He did lift his hand, but to brush away flies.
He took another step toward her, curious.
“I am not afraid of you!” she said.
He stood still, looking at her.
Then a small, supercilious smile played about her lips, one of amusement, of contempt.
He realized that she counted upon her sex to protect her, her station, which seemed high, the guards perhaps, his companion perhaps.
Boldly she stood her ground.
“Barbarian,” she hissed.
He said nothing.
She had followed the group. He wondered, why. What had motivated her? Was it hatred, was it a desire to prove to herself that she was not afraid of him, was it to revenge herself for having been made the subject, willing or not, of a man’s glance, was it curiosity, was it fascination, or was it all these, perhaps, and something deeper, far deeper, which she herself could only dimly sense, but which moved her with a powerful force, one she could not resist, and which, in her heart, she did not desire to resist?
“You are a handsome fellow,” she said, demeaningly. “Doubtless you turn the heads of the simple village maids.”
He did not tell her that it was not unknown for there to be women in the villages not too unlike herself, women who had once been citizens of the empire, who lived in terror of the free women in the villages, and their switches and sticks.
“Lace your tunic,” she said.
His broad chest was muchly bared, as he had undone much of the lacing.
He then approached her, to where she stood within his reach. She trembled, visibly, but did not withdraw.
Then she drew herself up, arrogantly. “I denounce you as an ape, and a barbarian,” she said.
“You do not dare to strike me,” she said.
His hand lashed out, cuffing her, sending her turning to the wall.
At the wall, half turned, she regarded him, disbelievingly, a trace of blood at her lip.
She looked wildly at the guards.
“No!” said the companion of the giant to the guards, sharply. “He is a guest of the empire!”
The giant then went to the women and pulled her out from the wall.
He stood her, trembling, before him.
“It is hot,” he said.
He then, with two hands, as she cried out, and gasped, and as utterances of surprise, or protest, emanated from the guards, who were restrained by the companion of the giant, tore open, and down, to her waist, the garments of the woman.
It is thus, on some worlds, in the most genteel of markets, that slaves are exhibited, stripped merely to the hips. Usually, of course, the woman is exhibited stark naked, save perhaps for collars or bonds, that the buyers may see, fully, and with perfection, what it is that they are buying.
He then, by her wrists, holding one in each hand, forced her down, down on her knees, before him.
He looked down upon her.
Women might have some worth, he thought, as slaves.
Then he released her.
She pulled her garments up, closely about her, holding them in place.
She remained before him, fearing to rise.
“Perhaps we shall someday meet again,” he said to her, “amidst the smell of smoke, I with a rope in my hand.”
“You are not a gentleman,” she said.
“Nor would you be a lady, naked and on a rope,” he said.
“You are a barbarian!” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said. “I am a barbarian.”
He then turned about and left her, where she knelt, clutching her clothing about her, on the street.
In a moment the giant and his companion had come to the edge of the vast plaza, within which, in its center, more than five hundred yards away, like a jewel, ensconced in more than a dozen walls, lay the palace.
At the edge of the plaza, after the private exchange of signs and countersigns, and a brief ceremony, involving salutes and drill, escorts were exchanged, and the officer of the guard, with his men, returned the way they had come, and the giant and his companion, now in the company of a contingent of the palace guard, prepared to approach the palace.
The giant looked back up the street. The men who had followed them no longer followed, but stood there, remaining at a distance. It was not that they could not have followed onto the plaza, for they were not armed, and civilians were allowed on its delightful expanse, and there were several upon it now, but that they chose not to follow. The sport, perhaps, seemed no longer so inviting. The giant could see their companion, whom he had thrust, not gently, against the wall. He still lay crumpled at the foot of the wall, senseless, in his own blood. Rather near them, but not with them, was the woman. She was now standing, still clutching her leel about her. She was looking after them, after the giant, and his companion.
There was a fresh wind that, unobstructed by buildings, swept across the plaza.
“I like it better here,” said the giant.
“Oh?” said his companion.
“It does not smell so much here,” said the giant.
“It is the wind,” said his companion.
“It does not smell so much here,” said the giant, again, amused.
“No,” said his companion.
Surely this must be an allusion to the efficacy of the aromatic herbs, crashed, strewn underfoot, renewed daily in this district, the emperor in residence, as we have remarked. Such muchly covered the smell of garbage, and offal, which was considerably more obtrusive elsewhere in the small city.
“Nor are the flies so bad here,” said the giant.
“Ah,” said his companion.
“But the woman did not smell,” said the giant.
“No,” said his companion.
“But it would be otherwise,” speculated the giant, “if she were to be naked, and knee-deep in dung, her hair bound up high on her head, fearing the whip of overseers, cleaning stables.”
“Doubtless,” said his companion.
“But she could be soaked, and then scrubbed clean, and perfumed afterwards,” said the giant.
“Surely,” said his companion.
“I think she would soon beg the service of the hut, rather than that of the stables,” said the giant.
“I do not doubt it,” said his companion.
The giant looked back.
“They will not bother us further,” said the companion. “It is nearly time for the afternoon dole.”
“I no longer see her,” said the giant.
“Forget her,” said his companion.
“She was well curved,” said the giant.
“Yes,” said his companion.
In time the giant would breed slaves, choosing the best, from one point of view or another, for replication.
There were some fountains here and there in the plaza, and, also, here and there, some statues of gods, the old gods, revered, tutelary deities of the empire, but nothing which would afford much cover.
“Sir,” said the new officer of the guard, to the companion of the giant.
“Proceed,” said the companion of the giant.
The group then began to make its way across the plaza toward the palace.
The old pantheons were complex, and diverse on the many worlds, and even within the empire, from world to world, they often varied considerably. The general policy of the empire, elsewhere discussed, was one of toleration, not only for the many gods in its own pantheons and their devotees, but for those of other peoples, and species, as well. The theory of the empire seemed to be muchly to the effect that, as there were many worlds, and peoples, and species, so, too, it was likely that there were many gods. To be sure, there might be more or less powerful gods, and perhaps even a most powerful god, and wars among gods, and so on. The empire did, however, occasionally, and particularly when it became hard-pressed, or alarmed, insist on the right of reassuring itself of the allegiance of its subjects, and the gesture, or symbol, of allegiance commonly took the form of a sacrifice, usually of a token nature, such as a flower, a sprig of laurel, a pinch of incense, such things, on an altar, often one devoted to the genius, or spirit, of the empire. It was not clear, of course, that the genius, or spirit, of the empire was a god, at all. This sacrifice was normally found acceptable, and unobjectionable, by most of the empire’s subjects, spread over galaxies, except occasionally by the members of minor, deviant sects, whose unwillingness to perform the ceremony was commonly winked at.