“May I remove Master’s robe?” asked Filene.
“Sandals, first,” said the barbarian, and he sat on the edge of the couch, rather near its foot.
Filene wished that he would have taken his position closer to the head of the couch, where she might the more easily regain the knife.
She removed the sandals, one at a time, and placed them near the couch.
She did not know enough to put down her head and kiss each first, for they were the sandals of a free person, and then remove them, and then lift them to her lips, one at a time, and kiss them again, and then place them beside the couch.
“Unbraid my hair,” said the barbarian.
It had been braided in the hall of the King Naming, by the slave, Yata, whom he had earlier sold to one of his liegeman, one named Citherix, for a pig.
Long hair is common amongst barbarians.
It is unusual, of course, among bodyguards, gladiators, and such, and he had once been a bodyguard of Pulendius of Terennia, a rich merchant, proprietor of a gladiatorial school, and a lord of estates. It was said that four thousand coloni tilled his fields. As many rich men, he maintained a small, private army, his of some five hundred men. The barbarian had not had his hair cut even when he had fought in the arena. This length of hair was unusual, as mentioned, for bodyguards, gladiators, and such. Short hair, or hair bound back, tightly on the head, often knotted, not easy to grasp, is common. Similarly, bodyguards, gladiators, and such, men who may be involved in hand-to-hand combat, are generally smoothly shaven, or have their beards cut short. A hand knotted in long hair, or a beard, might draw a throat to a knife. Regular troops in the imperial military, incidentally, were required to be clean-shaven, but probably, mainly, for purposes of uniformity and discipline. The matter was more lax amongst troops enlisted as comitates, or those in the limitanei. In any event, wisely or not, the barbarian had commonly worn his hair long. Perhaps it was a challenge to enemies, to try to grasp it, that they might be brought within his reach. Perhaps it was a matter of a dimly sensed propriety, harking back to suspected origins. Perhaps it was merely a matter of idiosyncratic preference. In any event, it was appropriate enough, one supposes, for a projected commander of barbarian comitates, men who might follow such a leader more readily than one whose appearance reminded them of the authority and oppression of a hated empire.
“It is done, Master,” said Filene.
She was now behind him, kneeling on the couch, toward its foot. Given his height, had both stood, it would have been difficult for her to reach up and perform this simple task. She glanced to the place, beneath the furs, where the knife, with its transparent sheathing of poison, lay concealed. It was beyond her reach. She considered whether or not she might throw herself to the place, sweep back the furs, seize it, and put it to its dark employment. But she feared a sudden move would alert the barbarian. She might not live to reach the knife.
She must wait.
He stood up.
She slipped from the couch and stood behind him.
She feared to touch the dinner robe without permission.
He turned to face her. She felt small and weak before him. She went to her knees as was appropriate for a slave in the presence of a free person. She castigated herself. How right she suddenly felt, placed so before him! Were there not men and women, and they were so different, so profoundly and radically different! She hoped he would not ask her to widen her knees before him. How helpless she would be then! She was not sure she could control herself, should he do so. How conscious she was of the chain on her neck, with its dependent disk!
“You should have waited, kneeling, at the foot of the couch,” he said. “You should not have ascended the surface of the couch without permission.”
“Forgive an ignorant slave,” she said.
“Nor should you have concealed your body before the Master,” he said.
“Forgive me, Master,” she said.
“The girl kneels, that at the foot of the couch, on the left side, as the couch is faced, she waits; she might be permitted to turn back the furs,” he said.
“The girl hopes to be found pleasing,” she said.
“Have you earned the surface of the couch?” he asked.
“I hope to be granted it,” she said.
“One such as you, a new slave, a substantially worthless slave, would expect,” he said, “to be thrown to the floor at the foot of the couch, perhaps chained to the ring. You see the ring?”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“In the chest to the side,” he said, “there are thongs, and chains, in which you would be quite helpless.”
She put her head down.
“Have you learned to thrash in chains?” he asked.
“No, Master,” she whispered.
“Can you conceive of lying on your back, absolutely helpless, your limbs tied, or chained, widely apart, at the mercy of a Master?”
“I fear to do so,” she said.
“Are you ready for the unspeakable ecstasies your body may be forced to endure, if the Master pleases?”
“Please be kind to me, Master,” she said.
“You will moan, cry out, thrash, weep, and beg for more, and hope that the Master will accede to your pleas.”
A soft cry of anguish escaped the girl.
“He may not,” said the barbarian.
“Could he be so cruel?” she asked.
“Perhaps you will try to be a good slave,” he said.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
“I do not think that you now desire to be a good slave,” he said.
“Oh, no, Master,” she said. “Filene desires to be a good slave!”
“Filene is a liar,” he said.
“Master?” she said, frightened.
“But it does not matter, now,” he said.
“I do not understand,” she said.
“It is my understanding,” he said, “that you are not marked.”
“None of us are,” she said, “those in the camp.”
“Surely that is unusual,” he said.
“We were thought too beautiful to be marked,” she said.
“That is absurd,” he said. “Slaves should be marked. A collar might be removed. The mark is a useful identification.”
“Undoubtedly,” she said.
“Without the mark one might mistake you for a free woman,” he said. “Once you are marked, we need not be concerned about that. Once marked, everyone will know you are a slave.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
What a dreadful thing, she thought, to be marked, to be designated for all to see as goods.
But the very thought, too, thrilled her.
She could then be owned, possessed as a helpless object, a beast.
I would then, at last, be something, she thought, something real, something societally recognized, accepted, and sanctioned, something with a meaning, and a place, something with a country and a home. What is a free woman, she wondered, but a loose and empty thing, a stray thing, an abstraction without content, a sound without meaning, a movement without purpose, an empty page, a bark without course, a vessel without its summoning, guiding star. I would have an identity. I would know how I must be. I would know how to speak. I would know what to do, how to act, how to behave. I would then, at last, be something, however trivial and unimportant, something of value, something real.
Do I long for a Master, she wondered. Am I incomplete without a Master?
No, no, she thought.
Filene’s mind raced.
Somehow she must obtain the knife.
“As I understand it,” he said, “you are a virgin.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.