Slavery. A very potent word associated with bullying and violence and cruelty. A word which implied an owner with complete authority over the owned. Slavery was disgusting and what Marcus particularly hated about being a slave was that his every action was under the scrutiny of another person: Kregar. For decades on Earth Marcus had lived with complete freedom. Having chosen a life of seclusion and poverty, he had been able to do as he pleased: eat, work, or sleep whenever he chose. Go wherever he chose.

To be at someone else’s beck and call led to Marcus feeling waves of fury every time Kregar issued a new order; similar upsurges of anger shook him when his owner kept good food for himself and served his slaves the same watery cabbage soup day after day. Anger rose up at himself too, for Marcus was policing his own desires and each time he forced himself to be submissive and obedient he had to wrestle with the inner curmudgeon who had not obeyed an order in decades.

Did he hate Kregar? No. Kregar’s philosophy was pragmatic, not evil. As far as Kregar was concerned, if Marcus, Carmella, and Farkin had been stupid enough to get caught, they deserved to be slaves. And if Kregar was caught by the Red Moon tribe, or one day the cannibals invaded Three Towers and captured the town, then he would deserve to get eaten. It was a rough world out there and if you made a mistake you reaped the consequences. In a way, Kregar’s attitude was not dissimilar to that of certain dealers Marcus knew in the high-stakes art world, who thought all was fair in using the market to make a fortune. Mind you, he despised those kinds of dealers.

Every day Marcus worried about Sina. Was the princess still alive? Poor Sina, all alone on the alien planet. Yet there was nothing he could do to help her until escape was a realistic prospect.

Six days after his idea about pottery displaying Kregar as a demi-god, Marcus finished his first religious design. Had someone from Earth seen it, Marcus would have blushed, for the style – and especially the border – was taken directly from a decorated vase he’d seen in the British Museum and taken sketches of. There were two scenes on the pot: the demi-god Ferskar flashing his shield while the bird god watched from the branch of a tree; and the hero standing over a pit from which just the beaked head of the god emerged. The images were well executed, appearing crisp and clear after they were fired. And best of all, there was no mistaking the strong, bearded man: Marcus had depicted Kregar perfectly.

His owner was understandably thrilled, walking around and around the finished pot. ‘I might just keep it for myself though. Ferskar looks a bit like me. He even has my hair and beard. The gods might not approve. And just as bad,’ he laughed, ‘the people of the town might think I am becoming arrogant.’

‘Master?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘I needed a model to get the proportions right. You can tell them it was the fault of your slave and his lack of imagination. Why not put it on display and see if anyone will pay five silver for it, Master?’

From under a fringe of brown hair streaked with grey, Carmella gave Marcus an appraising look but quickly dropped her gaze when he caught her eye. Farkin though, mouth slightly open, was unashamedly looking from Kregar to Marcus and back.

‘Five?’

‘A person who believed in the stories of Ferskar might value it very much. Or someone who wanted to impress their neighbours. Or tell the tale to others, to their children, for example, Master.’

Scratching his beard uncertainly, at last Kregar said, ‘Very well, put it in a case outside.’

Trying not to display his relief, Marcus simply bowed his head. ‘Yes Master.’

That was one hurdle crossed. For a moment, Marcus had been panicking at the thought that Kregar might refuse to sell the pot. The next hurdle was too see whether this kind of design would sell.

That afternoon, a middle-aged woman stopped outside the workshop entrance and laughed. Even at a distance, from the cool, shadows within, where he was applying glaze to a two-handled pot, Marcus could tell the woman was wealthy from her silver necklaces and rings.

‘Kregar!’ the woman called. ‘I believe this is you. And what a wonderful idea, to show the story of Feskar and Gorall in this way.’

Pouring water over his clay-covered fingers and wiping them on a cloth, Kregar hurried out and Marcus watched anxiously as the two of them conversed. A memory, almost seventy years old, came back with surprising vividness. An opening of Marcus’s works in a small art gallery in Hereford had been mostly a failure. None of his pieces had sold. One elderly woman, well-dressed, remained and was talking to the gallery owner, glass of wine in hand. They were stood before a large painting of an aqueduct. There was something positive about the image, something in the light and the strong, white stones and the sense that the construction was there to be useful for the community. It was a post-war painting full of optimism. The aqueduct had originally been built by the Romans and Marcus had felt their presence as he painted. The gallery owner had priced the painting at ten guineas – a huge figure for a relatively unknown artist – and Marcus’s share of eight guineas would have meant a great deal in terms of new paints and canvasses, let alone food on the table. It was with exactly the same anxiety he had felt all those years ago that Marcus was watching Kregar and the potential customer. This time, the sale went through.

‘Farkin! Come here and carry the pot to this lady’s home. Careful with it.’

The youth hurried out, all elbows and knees. The clatter of a table he struck on the way caused two recently glazed pots to tremble. All the same, the young man was entrusted with the delivery and carried the pot reverentially with his arms wrapped around it.

When Kregar came back into the workshop, his yellow teeth could be seen as he grinned through his beard. ‘Four silver and ten copper. Let’s see if the next is as popular. You!’ he pointed to Carmella, ‘two more… no three… of those red pots. And you,’ looking at Marcus, ‘next try the story of Feskar and the North Wind.’

‘Yes Master,’ Marcus replied. ‘Could you please tell me that story?’

‘Of course, I forget you are not from the planet sometimes. I’ll do it later, when the pot is made.’ Chuckling to himself and throwing the coins up to catch them with a cheerful rattle, Kregar went up the stairs at the back of the workshop. Listening intently, Marcus counted six, seven steps on the floorboards above. Then came a click. Then a groan of a tight-fitting lid being raised on a box. A clink of coin. The box being closed and locked again. Marcus had a very clear idea where Kregar’s money was kept. So too did Carmella. She had stopped work and her eyes were on the exact same spot in the roof. This time when Marcus caught her eye, Carmella did not look away but instead gave a slight nod.

***

Eight days and fourteen sales later Marcus was sketching a new design (Kregar had a wax coated board for this purpose, which was far from ideal but could be reused by wiping away old work) and feeling cheerful thanks to the youthfulness of his body when the town bells began to ring out.

Immediately, Kregar hurried upstairs and could be heard overhead moving back and forth with several heavy thumping noises on the boards above.

‘What is it?’ Marcus went over to Carmella’s pottery wheel so that he could whisper the question.

‘An assembly, called by the elders. It might mean a new law. Or the town is under attack. Or…’ the middle-aged woman suddenly looked solemn.

‘Or?’ whispered Marcus.

It was Farkin who answered, leaning forward, his eyes wide. ‘Or a runaway slave has been caught.’

Footsteps on the staircase caused Marcus to spring back to his slate, while Carmella bent over her wheel and Farkin poured water from a jug.

‘Follow me slaves.’ Kregar was a different person. Chainmail down to his knees; conical, iron helmet; shield with a crude red bolt of lightning for its design; sword strapped at his side; throwing spear in each hand. Marcus was impressed and also found that he was intimidated. His owner was a warrior. The trader whom enjoyed light-hearted banter with his customers had become a fierce killer.

The streets were busy with a flow of people all moving in the same direction, towards the main square. On arriving there, Marcus found himself towards the back of a great throng, perhaps 400 of the 418 people listed on the town’s top menu. A quarter of them, so about 100 people, were dressed in the drab, poor-quality tunics and trousers of slaves. Outside of the town hall were twelve elderly or middle-aged people: the elders who had called Marcus for questioning. Nearby was a wood-and-iron gibbet, from which hung a chain holding a narrow cage. And in that cage, unable to sit and therefore slumped with her knees wedged painfully in front of her against the iron bands was a young woman who might have been attractive but for the bruises on all her visible skin and her air of utter despondency.

It was Jaskar who, despite being the smallest and youngest-looking of the elders, took a few steps up a podium and shouted. ‘Slaves, look hard at this one. She tried to escape in the dark. We caught her. We always catch you. Do you know why? Because as soon as you cross the walls of Three Towers on your own our population drops by one. Even if you manage to avoid the guards, we know you are running. We always know. Between us, the elders watch the menu day and night, and when a slave runs, we even know which of you it is from the missing character sheet.

‘We always catch you. No slave has ever escaped Three Towers.’

The small man shook his fist in the air and his faced showed pure anger. ‘The punishment for attempted escape is to be locked in the cage until dead. Look at her, slaves, and understand that this is where you will be if you leave the town without a collar and leash on you.’ Jaskar held out his arm, finger pointing and waited to be sure everyone had taken a long look at the unfortunate woman. ‘That is all. Go back to serving your masters and serve them well.’

As though the crowd had been collectively holding its breath, a murmur rose up in every direction. None of the sound came from slaves. And it angered Marcus immensely that the tone of the withheld conversation was affable. He listened to the masters talking to one another as the crowd broke up. They were glad that it wasn’t a raid they faced but only another stupid runaway.

Beside him, Carmella had tears running down her cheeks, though she tried to hide this by tipping her head forward so that her fringe fell over her face. From time to time, she rubbed the tears away with her sleeve. Instinctively, Marcus patted her shoulder in sympathy, trying to communicate what? That it would be all right? No, it would not be all right. Not at all. But at least he could show a sense of solidarity with Carmella: with all the slaves.

‘Waste of time,’ muttered Kregar. ‘Let’s get back.’

Every step on the cobbled streets of Three Towers brought a new thought to mind. Marcus found his heart pounded with rage and also with fear? Up until now he had assumed that escape would not be too difficult. Once Kregar’s guard was sufficiently lowered and Marcus had learned the best place to get over the walls, he had assumed he would be able to slip out under cover of darkness and run. The news that the Ark Andulan menu would show up his escape attempt as a drop in population was a terrible shock. What were his options now? To maybe get Kregar to take him on a journey outside the town, a trade mission? Marcus would have to learn more about what trading took place in Three Towers. Or to cause such trouble for the town elders that he could escape during the confusion. A fire, perhaps? What if the slaves all rose up on the same night? The problem was that the free citizens outnumbered the slaves three to one. Although only the richest were masters, which made the odds about equal, was it likely the poorer citizens of Ark Andulan would remain neutral? Not if the overall strength of their tribe depended on the work of the slaves.

Realising he needed to know more, as soon as they had returned to the workshop and Kregar had come back down stairs having removed his armour, Marcus risked a question.

‘Master?’

‘Yes, slave?’

‘Who are the elders? Do they rule the town?’

With a disapproving grunt (aimed at Marcus? Or the elders?) Kregar said, ‘the twelve elders have the highest level rights over the town’s menus. The rest of us only have limited menus, concerned with our own character sheets and personal quests. The elders are always setting tasks for me and for everyone else. If I didn’t interrupt them, my body would be marching around all day carrying rubbish or sawing timber or …’ he tailed off with a shrug. ‘I have over hundred active tasks, so does everyone. We all ignore them unless it really matters, to stop an outbreak of a fire say.’

‘And Master, if you don’t mind, can I ask you another question?’

‘Go ahead slave.’

‘How does someone become an elder?’

Again the grunt, this time with an edge of anger. ‘The elders are supposed to be elected and the positions shared every few years. The townspeople gather at the speaking mound and hear those who would lead them and then by acclaim, elect their favourites. That hasn’t happened for a long time though because for someone new to become an elder, one of the older ones would have to retire. There can only be twelve people with the top level of menu access. And those that have it are determined to keep it, no matter how useless they are.’

Looking thoughtful now, rather than angry, Kregar added, ‘I can remember the last election, which was about eight years ago. Jaskar had been working his way towards being an elder for as long as I can remember. I never thought he would get it though, not with how he is such an arrogant little sod, with his shotgun. But he did.’

Hoping that Kregar would keep talking, Marcus was disappointed that the owner of the workshop fell into a musing silence. ‘One last question Master please?’

‘Keep it brief.’

‘Why don’t you become an elder?’

‘Because I’m not prepared to lick arses for five years.’ But even as he gave this cynical response, Marcus saw Kregar glance over at the urns and pots on display outside, the ones with his image representing the popular demi-god.