She must, of course, learn the absurdity of shame, and that it was not permitted to the slave. If nothing else, let the whip teach her so. Such indulgences and frivolities are not permitted the slave; they are permitted only to free women, who might be foolish enough to cultivate them. The slave is an animal, and is to be as wild, and open, and free, and appetitious and sexual, as any other animal. What a pathological world from which she must be derived, I thought, to be ashamed of her health, her vitality, and womanhood. What purposes could be served, and whose purposes, I wondered, on such a world, to instigate such suspicions, such conflicts and contradictions, to set one part of a body against another part, one part of a mind against another? How ill or insane the society which might find profit in such divisions and treacheries! Why should she not be tutored in other betrayals, as well? Why should she not be taught to fear the dictates of her hereditary coils? Why should she not be terrified at the movement of a tiny corpuscle in her lovely body, not be ashamed, as well, of the beating of her heart, the circulation of her blood?
The slave is not to be ashamed of her needs; she only need fear that the master will not satisfy them.
Yes, it was clear that the slave fires had begun to burn in the belly of the fair slave before me.
And once she had bucked and writhed in the slave orgasm, helpless in her ropes or chains, she would be spoiled forever for freedom. What had freedom to offer a woman which might compare with the caress of her master?
“Does a master not look upon me with desire?” she said. “Does a master not look upon a slave with lust in his eyes?”
I was silent.
I wondered if, in her former world, when she was clothed, and free, she had ever been looked upon with lust, with thoughts of stripping, with thoughts of the rope, and leash.
And had she ever, even, I wondered, thought of herself as such a woman, one who might one day be so looked upon, and who might be purchased?
Yes, I thought, for she had imagined herself a slave.
“Buy me, Master!” she said. “I beg to be bought!”
And thus, irremediably, she acknowledged herself as that which could be bought, as slave.
“Three silver tarsks,” said the proprietor. “No less!”
The stranger laughed. Clearly the slave did not begin to be worth so much. She was barbarian, she was a mere paga girl, and from a low tavern, her accent was unusual, she had not been much trained, she was new to her collar, and she was just beginning to sense the heat of slave fires, in the grasp of which, perhaps even in days, she would find herself helpless. She was certainly beautiful, and would not have been purchased had she not been, but I did not think she would be likely to be the first pick of many of the tavern’s customers. I suspected the proprietor had not paid more than a quarter of a silver tarsk for her, in a pier market. I thought she might bring a silver tarsk, or one and a half, but not two. And I could not afford even a silver tarsk. I could, of course, afford the tarsk-bit which, in a low tavern, such as The Sea Sleen, might purchase a cup of paga, accompanying which, if I chose, might be her use.
“I cannot afford one silver tarsk,” I said.
“It is morning,” said the proprietor.
We struggled to our feet, stiff, from the night.
“My thanks,” I said to the stranger, “for your unusual tale.”
He grinned.
I looked down at the table, where the two quarrels, fired by the Assassins, had struck the wood, piercing it, scattering splinters about, when the stranger had interposed it between himself and their missiles.
“Why, friend,” said I, “were you sought by those of the black caste?”
“It was doubtless a case of mistaken identity,” he said.
“Or, perhaps,” I said, “Tyrtaios, who wished to reward you for your opposition to the desertion, had a colleague, or agent, aboard the great ship.”
“But then,” said the stranger, “the tale would be true.”
“Where is the great ship?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he said. “Tersites is mad, and the ship had eyes, and could now see her way. Thassa was vast before him. A hundred horizons beckoned. There are shores that have not yet been seen. I, with others, desiring to return to civilization, were put ashore at Daphna, of the farther islands, and we made our way severally, as we would.”
“And you came to Brundisium?”
“Those who draw the oar,” he said, “do not set the helm.”
“You were followed, it seems,” I said.
“Seemingly so,” said he.
“The arm of Tyrtaios was long,” he said.
“Not long enough,” he said. “Thassa, last night, received two of the black caste.”
“I believe your story,” I said.
A couple of the fellows laughed.
“Then,” said the stranger, “you are a fool. Had I heard my story I would not have believed it. Why should you?”
“True, true,” laughed a man, good-naturedly.
“Return the slave to her cage,” said the proprietor to his man.
The slave looked up at me, wildly, piteously, and squirmed a little. Her lips formed the word, ‘Master’.
I said nothing.
Why should one deign to acknowledge a slave?
The slave was then freed, and, stood. “Oh,” she said. Her footing was a bit uncertain, as her ankles had been crossed, and tied, for some Ahn. There was a sound from the bells fastened about her left ankle. Then she, unsteady, and rubbing her wrists, was taken by the hair, by the proprietor’s man, was bent over, at the waist, and, in standard leading position, was conducted to the back of the tavern, and drawn through a thick curtain of layered, dangling, colored beads. A moment later I heard a last flash of bells, and the closing of a sturdy metal gate.
“You found the slave attractive,” I said to the stranger.
“Of course,” he said.
I went to press a tarsk-bit into his hand. “This is for her use,” I said.
“For the story?” he said.
“Surely,” I said.
“No,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“She is not Alcinoe,” he said.
“I see,” I said.
“Keep it, pay for her use, for yourself,” he said.
“I do not wish to share her with others,” I said. “I do not wish to pay for her use. It is her, the whole of her, I want.”
“You have seen her before?” he said.
“Surely,” I said, “and with interest, but never as this night.”
“She is quite beautiful,” he said.
“And never so beautiful as this night,” I said.
“Clearly the meaningless slut, the worthless chit,” he said, “wants you for her master.”
“And I,” I said, “want her for my slave.”
“She is a true slave,” he said. “She will be hot, and helpless.”
“I read her so,” I said.
“She is on the verge now,” he said. “Did you not see her respond to your touch?”
“That is why,” I asked, “that you had her subjected to the touch of a master?”
“Yes,” he said, “and twice, that she would understand herself to be what she is, and that you could see, without mistake, what she is.”
“A slave,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“I see,” I said.
“There is an affinity here,” he said. “Strange it is how a slave, transported, might find her master on a new, unsuspected world, one far different from her own, on which she must kneel and wear a collar, and a master might find his slave, placed at his feet, brought to him from a far-distant, scarce-realized world.”