by John Norman
“It is an entire world,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“But the important thing, really, about slave garments,” I said, “whether they are the riches of gowns, with perhaps a slit in them through which a thigh must be revealed, or the tiniest of strings and slave strips, is that they are just that, slave garments. It is their meaning, primarily, which renders them provocative, that they are slave garments, that she who wears them is slave.”
“Yes!” she said. “That is it!”
“We must be on our way,” I said.
“I have seen some slaves in the streets naked,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “We are subject to that.”
“If I were a slave,” she said, “I could be put in the street that way, couldn’t I?”
“Of course,” I said.
“You are so vulnerable,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
She looked down at her knees. They were not pressed closely together.
“Have you heard, Janice,” she asked, “anything of my ransom?”
“No,” I said. “Alas, no.”
“Perhaps I have been forgotten?” she said.
“No, I am sure that is not the case,” I said. “You must keep up your hopes!”
“What do you know of my hopes?” she asked.
I did not understand this.
“Are you slaves dawdling?” asked a man’s voice.
“No, Master!” I cried. “We were just leaving!” I leaped to my feet. “Up, lazy, Tuta!” I said, angrily. I snapped the free woman’s leash. She seemed startled at this but, responsive to my command, and doubtless, too, not failing to comprehend the leash signal, rose swiftly to her feet. “Does she not know how to respond?” asked the man. “What do you say?” he asked the free woman. “Yes, Mistress!” exclaimed the free woman. “She is new to her collar,” I explained. “Do not be easy with her,” said the man. “That is not how a slave is trained.” “Yes, Master” I said. “Forgive us, Masters!” I said, for there were two men there, in tunics and cloaks. I then, head down, avoiding their eyes, as a slave normally does with unknown free men, turned about and led the free woman up the stairs. I think the men watched us ascend, and then, at their own pace, also ascended the stairs. We had ascended but two or three steps when I heard one of the men say something to the other. “A pair of juice puddings,” he said. “Yes,” said the other.
In a few minutes, perhaps three or four, we came to the largest of the high terraces. There were many other high terraces in this part of the city, but none were as large, as spacious, as splendid, as this. I had a special reason for coming to this terrace.
“How glorious is the view!” exclaimed the free woman.
I recalled that she had told me that she had been brought here hooded in her own veils. I had had fastened upon me, doubtless appropriately, a simple slave hood.
I took her toward the balustrade, where we might look out.
“It is breathtakingly beautiful!” she exclaimed.
We drank in the sight of the snow-capped peaks, the darkness in the valleys, the patches of cloud in the bright sky. So small we were in the face of nature.
“Janice,” said the free woman.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you remember what the man said on the stairs, as we left?”
“Do not concern yourself with the matter,” I said.
“I am not sure I understood him,” she said.
“Consider the beauty of the mountains,” I said.
“Janice!” she protested.
“It is only a vulgar expression,” I said, “like ‘vulo’ or tasta’.”
“Those are not vulgar expressions,” she said. “A vulo is a kind of bird, a tasta is a kind of candy, often mounted on a stick.”
“They can be vulgar expressions when applied to slaves,” I said.
“I see,” she said.
“If you were a slave,” I said, “you could understand how a man might speak of you as slave meat, or as his vulo, or his tasta, or his pudding, and so on, for that is, frankly, what you would be.”
“Are you a juicy pudding, Janice?” she asked.
“I had best hope that I am,” I said.
“Am I a juicy pudding?’ she asked.
“Perhaps, if you were a slave,” I said, “you might prove to be such.”
“I see,” she said.
“And you would best concern yourself to do your best to be such,” I said.
“Of course,” she said.
“Do not look now,” I said, “but there is a fellow back a bit and to the right who ahs his eye on your. He may thing you qualify as a juicy pudding right now.”
“Like the men on the stairs!” she laughed.
“Yes,” I said. “Don’t look,” I cautioned her.
“Do you think he would like me to be his juicy pudding?” she asked.
“It seems to me quite possible,” I said.
“How wonderful!” she said.
“You might not think it so wonderful if you were roped and hooded and carried off,” I said.
“It would improve a girl’s price, wouldn’t it?” she asked.
“What?” I asked.
“Being a juicy pudding,” she said.
“How vulgar you are,” I said.
“Wouldn’t it?” she asked.
“Undoubtedly,” I said.
“How beautiful this place is!” she said.
“I have come here for a purpose,” I said. “I want to check on something. I will, accordingly, take you to the side for a time, to the wall over there, and secure you there.”
“Secure me?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “To one of the slave rings. But I will be back shortly.”
“May I inquire as to what you are going to do?” she asked.
“No,” said I, “Tuta.”
“Yes, Mistress,” she smiled.
We then turned away from the balustrade, to make our way across the large terrace. “Keep your eyes ahead!” I said. I had seen her glance about, doubtless trying to locate the fellow I had mentioned to her earlier. It had been a mistake, I supposed, to have called her attention to the matter. It was surely not necessary that she, as a free woman, know that she, looked upon as a slave, had been found of interest by a male. She now kept her eyes ahead. I think it cost her some effort to do so. But she was trying to be cooperative and, after all, it was I who had held her leash. There was a three-tiered decorative basin on the terrace, on the way to the wall. The first, or uppermost, tier was some four feet above the surface of the terrace, the second, or middle, tier was about three feet above the surface of the terrace; the lowest tier, the third tier, was almost level with the surface of the terrace itself. “May I drink, Janice?” she asked. “Yes,” I said. There had seemed something a little suspicious in her voice. I wondered if she truly wanted to drink, or if this were a stratagem to dally, perhaps to, as though inadvertently, steal a glance about, perhaps in the hope of seeing the fellow I had mentioned. But it was warm today. She stopped at the basin. She turned about. Yes, she was looking about, the vixen, over the surface of the water in the uppermost basin! “I cannot use one of the cups, or cup the water in my hands Janice,” she said. “Perhaps you will help me.” Then she whispered. “Which one is he?” “The one over there,” I said, “in the scarlet tunic, and cloak, looking this way.” Quickly, flushing, she looked down. “He is handsome!” she whispered. “Remember you are collared.” I whispered. She must be concerned about the propriety of her behavior! “Perhaps you will help me, Janice” she said, aloud. “No!” I said. What did she thing? She seemed surprised by this, but then bent forward, to drink from the upper basin. “Oh!” she cried, jerked to the side by the leash. “What are you doing?” I asked her. “I was going to drink,” she said. “I don’t do not understand,” “Kneel,” I said, “and drink from the lowest basin. The upper basin is for citizens and fold of honor, the second basin is for resident
aliens and common visitors, the third basin, the lowest basin, is for animals.” She then knelt beside the third basin, the lowest basin, that which was almost level with the surface of the terrace itself, and, head down, her hands bracelted behind her, the leash running to her neck, drank.
When she had finished drinking, she looked up at me, from her knees. She seemed shaken. There seemed a soft of wonder in her eyes.
“It seems you have never drunk thusly before,” I said, “from the lowest basin, as a slave.”
“No,” she said.
“Up,” I said.
She stood.
“Is he still about?” she asked.
“I do not know,” I said.
“Did he see me, drinking, as I did?”
“I do not know,” I said.
“I would be terrified for a man to have seen me drinking in such a way,” she said.
“Think nothing of it,” I said. “It is a common way for slaves to drink at public fountains, basins, and such.”
She did not raise her eyes. Her eyes seemed focused on the flagstones of the terrace, warm beneath her small, bared, white feet.
“There is a ring over there,” I said. “We will use that one. It is in the shade.”
The pressure of the leash collar on the back of her neck brought her quickly enough out of her thoughts.
In spite of my earlier injunction about keeping her eyes ahead, she now looked about much, over her shoulder and such. She was doubtless trying to ascertain whether or not the fellow in the scarlet tunic was about. It would have been difficult to tell. In this part of the terrace, more toward the wall, and shade, it was crowded. Some booths were set up on the terrace, for the sale of fruit and flowers.
“Oh!” said a voice, suddenly, angrily.
It was a female voice!
I saw a flurry of ornate robes.
My heart sank.
My charge, doubtless in her concern to survey the terrace for the scarlet-clad figure, had, it seemed, struck into a free woman of the city.
“A slave!” cried the figure in the robes of concealment, in horror. “I have been touched by a slave.”
My charge stood there, unsteadily, out of breath, from the buffeting, not quite comprehending what had occurred.
I had knelt, almost immediately. There were, after all, free persons about.
“Filthy slave! Filthy slave! Filthy slave!” screamed the figure in the robes of concealment.
This epithet, of course, although uttered repeatedly with great vehemence, was not literally correct. I had no doubt but what my charge was far cleaner at this moment than the free woman. Indeed, she almost sparkled. She had well bathed. It was only then that the rags of a slave had been knotted on her. There are, of course, filthy slaves, for example, those forbidden by a master to clean themselves, usually as a punishment, and slaves can be kept in filth, in tarsk sties and tharlarion manure bins, and such, also usually as a punishment, but this is not common. Among the Wagon Peoples of the southern plains. I am told, a slave who has not been fully pleasing may be tied overnight in a dung sack. I am also told that excellent order obtains among the kajirae of the Wagon Peoples. But then, as I understand it, excellent order obtains among all kajirae on this world. It is seen to by the masters. The most common device for improving a girl, of course, is the switch or whip. As I have suggested earlier, cleanliness and such things, are normally required of a slave, as they are not of a free woman. The free woman’s cries, of course, one may suppose, were not intended to express an objective appraisal of my charge’s current hygienic condition, rather they served as a way of ventilating what was apparently a considerable sense of outrage.
“I am not filthy!” cried my charge, a mistake, surely.
“Clumsy, collared she-urt!” screamed the offended woman. “Look,” she cried to the bystanders. “She is standing! She is standing!”
“Kneel,” I urged my charge. “Kneel!”
“You struck into me as much as I into you!” said my charge. Woe, I thought. She has forgotten everything! Does she not know how she is clad, that she is in a collar, that she is leashed! Woe! She is acting like a free woman!
The free woman’s eyes flashed above her veil.
Suddenly then I think that my charge realized her position and danger. I heard the bracelets pull suddenly against the close-set links which joined them. But she could not free her hands! They were confined behind her back! How helpless she was, helpless as a slave is helpless! Too, I think she became then much aware of how much she was exposed, of the softness, bareness, and vulnerability of her skin. She slowly sank to her knees.
“Bring me a switch!” cried the free woman. My charge cast me an alarmed glance.
“Beg her forgiveness!” I whispered to her.
“It was not my fault,” she whispered to me.
“A switch!” cried the free woman.
“It was not all my fault,” insisted my charge to me.
“A switch, a switch!” called the free woman.
“It was probably both your faults,” I said. “Beg her forgiveness!”
“She is not begging mine,” said my charge.
A lad brought a switch, probably from one of the booths. It was about three feet long, of leather, narrow, rodlike and supple.
The free woman seized it.
“Beg her forgiveness!” I said.
“Forgive me!” said my charge, suddenly, to the free woman. “Forgive me!”
“Mistress’, ‘Mistress’,” I urged.
“Forgive me, Mistress!” said my charge.
“You beg my forgiveness?” inquired the free woman, with mock interest, and solicitation.
“Yes, Mistress,” my charge assured her.
“Oh, yes,” said the free woman, maliciously, “you will beg my forgiveness, I assure you of that!”
“Please, Mistress!” I said. “She is in my charge! It was my fault. I did not watch her well enough!”
The free woman glared down at me.
“It was my fault,” I said. “Beat me, instead!” I had, after all, felt the whip, and the switch. Too, it was horrifying to think that the Lady Constanzia might be struck. Such was not for such as she. She was a free woman!
“It was she who stood in my presence,” she said, “it was she who dared to speak back, it was she who did not look where she was going!”
“Mistress, please,” I begged.
“Be silent, collared slut!” said the woman with the switch.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, silenced.
She turned then to my charge.
“Does the stupid clumsy girl beg my forgiveness,” she asked, sweetly.
“Yes, Mistress,” said my charge, timidly.
“We shall see!” cried the free woman.
I saw her arm rise. I closed my eyes.
“Wait,” said a fellow’s voice. “Do not mark her. She may have value on the block.”
The free woman turned to him, angrily. But she lowered her arm. He seemed a fellow of some importance. On his left sleeve, toward the bottom, there was a blue chevron, a yellow one, and another blue. He must then, I thought, be of the Slavers, of course, be an excellent judge of women flesh. “You are angry,” he said to outraged woman. “You might lower her value.”
“She is valueless,” she snapped.
“She might bring something in a vending,” he said. Then he turned to me. “She is new to her collar, isn’t she?” he asked.
“Yes, Master!” I averred, gratefully.
Then he looked at the Lady Constanzia. “The more quickly you learn your collar the better for you, soft, tender little vulo,” he said.
She nodded, frightened.
“What satisfaction am I granted here?” inquired the offended free woman, clutching the switch.
“To your belly, slave!” snapped the slaver to the Lady Constanzia.
Immediately she went to her belly. I almost threw myself on my belly, and I had not even been addressed. His voice was
such as women understand. It was the sort of voice which a woman instinctively obeys.
Even the free woman, clutching her switch, shrank back in fear.
“To her slippers, stupid clumsy girl,” said the slaver, “and beg her forgiveness fittingly.”
Immediately, terrified, the Lady Constanzia struggled forward and pressed her lips to the slippers of the free woman, kissing them again and again. “I am a stupid, clumsy girl,” she said. “Forgive me, I beg of you, beautiful Mistress! Please, forgive me, beautiful Mistress!” the slippers, I supposed, might not be greatly unlike those which the Lady Constanzia herself had worn on the afternoon of her abduction. Prisoners are seldom permitted slippers or hose. Her slippers had been used, I supposed, to make clear to someone that she was in the power of her captors. It is not unusual for a slave girl to address even a veiled free woman as “beautiful Mistress,” incidentally. It is a way of trying to mollify and flatter them. Often, of course, one does not know if they are beautiful or not. They might be fortunate to bring a few coppers as a kettle-and-mat girl, but then, of course, what does that matter, as they are free.
“It is enough,” said the free woman, drawing back. She handed the switch back to the lad who had brought it.
The slaver looked down upon the Lady Constanzia, who was prostrate before the free woman. I still held the Lady Constanzia’s leash. “If you would live,” he said to the Lady Constanzia, “learn your collar quickly, little vulo. Do you understand?”
The Lady Constanzia, frightened, perhaps hardly understanding what she had done, what had been done to her, or perhaps understanding it only too well, her head turned to the left, nodded affirmatively, vigorously.
“I thank you, Lady,” said the slaver to the free woman, she in the ornate robes, who had been muchly offended, “on behalf of all property holders, for your understanding in this matter, for the lenience you have shown in this instance.”
“It is nothing,” she said, her voice shaking a little. She was, after all, even though free, a female in the presence of such a man.
“You are doubtless as beautiful as you are merciful,” he said.
Her hand went, it seemed inadvertently, modestly, to her veil. Doubtless she wished to reassure herself that it was in place. But, it seemed, she disarranged it, slightly. But then, swiftly, she remembered this lapse. The slaver gave not the least indication that he might have noted her embarrassment.