From her knees the girl lifted her head, and looked up, slyly, at Citherix, her lovely face suffused with triumph, and smiled.
She had little to fear.
And well, thought she, her beauty had conquered her master.
“Leave, Citherix,” she said.
With a cry of rage the giant seized her hair in his left hand and pulled her upright, straightened on her knees, and then bent her head back, that she must look up at him, and she did, her eyes wide, in pain and terror. “Contemptible, displeasing slave!” he cried.
“No, Master!” she begged.
He then hurled her on her belly before him, her bound hands stretched outright, the stand of free leather flung before them, and lashed her, twice, with the whip, and then, angrily, he put the whip in his teeth and dragged her to one of the wooden columns, to the base of which he fastened her, head down, on her knees, by her long blond tresses, they encircling the column, and knotted behind it. He then lashed her, as befitted her crime, her impudence and foolishness.
“Strike well,” said a man.
“Let her learn what she is,” said another.
The slave cried out in misery, her tears dampening the dirt and rushes at the base of the post.
“She is a sexual creature, a slave!” said a woman, angrily. “Let her be punished!”
“Punish the slave, the shameless hussy!” cried a woman.
“Hit her harder!” cried a woman.
“Yes!” cried a young woman, her voice trembling with excitement.
“Yes!” cried another, thrilled.
“The boldness of the liar, pretending to be a free woman!” said another woman.
“She is an insult to all free women!” said another.
“Punish her!” cried a free woman.
“Yes!” cried another.
“She is sexual,” cried another. “Let her be a slave!”
“She is a slave! Treat her as a slave!” said another.
“You will learn your place, slut!” cried another woman.
“Oh!” cried the slave.
“You are a slave, being whipped by your master!” hissed a free woman.
“Yes, Mistress!” sobbed the slave. “Oh!”
“Say it!” demanded the free woman.
“Oh!”
“Say it!” demanded the free woman.
“I am a slave being whipped by my master!” cried the slave.
“You are hopelessly sexual,” said a free woman. “That was seen under the drink of truth.”
“Yes, Mistress!” cried the slave.
“Thus you should be a slave!”
“Yes, Mistress!” said the slave.
“Thus you belong to men!” said a free woman, angrily.
“Yes, Mistress!” cried the slave.
“Say it!” cried the free woman.
“It is true!” wept the slave. “I am a slave. I belong to men!”
“She belongs to men!” cried a young woman, in awe.
“Yes!” said another, thrilled.
“And see!” said a young woman, turning to another. “She is being whipped by her master!”
“And so, too, might you be, were you a slave,” said the woman addressed.
“And you, too!” responded the first.
“Yes, yes!” agreed the second.
“What are you?” inquired a free woman, bending down to the slave.
“A slave!” gasped Yata. “Oh! A slave, a slave!”
“What else?” demanded the woman.
“Oh!” cried Yata. “A slave! Only that! Oh! Nothing more, only a slave, only that!”
The barbarian lowered the whip.
“Have you learned your lesson?” inquired a free woman of the slave.
“Yes, yes, Mistress!” sobbed the slave.
The barbarian threw aside the whip, and, with the Herul knife, cut the tresses of the slave, freeing her from the column.
“To him!” ordered the barbarian, indicating Citherix.
The slave, sobbing, and beaten, her face stained with tears, her blond hair jagged about her head and face, where it had been cut, releasing her from the column, on her knees, crawled quickly, clumsily, unsteadily, lurching, supporting herself partly on her left palm, her right wrist bound to, and over, her left wrist, to the feet of Citherix, where she bellied before him, and pressed her lips fervently to his boots, kissing them, again and again. “Forgive me, Master!” she begged. “A contrite, errant slave, one now well apprised of her faults, begs forgiveness of a master!”
“See how she is before him!” whispered a young woman.
“She is so sexual!” said another.
“She is a slave,” said another.
Citherix looked up from the abject, penitent slave at his feet.
“A thousand sheep,” said he to the barbarian giant.
“Shall I sell you?” the giant inquired of the beaten, prostrate slave.
“It will be done with me as my master wishes,” she whispered.
“The answer is fitting,” said Otto.
He then lifted her with great gentleness in his arms and carried her to the side of the fire pit, where he placed her on her right side, her legs drawn up, near the waiting iron, it plunged a foot into the fire. The smith, or worker with iron, at a sign from Otto, relinquished the heavy gloves. Otto then himself removed the iron from the fire. Yata looked up at him, he who owned her, who was her master.
“Hold her,” said the giant.
The slave was seized by three strong men.
She could not move.
The iron was white-hot.
It met with the barbarian’s approval.
Its mark would be that of the tiny, tasteful, stylized slave rose, a mark which would be recognized throughout galaxies.
Yata was then branded.
CHAPTER 28
“On your back, on the table, Filene,” said Ronisius, the severe officer.
Corelius, the young, blond officer, stood to one side.
The blonde rose quickly to her feet, from where she had been kneeling in her place in line, with the other girls, and took her place on the table, as ordered.
She glanced once at Corelius.
She wondered if he would be jealous at how swiftly she obeyed Ronisius.
It pleased her, of late, she had discovered, to obey, and promptly, at least men such as Ronisius. Too, stricter masters tend to be better obeyed. Too, she did not wish to feel his quirt. Her form of livestock, after all, assuming that he might regard her in that fashion, was not that of the horse, but of the woman. To be sure, in her case, as in that of others, assuming he viewed her as a domestic animal, as the others, he would permit no doubt, nor had she any, in his case, as to who was master. It pleased her to sense that Corelius envied Ronisius her obedience. She knew vaguely, deeply within her, despite what she would have preferred to tell herself, that she despised Corelius for his weakness.
“Put your head back,” said Ronisius, “over the back of the table.”
She obeyed.
Corelius, standing to one side, seemed angry.
Perhaps, she thought to herself, he is polite, he is gentle, he is kindly, he is tender, he is understanding, he is sensitive, because he knows that I am free, and he is my contact, the agent who must supply me with the dagger?
Else, if he thinks me a slave, why does he not treat me as a slave?
Is he so weak, she wondered.
She felt a light chain, in a leather sleeve, jerked about her neck, rudely, closely, and then snapped shut, locked.