“Free your wrists,” said he, “female.”
She looked away.
“Your necklace is fetching,” he said.
She tossed her head, causing the tiny key on its string to dance at her throat.
“And your ensemble,” said he, “is stunning, doubtless the latest fashion for barbarian princesses-being displayed in imperial markets.”
“For the evening,” said Gerune to Otto, “I am yours. Do with me as you wish.”
“Is it true?” said Otto.
“Yes,” she said.
Then she added, “Yes, milord.”
Otto reached for the key on its string. It was looped, and tied, rather closely about her neck, that she could not slip it. Fear entered briefly into her eyes. She drew back a bit from his hand, as it was near her beauty.
He lowered his hand.
“Perhaps you should cry out,” suggested Julian.
She looked at him, in fury.
“But then your cries would doubtless be disregarded by those outside,” he said.
“Yes, they would be,” she said.
“And then perhaps,” suggested he, “as you are subdued, and vanquished, your soft cries, your moans of helpless ecstasy, suitable for a slave girl, might be reported to your brother.”
She paled.
“Forgive me, milady,” said Otto. And he reached to the string about her neck and took it with two hands, gently. He then broke it.
She looked at him, startled.
She had not expected to be freed.
To be sure, the hands of slave girls are often freed, that they may the better serve.
But he had not simply jerked the string loose, taking it in one hand, snapping it free, peremptorily, against the back of her neck. He had freed her of the string carefully, but surely.
He turned her about and as she trembled, his hands so near her, inserted the tiny key in the locks.
In a moment she rubbed her wrists, her hands freed.
“Milord?” she inquired.
He tossed the cuffs to one side, with the key.
“Garb yourself,” said he.
She took the cloak and drew it, closely, wonderingly, about her.
“I do not understand,” she said.
He regarded her.
“Milord,” she added.
“You are a free woman, and a princess,” he said. “You will be treated with honor.”
She looked at him, wonderingly.
He pointed to a corner of the tent, where some blankets were strewn on the ground. “There will be your place, milady,” he said. “I advise you this night to be essentially silent and unobtrusive, for you are beautiful, and we are but men.”
“Yes, milord,” she whispered.
She then went to the place which Otto had indicated and knelt there. She made certain the cloak covered her, save for her throat and head, which were bared.
“Perhaps you should not kneel,” said Otto. This posture, in a woman, can enflame a man.
“Yes, milord,” she smiled.
She then half knelt, half sat. Julian had often seen women in that posture in slave markets, chained by an ankle against a wall. She pulled the cloak up, about her throat. Then she looked down, demurely. A shapely ankle, with it small foot, peeped out from beneath the cloak, and then, as though self-consciously, with a superior smile at Julian, she drew it back, removing it from sight beneath the cloak.
“She knows what she is doing,” complained Julian, “the vixen.”
“How can it be?” asked Otto. “She is a free woman.”
“She is a woman,” said Julian.
Too, it must be remembered that once, some time ago, on the Alaria, the princess Gerune had felt bonds. The symbolism of such things, the psychological suggestions associated with them, their reverberant emotional impact, so inexplicable, seemingly ancient and mystical, the memories they recall, the truths at which they hint, are things no woman ever forgets.
That evening food was brought to the tent.
“Do not eat it,” said Julian to Otto.
“She is in the tent,” said Otto. “I do not think it will have been tampered with.”
They could not know, outside, for example, whether or not Gerune would be permitted to eat.
“They do not need to drug you, or poison you,” said Gerune.
“Why?” asked Otto.
“They are not of the empire,” said Gerune.
“Bitch,” said Julian.
“Dog!” she exclaimed, angrily.
She lay at the side of the tent, on the blankets, her weight partly on her right elbow, the cloak up about her. You could not see her well, because of the darkness.
“You will eat first, bitch,” said Julian.
Gerune looked away.
“I must eat, to keep up my strength,” said Otto.
He had not been fed in two days.
“It will not matter,” said Gerune.
“Why do you say that?” asked Otto.
“Because you will lose,” said Gerune.
“How do you know that?” demanded Julian.
“You have no chance,” she said, bitterly.
“The weapons are unfamiliar, the chosen champion presumed invincible?” inquired Otto.
“No,” she said.
“I do not understand,” said Otto.
“I will partake of the food,” said Gerune.
“You will indeed,” Julian assured her.
She looked up at him, angrily.
Otto lit a small lamp in the tent and hung it on the forward pole.
“Perhaps you should remove your cloak,” said Julian. “The bodies of slave girls are exquisite in this sort of light.”
“Dog of the empire,” she hissed.
“Are you hungry?” inquired Julian.
“Yes,” she said.
“Then, eat,” said Julian.
He took a chunk of bread from the broad trencher on which it had been brought, and threw it to the blankets before Gerune.
“You throw me food as though I were a female slave!” she said.
“And a slave would be grateful for as much,” said Julian.
“You are only a despicable thrall of the Wolfung!” she said.
“I am a free man of the empire,” said Julian.
“And I am a princess of the Ortungen!” she said.
“Would you prefer, Princess, to crawl to me, and take food in your mouth, from my hand, like the bitch you are, or as the slave you should be?”
She looked down, trembling.
It is common for slaves to be fed in such a fashion. They are, of course, being slaves, lower than bitches.
She reached for the chunk of bread.
“Wait, Princess,” said Otto.
He retrieved the piece of bread and handed it to her.
“Thank you, milord,” she said.
“She is not a slave, she is free,” said Otto to Julian.
Julian watched carefully while Gerune finished the bread. He then, from the trencher, brought her samples of the food there, and, carefully, watched her eat each bit.
Gerune looked up, angrily, at Julian.
“We will wait some time,” said Julian. “The effect may be delayed, and they may have an antidote for the princess.”
“Dog,” said the princess.
“She may have developed, over time, through graduated doses, an immunity to certain poisons,” said Julian.
Certain rulers, and high men, had done this.
“I do not imbibe poisons,” said the princess.
The technique was dangerous, however, sometimes resulting in the sickness and death of the subject, and was also on the whole of little protective value, in virtue of the variety of toxins available to the potential assassin. A cabinet of antidotes, depending on the symptoms manifested, was generally preferred. Too, of course, in royal households, the acquisition of foods and their preparation tended to be carefully supervised. A number of such households, too, utilized the time-honored practice of skilled food tasters. These, contrary to popular belief, were normally free persons, and were often trained chemists, physicians, and such. Their senses, particularly those of taste and smell, were both acute and highly trained. The services of such men, who were sometimes court physicians, as well, were valued far above those of animals and slaves. Sometimes, too, particularly within the empire, samples of certain foods, prior to being served, were literally subjected to chemical analysis. But even so, many were the emperors who had died at the table. It is interesting to add, in this respect, that little attention, on the whole, was paid, or needed to be paid, to such matters in barbarian courts. In the barbarian court there tended to be a unified ethos, an ordered oneness, an organic wholeness, a tribality, a community. There one was commonly environed with individuals known to one, with one’s comrades in arms, one’s brothers, so to speak. One had a history in common with them. It was quite different from the situation in civilization where one had about oneself not a community, not a band of brothers, but a world of milling, swarming strangers, an aggregate of self-seeking, often hostile, competitive units, innocent of honor and tradition, many of which might have something to gain, and little to fear, from shifts in power. Too, in the barbarian situation there was commonly at hand no maze of nameless streets, no anonymous crowds, so to speak, in which one might immediately lose oneself, seeking escape or refuge. In a barbarian community reprisals tended to be swift and sure. Their hunters were efficient and relentless. The barbarian community tends to be organic, with a structured hierarchy, its parts, each essential and celebrated, in harmony with one another. It knows that there is a jungle, but it keeps it at bay; it does not invite it within. It is joyous to feast with one’s companions. It is dangerous to eat with strangers.