The girl inside the box cried out, as one of the men kicked the side of the box, angrily.
“There is the other one,” said one of the mariners.
The men turned about.
There was a sudden small sound of chain, as though a slave, perhaps finding herself regarded, had hastened to kneel, perhaps performing obeisance.
“Would you like your blanket back?” asked a man.
“If it should please Masters to return it to me,” said the voice.
“Lift your head,” said one of the men.
“I am hungry, Masters, please feed me,” said the girl in the box.
“Be silent,” said one of the men.
“Yes, Masters,” she said.
The men then went, taking the blanket with them, across the hold.
The girl in the box, peeking through the grille, watched them.
They were crouching down, about the other girl. She was fair-haired and well ankled. Her left ankle was chained to a ring, set back near the opposite wall of the hold.
“I am not a virgin,” she said to them.
“Bring her a little food,” said one of the mariners. “She will need her strength.”
Men laughed.
The girl in the box watched for a little, but then lay down, her knees drawn up, closely, in misery. She could not help but hear the cries from across the hold. She squirmed. She was helplessly heated, for she, too, was a slave. The cries were those of slave rapture, that rapture that she herself had never yet felt, that rapture mercilessly, even ruthlessly, inflicted upon one who has no choice but to submit.
Later a man came to her box and, with his boot, slid up the tiny panel at the foot of the door.
Two small pans, with the side of his foot, were slipped through the opening from the outside, one for food, which contained some broken pieces of pressed cakes of cereal, and one for water.
“Keep your box clean,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
CHAPTER 23
The small slave, hooded, naked, kneeling, her wrists encircled with steel, put out her hands, following the chain running from her wrists, and felt the heavy ring, fixed in the floor, to which she, by the wrists, was chained.
It was only that night that she had been sold, and that only in a magistrate’s auction, one in which a variety of items, not only women, had been offered, abandoned parcels, unclaimed trunks, confiscated properties, a captured stray dog, many such things.
She felt the ring carefully, her small fingers touching it, and holding it.
She had been exhibited naked, of course.
She had obeyed the auctioneer with perfection.
It had not been necessary to strike her, even once.
She was still reeling with what it had been like, ascending to the tall, wide, rounded block, the lights, being frightened, not being able to see the men, really, the sawdust beneath her feet, the loose metal collar with its light chain on her neck, not inhibiting her movements, the prodding of the auctioneer’s coiled whip, which had snapped once and had made her cry out, almost as though she had been struck.
There seemed something terribly familiar about the ring. She put out her fingers and felt the floor about it.
She tried, defensively, to conceptualize the matter as one of having given the men a good show, but she realized that that was a self-serving distortion of what had actually occurred. Oh, to be sure, doubtless it had been a good show, but that was largely the auctioneer’s doing. Putting it the other way suggested that it might have been the consequence of some decision on her part, or the result of some benevolent or defiant intention, that sort of thing. Rather she was only a property, which had been well displayed, in numerous attitudes, postures, and such. It was true, however, a little later, and as the bidding heated, she had been almost overcome with strange feelings, exciting, moving, thrilling feelings. It was then that she had, suddenly, perhaps for the first time, fully understood that she was a property, really, a wondrous, vital, excited, acutely conscious, extremely sensitive, highly intelligent, incredibly desirable property, a property that most men would find far more appealing than gold and diamonds, a property for which men might even kill. She tried to force such thoughts, such memories from her mind. Could it have been she who had behaved as the girl on the block? She could feel the heat as the men cried out. She could feel the interest and desire, like waves, such an incredible feeling, wash over her. She had had an identity imposed upon her, a clear, incontrovertible identity, but, too, this identity had seemed to emerge from within her. It was as though, for the first time in her life, she had had no choice but to be what she truly was. On the block then, there had been, at the end, only a flushed, startled, sweating, comprehending, leashed slave girl. But now, again, she was frightened. One bidder had apparently, not even audibly, but by signs from the audience, topped each bid. He had had her for a bid of forty darins, which was high for a girl at the magistrate’s auction, and well satisfied the auctioneer, but would not have been unusual, or even high, for a typical auction of women, even in a small town. But, of course, rich men seldom attended magistrate’s auctions, apparently finding them of little interest. Too, she was not even trained. But now, she realized, she no longer belonged to the city, but, presumably, to some private individual.
She now had a master!
Her fingers touched the ring, and the floor about it.
They trembled a little.
“Oh!” she cried, softly, for large, heavy hands were at her neck, undoing the fastenings on the hood, and then they thrust up the hood, a little, revealing her trembling, parted lips, there was no doubt they were masculine hands, and they held her face. The hood was left much in place, so that it acted as a blindfold. She felt her hair, what had been loosened in the partial lifting of the hood, touched, felt, almost wonderingly, and then arranged, softly about her shoulders. This seemed to be done almost with a sort of curiosity. Her hair had been washed and combed prior to the sale, but it was a bit disarranged now, and sweaty, from its incarceration in the hood. She had also been touched with perfume, prior to being taken to the block. The perfume was perhaps a bit subtle for a slave, but then she was new to the brand. Perhaps they thought it might make her first night in chains, at the mercy of a master, easier. But that seems unlikely. It is much more probable that it was designed, in its subtlety, to encourage a master to prowl her beauty, almost as in curiosity, detecting and relishing it. It was, of course, a cheap perfume. That would be expected from a magistrate’s auction. And it was also, as those versed in such matters would have recognized, a slave perfume, a perfume extracted and prepared with the vulnerable beauty of a slave in mind. She was now aware of someone, behind her, bending over her, taking in the scent of the perfume.
She did not dare speak.
She knew herself slave.
Then, in a moment, she felt a glass held softly to her lips, and tilted a little.
She tasted kana and was eager for more, but the glass was withdrawn.
Barely had she wet her lips.
She understood then that what she drank, and in what quantities, was no longer at her discretion, but at that of another.
Her lips trembled a little.
She heard a tiny noise, as of something being broken, a cracker, or perhaps a biscuit.
A moment later she felt a small piece of pressed cake of cereal put betwixt her lips, against her teeth.
She thought to lift her hands but, as she was kneeling, and they were fastened, she could not bring them near her mouth, not without changing her position, bending down, lying down, such things.
She opened her teeth and took the bit of pressed cake into her mouth, and ate it.