“Of course!” I shouted, angrily.

“It has been many years,” said Samos.

“It matters not,” I muttered.

“You are both, perhaps, other than you were.”

“Do you care to dispute these matters with the sword?” I asked.

“I might,” said Samos, “if you could establish the pertinence of the procedure to the issues involved.” I looked down, furious.

“It is possible,” said Samos, “that it is an image you love, and not a woman, that it is not a person, but a memory.” “Those who have never loved,” I told him bitterly, “must not speak of what they cannot know,” Samos did not seem angry. “Perhaps,” he said.

“It is your move,” I told him.”

I glanced across the room. A few yards away, on the tiles, in her brief silk, the two-handled, bronze paga vessel beside her, knelt the slave girl, waiting to be summoned. She was dark-haired, and beautiful. She glanced at the chained male slave, and threw back her head, and smoother her long, dark hair over her back. In his manacles, kneeling, between his guards, he regarded her. She observed him, and smiled contemptuously, and then loftily looked away, bored. Behind his back, in the irons he wore, I sensed his fists were clenched.

“What of Talena?” asked Samos.

“She will understand,” I told Samos.

“I have information,” said he, “that this evening, following your departure from your hours, she returned to the marshes.” I leaped to my feet.

I was staggered. The room reeled.

“What did you expect her to do?” asked Samos.

“Why did you not tell me this?” I cried.

“What would you do, if I did?” he asked. “Would you chain her to the slave ring at your couch?” I looked at him, enraged.