From her position forward, in the wagon box, kneeling at the side of the wagon bench, the voice of White Ankles trilled with laugher.
“I do not understand?” said Cornhair.
“On your belly,” said the dealer. “Cross your ankles, and cross your wrists, behind you.”
Dismayed, Cornhair put herself to her belly, and assumed the prescribed position. Shortly thereafter, her crossed ankles were bound together, and her wrists, behind her, as well.
She was then lifted up, over the side of the wagon bed, and deposited on the boards.
“Do not do this to me, Master,” she protested. “I am—I was!—the Lady Publennia Calasalia, of the Larial Calasalii!”
“You know little now of the Larial Calasalii,” said the dealer.
“We are of the exalted honestori, of the high patricians, of the senatorial class!” she said.
“No more,” he said. “It began as a clash of private armies, between the Larial Calasalii and the Larial Farnichi.”
Perhaps it might be noted that private armies were not rare in Telnarian times. There were many reasons for this, given the frequent absences of enforceable imperial authority, the precariousness of life, the lack of, or fragility of, communication, the exhaustion of land, the paucity of goods, the desire to protect and control dwindling resources, the desire to suppress banditry and piracy, the desire to rule and wield power, and such. Indeed, as the empire became ever more expanded and unwieldy its effective power, so attenuated, diminished. And while lawlessness prowled perimeters, and displaced populations fled to cities, to form restless, dangerous, idle, hungry crowds, requiring pacification, if not a velvet suppression, supplied by doles of grain, and plentiful, lavish amusements, spectacles, pageants, plays, races, and games, strong men, here and there, sometimes in barren provinces, took to the saddle and imposed order. Indeed, it is speculated that at the founding of honored kingdoms, if one should seek far enough, one might find something surprisingly inauspicious, a renegade soldier, a local tyrant, an ambitious leader of a handful of armed men, what, at the time, might have been denominated a brigand or rogue.
“Four campaigns were waged,” he said, “on three worlds. Much blood was shed, much gold expended. Then, allegedly to keep the peace, but at the invitation of the Farnichi, an invitation weighted with gold, the empire intervened, intervened on behalf of the Farnichi. The forces of the Farnichi then, now abetted by the striking hammer of the empire, shattered your vaunted Larial Calasalii. Its surviving forces were disbanded. Its goods were confiscated by the state, and distributed, half to the empire, half to the Farnichi. The family was stripped of its titles and privileges. It, reduced to poverty, was demoted to the humiliori. Then, at the request of the Farnichi, it was secretly outlawed, an outlawry which became public, only on the morning after its men were arrested and imprisoned, many to be sentenced to the mines and quarries. Its thousand women were collared and sold at auction, most to be house slaves, and scullery slaves, many to serve in the houses of the Farnichi, and others became field slaves, many then to labor in the fields, orchards, and vineyards of the Farnichi. Many, to be sure, became pleasure slaves, and many of these, doubtless, eventually found themselves chained at the foot of the couches of Farnichi Masters.”
“No, no, no!” cried Cornhair, twisting, writhing, tied, on the boards of the wagon bed.
White Ankles laughed, merrily.
“We must be on our way, slave girl,” said the dealer.
“What is to be done with me?” wept Cornhair, struggling.
“You are going to be marketed,” he said.
In a bit, with a jolt, the wagon lurched forward.
In a few minutes, the wagon was making its way through the grass.
“We leave the Herul camp behind!” said White Ankles, joyfully.
“You are a pretty slave,” said the dealer.
“I am more than pretty, Master!” said White Ankles.
“Stop that!” laughed the dealer.
“I would please my Master,” said White Ankles.
“You are an appetitious little brute,” he said.
“I am a slave, Master!” said White Ankles.
“Stop it!” laughed the dealer.
“Let me please you, Master!” said White Ankles.
“Slave! Slave!” cried Cornhair.
“Later, later!” laughed the dealer.
“As Master wishes,” said White Ankles.
Cornhair thrashed on the floor of the wagon bed. She pulled, futilely, at her bonds.
“Stop twisting about,” called the dealer, from the wagon bench. “You must not abrade your body. We want it to look smooth and pretty on the sales block.”
“Yes, Master,” wept Cornhair.
“You cannot free yourself,” said the dealer. “You are a tied slave. Do you know what it is to be a tied slave?”
Cornhair pulled a little at her bonds, futilely.
“Yes, Master,” she said, sobbing. “I know what it is to be a tied slave.”
Notes, Prior to Chapter 14
Our principal source for reconstructing these accounts is the manuscript, or, possibly, the manuscripts, given certain subtleties in the text, discovered several years ago in the ducal library of Valens, one of the lesser duchies in the confederation of Talois. The ducal librarians cataloged the text, or texts, as 122B Valens, and it, or they, have, on the whole, remained identified under this designation, despite certain disruptions in the confederation, mostly consequent on schisms. The swords of faith are not uncommonly bright with the blood of zealotry. In any event, as I once made clear, long ago, the Valens manuscript, while not unique in this particular, is unusual amongst Telnarian, or allegedly Telnarian, manuscripts, as the narrative is relatively personal, and deals, on the whole, with individuals, rather than institutions, with personal lives, rather than the broad, tumultuous storms and tides of history. I think there is some point in this, not only for its own interest, for we, as human beings, have an interest in human beings, but, beyond that, we discover our species, and thus ourselves, in the lives of others. Have we not lived, then, at the edge of icy seas, not met the lances of foes on distant fields, not trekked beside wagons seeking new lands? Have we not waited at dawn for the attack of Heruls, not noticed the dim horizon dotted with advancing horsemen, not noted, to our unease, the tracks of the vi-cat near our camp? Love, fear, sorrow, rage, joy, curiosity, suspicion, betrayal, friendship, treason, trust, are these not our name, and that of our brothers? In glimpsing other lives we live our own more deeply, more keenly, more richly. We understand the nature of our species in the record of its deeds. How could it be otherwise? What is the vi-cat without claws, the keen-sighted hawk without its wings? It is less than itself. Let our desert be enriched with the greenery of kinship. Meadows laid waste may again bloom. What are these great movements and institutions, these migrations and dislocations, these inventions and discoveries, these wars and recoveries, but the outcomes of human action? Let far rain refresh our aridity. A mariner resides in the heart of man. Is it wrong for caged wolves to howl and recall the forest? Might they not, somehow, slip between the bars? All is not as we find it in our own chambers. The mountains of history consist of human particles. Let us observe the mountain, but remember that it consists of human particles, and one learns of the mountain, in a way, by learning of those particles, those which contribute to its grandeur and might, its terror and fearsomeness, those without which it would not have existed. In short, other times are our times, as well. In learning of others we learn of ourselves. How can one learn the meaning of borne standards, without understanding who bears them, and why?