“I am hungry, Master,” she said.
“Oh?” said Abrogastes.
“I have not been fed all day,” she said.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
She looked up at him, pathetically.
Abrogastes looked down at her, in anger.
She looked away, frightened.
Huta had been a consecrated, sacred virgin, an officiant of the rites of the Timbri.
It had been under her influence, according to some, that Ortog had been tempted into the path of rebellion and secession. As a historical observation it seems likely that this analysis is overly simple, considering the energy and ambition of Ortog. On the other hand, there is no doubt that her predictions, prophecies, contrived “signs” and such, played their role in firing his ambition, and encouraging his break with the Drisriaks.
In the raid on Tenguthaxichai she had fallen into the hands of Abrogastes.
She had been unable to influence him. Such men are not easy to influence.
Her guilt, her duplicity and fraud, had been manifest.
On Tenguthaxichai she had forsworn her gods.
Only by declaring herself slave had she managed to escape death, and that only, perhaps, for a moment.
She knew that her life hung by a thread with Abrogastes, who held her, in part, responsible for the defection of Ortog.
She was desperate to please him, not only that she might then live, but because of strange stirrings in her belly, because of profound helplessness, newly sensed, because of unfamiliar whispering, insistent desires, because of yearnings, and beggings, and needings, things she now sensed arising in her as softly, as meaningfully, as stealthily, as irresistibly, as tides and seasons.
“Perhaps I will throw you a piece of meat, to the dais,” he said. He held the two pieces left, in his hand.
The tone of his voice frightened her.
“A slave would be most grateful, Master,” she said.
“Do not use your hands,” he said.
“No, Master,” she said.
“On all fours,” he said, “here,” indicating a place on the dais, before the bench.
“Yes, Master,” she said, rising to all fours, this posture lifting the chain on her neck, and coming a little about the bench.
“Ready?” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
He then threw the piece of meat to the dais, suddenly, before the bench.
She put down her head but then jerked it back, suddenly, screaming, in a sound of chain, of snarling, of the scratching of claws on wood. Not inches from her head had been the snarling, suddenly lunging visage and jaws of the fierce, crested hound of Abrogastes.
Its eyes were blazing, regarding her, and its head, and jaws, down, were over the meat. Then, as she scrambled back on the other side of the bench, on the other side of the left high-seat pillar, the hound seized the meat and pulled it back to his place.
She knelt then beside the bench, on the left of Abrogastes, shuddering, gasping.
Abrogastes laughed, amusing himself at the discomfiture of the slave.
Others, too, who had witnessed his joke, roared with laughter. To others, who might not have noticed, it was explained.
There was more laughter.
And men returned to their feasting.
Huta looked for an instant into the eyes of Abrogastes, and then lowered her head, frightened.
She knew that Abrogastes hated her, but, too, in his eyes, at times, she had seen something else, something which had seemingly infuriated Abrogastes, but which filled her with strange feelings, with something of hope, with even a sense of possible power. She had seen that he, at times, regarded her with keen desire. At such times, she had tried to kneel a little more straightly, or curl herself in his view, or at his feet, just a little more beautifully, or, timidly, seductively. At such times he would occasionally strike her, angrily, or spurn her with his foot. “You are learning your collar, aren’t you, you stinking, clever little bitch,” he would say. Then she would not dare to respond, but would keep her head down. He would then storm away. She then, kneeling there, left behind, or lying there, spurned, abandoned, wondered if, indeed, she might be learning her collar. She wanted him to care for her, if only a little. She knew she was falling in love with him. But how bold, or frightening, or terrifying, that would be for such as she, a mere slave! And how much more it would put her at his mercy!
“Kneel here, more closely, pretty little slave slut, Huta,” said Abrogastes. He tapped the side of the bench.
She crawled a few inches closer, until she was at the very side of the bench.
He lifted the large padlock on her collar, its bolt fitted through the stout collar staple and one of the links of the heavy chain, descending between her breasts, to the floor of the dais, and then looping up, over her left thigh, to descend again to the dais, to its ring, to which it was fastened, to the left of his bench.
He let the padlock fall back, against the collar.
He looked at her.
“You appear to be collared and chained,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“It will soon be spring,” he said, “and the storm of stones will be at an end.”
“Master?” she asked.
“And then it will be time for the lions to come forth from their lairs,” he said.
This was an allusion to the lionships.
“Master?” she said.
“You were a consecrated, sacred virgin,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You are now a slave girl,” he said.
“Yes, Master.”
“Yet you are still, as I understand it, a virgin,” he said.
“Master has not yet seen fit to remove my virginity,” she said.
“Or give you to a groom, that he may do so,” said Abrogastes.
“No, Master,” she whispered.
“Where do you think, this season,” asked he, “the lions should prowl?”
“I do not know, Master,” she said, frightened.
He then began to chew, holding it in one hand, and pulling at it with his teeth, the remaining piece of roasted meat, from the trencher of the display slave.
She watched him, almost faint with hunger.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
He tore off a piece of roasted meat and held it to her, but, when she reached up, to take it, delicately, gratefully, in her teeth, he removed it from her reach.
He put it in his own mouth, and chewed upon it, and then swallowed it.
Tears formed in her eyes.
“Do you like your collar and chain?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“Do you like your brand?” he asked.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
It was a common mark, familiar in almost all markets.
“It marks you well,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said, putting her head down.
“As what you are, a slave,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“The proud, arrogant Huta,” mused he, “is now no more than a slave.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Perhaps the lions should visit the world of the Timbri,” he said.
She looked at him, frightened.
“Perhaps you might be sent ahead,” he said, “in the guise of a free woman, to assess diverse districts, with respect to their riches, to scout suitable landing points.”
“No, please, Master,” she said.
“You are a little fool,” he said.