As is well known, it is a mark of great favor for a slave to be permitted on the couch of a master.
If I owned the lovely Alcinoe, I doubted she would soon be there. Such a mark of favor is not easily purchased.
“She is a ship slave,” I said. “I do not own her.”
“It would be dangerous, as well,” he said, “for he who calls himself Rutilius of Ar finds her of interest.”
I had gathered that from long ago.
“I wonder what is his interest in her,” said the tarnsman.
“She is not without slave interest,” I said.
“She has grown in beauty,” said the tarnsman.
“That is common in the collar,” I said.
“True,” he said.
“It seems she has become a helplessly hot little slut,” he said.
“That, too, is common in the collar,” I said.
“True,” he said.
“If she were a free woman,” said the tarnsman, “I suspect she would purchase a collar, and kneel before you, begging you to make her your slave.”
I was silent.
Few free women can so conquer their pride. Slaves, on the other hand, are not permitted pride.
That is one of the attractions of a slave.
Free women often fear to be in a man’s arms, fearing what will become of them. Perhaps few understand the meaning of their restlessness, their irritations, their distractions, their turnings and thrashings in the night, or perhaps, somehow, they understand them only too well.
Many pillows have been dampened with the tears of free women.
Do they know the source of their tears?
Perhaps.
Many are the cultural expectations imposed upon the free woman. Is she not more of a slave than a slave? Abundant are her limitations; narrow are the corridors permitted for her movements; stout are the bonds of convention wherein she is bound. Can she fail to sense the invisible ties which bind her? How natural, then, imbued by unquestioned prescription and expectation, for her to justify the walls within which she is imprisoned. How natural then her pride, her aloofness, her struggle to maintain the pretenses demanded of her. What is her will compared to the weight of society? Too, is it not easy to make a virtue of necessity, that ice should commend cold, and the stone its lack of feeling? How natural then that she should, with all innocence and conviction, often with a raging earnestness, praise the treachery which has been done to her, and struggle to betray herself, to deny herself to herself. How natural then that she should compete with her sisters in her imperviousness to desire, in her frigidity and inertness, in her estrangement from herself. How glorious is the free woman! She possesses a Home Stone, as a slave may not. But she is a woman, still, and that, however denied, is adamant. It continues to exist. Its hereditary coils reign in each living particle of her body. Truth, primitive and antique, remains true. Her nature is with her, for it is herself. Does she suspect at times that there is a slave masquerading within her robes? Does she not, at times, hear the whimpers, the cries, of the slave within her? Does she not long, at times, for the collar of a master, for the weight of his chains? Does she not know in her heart that she is his rightful slave?
“You did not call for the punishment tag,” said the tarnsman, “or the thong.”
“No,” I said.
I did not care for the large women. I thought discipline, if required, was best administered to a slave by a male. That is the natural way, and is far more meaningful to the slave. She is, after all, his. And he is, after all, her master.
Too, I thought the slave had been sufficiently punished.
I glanced upward to the platform and ring, on the foremast, where Leros now stood his watch. The light of the lantern carried only partway on the mast. I shuddered.
“I would be armed,” I said.
“You are not an officer,” he said, “and not all officers are armed.”
“I would be armed,” I said.
“Then so, too,” said he, “would a thousand others.”
“The platform and ring,” I said, “is muchly open. It is an insecure, fragile fortress.”
“Less insecure, less fragile, I fear,” said he, “than a hundred others, remote passageways, darkened corners, blind turnings.”
“Had I used the slave, and Rutilius heard of it,” I said, “he might have sought me out, openly, in rage.”
“Quite possibly,” said the tarnsman.
“And you would have been near?” I said.
“Possibly,” he said.
“I am bait?” I asked.
“Possibly,” he said.
“His name,” I said, “is not Rutilius. He is Seremides, former master of the Taurentians.”
“I know,” said the tarnsman. “I know him from Ar.”
“What is the bad blood between you?” I asked.
“It is not important,” he said. “It has to do with a woman.”
“What woman?” I asked.
“Talena, Talena of Ar,” he said.
“The Ubara!” I exclaimed.
“Once,” he said.
“Why is he here, on the ship?” I asked.
“I gather he thinks I know her whereabouts,” said the tarnsman, “that he might somehow find her through me.”
“For the bounty?” I said.
“Of course,” said the tarnsman. “And an amnesty for himself, for bringing her to Ar.”
“There would be riches and freedom for him,” I said, “and great jubilation in Ar, when she was publicly impaled.”
“It would be holiday,” he said.
“Do you know where she is?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “But I suspect Seremides does not believe me. I am, in a way, much pleased that he is on the ship, as here I may kill him, and, at the least, he will be unable to pursue and capture Talena, for the bounty.”
“You know the Ubara?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“You could recognize her?”
“Yes.”
“Doubtless,” I said, “you would like to capture her and bring her shackled to the justice of Ar.”
The reward for her return to Ar was considerable, amounting to a dozen wealths, which might purchase a city or hire a hundred free companies.
“No,” he said, “I would have other plans for Talena.”
I shuddered at the tone of his voice.
I myself could recognize the Ubara, of course, but I did not think it judicious to bring this to the attention of the tarnsman.
“Where might be Talena?” I wondered.
“I do not know,” said the tarnsman.
“We have been long at sea,” I said. “By now any of a thousand hunters might have apprehended the Ubara. She may have perished naked and screaming months ago in Ar.”
“I think not,” said the tarnsman.
“Why do you think not?” I asked.
“It is late,” he said.
“I wish you well,” I said.
