“Unchain her!” roared Abrogastes, pointing to Huta, who shrank back, where she lay at the left side of his bench, as one would look toward the hall.
One of the keepers rushed to the slave and pulled from his belt a great ring of keys, one of which he thrust into the massive padlock on her high, heavy iron collar. In an instant it was thrown in a clatter of metal to the stout planks of the dais, and Huta, whimpering, terrified, at a gesture from Abrogastes, was hurried from the dais, bent over, held by the hair, and flung to the earth, some five yards before the bench. Some three or four yards before the spear, which had now been placed, butt down, held by two men, in the rush-strewn dirt floor of the hall. She scrambled about, on all fours, to face Abrogastes, and then knelt in fearful obeisance, her head down, the palms of her hands on the floor, making herself as small as possible.
“Kneel up!” shouted Abrogastes.
Fearfully Huta did so, back straight, back on her heels, head up, palms down on thighs, knees spread widely, pathetically, beseechingly.
“Behold, brothers!” cried Abrogastes in fury, pointing to the slave. “Behold she who was once Huta, priestess of the Timbri!”
Anger coursed about the tables, for it was well known that she had been implicated in the secession of Ortog, and, indeed, by many, was held accountable for that defection, that treason and rebellion.
“What is your name?” called Abrogastes to the slave.
“Huta!” she cried.
“And what sort of name is that?” he demanded.
“It is a slave name, put on me by my master!” she cried.
“Who is your master?” he asked.
“You are my master,” she cried, “Abrogastes, king of the Drisriaks, of the Alemanni!”
“For what do you exist?” inquired Abrogastes.
“To serve my masters with instant, unquestioning obedience and total perfection!” she said.
“She it was,” cried Abrogastes, to the assembled, now-sobered feasters, “who by trickery and cajolery, by promises, and false prophecies, fanned the ambition of Ortog, who tempted him to treason, who encouraged him in heinous sedition, who led him to rend the Drisriaks, his own people, who would have had him found a divisive tribe, even the name of which no longer exists!”
The name, of course, of the failed, secessionist tribe was the Ortungs or the Ortungen. The name did still exist, of course, though it was not wise to speak it in the presence of Abrogastes, nor, generally, in the dwelling places of the Drisriaks. The Ortungs had been, of course, defeated, and scattered, as grass to the wind, as it was said. To be sure, there were, here and there, remnants who, in hiding, and unreconciled, continued defiantly to regard themselves as Ortungs, in their own right, by the acceptance of rings, and not traitorous Drisriaks. After the slaughter in the tent on Tenguthaxichai, recounted elsewhere, Abrogastes, on the advice of his counselors, had permitted pockets of surrendering, repentant Ortungs to return to the dwelling places of the Drisriaks. The olive branch, as well as the sword, can be an instrument of policy.
“Is not treason the worst of crimes?” called Abrogastes.
“Yes,” cried several men, about the tables.
“No!” shouted Abrogastes. “The instigation to treason is the worst of crimes!”
He pointed to Huta.
“Yes, yes!” cried men. The tables roared.
The former ladies of the empire, kneeling about the hall, at the sides, before the tables, trembled.
“Mercy, Master!” cried Huta, throwing herself to the rush-strewn floor of the hall.
“What shall be done with her?” called Abrogastes.
“Kill her! Kill her!” cried men. Men, too, rose from behind the tables. Others pounded upon them. “Kill her!”
“Let it be a lesson to all who would betray the peoples!” cried a man.
“Yes!” cried others.
Huta, lying prone in the dirt, looked up, and lifted her hand to Abrogastes. “Mercy, Master!” she begged.
Doubtless she then understood why food had not been given to her that day, that it might not be wasted upon her.
The giant spear, held by two men, was large, upright, behind the slave.
“Kneel up!” cried Abrogastes.
Terrified, Huta obeyed, though she could scarcely, even kneeling, keep her balance, so shaken, so helpless, she was.
“Let me cut her throat!” cried a man, coming about a table.
“No, let me!” cried another.
One man then even leapt to the slave and had her head back, cruelly, held by the hair, his knife at her throat.
He looked eagerly to Abrogastes.
Abrogastes waved him back, and the others, as well.
“You were a priestess, were you not?” inquired Abrogastes.
“Yes, Master,” said Huta.
“You were a consecrated, sacred virgin, were you not?” inquired Abrogastes.
“Yes, Master,” wept Huta.
“You do not appear to be clothed,” said Abrogastes.
“No, Master,” she wept.
“She has her brand!” laughed a man.
“Yes!” said another.
There was laughter.
“Behind you, behold the spear of the Alemanni!” said Abrogastes.
“Yes, Master,” she said, falling to all fours, and turning.
“Go to it!” he said.
Quickly she did so, and, unbidden, began to kiss, and lick it, desperately.
There was laughter.
“She is not unintelligent,” said a man.
“No,” said another.
The spear, interestingly, may not be touched by free women, of the Alemanni, or others. It may, however, receive the ministrations of female slaves, this being taken as a service or an obeisance, much as the washing of a warrior’s feet by the tongues of the women of the enemy, the acts serving as a symbol of the nothingness of the slaves, as an irrevocable token of total submission, and as a recognition of, and an acknowledgment of, the power and glory of the Alemanni,
“Turn about!” commanded Abrogastes.
Huta, trembling and fearful, unsteady, on all fours, turned about, to face Abrogastes.
“It will now be decided whether you live or die,” said Abrogastes.
“Master?” begged Huta.
“Bring the scales,” said Abrogastes.
Men cried out with pleasure.
Scales were brought, wide, shallow, pan scales, which, when the pointed staff was driven into the earth, to one side of the floor, and steadied there by the hand of a man, stood half as high as a man, and with them a small table, on which were a large number of lead pellets, tiny measured weights.
“Stand!” commanded Abrogastes.
Huta, trembling, unsteadily, stood.
“Bring musicians,” said Abrogastes.
Three men, from the sand latitudes of Beyira II, were summoned, from where they had been waiting, in a small room off the main hall, a pantry shed. Two carried pipes, and one a small drum. The sand latitudes of Beyira II are, of course, not entirely sand, but they are, on the whole, windswept, desolate regions. They are crossed by lonely caravans. Here and there, among the dunes, there are small oases, where dates may be found, and grass, for small flocks. Some of these are well known and determine caravan routes. Some are known only to local groups, of nomads, of herdsmen, who move among them, seeking grass at one, while allowing it to replenish itself at another. Sometimes there are storms of sand which last for weeks, which must be weathered by the tiny groups and their small flocks. On the desert, and in the desolate regions in general, there is much loneliness, and much time. The inhabitants, the nomads and herdsmen, of these areas, as might be expected, have a rich oral culture, rich in such things as myth and storytelling. Too, they have their music, which is intricate, and melodiously sensuous, a music which moves the blood of men and the bellies of women. Although the tents of these nomads are dull, and inconspicuous, on the outside, melding in well with the browns and tans of the country, they are often lined with colorful silk, and, inside, may contain such things as rich rugs, carved wooden stools, and bright metal vessels. The world inside the tent contrasts with the plainness and hardship of the world outside the tent. Inside the tents is found another world. Within this world, not unoften, is found another aspect of the ancient culture of the men of the sand latitudes. Within the tents, on the gorgeous rugs, often pound small, bangled feet, within them often swirls colorful, revealing silks, within them often rings the sudden, bright erotic flash of finger cymbals. The men of Beyira II are known throughout galaxies for their dancing slave girls, for none but slaves are allowed by them to dance such dances, which so say “female” in all its beauty and vulnerability, in all its joy and radiance, in all its rhythmic gracefulness and incredible erotic allure, dances which celebrate, in all their unapologetic richness and glory, the astounding attractions, and the desirability and excitement of the female who, though perhaps collared, is totally free to be herself, and must be herself, even, if she be reluctant, to the instruction of the whip, or worse. These girls are often bought by the men of the sand latitudes at the cities which, like ports, border the edges of the lonely, terrible countries. They are then carried away, bound and hooded, on sand beasts, into the trackless deserts to serve. The men of the sand latitudes pay for these women in a variety of ways, as with fees from guiding, and guarding, caravans; with pressed dates, from the oases; with gleanings, of flesh, horn and skin, from their herds; with minerals, found in obscure outcroppings, which to them are largely useless, except for their aesthetic value, but which are valued by the men of the “coastal cities,” minerals such as vessa and forschite, which are copper and gold; with semiprecious stones such as turquoise, garnets, amethysts, opals and topaz; and rare clays, reds and whites, used in the manufacture of the red-figured Beyiran ware. There is speculation, too, when the nomads come to the cities with struck coins, diamonds and pearls, and tales tending to provoke skepticism, if not unwise contradiction, of having found such goods in the remains of perished caravans. To be sure, there may be some truth to the claim, but, if so, the matter shifts to speculation having to do with the precise nature of the misfortune which may have befallen the caravan. Sometimes, too, girls appear in slave markets claiming to be the daughters or nieces of rich merchants, governmental officials, and such, but, as they are by then branded, they are whipped to silence, and must soon, generally far away, accommodate themselves to the nature of their new life. Some might be kept, too, it is speculated, by the nomads, to be trained in slave dance. In any event, in time, these dancers, however they may be acquired, either honestly, by trade or through purchase, or in gifting, as are doubtless most, or by some less open modality of acquisition, such as the ambush, cloak and rope, become, under the harsh tutelage of the men of the sand latitudes, incredibly valuable as prizes, and gifts, being exchanged among groups, sometimes traded to passing caravans, and sometimes, too, being lost to brigands, hunting such dancers, some for their own camps, some for marketing, even on other worlds. The dancers of Beyira II are famed throughout galaxies. To be sure, the lives of such women is not all dance and such. There is much work to do about such camps, and it falls to the hands of the beauties. Their life is not easy. They must even braid the leather whips, under male surveillance, which may be used upon themselves.