by John Norman
***
“What are you doing here?” asked a voice.
“I am a free woman,” I said.
I lay on the incline, the grass under my belly. It was warm now. The sun felt hot on my back. Muddy water was about my feet. A man was behind me. At least one other, I could hear him moving about, was above and in front of me, up on the surface of the road.
“I was attacked by bandits,” I said. “They took my clothes.”
“Hold still,” said the voice behind me.
I heard the clink of a chain.
My body stiffened, my fingers clutched at the grass.
A chain was looped twice about my neck and padlocked shut.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
“Hold still,” said the voice.
The chain was then taken under my body and down to my ankles. My ankles were crossed and the chain was looped thrice about them, holding them closely together. Another padlock then, its tongue passing through links of the chain, was snapped shut. My ankles were now chained tightly together. I could not even uncross them.
It is common to run a neck chain to the ankles in front of a woman’s body, rather than behind it. In this fashion any stress on the chain is borne by the back of her neck rather than her throat. It is also regarded as a more aesthetic chaining arrangement than its opposite, the neck chain, for example, with its linearity, and its sturdy, inflexible links, affording a striking contrast with the softnesses, the beauties, of her lovely bosom. This arrangement is also favored for its psychological effect on the woman. As she feels the chain more often on her body in this arrangement, brushing her, for example, or lying upon her, she is less likely to forget that she is wearing it. It helps her to keep clearly in mind that she is chained. It reminds her, dramatically and frequently, of that fact.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “I am a free woman!”
“How is it, did you say,” asked the man behind me, “that you are unclothed?”
“Bandits took my clothes!” I said.
“And left you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“If it had been up to me,” said the fellow behind me, “I think I would have taken you along and left the clothes.”
I was silent.
“I suppose,” he said, pleasantly enough, “they might have had poor of eyesight, or perhaps it was just very dark.”
I did not speak.
“What is your Home Stone?” he asked.
I thought quickly. I did not want to identify myself with Corcyrus, of course, or any cities or towns in that area, even Argentum. Too, I knew we had flown northwest. I then took, almost out of the air, a city far to the north, one I had heard of but one, unfortunately, that I knew little about. The name had been mentioned, I did recall, on the tarn platform, in the camp of Miles of Argentum. Perhaps that is what suggested it to my mind.
“That of Lydius,” I said.
“What is the location of Lydius?” he asked.
“North,” I said. “North.”
“And where in the north?” he asked.
I was silent.
“On what lake does Lydius lie?” he asked.
“I do not know,” I said.
“It does not lie on a lake,” he said.
“Of course not,” I said.
“On what river does it lie?” he asked.
“It doesn’t lie on a river,” I said.
“It is on the Laurius,” he said.
I was silent.
“What is the first major town east of Lydius?” he asked.
“I don’t remember,” I said.
“Vonda,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“No,” he said. “Vonda is on the Olvi. It is Laura.”
“Yes,” I said, sick and hungry, chained.
“You are certain that you are a free woman?” asked the man.
“Yes,” I said.
“Where is your escort, your guards?” he asked.
“I was traveling alone,” I said.
“That is unusual for a free woman,” he said.
I was silent.
“What were you doing on this road?” he asked.
“Traveling,” I said. “Visiting.”
“And where did you think you were going?” asked the man.
“I don’t know,” I sobbed. I did not even know what towns lay along this road. I did not even know where I was.
“Look here,” said the fellow. He turned me about. I saw he was a brawny, blond youth. He did not seem angry or cruel. He crouched down and, with one finger, near the bottom of the ditch, made a precise marking, or drawing, in the mud.
“What letter is that?” he asked.
“I do not know,” I said.
“Al-ka,” he said.
“I cannot read,” I said.
“Most free women can read,” he said.
“I was not taught,” I said.
“You have a luscious body,” he said.
“Please unchain me,” I said.
“It has delicious slave curves,” he said.
“Unchain me, please,” I begged.
“Your body does not suggest that it is the body of a free woman,” he said. “It suggests, rather, that it is the body of a natural slave.”
“I beg to be unchained,” I said. “You can see that I am a free woman. My body is unbranded. I do not wear a collar!”
“Some masters,” said he, “are so foolish as not to brand and collar their women.”
“That would be stupid,” I said.
“I think so,” he said.
“So you can see, then,” I said, “that I, uncollared, unbranded, must be free.”
“Not necessarily,” he smiled.
“Unchain me,” I begged.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Lita,” I said. I remembered this name from the time that Drusus Rencius had taken me to the house of Kliomenes in Corcyrus. It was the name he had chosen for me there, Lady Lita, of Corcyrus. It had sprung into my mind probably because of that trip. Too, I recalled that both Publius and Drusus Rencius had thought that it would be a good name for me.
Both of the men then laughed, he standing now before me as I sat on the bank, and he, who was apparently alone, on the surface of the road.
“What is wrong?” I asked.
“That is a slave name,” he said.
“No!” I said.
“It is a common slave name,” he said. “Indeed, it is one of the names popular with the masters for unusually juicy and helpless slaves.”
“It is also the name of some free women,” I said.
“It is possible, I suppose,” said the man.
“Please unchain me,” I begged.
“Lita,” said the man.
“Lady Lita,” I said.
“Lita,” said he.
I looked at him in misery.
“It seems clear you are a slave, Lita,” he said. “You are naked. You apparently have no Home Stone. You do not know where you are. You cannot even read. Your name is even that of a slave.”
“No!” I said.
“But it is,” he said. “Therefore, since it seems clear that you are a runaway slave, you will henceforth address us as ‘Master’.”
“Please, no,” I said.
“If you are actually a free woman, as you claim,” he said, “no great harm will be done.” On the other hand, if you should prove to be a slave, as you doubtless will, this will save you some whippings for disrespect.”
I stared at him in misery.
“Do you understand?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
He continued to look at me.
“Yes—Masters,” I said.
“The word sounds very natural on your lips, Lita,” he said.
“Yes, Masters,” I said.
“You may thank us,” he said.
“Thank you, Masters,” I said.
He then scooped me up and, standing
on the slope, threw me over his left shoulder. My head faced behind. In this fashion a girl cannot see where she is being carried. In this fashion, too, it is her bottom which is first being presented for the view of those whom her carrier approaches. It is thought useful for her to understand this. It is, of course, a common way of carrying female slaves. He then, slipping, crouching down, putting out his hand, scrambled up the slope.
In a moment they had put me on a blanket in the wagon bed of an open tharlarion wagon. They were not ungentle with me.
“I am very hungry, Masters,” I said. “May I have something to eat?”
“Surely,” said the fellow who had carried me up the slope. Then, while the other fellow took his place on the wagon box and started the ponderous draft beast into motion, he gave me two generous pieces of bread, two full wedges of Sa-Tarna bread, a fourth of a loaf. Such bread is usually baked in round, flat loaves, with eight divisions in a loaf. Some smaller loaves are divided into four divisions. These divisions are a function, presumably, of their simplicity, the ease with which they may be made, the ease with which, even without explicit measurement, equalities may be produced. He also gave me a slice of dried larma, some raisins and a plum. Twice he poured me water from a bag into a cup. He indicated the side of the cup from which I might drink. When a cup is shared masters and slaves do not drink from the same side of the cup.
“Do not eat so quickly,” he cautioned me, as I tore piteously at the bread. “How long is it since you have eaten?” he asked.
“Since last night,” I said, “before the bandits attacked.”
He laughed. I continued to bite and tear at the bread. I had hardly eaten in four days. At the inn I had eaten even garbage.
“Eat more slowly, little Lita,” he said, “or you will make yourself ill.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
In a time, my repast was finished. He put aside the cup from which I had drunk.
“You look much better now,” he said, “now that you have been fed and watered.”
“Thank you, Master,” I said. “May I speak?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“You are on the Viktel Aria,” he said, “north of Venna, moving south.”
I realized, then, I had stayed longer with the tarnsman than perhaps I should have. I was closer to Ar than I cared to be. On the other hand he, obviously, had not gone directly to Ar. I was grateful for that. He was the sort of fellow who tended to be rather casual about his commercial obligations, I gathered. He had come well north of Ar, it seemed.
It probably had to do with the inn at which he had stopped. Doubtless he had stopped there for a reason, probably one of the inn slaves, girls who, for an additional fee, are supplied to the guests, to see to their needs and comforts. His cronies, Bemus and Torquatus, as I recalled, were not in Ar to meet him, having been dispatched, respectively, as I recalled, to Lydius and Bazi. Thus he might well have looped north for a rendezvous with some favorite slave. I did not think he would be bothered mightily if he arrived late in Ar, or if, as he might put it, it took him a little longer, once again, to be on time.
Venna, I recalled, was some two hundred pasangs or so north of Ar. The expression “Viktel Aria” means “Ar’s Triumph” or “The Triumph of Ar.” In its more northern lengths this road is commonly thought of as the Vosk Road.
“Why are there such deep ditches at the sides of the road?” I asked.
“It is that way for more than a hundred pasangs in this area,” he said, “except for crossroads and turn-offs. It makes it difficult, then, to bring supply wagons across the road, either from the east or west, the road acting then rather as a wall.”
“Its purpose is defensive, then,” I said, “military.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Venna,” he said.
“When will you arrive?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said.
“Tonight,” I said, “when you sleep, you do not need to keep my legs chained. I will not run away.”
“On your belly, pretty Lita,” he said, “and put your hands, wrists crossed, behind you.”
I did this. He tied my wrists together.
“Not only will your ankles be chained tonight,” he said, “and your wrists bound, as they are, but, too, you will be chained by the neck to a wagon wheel.”
“What are you going to do with me?” I asked.
“Turn you over to the office of the Archon, in Venna,” he said.
Chapter 17 - THE CEMENT PLATFORM
My chin was thrust up, rudely, with a thumb. “No,” said a voice. “It is not my Tutina.”
The man, then, with the Archon’s man, stepped down from the circular cement platform, and rejoined the crowds coming and going in the busy street. The street was apparently an important one in Venna, and led down to a market square. My platform was on the left side of the street, looking down toward the square, and at the forward corner, nearest the street, of a public slave market, some fifty feet in length, along the street, and some fifty feet in depth. Behind this area, at the back of the display area, was a gloomy building with barred windows. It was in this building that the slaves were kept at night. The Archon’s man also had his office in this building.
From where I was I could see some of the girls, reclining, or sitting about, on their chains. When someone came to examine them, usually only to look at them more closely, they would kneel. The Archon’s man would then, sometimes at least, come about and join the prospective customer, praising the girl, and seeing if he could elicit a bid. They were for sale. I was not, or at least not yet.
I had been given to understand that if I were not claimed within ten days, I, too, would be put up for sale, even if I might be a free woman, if only to cover the cost of my keep. It had been determined that my Home Stone, if I had one, was not that of Venna, or Ar, or of one of their allies. I was then, in any case, it seemed, without money, without credentials, fair game for the slaver’s block.
It was hot standing on the cement platform, my wrists in loose, but unslippable shackles, chained over my head. My shackle chain went through a ring, itself suspended from another chain and ring, fixed in an outjutting beam, extending forth at a right angle from the sturdy upright. There was a supporting beam, too, braced at its lower end against the upright and at its upper end against the outjutting beam. The entire structure was quite strong and solid. It would have held, I was sure, a dozen men. At the front of the outjutting beam, a piece of paper containing a legend, or advertisement, was nailed. I had seen it before it had been put up but I, being illiterate, could not read it. I was very curious to know what it said.
I saw a man pause in the crowd, to look upon me. I feared for a moment he might recognize me as Sheila, the Tatrix of Corcyrus. But then I saw that he was only looking upon me, idly, casually, as a man might examine a female slave. I wished that I had been given clothing. I trembled in the shackles. I was not used to being looked upon in that fashion, so straightforwardly, so candidly, so obviously.
I looked away. When I looked back, he was gone. I did not know if he had been wondering what I might look like, licking and squirming for him, or if his interest had been more speculative, more theoretical or academic, wondering what I might bring, if I were sold.
“Lady, kind lady!” I called to a gentlewoman passing by, in her robes and veil. I would try to get her to read the legend for me. “Please, kind lady!”
The woman, who had been keeping her eyes straight ahead, as though not wishing to see any of the girls in the market, suddenly, angrily, stopped. I saw her eyes, over the veil. They were not pleasant.
“Forgive me, kind lady,” I said.
“You spoke to me,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “Forgive me, kind lady. No one has read me the legend posted over my head. I beg you to do so.”
She lifted her robes and climbed to the cement platform
.
She was about two inches taller than I. She stood then before me.
“You spoke to me,” she said. “Yes, kind lady,” I said.
“Where you come from,” she said, “do slaves not address free women as ‘Mistress’?”
“I am a free woman, too,” I said. “I am not a slave.”
“Naked, lying slave!” hissed the woman.
“I beg you for kindness,” I said. “Even if I were a slave, which I am not, we share the same sex. We are both women.”
“I am a woman,” she said. “You are an animal.”
“Take pity on me,” I said. “We have in common at least that we are females.”
“Do not dare to see me in terms of such a denominator,” she said. “It is not my fault that I share a sex with she-sleen and she-tarsks, and, lower than either, with she-slaves.”
“I am not a slave,” I said. “I am free. I am not collared. I am not branded!”
“If I owned you,” she snapped, “you would soon be collared and branded, and then you would be sent to the stables or scullery, where you belong!”
“Forgive me,” I said.
“Forgive you, what?” she said in fury.
“Mistress!” I said.
“I know your type,” she said, in fury. “You are the sort for whom my companion forsakes me! You are the sort he runs panting after in the taverns, the sort whose bodies their masters sell for the price of a drink!”
“No,” I said. “No!”
“You are the sort of woman who likes men, aren’t you?” she said.
“No, Mistress,” I cried. “No! No!”
“Why aren’t you kneeling, Slut?” she asked.
“I’m chained,” I cried. “I can’t!”
“Kneel,” ordered the free woman, coldly.
“I can’t, Mistress!” I wept. I let myself hang from the shackles, my knees bent, piteously.
“You should not have accosted a free woman,” she said. She then removed her gloves and, with them, struck me across the face. Tears sprang to my eyes.
“You must also address her as ‘Mistress,’” she said. I was then struck again.
“You have denied your slavery,” she said. “You have dared to compare yourself with me, insulting me by calling to my attention that we are both females. You have denied that you are of the category of the sensuous slut! You have denied, lyingly, that you are eager to serve men!” She then struck me four times.