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– Violation. Pay a penalty or you will go to cold, and your slave will ring out on galleys.

– So I speak, the bill of sale is shoshtryapat just about, – my employer became stubborn.

– Violation! – the policeman growled, lifting peak which tip rested against a breast of my satellite. Other policemen directed weapon to us too.

– Shkolko? – my satellite was given.

– Silver.

– Yes well, what the hell for! – the Pin moved. – Shovest have!

– Resistance to the authorities?! – the observer bellowed suddenly, splashing saliva.

Seeing that the situation is heated I outright strukhnut: suddenly yes my satellite has no money for a penalty?

The imagination obligingly painted a picture seen once: emaciated oarsmen, sitting up to ankles in own excrements, overstraining, pull very heavy oars, on the backs covered with blood whips the supervisor’s scourge. Cold tentacles of despair squeezed heart.

But here in a hand of the policeman there was a silver coin, and observers moved further, having splashed me on a hand the press and having strictly punished slaves without collar and the bill of sale on the city from now on not to drive.