"Lie on your back," I told her, "your arms at your sides, the palms of your hands up, your left knee raised."

She did so.

"Buy me!" she begged.

I could not walk away from her.

"Please," she begged.

Her words puzzled me. Why would she want me to buy her? Certainly I had not accorded her dignity or respect, or such things. Indeed, it had not even occurred to me to do so, nor would it have been appropriate, as she was a mere slave. Similarly I had not handled her gently. Indeed, at least in my second usage of her, purchased with a second tarsk bit placed in the shallow copper bowl beside her, she had been put through fierce, severe, uncompromising slave paces. Once, when she had seemed for an instant hesitant, I had even cuffed her. "I want to be your slave," she said. "Please buy me!"

I considered her. She was certainly a hot slave.

"Please, Master," she begged.

"Are you finished?" asked a fellow behind me.

I looked again at the female, luscious, collared, on the mat.

"Please buy me!" she begged.

I considered my purposes in coming to Ar, the dangers that would be involved. "I do not think it would be practical," I said.

She sobbed.

"You are finished?" asked the fellow, again.

"Yes," I said.

"Master!" she wept.

As I left, slinging about me my accouterments, I heard a new coin entered into the copper bowl.

Some peasants were to one side. Every now and then, presumably at some joke, or recounted anecdote, perhaps one about some tax collector thrown in a well, they would laugh uproariously.

A fellow brushed past me, drawing behind him two slaves, their wrists extended before them, closely together, pulled forward, the lead chains attached to their wrist shackles.

I was looking about for Marcus and Phoebe.

I glanced over to the walls of Ar, some hundred or so yards away, rearing up in the darkness. Here and there fires were lit on the walls, beacons serving to guide tarnsmen. The last time I had been to Ar, that time I had received the spurious message, to be delivered to Aemilianius, in Ar's Station, there had been no need of yellow ostraka, or permits, to enter the city. Such devices, or precautions, had in the interim apparently been deemed necessary, doubtless for purposes of security or to control the number of refugees pouring into the city which, even earlier, had been considerable. Many had slept in the streets. I had rented, at that time, a room in the insula of streets. One permitted residence in Ar received the identificatory ostrakon, for example, citizens, ambassadors, resident aliens, trade agents, and such, was a function of heir owner's possession of such ostraka. Others might enter the city on permits, usually for the day, commencing at dawn and concluding at sundown. Records were kept of visitors. A visitor whose permit had expired was the object of the search of guardsmen. Too, guardsmen might, at their option, request the presentation of either ostraka or permits. Ostaka were sometimes purchased illegally. Sometimes men killed for them. The nature of the ostraka, for example, taking different colors, being recoded, and so on.

I saw some fellows gathered about a filled, greased wineskin. There was much laughter. I went over to watch. He who manages to balance on it for a given time, usually an Ehn, wins both the skin and its contents. One pays a tarsk bit for the chance to compete. It is extremely difficult, incidentally, to balance on such an object, not only because of the slickness of the skin, heavily coated with grease, but even more so because if its rotundity and unpredictable movements, the wine surging within in. "Aii!" cried a fellow flailing about and then spilling from its surface. There was much laughter. "Who is next?" called the owner of the skin. This sort of thing is a sport common at peasant festivals, incidentally, thought there, of course, usually far from a city, within the circle of the palisade, the competition is free, the skin and wine being donated by one fellow or another, usually as his gift to the festival to which all in one way or another contribute, for example, by the donations of produce, meat or firewood. At such festivals there are often various games, and contests and prizes. Archery is popular with the peasants and combats with the great staff. Sometimes there is a choice of donated prizes for the victors. For example, a bolt of red cloth, a tethered verr or a slave. More than one urban girl, formerly a perfumed slave, sold into the countryside, who held herself above peasants, despising them for their supposed filth and stink, had found herself, kneeling and muchly roped, among such a set of prizes. And, to her chagrin, she is likely to find that she is not the first chosen.

I was brushed by a fellow in the darkness. While I could still see him I checked my wallet. It was there, intact. The two usual modalities in which such folks work are to cut the strings of the wallet from the belt, carrying it away, or to slit the bottom of the wallet, allowing the contents to slip into their hand. Both actions require skill.

I saw a line of five slave girls, kneeling, abreast, their hands tied behind their back. bits of meat were thrown to them, one after the other. A catch scored two points for the master. A missed piece might be sought by any of the girls, scrambling about, on their bellies. She who managed to obtain it received one point for her master. The girls were encouraged from the sidelines, not only by their masters but by the crowd as well, some of whom placed bets on the outcome.

"Would you like to purchase a yellow ostrakon?" asked a fellow. I had hardly heard him. I looked about, regarding him. His hood was muchly pulled about his face. Were his offer genuine, I would indeed be eager to purchase such an object.

"Such are valuable," I said.

"Only a silver tarsk," he said.

"Are you a resident of Ar?" I asked.

"I am leaving the city," he said. "I fear Cos."

"But Cos is to be met and defeated on the march to Ar," I said.

"I am leaving the city," he said. "I have no longer a need for the ostrakon."

"Let me see it," I said.

Surreptitiously, scarcely opening his hand, he showed it to me.

"Bring it here, by the light," I said.

Unwillingly he did so. I took it from his hand.

"Do not show it about so freely," he whispered.

I struck him heavily in the gut and he bent over, and sank to his knees. He put down his head. He gasped. He threw up into the dirt near the fire.

"If you cannot hold your paga, go elsewhere," growled a peasant.

The fellow, in pain, in confusion, in agony, looked up at me.

"It is indeed a yellow ostrakon," I said, "and oval in shape, as are the current ostraka."

"Pay me," he gasped.

"Only this morning I was at the sun gate," I told him, "where the current lists are posted, the intent of which is to preclude such fraud as you would perpetrate."

"No," he said.

"The series of this ostrakon," I said, "was discontinued, probably months ago."

"No," he said.

"You could have retrieved from a carnarium," I said. This was one of the great refuse pits outside the walls.

I broke the ostrakon in two and cast the pieces into the fire.

"Begone," I said to the fellow.

He staggered to his feet and, bent over, hobbled quickly away. I had not killed him.

"They may have to give up ostraka," said the peasant sitting cross-legged by the fire.

"Why?" I asked.

"It is dangerous to carry them," he said. "Too many folks are killed for them."

"What then will Ar do?" I asked.

"I think she will shut her gates," he said.

"But her forces are interposed between her gates and Cos," I said.

"True," said the peasant.

I then continued my search for Marcus and Phoebe. He was, of course, quite proud of her. I did not doubt but what he was now circulating about, seemingly merely wandering about, but showing her off. She would surely be one the most fetching slaves in the area.