"Have you spoken with Turianus?" I asked. "Locutius? Alcobiades, perhaps?"
I was speaking with Vesutto about the theater. Plays, actors and such. Of the three actors mentioned, one was of Torcadino, another was of Ar, and one, specifically Locutius, was said, simply, to be 'of Gor.'
"I have not," he confessed, "but such can be arranged, surely."
"I have written a new play," I told him.
"Excellent," he answered.
It was the mid-afternoon. Vesutto and I dined on olives, cheese, and a round of sa-tarna. The wine, as it was the middle of the day, was cut with water. Vesutto is a wealthy Merchant of Venna. He speaks of things such as 'intellectual property' and 'calculating ratios of profitability.' He was not amused when I, quite seriously, asked him what fishing had to do with the theater. Apparently, 'net income' is not at all related to the number of fish one can scoop from the water on a single cast. Mina knelt quietly in the corner, waiting to be of service. If she was curious as to the nature of our conversation, she masked it well. In the several months I have owned her, she has not been permitted to know my name, nor my caste. When my guest left, and I had retired for the evening, she spoke to me. It was quite late in the evening.
"I saw a play once," she said, her voice somewhat forlorn.
I was not sure what business she had being forlorn, neck-chained to the floor of a perfectly lovely villa. What with her captor, the fellow that owned her, raping her more that he beat her most days. I had to pause for a moment, thinking this might have something to do with profitability ratios, but I dismissed the notion as unlikely and conversed with the wistful slave.
"Surely, in a city as refined as Ko-r0-ba, a Lady called Philomena attended the theater on a regular basis," I answered.
"No, Master," she replied. "The only play I...the Lady Philomena...saw was at the Fair of En-Kara."
I whistled. "That is a long way to go to see a play."
"It was my first trip to the Sardar," she said. "The play was called..."
"...Fall of Agamedes," I said, finishing her sentence, venturing an educated guess.
"Yes, Master," she said. "How did you know, Mas..."
"Go to sleep, Mina," I answered.
I watched her for a time. It is pleasant to watch her sleep, nude and chained, at the foot of my couch. She is a distraction, as most slaves worthy of the collar are. There is much on my mind these days. The olives cure in their pots on the back porch. The last of the ready ka-la-na fruit has been harvested, and stomped. By the time the skin of Mina's pretty calves and feet are completely free of the stains, there will be more fruit for her to harvest. More fruit to be crushed beneath her toes. Vesutto has arranged for the ripened olives to be taken to Ar on his wagons. The wine, when there are bottles to send, go with his wagons, too.
"It is quite good," he said to me. "With a dozen or so kajiri, refinement in the method of production..."
I thanked him, but I am not interested in furrowing more fields, 'maximizing my earning potential,' or even 'diversifying my portfolio.' As Merchants go, Vesutto is a good fellow. He keeps to his codes, always placing profit above all else. He makes for an unlikely friend, but a perfectly logical business partner. He does not appreciate aesthetics in the way I do, in the way I like to think most men do. There is more to a rolling field than the number of plots one might seed. One would lose the beauty of dew-soaked blades of grass in the morning, were one to plow every hort of property and place stakes for planting. On the other hand, as Vesutto has tried vainly to explain to me on a number of occasions, without the Caste of Merchants; Builders would build, Scribes would study, Potters would make clay goods, Peasants would labor in their fields, Warriors would defend the walls of their given cities, and so on, but there would be no one to ensure the economy remained viable in relation to other cities. He will go on, at times like these, to explain weights and measures, the value of precious metals, the store of a city's wealth, the quality of exported goods and on and on until he realizes that it is not necessary for me to understand such things, at least to the degree that he does.
"You are of the Merchants," I say to him. "I am a Poet."
I think of Ar, just south of Venna, beyond the great forests. Gleaming, and glorious. There is no finer city, none that I have visited in my extensive travels. There are many fine cities. Many beautiful cities. Many exotic and thrilling places, but none finer. There is still a twinge now and again, and were I a romantic I would say it is a tugging on the strings of my heart, but I know better. The ribs have mended and the ripped flesh has knitted together beneath the scar tissue, but I do not think I am healed after all of this time.
I whistled. "That is a long way to go to see a play."
"It was my first trip to the Sardar," she said. "The play was called..."
"...Fall of Agamedes," I said, finishing her sentence, venturing an educated guess.
"Yes, Master," she said. "How did you know, Mas..."
"Go to sleep, Mina," I answered.
I watched her for a time. It is pleasant to watch her sleep, nude and chained, at the foot of my couch. She is a distraction, as most slaves worthy of the collar are. There is much on my mind these days. The olives cure in their pots on the back porch. The last of the ready ka-la-na fruit has been harvested, and stomped. By the time the skin of Mina's pretty calves and feet are completely free of the stains, there will be more fruit for her to harvest. More fruit to be crushed beneath her toes. Vesutto has arranged for the ripened olives to be taken to Ar on his wagons. The wine, when there are bottles to send, go with his wagons, too.
"It is quite good," he said to me. "With a dozen or so kajiri, refinement in the method of production..."
I thanked him, but I am not interested in furrowing more fields, 'maximizing my earning potential,' or even 'diversifying my portfolio.' As Merchants go, Vesutto is a good fellow. He keeps to his codes, always placing profit above all else. He makes for an unlikely friend, but a perfectly logical business partner. He does not appreciate aesthetics in the way I do, in the way I like to think most men do. There is more to a rolling field than the number of plots one might seed. One would lose the beauty of dew-soaked blades of grass in the morning, were one to plow every hort of property and place stakes for planting. On the other hand, as Vesutto has tried vainly to explain to me on a number of occasions, without the Caste of Merchants; Builders would build, Scribes would study, Potters would make clay goods, Peasants would labor in their fields, Warriors would defend the walls of their given cities, and so on, but there would be no one to ensure the economy remained viable in relation to other cities. He will go on, at times like these, to explain weights and measures, the value of precious metals, the store of a city's wealth, the quality of exported goods and on and on until he realizes that it is not necessary for me to understand such things, at least to the degree that he does.
"You are of the Merchants," I say to him. "I am a Poet."
I think of Ar, just south of Venna, beyond the great forests. Gleaming, and glorious. There is no finer city, none that I have visited in my extensive travels. There are many fine cities. Many beautiful cities. Many exotic and thrilling places, but none finer. There is still a twinge now and again, and were I a romantic I would say it is a tugging on the strings of my heart, but I know better. The ribs have mended and the ripped flesh has knitted together beneath the scar tissue, but I do not think I am healed after all of this time.
...I was silenced, at the moment of declaration
I met an old woman with young eyes
I met an old woman with young eyes
She scrubbed the stain of rebellion from my hands
Struck once, I was not struck again...
Struck once, I was not struck again...
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