“What of her?” said the second man. He indicated Aynur, roughly, brutally, prodding her with his bootlike sandal.
“If you do not want her,” I said, “do not hurt her. If you do not wish to keep her for yourselves, do not kill her. Sell her. Surely she will bring you a good price in a market.”
I sensed the men looking at me.
“I am sure that she will do her best to be a good slave,” I said.
“Is it true?” asked the second man, of Aynur.
“Yes, my masters,” whispered Aynur.
“For the time, then, at least, we will spare her,” said the first man.
Aynur shuddered. I feared that she might faint.
I was acutely aware of my own helplessness, and bondage, how my ankles were crossed, one lying over the other, the two looped with cord and bound together, how my wrists were crossed, and bound. I pulled a little and, in an instant, had come to the last of the slack, an inch or so, in the cord which fastened my wrists to my ankles. I was conscious of the cloak, so precariously about my shoulders, and my nudity beneath it. It was total power the men held over Aynur and myself. This was not merely a matter of their much greater size and strength, enabling them to handle us as though we might be children, enabling them to do with us as they wished, nor was it a matter merely of the implacability of our bonds, denying us even the most meaningless opportunity to try to defend ourselves or to flee; it had rather to do with the marks on our thighs, the collars on our necks, that we were slaves. It was that which, more than anything else, more than their incomparable greater physical strength, more than the sternness of bonds, made us wholly, helplessly, theirs.
The second man bent to Aynur’s ankles and bound them together.
“Thank you, Mistress,” breathed Aynur.
I winced, seeing how tightly her ankles were bound together.
The man then knelt across her body and thrust the slave bracelets higher on her wrists. He then, with cord, tied her wrists together. He jerked the cords tight. He then removed the bracelets from her, putting them in his pouch. He then drew her to her knees and gagged her.
I dared now cast a glance at my master. He was standing to one side.
I feared to be overly bold. I did not wish to be lashed.
The slave box, by the first man, with his foot, was thrust before me and to my right, rather toward the foot of the stairs. It scraped on the stone flooring. It was not far, then from where my master was. It was to his left. He paid it no attention.
The second man then lifted Aynur up to his arms. I saw her eyes, over the gag. He carried her to the slave box. He sat her in the box. He put on hand in her hair and the other on her ankles. I again saw her eyes. In them there was terror. Neither of us knew, truly, what her fate was to be. It was my hope that they would spare her, if only for the whip and collar of another, one who would see, even casually, to her perfect mastering. He put her down in the box, on her back, her knees up. He shut the lid of the box, and locked it. Through the perforations in the box, in the form of the kef, I could see her face.
In what perfect custody we are kept!
The newcomer, my master, and the two captors then exchanged further words, sotto voce.
I saw then the slave box lifted by the two men. It had stout, leather handles at each end. It was carried up the stairs, and then, the first man opening the trap, thrusting it up, through the opening. The trap was then closed. I heard the stops of the men, heavy with the weight they were bearing, cross the floor above, and then, in a moment, as the set themselves to a new flight of stairs, diminish.
I was then left alone, in the subbasement, with my new master.
45
I thought that I would attempt to charm or placate my master. I would dare to lift my eyes, timidly, to his. I would smile, a timid smile, hoping to please him.
I lifted my head.
“Slut!” cried he in rage.
I understood nothing of his fury. It made no sense to me. Why should he be angry with me? Why should he be cruel to me? I thrust my head down, instantly, terrified.
I had only smiled at him.
How had I done wrong? How was it that this should have so offended him, have so enraged him?
“You worthless slave and slut,” he whispered. In his voice there, was almost unbelievable hatred.
No longer dared I hope that he might be kind. I hoped rather now only that I would be permitted to live.
“You smile at me,” he snarled, “not even knowing who I am!”
I kept my head down. I trembled.
“Lift your head!” he snapped. I obeyed.
“Back, back, further!” he said.
My neck then hurt. I saw, above me, the wretched, peeling ceiling of that dank place.
He approached me and handled the collar.
“Fitting,” he said, contemptuously, angrily, “you begged use?”
Of course I had begged use! Was I to be blamed for what I was, for what I had become, that which I had earlier been only secretly, only in my dreams? And were not the masters, too, to blame? Had they not released the slave? Did he now think I could simply return her to her dungeon, where she had languished, neglected and denied, after I had met her, and, in her, my true self? Once one has found oneself can one forget oneself? It is a bit late for such things then. It is one thing never to acknowledge oneself; it is one thing to pretend and hide; it is one thing to avoid meeting oneself; but it is quite another to forget oneself once one has met oneself; one cannot, so to speak, then unmeet oneself; one may hide from the truth; one may attempt to avoid it; one may even arrange one’s life in such a way asto minimize the possibilities of learning it, at least explicitly, face to face, in its fully glory; but once one has seen it, one cannot simply unsee it; one cannot unlearn it; it can no longer be repudiated; incantations can restore neither virginity nor ignorance. And, too, I loved my sex, my truth. I would cling to it forever. No one could force it out of me. I was not discontent to be a woman.
With his left hand he grasped the cloak at my throat, holding me by it. With his right hand, he struck me thrice, first with the palm of his hand, then with the back of the hand, then, again, with the palm of his hand, lashing my head back and forth.
I looked up at him, my face stinging. I tasted blood in my mouth.
“Yes,” said he, angrily, “you would crawl to any man as a slave.”
He then, in fury, tore open the cloak and exposed me, before him.
He regarded me.
“Yes, yes,” said he. “You are a slave, a slave! That is what you are, a slave! It is no wonder that you worthless little things bring a good price on a market block!”
He then thrust me on the floor.
I lay there, afraid to move.
I heard him rummaging about the room. Then I heard the snap of a slave whip. I moaned. I tensed. He came and stood near me.
“Please be kind to me, my master,” I said.
“Barbarian slut,” he said, “Earth-girl slave, Earth-girl thrall!”
He knew then that I was not native to this world. He had understood this, perhaps, from my accent.
Yet I was not sure of this.
Could he have known this independently?
As he had spoken to me I had been at first startled. Then I had grown troubled.
Now that I had been several months on this world I was much more aware of the subtleties of diverse accents within the language of the masters, that language which I must learn, that I might the better obey, that I might the better understand what was required of me. This accent was not that of the local guards, those I had encountered in the house, nor that of the captors, nor that of those of Treve. Indeed, it reminded me in ways of my own early accent in this language, not with respect to my native tongue, which still influenced how I spoke the language, of course, but with respect to that which I had originally absorbed in learning the language, now so long ago. My speech had, however, over the months, been heavily influenced by my time in Treve, and, in the past weeks, doubtless, by that of this city itself.