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For three days she saw little of him. It was hardly what she had expected.

The house of Marcus was large but not ostentatious, comfortable but not over-furnished. He kept only a small group of house slaves and quartered them all in two large rooms at the top of the house. Thus Julia shared her room with the other two female slaves. For the first night they did not speak to her. She was certain she would be called from her bed at any hour and meet her fate with the Master, but this did not occur. Instead she was left alone with her thoughts, a sorry mix of sorrow and fear.

Julia’s father had died three years ago in the war, and her mother fell ill soon after and passed away as well. Her two sisters had married and moved to the country, further from the fighting. Julia remained to keep the family home and manage their remaining businesses. Her days had not been cheerful since her childhood, but she was content to stay in the place where those days had been spent.

So her capture had not torn her away from loved ones, and she was not so much lonely for people as for the place she had known all her life. To be in Nestodore, locked away in a strange house with strangers, was disorienting and uncomfortable to the point of pain. She might hope to make friends with the other slaves, but when she watched them and listened to them talk, she feared they would find little in common. They all seemed to have been raised as slaves and to know no other life, and when they did address her it was briefly and uncomfortably, as if they too sensed the gulf between them.

Oddly, Julia felt more kinship with her new master. Apparently he too was a man of business, and from the look of his library loved books and culture as well. But she told herself it was foolishness to regard him that way, for he would have no use for her as a conversationalist or companion. In fact, he would have no regard for her at all except as a plaything.

Why then did he not send for her?

By the third evening Julia’s fear of being summoned was replaced by a fear that she would not. She was bored to distraction and lonely from long days in her room while the house slaves were out doing their business. So when finally she was called to go to the Master’s sitting room, her heart leapt not with dread but with eager curiosity.

She was directed to the room and entered quietly. Night had fallen and the chamber was lit only by a lamp and a small fire in the hearth. Marcus sat in a softly upholstered chaise, his hair unbound and his eyes closed. Julia’s eyes cast about the room, saw bookshelves, a desk covered with papers, and on the table next to the chaise, a flask and a cup of wine.

She knew better than to speak, but wasn’t sure if he had heard her enter. So she stood flustered, until he opened his eyes and looked at her. “Do you read?” he asked.

Julia nodded, “Yes, my lord.”

He closed his eyes again. “Choose something from that green book on the desk. Something cheerful.”

Julia hastened to take up the book and opened it. It was a book of fables, short tales about heroes and gods. She feared to take too long making her choice, but as if he had read her mind, Marcus said, “Choose well, I am content to wait. Then sit at my feet.”

How curious this was, thought Julia as she perused the book. Was this how most pleasure slaves were used? She had not been taught so. But perhaps this was this man’s way of leading into his passion. Her heart was pounding with apprehension and suspense, and her knees felt weak. At last she chose a story and sat on the large, flat, embroidered cushion that Marcus had placed before the chaise.

Looking down at the book she could see nothing of him but one of his feet, which dangled at her elbow. He wore brown velvet slippers lined with fur. His foot was a bit small, his ankle well turned and sprinkled with a few golden hairs. Julia took a deep breath and began to read. Her mother had always read to her in her youth, and she did her best to emulate the slow, clear pronunciation, the amusing characterization of the voices. The story was very drole and entertaining. Indeed, this was the most pleasant activity she had performed in recent memory.

When she was done Julia wanted to turn to her master to see if he were pleased. But she checked herself, realizing this was not the demeanor of a slave. Instead she lowered her head and waited silently.

“Look at me,” said Marcus.

Julia turned and raised her face to him. She found a curious expression upon it; he seemed to be trying to stifle his mirth. His mouth was almost too stern, while his eyes laughed. “You read well.”

She wanted to thank him but held her tongue.

“You may speak freely, Julia,” he said, reading her mind again.

“Thank you, my Lord, I’m glad the story pleased you.”

Marcus leaned his head back and regarded her with one dark brow raised. “Is there so little rebellion in you?”

It did not seem rhetorical, so she formulated a reply. “I would not rebel against a task that is a pleasure, my Lord.”

He smiled ruefully, but said nothing. His face was unreadable. Unreadable, but undeniably pleasant to look at: the lamplight brought out the gold in his hair, which tumbled in soft waves to curl slightly at his shoulders. His eyes were so deep, so black, so alluring with the lids half closed. Abruptly he said, “Why do you stare, Julia? Do you fear me?”

Until that moment she had not, but at his words she trembled. “Yes, my Lord.”

She expected any reaction but the one she received. “You may go now. Put the book back on that shelf above the bust.” And he shut his eyes.

To her amazement, Julia’s heart sank. She did not wish to go. She stood a moment, frozen with dismay. Her master opened his eyes again and looked at her. “Do you rebel against a task that is not your pleasure, Julia?” he asked, his eyes sparking.

She did not know how to answer this and stared back in silence.

Marcus sat up a little. “Shall I punish you for this hesitation?”

Julia half believed he was making a joke, but thought it just as likely that he would strap her. Yet she sensed it was crucial to make some reply. She was just opening her mouth when he waved his hand at her, a gesture of dismissal. “Go now,” he said.

For the first time, Julia felt anger. But to show it would only give him satisfaction, so she bowed and left the room silently, closing the door carefully behind her.

By the time she reached the slaves’ hall, she was furious. The fact that she must come at his bidding was not half so humiliating as the fact that she could be so perfunctorily dismissed. Why had Marcus bought her, anyway? Did he wish to use her only as a joke, someone to humiliate?

But of course this line of thinking was folly. He had the right by his country’s law to do anything he wished to her, even put her to death. In three days he had caused no harm to any part of Julia but her pride.

The other slaves came to bed, and seemed perplexed to find her there. The young kitchen slave, Lynda, unabashedly voiced her surprise with a smirk: “Say, Julia, why do you make your bed with us again tonight?”

Her older workmate, Penelope, chided her, “Hush, child, the pleasure slave is the Master’s business.”

Julia, still in the throes of her temper, shot back, “Does he treat me so differently from his last pleasure slave?”

Penelope replied, “You are his first, so we wouldn’t know.”

Julia sat down on her bed in surprise. “His first?”

“I’ve been here since the Mistress passed, ten years and more.”

“I thought in this country all wealthy men, at least the unmarried, had them, and usually more than one.”

Penelope moved closer, and spoke in a low voice. “If you ask me, that’s why he got one at last. Too many people wondering why not.”

“He’ll make use of her, I’ll wager,” piped up Lynda. “She’s too pretty for a man to put off forever.”

The tone made this not a compliment, so Julia ignored it. But her head spun with more questions than ever.

* * *

 

©2008 Romance at Heart Magazine.

Book ©2004 by Diana Laurence.

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