by John Norman
Some small groups of armsmen, probably mercenaries, drifted past us. There was no discipline, no formation. Some carried spears on their shoulders, and others crossbows.
All seemed wary, dangerous men.
As I had scouted this portion of the dockage in the past, I knew that gear of war, as well as bundles of other supplies, whatever they might contain, had been put aboard one ship or another, sometimes in abundance. One could see how several had rested lower in the water. Sometimes it had been easy enough to identify the goods, as tools, such as axes, adzes, planes, wedges, clamps, and saws, or materials such as tar, turpentine, canvas, paint, and cable. One might have supposed them bound not for the northern beaches and forests but a shipyard, such as the arsenal of Port Kar.
“Ho!” I said, suddenly, softly.
“May I see?” she said.
“Remain on your knees,” I said.
From the yard of a dark building, behind the wharves, through a double wooden gate, wide enough to exit a wagon, a scribe, in his blue work tunic, carrying a tablet, had emerged. As I had expected, for I had seen this before, he was followed by a coffle of stripped slaves, fastened together by the neck on a single rope. Their hands were tied together behind their back, and they were blindfolded.
The coffle would be halted outside the building, where it would wait, until it was met by an officer from one of the ships.
Three guards were with the coffle, one on one side, two on the other, the two on the side facing the approach to the wharves.
I looped the leash about the neck of my slave, and tucked in the strap.
“Master?” she asked.
I approached the coffle, as I had the others, to place myself between it and the ships. In this way, I could, with others, survey its components.
I was followed by my slave.
Doubtless she was grateful for her tunic. I had arranged with the cloth worker that it be “slave short.” She had nice legs. Why should a master not display them? As with the common slave tunic it was sleeveless, and, naturally, as most slave garments, lacked a nether closure. This helps the slave to better realize that she is a slave, that she is always at the convenience of the master.
Several men, mercenaries, docksmen, and others, had gathered in the vicinity of the coffle.
“Good!” I said.
“Master?” asked the slave.
I was sure it was she.
Men, as is their wont, were examining the slaves, and commenting on them. Slaves, unless new to bondage, are accustomed to being publicly viewed, and spoken of, as the goods they are. Verr, kaiila, tharlarion, and such, do not object to this, so why should slaves?
“I wager that one is hot,” said a fellow.
“Ten Ehn and I could make this one weep, buck, and beg,” said a fellow.
“Consider the flanks of the tall brunette,” said another. She was first in the coffle.
“The ankles of the redhead,” said another.
“Excellent,” said another, “I would like to see them shackled.”
“There is a pudding that would juice at a touch,” said another.
“Pretty vulos,” commented a man.
“Tastas, each of them,” said a fellow, “a confectioner’s delight.”
“Put them on their sticks,” said another.
Remarks, as well, suggestions, and such, were addressed to the slaves, but they could not speak, as they were forbidden speech in coffle. I did see some tears run below the blindfolds on more than one slave. The lips of two or three trembled. Did they not know they were slaves?
I went to the one in which I was interested.
Sensing someone near her she stood more straightly, more beautifully. She may have supposed it a guard, and did not wish to invite the instructive stroke of a switch.
One expects much of slaves. They are not free women.
As I had expected, I could still see the residue of her lot number, now much faded, as was that of the others, on her left breast.
It was 119.
I went a bit to the side, to examine her small wrists, crossed, corded together, closely, behind her back. The opaque cloth of the blindfold had been wrapped twice, snugly, about her head, and knotted in place, behind her head. She could see nothing. She could feel the planks of the walk with her feet, and the breeze on her body. She was on the same long rope as the others. It is looped about the neck and knotted, and then taken ahead to the next girl. The loop was loose, but it could not be slipped.
I regarded her.
The beast was beautiful, quite beautiful.
I was annoyed.
She was more beautiful than I remembered her. I had wanted to find her less beautiful. But she was more beautiful. To be sure, she had now had some training, had learned to kneel, and obey men.
I was angry.
I had hoped to cast her image from me, to rid myself of her memory. I should not have come to the docks! I should not have watched, and waited, for days. I might have taken ship for Daphne days ago, but I had lingered in Brundisium. I was a fool.
“Master?” asked my slave, timidly.
I did not respond to her.
Surely the slave in the coffle could not be as beautiful as she seemed. I looked at the others, and was reassured. They were all lovely, and surely she on whose breast was inscribed the faded number, 119, was no better than most of them, and less than several of them.
Why then did she seem as she did to me?
I moved close to her, a bit back and on the right side, and breathed, softly, on the side of her neck, below the right ear. “Oh!” she said, softly, startled, and jerked at the cords on her wrists, but, too, inadvertently or not, she had also lifted her head. She had responded, as a slave, to the caress of a man’s breath.
“Not so close,” said one of the guards.
I moved back.
It had been a simple test, but it had told me what I wanted to know. She was a slave, no more than a slave, and should be a slave.
I smiled to myself.
She was a worthless piece of collar meat, no different from tens of thousands of others.
She belonged in a collar, and chains, at a man’s feet.
That was indisputable.
Two fellows, officers, were approaching from one of the ships. Behind them I could see several armsmen were boarding. One of the officers carried a tablet.
I would soon be rid of the troublesome slave. How pleased I was! I had never forgotten her, but now it would be easy to do so, for she would be carried to the north, and I should never see her again.
I had not remembered her as beautiful as she was. To be sure, she had now been in bondage for a time. Being in her natural place does much to enhance the beauty of a woman.
I must forget her.
What would it be to own her, I wondered, for such a woman must be owned. They must be treated with firmness, and never permitted to forget that they are mere slaves. They are to be mastered, uncompromisingly and utterly.
I looked back to the coffle. Papers were being exchanged between the officer and the scribe. Much is done with notes.
Men need slaves.
The coffle would soon be boarded, climbing the narrow plank to the ship.
I would never see her again.
I could then forget her.
How pleased I was.
I considered how she might look on all fours, crawling to me, bringing me the whip, it held between her small, fine, white teeth, the slave whip. I considered how she might look, kneeling before me, the coiled whip now in my hand, addressing to it the attentions of the female slave, caressing it with her lips and tongue, humbly, and at length, well aware that if I were not satisfied, it would be used upon her.
“Master,” said my slave, “might we not now return to the inn of Tasdron?”
Again I did not answer her.
“She is not so beautiful, is she?” asked my slave.
“No,” I said.
The coffle had now begun to move
toward the nearest of the two small ships. Docksmen stood at mooring cleats, ready to loose the ropes and fling them to fellows aboard the ship. A mariner stood at the bow, amidships, and stern, each with his harbor pole. Four mariners stood ready to hoist the small yard, with the now-folded sail. Oars were still inboard. The two helmsmen were at their posts.
I would wait until the ship departed, and see it disappear, a bright speck, outside the farther breakwater. That would be the last of it, and of her. The matter would then be done.
The coffle was conducted up the planking onto the deck. There they were knelt, and relieved of the neck rope. They would remain bound and blindfolded until Brundisium was no longer visible. Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira. After the vessel was well underway, it seemed likely they would be taken to the base hold, the ceiling of which is waist high, which is floored with ballast sand, and there chained together by the neck, after which they would be freed of the wrist cords and blindfolds. A coffle from a different building was already stowed in that fashion in the base hold of the second ship. The base hold is usually dark, and the ballast sand is damp. Verr are sometimes penned in a base hold, but, more commonly, on the open deck.
The second ship, I noted, was also making ready for departure. It had been ready yesterday, but, seemingly, was waiting for the first ship. The cargos were very similar, and I had seen armsmen divided between the two ships. Two ships, together, are accounted safer than two ships, taken singly. Round ships are the preferred prey of the “sleen of the sea,” but the sleen, when hungry, do not disdain smaller prey. I had had some interaction, in a tavern, with the fellow who seemed to be the high officer of the armsmen on the second vessel.
The first ship, now, freed of its mooring, was thrust from the dock with the harbor poles. I saw the yard being raised, foot by foot, tackle creaking, followed, foot by foot, by its increasing expanse of unfolding canvas.
As docksmen were at the mooring ropes, I assumed the second vessel was ready to clear the harbor.
The first ship was already a hundred yards from the wharf.
I looked at the second ship.
“Let us return to the inn of Tasdron,” said my slave.
“You are fond of its gruel?” I asked.
“I am afraid on the wharves,” she said, “the men, how they look at me.”
“You must accustom yourself to that,” I said. “You are a desirable slave.”
“Sometimes,” she said, “slaves, even free women, disappear from the wharves.”
“You heard that in the tavern,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, uneasily.
“They would be safe enough,” I said, “on a chain somewhere.”
I looked after the first ship. I remembered the slender barbarian. At last I was rid of her. I could now put her from my mind.
The matter was now done.
I unlooped the leash from the neck of my slave, and gave it a jerk, that she might feel it pull at the back of her neck. She looked at me. She was now again the captive of the leash.
The first ship was now near the breakwater.
The matter was over. It must be over. It must be done!
I cried out, angrily.
“Master?” inquired the slave, frightened.
I turned about.
“Master,” she said, “that is not the way to the inn of Tasdron!”
I strode to the second ship.
“Tal,” I said, to he whom I remembered from the tavern. He was near the boarding plank, to the second ship. It was he, Tyrtaios, who had proffered the golden stater.
He turned about. “Tal,” he said.
“Do you still want swords for the north?” I asked.
“Such as yours, yes,” he said.
“I might take ship,” I said.
“I had expected to have you aboard,” he said, “bound and gagged, in the hold.”
“Is my sword so valuable?” I asked.
“You, and your kind,” he said, “may be more valuable than you suspect.”
“Men who ask few questions?” I said.
“Assassins, slavers, and such,” he said, “men who are open to unusual opportunities, who will do much for gold, and ask no questions.”
My slave, as we were stopped, knelt at my thigh, her head down, as was appropriate. The leash looped up to my left hand.
Tyrtaios regarded her. “Your slave is lovely,” he said.
“She is not yet fully trained,” I said.
“Different men train them differently,” he said.
“True,” I said.
“She is from the inn, is she not?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“She seems much different now,” he said.
“She is,” I said.
“Would you like several like her, or better?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” I said. Some men reckon wealth in terms of tarn disks, others kaiila, others bosk, and some in terms of slaves.
“I sent two messengers to recruit you,” he said, “but they failed in their mission.”
“Oh?” I said.
“They were set upon in the darkness,” he said, “pummeled, and robbed, by a dozen assailants.”
“It must be difficult to determine the number in the dark,” I said.
“A great number,” he said.
“Interesting,” I said.
“I offered you a golden stater,” he said.
“I am a two-stater hire,” I said.
“Excellent,” he said.
He drew from his purse two golden staters and, one after the other, placed them in my hand. I placed them in my pouch.
“What is doing in the north?” I said. “Where are you bound?”
He regarded me. His eyes, oddly, reminded me of those of a snake.
“Forgive me,” I said.
“Welcome aboard,” he said.
Chapter Nine
The voyage to the north, I gather from Brundisium, had taken several days, and for us, kept most of the time in a lower portion of the ship, in darkness, on damp sand, unable even to stand upright, was unspeakably miserable. We were also put in collars and chained together by the neck, seventeen of us. We lived for the moments when the hatch would be opened, and we would be allowed to climb the ladder and emerge on the open deck. There was another ship, like ours, astern. We had several soldiers aboard, as well as mariners. We were too small and weak to be put to the great levers drawn by the oarsmen. The time is kept by a drum. Mostly we proceeded under sail. Several nights the ship was beached and the crew and soldiers went ashore to sleep and cook, and, I suppose, to hunt, take on water, and such. We were kept in the hold. Watches were doubtless kept. If there is an alarm, the ship may be launched in a matter of Ihn. I know this, for a drill was done twice. Each man knows where he is to be, and what he is to do. Perhaps that is why we were not taken ashore. Certainly, given our chaining, there was no possibility that we could have slipped away, perhaps to starve or be eaten in the wild. In some places, farther south, there are women in the forest who do not belong to men. They are free women and hate us, for we belong to men. If they capture us they beat us and sell us. But if they are captured, it is said that they, too, quickly, learn they belong to men. Apparently they sell well.
Once we were brought to the deck, and placed at the rail. There, one by one, our hands were tied behind us. A third ship, low in the water, was abeam, parallel to us.
Our captain had a glass of the Builders and was surveying the third ship. “She flies the pennons of Brundisium,” said one of his officers. “I do not think she is of Brundisium,” said the captain, soberly. “Port Kar?” asked the officer. “I do not know,” said the captain. “Fly the code flags. We shall await the countersign.” Pennons were raised on a halyard. “No response,” said the officer. “She is thinking of closing,” said the captain. “Keep the armsmen out of sight.” “If she closes,” said the officer, “it will be the end of her.” “Yes,” said the captain. “That is the purpose o
f the slaves,” said the officer, “to lure her in?” “Rather,” said the captain, “to seem to lure her in. That will make them wary. Too, we have a fellow astern, so there would be two ships to one. I think she is merely scouting us.” “It is, then, a corsair,” said the officer. “Yes,” said the captain. “I think so. At least she is not of Brundisium, despite her pennons.” “Do you anticipate an engagement?” asked the officer. “No,” said the captain. We remained, neck-chained, and back-bound, for nearly an Ahn at the rail. Then the strange ship turned away.
At last we reached some point on the northern coast, in the vicinity of the great forests. We were brought to the deck, and then, when the ship had the beach abeam, and was a few yards from shore, we were plunged over the rail, and found ourselves awash in the surf. My head went under water for a moment, and the roaring of the sea thundered in my ears. I was for a moment terrified, and disoriented. But the weight of the chain oriented me, and, struggling, I got my legs under me and, sputtering, coughing, my eyes half blinded with salt water, I stood up. The water was not deep, but it was cold. It came only to my waist. We were waded to the shore and knelt there, in the surf, it washing up about our knees and calves. I shivered, and wiped the water from my eyes. I could see the beach before me, which was a mix of sand and rock. It seemed rough, cold, and forbidding. But beyond it I could see the forest, which seemed lonely and beautiful. There was no one about that I could see, and I wondered how this place, which might be no different from ten thousand others, had been selected for our landfall. There must have been a signal of some sort. Naturally I had no idea where we were, other than on some remote beach, in the north. We were days from our port of departure.
“Position,” called a fellow, himself descending from the ship, splashing, and wading to shore.
So, cold, wet, and shivering, miserable, we went to “position,” kneeling back on our heels, our backs straight, our heads up, looking ahead, our knees spread, as the slaves we were, the palms of our hands down on our thighs.