“Ah!” said Boabissia.
“The Avenue of the Central Cylinder,” I said. “It is indeed beautiful. We will go right here.”
“I am thirsty,” said Hurtha, going toward a fountain. We followed him. There are many among this avenue.
Hurtha leaned his ax against the fountain and thrust his head half in the water and then pulled it out sputtering. He then splashed water on his face. Then, cupping his hands, he drank. I drank, too. And Boabissia, too, drank, lifting water delicately to her lips. I saw that in our company she had learned something of her femininity. It seemed that she was beginning, timidly and hopefully, to suspect and experience the true nature of her sexuality, that she might now be daring to think of fulfilling her softness and nature, daring to think of what it might be to be, fully and truly, what she actually was, a female. She, at any rate, was now no longer attempting, grotesquely, and laughably, to emulate the behavior of an Alar warrior.
“May I drink, Master?” asked Feiqa.
“Certainly,” I said. Then, suddenly, angry, scandalized, I seized her by the hair. She cried out in pain, twisting.
“Are you not a beast?” I asked.
“Yes, Master!” she wept.
“And only that?” I inquired.
“Yes, Master!” she cried.
I then flung her to her knees at my feet, and with my foot spurned her to the stones. She lay there, startled, on her side, my pack awry on her back, near the fountain. “Master?” she asked, tears in her eyes.
“You are a beast,” I said. “You drink from the lower bowl, like other animals, like sleen and tharlarion.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“What a stupid slave,” said Boabissia.
“Forgive me, Master,” wept Feiqa.
I regarded her. She was quite attractive, and she had good legs. There was little doubt of that the way she lay on the stones. She was terrified, the former Lady Charlotte, once a rich, high citizeness of Samnium, now the mere beast, mine and collared, Feiqa. She looked up at me in terror. She had grievously erred.
“That was good,” said Hurtha, wiping his mouth.
“Master?” asked Feiqa.
“Tonight,” I told her. “You will be whipped.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“A chair, with soldiers, is coming,” said Boabissia.
We saw some folks gathering about to watch, but leaving a path for the movement of the chair and soldiers. It was an enclosed sedan chair, its silken curtains drawn. It was borne on long poles slung in tandem fashion between two tharlarion. The chair and soldiers were making their way north on the Avenue of the Central Cylinder, toward the Central Cylinder. The soldiers were Taurentians.
“It is a woman’s chair, is it not?” asked Boabissia.
“Yes,” I said.
“Those are palace guardsmen, aren’t they?” asked Hurtha.
“Probably,” I said. “They are, at least, of the same sort as the palace guardsmen.”
“Taurentians, they are called,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“They look like capable fellows,” he said.
“I am sure they are,” I said. The eyes of the soldiers were mostly on the crowd. There seemed little doubt such men formed an efficient guard. The chair, I noted, was not borne by male draft slaves, but was supported by tharlarion. There might be various reasons for this. One might be ostentation, a simple display of wealth, for good tharlarion are generally more expensive than male slaves, particularly draft slaves. But perhaps, even more, the cargo might be regarded as too precious to be risked in the vicinity of male slaves. After all, they are men. Too, perhaps it was felt inappropriate, if the cargo was deemed of sufficient beauty, that it even be borne by male slaves. After all, might there not be some danger, as the fair occupant entered into, or descended gracefully from, the sedan chair, that there might be the careless movement of a veil, revealing a bit of throat, or the inadvertent lifting of a robe of concealment, giving them the glimpse of a briefly exposed ankle?
“Drink,” I said to Feiqa.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Whose chair is that?” I asked a fellow near us, as the chair moved past.
“Do you not know?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “We are but newly come to Ar.”
“From Torcadino?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“That,” he said, “is the chair of she who may become ubara of Ar.”
“Talena,” said another fellow.
“What is wrong?” asked Boabissia.
“Nothing,” I said. I watched the chair move down the street, toward the Central Cylinder.
I looked at Feiqa. She knelt on all fours before the lower bowl of the fountain, her head down, drinking.
“How could this Talena become ubara of Ar?” I asked. “I thought she was sworn from the line of Marlenus.”
“She can be given legal entitlement to the succession,” said a fellow. “I have heard it discussed.”
“Not as of the line of Marlenus,” I said.
“No,” he said. “But one need not be of the line of Marlenus, surely, to rule in Ar.”
“Minus Tentius Hinrabius and Cernus, both, ruled in Ar,” said a man. “Neither was of his line.”
“That is true,” I said.
“She is a free citizen,” said a man. “Accordingly, she could be given such entitlement.”
“Why not Gnieus Lelius or Seremides?” I asked.
“Neither is ambitious, happily,” said a fellow.
“But why her?” I asked. “Why not any one of thousands of others?”
“She was of high family,” said a man. “She was once the daughter of Marlenus.”
“I see,” I said. I looked down at Feiqa. “Are you watered?” I asked her.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
She looked lovely, on all fours, at the lower bowl of the fountain, where, drinking, as a collared, briefly tunicked beast, she belonged. “Rise,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I looked after the chair. But I could not now see it for the folks following it.
“Which way are we going?” asked Hurtha.
“This way,” I said. We could go south on the Avenue of the Central Cylinder, some four or five pasangs, and then make a left on Wagon Street, taking it over to the Avenue of Turia. Somewhere in that vicinity, probably in the lower end of the avenue, somewhere in the Street of Brands district, was the Alley of the Slave Brothels of Ludmilla. I would have to ask directions once we were on the Avenue of Turia. I did not doubt but what we could quickly find such an area. It sounded as though it would not be unknown.
“What is the name of the place?” asked Boabissia.
“The Alley of the Slave Brothels of Ludmilla,” I said.
“I do not like the sound of that,” said Boabissia.
“I do not think it sounds bad,” I said.
“No,” said Hurtha.
I looked back at Feiqa. She put down her head. She had been careless. She had been thoughtless. Tonight she would be whipped.
22
The Insula of Achiates;
Feiqa Will Be Punished;
The Whip Will Be Suitable for the Purpose
“The stench is terrible,” said Boabissia.
“Do not throw up,” I told her. “You will get used to it.”
“I have told them, time and time again,” said the proprietor, testily, carrying the small lamp, “that they should keep the lid on. It is heavy, of course, and so it is too often left awry.” With a grating sound, he shoved the heavy terra-cotta lid back in place, on the huge vat. It was at the foot of the stairs, where the slop pots could be emptied into it. Such vats are changed once or twice weekly, the old vats loaded in wagons and taken outside the city, where their contents are disposed of at one of the carnaria, or refuse pits. They are then rinsed out and ready to be delivered again, in their turn, to customers. This is done by o
ne of several companies organized for the purpose. The work is commonly done by male slaves, supervised by free men.
“Follow me,” said the proprietor, beginning to ascend the stairs.
I followed him. Behind me came Boabissia. Then came Hurtha. Feiqa came last. The staircase was narrow. It would be difficult for two people to pass on it. That would make it easy to defend, I thought. It was also steep. That was good. It did not have an open side but was set between two walls. That conserved space. It made possible extra rooms. Space is precious in a crowded insula. The stairwell boards were narrow. That was not so good, unless one were on the landing. That would be the place to make a stand. One could not get one’s entire foot on them. They were old. Some were split. Several were loose. For a bit we could make our way in the light from the shallow vestibule below, where it filtered in through the shutters of the entrance gate, but, in a moment or two, we became substantially dependent on the proprietor’s tiny lamp. It cast odd shadows.
“I cannot stand the smell,” said Boabissia.
“The room is a tarsk a night,” said the proprietor. “You may take it or leave it. You are lucky we have one left. These are busy days in Ar.”
“We could have had a better place were it not for something,” said Boabissia, irritably.
That might have been true. I did not know. It was hard to say. Several of the insulae we had investigated did not allow animals, which meant, of course, that we could not keep Feiqa with us. Some of them did, however, have some provision for slaves, such as basement kennels or chaining posts in the yard. I preferred, however, to keep Feiqa with us. She was lovely. I did not wish to have her stolen.
“The insula of Achiates,” said the proprietor, “is the finest insula in all Ar.”
“It is dark,” said Boabissia.
“How far is it now?” I asked.
“Not far,” said the proprietor.
As we climbed, the landings were frequent. The ceilings on the various levels of insulae are generally very low. In most of the rooms a man cannot stand upright. This makes additional floors possible.
I put out my hands and touched the walls on the sides of the staircase. They were very close. They were chipped. In places there were long diagonal cracks in them, marking stress points in the structure where the plaster had broken. The insula of Achiates might be the finest insula in Ar, but I thought that it stood somewhat in a condition of at least minor disrepair. A bit of renovation might not have been entirely out of order. The walls, too, were frequently discolored, run with various stains, water stains and other stains.
“This place stinks,” said Boabissia. “It stinks.”
“It is those brats,” said the proprietor. “They are too lazy to go downstairs.”
“There are families here?” asked Boabissia.
“Of course,” said the proprietor. “Most of my tenants are permanent residents.”
We continued to climb. We had now come some seven or eight landings.
“It is stuffy,” said Boabissia. “I can hardly breathe.”
Insulae were not noted for their ventilation, no more than for the luxury of their appointments or their roominess. To be sure it conserves fuel.
“It is hot,” said Boabissia.
“You complain a great deal,” observed the proprietor.
“It is so dark,” said Boabissia. “How can one find one’s way around in this place?”
“One becomes familiar with it,” said the proprietor.
“You should have lamps illuminating the stairs,” said Boabissia. “I suppose that tharlarion oil is just too expensive.”
“Yes,” said the proprietor. “But it is also against the law.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“The danger of fire,” he said.
“Oh,” said Boabissia, sobered.
Insulae, incidentally, are famed for their proneness to fire. Sometimes entire districts of such dwellings are wiped out by a single fire.
“Can we have a lamp in the room?” I asked.
“Of course,” said the fellow. “As long as it is tended. But you may not wish to have one much lit. It fouls the air.”
“Do you have insurance on this building?” I asked.
“No,” said the fellow.
I was pleased to hear that. He would then not be likely to have the building fired to collect on the policy. On the other hand, it was not unusual that such dwellings lacked insurance. This was not simply a matter of proprietary optimism, but also of the difficulty of obtaining it, at least at affordable rates. Most carriers would not accept the risks involved.
We came to another landing.
We heard a noise and the proprietor lifted his lamp. A slave girl was illuminated, on the landing. She was barefoot. She wore an extremely brief tunic, one which was divided to her navel. It was awry. Her hair was in disarray. In the light of the lamp her collar glinted. She flung herself to her belly before us, fearfully yielding slave obeisance.
“She belongs to Clitus, the cloth worker, on the floor above,” said the proprietor.
The girl trembled on her belly before us.
I saw that if Achiates permitted slaves in his house they must exhibit suitable discipline. They must be well trained.
We continued up the stairs. The girl had had light brown hair, it seemed. When we had passed she continued on her way. We could hear her bare feet for a time on the stairs. She seemed to know them well. In time one can find one’s way around on them in the dark. She was doubtless on an errand.
“Oh!” cried Boabissia, on the next landing. “An urt!”
“That is not an urt,” said the proprietor. “They usually come out after dark. There is too much noise and movement for them during the day.” The small animal skittered backward, with a sound of claws on the boards. Its eyes gleamed in the reflected light of the lamp. “Generally, too, they do not come this high,” said the proprietor. “That is a frevet.” The frevet is a small, quick, mammalian insectivore. “We have several in the house,” he said. “They control the insects, the beetles and lice, and such.”
Boabissia was silent.
“Not every insula furnishes frevets,” said the proprietor. “They are charming as well as useful creatures. You will probably grow fond of them. You will probably wish to keep your door open at night, for coolness, and to give access to them. They cannot gnaw through walls like urts, you know.”
“Is it far now?” I asked.
“No,” said the proprietor. “We are almost there. It is just under the roof.”
“It seems we have come a long way,” I said.
“Not really,” he said. “We are not really so high up. The flights are short.”
We then climbed another flight, to the next landing.
“Oh!” said Boabissia, recoiling.
“You see,” said the proprietor. “You will come to like the frevets.” We watched a large, oblong, flat-bodied black object, about a half hort in length, with long feelers, hurry toward a crack at the base of the wall. “That is a roach,” he said. “They are harmless, not like the gitches whose bites are rather painful. Some of them are big fellows, too. But there aren’t many of them around. The frevets see to it. Achiates prides himself on a clean house.”
“Ai!” said Feiqa, suddenly, startled, moving.
“Kneel, slave girl,” said a young, imperious voice.
Swiftly Feiqa knelt.
“Kiss my feet, female slave,” said the voice.
Feiqa was kneeling before a boy, perhaps some eleven or twelve years of age. His face was dirty. He was barefoot, and in rags. I assumed he must live in the rooms somewhere. Feiqa, a full-grown and beautiful female, but a slave, put down her head and, doing him obeisance, kissed his feet, and fearfully, and humbly. He was a free person, and a male.
“Go away, you disgusting child,” said Boabissia.
“Be silent, woman,” he said.
“I have a good mind to strike you,” said Boabissia.
; “Lift your head, slut,” said the lad to Feiqa.
She obeyed.
He regarded her. “You are a pretty one,” he said. “What do you say?” he demanded.
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
He then stood close to her and ran his hands through her hair. He then took her collar by the sides in his small fingers and jerked it forward, towards him, against the back of her neck. He then, by the pressure on the collar, forced her head rudely from side to side. He then pressed it up, cruelly, under her chin, forcing her head up. He was exerting his force on her through her slave collar. She would have no doubt it was on her. He did these things, incidentally, with the typical awareness of men who know how to handle women in collars, in such a way as not to injure or threaten the windpipe. Such a thing is never done, unless it is intentional. “A good, solid collar,” he said.
“I am pleased that master is pleased,” whispered Feiqa, frightened.
“It is on you well, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“What does it mean?” he asked.
“That I am a slave,” she said.
“Go away,” said Boabissia.
“Oh,” said Feiqa.
The lad had put his hands rudely within her tunic and caressed her. Tears sprang to Feiqa’s eyes.
“Go away,” said Boabissia.
“Are you not grateful, slave?” asked the lad.
“Yes, Master,” said Feiqa.
“You may kiss my feet in gratitude, slave,” said the lad.
“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master,” said Feiqa, and put her head down, kissing his feet.
“More lingeringly,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
The lad than turned about. “It is pleasant to master slaves,” he said. “Perhaps when I am older, and rich, I shall buy myself one, much like this one, though perhaps younger, nearer my own age.”
Mercenaries of Gor Page 31
