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.”