungeonmaster looked from the metal monstrosity to the dopey-eyed bull chewing his cud, blissfully unaware of what the day held in store for him, to the sinuous-limbed singers. He looked down at himself and thought about how, as a youth, he’d considered himself useless, but he had found a useful path. He looked back at the bull and the choir behind it. Eunuchs could have their uses. He touched the heavy master key around his neck. Its twin hung around The King’s own.