by John Norman
“‘Please, please,’ I begged. ‘Now, Flavia,’ she whispered, ‘you are no more than I.’ ‘Please,’ I wept. ‘I remember my whipping,’ she said. ‘Forgive me, Altheia,’ I said. ‘You were very cruel,’ she said. ‘Forgive me, Altheia,’ I begged. I recalled that when I, in my escape, had been descending the stairs in the cylinder, I had heard her, relieved of her gag, above, seemingly joyfully, gratefully, cry out the word ‘Masters!’ ‘I burned your robes,’ she said, ‘that they might not give your scent to sleen.’ I looked at her, with wonder. ‘Do you remember the drover,’ she asked, ‘at whom I, looking over my shoulder, smiled, and you, in fury, switched me home, and then whipped me?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. He had been a handsome scoundrel, large, well-built, virile, and masterful. ‘He recalled me,’ she said, ‘and searched the public shelves, zealously, and found me, and purchased me. He is now my master. I love him. I am happy.’ I said nothing. ‘I am a man’s slave,’ she said. ‘Are you a man’s slave?’ ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you are a man’s slave and do not know it,’ she said. ‘No!’ I said. ‘You would then be a woman’s slave?’ she asked. ‘No!’ I said, frightened. The thought came to me how dreadful that would be. Perhaps I remembered the treatment to which I had subjected my sandal slaves. I did not think it was that unusual. Whereas free women commonly despise female slaves and treat them with great contempt and harshness, men commonly prize them. Certainly they will pay valuable coin to bring them to the foot of their couch. The relationship between a male master and a female slave is often intimate and loving, though she is never permitted to forget she is only a slave. Too, is it not easier for a woman, in virtue of her sex, to win her way with a male, subject, of course, to the limitations of her collar, to placate him, to evade his whip or switch, to divert his wrath by pleasing him, with her softness, her beauty, her intelligence, her wit, and vulnerability. Many a master, as few a mistress, has been swayed from his purpose by the heartfelt contrition of a naked slave, weeping, covering his feet with her hair and kisses. Better, surely, for a woman to belong to a man than a woman. They see us in terms of desire and pleasure, in terms of love, service, and passion, not in terms of contempt, jealously, and reproach. When a man sees a woman in chains he is likely to exult in her beauty and revel in the mastery; considering how pleasant it would be to own her; when a woman sees a woman in chains, as on a selling shelf, she is likely to feel disgust, anger, hatred, indignation, and rage, and, oddly, envy and jealously. Perhaps she wishes it were she who wore the chains. In any event, a female slave may, and must supply a man with inordinate pleasures; which makes her precious to him, whereas a female slave is likely to fall forever short of the exacting services required by her mistress. ‘Perhaps,’ said Altheia, ‘you have not yet been conquered by a man, have not yet been subdued, have not yet learned to beg for his final, slightest touch, that you might, leaping in your chains, scream your irrevocable submission and surrender to the moons and stars of Gor?’ ‘Do not betray me,’ I begged. ‘You are wholly at my mercy, are you not?’ she asked. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘As I was once at yours,’ she said. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘friend Altheia, dear, beloved Altheia.’ ‘Squirm in your ropes,’ she said. I pulled against the cords. ‘You are well fastened,’ she said. ‘Yes, Mistress,’ I whispered.
“‘Is it she?’ called the warrior, at the basket. He had not even bothered to approach. ‘Have a lamp brought, Master,’ called Altheia. ‘A lamp,’ said he to one of the leader’s men with him, who then went to the Metal Worker’s domicile, to fetch a lamp. ‘There have been many false alarms,’ said Altheia. I did not understand her remark. ‘Death by the impaling spear,’ she said, ‘is a terrible death.’ In a few moments a lamp had been fetched from the Metal Worker’s domicile and handed to the warrior who had called for it. He then approached, and stood before us. He held the lamp up. ‘Is it she?’ he asked. Altheia then lifted my head and turned it, carefully, from side to side. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it is not the Lady Flavia.’”
“You realize,” I said, “that the slave, in such a situation, given the importance of the matter, might have been slain for such a lie?”
“Truly?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “She would have known that, if not you. You were very fortunate. The slave was very courageous.”
“Or foolish,” she said.
“Perhaps,” I granted her.
“The warrior, an officer, I think, a subcaptain, was furious. ‘Another pretense, another attempt at fraud, another attempt to deceive Ar,’ he snarled. By now, the leader of the fellows into whose power I had fallen, alerted by one of his men, had emerged into the stable yard. ‘What is amiss?’ he asked, though he was doubtless well apprised by then of the slave’s report. ‘This is not the Lady Flavia,’ said the officer. ‘Surely it is she, I am sure of it!’ said the leader. ‘Many times, now and heretofore,’ said the officer, ‘imposters have been presented as Talena or the Lady Flavia, or others.’ ‘Surely it is she,’ said the leader. The officer turned to the slave, lifting the lantern toward me. ‘No,’ said the slave. ‘She is not the Lady Flavia.’ ‘She is mistaken,’ asserted the leader. I kept my head down, trembling. But the officer jerked my head up, and I cried out with pain, and I closed my eyes against the glare of the lamp. ‘Consider the exquisite nature of her features,’ said the officer. ‘Consider her figure. Are those the features and figure of a free woman? Consider the curves, the thighs, waist, and breast, the shoulders. Those are slave curves. Those are auction-block curves!’ ‘She has the accents of Ar,’ said the leader. ‘So, too, have thousands of others,’ said the officer, angrily. ‘You would have me believe this is a free woman?’ he asked, thrusting my head back against the slave post. ‘This is not a free woman. This is a small, well-curved man’s plaything, to be pulled out of a cage for a few tarsks. You would dare to pass off so obvious a slave as the Lady Flavia?’ ‘It is she,’ said the leader, ‘she, enslaved!’ ‘Who are you?’ demanded the officer. ‘What are you, and your men? What is your relationship to the uprising? What are you doing, at night, on the Brundisium road?’ ‘At this point the leader shrugged, and stepped back. He had no wish to respond to the officer’s questions. Too, he had women nearby, between two buildings, bound and in coffle, and would not be eager to surrender them to another’s chains. He and his men did well outnumber the officer and the tarnster but it would be difficult to dispose of them with ease. There were the Metal Worker and his family, and probably others in the village of Ragnar, who would know of them. One could not be sure of killing them all. And the itinerary of the tarnster and the officer was doubtless registered somewhere, and any undue absence would presumably generate a search. There would be inquiries. Too, had he not, already, in his pouch, a wealth of precious stones? ‘My apologies,’ said the leader. ‘We thought the slave once the Lady Flavia.’ The word ‘once’ frightened me. I realized that I was now, in the eyes of the law, no longer the Lady Flavia but an animal that might be named as the free might please. Shortly thereafter the officer and the slave had reentered the tarn basket and the tarnster took the bird to flight, the basket trailing behind on its long harness ropes. I saw its silhouette briefly against the yellow moon. I recalled the authority with which the officer had spoken, and the care, the circumspection, with which the leader had responded. The very word of Ar, I surmised, was once again weighty in moment. I became aware then of the leader looming over me. He was not pleased. I put down my head, quickly. ‘Look up,’ he said. I did so. ‘I am not the Lady Flavia,’ I whimpered. ‘Take her to a whipping post,’ he said, ‘and lash her.’ Later, as I attempted to comprehend the pain, my back afire, my eyes red from weeping, my wrists bound over my head, the leader’s voice was heard, at my ear, but as though from afar. I struggled to understand the words, though he must have been no more than one or two horts from me, whispering. ‘You are Flavia,’ he said. ‘What is your name?’ ‘Flavia,’ I wept, ‘-if it pleases Master.’ ‘You wished to go to Brundisium,’ he said. ‘Yes, Master,’ I s
aid. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘you will go to Brundisium. You will be taken to Brundisium.’ ‘Yes, Master,’ I said. My arms ached, my wrists tied high, well over my head. My body was stretched. Only my toes were in contact with the ground. In addition my ankles, uncrossed, had been tied to a ring set in the earth beneath the high ring, the over-the-head ring. In this fashion the body is stretched, providing a convenient, practical, exploitable expanse for the whip’s work, and the body can recoil and writhe, and pull away from the blows only to the extent that one realizes how little one can succeed in such an endeavor. ‘Do you know what will be done with you in Brundisium?’ he asked. ‘No, Master,’ I said. ‘You will be sold,’ he said. ‘Yes, Master,’ I said.”
I took the last sip of broth, and put the bowl down beside me, at my right knee.
The slave regarded it.
“You were sold in Brundisium,” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Were you auctioned?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I was taken to a slaver’s mart.”
“What did you bring?” I asked.
“A thousand pieces of gold,” she said.
“There will be records,” I said, “and they may be checked.”
“Forty tarsks,” she said.
“Surely not of silver,” I said.
“Of copper,” she said, angrily.
“Then you did not even bring a single silver tarsk,” I said.
“No,” she said, angrily.
“Perhaps you now have a better understanding of your worth,” I said, “as compared to other women.”
“Yes!” she said, angrily.
“Do not be concerned,” I said. “You were new to the collar, and untrained.”
“I am beautiful,” she said, “extremely beautiful!”
“You did not sell for much,” I said.
“Beast!” she said.
“What is your brand?” I asked. I could not determine this for her tunic. Too, there was little light in my cell, only that from the small lamp, on its chains, slung from the ceiling outside the bars, moving with the movement of the ship, outside the opened gate.
“The kef,” she said, angrily.
“There you have it,” I said. “The kef is for pot girls, for kettle-and-mat girls, for common slaves.”
“Even the most beautiful,” she snapped, “may wear the kef.”
I smiled. “That is true,” I said. “Men often enjoy putting even the most beautiful in the kef, that they may keep in mind that they are only slaves.”
“Am I not beautiful?” she asked.
“I would put you in the middle range of slaves,” I said. “You would not likely be either the first nor the last put on the block.” It is not unusual for slavers to save the best merchandise for late in the sale, when late comers are present, the audience is settled in, interest has been whetted, emotions are running high, purses are most open, and so on. This is not a universal practice, however, as one is likely to make less on early sales. A clever mix of goods is perhaps the most common manner of staging a sale. On the other hand, I think it does not really make much difference, as the merchandise is commonly available for inspection, though through bars, in pre-sale exposition cages. One may then note the goods of interest to one, by their lot numbers, usually inscribed in grease pencil on the left breast, and then wait until they stand in the sawdust, high on the block, exhibited to the house, under torchlight. To be sure, one can be mistaken. Sometimes an item which appears promising in the exposition cage may prove less interesting on the block, and sometimes an item scarcely noticed in the exposition cage will enflame a battle of bids, much to the pleasure and profit of the house. On the other hand, one cannot really measure these matters with scales or marked sticks. Many are the mysteries herein contained. Some men will kill for a woman another might ignore, and some women who might seem to be outstandingly beautiful may not attract much attention. There are doubtless cues, latencies, subtleties, and specificities in such cases which are difficult to identify, let alone quantify. They are, however, undeniably real.
“I am incredibly beautiful!” she insisted.
“You are not a bad-looking slave,” I granted her.
“May I withdraw?” she asked.
“How did you come here?” I asked.
“I am not fully sure,” she said.
“Who purchased you?” I asked.
“It was done through agents,” she said, “but at the behest of strange men, quiet men, sedate men, softly spoken men, men carrying unusual weapons, men with strange eyes.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“They are spoken of as Pani,” she said.
“Strange eyes?” I said.
“To us,” she said.
“Tuchuks?” I asked.
“I do not think so,” she said. “There are at least three hundred on board, perhaps many more.”
“I was not brought aboard by such,” I said.
“There are many others, too,” she said, “of Ar, Cos, Tyros, the further islands, even Besnit, Harfax, and Thentis.”
It was a pirate crew, mixed, without Home Stones, and such, I had speculated earlier.
“Some fifty such as I,” she said, “were exhibited and bought, and, chained, taken by galley north, to the great forests. We were thence marched overland, in coffle, and then, on rafts, floated across the Alexandra. There, in separate groups, unacquainted with one another, we were kept, dieted and exercised, in special palisaded enclaves.”
“You were put at the pleasure of men,” I said.
“No,” she said.
“Interesting,” I said.
“This deprivation,” she said, “caused much distress to some of our number, who might weep in their kennels, scratch at the logs in the yard, beseech guards for their touch, and roll in the dirt, in frustration.”
“In their bellies,” I said, “slave fires had been lit.”
“Doubtless,” she said.
“But not in yours?”
“Certainly not,” she said, angrily.
“After months,” she said, “we were braceleted, coffled, and hooded, and brought back across the Alexandra on boats. We were then, helplessly, embarked on this great boat. Only once have I been allowed on the top deck. This is a vast, floating thing.”
“Who is in charge here,” I asked, “and what is the destination of this voyage, and what is its purpose?”
“The Pani,” she said, “clearly. It is their vessel. I do not know its destination, perhaps the farther islands, surely not beyond. And I do not know what might be the purpose of the voyage.”
“You know little,” I said.
“It seems,” she said, “that curiosity is not becoming to us.”
“Perhaps only the Pani, whoever they might be, know,” I said.
“I think so,” she said.
“Why do you think that such as you have been cargoed?” I asked.
“We are women,” she said. “I suppose we are to be sold.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “there is a market, somewhere, for women of your appearance, with your sort of eyes.”
“Perhaps,” she said.
“To be sure,” I said, “you might also be distributed as gifts.”
“Of course,” she said. “We are women.”
“Precisely,” I said.
“But there are female slaves on the ship which are at the public use of the crew, and private slaves, as well.”
“You were brought on board hooded?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “As might have been verr or tarsks.”
“And there are others,” I said, “as you, but whom you have not seen.”
“That is my surmise,” she said. “I think so, from the sound of the coffle chains, the number of boats used, and such.”
“Before I was brought on board,” I said, “I heard the scream of a tarn, this far from land, in the fog.”
“There are tarns on board,” she said.
“Many?” I asked.
“Several,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I do not know,” she said. “Such as we are not privy to the projects of masters.”
I regarded her.
She was uneasy. She wished to withdraw.
I continued to regard her.
“Is Master pleased?” she said.
“You are not really bad looking,” I said.
“A slave is flattered,” she said, bitterly.
“There are many better,” I said, “of course.”
“Doubtless,” she said.
“You might have some possibilities,” I said.
“Possibilities?” she said.
“You were very fortunate that you were not betrayed by Altheia,” I said.
“She was a fool,” she said.
“In similar circumstances,” I said, “you would have betrayed her?”
“Certainly,” she said. “Instantly, consider the risks.”
“I see,” I said.
“May I withdraw?” she asked.
“There is, of course, one, I, on board,” I said, “who knows you from Ar, and might betray you.”
“Do not,” she whispered, frightened. “You would not do so!”
“Stand,” I said to her, “there.”
She complied, and I could then well see her, back a bit, her ankles in the straw.
“I think you still see yourself as a free woman,” I said.
“Scarcely,” she said, “I have been stripped, braceleted, roped, coffled, chained, trekked, tunicked, marked, collared, lashed, vended, and commanded.”
“Even so,” I said.
I suspected she did not yet fully understand how her condition, nature, and very being had been radically transformed since Ar, that she was now totally other than she had been. Doubtless she had an intellectual sense of this, who would not, but I suspected that she had not yet acknowledged, manifested, revealed, and liberated the secret slave that was the core of her being.