The Good Slave (12 page)

A week later the Church-State laid the late Josef Messinjure to rest—without ceremony save a lone preacher—in a plain pinewood coffin in a potter’s field hundreds of miles away from his home.
 
His final resting place: an unmarked pauper’s grave.
 
The old man had died of natural causes, according to Dr. McCallister, coincidentally on the same night as his son’s execution.

By the time of his burial all his slaves had been sold at public auction.
 
(His will had stipulated that they all be set free upon his death, but it was invalidated by the state, which claimed funds were needed to pay for Stephen Messinjure’s trial.)
 
All but one, that is.
 
Tessa, who was in her mid-sixties, had been deemed too old to sell, which prohibitively expensive healthcare needs.
 
The government humanely euthanized her by means of lethal injection with bureaucratic efficiency, as the Church-State had determined would be pleasing to God.

Chapter Ten

A Good Slave

“What’s done is done and can’t be undone,” Master said, “but acceptance of one’s lot alone doesn’t make a slave good.
 
So what does, Phoebus?”

The little slave didn’t answer.
 
The only sound was the soft, heavenly chorus of
Nearer, My God, to Thee
as it echoed off the smooth marble walls of his master’s luxurious marble bathroom.

A good slave’s gaze is always down and earthbound
, the boy was repeating over and over in his head, trying not to think of how he was going to answer the question.
 
A good slave’s gaze is always down and earthbound
.

Judge O’Malley put a thick forefinger under the little slave’s chin, making sure the edge of his sharp fingernail dug into the smooth skin, and lifted his angelic face upward.
 
Phoebus was trembling worse than ever.
 
Was it fear?
 
Or just the urine evaporating from his skin?
 
He didn’t know.
 
He didn’t care.
 
His eyes were clenched shut.

“Look at me, slave,” Master said tenderly.

The boy blinked open his bloodshot eyes, the rims red and sore.

“The one thing that makes a slave good, Phoebus, no matter what disloyal, evil and sinful thoughts may lie in his heart, and whether or not he has become submissive in his heart, is simple obedience.”

The old man leaned forward and combed back the little slave’s wet hair with his fingers for a few seconds before tightening his grip around a handful and wringing it between his fingers it until the boy’s scalp screamed out in pain, though only
 
the slightest whimper escaped the slave’s lips.
 
That is until the judge jerked his head back and Phoebus let out a wail and began to cry.

“No, Master!” the little slave begged.
 
“Please don’t!”

Master slapped him and the boy stifled his cries into sobbing whimpers.

“
Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo
,” Master said.
 
His expression was pitiless and without a trace of sympathy.
 
The little slave didn’t understand what this meant but he knew what was to follow—what always followed whenever Master said it.

“Now be a good little slave, Phoebus O’Malley—” the old man let out a groan of exertion as he stood up and let the towel drop to the floor
“—and suck.”

THE END