“Kana,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
She rose to her feet and hurried to a sideboard, to fetch the decanter, and glasses.
“It is strange,” said Julian. “It seems that a slave should be easy enough to trace, if brought to Inez IV. She would have to be registered, measured, fingerprinted, toeprinted, and such.”
“Some doubtless slip through,” said Tuvo Ausonius. “This one did,” he remarked.
The woman, head down, had set the glasses on the table and, deferentially, poured the glasses, a third full.
She did not meet the eyes of the men.
“But with my assistance,” said Julian.
“True,” smiled Tuvo Ausonius.
The woman replaced the decanter on the sideboard and turned to face Tuvo Ausonius.
“Master?” she asked.
“Kneel there,” said Tuvo Ausonius, indicating a place on the tiles, to the side, where she would be inconspicuous, and yet at hand, in case wished.
“Head down,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
Julian regarded her, idly.
“You have a pretty slave,” he said.
“She is nicely curved,” granted Tuvo Ausonius, dismissively.
“It is strange,” said Julian, “how the blond slave seems not to have been registered, or locally boarded.”
“Yes,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“Ai!” said Julian, suddenly, rising to his feet.
Tuvo Ausonius looked up at him, startled.
“She is not a slave!” said Julian.
Even the slave drew back a little, frightened, on her knees. Then she put her head down again, quickly.
“But she must be a slave,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“Inquire among free persons, in the hostels, in the insulae, in the towers, discretely at court, in restaurants, at the baths,” said Julian.
“As milord wishes,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“The work of Iaachus!” snarled Julian.
“Milord?” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“And inquire first among higher free persons,” said Julian. “Look for information pertaining to an incredibly beautiful blond woman, whose beauty might be the envy even of many slaves. Inquire after female patricians, even of the senatorial class, in particular any who might be in need or financial straits, any who might be living alone, or substantially so, any whose family connections might be tenuous, any in what might appear to be unfavorable or dubious circumstances, any in debt, any in difficulties, any in dishonor, any in want, any under suspicion, any subject to umbrage of any sort. Take the picture!”
“Yes, milord!” said Tuvo Ausonius. “Fetch my street cloak!” said Tuvo Ausonius to the slave.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
“Hurry!” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“Yes, Master!” she cried, hurrying from the room.
CHAPTER 10
“You would not dare!” said the blonde.
Her hands, wrists crossed and bound, were tied high over her head. They were fastened by a short rope to a ring, the ring dangling on a chain from the ceiling. The wrist rope could be shortened or lengthened, depending on the height of the slave. The blonde was of medium height. She was fastened in such a way that she was on her tiptoes, unable to get her heels to the metal flooring. Her white serving gown had been pulled down, about her ankles. Her body faced the metal wall. She turned her head, as she could. The severe officer, whose name was Ronisius, was behind her. Her hair had already been thrown forward.
“Do not dare!” she said.
Slaves, in the common room, laughed merrily.
“You were insufficiently deferent,” said Ronisius.
She struggled, helplessly.
“You were clumsy,” he said.
These things were true. At least twice her speech had been insufficiently deferent, even omitting the respectful term “Master.” Too, she had been slow to bring a tureen of hiris to the table, and had failed once to kneel to the side, as is customary when waiting to serve or be summoned, but had stood, and had stood where the barbarian, if he might lift his head, must see her. The other slaves had not cared for this, for they, too, found the barbarian, in his brooding, feral way, handsome, but dared not so call themselves to his attention. Ronisius had criticized her, and she had gone to kneel with the others, pulling her gown up, and putting it about her knees, so that it would be her knees, and not the gown, which would be on the floor, as though she might be no more than another slave. Perhaps it was because of his criticism, and her fury at the reprimand, addressed to her as though she might be no more than a slave girl, that she had been unsteady, that she had spilled wine, and at his own goblet.
All in all, she had certainly not served well at the captain’s table, where the captain, the barbarian, and certain officers would sup at the conclusion of the ship day. Five slaves were assigned to serve there each ship evening. The ship had now been out for four days. It was the first time she had been permitted to serve at the captain’s table.
“You would not dare!” she said.
“I think you are stupid,” he said.
“I am not stupid!” she cried.
Then, as she cried out, she was switched.
He was not as gentle with her as he might have been, considering that she was a new slave, not even branded, a recently embonded debtress from Myron VII.
But it had been at his own goblet that the wine had been spilled.
“You may now thank me for your beating,” he said.
She looked at him, over her shoulder, startled, tears in her eyes.
Twice more, swiftly, impatiently, the switch spoke.
“Thank you! Thank you!” she cried.
Twice more then, again, angrily, the switch spoke, and she leapt in the bonds, squirming, crying.
“Thank you, Master!” she said.
“You will be released later,” he said.
“Yes, Master!” she gasped, startled by the piteous urgency of her exhalatory exclamation, and, too, by its seeming appropriateness, and fittingness, and, horrifyingly, by the complete, irrepressible naturalness with which it had somehow escaped her. “Thank you, Master!”
She then hung in the ropes, her back stinging.
About her slaves were discoursing merrily, kneeling, facing one another, playing guessing games, amusing themselves.
I hate everything, she thought.
She grew furious.
How could the agent, whoever he might be, permit her to be switched, as though she might be no more than a clumsy, errant slave?
The blond officer, Corelius, had seemed horrified that she had been conducted from the captain’s table by Ronisius.
Corelius must be the agent then, but he had not objected, though he must have realized that the admonitory switch might have been laid to her beauty, just as if she were a slave.
He could not interfere, of course, without revealing himself.
But Ronisius might be the agent, treating her harshly, to conceal her true identity, and his relationship to her, as the purveyor of the delicate blade.
There was Lysis, the chief supply officer, who had seemed to pay her little attention. But it was he who had brought them to the ship.
The stock keeper, oddly, had been at the table, as well, with his porcine face, with the small eyes, the one who had subjected her to such humiliation in the slave cage.
It might be he, why else would he, of his rank, be permitted at the table?
How she had hated serving him, one of the humiliori, at best,
Surely one of the humiliori could not be the agent, on whom she, herself of the honestori, even of the high patricians, indeed, of the senatorial class itself, would have to depend!