"I think this will prove satisfactory, free woman," I said.
She breathed more easily.
I put down the spoon.
"I shall take this other bowl away," she said.
"Not yet," I said.
"Sir?" she asked.
I rose to my feet and pressed her back to the tiles, and pulled her wrist chain down, lifting up her feet. I then slipped the wrist chain behind her feet and ankles, and pulled it up behind her back. This held her hands rather behind her, at the sides. I then put her again to her knees.
"Sir?" she asked.
"You do have auburn hair, don't you?" I said.
Then I picked up the original porridge and held it in the palm of my left hand and took her firmly at the back of her head, by the hair, with my right. "No!" she cried.
I plunged her face downward, fully into the porridge.
I held the bowl firmly, pressed upwards. I held her hands firmly, pressing her face down into the bowl. She struggled unavailingly. Then I let her lift her head, sputtering, choking, coughing, gasping for air, her face a mass of porridge. "I can't breath!" she wept. "I'm choking!"
Then I thrust her face again into the bowl.
"Eat," I said. "Eat." Wildly she began to try and take the material into her mouth. Then she twisted her head to the side. "It's inedible!" she wept. I turned her head again, and pushed it down. "Eat!" I said. I supposed it was possible someone could drown in a bowl of porridge. I pulled her head up then, so she could breathe, and she gasped for breath. "Please!" she wept, through the glutinous mask on her face. Again I pushed her head down, and again, she strove to get the stuff in her mouth. Then I put the bowl on the floor before her, and put her to her belly before it, and put my foot on her back, so that she could not rise. Her face was at the bowl. "Eat," I said. She put her head down over the bowl and, lapping, and biting at the substance, fed. When I removed my foot from her back, she looked up at me. "Please!" she begged. "Eat," I said, then kicked her with the side of my foot, and, as she addressed herself again to the contents of the bowl I settled myself before the low table, cross-legged, and returned to my own repast. Once again she looked up at me, frightened, through the paste of porridge, it thick about her face and on her eyelashes. "I'm on fire!" she wept. "Water! I beg it!"
"Eat," I said.
Frightened, she again lowered her face to the bowl.
After a time I had finished my own porridge.
When I glanced again at her she had rather finished her porridge, and was lying on her belly, her head turned toward me, looking at me.
"You are a monster," she said.
"Lick your bowl," I said.
Miserably she did so.
"Some porridge has been spilled," I said. "It doubtlessly overflowed that sides of the bowl when you pressed your face into it. That can happen when one feeds too greedily, too enthusiastically. One expects a woman to feed more delicately, more daintily. To be sure, you are a free woman, and may eat much as you wish. Still, such feeding habits would disgust a tarsk. If a slave fed anything like that, she would be under the whip within an Ehn."
She looked at me, frightened.
"You can see porridge about, here and there," I said. " Do not let it go to waste."
She moaned, and, on her belly, lowered her face to the floor. Her tongue was small, and lovely. Trained, it might do well on a man's body.
"Are you finished?" I asked her, after a time.
"Yes," she whispered, in her chains, on her belly, looking up at me. "Rejoice that you are a free woman, and not a slave," I said. "Had you been a slave, you might have been killed for what you did earlier."
She was silent.
"Do you understand?" I asked.
"Yes," she said.
"Approach me, on your belly," I said.
She squirmed to the table, her hands still behind her.
I then reached behind her and drew the wrist chain down and, forcing her legs tightly back against her body, put it back in front of her legs. It was then as it had been before. I let her straighten her legs.
"When you bring the check," I said, "do so in your teeth."
She looked at me, angrily.
"Do you understand?" I asked.
"Yes," she said.
"The check is to be paid, or put on the bill, I gather, at the keeper's desk," I said. One had to pass the keeper's desk after leaving the paga room. That arrangement, I supposed, was no accident. For example, it would save posting of one employee, which was perhaps a calculated economy on the part of the proprietor. I would not have put it past him, at any rate. Too, in virtue of this arrangement, one need not entrust coins to debtor sluts, slaves, and such. In this house I suspected that they would not be permitted to so much as touch a coin. They would be kept coinless, absolutely.
"Yes," she said.
"Do you wish to say anything?" I asked.
"I hate you! I hate you!" she said.
"You may, after performing obeisance, withdraw," I said.
Swiftly she performed obeisance, and then rose to her feet, and, moving carefully, with small steps, as she could, hurried to the kitchen.
I would finish my bread, and nurse the paga for a time, and then retire to my space. It was in the south wing, on the third level, space 97. I would pick up my ostrakan, with the blankets, at the keeper's desk. I wondered how I might approach Ar's Station and deliver the message of Gnieus Lelius, the regent of Ar, to the commander at Ar's Station, Aemilianus. If I appeared to be of Ar, I might fall afoul of Cosians. If I appeared to be with Cos I might have considerable difficulty in approaching the defenders of Ar's Station. Still I must do something soon. The siege at Ar's Station, I had gathered, might be approaching a critical juncture.
As I pondered these matters the door to the paga room burst open and the fellow, fierce and bearded, who had been in the baths now appeared, in the uniform of the company of Artemidorus of Cos, which, indeed, I had supposed must be his. He wore his sword, on its strap over the left shoulder. This is common among Gorean warriors, though not on the march nor in tarnflight. In this arrangement the sword may be unsheathed and the scabbard and strap discarded in one movement. He carried his helmet and the intriguing pouch which had caught my attention earlier, that which he had carried with him even in the room of the baths. I did not meet the fellow's eyes, not wanting to explore the consequences of a confrontation. I supposed I should permit myself, if the occasion arose, to be bullied and humiliated, that I might not risk complications or delay in my mission. Still, I am not always as rational as I might be, and if her threatened or challenged me, I was not at all certain that I could summon the concealments and coolness necessary to endure abuse. I am upon occasion too hot-headed, too quick to act, too ready to respond to any insult or slight, real or imagined. It is doubtless one of many faults. Perhaps I should be more like a Dietrich of Tarnburg, who might dissemble plausibly, and then, later, when it suited his convenience, and if it fitted into his plans, make his kills.
I did not raise my eyes but appeared to be concerned with the paga. I heard him make a sound of contempt. I wondered if he noted that my hand closed more tightly upon the base of the kantharos. I should try to control that. I think, I myself, might have noticed it, in the movement of the upper arm. He stood there, a few feet away. I began to feel insulted. Heat rose in my body. I controlled myself. Surely that is what Dietrich of Tarnburg would have done. I did not look up. Warriors, of course, are trained to rely upon peripheral vision. If he approached me too closely, coming within a predetermined critical distance, I could dash the paga upward into his eyes and wrench the table up and about, plunging one of the legs into his diaphragm. Then in a moment I could have him under my foot or upon my sword. Such authorities recommend breaking the kantharos into shards on the face, marking the target above the bridge of the nose with the rim. This can be even more dangerous with a metal goblet. Many civilians, I believe, do not know why certain warriors, by habit, request their paga in metal goblets when dining in public houses. They regard it, I suppose, as an eccentricity. I heard him make another sound of contempt, and then he strode away, toward another table. He was still alive. I wondered what was in the pouch.