Master Rababull nodded to himself in satisfaction.
With a slap mark like that on the face of a beauty like her, there
would be no mockery in the kitchen when she arrived to give the orders.
Whoever contradicted her would surely be boiled in oil. It had been
done once before by Master Rababull, two hundred and eighty years ago,
and he knew the cooks still spoke of it on occasion, when the day's
work was done and they could at long last magnify themselves upon the
young and impressionable with their idle words.
Moments later, Master Rababull could hear Prut's voice, shouting from
the top of the stairs. Then a horn was blown repeatedly, with much
force and vigor of the blower's lungs, urgently calling all slaves to a
general assembly.
Would that women could fight, fumed Master Rababull, that he might
double his fighting force! As well to wish that the stone idols should
come to life! But he was pragmatic enough to realize that mere temple
idols could not so much as move themselves, let alone that they should
wield weapons.
When his personal body slave had arrayed him in his bronze and leather
body armor, he turned and marched in haste for the temple. The war god
did not have to move anyways, a contemptuous Master Rababull
deliberately reminded himself.
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