Dune: House Atreides (10 page)

One morning, a week before Leto was scheduled to leave, his father clapped a hand on his shoulder and took him along as he went about his rounds to meet the people, making a point to greet even the servants. The Duke led a small honor guard into the seaside town below the Castle, doing his own shopping, seeing his subjects and being seen. Paulus often went on such outings with his son -- and Leto always considered these to be wonderful times.

Out under the pale blue sky, the Old Duke laughed easily, beaming with infectious good nature. The people smiled when the hearty man walked among them. Leto and his father strolled together along the bazaar, past the stalls of vegetables and fresh fish to inspect beautiful tapestries woven from beaten ponji fibers and fire-threads. There Paulus Atreides often bought baubles or keepsakes for his wife, especially after they had quarreled, though the Duke didn't seem to understand Helena's interests enough to select anything appropriate for her.

At an oyster stall the Old Duke suddenly paused and gazed up at the cloud-scudded sky, struck by what he considered a brilliant idea. He looked down at his son, and a broad grin split his bushy beard. "Ah, we need to send you off with an appropriate spectacle, lad. Make your leave-taking a memorable event for all of Caladan."

Leto forced himself not to cringe. He had heard his father's crazy ideas before, and knew the Old Duke would follow through, regardless of common sense.

"What do you have in mind, sir? What do I need to do?"

"Nothing, nothing. I shall announce a celebration in honor of my heir and son."

He grabbed Leto's hand and raised it up in the air, as if in a triumphant wave, then his voice boomed out, subduing the crowds. "We are going to have a bullfight, an old-fashioned extravaganza for the populace. It will be a day of celebration for Caladan, with holoprojections transmitted around the globe."

"With Salusan bulls?" Leto asked, picturing in his mind the spine-backed beasts, their black heads studded with multiple horns, their eyes faceted. When he had been a younger boy, Leto had often gone into the stables to look at the monstrous animals. Stablemaster Yresk, one of his mother's old retainers from Richese, tended the bulls for Paulus's occasional spectacles.

"Naturally," the Old Duke said. "And as usual, I'll fight them myself." He swept his arm out in a flourish, as if imagining a colorful cape there. "These old bones are agile enough to dodge around a lumbering monster like that. I'll have Yresk prepare one -- or would you like to pick the beast yourself, lad?"

"I thought you weren't going to do that anymore," Leto said. "It's been almost a year since you . . ."

"Wherever did you get that idea?"

"Your advisors, sir. It's too risky. Isn't that why others have been fighting the bulls in your place?"

The old man laughed. "What a foolish notion! I've been out of the ring for only one reason: The bulls went downhill for a while, some genetic imbalance that made them unworthy. That's changed, though, and new bulls are being brought in now, tougher than ever. Yresk says they're ready to fight, and so am I." He put his arm around Leto's narrow shoulders. "What better occasion for a corrida de toros than the leave-taking of my son? You'll attend this bullfight

-- your first. Your mother can't say you're too young anymore."

Leto nodded, reluctantly. His father would never be swayed, once his mind was made up. At least Paulus had the training, and would wear a personal shield.

Using personal shields, Leto himself had fought human opponents, aware of a shield's advantages and limitations. A shield could block projectile fire and fast-moving weapons of death, but any blade traveling below the threshold speed could pass through to the unprotected flesh beneath. A rampaging Salusan bull, with its sharp horns, might well move slowly enough to pierce even the most finely tuned shield.

He swallowed hard, wondering about the new, enhanced bulls. The old ones Stablemaster Yresk had shown him seemed dangerous enough -- they'd killed three matadors that Leto could remember ....

Consumed by his fresh idea, Duke Paulus made the announcement at the bazaar, over the public address system implanted in booths and stalls. Upon hearing this, people in the marketplace cheered and their eyes glittered. They laughed, partly in anticipation of the performance itself -- and also because of the declared day of rest and celebration.

Leto's mother wouldn't like this at all, he knew -- Paulus in the fight and Leto in attendance -- but Leto also understood that as soon as Helena began to object, the Old Duke would be more determined than ever.

THE BOWL OF the Plaza de Toros sprawled under the noonday sun. The stands spread out in an immense broad grid, so filled with people that in the farthest reaches they looked like tiny colored pixels. The Duke had never charged any fee to witness his performances; he was too proud of them, enjoyed showing off too much.

Enormous green-and-black banners flapped in the breeze, while fanfare blasted from speakers. Pillars emblazoned with Atreides hawk crests sparkled with emblems that had been newly polished and painted for the event. Thousands of floral bouquets harvested from the fields and lowlands had been placed about the bullring -- an unsubtle hint that the Duke liked the people to strew the ground with blossoms each time he dispatched a bull.

Below, in the preparation chambers at ground level, Paulus girded up before the fight. Leto stood with him behind a barricade, listening to the impatient crowd. "Father, I'm uneasy about the risk you're taking. You shouldn't do this

. . . especially not for me."

The Old Duke brushed aside the comment. "Leto, lad, you must understand that governing people and winning their loyalty consists of more than just signing papers, collecting taxes, and attending Landsraad meetings." He straightened his magenta cape, preened in front of a mirror.

"I depend on those people out there to produce the most that Caladan can provide. They must do so willingly, with hard work -- and not just for their own profit, but for their honor and glory. If House Atreides was ever to go to war again, these people would shed their blood for me. They would lay down their lives under our banner." He fiddled with his armor. "Tighten this for me?"

Leto grabbed the string fasteners of the back leather plate, tugged them, and cinched the knots tight. He kept silent but nodded to show he understood.

"As their Duke, I need to give them something back, prove that I'm worthy. And it's not just for entertainment, but to instill in their minds that I'm a man of grand stature, of heroic proportions . . . someone blessed by God to rule them.

I can't do that unless I put myself before them. Leadership is not a passive process."

Paulus checked his shield belt, then smiled through his beard. " 'No one is too old to learn,' " he quoted. "That's a line from the Agamemnon play -- just to show you that I'm not always sleeping when I appear to be."

Thufir Hawat, the stern-faced weapons master, stood beside his Duke. As a loyal Mentat, Hawat would not speak out against his superior's decisions; instead, he gave the best advice he could, whispering to Paulus the patterns he had seen in the movements of this new batch of mutated Salusan bulls.

Leto knew his mother would be up in the stands in the ducal spectator box. She would be dressed in her finery, wearing colorful gauzy veils and robes, playing her part, waving to the people. The night before, once again, there had been much heated discussion behind the bedroom doors; finally, Duke Paulus had simply silenced her with a barked command. Afterward he had gone to sleep, resting for the following day's exertions.

The Duke put on his green-bordered cap, then took the equipment he would need to conquer the wild bull: his poniards and a long, feathered vara with nerve toxin on the lance tip. Thufir Hawat had suggested that the stablemaster slightly tranquilize the bull to deaden its rampaging impulses, but the Duke was a man who loved to face a challenge. No drug-dulled opponent for him!

Paulus clipped the activation pack onto his shield belt and powered up the field. It was only a half shield, used to guard his side; the Duke used a garishly brilliant cape called a muleta to cover his other side.

Paulus bowed first to his son, then his Mentat, and then the trainers waiting at the entrance to the arena. "Time for the show to begin." Leto watched him swirl about and, like a bird on a mating display, strut out into the open Plaza de Toros. At his appearance, cheers thundered out with a roar far louder than any Salusan bull's.

Leto stood behind the barricade, blinking into the glare of the open sun. He smiled as his father made a slow circuit of the arena, waving his cape, bowing, greeting his ecstatic people. Leto could sense the love and admiration they had for this brave man, and it warmed his heart.

Waiting there in the shadows, Leto vowed to do all he could to study his father's triumphs, so that one day he would command such respect and devotion from the people. Triumphs . . . this would be another in a long list of them for his father, Leto assured himself. But he couldn't help worrying. Too much could change in the flicker of a shield, the flash of a sharp horn, the stamp of a hoof.

Tones sounded, and an announcer's voice gave introductory details of the impending corrida de toros. With a flourish of a sequined glove, Duke Paulus gestured toward the broad reinforced doors on the opposite side of the arena.

Moving to another archway for a better view, Leto reminded himself that this would be no sham performance. His father would be battling for his very life.

Stableboys had been tending the ferocious beasts, and Stablemaster Yresk had personally selected one for the day's corrida. After inspecting the animal, the Old Duke had been satisfied, certain the crowd would be equally pleased by its ferocity. He looked forward to the fight.

Heavy gates opened with a grinding of suspensor hinges, and the Salusan bull charged out, shaking its massive, multiple-horned head in the dazzling light.

Its faceted eyes glittered with feral rage. The scales on the mutated creature's back reflected iridescent colors from its black hide.

Duke Paulus whistled and waved his cape. "Over here, stupid!" The spectators laughed.

Turning toward him, the bull lowered its head with a loud bubbling snort. Leto noticed that his father hadn't yet switched on his protective shield. Instead, Paulus snapped and fluttered his colorful cape, trying to draw the wrath of the beast. The Salusan bull pawed and snorted on the sandy arena floor, then charged. Leto wanted to cry out, to warn his father. Had the man simply forgotten to switch on his protection? How could he possibly survive without a shield?

But the bull thundered past, and Paulus swept his cape gracefully to one side, letting the creature strike the diversionary target. Its hooked horns shredded the bottom of the fabric into ragged frays. While it was coming about, the Old Duke turned his back to the bull, exposed and overconfident. He bowed mockingly toward the crowd before he stood straight -- then calmly, patiently, flicked on his personal shield.

The bull attacked again, and now the Duke used his poniard to toy with it, pricking through its thick, scaled hide before slashing a stinging yet minor wound along its flank. The creature's faceted eyes saw multiple images of its colorfully garbed tormentor.

It charged again.

Moving too fast to penetrate the shield, Leto thought. But if the bull tires and slows, he could be even more dangerous ....

As the fight continued, Leto saw how his father was playing this up for all the spectacle he could muster, tantalizing the audience to amuse them. Old Paulus could have killed the Salusan bull at any time, yet he drew out the moment, savored it.

From the reactions of the spectators, Leto knew this would be an event talked about for years. The rice farmers and fishermen led such dreary, hardworking lives. But this celebration would fix a proud image of their Duke forever in their minds. Look what Old Paulus was doing, they would say, despite his age!

Eventually the bull became exhausted, its eyes reddened with blood, its snorts heavy and tired as it spilled its life fluid onto the powdery surface of the arena. Duke Paulus himself now chose to end the fight. He had dragged the sport along for nearly an hour. Though dripping with sweat, he somehow maintained his regal appearance and did not allow his manner to show weariness, or his fine clothes to be disheveled.

Up in the stands, Lady Helena continued to wave her pennants, smiling fixedly down at the spectacle.

By now, the Salusan bull was like a maddened machine, a rampaging monster that had few vulnerable spots in its black-scaled armor. As the beast ran at him again, its gait staggering, its gleaming horns pointed like spears, Duke Paulus feinted to the left, then returned as the bull surged past.

Then Paulus swung sideways, tossed his flapping cape to the dust, and gripped the shaft of his vara lance in both hands. He threw all of his strength into a powerful side thrust. Flawlessly performed, magnificently executed. The blade of the lance drove home through a chink in the Salusan bull's armored hide, sliding through an intersection of bone and skull, skewering straight through to impale both of the creature's separated brains -- the most difficult, most sophisticated way to kill it.

The bull ground to a halt, wheezing, groaning -- and suddenly dead. Its carcass slumped like a crashing spaceship onto the ground.

Planting his foot on the horned head of the bull, Duke Paulus heaved against his lance, pulled the bloodied blade out, and dropped it onto the ash-covered ground. Next he drew his sword and, raising it high, twirled it in a triumphant gesture.

As one, the people in the stands surged to their feet, screaming, howling, and cheering. They waved their banners, snatched bouquets from flowerpots, and tossed the blossoms onto the arena floor. They sang out Paulus's name over and over.

Reveling in the adoration, the Atreides patriarch smiled and turned about, opening his coat so that the spectators could see his blood-spattered, sweat-drenched form. He was the hero now; he had no need to show off his finery.