“Hey, come here!” Kors called the slave in unclean language. He immediately reacted and, leaving the scraper with which he was cleaning the floor near the massive candlestick counter, approached him. He stood in front of Kors with his head lowered. The slits for the eyes in his mask were obscured by an additional shield – only a narrow strip at the very bottom remained for vision. The slave could look at his feet, see his hands, the table, the floor, but he couldn’t look straight ahead, much less look up. Kors understood that the slave didn’t see his face, but saw only the thighs wrapped in a soft towel.

“Bring more of this wine,” said Kors and slipped the bottle under the slave’s nose so that he could see it, “do you understand? Answer me!”

The slave nodded his head, falling at Kors’ feet.

“Don't lie here, do you understand me?” Kors raised his voice.

“I don’t think he can answer you,” Arel observed, watching this scene, “most of the slaves are mute.”

“Mute?”

“Uh-huh,” Arel sat down at the table and, taking his knife in his hand, cut off a piece of meat, began to chew lazily.

“Go, do it!” Ordered Kors to the slave and sat down at the table to Arel. “I seem to be hungry,” he smiled, “why is there such a small sight in his mask?”

“The slave only looks down,” Arel shrugged his shoulders indifferently, he took a big sip from the glass and Kors thought it was not in vain that he ordered more wine.

The servant was not long in coming.

“Strip!” Kors ordered him. “Take off your clothes.”

And Prince Arel almost choked on another piece, bursting with laughter:

“Kors, are you nuts? Why do you need him?”