The Usurper

by John Norman

  She had not done well in Telnar before, on the selling shelf, or on the block, but she now looked forward to her sale, to belonging, hopefully, to a private Master, whom she must then strive to please. Even as a free woman, long ago, when she had despised slaves, she had had recurrent, uneasy fears that her own throat might be suitably encircled with the bondage ring. How such thoughts had distressed, and fascinated, her. How she had forced such thoughts away, and then waited, hopefully, for their return. In her confidence and pride, in her days of station and wealth, it had never occurred to her that the collar might one day be locked on her own neck, and that she would find herself on her knees before free persons. Then, after the social debacle of her waywardness and debts, her de-facto abandonment by her family, her trying to scratch out a pitiful existence on the pittance of an allowance, limited to only one slave, the girl, Nika, she had been recruited by Iaachus, the Arbiter of Protocol, in the court of the emperor, Aesilesius, to assassinate a barbarian mercenary, Ottonius, a captain in the auxiliary forces, this having largely to do with frustrating the plans of Julian, of the Aureliani, regarded by Iaachus as a threat to the throne and empire. As we recall, she was to be so situated, in the guise of a female slave, that she might, by means of a poisoned dagger, complete this task, following which she was to be richly rewarded. As we recall, prior to her thwarted attack, she had actually been enslaved, but without her awareness. After her failure to kill the barbarian captain, Ottonius, and having been abandoned by her supposed confederates, she found herself in the hands of Otungs. Instead of having her tortured and executed, she had been branded and sold to Heruls. She sold for one pig. Eventually, purchased from Heruls by a dealer, she had been sold in Venitzia, the provincial capital on Tangara, to the company, Bondage Flowers, which had an office in Venitzia, after which she had been shipped with other slaves, first to Inez IV, and thence to Telnaria, eventfully finding herself in Telnar. We remind ourselves of these perhaps familiar matters, because they, in their way, remind us of moments in a slave’s journey. Too, she had certainly begun to learn herself on a dock at Inez IV, in the hold of a freighter, on a shelf in Telnar, on a block in Telnar, in a dining hall in a remote villa, where she had served at a woman’s supper, in an arena at that villa, and then, later, being conveyed downstream in one of four covered barges, to some village port whose name she did not even know, in the delta of the Turning Serpent.

  If only there had been a wind from the east, she thought, swelling the wide, matted sail!

  “Ah!” had said the man at the village port. “Excellent!”

  “There are two sets,” had said Ortog, “a larger set of one hundred and fifty-two, and a smaller set of twenty-two. The larger set, with the exception of two whom I will keep for my own pleasure, we will ship to far worlds, Omar II, Vellmer, Tangara, Inez IV, Varna, and a dozen others.”

  “Some of those are rude worlds,” said the man.

  “There are towns, and trading stations,” said Ortog.

  “I suppose so,” said the man. “But you are unlikely to do much shipping for a time.”

  “Why?” asked Ortog. “I have four Lion Ships, fueled, waiting in their sheds.”

  “The blockade,” said the man. “It was not anticipated. Lightning from a clear, blue sky. The barbarian commander is in place.”

  “The war is not to be fought so,” said Ortog. “Much must transpire first.”

  “Troops, ships, are at far-flung borders,” said the man. “They man walls, but the wall has been over leapt.”

  “A bold stroke,” said Ortog.

  “A perilous stroke,” said the man. “Even now border cruisers must be hurrying to Telnaria. The siege will be broken and lifted. The barbarian commander has erred grievously. He will be caught and destroyed.”

  “How long does he have?” asked Ortog.

  “It is estimated only a few days,” said the man.

  “If what you call the wall is deserted,” said Ortog, “barbarians will flow in.”

  “The barbarian commander must be mad,” said the man. “What can he do? The great explosives, which could split worlds and thrust planets from their orbits, have been expended.”

  “Some may yet exist,” said Ortog.

  “But surely not in the hands of barbarians,” said the man.

  “I suppose not,” said Ortog.

  “You should be able to leave in a few days,” said the man. “Slave gruel is cheap.”

  “Who is the barbarian commander?” asked Ortog.

  “A man named Abrogastes,” said the man. “Have you heard of him?”

  “Yes,” said Ortog. “I have heard of him.”

  “He must be mad, to isolate himself so, to place himself in such jeopardy.”

  “Perhaps,” said Ortog, “this Abrogastes is not mad. Perhaps he hopes to conclude the wars with a single blow. Why should one scratch at the skin of the empire when one might strike at its heart?”

  “Telnaria’s defenses are not weak,” said the man. “If the blockading cruisers should come within firing range, the planetary batteries will burn them from the sky. Telnaria’s only fear then will be the rain of molten debris.”

  “Surely this commander, Abrogastes, must be aware of that,” said Ortog.

  “The blockade is annoying, but pointless,” said the man. “You cannot starve a planet into submission. So, my friend, what if a few aristocrats must do without their favored wines, or imported eels, for a few days?”

  “I do not think this Abrogastes is a fool,” said Ortog.

  “You know him?” asked the man.

  “I have heard of him,” said Ortog.

  The village fellow then cast his glance on the one hundred and fifty-two slaves standing on the river wharf, chained together by the neck, naked, as is common with women in coffle.

  “A nice lot,” he said. “Where did you get them?”

  “I picked them up, a bit to the west,” said Ortog.

  “You raided a slave caravan,” said the man, “and stole their goods.”

  “Something like that,” said Ortog.

  “We are tolerant of thieves here,” said the man. “What of this smaller lot?”

  This smaller lot consisted of Cornhair, and the twenty-one other slaves who had served at the suppers of the free women in the remote villa.

  “Why are they clothed?” asked the man.

  Cornhair’s group was chained together by the ankle, the left ankle.

  “That the larger set may the more acutely be aware that they are not clothed.”

  “I have not noted one of them speaking,” said the man.

  “They dare not,” said Ortog. “They are under discipline.”

  “The other group, the smaller group, sits together, pleasantly, looking about, chatting,” said the man.

  “Let the larger group notice that,” said Ortog.

  “The smaller group sits, the larger group stands,” said the man.

  “Discipline,” said Ortog.

  “Excellent,” said the man.

  “The larger group,” said the man, “seemed reluctant to go to all fours, and eat their slave gruel from pans, not using their hands.”

  “We did not, by design, command it,” said Ortog.

  “I see,” said the man.

  “When they are sufficiently hungry,” said Ortog, “they will not merely do so, but beg to be permitted to do so.”

  “Excellent,” said the man. “What disposition have you in mind for the smaller lot?”

  “They are lovely sluts, are they not?” asked Ortog.

  “Very much so,” said the man.

  Cornhair rejoiced to hear this assessment. As a free woman she had been beautiful and, now, she hoped to be even more beautiful, beautiful as a slave is beautiful.

  “I shall rent a boat,” said Ortog, “one capable of plying th
e river west.”

  “A keel boat,” said the man.

  “And then I hope to sell them in Telnar,” said Ortog.

  “You should have no difficulty,” said the man.

  Cornhair was pleased to hear this.

  “Good,” said Ortog.

  “But I place you as a barbarian,” said the man.

  “Perhaps,” said Ortog.

  “So beware of Telnar,” said the man. “There are few river men and few barbarians in Telnar.”

  “Perhaps, eventually,” said Ortog, “there will be more.”

  “I have a friend, Orik,” said the man, “who has recently disembarked cargo, loaded more, and would welcome additional coin for an upstream voyage.”

  “He would not object to carrying twenty-two slaves?”

  “Not at all,” said the man. “They might take two or three days off the length of the voyage.”

  “How so?” asked Ortog.

  “They will do very nicely as tow beasts.”

  “These are not draft slaves,” had said Ortog.

  “But they are slaves,” had said the man.

  “True,” had said Ortog. “Please be gracious enough to conduct me to your friend, Orik.”

  “This way,” had said the man.

  Cornhair, with the others, in the line, on the narrow trail, her feet sometimes slipping in the mud and gravel, pressed her body again against the hempen harness.

  If only there had been a wind from the east, she thought, swelling the wide, matted sail!

  “Rest!” called Orik, captain of the keel boat, from its deck, behind its blunt prow.

  He had his right hand raised, shading his eyes, looking to the side, over the trees. There would be perhaps two more hours of daylight.

  “Rest!” called the Harness Master.

  Two men from the keel boat lowered themselves over the side and waded to shore, the water to their thighs, and tethered lines to two half-submerged, adjacent trees. The vessel pulled against these lines, turning slightly. The keel boat is seldom beached. This is less a matter of practicality and convenience, given its structure, weight, and size, than one of judicious precaution. The beached vessel is immobile and requires time to be thrust back into the water. It takes but a moment to cut mooring lines and free the vessel to the current. Similarly, it is seldom tethered snugly to shore. In this way a sudden rush of men would have difficulty in effecting a boarding, having to wade to the hull and then clamber over the gunwales, a most unpleasant prospect if men above them, behind the gunwales, should be moved to deny them entry.

  Cornhair, with the others, still harnessed, crept to the side, and lay down in the shaded grass.

  She lay on her belly, and dug her fingers into the grass.

  She was covered with sweat, her legs were filthy. Her body ached, her feet and shoulders were sore.

  She clutched at the grass.

  She, as the others, in the lines, was naked. That was natural, and practical, given the heat, and misery and torment, of the work. Too, they were slaves. Too, nudity is, in a way, like the slave tunic, a bond. Not all slaves are naked, but one who is naked in public is likely to be a slave.

  She was not chained.

  That was commonly done at night, on the deck of the keel boat, or in one of the shore camps.

  In the business at hand, chaining would have impaired the efficiency of the operation.

  Chains keep women together. One whip, its leather admonitions poised, can master an entire chain. Many think of chains as being utilized to prevent escape. That is certainly true, of course, for they prevent escape with perfection; a chained slave knows herself helpless; but, too, there is another reason for chaining which is less commonly recognized, and that is to prevent theft. It is as difficult to steal a slave chained to a ring as it is, say, to steal any other property so secured. Similarly, where one might steal one shackled woman, carrying her away, gagged and struggling, into the night, it is not easy, at all, to steal a string of fifteen or twenty women shackled together. Surely that is a much greater challenge. Too, might that not call for several men, and bloodshed? Too, of course, it is easier to track a chain of twenty shackled properties than to pursue and recover one such property, just as it is easier to track a string of twenty horses or a herd of twenty pigs than a single horse or pig.

  There are, of course, many aspects of chains which transcend simple matters of management, for example, matters mnemonic, aesthetic, stimulatory, psychological, and so on. Chains, as cords, ropes, straps, thongs, and such, have their effects on the female slave.

  In any event, the slaves were not chained.

  Cornhair was aware that she might slip the rope harness, but she, no more than the others, would not do so.

  It was not, interestingly, simply that there was no escape for them, given their lack of garmenture, their marks, their collars, the enclosing society, the lack of anywhere to escape to, and such, but that they now, or at least Cornhair, understood themselves as quite other than free women. They now understood themselves as something radically, fundamentally different, as properties which might be bought and sold, as slaves.

  Cornhair closed her eyes, put her head down, and felt the grass against her cheek.

  She and the others, obviously, were not draft slaves. One would be a fool to buy such as they for haulage. Clearly such as they would be purchased for other purposes.

  Yet, they, the twenty-two of them, had been put to haulage.

  Did this not seem madness? How had Gundlicht, lieutenant to Ortog, with several others, delegated to dispose of the slaves in Telnar markets, permitted this? Would he bring fresh, rested slaves, hoping to be well purchased, to the shelves and blocks, or exhausted, strained, worn, sore, and weary slaves, pathetic beasts unlikely to be sought after otherwise than as bargains, purchased with an eye to the future?

  What Cornhair, in her misery, did not realize was the attention and solicitude with which she and the others were being handled and treated. The Masters realized full well they were dealing with prize stock and had no intention of diminishing its value. They had not been driven and hastened as hauling slaves are often driven and hastened. They were well fed and frequently watered. The rope harness was cushioned at the shoulder. Their towing time was less than six hours per day. Rest periods were frequent. Men assisted at the poles. The whip had scarcely touched them. In Telnar, with a day or two’s rest, they would be put up for sale in a condition calculated to display them to their vender’s best advantage.

  Cornhair opened her eyes, and looked back to the keel boat, a few feet from shore, on its mooring lines, and looked back, aft, to the deck cabin.

  Who, she wondered, were the strangers who remained so much in that cabin.

  Certainly they were not the two fellows who had had unpleasant, if not altogether untypical, experiences in the delta village, not the one who had returned bloody from a brawl, a handful of tavern cup dice in his grasp, nor the fellow severally slashed in some dispute about the charms of a slave. Men speculated that the luck of the first fellow might now change. Orik had advised him not to gamble with his crew mates. The second fellow had, at least, on foot, made it back to the keel boat. His antagonist, it was said, was likely to recover, as the blade had missed the heart.

  In the delta village, on the evening the keel boat, hired by the barbarian, Ortog, was readied for the river, cargo lashed in place, to depart at dawn, one of the girls on the wharf, not yet boarded, had cried out and pointed to a streak in the sky. It seemed, at first, to be one of those familiar meteorological phenomena which some understood as the fiery passage of the vessel of Orak, king and father of the gods, or the cast, burning spear of Kragon, god of war, but others, doubtless more sophisticated, as merely the dislodgment and plummeting of a star. To be sure, those in the imperial navy, and, we suspect, some barbarians, would be likely to understand su
ch things differently, as marking the flight of sky stones, often partly metal, which might occasionally, and sometimes, like a fierce rain, imperil ships, the far-ranging ships, those traversing the airless, lonely, nigh-vacant deserts between worlds. The passage of such stones through atmospheres, abraded by friction, would be marked by a debris of flaming particles. Indeed, occasionally, despite so tortuous a passage, the residue of such a stone would impact a surface.

  But, in this case, such interpretations would have proved erroneous.

  Several of the girls screamed and covered their ears, and shrank down in their chains, and large, rough men, startled, cried out in alarm.

  It seemed a roaring projectile was now hurtling toward them, from over the sea, beyond the delta, and then it was passing overhead, taking its way past the village, northwest. The dusk was blasted with the sudden light of its brief, linear passage, and the air tore at them, affrighted with noise and heat, and then the object disappeared, descending into the marshes.

  Cornhair lay in the darkness, her two hands on the chain, padlocked about her neck, which fastened her to the others.

  Some yards away there was a small fire, and some boatmen, four or five, gathered about it, drinking.

  From where she lay, she could hear the soft sounds of the river, the flowing, the rippling and stirring, the pressing amongst the reeds, the eddying about trees, lower trunks under the water. Interestingly, she had never noticed such sounds during the day. But at night, it was different. There was, too, the smell of rich, rotting detritus at its borders.

  There was, too, the sound of some insects.

  She suddenly became aware of a movement in the darkness, near her. It was a small party of men, three men, apparently those who had boarded the keel boat four days ago, before dawn, at the delta village. Shortly after their arrival the keel boat’s matted sail was raised, and the boat was poled from the wharf, to essay the long journey upstream to Telnar. She had not really seen the newcomers as she, with the other slaves, now chained to one another by the neck, were forward, behind a leaning canvas sheet fixed on poles, which might, if it were wished, be raised, and adjusted, to shield the girls from the sun, or, if it were thought judicious to conceal cargo, be drawn over them. Doubtless one of the main motivations for this arrangement, having the girls forward and behind the canvas wall, was to conceal the slaves from the sight of the crew. River men, no matter how unruly and rowdy they might be ashore, are commonly reliable and disciplined while doing the business of the boat. On the other hand, Orik, the captain of the keel boat, presumably saw little point in subjecting discipline, at least unnecessarily, to what might prove to be excessive stress.