by John Norman
“Beast!” she said.
He regarded her, and she stepped back, uncertainly.
“Perhaps I should throw you to the marble,” he said.
She gasped.
“Perhaps you can imagine what it would feel like, on your body, as you were seized, held helplessly and ravished.”
She retreated.
She clutched the clothing before her, about her, closely, defensively.
“I jest, of course,” he said.
“Of course, milord!” she laughed.
“Milord,” she said.
“Yes?” he said.
“Your informants?” she said. “You spoke of bath attendants, and such.”
“Yes?” he said.
“Was my intimate maid among them?” she asked, angrily.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“I will beat her,” she said, “as she has never been beaten before!”
“Your carriage will be waiting,” said Iaachus, the Arbiter of Protocol. “You will be contacted again, tomorrow, and the necessary arrangements will be made.
“Dress outside,” he said.
“Yes, milord,” she said, and backed from the room.
Her emotions, in the anteroom, were like charging, leaping seas within her, chaotic tides, irrepressible stirrings, storms of confusion, of delight, of ambition, of fury, of humiliation, of curiosity. She reveled in the improvement of her prospects, the prospect of the redemption of her fortunes, the vistas of status, of wealth and power held out before her, that she could become one of the foremost ladies in the empire, perhaps, nay, undoubtedly, invited even to participate in the court! And so much could be purchased so simply, at so little cost as an awaited opportunity and the merest scratch of a tiny point. She could, once success was hers, so easily wrought, return to the empire, ruin her family, bring destruction in a thousand ways upon her enemies, and upon others, whom she might please, who perhaps had slighted her, or disapproved of her, or might have done so. But, too, she shook with humiliation, with fury. Within, a man had seen her, she, though a woman of the senatorial class, as naked as a slave girl! To be sure, he had doubtless had no choice. He must have had, she reassured herself, to make what determinations he needed, to make certain that she was fully suitable for inclusion within his plans, to ascertain her fittingness for the role in which he was considering casting her. Yes! Yes! And apparently he had found her fitting all right! She was extremely beautiful! She knew that. She would do quite well. She would do superbly! She was extremely vain of her beauty, and relished its power. But, too, she was disturbed by feelings she had had, before him, as when turning before him, when he had told her to do so, as when kneeling before him, when he had told her to do so, and precisely according to his instructions. For an instant, here and there, she had suddenly, overwhelmingly, frighteningly, felt wholly, radically, simply, basically, fundamentally female, felt herself a creature to be seen in terms of its basic, radical psychosexuality, a creature with no alternatives, no options, other than a total helpless, yielded femininity, a creature of basic femaleness, a femaleness imbued with, redolent with, radiant, profound, pervasive passion, and, too, for an instant, she sensed what might be the nature of a total love, obedience and service, sensed the profound sexuality of a creature who is uncompromisingly owned, and must be, under the threat of terrible punishments, but is eager, as well, to be, hot, devoted, and dutiful. She had sensed then, in distracted, terrified, resisted moments, simply, what it might be to be a woman, a true woman, radically, fundamentally, basically.
How she hurled such thoughts from her head! How she hated men! How she hated the dark-garbed, mysterious, powerful Iaachus, Arbiter of Protocol. How she hated slaves! How she hated the world, the empire, everything!
She was of noble family, she was of the highest lineage, she was, even, of the senatorial class!
She thought of her intimate maid!
The chit! How she would beat her!
It was at this moment that, in the outer room, the anteroom, she saw the white-gowned young woman who had been, earlier, in the inner room, who had been dismissed before she, the woman of the senatorial class, and the Arbiter of Protocol had begun to discuss matters of a possibly delicate, sensitive nature.
The girl had been lying curled on a mat, in the white, sleeveless, woolen gown, at the far wall, well out of earshot of the inner room, which, in any event, was sealed with a mighty door, a heavy portal designed to be soundproof.
When the woman of senatorial class had entered the room the girl at the far wall had stirred, and then, becoming aware of her, had hurriedly knelt on the mat, her head to the floor, the palms of her hands on the floor, as well.
“Girl!” snapped the woman of senatorial rank.
The girl hurried forward, and knelt before her, her head to the floor, her palms upon the floor, as well.
“Mistress?” asked the girl, frightened.
“Are you trained as a lady’s maid?” inquired the woman of senatorial rank.
“No, Mistress!” said the girl, frightened.
The woman of senatorial rank uttered a sound of exasperation, of impatience.
“I would dress,” she said. “Do you think yourself competent to assist me?”
“I will try, Mistress,” said the girl.
And, in a few moments, with the assistance of the girl, who was deferent, and whose fingers seemed adept in such matters, the woman of senatorial rank was again suitably robed.
There was little to be done about the coiffure, of course, and it would have taken hours to manage properly, but her hair could be muchly concealed within the frame of wire and jeweled leather, and, particularly in the darkness, few would guess that it had been disarranged.
The bedecking of the imperial female, of the upper classes, was not a simple task, given the numerous garments, their positioning, the cunning closures, and such, but the matter was soon finished.
“You are certain you have not been a lady’s maid before?” asked the woman of senatorial rank, regarding herself in one of the wall mirrors.
“No, Mistress,” said the girl, again kneeling.
“That dress you are wearing,” said the woman of senatorial rank. “It is all you are wearing, is it not?”
“Yes, Mistress. Forgive me, Mistress,” whispered the girl.
“You are very pretty,” said the woman of senatorial rank.
Though the gown of the girl was loose, and of an ankle-length, it was not difficult to detect a graceful, well-curved form within it, and the neckline was surely lower than it need have been, making clear that it held merely precariously captive a lovely, well-formed bosom.
“Thank you, Mistress,” whispered the girl.
“You have not been trained as a lady’s maid, and yet you seem familiar with the subtleties, the intricacies, of a lady’s investiture,” said the woman of senatorial rank.
“Forgive me, Mistress,” said the girl.
“Interesting,” mused the woman of senatorial rank.
The girl, fearful, kept her head to the floor.
“Look at me,” said the woman of senatorial rank.
The girl looked up, timidly, but did not dare to raise her eyes above the ornate collar of the robes of the woman standing before her.
“Look into my eyes, my dear,” said the woman of senatorial rank, kindly.
Timidly, gratefully, the girl did so.
The woman of senatorial rank then slapped her, viciously, with all her force, across the face.
Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes. She looked at the woman of senatorial rank. Her eyes were startled, questioning.
“Do you not know,” inquired the woman of senatorial rank, “that you are not to look into the eyes of one such as I, unless you sense that you may do so, or unless permission is granted?”
“Forgive me, Mistress,” said the girl, shuddering, putting her head down to the floor, as she had before.
“On your belly,” said the woman of senatorial rank. “Kis
s my slippers!”
Instantly the girl obeyed.
The woman of senatorial rank then spurned her to her side, with her foot.
The girl lay on her side then, in pain, but did not dare, of course, to look into the eyes of the one who had spurned her to her place.
“Slaves are disgusting,” said the free woman.
“Yes, Mistress!” said the slave, putting her head down.
The free woman then spun about, and left the room, with a swirl of her robes.
How shamed I have been, she thought. How I will beat my intimate maid tonight, the embonded little chit!
To be sure, that maid was now her only slave, that being one of the unfortunate, degrading consequences of the reduction in her resources, in the slippage of her fortunes.
Her carriage would be waiting.
Shortly after her departure a bell rang in the anteroom, and the slave girl, whose name, we recall, was Elena, hurried to the inner room, where she knelt before the Arbiter of Protocol, in suitable obeisance.
“You are crying,” he observed.
“Forgive me, Master,” she said.
“Our guest has left?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Go to my chamber,” he said. “Prepare it for pleasure. Then chain yourself, naked, at the foot of the couch.”
“Yes, Master!” she said, and then, unbidden, she crawled to his boots and kissed them, gratefully, fervently.
She then hurried from the room.
From his chambers she saw a darkened, closed carriage leaving the grounds.
She looked to the cuffs and shackles, the collar. They were all open.
She looked about the room, to make certain that all was in readiness. In a moment it would be too late to repair any last-minute oversights.
All seemed in order.
She slipped her gown to the side.
She looked down at the chains, the impediments. How totally helpless, how much at his, or anyone’s, mercy, she would be in a moment.
She loved their weight, the sound of them on her body, how they moved against the ring.
How they told her what she was, and how she must be.
The master, of course, held the key to them.
She began with the left ankle, for there is an order to such things. It is one of the first things a girl is taught. Then, in moments, the steel, in all its beauty, its efficiency, its closeness, its meaningfulness, was upon her.
She could scarcely control herself.
She had a good deal of slack now, but such devices may be shortened and adjusted, as the master may please.
She looked to the wall.
On it was a whip.
She did not think she would be beaten. Surely she would do her best to please.
She lay there, like a tethered kitten, at the foot of the couch, like the animal she was.
She trembled with desire.
She did not envy the free woman.
The free woman, in anger, confused, filled with the hope of improved fortunes, fearful of the future, resolved, rode alone in the closed, unmarked carriage, the blinds drawn, her guards, her escort, on the box outside.
Coming to the palace she had permitted her escort to share the carriage.
Doubtless that had given him much pleasure. Doubtless he had been looking forward to the return trip, as well, to the opportunity, if only briefly, to be again close to one such as she. She was sure of it!
Then she had banished him to the box.
How amused she had been at this.
It had been difficult for him to conceal his disappointment.
Too, for a moment there had been a look in his eyes which had frightened her, but then it was gone.
She reassured herself.
Men are weak, she thought.
She smiled to herself.
She looked down at the floor of the carriage.
Slave girls, she thought, those meaningless chits, might be transported in such a carriage naked, kneeling, crouched down, on the floor, a blanket, or cloak, thrown over them.
Slave girls are commonly so transported, in closed vehicles, and such.
They are commonly kept in ignorance.
How fitting for them, she thought.
How pleased she was, that she was a different sort of woman, not such as they.
The wheels sounded hollow on the hard surface; the hoofs of the draft beasts rang on the pavement.
Back in the palace Iaachus, the Arbiter of Protocol, gathered together papers, inserting them in a portfolio, and then placing the portfolio in the recess from which, earlier, a rectangular leather case had been withdrawn.
Afterward he proceeded to his chambers.
CHAPTER 3
“Let us see if there are men here!” called Abrogastes. “Are there men here?”
“There are men here!” cried the feasters. Drinking horns were lifted.
Greasy hands snatched at slabs of roasted meat, dripping with juices and blood, from heavy, broad, stained wooden trenchers proffered almost frantically by former ladies of the empire, their ankles belled. Behind them, here and there, in colorful garments, in their colorful cloaks, were lads, with switches, whose business it was to see that the former ladies of the empire performed well. Abrogastes, clearing his vision, angry, sat back on the bench, between the high-seat pillars. He was moody, angry. He had drunk too much.
At his right there lay a great hound, of a sort bred for loyalty and suspicion, for ferocity and courage, a dog of the hunt and war, which will defend its master to the last drop of its blood, who will hurl itself at the merest spoken word on even an arn bear or vi-cat, or a dozen armed men, wreaking havoc amongst them.
To his left, at his feet, in a collar, on a chain, there lay a softer pet, one appropriate for other uses.
Abrogastes bent down and put down his hand on the massive head of the hound.
It rumbled, a growl that betokened affection.
“Good lad,” said Abrogastes thickly. He tousled the mane on that great head.
Another hand, so placed, might have been torn from the wrist, with one sudden, unexpected, fierce movement of the great jaws.
Abrogastes straightened up, looked out on the open space, at the serving, and, at the tables along the walls, the feasters.
He then looked down, moodily, angrily, to the left, at the other pet, on its chain.
It put down its head, terrified.
It did not know why it had been brought to this feast.
It dared not put its lips again, timidly, beggingly, placatingly, hopefully, to Abrogastes’ boot.
There was a sound of swearing from one of the tables. Two men pushed back their one-man benches.
“Desist!” cried a fellow.
Blades whipped from sheaths.
One of the former ladies of the empire screamed.
Two men leapt upon the table, scattering flagons and trenchers, and then from it, to the floor, rage in their eyes.
There was a sound of steel.
Then the very ground between the two men erupted upward in a blinding spume of dust, and there was a narrow trench, smoking, between the men.
All eyes turned to Abrogastes who stood before the bench, a smoking pistol in his hand.
“Who is the enemy?” he inquired.
“Milord?” asked one of the men, sword in hand.
“It is not he,” said Abrogastes, pointing to one of the combatants. “Nor he!” he said, pointing to the other.
There was a sound of belled ankles, as ladies of the empire shrank back toward the tables.
“The true enemy,” said Abrogastes, “is the empire.”
The former ladies of the empire, carrying their trenchers, and their flagons, trembled.
There was a tiny sound of bells, as the small feet, bared, of former ladies of the empire stirred on the earthen, rush-strewn floor. Then they tried to stand perfectly still, but, even so, here and there, inadvertently, miserably, a tiny bell would sou
nd.
The lads stood by with their switches.
They grinned at one another.
It would be easy enough to make those bells jangle a merry tune.
“And this, too,” said Abrogastes, lifting the smoking pistol, “is the enemy.’’ He regarded the silent men. “This is an imperial pistol,” he said, “of the sort carried by officers of the mobile forces of the empire.” Abrogastes looked about himself. “And this, I think,” said he, brandishing the weapon, “is the true enemy, the only real enemy-the only enemy to be regarded with respect, with circumspection-the weaponry, the ships, the machines, the technology of the empire.”
He looked again about himself.
“But what if we, too, had such things?” he asked.
Men looked at one another.
“Think on that,” said he.
“But it is not possible,” said a man.
Abrogastes smiled, and resumed his seat.
“Our weapons, milord, have been drawn!” cried one of the paused combatants.
“Then let blood be shed,” said Abrogastes.
“And how shall it be shed?” asked the other.
“As the blood of what we all must be,” said Abrogastes, “as the blood of brothers.”
Both men then slashed their forearms, and stood there, blood flowing down their arms, regarding one another, and then, as one, they sheathed their weapons, not having been drawn without blood being shed. Among the Alemanni and such peoples one does not draw a weapon lightly. Into the sheaths struck the weapons, decisively. The men then approached one another. They held their bleeding, slashed arms together, pressed, the one to the other. Their bloods mingled. Weeping, they embraced, the blood of each on the other. There was cheering from the tables. Both men resumed their seats.
There was the lively sound of switches and the beautiful waitresses, the former ladies of the empire, all of them highborn, and chosen from many for their loveliness, crying out in pain and misery, sped by the impatient lads, their bells jangling, addressed themselves again, and zealously, to their appointed tasks.
“Surely, milord,” said a clerk, a small man, with dark garments, carrying papers, tied with string, and a clerk’s wallet, with its ink flask and sheathed pens, leaning toward Abrogastes, “the time is propitious for the business of the evening.”