A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (4 page)

Mr. Blackwell, Henry and Timothy stepped into a wood-paneled room with a club-like atmosphere where, to Henry’s dismay, Father seemed inclined to linger. Henry looked longingly at the curtained doorway leading to the viewing area while Mr. Blackwell stopped to light a cigar and exchange a few remarks with a portly gentleman whose own son shared Henry’s impatience.

The sounds of a lively crowd carried forward from the viewing room. Waiters in House livery circulated with trays of drinks and, although Henry saw other boys drinking, his own father would not allow him to do so. Customers comfortably ensconced in blue mohair armchairs perused auction catalogs. The established slaves stood along the walls, gossiping amongst themselves, always with an eye on their masters; Timothy had joined them while Mr. Blackwell continued to talk. Henry saw a few boys he recognized, but always at a distance.

The liveried footmen flanking the door to the viewing room let pass perhaps three dozen groupings—fathers, sons and slaves—while Henry watched anxiously, feeling his chances slipping away, and then reminding himself with some force that no one would be allowed to claim any slave until the afternoon’s auction.

At last, Father made his farewells and gestured to Timothy to join them. The crowd seemed to part for Father; Henry shouldered through the throng, at pains to keep up. Before they could pass through the curtain into the viewing area, they were intercepted by a handsome blond man who tugged his sea-blue jacket smartly into place before extending his hand to Henry’s father.

“Good morning, Mr. Blackwell! Arthur Paulsen of House Ganymede at your service!” He shook Father’s hand with vigor. He held a glossy catalog and a stiff leather crop in his other hand. “We’ve been expecting you, sir. Your Timothy telephoned yesterday. He still serves you well, I hope?”

“Good morning, Mr. Paulsen. Timothy continues to provide impeccable service, as he always has.” Father let go of Paulsen’s hand and gestured toward Henry. “This is my son, Henry.”

Paulsen shook Henry’s hand, as well. To Father, he said, “You’re interested in acquiring a companion for Henry, then? Well, I’m honored to have the opportunity to serve you today.” He offered his catalog to Father with a subtle flourish.

Father accepted the catalog and said, “Yes, indeed. Henry’s 16 and it’s time for him to begin taking on responsibility.”

“He’s very mature, I’m sure,” Paulsen said, with a nod and an approving smile in Henry’s direction.

Henry’s attention wandered as Father and Paulsen began discussing the particulars. Regardless of what the adults might say or hope, he was much less interested in learning to properly handle responsibility than he was in simply keeping up with his peers.

Paulsen said, “I’m pleased to inform you that we have twenty-three excellent candidates available this season, all meticulously trained and fully capable of assisting with household and business management in addition to providing the usual services. You and your son are welcome to view any of our offerings, of course, but there is a select group I’d like you to see first.”

“Select, hmm? What’s so special about them?” Father sounded dubious.

Paulsen leaned in closer. “Confidentially, we won’t be recommending these particular slaves to just anyone. They’re extremely talented and promising boys, and we’ve taken steps to assure that they’ll be placed with the city’s finest families.”

Father harrumphed at this and Henry understood that this meant that they would be more expensive than the others.

“Please, allow me to show them to you. If you’ll just follow me…”

With Paulsen in the lead, they passed quickly by groups of slaves standing together under banners proclaiming them “Standard” and “Choice.” All around, seductive voices called out, “Sir, Sir!” A slave with light blue eyes and golden skin caught at Henry’s sleeve. He said, “I’m eager to serve, Sir,” in such a suggestive tone that Henry was taken aback and stood gaping.

Paulsen appeared at Henry’s elbow. “Enough of that,” he said, swatting at the slave’s hand with his crop. “Know your place.” To Henry, he said, “Let’s keep up, shall we?”

In the far corner of the room, Paulsen came to a halt beneath a banner proclaiming the merchandise to be “Superior.” The Superior slaves stood on a dais apart from the rest. There were five in all, bare-chested and barefoot in snug breeches, each marked with the azure disk of House Ganymede just below the hollow of his throat. They stood in a half-circle on a blue carpet, their expressions appropriately friendly but not too forward, interested but not challenging. Three were dark, one blond, the last with thick light brown hair. All were handsome and fit, the last boy especially so to Henry’s eye, with fine features, high cheekbones, and a lanky frame. The dark-haired boys didn’t interest Henry at all, their coloring too similar to his own, and the blond seemed utterly unremarkable in comparison to the boy beside him, whose light brown hair was full of strawberry lights, whose shapely lower lip was indented at the center like a punched pillow.

Paulsen brought the crop down on the edge of the dais with a loud
thwack
and at this signal the boys turned to face to the left, to the rear, to the right, and then to the front again. The boy on the end darted a glance at Henry and licked his lips.

“Let me introduce you to our Superiors, Mr. Blackwell. These five represent the highest standards of service and achievement that Ganymede has to offer,” Paulsen informed them. “These are well-trained and lively boys, obedient and gentle. They’re the culmination of a proud tradition and are eager to begin service. If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll just show you…” Paulsen took the catalog from Father’s hands, flipped through the pages until he found the one he wanted, then handed the document back to Father. “Here we go, sir. This,” he said, using the crop to gesture at the boy on the end, “is our Martin. Our finest offering this season. A handsome boy and, as you can see, he is also quite accomplished.” He pointed at the catalog listing with a manicured finger.

Martin smiled at Father, who had eyes only for the catalog, and then at Henry, showing his even white teeth. He had such pale skin, everywhere showing the traces of turquoise veins, and his vividly green eyes had an unusual slanted shape. His nipples and beautiful mouth stood out very pink against the white of his flesh. He tossed his tawny hair back from his shoulders with a little movement of his chin, clasped his hands behind his back, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Every line of his body was taut and graceful. Again, he met Henry’s eyes and gave him a shy, beguiling smile. Henry looked away to hide his blush. The boy was so beautiful he made Henry’s heart ache.

Father’s eyes flicked up from the page and found Paulsen. “He’s healthy?”

“Yes, indeed,” said the salesman. “He is in the very pink of health. And like all of our offerings, he has been sterilized and is guaranteed free of social diseases. You are most welcome to examine him, of course.”

Father said, “Turn around, boy,” and Martin did as asked, rotating in place. “Come here.”

Martin came down the two steps from the dais to stand close before Father, who put his hands on Martin’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “Hmm.” He felt Martin’s arms, picked up his hands one at a time and turned them over, examining the palms and the pads of his fingers. He put a hand on Martin’s chin and turned his head back and forth. “Henry,” he said. “Come here and have a look at him.”

Henry stepped forward, swallowing hard and determined not to show his nerves. Martin was nearly as tall as him but a bit thinner, sleeker. Henry put his hands on Martin’s shoulders, just as Father had done. His hands began to shake on contact: Martin’s skin was warmer than he’d expected, and smoother. As close as they were, he could smell the scent of soap rising off of Martin’s skin, saw the scattering of freckles over the tops of his cheekbones, heard the flow of his breath. He ran his hands down Martin’s arms, his bony wrists, and held onto his hands for a moment, then dropped them hurriedly, feeling his cheeks grow hot. He put his hands in his pockets and said, “Turn around,” and watched without knowing what he was looking for as Martin obediently turned in a circle, muscles flexing beneath his tight pants. Henry knew he could ask to see Martin naked, could examine his nethers, poke and prod, and no one would think anything of it, but he was too wary of his own body’s unpredictable responses to voice the command.

“His parts are very nicely formed,” Paulsen remarked to Henry, as if reading his mind. “If you’d like to see—”

Before Henry could answer, Father interjected. “What’s this?” Father asked, jabbing at the catalog page. “Myopia?”

“He
does
wear glasses,” Paulsen admitted. “Just a touch of nearsightedness, sir. Really, it shouldn’t be a problem in the course of normal duties…”

Henry felt a stab of fear and willed Father to overlook the flaw. Nearsightedness wasn’t so terrible, was it? Henry’s own mother was nearsighted, after all.

“Where are his glasses
now
?” Father demanded, frowning. “Can he see? Boy, can you see?”

“I can see you very clearly, Sir,” Martin said. His voice, neither notably high nor deep, had a pleasant roughness, grit in honey. “I only have trouble with distances.” When Henry met his eyes, he smiled. His smile was dazzling; Henry could barely look at him.

“He’s an excellent scholar,” Paulsen said hurriedly. “Should Henry have occasion to require assistance with his schoolwork, Martin is prepared to help.”

“How is he with Latin?” asked Father, giving Henry a pointed look. Henry’s Latin grades had been an issue in the past.

“He’s always received top marks,” Paulsen assured him. “But he’s also conversant in modern languages. He manages quite well in French, Italian and German.”

“Hmm.” Father’s expression was inscrutable. He flipped through the pages of the catalog, pausing from time to time to read while Paulsen and Henry waited, patiently and less so. Finally, he closed the pages with a rattle. “Henry is athletic,” he remarked (although this was not strictly true). “Whatever choice we make, we will expect the boy to be able to keep up.”

“Rest assured, that will not be a problem. As I’m sure you’re aware, all of our boys are given a thorough background in sport. Martin, for instance, is the House fencing champion for the fifteens and sixteens,” Paulsen told them. “He sits an excellent horse and is expert with bow and arrow. I should not presume that he is any match for Henry, but he should have no trouble keeping up.”

“Excuse me, Sir,” Martin said, his voice low, as Father continued to question Paulsen. “
Henry
, Sir. What sports do you enjoy?”

“Just those,” Henry muttered. “Same as you.” It was not exactly true; while Henry liked to ride, he neither fenced nor practiced archery.

“I also like to swim, Sir,” Martin offered in his hushed tone. “I play the violin. And I’m keen on reading. I could read to you, if you wanted, Sir.”

Henry shook his head, not because he didn’t want to be read to, but simply because he was flustered.

Martin leaned a little closer. “I don’t look it, but I’m very strong. Feel, Sir.” Boldly, he took Henry’s hand by the wrist and pressed it flat to his belly. Henry gasped and pulled back sharply.

“What are you boys talking about?” Father asked.

“Nothing, Father,” Henry said, shaking his hand as if burned.

Father stepped back and looked Martin over again, his eyebrows pulling together with a critical frown. “Hmm…yes, quite impressive, but what about these others?”

Paulsen directed Martin to return to his place on the dais and he obeyed, standing with his hands behind his back, his beautiful hair falling forward of his shoulder. As Father and the salesman discussed and compared the merits of the other four Superiors, Henry feigned interest in the Ganymede disk woven into the carpet, poking at it with the toe of his boot. Father called him over and bade him examine one of the dark-haired slaves and the blond, whose names he did not catch. They were excellent choices, no doubt, but for someone else. He did not care about any of the other slaves. It was Martin he wanted; he had known it at once. He had never been so drawn to another person. He hoped Father would ask his opinion and take it into consideration, but he did not think he could count on it. He could feel Martin’s eyes following his movements but tried to behave as though he did not notice, hoping that he was showing himself at his best, wanting Martin to admire him. When he realized what he was doing, he felt angry at himself; it was not proper for him to play such games with a slave. What Martin thought shouldn’t matter.

Another father and son and slave, people Henry did not recognize, stepped in to examine Martin. The boy said something and Martin smiled and bent to speak with him. He glanced up and met Henry’s eyes over the top of the boy’s head. Henry felt a sharp pang of jealousy and wished he could push the strange boy away. He didn’t want any other boys talking to Martin, touching him, even looking at him. He opened his mouth and then shut it again—there was nothing he could do or say. He had no claim on Martin.

Father said, “Timothy, come here,” and Timothy went. Henry stood aside while Timothy conferred with Father and Paulsen. The three of them pointed at various of the slaves on the dais, discussing their finer points. Father did not so much as glance at Henry, who was beginning to feel somewhat desperate.

Paulsen said, “If you have any further questions, sir, I should be happy to answer them.” After a brief pause during which Father did not respond, Paulsen added, “If these candidates are not to your liking, perhaps I might show you something else…?”

“I think we’ve seen enough.” Father closed the catalog, folded it in half, and put it in his pocket. “Thank you for your time.” He headed for the door, Timothy in his wake, and there was nothing for Henry to do but follow.

On the way out, they passed slave after slave being exposed, fondled, probed. As Henry approached and then walked past, a boy pushed a slick finger between the bare buttocks of the slave who was bent over before him, and, with a sharp intake of breath, Henry understood this maneuver was meant to determine whether the slave’s ass would be a fitting place for the boy’s cock. Feeling his cheeks grow hot, he wished he’d been brave enough to put his hands on Martin, to check his fitness for the position. He turned his head for one last look and saw Martin looking back at him, his expression solemn.