Anyone could see why, and I certainly did, as César was not only extremely tall and powerfully built, but he had a face like a marble statue, just that perfect and just that large. He was one of those beings who looked splendid with his hair swept back from his forehead—indeed he had beautiful eyes and a beautiful forehead—and his hair was always brushed that way and with the forelocks gathered into a long thick braid to lie on the rest of his wavy mane as it fell to his shoulders.

But without the safety of his harnesses, and the butt plug and the horse tail, and without the comfort of the bit in his teeth, César was afraid.

This was the slave I’d drive tonight, and I went to him now. I walked back into the huge shadowy enclosure. Like all the structures of the new kingdom, it was a finely constructed building, and it was hung with many lanterns, and its soft earthen floor, so good for the slaves’ horseshoed boots, was swept immaculately clean.

I gave my handsome Valentine a kiss as I passed and then stood by César.

“What’s all this weeping?” I asked. He towered over me, standing there with his hands behind his neck, and his face was as beautiful as that of a woman, with his soft tearing blue eyes. “Come on, answer me, César,” I said. I poked him under the chin with the handle of my paddle.

“My prince, I’ve never . . . I . . . what if I fail?” Voices are very important when it comes to slaves, and César had a low, cultured, pleasing voice. Rumor had it that he had been a scholar in his early youth and much the prodigious scholar at that, yet he had taken to the pony life lustily and with utter abandon.

“Nonsense,” I said reprovingly. I poked at his chin again making him lift his head. “You’re not afraid of failing. You’ve been pulling carts for twenty years, and the King’s fastest chariots for some ten months. You’re in splendid condition. You could probably outrun the pony pulling the chariot tonight that carries me.”

“Oh, no, my lord,” he said, fighting his tears. “Your chariot tonight will be pulled by Brenn, the King’s new favorite, and he’s stronger even than I.”

“More nonsense,” I said. “He’s as strong as you, yes, but he’s not the King’s new favorite pony, and you’re to stop sulking at once. You put on a bad show tonight and Brenn just might become the King’s new favorite, don’t you realize that?”

I remembered him and when he came. He was not of royal birth, but of good gentry, sent to Queen Eleanor as a gift by parents who found his wit and verbal precocity annoying. She had scant interest in such slaves. Princes and princesses had interested her, and little else. And one look at this giant of a white-haired slave and she had condemned him to the village stables with a wave of her hand.

Of course he was not bigger than King Laurent. But he was as big, and that is saying something. And he was not merely beautiful, but he was pretty and fetching, and many at the Court had groaned to see him go.

But César had been happy in the stables. The grooms adored him. They hadn’t seen a pony of his size since Laurent, who’d only lately gone home. And his hair was near white, and they loved this, and the villagers always stopped to watch him trotting past.

As he’d been an outright gift and not a tribute, the Queen had never bothered to ask about him again, and César himself had never wanted to leave. There have always been ponies like this—in particular, strong, muscular men of exceptional stamina who come alive in bit and harness and crave no other world.

Then King Laurent had discovered him, and marveled at his exquisite face and the smoothness of his skin. “Why is this jewel buried in the straw of the village stable?” he asked. And César had become a royal pony, elevated to the glamour of the new Bellavalten overnight. Now the King wanted more from César, and his courtly service to the King was beginning in earnest.

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you,” I said. “You’ve been hiding all these years, hiding. You’re terrified of the solitary exposure, of running with your head up, alone and without a team, and in fear of the inescapable paddle and hearing the Court cheer as you go past, you, César, inspected and admired for your own merits.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, even though I still prodded him with the paddle handle. I gave one of his nipples a hard twist, and watched his chest muscles twitch.

“Oh, it’s humiliating, all right, for a proud steed,” I said. “I know.”

I gave him a good hard crack on his powerful hindquarters and he jumped.

“But this is what the King wants!” I said. “And therefore you must want it.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, stammering and shifting his weight. He had always been very polite, well bred. When the King had discovered he was educated, he’d sent him books to read during his recreation—something that would never have occurred to anyone at all ever in the old kingdom—and César had enjoyed them, often curling up under an oak to read Ovid rather than jostle with the other ponies at rest in the yard. There was a special place in his stall for his books. Yet he had become a leader among the new Court ponies, teaching them many things, and the grooms came to him all the time with questions because there was nothing César didn’t know about being a pony. I knew the King’s taste. César and the husky and pretty-faced satyr, Brenn, were his favorites and one would not replace the other in his heart. Brenn was being trained to great versatility from the beginning and César must learn to be flexible and pliant as well. It thrilled me to think of how the King would turn César inside out in the months to come.

“Listen, the King loves you both,” I said, now pressing close to him. “You’re suffering over nothing when it comes to Brenn. Befriend him. That is what the King assumes you will do.”

“Yes, sir,” he said again. “Brenn is my friend. Brenn’s been kind enough to me, has been since he came. I won’t try to outrun him tonight, sir. I won’t do anything to displease you or the King.”

I squeezed his hard bottom. The paddle would barely faze him. His skin was alabaster smooth but tough.

I saw Elena hurrying towards me, looking quite tasty in her new black satin gown. The ladies of the Court were displaying new fashions inspired by the Queen. Breasts were often half bared, and waists were high and skirts full. Elena looked perfect in this new style, and wore ropes of pearls about her neck, given her by the Queen.

“They’re ready to begin,” she said. “They were all waiting on that strange wild-eyed Lexius and he is at last there.”

I heard the trumpet sound for the first chariot and its passenger to whip the first slave onto the path. Sweet Sybil. I couldn’t see from here. Though there must have been thirty in line, I knew things would happen now very fast.

Quickly, I went to Valentine and kissed him and embraced him. “Now you make me proud tonight,” I whispered in his ear. He was crying as always but he answered me in the most gentle voice.

A groom came down the line, wiping noses and cheeks and making what last little adjustments might be needed to the slaves’ boots. He was slapping cocks here and there, and pinching nipples to make them hard.

I headed to my chariot and climbed up and made sure of the reins. Brenn stood there, in full practical harness, arms strapped to his back, boots planted firmly on the earth.

“You ready to keep up with César tonight, Brenn?” I called out and Brenn gave me a vigorous nod.

He’d only been in the stable for three days, and yesterday after much training, he’d pulled the Queen alone in her smallest and most delicate chariot on her regular evening drive. The Queen had been completely delighted. She had had him turned out completely in red harnesses and had adorned his cock with red ribbons and golden bells. Brenn had shed a world of tears but was perfection to her and King Laurent.

When they returned to the castle she had given the reins to me to take Brenn back to the stables, and there I’d watched as Georgette unharnessed him, teasing him about being the only little colt among so many fillies.

She loved paddling him. She’d thrown him over her knee and asked him over and over again as she spanked him, “How much does the Queen love you, tell me! Tell me more.”

Poor Brenn had sobbed and given the only acceptable answer, “I want to please her.” After that I walked with the groom who paddled him back to the King’s Stables for recreation. I had always hated those driving paddles and the humiliating spanks when a slave is merely being moved from place to place. But I knew that most slaves needed this. Slaves had to be maintained. Discipline had to pervade every moment of their lives.

Brenn’s form was perfect. In the recreation yard, César had beckoned to Brenn to come join him and they lay on the green grass together, César reading his little book, and Brenn with his head on César’s chest as he slept—and César playing idly with his black hair. But still, César was jealous. I knew this. I understood it.

Again and again the trumpet sounded as one slave after another was pushed onto the path.

I had a clear view of Dmitri lining up his chariot beside Stefan and I could see even from this distance that Stefan was as compliant as before. The mask looked so pretty. I wondered if we shouldn’t do more with masks. But then the words came back to me, “the Discipline of the Mask.” If it already had a meaning, well, then, we should develop that meaning, shouldn’t we—of a highborn lord or lady within the kingdom submitting to rigorous slavery through the Discipline of the Mask. And surely the Queen was already contemplating this. She’d be asking our advice on it soon.