by John Norman
“Forgive me, Mistress,” whispered Cornhair.
“I thought so,” she said.
“May I proceed, Mistress?” asked Cornhair.
“Ah! I see!” said the woman. “Your collar! Where is it?”
“It was taken, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “The barbarians!”
“They took it, and not you?” she asked.
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“Liar!” she said. “It is the same with all you sluts. The less clothing you wear the more you lie!”
“Forgive me, Mistress,” said Cornhair. Actually, of course, the penalties for lying in a slave are grievous, whereas in a free woman they are nonexistent or negligible. Cornhair, sensing herself in severe straits, dared not speak the truth.
“Why are you tied?” asked the woman.
“Masters were pleased to have it so,” she said.
“Who is your Master?” asked the woman.
“Forgive me,” said Cornhair. “I do not know, Mistress.”
“Absurd,” said the woman. “Have you had a fall? Are you drugged? Are you a runaway?”
“I am bound, Mistress,” said Cornhair, weakly.
“Speak up,” she said, “who is your Master?”
“I do not know, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“I see you are a slave,” she said. “Need I examine your thigh?”
“No, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “I am a slave.”
“But you are uncollared.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“That is a serious matter,” said the woman. “I shall summon a guardsman.”
“No, please, do not, Mistress!” begged Cornhair.
“You are at my mercy, wholly,” said the woman.
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair, in misery.
“Your Master!” demanded the woman.
“I think, Mistress,” said Cornhair, “I was purchased by an unknown traitor, who fled with the barbarians.”
“That is a rich story,” she said.
“I think it is true, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“I pronounce you a loose, unclaimed slave,” said the woman.
“Mistress?” said Cornhair.
“I claim you,” she said.
“Mistress?” said Cornhair.
“Get your head up, slave,” she snapped, “and look at me!”
Cornhair raised her head.
“I thought so!” said the woman. “Excellent!”
“Mistress?” said Cornhair, bewildered.
“You are claimed, and owned,” she said. “Like a loose dog.”
Cornhair looked about, wildly, from her knees.
“You do not recognize me, do you?” asked the woman.
“No, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“What have your Masters called you, worthless slut?” she asked.
“‘Cornhair’,” said Cornhair.
“Excellent,” said the woman, “an excellent slave name for you, a name based on a physical characteristic, as in many animals. I like it much better than ‘Publennia’.”
Cornhair groaned.
“Yes,” she said, “I knew you well, though from afar, when you were so proud, so superior and beautiful in your gowns and jewels, sparkling at the races and gambling tables, witty in the galleries and salons, esteemed at banquets, applauded in the streets, beleaguered by suitors, celebrated by sycophants, the jewel of the society of a dozen worlds, until the crash of your fortunes, the Larial Calasalii’s loss of patience with your profligacy, and now you have come to this, a trembling, marked, tunicked slave kneeling on the pavement in Telnar.”
“Be merciful, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“You still do not know me, do you?” said the woman.
“No, Mistress,”’ said Cornhair.
“Even in the days of your triumphs and glory,” said the woman, “I saw through the finery and show to the worthless slut beneath, who deserved no better than a collar, and a minute or two on a cheap slave block.”
“Forgive me, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “I do not remember you.”
“I remember you well enough,” she said. “You declined my overtures of friendship. Though I extended you invitations you would not respond in kind. I might not attend your salons, nor would you attend mine. You mocked my state, you would not greet me, you ignored me in public. I, though of the honestori, was too small for you, of the noble patricians, even of the senatorial class! What pleasure you must have taken in humiliating me! How pleased I was at the reversal of your fortunes, and now, what a triumph, to have you on your knees before me, a meaningless slave.”
“Please, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “Be kind!”
“To a slave?” she laughed.
Cornhair moaned.
“I now own you, slave,” she cried.
Some men, and two women, had gathered about.
“Behold my slave!” said the woman to the small crowd. She then returned her attention to Cornhair. “Bend down, slave,” she snapped, “head to the pavement, and cover my slippers with kisses.”
Cornhair, miserable, terrified, bent down, and, again and again, desperately, pressed her lips, kissing, to the golden slippers of the Lady Gia Alexia.
“Whose property are you?” demanded the Lady Gia Alexia.
“I do not know,” wept Cornhair. “I do not remember you.”
“Stupid slave!” said the woman.
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“I am the Lady Gia Alexia, of the Darsai, of Telnar!” said the woman.
“Oh, yes, yes!” cried Cornhair, in misery.
“You remember?”
“Yes, Mistress,” wept Cornhair.
“There were doubtless many such as I,” said Lady Gia Alexia.
“Forgive me, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“So, speak!” demanded the Lady Gia Alexia. “Whose property are you?”
“I am the property of the Lady Gia Alexia, of the Darsai!” wept Cornhair, her lips barely lifted from the slippers of her Mistress.
“Of Telnar!” demanded the woman.
“Of Telnar!” said Cornhair.
“Minister again, to my slippers,” said the woman.
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“She is not collared,” observed one of the men.
“On the way home,” said the Lady Gia Alexia, “I will purchase a collar, and a whip.”
The small crowd then dissipated.
“On your feet, slave,” said the Lady Gia Alexia.
Cornhair struggled to her feet.
“Get your head up,” said the Lady Gia Alexia.
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“Good,” said the Lady Gia Alexia.
“What are you going to do with me?” begged Cornhair.
“Treat you as the slave you are,” said the woman. “And then I shall sell you and make some coin on you. In this way, you will be good for something, perhaps for the first time in your life, if not much.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“We will now go to my domicile,” said the Lady Gia Alexia.
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“But, first,” she said, “we will stop by a shop I know, and buy a collar and a whip.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“That way, move,” said the Lady Gia Alexia, gesturing.
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
Chapter Forty-Five
“So,” said Iaachus, “it is the Day of a Thousand Martyrs.”
“It seems Sidonicus, the noble Exarch of Telnar, will have it so,” said Julian.
“Will he not send his mindless minions into the streets again?” said Otto.
“I do not think so,” said Iaachus. “A thousand martyrs will do for now.”
“At least,” said Julian, “he will be unable to blame the blood in the streets on the empire.”
“Not at all,” said Iaachus. “It will depend on what he sees as judicious at the time. He may well, he being skilled in conspiracies, see conspiracy here. For example, the city batteries did not fire. Thus, perhaps the empire, colluding with barbarians, arranged for the raid, a small raid, that civil disturbances might be ended, but seemingly by a third party. Thus, the empire is at fault. And thus allegiance to the empire may be foresworn.”
“But the princesses were abducted,” said Julian.
“How would one know?” asked Iaachus. “Perhaps the supposed abduction was merely a clever way of lending a smell of authenticity to the conspiracy. Perhaps they were not abducted, but merely hidden away, to be produced later, when appropriate.”
“What is the exarch to gain,” asked Otto, “by lawlessness, by trespass, by arson and theft?”
“Power,” said Iaachus. “He wishes to use his adherents, his converts, and such, to bring about a new society, one in which such as he will be sovereign. He who wishes to rule, and cannot rule in the world as it is, wishes to change the world in such a way that he will rule. It is not an unusual situation. It requires little more than the unscrupulous readiness to lie, and the willingness to destroy and kill. The dilemma presented to us is patent. Either surrender the empire or lose it.”
“I do not understand,” said Otto.
“If the empire does not declare for his faith,” said Iaachus, “the riots will continue, or may begin again, destroying the empire from within, or, alternatively, at the very least, Floonians, in their growing numbers, will remain quiescent while the empire perishes. If, on the other hand, the empire does declare for his faith, as he wishes, and promotes it with imperial resources, by means of the burning rack, the sword, and such, he will see to it that his herds and flocks support the empire, the new, revised empire, the empire as he wishes it to be. Thus, the empire as we know it is to be either lost or surrendered, either to perish or change, either to be destroyed or transformed into an eccentric, hideous tyranny, a prison house of the mind and body, with Sidonicus and his sort, with their riches, ensconced as jailers and guards.”
“I have known Floonians,” said Otto, “when I was on Tangara, some, brothers of the festung of Sim Giadini, and others, as well. They were good, kind people. Many were devout, unworldly, humble, sincere in their strange faith.”
“These are the cattle on which the herdsmen batten,” said Iaachus. “And I have little doubt of the honesty, the devotion, and sincerity of many of the ministrants of Floon, as well. Indeed, where would Sidonicus and his sort be were it not for the services of simple, unquestioning men?”
“Most men will believe whatever they are told,” said Julian. “It is only necessary to tell it to them repeatedly and with confidence. Who would dare to suppose that what is heard so often and uttered with such assurance might, nonetheless, be a lie, or simply false, or, more likely, merely meaningless? Who asks for evidence? Is that not in poor taste, or even dangerous? Thought, like pain, can be unpleasant. When the body does not move less pain is felt. Many men would rather die than think, and some who can think would rather die than act.”
“We know,” said Otto, “from the business of the medallion and chain, that the Exarch of Telnar, or his agents, have contacted barbarians.”
“The strategy, as I now realize,” said Iaachus, “and had not realized before, is not only devious, but multifaceted. Sidonicus will accept the empire either from the throne or from the bloody swords of barbarians. Consider the possibility that Sidonicus enrolls his Floonians under the banners of barbarians. Instructed, they would do war for the empire or its foes, either one. Or, indeed, otherwise instructed, do no war, at all. Indeed, it would be more in accord with the purer, more primitive teachings of Floon, as I understand it, that no resistance is to be offered to enemies.”
“Yes,” said Julian, “and on some worlds entire populations of such obliging Floonians were summarily exterminated, their worlds then effortlessly acquired by the scions of more businesslike nations and species.”
“I could conceive of Floonians welcoming invaders as liberators,” said Iaachus.
“I, as well,” said Otto.
“The empress mother has left the palace, to attend the obsequies of the Thousand Martyrs,” said Iaachus.
“She would prove a mighty ally to Sidonicus,” said Julian.
“But a more dangerous ally than he might think,” said Iaachus.
“How is that?” asked Julian.
“There is one thing in the Floonian phenomenon,” said Iaachus, “a subtle political flaw, which I hope will never be remedied, which gives me hope.”
“What is that?” asked Otto.
“It may be nothing,” said Iaachus. “We may speak of it later.”
“The empress mother, as I understand it,” said Julian, “is receiving instruction in Floonianism from the exarch himself.”
“That is true,” said Iaachus.
“Suppose she is converted, smudged with the holy oil,” said Julian. “Consider her influence over the emperor.”
“I fear it,” said Iaachus.
“I, too,” said Julian. “Very much.”
“As I understand it,” said Iaachus, “our friend and colleague, Captain Ottonius, has recently had an interview with the emperor.”
“Yes,” said Otto. “That is true.”
“It is unfortunate,” said Iaachus, “particularly in these perilous times, that the emperor is only a boy, a retarded simpleton who cares for little but toys, and can barely sign his own name.”
“Yes,” said Otto, smiling, “it is unfortunate.”
“Why do you smile, friend Ottonius?” asked the Arbiter of Protocol.
“We may speak of it later,” said Otto.
Chapter Forty-Six
Cornhair shook her head a little, rustling the loop of chain wound about her neck, padlocked behind the back of her neck, fastening her to the others.
“Lift your head, stand straight,” said the slaver’s man.
Cornhair lifted her head, and straightened her body.
The long chain passed through rings, fastened to the wall behind the slaves. Every four or five feet, or so, it was wound about a slave’s neck and, as with Cornhair, two of its links were fastened together, behind the girl’s neck, with a padlock. In this fashion a girl may be easily added to the chain, or removed from it. The slave shelf on which the slaves stood was some one hundred feet in length and some four feet in depth. It was about three feet in height, from the street. The hands of each slave were manacled behind her back. The height of the shelf makes for easy viewing from the street, and the surface of the shelf, reached by four steps, entirely along its front, is wide enough to allow a prospective customer to ascend to its surface and more closely examine a slave, to test her limbs and body for soundness, to examine her skin for blemishes, her teeth for regularity, and so on. The prospective buyer may also test the slave for responsiveness, as that is extremely important in a slave. She is not a free woman. It might also be mentioned that most female slaves are extremely, helplessly responsive. That seems to be an accompanying characteristic of the condition, and the collar. Also, they do not wish to be whipped. The market, as one would suppose, was one of Telnar’s woman markets. There were several such markets in Telnar. This particular market was known as Tenrik’s Woman Market. It was in one of Telnar’s more shabby districts. It had seen its share of looting and arson. Indeed, from where Cornhair stood, her back to the wall, one of some twenty to twenty five or so slaves, she could see two burned-out shops. Some debris had been gathered together and placed to one side. Aside from this, things had returned muchly to normal here, and elsewhere,
in Telnar. The guard planks of shops, with their rods and slung chains, which would be run through plank rings, were again stored to the side. Once more guardsmen, in their pairs, or larger numbers, made their rounds. Shutters were opened at higher levels. In two windows Cornhair could see plants. From another window, a pole was extended, on which washing hung. Men and women were about, passing by, conversing, shopping. A tunicked slave hurried by. Occasionally a man or woman paused to look at the slaves on the shelf. Cornhair could hear the tapping of a smith’s hammer somewhere. Within the last hour a redhead had been sold from the chain.
Across the street, some fifty feet or so away, and to the left of Cornhair, as she was chained, there was a small restaurant, catering mostly to workmen, little more than a room, a kitchen, and a counter. Within there were four tables, and outside, two tables on the street. In such a place one might get some bread, olives, and cheese, which one might wash down with beer or a cheap, pale kana. Soup, if one wished it, could be ladled out from a lidded receptacle within the counter itself. Many took their orders with them, wrapped in folds of brown, waxed paper.
Cornhair felt the tip of the slaver’s man’s switch at the side of her neck. Frightened, she straightened her body more.
“I have seldom seen a slave so switched,” said the slaver’s man, examining Cornhair’s tortured skin.
“My Mistress found me displeasing,” said Cornhair.
“Women do not know how to handle women,” said the man.
“They handle them as they wish,” said Cornhair.
“Pray to Dira,” he said, “that a man buys you.”
Dira, the goddess of love and beauty in the Telnarian pantheon, herself a slave girl, the slave girl of the gods, was the goddess of slave girls.
“I shall surely hope that a man buys me, Master,” she said.
This hope was common amongst female slaves. The natural subordination of the female is to the male. There you have the perfect complementarity of owner and owned, of Master and slave. Men may own, dominate, and master their slaves without compromise, but they are also quite likely, having what they want, to be satisfied with them, and happy with them. Indeed, many men, at least to other men, boast of the quality of their rope sluts and chain bitches. Too, as every slave girl knows, men are easy to please. When a man has what he wants, he is content. Why should he not be? Most men are kind to their slaves and treat them well, as they would any other beast they own. Indeed, it is rumored some men, unwisely perhaps, actually grow fond of their meaningless, luscious chattels. Indeed, the female slave is very special amongst the beasts a man might own. In his slave the man has all the intelligence, beauty, needs, depth, emotions, and feelings of the human female, all her excitement, desirability, sensitivity, helplessness, and vulnerability, and it is all his, all safe in his collar.