“These slaves,” said Phidias, “there are twenty of them in the camp, are a picked lot.”
“They are imperial slaves, obviously,” said Lysis.
“That makes no difference,” said Otto. “Imperial slaves, as other slaves, are women. There are slaves who are more expensive and less expensive, more beautiful and less beautiful, better slaves and worse slaves. But that is all. There is little difference between a tavern tunic and a fistful of expensive slave silk. What matters is the slave herself.”
“True,” said Phidias.
“Imperial slaves,” said Otto, “as other slaves, are women, and I enjoy seeing them so presented, imperial slaves, in this way, no different from the lowest of slaves on a thousand worlds.”
“But these slaves are quite good, quite attractive, do you not agree?” asked Phidias.
“Certainly,” said Otto.
“They are high slaves,” said Lysis.
“I thought they were trade goods,” said Otto.
“But excellent trade goods,” said Phidias.
“Surely,” said Otto.
“And none, not one of the twenty, is marked,” said Lysis.
“Interesting,” said Otto, glancing at Ronisius.
“Yes,” said Ronisius.
“All slaves should be marked,” said Otto.
“Surely you would not wish such fair skins to be marked,” said Corelius.
“The brand,” said Otto, “enhances a woman’s beauty a thousand times. It puts the slave mark on her. One then sees her as slave, and she knows herself as slave. How could she be more exciting, or more meaningful, or more beautiful, than as marked slave?”
“Barbarian!” said Corelius.
“Quite,” said Otto.
“Please, Corelius,” protested Phidias, captain of the Narcona.
“Filene understands that she is to be soon sent to the couch of Captain Ottonius,” said Ronisius. “But one supposes we could heat an iron and have her marked first.”
“Do not drop the tray, Filene,” snapped Ronisius.
“I do not think there is time, Master,” said Filene.
“Were you given permission to speak?” asked Ronisius.
“No, Master, forgive me, Master,” she said.
“It seems,” said Ronisius to Otto, “that this slave, perhaps in several respects, is in need of instruction.”
“Perhaps,” said Otto.
“I will have a whip sent to your quarters,” said Ronisius.
“Excellent,” said Otto.
“You are a barbarian, indeed,” said Corelius.
“Yes,” said Otto.
“Esteemed ally,” said Phidias, “I beg you to take no umbrage at the remark or tone of my junior officer.”
“None is taken,” Otto assured him.
“I trust,” said Corelius, “you can tell the difference between Safian wine and beer.”
“I believe so,” said Otto.
“These slaves,” said he, “are Safian wine, not beer.”
“Beware, Corelius,” said Phidias.
“But,” said Otto, “they are in tavern tunics.”
Corelius looked away, angrily.
“I grant they are Safian wine,” said Otto, “but is not Safian wine especially interesting and enjoyable when it finds itself served in the way of beer?”
Filene clutched the tray. She would not dash it to the floor of the tent. She must not reveal her imposture. She must cleave to her role. Who would bring her the knife?
“Perhaps,” said Corelius.
“A tincture of humiliation,” said Otto, “a helplessness, even a tear of frustration, can make a slave oil more readily. A touch here, a touch there, and then, later, when one wishes, if one wishes, one may, perhaps gagging her first, command forth her surrender spasms.”
“You are a barbarian, indeed,” said Corelius. “Perhaps, apart from considerations of serving gowns, and such, we should not have bothered with the mockery of a tunic. Perhaps we should simply strip them.”
“That will not be necessary,” said Otto, glancing at Filene.
She stiffened, stripped by his glance.
“Whatever you might wish,” said Phidias.
The slaves exchanged glances.
“That, of course, dear friend, whose name, I take it, is Corelius,” said Otto, “is how women of the empire, even high women, often serve the feasts of their barbarian Masters.”
“Shameful!” said Corelius.
“Not at all, it is delectable,” said Otto. “Surely you do not mean to tell me that you would not like seeing these slaves, here, serve our supper naked?”
Corelius looked down, reddening, angrily.
“I see you would,” said Otto.
“The free women of the empire are not slaves,” said Corelius.
“You would be surprised,” said Otto. “They make excellent slaves. And what is the purpose of a free woman’s clothing, even the richest, finest, and most abundant, but to conceal a slave? And many of your noble free women, their trappings removed, I assure you, would do well on an auction block.”
“I see,” said Corelius.
“Surely,” said Otto, “you would enjoy seeing some of your exalted free women, and their spoiled, curvaceous brats, if they have them, stripped and put to work, marked and collared, laboring fearfully, subject to the whip.”
“Captain Phidias,” said Corelius. “I beg to be excused.”
“And I assure you,” said Otto, “they leap well, crying out, as other slaves, in the arms of their Masters.”
“You may withdraw,” said Phidias to Corelius, and Corelius, rising, with a curt nod to those at the table, including Otto, took his leave.
Ahh, thought Filene to herself, it is Corelius who will bring the knife! How well he has managed matters, pretending to resent the barbarian’s remarks, Corelius, who now withdraws, seemingly disconcerted, thereby winning the interval, unsuspected, necessary to fetch the knife. How natural and appropriate everything seemed now, and clear, his consideration for her on the Narcona, his concern, his politeness, and such! Too, as a gallant and refined gentleman of the empire, so different from harsh, blunt Ronisius, he had, courageously, and brazenly, dared to let be known his disapproval of the person and views of the barbarian, and his sort. Captain Phidias would surely be too highly placed and conspicuous to perform so sensitive and covert a task as supplying an assassin‘s tool. The purport of his seemingly anomalous presence in the camp was now obvious. Only one of his rank would be empowered to conduct subtle negotiations having to do with the recruitment of barbarian comitates. Ronisius could be discounted, as he had, in his ignorance, known no better than to treat her as merely another slave. She did fear him. Why does he look at me in that fashion, she had once asked Faye. Tremble, my dear, had said Faye, he is considering your price. How ignorant he was! He had even been so ignorant as to speak of her, the Lady Publennia Calasalia, of the Larial Calasalii, or once so, in relation to a slaving iron, she, the agent of Iaachus, Arbiter of Protocol in the court of the emperor, Aesilesius! And Qualius, in his gross ugliness, and simplicity, a tender of livestock on the Narcona, had not even been at the supper. Let him swill with other pigs, she thought. There was another, of course, Lysis, the supply officer of the Narcona, but he, she thought, might, like the captain, Phidias, be too highly ranked, too conspicuous, for the errand in question. A lesser fellow, less likely to be noticed and observed, would be a courier better suited to transport and deliver that small artifact on whose action so much might hang. Too, Lysis did not leave the table. He had not seized an opportunity, as had Corelius, in which one might place that small, light artifact in the quarters of the barbarian, in such a place that she would find it, and he would not. Where would that be, she wondered. Presumably it could not be simply handed to her. And how would it be concealed if she were naked, or even tunicked? A tiny, brief, form-clinging tunic affords little concealment for even so slight and modest an object. Too, what if it should crease her skin as she moved, and it prove not her means to victory, power, wealth, and station, but her doom? Of course, she thought, it would be beneath the furs, where she, invitingly curled in repose, would be awaiting him!