"As Master wishes," she whispered.
"Do you think your life with me will be easy?" he asked.
"No, Master!" she said.
"Have we a slave whip in the camp?" he asked me.
"No," I said.
He put aside his shoulder belt, with the sheath and blade, and removed his tunic belt, slipping the pouch and knife sheath from it.
"On your knees, slut of Cos," said he. She struggled to her knees.
He doubled the belt, and regarded the slave. "What are you going to call her?" I asked.
"What was her name, as a free woman?" he asked.
" 'Phoebe'," I said.
"That will do," he said. "It will amuse me that she will wear that name now as a slave name."
"Excellent," I said.
"You are Phoebe," he said to her. "Who are you?"
"Phoebe, Master," she said.
"Kiss the belt," he said.
She quickly kissed the belt. Too, then, as he held it there a moment, she kissed it again, more lingeringly, and then licked it, and then looked up at him.
He then went behind her and she bent over, her head to the dirt, fearing the belt.
He put the belt down, on a pack, and, crouching beside her, touched her at the waist.
"Ohh," she said softly.
I had seldom seen a female so responsive, at least initially, to the touch of a man. I had no doubt that Marcus was very special to this beautiful young slave, in a way over which she had little or no control. This response on her part seemed to infuriate him. "Sly slave," he snarled.
She sobbed.
Marcus seized the belt and stood behind her, angrily. The belt, doubled, swung menacingly, back and forth. She trembled, head down. Then, angrily, he returned to where he had discarded the pouch and knife sheath, replaced them on the belt, and replaced the belt about his waist. He then, angry still, slung his sword belt and sheath over his left shoulder.
"It is dark," he said.
"Yes," I said. I did not think we should daily in the camp. To be sure, I did not expect that Octantius or his men would be back quickly, and, in any event, it would take them time to reorganize and secure arms. Too, as the mercenaries might still be about or be thought to be about, and the gold was gone, I did not think that we would have much to fear, at least immediately, from that quarter. On the other hand, it would be well to move out with expedition.
Marcus went to the side, to secure some of his gear.
Our first treks would be at night, and we would, at least in this vicinity, avoid roads, paths, waterways, agricultural areas, villages, communities, and such. We would move with something of the stealth and secrecy which we utilized in the delta. Later, it would presumably be safe to frequent more civilized areas. Indeed, in time I expected we could travel with impunity, as vagabonds, toward Ar, presumably even on the Viktel Aria, during daylight hours. I did not think there would be much danger of being recognized. The girl with us, of course, would neither be she who had been Ina nor remind anyone of her. Also, even if we were recognized, I did not think that anyone would find us of particular interest in ourselves. Even torturers, I supposed, might be satisfied with the information that we had given the girl to a mercenary, Edgar of Tarnwald, and he, by that time, would presumably have slipped away, unnoticed, and presumably under new names. The slave which had been delivered to him, too, presumably would by then be in some locale unbeknownst to him, and might have changed hands several times.
Marcus left the camp to fill the water bag. Phoebe looked at me, frightened.
"You may speak," I said.
"I love him," she said. "I want to serve him. Why does he hate me?"
"He does not hate you," I said. She looked at me, startled.
In a few moments Marcus had returned. He had also brought with him a light slave yoke, presumably purchased somewhere, perhaps from the stake attendant.
He then, with great roughness, freeing her tightly bound wrists from behind her back, fastened Phoebe, she gasping, * wincing, in the yoke.
"You are yoked, slut of Cos," he said, examining his handiwork.
"Yes, Master!" she said, happily.
He then, in anger, fastened portions of our gear to her back, and to the yoke, thus transforming her into a lovely beast of burden. The yoke itself was not heavy, but its weight, together with the weight of the gear, and such, was not negligible for one such as Phoebe. She would carry weight and know it.
"Will it be necessary to put you on a leash?" he asked.
"No, my Master," she said.
I picked up the tiny garment which had been Ina's, retrieved from the slave camp, from where she had thrust it between slave cages, in her flight.
I shook it out, that Phoebe could see that it was a skimpy, one-piece slave tunic.
She looked at it eagerly, hopefully. It would be very precious to her, even such a small thing as it was. I had saved it, of course, for her.
"This," I said, "I shall place in one of the packs, in case of need." There was no question of permitting her to wear it now, of course, given Marcus' anger. He would want her to serve now, stripped. Too, he had already yoked her.
"No," said Marcus.
"No?" I asked.
"There will be no need for it," he said. "If I choose to clothe her I will do so in a way that befits her, in a way that will make clear that she is the lowest and most despicable of slaves, in such a way that she will know herself more naked than naked."
"This is not exactly the robes of concealment," I said. In it, of course, Phoebe would be charmingly displayed as what she was, a slave. Indeed, she would be quite exciting, and quite lovely, in such a garment, so brief and open. Marcus needed have no fear, in my opinion, that if she were in such a garment, that either she or anyone else would be in any doubt as to her status. Indeed, in it it would be quite clear that she was in an exact and profound bondage.
"Burn it," said Marcus.
I dropped it in the fire. We watched it burn.
Tears streamed down the face of the yoked slave. I had had Ephialtes deliver her stripped, of course. And, customarily, when a girl is delivered, the carrier usually retains the delivery garments, if any. After all, he is delivering the slave, not a wardrobe. In this fashion, too, the slave's complete dependence on her new master, even for such things as clothing, is made clear from the very beginning.
The garment was then gone.
"Will the leash now be necessary?" inquired Marcus.
"No, my Master," said the slave.
I then, with the side of my foot, kicked dirt over our fire, extinguishing it. We then, Marcus and I together, with the slave following, left the camp.
50 The Walls of Ar
From the crest of this hill the walls of Ar can be seen. It is a long time since I have seen them. They are very beautiful. Marcus is nearby. Phoebe, too, is nearby, attending to her duties in the camp.
There is a note or two which I should like to adjoin to the preceding manuscript.
As nearly as I can determine, she who was Ina is no longer sought by those of Ar. If this is the case then I would suppose that she is now, wherever she is, safe, or at least as safe as one of her sort, a female slave, can be. To be sure, although they are the absolute property of their masters, and are absolutely, and in all ways, at the disposal of their masters, their safety, for most practical purposes, is largely in their own hands. Little more is usually required of them than that they be marvelously beautiful, instantly obedient and perfectly pleasing, in all ways.
It is also now clearly established that Saphronicus, who was the leader of the forces of Ar in the north, is dead. He apparently died in, or about, the camp at Holmesk. The nature of his death remains somewhat mysterious, and there are many rumors concerning it. I have heard, for example, that he was beset by a larl far from its accustomed habitats, that he was torn to pieces by a tarn, and that his head was torn, or partly torn, from his body by a hundred berserk lunatics. Perhaps only those closest to him know the real truth of the matter. It is my speculation, however, that Labienus, commander of the vanguard, made his report.