I wondered if she were a slave.
Pertinax was not a forester.
“Perhaps the slaves may now feed,” said Pertinax.
“Surely,” I said.
It was at that time that Cecily, regarding her trencher, first became aware of its lightness. Constantina had given her little, and, I suspected, that little was not of the best.
After a bit I snapped my fingers that Cecily should approach me, and then, bit by bit, as she knelt by me, and extended her head, delicately, I fed her. She was not to use her hands, of course. Such homely practices remind the slave that she is dependent on the master for all things, not only for her collar, her clothing, if any, and her life, but even the tiniest morsel of food. Bit by bit I fed Cecily and watched her take the food gently, delicately, between her small, fine white teeth. Some of the sul I let her lick from my fingers.
I stole a glance at Pertinax, and noted that he, as I had suspected would be the case, was almost aflame with admiration and awe, with delight and envy. To have a beautiful woman so at one’s mercy, so much in one’s power, so much one’s own, fills a man with triumph and joy, even with exultation. He then begins to understand what it can be, to be what he is, a man. To be sure, Goreans take this sort of thing much for granted.
Cecily took the food gratefully from me, and seemed almost dreamily content. Sometimes, head down, she kissed softly at my hand, and fingers.
“Slave, slave!” hissed Constantina.
“Yours, Master,” Cecily whispered to me.
“Slave!” cried Constantina.
“Perhaps,” I said to Pertinax, “you might similarly feed your girl.”
“Never!” said Constantina.
“That will not be necessary,” said Pertinax.
“Perhaps it is time for paga,” I said.
Pertinax made as though to rise, but I motioned him to remain as he was, and he, with a glance at Constantina, a glance almost apologetic, resumed his position.
“Cecily,” I said.
She rose, and went to the side. In a moment she had removed the lid from the vessel, set it aside, and half-filled two goblets. One she placed where Constantina might reach it, and the other she brought to my place, holding it, and knelt there. She lifted her eyes to me, to see if the serving ritual might begin, but my eyes cautioned her to wait.
I glanced back at Constantina, where she knelt, seething with rage, with humiliation.
“Is she a pleasure slave?” I asked Pertinax.
“Scarcely,” he said, almost laughing, as though the idea were somehow preposterous.
Constantina cast him an ugly glance.
I had told from her manner of kneeling, of course, that she was not a pleasure slave. There are a variety of ways in which a pleasure slave may kneel, but the most common is back on her heels, knees spread, back straight, head up, the palms of her hands down, on her thighs. Sometimes, when her needs are muchly upon her, she may kneel muchly like that, save that her head may be lowered humbly, daring not to meet the eyes of the master, and the backs of her hands, not the palms of her hands, may be down on her thighs, which exposes the delicate palms of the hands to the master, a lovely hint of hope and petition. As is well known the small, soft palms of a woman’s hands are sensitive and alive with nerve tissue, though far less so than what they are symbolizing, the moist, pleading tissues of her begging, heated belly.
“Any woman can be made a pleasure slave,” I informed Pertinax.
“I should like to think so,” he said.
A tiny, angry noise escaped Constantina.
“Where is your whip?” I asked Pertinax.
“I have none,” said Pertinax. “It is not necessary.”
“You are mistaken,” I said.
“Would you dare to whip me?” asked Constantina.
“Were you given permission to speak?” I inquired.
“She has a standing permission to speak,” said Pertinax, hastily.
“In her case, that may be a mistake,” I said.
Pertinax was silent, and looked away.
“Would you dare to whip me?” persisted Constantina.
“That is for your master to do,” I said.
“He dares not do so,” she said, haughtily.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Let us have paga,” said Pertinax, quickly, affably.
“Serve your master,” I said to Constantina.
She seemed startled, but no more so, I think, than Pertinax.
I gathered that this relationship, the ritual serving of drink to the master by a slave, was unfamiliar to them.
By now it was overwhelmingly clear that Constantina’s relationship to Pertinax was not that of a slave to her master, even should she be a slave, perhaps in some legal sense.
She picked up the goblet.
“Both hands,” I informed her.
She put both hands on the goblet.
The justification for this grasp is practical and aesthetic, practical in the sense of assuring greater control of the vessel, and aesthetic, having to do with symmetry, and a framing of the slave’s beauty. But, too, in this fashion the position of the slave’s hands is clear. No hand is free, for example, to grasp a dagger, or slip powder into the drink. Long ago, in Turia, it is said that a free woman, armed with a dagger, disguised as a slave, attempted to assassinate a Ubar in his cups. Fortunately for the Ubar the attack was botched. Unfortunately for the would-be assassin, she failed to make her escape. It seems her anonymous employers had had no intention that she should escape, as arrangements for such a withdrawal might have been dangerous, and might have resulted, should confederates be captured, in the exposure of their identities. Fleeing, she had found doors locked before her. Captured and put under the iron, the Ubar would later find much pleasure in her. Too, as she had been of high family in Turia, her public bondage, exposure in triumphs, and such, afforded the populace much delight. No longer carried in her sedan chair by slaves, for whom citizens must make way, she was now less than a tarsk in the city. Surely she had been chained in more than one paga tavern. One wonders why a woman would have risked so much. One wonders if there are secret wheels, and springs, and engines, deep in the mind and heart, which impel one to travel fearful, beckoning roads. One wonders why some women place themselves at risk, why they undertake hazardous journeys and voyages, why they walk the high bridges at night, such things. Perhaps she was, in her way, courting the collar. If so, she found it. It is hard to understand the mind, and even harder, one supposes, to understand the heart.
In any event, both hands are to be on the goblet.
She rose to her feet, holding the goblet with both hands. She approached Pertinax. She bent down, and, irritably, extended the goblet to him.
“On your knees,” I told her.
Angrily she knelt.
Pertinax much enjoyed, I could tell, having her on her knees before him. How right she looked.
I wondered if, somewhere, there might not be a man in Pertinax.
Again, she extended the goblet to Pertinax.
“No,” I said to her.
“I am on my knees,” she snapped. “What more do you want?”
“Have you never served wine or paga to a man?” I inquired.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Cecily,” I said, “it seems we have here an ignorant slave. Instruct her.”
“I, too, Master,” she said, “am ignorant. I am little trained.”
“That is true,” I said, “but do what you can.”
“I will not be instructed by a slave,” said Constantina, adding, quickly, “such a slave.”
“Then you will be stripped and instructed by my belt,” I said.
“I protest,” said Pertinax.
“You have no Home Stone here,” I said.
“It is my hut,” he said.
“I am not sure of that,” I said.
“You are not my master,” she said. “You cannot whip me!”