which it seemed he would choose to
conceal from her, and her obvious, even explicitly expressed piteous need, which
he chose to ignore, thereby supposedly, I suppose, indicating to her its
meaninglessness to him, he had, as though nothing were afoot, simply taken her
from the tent, as though merely to take in the sights, to see what might be seen
in the camp. If Marcus had returned to the tent by now, of course, I did not
think it would do for me to drop back, at least just yet. I wondered if, even
now, Phoebe might be writhing at his mercy in an intricate slave binding, one
which might make her so much the more helpless under his touch. Yet, given what
I knew of Marcus, and his will, and determination, he was probably still about
in the camp. But how long, I wondered, could he hold out. Certainly Phoebe had
been superb in her tunic, adjusted on her by the slave girdle. The mere sight of
her had led me to hurry to the mats. I supposed, however, that they were
somewhere about. Knowing Marcus I would suppose so. He was excellent at gritting
his teeth. I wondered if Phoebe had dared yet, in her need, to come close to
him, on her leash, or even, perhaps, to brush against him, perhaps as though
inadvertently. If Marcus though such a thing deliberate on her part it might
have earned her another cuffing. To be sure, it doubtless amused Marcus, or
seemed fitting to him, to lead her about on her leash, suffering in a need which
might be detectable even in the darkness and the shifting shadows. He might
regard that as quite appropriate for a “slut of Cos.”
There was, from one side, a sudden sound of grunting and the cracking of great
staffs, and urging cries from men. Two fellows, brawny lads, in half tunics,
were doing staff contest. (pg. 40) Both were good. Sometimes I could scarcely
follow the movements of these weapons. “Watch him!” called a fellow to one of
the contestants. “Cheers for Rarir!” called another. “Aii!” cried one of the
lads, blood at the side of his head and ear, stumbling to the side. “Good blow!”
cried an onlooker. But the lad came back with redoubled energy. I stayed for a
moment. The lad from Rarir, as I understood it, then managed to pierce the guard
of his opponent and thrust the staff into the fellow’s chest. He followed this
with a smiting to the side of the fellow’s head which staggered him. he then, at
the last moment, held back. the opponent, dazed, sat back in the dirt, laughing.
“Victory for Rarir!” cried one man. “Pay us!” called another. Extending his hand
to the foe the victor pulled him to his feet. They embraced. “Paga! Paga for
both!” called a fellow.
I circled about a bit.
I saw no sight of Marcus or his lovely slave. Perhaps they had returned to the
tent.
In one place, hearing the jingling of bells, I went over to a large open circle
of fellows to watch a game of “girl catch.” There are many ways in which this
game, or sort of game, is played. In this one, which was not untypical, a female
slave, within an enclosure, her hands bound behind her back, and hooded, is
belled, usually with common slave bells at the collar, wrists and ankles and a
larger bell, a guide bell, with its particular note, at her left hip. Some
fellows then, also hooded, or blindfolded, enter the enclosure, to catch her.
Neither the quarry nor the hunters can see the other. The girl is forbidden to
remain still for more than a certain interval, usually a few Ihn. She is under
the control of a referee. His switch can encourage her to move, and,
simultaneously, of course, mark her position. She is hooded in order that she
may not determine into whose power she comes. When she is caught that game, or
one of its rounds, is concluded. The victor’s prize, of course, is the use of
the slave.
I continued to walk about.
Two fellows were haggling over the price of a verr.
I saw a yoked slave girl, two buckets attached to the ends of the yoke.
conceal from her, and her obvious, even explicitly expressed piteous need, which
he chose to ignore, thereby supposedly, I suppose, indicating to her its
meaninglessness to him, he had, as though nothing were afoot, simply taken her
from the tent, as though merely to take in the sights, to see what might be seen
in the camp. If Marcus had returned to the tent by now, of course, I did not
think it would do for me to drop back, at least just yet. I wondered if, even
now, Phoebe might be writhing at his mercy in an intricate slave binding, one
which might make her so much the more helpless under his touch. Yet, given what
I knew of Marcus, and his will, and determination, he was probably still about
in the camp. But how long, I wondered, could he hold out. Certainly Phoebe had
been superb in her tunic, adjusted on her by the slave girdle. The mere sight of
her had led me to hurry to the mats. I supposed, however, that they were
somewhere about. Knowing Marcus I would suppose so. He was excellent at gritting
his teeth. I wondered if Phoebe had dared yet, in her need, to come close to
him, on her leash, or even, perhaps, to brush against him, perhaps as though
inadvertently. If Marcus though such a thing deliberate on her part it might
have earned her another cuffing. To be sure, it doubtless amused Marcus, or
seemed fitting to him, to lead her about on her leash, suffering in a need which
might be detectable even in the darkness and the shifting shadows. He might
regard that as quite appropriate for a “slut of Cos.”
There was, from one side, a sudden sound of grunting and the cracking of great
staffs, and urging cries from men. Two fellows, brawny lads, in half tunics,
were doing staff contest. (pg. 40) Both were good. Sometimes I could scarcely
follow the movements of these weapons. “Watch him!” called a fellow to one of
the contestants. “Cheers for Rarir!” called another. “Aii!” cried one of the
lads, blood at the side of his head and ear, stumbling to the side. “Good blow!”
cried an onlooker. But the lad came back with redoubled energy. I stayed for a
moment. The lad from Rarir, as I understood it, then managed to pierce the guard
of his opponent and thrust the staff into the fellow’s chest. He followed this
with a smiting to the side of the fellow’s head which staggered him. he then, at
the last moment, held back. the opponent, dazed, sat back in the dirt, laughing.
“Victory for Rarir!” cried one man. “Pay us!” called another. Extending his hand
to the foe the victor pulled him to his feet. They embraced. “Paga! Paga for
both!” called a fellow.
I circled about a bit.
I saw no sight of Marcus or his lovely slave. Perhaps they had returned to the
tent.
In one place, hearing the jingling of bells, I went over to a large open circle
of fellows to watch a game of “girl catch.” There are many ways in which this
game, or sort of game, is played. In this one, which was not untypical, a female
slave, within an enclosure, her hands bound behind her back, and hooded, is
belled, usually with common slave bells at the collar, wrists and ankles and a
larger bell, a guide bell, with its particular note, at her left hip. Some
fellows then, also hooded, or blindfolded, enter the enclosure, to catch her.
Neither the quarry nor the hunters can see the other. The girl is forbidden to
remain still for more than a certain interval, usually a few Ihn. She is under
the control of a referee. His switch can encourage her to move, and,
simultaneously, of course, mark her position. She is hooded in order that she
may not determine into whose power she comes. When she is caught that game, or
one of its rounds, is concluded. The victor’s prize, of course, is the use of
the slave.
I continued to walk about.
Two fellows were haggling over the price of a verr.
I saw a yoked slave girl, two buckets attached to the ends of the yoke.
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