"How is it that you follow a woman?" I asked one of the men.

"We follow the orders of Belnar," he said.

"I see," I said. Women, although they may occasionally function as artifacts, or symbols, or mystical objects, or something along these lines, seldom release the following instinct in men. Men, accordingly, do not on the whole, care to follow them. In doing so they generally feel uncomfortable. It makes them uneasy. They sense the absurdity, the unnaturalness, of the relationship. It is thus that normal men commonly follow women only unwillingly, and only with reservations, usually also only within an artificial context or within the confines of a misguided, choiceless or naive institution, where their discipline may be relied upon. Their compliance with orders in such a situation cannot help but be more critical, more skeptical. Their activities tend then to be performed with less confidence, and more hesitantly. This often produces serious consequences to the efficiency of their actions. It is interesting to note that even women seldom care to follow women, particularly in critical situations. The male, biologically, for better or for worse, appears to be the natural leader. In the perversion of nature, of course, anything may occur. It is ironic that certain leaders will place women over subordinates, for one reason or another, whom they would never accept as their own leaders. Most men, of course, find it easier to inflict inconvenience and pain on others than on themselves.

I looked up at the Lady Yanina. How small and soft, and luscious, she was. How absurd then, and how unnatural, seemed her position of power, temporary though it might be, over these men. how envious she seemed of men, particularly of her rival, Flaminius. How she was straining to seem a leader, how she must have studied what she took to be its lessons well, how she must have firmly resolved to act that role with determination. Perhaps if she did it well she could fool men; perhaps, if she did it well, she would be accepted almost as though she were a real leader, a true leader. Perhaps, if she did it well, no one would notice that she was really only a small, soft, shapely, lovely creature, one whose natural destiny would be found quite elsewhere than in the saddle of a tharlarion, at the head of troops.

"You are a despicable sleen," she said to me.

"Doubtless," I said. There was probably much in what she said. I regarded her. How absurd that she could be in power over these men. They were soldiers. She should be put in her place, the place of the female, kneeling and serving. Perhaps on e day someone would put her there, and she would then come to understand finally and profoundly what she was, a female.

"Smile, if you will, for whatever secret reason, fool," she said, "but it is you who wear the manacles, you who are held in irons at my stirrup."

"It would seem so," I said.

"You are my key to power," she said.

How insolent she was, how arrogant.

"Because of you," she said, "my fortunes will be made in Brundisium! Because of you I will climb there to hitherto undreamed of heights!"

"Perhaps," I said.

"It is I who am victorious," she said. "It is I who am triumphant!"

I recalled she had whipped me.

She turned to one of her men, he whom I had taken, apparently rightly, to be her immediate subordinate. "Put a chain on his neck," she said.

"We anticipated that one of your astuteness might not be deceived by the trickery of the fugitive," said Boots, "that you might suspect his bold return to this camp. Accordingly, we seized him and held him for you."

"Our thanks, actor," she said. "Have no fear. You will be rewarded."

Her man unlooped a chain.

"But moreover," said Boots, "we have arranged things in such a way as to enhance your triumph."

"How is that?" she asked, curious.

"That your prisoner, whom I gather is important to you, may be presented with drama, with flair, nothing so common, so mundane and predictable, as being led in like a pet tarsk."

"What do you have in mind?" she asked, interested.

"I envisage a feast," said Boots, "a triumphal feast."

"No," I said, "no!"

"Hold him," suggested Boots, apprehensively, to Chino and Lecchio. They again seized my arms.

"Anyone," said Boots, "could lead him in on a chain. That fellow Flaminius did it that way, as I recall."

"yes," said the Lady Yanina. Indeed, she had been brought in on a chain by Flaminius at the same time, marched at the stirrup of one of his men, barefoot, her wrists bound behind her, wearing only a sack, that which had been her common garment in the camp, that in which I had put her long ago for my amusement, that which had once contained Sa-Tarna flour. It must have been a difficult moment for the proud Lady Yanina, to have been so returned to her city.

"Imagine this," cried Boots, expansively, with a great gesture, his eyes lighting up, "an incredible banquet, a glorious feast, a feast of victory, a triumphal feast, the most abundant and delicate viands, the finest of entertainment, and then, at the climax of this great feast, you bring forth a great locked trunk! You open it! Within it there is a slave sack! You untie this slave sack! You have its occupant drawn forth. He is helpless and in chains. You display him to the crowd! He is your prisoner! He is your prize! You give him then to your Ubar! It is your moment of triumph!"

"Yes," she cried. "Yes!"

"No!" I cried. "Never! Never! No such triumph for you! No such humiliation for me!" I shook Chino and Lecchio about, fiercely, throwing them even from their feet, but they clung, tenaciously, desperately, like sleen, to my arms. Then, in their grip, still in place, held now again below her, she in the high saddle of the tharlarion, I looked up at the Lady Yanina. She was smiling.

"Never!" I cried.

She did not respond.

"Do not subject me to such humiliation," I said.

She did not respond.

"How can you even think of such a thing," I asked.

She smiled.

"Please, no," I said.

"Bring the slave sack," she said.

16 What Occurred in the Feasting Hall

"Here," I said, snapping my fingers. The naked blond slave ran swiftly to me and knelt before me. "My fingers are greasy," I said. "Yes, Master," she said, and, putting down her head, she began to lick the palms of my hands, as I held them out to her, and then about my hands, and then to run her tongue down between my fingers and the hands, and then, not touching them with her own hands of fingers, carefully and delicately, to kiss and suck my fingers individually. She then extended her head towards me and I dried my hands and fingers on her long blond hair. She looked at me. The collar looked well on her throat. I pulled her across the low table on her stomach, scattering vessels and plates, and then, turning her, threw her to her back on the tiles behind the table. Swiftly then I had her. Those near me took no note of this. I stood then over her. She looked up at me, gasping, fearful, one knee raised, the palms her hands facing down. Her fingernails had scratched at the tiles. I kicked her. "Return to your work," I told her. "Yes, Master," she said, hastening to rise, then hurrying away.

"More food," I said, returning to my place, "and clear this mess!" "Yes, Master," said a naked brunet. "Yes, Master!" said a naked redhead. They hurried to serve, kneeling. They looked well in their collars. The collar accentuates the nudity and beauty of a slave, and, too, of course, it proclaims her bondage. I retrieved a large grape, about the size of a small plum, from the table, before they could clear it away. It lay near an overturned wine goblet, in a wine stain. It had rolled there, across the sparkling cloth, when it had been dislodged from its position in its shallow, golden bowl in the blonde's transit. It was peeled and pitted, doubtless laboriously by female slaves. It was a Ta grape. One often associates them with the terraces of Cos, but they are grown, of course, in many other places, as well. I thrust it in my mouth. then I gave my attention to the performance in progress between the tables, on a small, raised platform.