“Keep your head down,” he said.
I dared then not lift my head.
“Why did you not kill me?” he asked.
“Because I love you,” I said.
“Even though you knew your failure to obey could cost you your own life?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Interesting,” he said.
“I would rather die than injure you,” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
“I am master’s slave,” I said.
He crouched down beside me nad, with his fingers, lifted my chin, and looked deeply, inquiringly, into my eyes. Then I averted my eyes, for it was hard for me to look into the eyes of my master.
“What sort of slave are you?” he asked.
“Master, please!” I begged.
“Speak,” he said.
“I confess myself master’s love slave,” I whispered.
“My love slave?” he said.
“Yes, my master,” I said. “I know that you may not care for me. I know that you may despise me, that you may hate me. But it does not matter. I do not care. As worthless as my love my may be, that of a meaningless slave, know that it is yours, unstintingly, unreservedly, all of it. It is yours, entirely. I am your love slave.”
He lifted up the cloak, and put it about my shoulders.
I looked up at him, through tears.
“I am unworthy to be loved,” he said. “I have betrayed my honor. I have not obeyed my orders.”
“Is it well that the entire world should fall into the hands of Lurius of Jad?” I asked. “Is he not mad? Is he not a tyrant?”
“He is my ubar,” he said.
“Honor,” I said, “has many voices, and many songs.”
He looked down at me startled. “That is a saying of warriors,” he said. “It is from the codes. It is a long time since I have heard it. I had almost forgotten it. Where did you, a slave, hear it?”
“A den of thieves!” he said.
I did not respond. Who knows within what houses may be heard the voices of honor? Who knows within what walls may be heard her songs?
“I do not think we can leave the city,” he said. “We have no passes.”
“We must then remain here,” I said.
“For those of the black caste to come, to kill us?”
“It would seem so, Master,” I said.
“He who was Prisoner 41, in the Corridor of Nameless Prisoners, in the pits of Treve, may be in the city,” he said.
I recalled the peasant. That seemed unlikely. How could any man have survived in the mountains, alone, for most practical purposes unarmed. Too, what difference could it make, really, if he were in the city, a mere peasant?
“You could recognize him, if you saw him?”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“We must try to escape from the city,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“I wonder if I should keep you,” he said.
I threw off the cloak and flung myself naked to his feet. I held to his ankles. I pressed my lips to his feet. “Please keep me, Master!” I begged.
“I must guard against weakness,” he said.
I kissed his feet.
“You are dangerous,” he said. “It is the soft foes who are most dangerous.”
“I am not your foe, Master,” I said.
“I wonder,” said he, musingly.
“Do not fear me, Master,” I said.
“You cannot help what you are,” he said.
I liked and kissed at his feet.
“Still,” said he, “the problem is not at all insoluble.”
“Yes, Master,” I murmured.
“Women such as you prove to be exquisitely pleasing,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I whispered.
“Subject, of course, to the proper controls, and handling.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Do you think your life with me will be easy?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said.
“You realize that it is likely that I will be sought, and slain, and that you, too, if you are with me, would share that fate?”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“You may now leave,” he said.
“Master?” I said.
“I give you one last chance,” he said, “to leave this place, to fall into the hands of another.”
“Keep me,” I begged.
He looked down at me.
“It is what you wish, truly?” he asked.
“Yes, Master!” I said.
“Very well,” he said.
“Thank you, Master!” I said.
But his eyes seemed now stern.
Suddenly I was no more than a frightened slave.
“Master?” I asked.
“You have had your opportunity to elude my clutches,” he said quietly, evenly. “You did not avail yourself of it.”
I looked up at him, frightened.
“It is now too late,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“To all fours,” said he, “and face away!”
I complied, frightened.
“Strictly,” he said, “you have not been entirely pleasing this afternoon.”
“How have I displeased my master?” I asked.
I heard the whip removed from the table.
I did not dare look back.
“You were ordered to strike me, to slay me, and you did not do so.”
I was silent.
“That was disobedience,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“And you strove to take your own life, which is not acceptable in a slave. She may not do that. She does not own herself. It is, rather, she who is owned.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“To be certain,” he said, “I am not unmindful of extenuating circumstances in both these cases, that in each case it was the welfare of your master which motivated you.”
“It was, Master!” I said. “I beg forgiveness, if I have been displeasing!”
“And what is to be done when the slave ahs not been fully pleasing?” he asked.
“It is up to the master,” I said. “He may take action or not, as he sees fit.”
I heard the coils of the whip shaken out.
I tensed.
“You will receive three blows, only,” he said.
That I thought was light, indeed. The beating was then, I realized, more symbolic than anything. It was little more than a way in which he chose to inform me that he did not expect me to be disobedient, or even displeasing, in any way, a way in which I would be appraised of the consequences which might attend such failures on my part.
The whip cracked and I cried out in alarm. But it had not touched me.
“The first blow,” he said, “will be for disobedience, the second will be for your attempt to take your own life.”
The sound of the whip’s report still terrified me.
I realized that, next it would fall upon me. The blow fell upon me, and I thought it light, not that it did not hurt, you understand.
My back stung.
Tears came to my eyes.
But it was not displeasing that I had refused to strike him. I would have refused again. The blow was little more than a formality. Still I had been whipped.
I cried out in misery, feeling the second blow.
It was not light.
He apparently was quite clear about informing me of his displeasure that I had tried to turn the dagger against myself, even if it had been only my intent to relieve him of his dilemma, to resolve, at a stoke, so to speak, the fearful predicament in which he found himself, to protect him, to save his life, by recourse to the obvious, simple expedient of sacrificing mine.
“Master!” I whimpered, in protest.
“Be silent!” he said.
Tears fell to the stones. I did not wish to feel another blow like that. Now I was truly whipped.
“Prepare for the third blow,” he said.
“Master,” I cried, “may I speak?”
“Yes,” he said.
“For what is the third blow?” I asked.
“What?” he asked.
“Why am I to be given a third blow?” I asked. “What is its purpose?”
“You are to be given a third blow,” he said. “because I chose to give you one, and because you are a slave, and that it may serve to remind you of what you are, my little charmer, that you are a slave.”
“Yes, Master,” I whispered.
I lay then on my stomach, my head to the side, tears bursting from my eyes, my fingers scratching at the stones.