“Doubtless Master knows the story,” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
She dared to look up, frightened.
“Please do not have me whipped,” she said.
I supposed that I, as the putatively offended party, might suggest a repetition of her punishment, for my own satisfaction, the first having been administered merely because she had been caught in a lie.
It is interesting how a slave who has felt the whip so fears it. They will go to great lengths to avoid its kiss.
To it they know themselves subject.
Like most men, most masters, I thought that the whip, if applied, should be applied judiciously, and, preferably, not at all.
It is, after all, primarily an instrument of correction.
And, hopefully, correction will not be necessary.
What one looks for from a slave is service, and inexpressible, inordinate pleasure. Why else would one put them in collars, buy them, and own them, and master them?
To be sure, if they are not fully pleasing, they must expect to be punished, and well. They are, after all, slaves.
Too, interestingly, a slave may sometimes desire to be whipped, perhaps to reassure her of her master’s attention, that she is still important to him, that he regards her as still his slave, that he regards her as still worth whipping, and perhaps, sometimes, she simply desires to be whipped, to be reminded that she is a slave. To the slave her bondage is inexpressibly precious. And surely little could better convince a slave of her bondage than finding herself being whipped as the slave she is.
“Where are you housed?” I asked.
“In the Kasra area,” she said.
It was then further confirmed, as I had earlier conjectured. She was neither claimed nor assigned.
She was a simple ship’s slave.
“Please do not have me whipped,” she said.
The whip hurts; a slave will commonly do much to avoid it. Certainly they are seldom in doubt as to their bondage. They know themselves subject to it. It is often most effective when merely dangling inert upon its peg. It is sometimes put to the lips of a kneeling slave, that she may lick and kiss it, in trepidation and reverence. It is a symbol of the mastery. When a slave is found errant, she is sometimes required, kneeling, to beg for its attention. Sometimes, after having received its attention, she is required to kiss and thank it. “Thank you, dear whip. I shall try to amend my ways. I shall strive to become a better slave.”
“How long have you served about the ship?”
The ship was large, and one had varied duties, here and there.
“This is the third day,” she said, adding, “-Master.”
“Why did you claim I had put you to use?” I asked.
“I do not know, Master,” she wept. “I was angry, I was frustrated, I felt rejected, I felt insulted. I am sorry. I am sorry! Please do not have me whipped, again. It hurts. It hurts, so!”
“You were punished,” I said, putting the matter aside.
“I was in a collar,” she said. “I was alone with you! I could not have prevented you. I could not have resisted. Why did you not put me to use?”
“I was not pleased to do so,” I said.
“I see,” she said.
“Why did you, in Ar,” I asked, “a great lady, lower your veil before a common soldier?”
“I do not know,” she said.
“Perhaps to torment me?” I suggested.
“Perhaps,” she said. “I do not know.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “it was the act of a slave, one who desires to be taken in hand, and braceleted.”
“Surely not!” she said.
“I can understand such things,” I said, “before high officers, before men who determine the opening and closings of gates, men who hold the keys to cellars of gold, to the trove of Merchants, men who command armies, who grasp the reins of power, whose word will launch fleets, but not before common soldiers.”
She put her head down.
Beside her the vessel of black wine no longer steamed.
“Slave?” I said.
“Few men know,” she said, “the secrets even free women confide to the silence and secrecy of their pillows.”
“But it was surely foolish,” I said.
“I did not expect to be a fugitive,” she said. “I thought the power of Talena in Ar was secure. Ar was beaten and downtrodden, confused and set against herself, cleverly divided so that she would be helpless before her foes. We did not anticipate the return of the great Marlenus.”
“Most who could recognize you,” I said, “might be unwise to return to Ar, having prices on their own heads, as Seremides.”
“They might well win their own amnesty,” she said, “were they to deliver a fugitive more sought than themselves. Such things are negotiable, through intermediaries.”
“Seremides,” I said, “is on board.”
“No!” she said.
“Under the name Rutilius of Ar,” I said.
“He must never see me!” she whispered. “He must never know I am on board!”
“Who?” I asked.
“I,” she said, “of course, the Lady Flavia!”
“The Lady Flavia,” I said, “is not on board.”
She looked up at me.
“A slave, Alcinoe, is on board,” I said.
“As you wish,” she said.
“Do you enjoy having this conversation on your knees?” I asked.
“It is appropriate, is it not,” she asked, “as I am a slave, before a free man.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I see,” she said.
“I am permitting you to keep your knees closed,” I said.
“Master is kind,” she said. “What if I should wish to open them, before you?” she asked.
“Do not do so,” I said.
“I see,” she said.
I recalled that she had claimed that I had raped her.
“Seremides,” I said, “knows you are on board.”
“No!” she cried, in misery. “Surely you did not tell him!”
“Stay on your knees,” I warned her.
“No,” I said, “I did not tell him. Why should I tell him? Better, surely, that it be I alone who should bring you before Marlenus.”
“You would bring me before Marlenus?” she said.
“Who would not?” I asked.
“Might I not prove a pleasing slave, Master?” she asked, tears in her eyes.
“One does not know,” I said.
“Alcinoe would do much to please her master,” she whispered.
“Speak louder, slave,” I said.
“Alcinoe would do much to please her master,” she said.
“That is only fitting for a slave,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“For the bounty on your head, pretty kajira,” I said, “one might purchase a galley, and a dozen slaves whose beauty would shame yours, as yours, such as it is, might shame that of tarsk sow.”
“Surely not!” she said. Well had I stung the beauty’s vanity.
“Well, perhaps,” I said, “as much as yours would be beyond that of a typical copper-tarsk girl, a pot girl, a kettle-and-mat girl.”
“I thought my beauty too great for that of a female slave,” she said.
“But now,” I said, “you are more familiar with that of female slaves.”
“But I am beautiful!” she wept.
“I doubt that you would bring gold off the block,” I said, “but I think you would bring silver.”
“Surely I am beautiful!” she said.
“Yes,” I said, “you are beautiful, you are a lovely slave.”
“Am I not attractive?” she asked.
I did not tell her of the nights I had dreamed of having her, collared, in my arms.
“I have had better chained at my slave ring,” I said.
“You have had others chained at your ring?”
“Now and then,” I said.
“And how would you chain me,” she asked, “by throat or ankle?”
“As it might please me, on one night or another,” I said.
“And such is the master,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“I have never been at the foot of a man’s couch,” she said.
“In the beginning,” I said, “you would be slept on the flooring itself, or a mat.”
“Not on furs?”
“No,” I said.
“I would be slept as a low slave?”