by John Norman
She is then, in such a contrast, well apprised of what she is, of her startling and marvelous difference from the male, of her radical femaleness.
In no way can she then conceal or diminish her dramatic difference from the male.
Too, to be unclothed before the clothed, how could the contrast between forms of life, between free and slave, between owner and owned, be more clearly drawn?
She then realized that her nudity was not a mere convenience, having to do with the exhibition of merchandise.
Far more was involved.
It was a way of making clear what she was, and was not, that she was not free, but a slave.
Are there not a thousand symbolisms involved? Are there not a thousand ways of drawing the most telling, and salient, of distinctions between forms of life, between the free and the slave, between the noble, worthy citizen and the meaningless beast? The free may clothe themselves as they choose; the slave may not. Let her hope to be granted clothing. Its extent and nature, if it is permitted, will be determined by the free. And men, commonly, if permitting the slave clothing, will enjoy dressing the slave for their own pleasure, and in such a way that it is clear to herself and others that she is a slave. Many are the symbolisms, and realities, involved. The free command, the slave obeys. The free stand; the slave kneels. The free speak as, and when, they wish. The slave may speak only upon the sufferance of the free, and her speech must be suitable, soft, gentle, respectful, and deferent, and its diction must be clear. She dare not raise her voice to a free person; she is not to speak stridently or shrilly; she is not to speak shortly, sharply, or impatiently. Such lapses will bring punishment, commonly the whip. Slovenliness of speech, or, indeed, of appearance or movement, is not permitted the slave. She is to be well spoken when permitted to speak, and is to be attractive and graceful. She is not free. The free are to be pleased, the slave is to please. The free is as he chooses to be. The slave is marked, and collared. The free behave as they please. The slave kneels and requests permission. The slave may be blindfolded, gagged, braceleted, thonged, chained and roped; she may be kenneled and caged, bought and sold.
She must fear her Master’s displeasure.
She must fear the whip, and switch.
She is a slave.
It is hard for a woman to keep her pride or to pretend to status or worth when she is stripped and collared, and kneeling, head down, before her Master.
So Cornhair stood naked, wearing her placard, beside a fully clothed male.
That was not an unusual juxtaposition, of course, for a slave being marketed.
“Straighten up, slave,” said the man. “Draw in your gut. Put your shoulders back. Lift your head.”
“Yes, Master,” wept Cornhair.
She felt the placard about her neck adjusted, so that it hung more straightly.
“Smile,” he said. “We are trying to sell you!”
Tears ran down her cheeks.
“Catch the eye of a fellow in the crowd,” he said. “Smile at him. Make him want you! You are for sale!”
He then descended the two steps from the selling ledge to the street level, turned, and looked up at the display.
He drew on the sleeve of a passing fellow, and, with a broad, generous motion, a sweep of his hand, gestured to the selling ledge.
Was he calling attention to her?
No, it was another!
She half fainted.
She felt the sun on her body, the cement wall behind her. It was near noon. She felt the warm, granulated surface of the ledge beneath her bared feet. She moved a little, sensing the small, wooden placard on her body. She was not chained. She felt an untoward, bizarre impulse to flee from the platform. How absurd that would be! She was naked. Even if she had been clad, she would have been clad as a slave. And there was a market collar on her neck, which would assure her prompt return to the market. And on her left thigh, high, under the hip, tasteful, lovely, and unmistakable, was the slave rose. And if, somehow, she might slip away, into the crowd, obtain garments forbidden to her, what could she do, where could she go, who would she be, how would she fit into society? Such as she had no place, save at the feet of a Master.
“Oh!” she cried, startled.
A form had leapt to the ledge beside her, and two large, strong hands, held her head, and forced it back.
“Open your mouth,” she was told, “widely.”
She complied, frightened, her eyes shut, her mouth widely open. She felt fingers forced into her mouth and it was stretched open even more, painfully so.
She kept her hands at her side, as she knew she must do. One is not to interfere with the hands of Masters. The body of a beast being vended is public to potential buyers. It may be touched, and explored, tested for soundness, and responsiveness.
“See?” called the merchant from the street. “It is as I said. Her skin has not been altered, by the knife, or by rinses of chemicals. Her skin is fresh, and unblemished, as you see it. She is twenty-two years old. She is originally Telnarian, probably a debtress. If you are not Telnarian, would you not enjoy owning a former Telnarian, a former free woman of the empire, now a humbled, meaningless slave, now yours to do with as you please?”
“Oh!” said Cornhair.
“Yes,” called the merchant from the street, “the hair color is natural. We would not dare to deceive a customer in such a matter. Buy her. Forty darins!”
“Too much,” said the fellow, his hands now clasping Cornhair at the waist. His hands made her uneasy, terribly so. She knew she was a slave, and was well aware of what, in the eyes of men, slaves were for.
“Make an offer!” suggested the merchant.
“I shall look for a better,” he said.
He then departed from the platform.
A moment later the merchant, in a temper, ascended the ledge, took Cornhair’s hair in his left hand, and then, with the palm of his right hand, slapped her face twice, sharply, stingingly.
“Master?” she wept.
“Did I not tell you to smile?” he asked. “Attract him, but subtly. This is a middle market, not a low market. Trust that you will not be sent to a low market. You need not be blatant. But excite him! You have all the wiles and tricks of a free woman at your disposal, the smiles, the turnings, the movements, the glances, the hints, the veiled promises, and you have, besides, an inestimable advantage over her, that you are, as well, the most desirable of all women, the woman who is collared, who can be owned, the female slave. He was a male! He was within an arm’s reach, and you did nothing!”
“I was afraid, Master,” she wept.
“Then tremble,” he said, “pull your arms back, pull back your shoulders, lifting your breasts, cross your wrists, as though tied, behind you, lift your head, exposing your throat, that he may imagine it fastened in his collar.”
“I fear I am a poor slave,” she said.
Indeed, she knew she was largely worthless, save for the interests which her body might stir in the loins of men.
Still, that might be considerable.
“He put his hands on you,” he said. “Did you feel nothing?”
“I fear I am unattractive,” she said.
“You would not have been bought on Tangara, had you not been of interest.”
“I was once thought,” she said, “to have been very beautiful.”
“Among free women,” he said.
“And others,” she said.
“You are still beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
“Very beautiful.”
“Thank you, Master.”
“But stiff, like wood,” he said.
“Forgive me, Master,” she said.
“His hands were on you,” he said. “Did you feel nothing?”
“I could not help myself,” she said.
“Nor should you,” he said. “You are a slave.”
“I am uncertain,” she said. “I am confused.”
“You are not a free woman,” he said. “You need not wrestle with yourself. You need not deny your body; you need not forswear your heart. You need not languish in the traps of convention, need not fear the words and frowns of the ignorant, stupid, and frustrated. It is not wrong to be yourself. If your heart is the heart of a slave, rejoice, kneel, and be the slave you are. The collar frees you; the slave, collared, is a thousand times more free than the free woman.”
“No, no, no!” she said.
“Do not fear,” he said. “It is only that your belly has not yet been enflamed.”
“It will not be!” she said.
“You will have no choice in the matter,” he said. “It will be done to you. You are a slave.”
“I want to feel heat,” she said. “I want to be piteous, open, and begging! I want to blaze with passion, and need!”
“You will,” he said.
“No, no!” she said. “I must not!”
“You will,” he said.
“I will struggle not to feel,” she said.
“Why?” he asked.
“I do not know,” she said.
“Your struggle will be unsuccessful,” he said.
“I fear so,” she wept.
“You sense it?” he said.
“I fear there is a slave in me,” she said.
“There is one in every woman,” he said.
“We must resist our slave,” she said.
“Why?” he asked.
“I do not know,” she said.
“Resistance,” he said, “is for the free woman. It is permissible for her. It is forbidden to the slave.”
“I have heard women cry out in need,” she said.
“Slaves,” he said.
“Can a woman be such?” she asked.
“Certainly,” he said.
“I would not be so pathetic, so miserable, and weak,” she said.
“They are not pathetic, miserable, and weak,” he said. “They are alive, very alive.”
“I fear I could be so,” she said.
“You will be so,” he said. “You will be unable to help yourself. Fuel ignited burns; moons stir oceans; worlds turn; journeys are made; blood courses in its thousand channels; hands reach out; desire, in its torrents, like raging rivers, sweeps aside the debris of vacillation, hesitation, and artifice; one senses the coming of storms, the beating of drums.”
“I am afraid,” she said.
“And well you should be,” he said, “for you are a slave.”
She trembled, despite the warmth of the ledge.
“If we cannot dispose of you here,” he said, “in the open, for a decent price, in this market, a middle market, we will put you in a low house, a cheap house, one patronized by a motley rabble, for auctioning.”
“I have heard of such places,” she said. “Let it not be so!”
“In such a place,” he said, “beware of not being sold. Such fellows are not patient. You may be thrown to dogs.”
“I do not understand,” she said.
“For feed,” he said.
“What am I to do, Master?” she said.
“Stand straight,” he said. “Smile.”
He then adjusted the small placard hung on its two cords about her neck.
“There,” he said.
He then turned away.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Huta stirred at the foot of the high seat, her hands on the neck chain fastened to the ring set in the planks to her right.
Ingeld, seated in the high seat, of his own hall, awaiting his guest, pressed his boot against her thigh.
“Oh, yes, Master,” she whispered, and leaned toward him, to press her lips, swiftly, to his knee.
“Back,” he said, and she whimpered, but quickly drew back. The lash is not pleasant.
Ingeld smiled to himself.
How different she was, from months ago, from the time when she had, as the proud, aloof, lofty, white-gowned high priestess of the Timbri, claimedly the servant of the ten thousand gods, by means of prophecies and false signs, abetted the ambitions of Ortog, first son of Abrogastes, or, as some would have it, led him astray into treason. Ortog had been popular, a lusty, laughing, hardy fellow, a natural leader of men, one born to rally followers, one from whom men would gladly accept rings. It seems, too, he was not only the first son of Abrogastes, but his favorite son, as well. But Ortog, it seems, was too like his father, a man of large appetites, a warrior of vaulting ambition, of sovereign interests, one not honed by nature to follow in the tracks of others, one who would be the lord of new, fresh countries. He would govern his own fleets, command his own armies, found his own nation. And so, as it happened, he had withdrawn his allegiance from his father, Abrogastes, the Far-Grasper, lord of the Drisriaks, the major tribe of the Alemanni nation, commonly known in the imperial records by the Telnarian name, the Aatii. He, Ortog, had founded the secessionist tribe to be known, from his name, as the Ortungen. And thus a prince of the Drisriaks had become a king. His venture had, however, not been long-lived, as, mere months following the secession, his forces had been defeated and scattered by the pursuing, implacable Abrogastes. He himself, Ortog, with several followers, unaware of the recent fate of his cohorts, had been surprised and apprehended on a meeting world, a neutral world, at a place called, in Alemanni, Tenguthaxichai, which, it seems, might be brought into Telnarian as, say, Tengutha’s Camp, or the Camp, or Lair, of Tengutha. The justice, or vengeance, of the betrayed Abrogastes had been violent and bloody, leaving few survivors. Abrogastes himself had dealt an apparently lethal blow to Ortog, his rebellious son. But Otto, a chieftain of the Wolfungs present, had cast a robe over the body, as it was to be borne from the meeting tent on blanket-wrapped spears. In this way it was concealed that the body borne away on the spears yet lived, at least at the time. It had been speculated that Abrogastes, no stranger to the killing of foes, had directed his stroke in such a manner as to convey to his followers the semblance of justice, while simultaneously permitting his son at least a tenuous possibility of life. The ties of blood are strong, and fast. It was generally understood amongst the Alemanni and their allies that Ortog had perished at Tenguthaxichai. Ingeld and Hrothgar, two other sons also, as we understand it, believed Ortog dead; on the other hand, Abrogastes himself, if we are correct, after dealing his grievous blow, would have remained unaware of his first son’s fate, being ignorant of either his demise or recovery.
Abrogastes, as the records have it, had several sons, doubtless by various wives. On the other hand, only three are dealt with by more than brief references in the Annals. Indeed, we know of some only by name. The three we encounter more substantially in the Annals are Ortog, the first son, Ingeld, the second son, and Hrothgar, who may have been the third or fourth son. Hrothgar seems to have been a straightforward, uncomplicated, congenial, cheerful, boorish fellow, one disinterested in politics and power, one surely more fond of the pleasures of the feasting board than of the intricacies of councils or the ardors of windswept, muddy fields; it is suggested, as well, that he was fond of drink, horses, falcons, and women. Ingeld, the second son of Abrogastes, on the other hand, seemed composed of a darker, less tangible, subtler stuff. He was apparently hard to know, hard to fathom. Perhaps none knew him; perhaps none fathomed him. Surely he kept his own counsel. He spoke little. It seems he was an unlikely giver of rings. Few sought his hall. Men were often uneasy in his presence. He was never seen drunk. Abrogastes feared Ingeld.
Ingeld, on the high seat in his hall, watched the large double-doors at the far end of the hall.
An unusual visitor had sued for an audience.
“Why not,” Ingeld wondered, “with my father, in his
hall?”
Huta whimpered, again.
“Silence, pig,” said Ingeld.
But he was not displeased to hear her tiny signal of need.
It had been done to her.
“How helpless they are, and needful,” he thought, “once it is done to them, once Masters ignite their bellies, once they know themselves in collars.”
Yes, men had done it, clearly, transforming her, casually, routinely, giving the matter, though she had been a priestess, no more thought than would have been bestowed upon the least of block girls. She, as they, had been dragged down a path of reality and comprehension from which there was no return.
“How pleasant it is,” he thought, “to have them at your feet, as piteous, begging, kneeling beasts.”
He looked down on the former priestess, the white skin, the long black hair, now unbound, the chain on her neck.
“Good,” he thought. “Excellent,” he thought.
She, Huta, the former priestess, was no longer a person, no longer the Mistress of her own body. She was now a beast, and her body was the body of a beast, an owned beast, a lovely, owned beast. She who had once prided herself on her superiority to sex, on her disdaining of biology, on her denial of nature, on her repudiation of her deepest self, on her immunity to need, on her frigidity and inertness, now found herself, originally to her shock and dismay, brought home to the fact that she was, and would be henceforth, profoundly, radically, helplessly, and needfully, a sexual creature. She was now, as others, the victim of her own needs, liberated and aroused, released and stimulated; she, as others, was now helplessly subject to the incendiary tortures of desire. She who had held men in contempt for their insatiable, brutish nature now found in herself the response to, and the complement of, whether she willed it or not, such gross, signal appetites. Not only that, but she found now that her responsiveness to the very presence of men, let alone to their touch, was weakness, helplessness, a readiness for yielding, and a hoping, and even a plea, to be wanted, and, given the touch of even a hand or tongue, this responsiveness could become uncontrollably explosive, even violent. It was difficult, moaning, crying out, whimpering, and thrashing, to even comprehend what she had become. Yet the answer was simple. She had become a slave.