The King

CHAPTER 6

“Your rations, milady,” said the young, blond-haired junior officer, Corelius, sliding a shallow pan of moist gruel beneath the gate of the tiny cage, the bottom of which was some three inches above the steel floor of the cage.

Inside, crouching within the cage, covering herself as best she could, the woman looked out through the closely set bars.

“Is it you?” she pleaded. “It must be you!”

Surely he was the only one of the crew who treated her with deference! It must be he!

“What?” he asked.

“Is it you?” she whispered.

He smiled. Did the smile mean it was he, or that he thought her strange, or insane, or what?

She cried out, inwardly, in anger, in misery.

“Commonly,” said he, “one thanks the keeper for food. That is courteous. Too, it need not be given to you, you know.”

“But you do not demand such things of me!” she said.

“Nor of the others,” he said.

She cried out, inwardly, confused.

She looked down at the pan of gruel.

“Bring me something else,” she said. “You cannot expect me to eat this moist slush!”

“What would you like?” he asked.

It must be he, then!

“Tidbits of roast hen, tahareen will do, in siba sauce, hot rissit, fresh poma, frosted yar cakes, a custard of Vellmer, and wine, some wine, kana, yes kana, white kana!”

“I scarcely think so,” he smiled.

“You could smuggle it here,” she whispered.

“Surely the risk would be too great,” he whispered, conspiratorially.

She shrank back in the cage.

Perhaps it was not he.

But perhaps the risks would be too great.

But she resolved, when this business was done, as it must be soon, for she was frightened in the cage, to make him pay for not having complied with her requests, in this, her time of humiliation and hardship! How cruel he was, how lacking in understanding! How pleased she would be, reporting him to Iaachus.

“Don’t go!” she begged.

He turned. “Yes, milady?” he said.

“Is it you?” she begged.

“Is it I, what?” he asked.

“Nothing!” she said. “No! Do not go!”

Again he paused.

“You are polite,” she said.

“It is my wont,” he said.

“You call me ‘milady,’ “she whispered.

“It is my wont,” he said.

“That is fitting, you know,” she whispered.

“Doubtless,” he agreed.

“I am caged alone,” she said, “in this hold. There are no others here! Might that not arouse suspicion?”

He looked at her, amused.

She decided she hated him. He was clothed, and free. “Why is it?” she asked.

“Surely the marks on your body should make that clear,” he said.

She flushed scarlet. The other officer, the severe, impatient one, had lashed her twice, with his switch, she, when she had been on all fours, in the common room.

“You are being isolated, as a punishment,” he said. “Too, it was felt that your example, your haughtiness, for example, might spread to the other girls, and imperil them later with masters. Too, if you must know, the other girls do not like you.’’

“Do not like me!” she laughed. “That is amusing!”

He shrugged.

“Bring me something good to eat!” she said.

“Consider,” said he, “improving your behavior.”

“Improving my behavior?” she asked.

“Some might suspect,” he said, “that you were not a slave.”

“Get out!” she said.

“Farewell, milady,” he said, and turned about, and left.

“Bring me something good to eat!” she called after him.

When he had disappeared through the hatchway she crawled on her knees to the front of the cage, a movement of a foot or two, and grasped the bars.

It must be he, she thought.

He was polite. He called her “milady!” But perhaps he was mocking her.

She did not know.

Of course the agent would not care to make his identity too obvious to her, not until later.

It must be he.

Who else could it be?

Improve her behavior! The other girls did not like her! That was too bad, that slaves might not like her, she, who could command them, and whip them, and buy and sell them as she pleased!

But, too, perhaps it would not be wise for him to try to bring her luscious viands, and dainties, for what if the brute of a barbarian on board should learn of this, and become suspicious?

She thought of the barbarian, such a formidable, silent, brooding giant of a man.

She was terrified of him. But, too, she knew that she must, somehow, draw herself to his attention. That she must arrange, somehow, sometime, when she had the knife, to be alone with him.

How terrifying to be alone with such a brute, a stranger to civilitas, not even civilized, not even, perhaps, of the empire!

She did not wish to behave as a slave!

Surely he would be more interested in her if she behaved as if she were free, not as one of those curvaceous, groveling, helpless, passionate chits in bondage! But his interest in her, if she seemed free, she feared, might be simply to tear her freedom from her, and put her to his feet, helpless, and no different then from any other slave!

It must be the blond-haired officer, she thought, grasping the bars, it must be he!

But if it were not he, who then might it be?

How she hated the severe officer, the impatient officer, who had switched her, putting two sudden, stinging, rich stripes on her, she on all fours, as though she might have been no more than a slave girl!

Before she had left Lisle, the very night she had left the royal palace, she had switched her own slave girl, mercilessly, for she had, it seems, rendered intelligence to the informants of Iaachus as to the marvelous beauty of her mistress. How the curvy little thing had wept and squirmed, as a slave, begging for mercy!

So it could not be the severe officer, the beast!

Too, it was he who had had her isolated, caged here, alone, her cage not with the cages of the others.

Then she sat back in the cage, shuddering.

It might be he.

He might be trying to divert possible suspicion from himself, trying to conceal the latent relationship between them, that of the supplier of the weapon, that of the guarantor of safety, that of the provider of swift, sure return transportation to Lisle, to the one to whom the deed fell, to the appointed assassin, to the one who need do no more than scratch a skin with a tiny point.

Perhaps he was a consummate actor?

He had put her here, alone.

Perhaps that was to diminish the chances of her being suspected, of her giving her true loftiness, her station and freedom away, doubtless inadvertently, perhaps in an instant of forgivable carelessness, in the presence of the mere slaves.

It could be he.

Perhaps, too, cleverly citing discipline as a blind, utilizing it as a pretext, he was giving her privacy, separating her from degraded animals, those meaningless slave girls, in deference to her different nature, and the delicacy of her feelings.

It must be he!

But he had not permitted her clothing in the cage.

But then it had not been permitted to the others either, in their cages, in the common room.

The young naval officer, he who had been on the quay, she thought, may have been responsible for that. He had made some remark which might have been interpreted as a recommendation to that effect.

Why had they deferred to him, as they had? His rank, surely, at least insofar as she could read the relevant insignia, was not so high.

She hated the young naval officer.

But it seemed clear, too, that he would know how to treat slaves. Of that she was sure.

But she was not a slave!

How should she behave, she wondered, in the presence of the severe officer, he who had switched her.

She smiled to herself.

Perhaps she should behave in his presence as though she were truly a slave.

That would surely be amusing, he acting his role, she hers, and none suspecting that they were both merely consummate actors! But what if he were not the one? What then, surely then she should not play such a role before him. Too, enacting such a role, as Iaachus had required of her, made her considerably uneasy. It produced feelings in her which she found oddly disturbing, not at all the sort of feelings one might expect to have if one were merely playing a role.

Too, she had heard that there were tests in such matters, available to skilled masters, by means of which hypocrisy and sham might be detected. That frightened her. To be sure, she knew little of such tests.

She sat back, farther, in the cage, her knees up. She regarded the gate, with its bars. She was well held in that cage, she knew, as well held as if she herself might be only a slave girl.

There were two sorts of tests, we might remark, one of which was used to pick out slave girls from among free women, this usually used to detect runaway slave girls trying desperately to pass themselves off as free women, but which might, if one wished, serve equally well to pick out free women from among slave girls, among whom they might, as in the siege of a city, have attempted to hide themselves; and one of which was used to determine the authenticity or inauthenticity of slave behavior. Slavery is not, of course, a simple matter of behavior, though it manifests itself in behavior, sometimes even subtly, but it runs deep in the woman, coursing in every fiber of her being. A negative result in such tests distinguishes the mere appearance of slavery, its mere simulation, from its reality, or depth actuality. In such a situation the slave is quickly taught the truth of her slavery, that that is what she truly is. It does not take the intelligent woman long to understand this. Sometimes she is simply offered the choice of a full and perfect slavery or death, and she understands that there are no third options, such as acting, sham, or pretense, or even the tiniest particle of mental reservation. In this moment the woman must examine herself, perhaps more profoundly than ever before in her life. In a moment of emotional catharsis, she understands what she is, in her deepest heart, falls to the feet of even a hated master, and rejoices.

The door to the hold opened and she raised her head instantly, and drew her knees up higher, and leaned forward, her hands about her legs, hiding herself so.

How terrible that she should not have been permitted clothing!

A stock keeper, a short, stocky, homely, simple-looking man, put his head inside the door and switched off the overhead hold light.

“You!” she called, as he withdrew.

After a moment the door slid back and the figure of the man reappeared in the portal.

“Come here!” she said.

The hold was now much in darkness except for two small, reddish night bulbs, on the wall.

By the light of these one might check the hold, and, perhaps, its occupants, or cargo, without illuminating the entire area.

It seemed that he was about to withdraw.

She called out, “Sir!”

He paused.

“Please come here, sir!” she said.

He stood there, in the reddish darkness.

Then it seemed he would turn away.

“Master!” she called. “Please, Master!”

He approached the cage.

“I have been brought by mistake only a pan of cold porridge,’’ she said. “I cannot eat that. I will need something else. Please bring it to me.”

“Kneel,” he said, “kneel straightly, back on heels, knees wide, head up, hands on your thighs, palms down.”

She obeyed. How she hated to be commanded by such a simpleton.

But was some semblance of obedience not required by her role as putative slave?

“Now put your hands, clasped, behind the back of your head,” he said.

That such a simpleton could command her!

She did as she was told, feeling strange feelings.

“I cannot eat this cold slush,” she said. “It has been brought to me by mistake. Bring me something to eat.”

How strange sounded such words to her, in her present posture.

He tried the cage gate, which was well locked.

Was he trying to get in, and, if so, what for?

Happily he did not have the key.

He fingered a disk of wax wired about the gate and jamb of the cage. He let it drop, with an angry sound.

It was, she had learned, the virgin seal, the rupture of which would testify to an unauthorized opening of the cage.

He looked at her, in the half darkness, and she shrank back a bit.

“No,” he said.

He turned away.

“It is late,” she said.

This was true, in ship time.

He turned about, to regard her, kneeling as she was.

“The floor of the cage is hard, and metal!” she said. “I will be cold. Bring me a comforter!”

“Curl,” said he.

“‘Curl’?” she said.

“Lie down, on your side, curled up,” said he.

She did so.

“Bring me a comforter,” she said.

“No,” he said.

“What is your name,” she demanded.

“Qualius,” said he.

“What do you do on the ship?” she asked.

“I am a tender of pigs,” he said.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Tending a pig,” he said.

She gasped, in fury.

“Curl more prettily,” he said.

She did so, angrily, her right hip high, the love cradle of her vulnerable, and tormentingly beckoning, her waist marvelously turned, and roundly descendant, then swelling upward, roundly, to the excitements of her bosom.

It was an excellent body, even for a slave.

“Bring me a blanket!” she said.

“No,” he said.

“I shall report you to the supply officer,” she said, “to the captain!”

To be sure, she had not even seen the captain, nor had she seen the supply officer since the quay.

He turned away.

“Even a tiny rag, Master!” she called.

He stopped at the door, and looked back.

“Please, Master!” she called. “Please, Master!”

He stood there.

“Even a tiny rag, Master!” she called.

“No,” he said.

He then withdrew.

She sat again in the cage.

What a simpleton, and a fool he was, she thought. But she could dismiss him, she was sure, from her considerations. Iaachus would not have put a task of trust in the hands of so stolid and benighted a creature.

But she had knelt for him, and posed for him, as he had commanded.

Was she then, actually, a slave girl?

Never! She was acting. But she did have strange feelings, and a sense of the radical dimorphism that separated the sexes in her species, a dimorphism that did not stop with, nor was it limited to, certain differentials of size and hardness, of smallness, of softness, and lusciousness.

She feared she would be cold tonight.

Ship, she thought, bring me soon to Tangara!

She hoped that her isolation in the hold, her separation from the others, would not provoke suspicion.

The supply officer, she thought, perhaps it is he, he who will provide me with the dagger.

But I myself, she thought, may have to arrange the opportunity to be alone with the barbarian.

How can I arrange that, she wondered.

Perhaps my beauty will arrange it, she thought.

But her beauty, it seemed, had had no great effect on the tender of pigs. But was it not extraordinary, even among slave girls, women embonded for their beauty, and, in places, she had heard, even bred for it?

She was furious.

She had not gotten her way.

How she had demeaned herself, and yet had not gotten her way!

Did they think she was a slave!

She would think of some way to have her vengeance on the fellow. Iaachus could manage that.

He had tried the gate of the cage. Had he merely been checking it, or had he been interested in seeing if it were securely fastened, and, if not, what might have happened then? He had seemed displeased at the discovery of the virgin seal on the gate. What if the gate had been insecure, and the seal not there? She shuddered. Too, she began to suspect the vulnerability of the female slave.

She looked at the floor of the hold.

She wondered what it might feel like, on her body.

Suddenly, sitting there in the cage, she tried to slip the anklet from her left ankle. But she could not do so, and, in a few moments, she gave up the effort, angrily. It was on her, as the young officer on the quay had dryly observed.

It was a slave anklet.

It was part of her disguise, of course. It was not as though it was really on her. But it was, of course, really on her, at least in the sense that she could not remove it, no more than if she were in fact no more than another caged slave.

She looked down with distaste at the now-reddish-appearing gruel in the shallow pan.

Surely they did not expect her to eat such stuff.

She would starve first.

Who is the other agent, she wondered. Who has the dagger?

She slept fitfully that night, or rest period.

Her dreams were various.

She dreamed of a slender, yellow-handled poniard, a black-swirled design wrought within the handle, the handle itself with a double-scrolled guard, which was important, that her hand not slip onto the blade, that lovely narrow blade, that beautifully, harmoniously narrow blade, ideal for penetration, some seven inches in length, razor-edged, needle-pointed, coated imperceptibly with some transparent substance.

She dreamed of herself plunging it into the back of the unsuspecting giant, or perhaps, as he lay recumbent, unsuspecting, on a couch, into his chest.

But, too, she had frightening dreams, of herself stripped, and thrown, painted and perfumed, and chained, among barbarians, with other loot, of herself on a slave block, of herself being sold in a hundred markets to a hundred masters, of Iaachus laughing, of her family laughing, of her intimate maid, whom she must now strive to dress as a lady, she herself now the intimate maid, laughing, and holding a switch, the very switch with which she had beaten the slave before, only that it was she herself who was now the slave!

She awoke with a start.

I am not a slave, she cried to the hold. And then she was frightened, fearing that someone might have heard. I am not a slave, she then whispered to herself, intensely.

But then she remembered, from the dream, the fur beneath her knees, and the chains on her body, and the men about, regarding her, with a desire she had not understood that men could feel, and she knowing that she might belong to any of them and would then be his to command, she to be obedient to the least of his caprices. And she remembered the slave blocks and the cries of auctioneers and being exhibited, as a true slave.

She shuddered.

And, too, she remembered her indescribable thrills, knowing what she was, and how she must serve, joyfully, will-lessly compliant, how she must serve eagerly, helplessly, owned by another!

Surely I am not a slave, she whispered to herself. Surely I cannot be a slave.

She found herself ravenously hungry.

There was nothing in the cage but the pan of gruel.

I cannot eat this, she protested, tears in her eyes.

Then she fingered it into her mouth.

In a little while it was gone. There had not been much of it to begin with.

Is this all we are to be fed, she asked herself.

She touched the anklet.

What is wrong with me, she asked herself.

Ship, she whispered, bring me swiftly to Tangara. Unknown confederate, put the dagger quickly into my hand. I would quickly be done with this, and would return quickly to the capitals of the empire.

She then fell asleep again, and slept dreamlessly, until she was awakened by the young, blond officer, who released her from the cage, and conducted her, suitably, on all fours, to the common room.

It was there that the slaves would receive some training.

The supply officer, Lysis, who had direct charge of them, had apparently deemed this appropriate.