The King

CHAPTER 15

“He is gone! I heard it in the kitchen, from one of the barrack girls!” said the small brunette, rushing into the administration’s cement slave shed in Venitzia, a small city on Tangara, surrounded by its electric defenses. It was the provincial capital.

“Who is gone?” cried the blonde, rising from her simple, sturdy, anchored metal cot, to which she, like the other girls to theirs, was chained.

The surprise, and bewilderment, was universal.

The girls came to the ends of their chains, out, into the aisle, as they could. Their chains must reach far enough to make possible the cleaning of not only their area but of the adjacent portion of the aisle, as well.

“The barbarian!” cried the girl. “He has gone!”

The blonde cursed the chain on her left ankle that would permit her only a handful of feet from the cot.

“I do not understand,” said she who was first girl, even she, at the moment, chained to her cot.

“They are startled, in consternation, furious!” said the brunette. “It seems he left Venitzia before dawn, without informing anyone, taking only a horse and supplies upon a sledge.”

“But why?” asked a girl.

“I do not know,” said the brunette. “He was to wait, for his excellency, Lord Julian. There was some diplomatic mission or other, it seems. But he has gone!”

“What of all the hoverers, of the shuttle, of the Narcona?” asked another.

“The Narcona remains in orbit,” said the brunette. “The shuttle is within her. The hoverers are covered, in the yard, with the supplies.”

“Where did he go?”

“Who knows,” said the brunette.

“Which direction did he go?” asked another girl.

“We do not know,” said the brunette. “Doubtless he has his own plans, or destination.”

“Surely a search was made!” said a girl.

“There are no traces,” said the brunette. “The storm! The hoverers were forced to return, unable to maneuver.”

“What is wrong, Cornhair?” asked the girl next to the, blonde.

“Call me ‘Filene’!” cried the blonde, in tears. “That is the name I have been given!”

“That is the name the masters gave you!” said the girl next to her. “Say it! It is the name the masters gave you!”

“Very well,” said the blonde, in tears. “It is the name the masters have given me!”

“That is better, Cornhair,” said the girl.

“I will buy and sell you all!” screamed the blonde. “I will see to it that you are all sold to beasts and reptiles!”

“Secure your freedom first, slave slut!” said the girl near her.

“Slut! Slut! Bitch! Bitch!” screamed the blonde.

“Be silent, slave,” said she whose cot was near the door, she who was first girl.

“Yes, Mistress,” said the blonde.

“What is wrong, Cornhair?” asked the girl on the other side of her.

“Nothing,” said the blonde, and sat, frightened, on her cot, her legs drawn up, on the simple, striped mattress, the palms of her hands down upon it.

“I do not know what is going on,” said another girl.

“Nor I,” said another.

The blonde felt sick, and it seemed she was reeling. She was chained to a cot in a slave shed in a small town far from the inner Telnarian worlds. Her only garment, as was the case with the other girls, as well, was a simple, scandalously brief slave tunic. Her lovely legs were well bared. She looked at the ring on her ankle, with its attached chain. She could not slip it, no more than could the other girls in the shed.

For all they knew, and for all those in Venitzia might know, and for all those, or most of those, of the Narcona might know, she might even be a slave, an actual slave!

It might be easy enough to believe she was a slave.

Certainly she was beautiful enough to be a slave.

What if, somehow or other, her actual identity was lost? What if her protestations as to her true identity, her true status, as a free woman, were ignored, or disbelieved? She was far from home. What if she were merely beaten, as a mad slave? Doubtless Iaachus had seen to it that there were slave papers on her. She had even been, in Lisle, photographed, and measured, in detail, and fingerprinted, and toeprinted, as might have been any slave.

She had had a business to do, and it was to have been done on Tangara, presumably in some camp in the Tangaran wilderness, surely, in any event, not on the Narcona.

The Narcona and its crew were not to be compromised.

How could she manage it now?

Where was the dagger?

She did not even know, as yet, the identity of her mysterious confederate.

She recalled a night, two nights ago, on the Narcona.

“You summoned me?” she had asked.

“Why are you standing?” he had asked.

She had knelt before the young blond officer, Corelius.

He had a small, light, folded, silken sheet on the arm of his chair.

“Remove your tunic,” he said.

“Surely,” he said, “a command need not be repeated.”

She drew the tiny tunic off, over her head, blushing.

“Surely you understand, Filene,” he said, “that modesty is not permitted to a slave.

“The proper response,” he said, “is ‘Forgive me, Master. Yes, Master.’ “

“Forgive me, Master,” she said. “Yes, Master.”

Can it be he, she wondered, is he my contact, the agent, he who will supply the dagger?

He tossed her the small sheet and she put it hastily, quickly, gratefully, about her. It came about her thighs, as she knelt, but was not long enough to cover her knees.

“What is the meaning of the removal of my clothing, and that I have been given this tiny sheet?” she asked.

“Were you given permission to speak?” he asked.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“But you are curious?”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You are all alike,” he said.

She stiffened.

“You have been called for,” he said.

“‘Called for’?”

“Yes,” he said.

“By whom?” she asked, frightened.

“Perhaps by Qualius,” he said.

That was the name of the porcine stocksman, he with the fat face, with the tiny, closely set eyes, who had denied her even a rag in her cage.

She turned white.

She had not anticipated that she, in her adventure, in her pursuit of station, and wealth, might, if only to preserve the integrity of her guise as a slave, find herself put to slave use. Perhaps he was not the agent. Perhaps he did not know that she was truly free. How could she confess to him that she was not a slave?

“I jest,” he smiled.

She shuddered, clutching the tiny sheet about her.

“Normally,” he said, “stock slaves, in common transport, as opposed to privately owned slaves, are available to the crew, and officers, generally.”

“Are we so available?” she asked.

“Interestingly, not,” he said.

“We are special slaves,” she said. “We are not even branded.”

“You are available to the higher officers, the captain, the first officer, the supply officer, and such,” he said.

“Oh,” she said.

“Like the others,” he said.

“You yourself, however,” she said, lightly, but archly, boldly, “could not ‘call for me.’ “

“It might be arranged,” he said.

She shrank back.

He smiled.

She sensed, uneasily, a slave’s vulnerability. How could she make clear that she was not a slave?

“Who has called for me,” she asked, “the captain?” The captain, she speculated, might be the agent. He might want this opportunity to identify himself, to confirm her instructions, even to entrust her with the dagger.

“No,” he said.

“Lysis, officer in charge of supply,” she said.

It must be he, for it was he who was in charge of the slave consignment!

“Do not consider yourself meat of such interest,” he said.

She made an angry noise, and clutched the sheet more closely about herself.

“To be sure,” he said, “your body, though it requires some trimming, and is a bit stiff, is not without interest.”

She was silent.

“It is more like the body of a free woman,” he said.

“I see,” she said.

“And your movements,” he said, “lack the natural, seductive, vulnerable grace, the lovely, helpless, total femininity, of the female slave. They are too stiff, too awkward, too clumsy, too inhibited. They are like the movements of a free woman.”

“I see,” she said.

“To be sure,” he said, “your body, and your movements, have improved considerably, even in the brief time you have been with us.”

“Oh?” she said.

And then she was frightened, for she did not know what that might mean.

Perhaps there was something about kneeling before men, and being subject to the mastery?

She dared not speculate what it might be, to be actually a slave. Often, in the last few days, she had had to fight feelings which had begun to arise spontaneously, frighteningly, within her.

“Doubtless you are interested in knowing who has called for you,” he said.

“Yes, Master!” she said. Then she was startled at how easily, how naturally, the word “Master” had escaped her lips. I am an excellent actress, she tried to reassure herself, but remained troubled, for the word had emerged as easily, as naturally, as a breath.

“Our guest, our passenger, the barbarian,” he said.

She gasped.

Was the deed to be done so soon, even on the Narcona?

“It is your turn, of course, on the roster,” he said, “in which the women are put up for slave use, but, interestingly, he has not, until now, availed himself of the offerings of the roster. It seems he does little but exercise, and practice with weapons, many of them primitive. Too, he spends much time on the observation deck, seemingly muchly given to thought. Perhaps he is intent upon conserving his strength, or maintaining a singleness of mind, of purpose.”

“But he has called for me,” she said, “and not the others.”

“Yes,” said Corelius.

She clutched the sheet about her again. Within its flimsy fabric her body suddenly flamed. She tried not to analyze her feelings. Could this be, in her body, that of the Lady Publennia, of Lisle, receptivity, and a receptivity so uncontrollable, and helpless, that it might be almost that of a slave?

“It seems you intrigue him,” he said.

“As a slave?” she asked.

“I do not think so,” he said. “I think it is something different. I think that he senses something different about you, and that he is curious about it.”

“Oh,” she said.

“It seems something puzzles him, or troubles him.”

“I have troubled many men,” she smiled.

“Remove the sheet!” he snapped.

“Yes, Master!” she said.

“As I have suggested,” he said, “I do not think it is a mere matter of your embonded lineaments.” And he then added, musingly, regarding her, “-as provocative as they might be.”

“What then?” she asked.

“I am not even sure he thinks that you are a slave,” he said.

“You seem frightened,” he said.

“But he has called for me!” she said.

“That is true,” said Corelius. “And surely you have put yourself frequently enough, blatantly enough, before him.”

“Master!” she protested.

“Do you think that we, and your sisters in bondage, cannot see?”

She tossed her head, insolently.

“You are a true slave,” he said.

She looked past him, toward the wall.

“We, and your sisters in bondage, can tell that, even if the barbarian cannot.”

“I see,” she said, acidly.

How could he know her subtlety, her plans, the nature of her project?

“When am I to be sent to him?” she said.

“Now,” he said.

“Put the sheet about you,” he said. “You may rise.

“Bring the sheet higher on your thighs,” he said. “Turn.”

She then again faced him.

“Am I to be alone with the barbarian?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said.

“Have you nothing to tell me?” she asked. “Have you nothing to give me, nothing, no artifact, no implement?”

“I do not understand,” he said.

“It is nothing,” she whispered.

“I do have one thing to tell you,” he said.

“Yes, Master!” she said, eagerly.

“Remember that you are a slave, being sent to a master,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You may go,” said Corelius. “Outside you will find a mariner, waiting. He will conduct you to the quarters of our passenger.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

***

“Is it not conjectured where the barbarian has gone?” asked one of the slaves, come from her heavy, metal, anchored cot in the long, low, cement slave shed at Venitzia, to the length of her ankle chain.

“There are a thousand conjectures,” said the small brunette, the center of attention, who had come to the shed with the startling news of the barbarian’s disappearance, “but no one knows which, if any, are sound.”

“What is its meaning for us?” asked one of the slaves.

“Surely it has nothing to do with us,” said one of the slaves.

“It may,” worried another.

“Who knows?” said the small brunette.

Several of the slaves exchanged apprehensive glances.

“We should have been sold, all of us, long before now,” said one of the slaves.

“What are we doing here in the shed?” asked another. “Why are we being kept here?”

The blonde sat, miserable, her entire body on the mattress of the cot, her knees raised, her legs together, now leaning forward, clasping her ankles with her hands, one hand, the left, on the shackle to which her chain was fastened. It was a fetching pose, and one not uncommon to slave girls. She had assumed it unconsciously. Suddenly aware, she drew her legs back, half under her, half sitting, half kneeling on the mattress, but that pose, too, she knew, would be arousing to men. Tears formed in her eyes. The slave garment, of course, if it were to be worn sensibly, almost dictated, like a short skirt, certain attitudes, certain postures, of the body. But, to her horror, in the last few days, she had found herself assuming, however clothed, or even if unclothed, naturally, unwittingly, unconsciously, bodily postures, and attitudes, which she had always associated, to her contempt, but to her envy, as well, with an inferior form of life, that of the female slave.

“Are they searching for him any longer?” asked one of the girls.

“I do not think so,” said the brunette.

“Perhaps when the storm abates,” said a slave.

“Perhaps,” said the brunette.

“They could go out with horses and dogs,” said one of the slaves.

“Outside the fence, on horseback, or afoot?” said one of the girls, skeptically.

“It would be too dangerous,” said one of the girls.

“Why?” asked another.

“Wild beasts, primitives, Heruls, and others,” said one of the slaves.

“Are they dangerous, truly?” asked a slave.

“Why do you think they have the fence?” asked another, scornfully.

“But this world belongs to the empire,” said a slave.

“Tell it to the vi-cats, and the primitives,” said another.

The girls shuddered.

“Are Heruls human?” asked one of the girls.

“I do not know,” said another.

“Do they keep slaves?” asked the girl.

“Yes,” she was told.

“They could use the hoverers,” said one of the girls.

“Do you think you are on an inner world?” asked one of the girls.

“Fuel is precious, and soon exhausted,” said another. “A considerable quantity would be required to search even a square latimeasure, if one were to do so with care.”

On the cot, the blonde moaned.

The barbarian had vanished.

She was to do her work with the tiny dagger, as she understood it, when alone with the barbarian, in his tent, at one of the projected camps outside the fence, when the expedition was to have set forth, with mounts, and weapons, in force. She was then, presumably by hoverer, to be transported to safety, to a rendezvous with the shuttle, hence to be returned to the Narcona, and, eventually, to the inner worlds, to find herself one of the highest placed, richest and most envied women in the empire.

But now the barbarian had vanished!

Would he return, would he be found?

What of the plans of Iaachus?

And what of herself, she, if these plans should fail, she, now in a slave garment, and chained to a cot in a cement shed, in a remote provincial capital?

I should have been permitted to do the deed on the Narcona, she wept, to herself.

Why was I not given the dagger on the Narcona, she thought. I was alone with him then!

What fools men are, she thought.

But then who could have anticipated that the barbarian would slip away from Venitzia, that he would not wait for his excellency, Lord Julian, of the Aurelianii, that he would disappear, leaving the projected expedition, with all its men, and supplies, behind him, in Venitzia?

How could he have done such a thing?

What did it mean?

She wanted the deed to be done, and the sooner the better. She was a highly intelligent young woman, and was not unaware of subtle changes which, in the past few weeks, on shipboard, and here, in Venitzia, in the shed, and when she worked in the kitchens and laundry, were taking place within her. She had begun to find herself growing eager for the entrance of men into the shed, or the kitchen or laundry, that she might, with the others, kneel and perform obeisance. When she had, on all fours, been scrubbing a floor with others, she had tried to put her head against the boot of a keeper. Men, suddenly, had begun to appear creatures of great interest and fascination to her. For the first time in her life she had begun to find them attractive, powerfully, almost irresistibly so. She was warmed, and delighted, and thrilled to be chained at night. She wondered what it would be, to be in the arms of a man. She wondered what it would be, to be owned by one, to feel his cuffs and ropes, his caress, brutal or gentle, rude or delicate, his whip, if he were not pleased with her.

She had awakened at night, terrified, to find herself on the cot, chained.

She had dug at the cot with her fingernails.

I am not a slave, she would assure herself.

Why did they not give me the dagger on the Narcona, she asked herself.

She feared, you see, a thousand subtleties, the transformations being wrought within her consciousness, the changes taking place within her, the wonders, and beauties, the indications, the surprises, the promises, arising from within her depths.

Let the barbarian return, she thought. Give me the dagger! Let me strike! Let me be done with matters!

She feared, more and more, her slave feelings.

For a long time she had denied that she had had such feelings, but such a denial was now useless. She set herself now, accordingly, to resist them.

She feared herself, you see, what she had begun to sense she was becoming, and perhaps had always been.

Mostly, perhaps, she feared her intellect, that it would reflect upon her, that it would consider her, carefully, and deeply and wholly, with sensitivity, and in great detail, what she was, and should be, and would then put her on her knees.

Why was I not given the dagger on the Narcona, she moaned.

But then she laughed bitterly to herself.

She would have had little opportunity to use it.

“Enter,” had said the barbarian.

“A slave,” had said the mariner, presenting her.

She had knelt, as she had supposed was expected of her.

The barbarian had dismissed the mariner, and she had found herself kneeling before the barbarian, holding the sheet about her.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Filene,” she said.

He regarded her.

“-if it pleases Master,” she said.

He sat down, on a chair, near the cabin couch. He wore a half tunic. He was blond-haired and blue-eyed, which was not uncommon among many of the barbarian peoples. He was a large, muscular man. His mighty chest was bared, save for a dangling necklace of claws, lion claws. They were from a beast he had slain on a hunt, in the forests of Varna. She speculated that they might leave a print on her body, were he to take her into his arms, and crush her to him, in the embrace of a master. She saw that the cabin couch had posts, at the head and foot. About one of the posts, at the foot, wrapped there, was a cord. On the steel wall, on one of its panels, on a hook, there hung a whip. On the surface of a small dresser there was a roll of tape.

“You are from Myron VII?” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“A debtress sold to recover, in part, debts?”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“What were your debts?”

“In excess of ten thousand darins,” she said.

“And what did you bring on the block?” he asked.

“Doubtless Master has read on my papers,” she said, angrily.

“I cannot read,” he said.

“Oh,” she said. This startled her, for he was one of the few individuals she had met, in her travels, in her circles, who could not read. To be sure, literacy was a precious commodity in the empire, taken as a whole.

“Perhaps you remember,” he said.

“Well over ten thousand darins!” she said.

“I should not think,” he said, “that the sisters of an emperor would bring so much.” He recalled blond-haired Viviana, and the younger, dark-haired Alacida, sisters of Aesilesius, met not long ago, on a summer world. Both were attractive. He had wondered what they might look like, as slaves.

“Fifty darins, Master,” she said, quickly.

Perhaps he had lied about being unable to read, perhaps he had been told the price, perhaps it had been read to him. Iaachus, in his thoroughness, had included a forged bill of sale with the papers, as an insert. She had been furious at the supposed price of a mere fifty darins, but she had been informed, by an agent of Iaachus, that that was a remarkable price, and that a higher figure would not be likely to seem plausible, not for a debtress, from a remote world. Slaves were cheap, in many places in the empire.

“You are vain,” he said, “and a liar.”

He glanced to the whip, on its hook, on the steel panel.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said, frightened. He did not know she was free. He might actually beat her, as a slave.

“Fifty darins,” he said, “is a very high price.”

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“Remove the sheet.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You are very beautiful,” he said. “It is not inconceivable that you might bring fifty darins.”

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Thank you, Master.”

Inwardly her feelings were tumultuous. As a free woman she knew herself to be priceless, but now, suddenly, she had some serious concept of what she might be worth, as a woman, as a female, if she were truly a slave. The supposed price, fifty darins, conceded by Iaachus, might even have been somewhat generous. This came to her as something of an abrupt shock, a most unsettling revelation.

“I am pleased that I was not one of your creditors,” he said.

“They have had their vengeance, Master,” she said, “as I am now a slave.”

“I have wondered, sometimes,” he said, “why women, understanding the penalties of defaulting in such matters, permit themselves to accumulate such debts.”

“Doubtless we plan to pay them off,” she said.

“There would seem great risks involved,” he said.

She shrugged, uneasily.

She herself had accumulated considerable debts, on several worlds, but Iaachus had satisfied them. Many were the times she had pretended to be unavailable for inquiries. Often she had dreaded a heavy knock on her door. Sometimes, at night, she, even though of the senatorial class, had awakened, apprehensive of being brought to the dock, and sentenced to the iron, and the collar.

“Hold out your hands,” he said, “where I can see them, clearly, spreading the fingers. Now, turn, fully about, on your knees, hands held over your head. Now bend over and shake out your hair, and run your hands through it, thoroughly, touching every part of your head. Now stand, hands over your head, and turn, slowly. Return to your knees. Spread your knees more widely. Now put yourself to your belly.”

She looked up at him, angrily.

But, too, she was in consternation.

Naked, brought to him, the sheet removed, earlier kneeling, unable to rise quickly, feet from him, exposed, turning, rising, hands lifted, subjected to such scrutiny, how could a dagger be concealed?

To be sure, things might later be different, or the dagger might be planted in a tent, or smuggled to her later.

“You may now crawl to me, on your belly.”

She then lay at his feet, her head turned to the left, her cheek on the rug.

“This is the first time you have crawled to a man on your belly, is it not?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said, angrily.

“Go back, and do it better,” he said.

Three times he had her repeat this exercise.

At last he seemed satisfied.

“Kneel up,” he said, “before me, back on your heels, knees spread, hands clasped behind the back of your head.”

“Tell me about yourself, specifically, and in detail,” he said.

She had been given an identity, and many specifics, in particular pertaining to her supposed debts, her arraignment, her sentencing, the name of the supposed court, and judge, and such, things concerning which it was anticipated she might be questioned. Where this putative biography fell short, and his direct questions exceeded her preparation, she hurried to supply further data, some of it from her own history, suitably disguised, the rest of it the product of her own invention.

“You stammer and falter,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“But still, on the whole,” he said, “it is unusual to find a slave who can speak of herself so articulately, so volubly, so readily. It is almost as though you had been prepared.”

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“You seem more familiar with the details of your enslavement than with those of your life as a free woman,” he said.

“The details of one’s embondment,” she said, “are often vivid for a woman.”

“For a girl,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“For a slave girl,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

He had, of course, she before him, been reading her body, and her expressions.

“You are from Myron VII?” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“What color is its sun?” he asked. “How long is its year, in Telnarian days?”

She began to tremble.

The questions were so obvious that they had not been anticipated.

She dared not invent answers to such questions. What did the barbarian know? Were his questions innocent, matters of pure curiosity, or were they subtler, and dangerous?

“I am not truly from Myron VII,” she said. “I am from Lisle, on Inez IV! I fled to Myron VII to escape my creditors. I was apprehended in the port. I did not even see its sun. I know nothing of that world, other than the fact that it was there that I was taken into custody, and there tried and sentenced.”

“And you were then returned, a slave, to Inez IV?”

“Yes, yes!” she said.

“May I take my arms down?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

“You have told many lies,” he said.

“No, Master!” she protested.

“Do not compound your fault,” he said.

“No, Master,” she said, tears springing to her eyes.

“I would not advise you to behave in that manner when you have a private master,” he said.

“No, Master,” she said.

“Lies are not permitted to a slave girl,” he said.

“No, Master,” she said.

“But you will probably not believe that until you are thoroughly beaten,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“When we were shortly out of Lisle,” he said, “you were clumsy.”

He referred, doubtless, to the incident of the spilled drink.

“I was switched,” she said.

“Are you a clumsy slave?” he asked.

Her eyes flashed.

Then she put her head down.

“I do not think so, Master,” she said. “It is my hope that I am not clumsy.”

“In serving at the table,” he said, “a slave is to be graceful, unobtrusive and deferent.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

She looked up.

“May I lower my arms?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

She moved angrily, not having obtained her way.

“Am I mistaken,” he asked, “that you have, upon several occasions, placed yourself provocatively before me?”

“Oh, Master,” she said, quickly. “Forgive me, but I fear that it is true. You are a man, and I am naught but a slave girl. How else can a poor slave call herself to the attention of an attractive master?”

“You find me attractive?” he asked.

“Yes, Master.”

“You wanted to meet me?”

“Yes, Master!”

“You desire a man’s touch?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, yes, Master!” she said.

Surely she must interest him, even drive him mad with desire for her, that she might be alone with him, when she had the dagger! But now, of course, she did not have the dagger. If she had been a free woman she might have teased, and drawn away, and teased, and drawn away, until the time and place were arranged, until she was ready, but such behaviors are not easy for a slave.

He put out his hand and touched her, gently.

“Ai!” she cried, frightened, and drew back.

“Keep your hands behind your head,” he cautioned her, gently. “I thought you said you desired a man’s touch,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said. She came forward a little, deliberately, trembling.

He put forth his hand again, gently.

“Ah!” she said, softly, surprised. Then she flushed scarlet before him.

Quickly, then, almost as though she had not consented to her own movement, she squirmed forward a little, closer to him, but was stopped, by his hand, and held in place.

“Master?” she asked.

“Interesting,” he said.

She regarded the necklace of claws on his chest.

What would it be like, she wondered, to be swept into his arms, she helpless and will-less, to be swept uncompromisingly into his arms, as a slave.

“Master has called for me,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Surely master has called for me, to ravish me, as a slave,” she said.

“No,” he said.

“‘No’?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I have called for you because it seems to me that there is something different about you, something different from other female slaves. I did not understand it. I was curious about it.”

“That is all?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

“Ah!” she said.

“You may polish my boots,” he said, indicating a pair of boots, to one side. “The polish and rags are in the adjacent cabinet.

“You may lower your arms, of course,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said, acidly.

She fetched the boots, and the cleaning materials and, kneeling before him, where he had indicated, addressed herself to the assigned task. She worked slowly and carefully, meticulously, responding to his direction, applying a small quantity of paste to a small area, working it into the leather, with firm, circular movements, and then buffing it. This was done again and again, a tiny area at a time, until the entire area of each boot had been done twice.

She was shaken, when she had performed this small, homely task. She was angry, but, too, seemingly unaccountably, she found herself much aroused.

To her surprise she was drawn on her knees to the post at the foot of the bed, that about which the cord was wrapped. Her wrists were then crossed and bound with the cord, which was then fastened to the post. She was thus tied, wrists crossed and bound, on her knees, to the post at the foot of the bed.

“Master?” she asked.

“I think I know now,” he said, “what is unusual about you.”

“Master?” she said, apprehensively.

“Can you guess what it might be?” he asked.

She was frightened.

Her mind raced.

“Perhaps Master suspects that I am not truly a slave,” she said, lightly, tentatively, as though in jest.

What else could it be?

Certainly she could protest the authenticity of her bondage. There were the papers, in which she was clearly specified, even to toeprints. Indeed, obviously, there was her very presence on the ship, amongst women anyone could see were slaves.

“No,” he said.

“Oh?” she said.

“You are truly a slave,” he said. “There is no doubt about that. You are truly a slave.”

“What then?” she asked.

“It is only that you do not know you are a slave,” he said.

She looked up at him, but he had gone to the side, where, on the surface of a small dresser, there lay the roll of tape.

“Lift your head, look at me, close your mouth,” he said.

He then, using the metal, saw-toothed extension, part of the roller, snapped off a few inches of tape, and put it across her lips and face. She felt it pressed down, firmly.

“I have heard you enough,” he said. “You will now be silent.”

She looked up at him, over the tape.

He then applied an additional length of tape, longer than the first, firmly, over it.

“It is a bit late to return you to the slave room,” he said.

He then applied a third length of tape, longer than the second, pressing it into place. This came well about the back of her neck. He then, moving her hair about, that as little of the tape might adhere to it as possible, encircled her mouth and head three times, the free end of the tape being pressed down, at last, behind the back of her neck.

Then he looked down upon her. “You are tempting,” he said.

She looked quickly away, down.

He then snapped off the light, and retired.

After a time she tried to struggle, but found her struggles useless.

She knelt there, for a long time, angrily.

She could not sleep.

She tried to speak, late in the night, but was unable to do so. She had been silenced, and bound, as might have been a slave.

Later, at times, she whimpered, and moaned, a little, as she could, helpless, begging for attention.

But there was no sign that she was heard.

Toward morning, her head on the foot of the bed, inches from his feet, she slept. A mariner came for her later. The barbarian had already left the cabin.

***

“It is clear that the barbarian has disappeared,” the small brunette was saying, she scarcely within the entrance to the long, low cement slave shed at Venitzia, “and it is not known where!”

The blonde, half sitting, half kneeling, in the tiny slave tunic, on the thin, hard, striped mattress of the metal cot, to which she was chained, gasped, her head reeling as she struggled to comprehend the import of the brunette’s revelation.

“What is wrong, Cornhair?” asked one of the other slaves.

Few had noticed the agitation of the blonde.

“Nothing,” gasped the blonde.

“Has this anything to do with us?” one of the slaves was asking the brunette.

“I do not know!” said the brunette.

“Who cares about the barbarian,” said one of the girls. “What about us?”

“Yes!” cried another.

“We have been here for days,” said one of the girls.

“Why are we being kept here, in this shed, in the administration compound?” asked another.

“Why have we not been sold?” asked another.

“Irons should have been heated for us by now,” said another. “We should have been put on the block!”

Only the blonde, of all the women in the shed, had a clear idea of the putative purport of the slave consignment to Venitzia. Only she knew that the women were not, by intent, destined for a sale in Venitzia.

If the barbarian is gone, thought the blonde, wildly, then perhaps I need not use the knife! But then, surely, the agent will identify himself to me, and assure my safe return to Lisle. But what if he does not? What if, for some reason, the agent had not even been on the ship? What then? She knew Iaachus was thorough. Her slave papers would doubtless appear in perfect order!

“Perhaps we will be put up for sale tomorrow,” said a girl.

“Fools! Fools!” suddenly screamed the blonde, from her cot. “Are you not aware of the goods embarked with us at Lisle? Are you not aware of the stores in the warehouse within the compound, some even under canvas, under snow, in the yard! They have not been moved either! You are not intended for Venitzia, fools! You are trade goods, trade goods!”

“No!” screamed one of the slaves.

“Cornhair is a liar!” cried one of the girls.

“Beat her!” cried another.

There was a sudden rattling of chains.

The blonde shrieked and knelt down on the cot, covering her head.

To be sure, only two of the girls could reach her, given the shed’s custodial arrangements.

The blows of small fists rained upon her.

The blonde shrank even smaller on the cot, whimpering.

“No, no!” called the first girl, chained near the door. “Stop! Stop!”

The blows stopped. The assailants were half hysterical, weeping, as well as furious.

“I fear Cornhair is right,” said she who was first girl.

“Trade goods?” said one of the slaves, aghast.

“Yes,” said the first girl.

“But to whom?” asked another slave, her voice quavering.

“Barbarians, Heruls, primitives, who knows,” said the first girl.

“Whomever they like,” said another slave, fearfully.

“They cannot do that!” said one of the slaves.

“They can do as they wish,” said the first girl. “We are slaves.”

“We can be disposed of as masters wish,” said one of the girls, frightened.

“Yes,” whispered another, “we are slaves.” The blonde sank to her stomach on the cot, her head turned, her right cheek on the mattress, her fingers clutching its sides. She moved her left ankle a little, feeling the shackle, and its weight.