“Can you stand?” asked the Lady Constanzia.
“yes,” I said, raising unsteadily.
In a few moments then we were making our way across the terrace to the brad steps far from the wall.
At the height of the steps I asked the Lady Constanzia to wait for a moment, while I looked back, across the expanse of the terrace. It seemed very brad. Here and there, on the wall, at the bridge, and to the right, and at certain places on the balustrade, were lamps. The sky was dark with clouds. One of the buildings, bordering the terrace, one now rather before me, and to my right, was still afire. Smoke rose from it to the dark sky. Artisans were still working with the tarnwire.
“Strangers held the terrace,” said the Lady Constanzia.
“Yes,” I said.
Toward its center was the place where the butchery had occurred.
How desperate had been those men. They had sought an entrance to the pits. They had apparently found one. In the corridors, I gathered, the last of them had died.
I looked back to the wall where I had been chained, that to which the slaves had been commanded, that against which the free women, those who had proclaimed themselves slaves, had also been confined. I could see the bridge across the way, that across which the free women, in coffle, had been marched, their arms held up, closely behind them, the elbow of the left arm grasped by the hand of the right, the elbow of the right grasped by the hand of the left. They would be, presumably, in the pens by now.
They might already be branded. My thigh tingled as I remembered my own branding in the pens, long ago. It had been quite painful. I had cried out in misery. A branding rack had been used, to hold us steady for the mark. Our hands had been braceleted behind our backs, to the belly chain, that we not be able to tear at the brand. My entire group, it was said, had been excellently marked. Certainly I was. But this was not surprising for the iron masters in such a place, of the caste of Metal Workers, are skilled. We had all been given the common kajira mark. Perhaps theirs would be the same. They were to be sold out of the city, I recalled. They would find themselves then at the mercy of strangers. Gone would be their privileged status, that of the free woman. Gone would be the protection of the law, of guardsmen, of the shared Home Stone. Let them then salvage what they could of their lives. Let them strive to learn how to please.
I thought of the slave girl, Dorna. The earrings had been quite attractive on her. I suspected that she might now be quite fond of them. That seems to be the way it is with the women of this world. They fear them. Then they love them. To be sure, they also made her only a pierced-ear girl. I supposed that she might now be bathing her master.
I then, on my leash, following the Lady Constanzia, descended the long stairway to the lower levels. I stepped carefully, as my hands were braceleted behind me.
In two places on the steps we saw dark stains, which I supposed to be blood.
“We saved a piece of fruit for you,” said the Lady Constanzia. “I put it in my tunic. I will give it to you below.”
“Thank you,” I said.
We continued on our way.
The Lady Constanzia was crying.
25
“Somewhere,” said the peasant, dully, “I heard steel, I heard shouting.”
“It was far away,” said the pit master, sitting, cross-legged, as he sometimes did, before the chained peasant.
The pit master’s legs were small for his upper body, almost bandy. He looked like a bolder of sorts, sitting there in the cell.
It was late, the same night as the raid of the intruders. I had been unable to attend upon the peasant until now, as I had been late returning to the pens. The pit master had waited for me.
“Master is all right,” I had said, relievedly, returned by the Lady Constanzia, kneeling before him.
“And I am pleased you live, little Janice,” said he, “and you, too, Lady Constanzia.”
We were both kneeling before him.
The pit master had been covered with grime and blood. He had been cut about the left shoulder. A bloody rag had been knotted about his upper body. His lower body was filthy as it seemed that one or more of the tunnels had been flooded to the height of a man’s waist, to facilitate the entry of water urts and tharlarion. These had been, I gathered, by noise and fire, herded toward intruders. But now he was clean and clad in a fresh tunic. That he had been wounded would not now be discernible, the blood stanched, the wound dressed, the dressing hidden beneath the tunic. It was not unusual, incidentally, for the pit master to be careful of his appearance when he came to the cell of the peasant. He would often bathe and attire himself in fresh, clean raiment before presenting himself before him.
It seemed strange that he would accord such courtesy and regard, such esteem, almost reverence, to one who was a mere peasant.
“I am finished, Master,” I said.
“What is honor?’ asked the pit master of the peasant.
The peasant lifted his head, and looked at him, uncomprehendingly.
“Honor,” said the pit master.
“I do not know,” said the peasant.
“I do not know, either,” said the pit master.
“I have heard of it, once, somewhere,” said the peasant. “But it was long ago.”
“I, too, have heard of it,” said the pit master, bitterly, “but, too, it was long ago.”
“Is it not something for upper castes?” asked the peasant.
“Perhaps,” granted the pit master.
“Then it is not our concern,” said the peasant.
“No,” said the pit master, bitterly, “It is not our concern.”
“Is it time for the planting?” asked the peasant.
“No,” said the pit master.
We then left the cell.
26
“You have eaten nothing!” I chided the Lady Constanzia. She lay in the white sliplike garment, that undergarment resembling a slave tunic, on the mat in her cell, her knees drawn up. Her eyes were red with weeping. She stared outward, though I think she was looking at nothing. I did not even know if she had heard me.
I had returned from my duties in the cell of the peasant, following the pit master back to his quarters. It was late, the same night as the raid of the intruders.
A messenger had been awaiting the return of the pit master. His missive had been delayed, given the disruptions in the city, and those in the pits.
“I will never see him again!” said the Lady Constanzia.
“Eat,” I said.
‘No,” she said.
“Do you wish me whipped, that you have not fed?” I asked.
“Take it to the other girls,” she said. “None will know.”
I put the plate to one side. My fellow pit slaves would be glad to get it. It was better than their common fare in the pits. They would fall on their knees about the pan, seizing what they could from it.
“I bring you word,” I said, “which has but recently been received.”
“Is it word from him?” she asked, looking up.
“Alas, no,” I said. “But it should make you happy. It is good news for you, indeed.”
“What?” she asked, in misery.
“Your ransom has been paid,” I said. “The agreed-upon amounts have been lodged with the business council, the entire matter attested to by the commercial praetor. I saw the orders, and the seals.”
“You cannot read,” she said.
“I could not read the orders,” I said, “but I saw them, and the seals.”
The orders, bearing the seals, had been delivered to the pit master.
“Rejoice!” I said. “Your sojourn here, in this damp, dismal place, in this cell, behind these bars will soon be done. You will soon be returned to your native city and your accustomed mode of life.”