I heard other utterances, too, before me, and behind me, soft, soothing utterances, in other languages. Their import was perhaps similar.
“Steady, little vulo,” said the voice.
I was very still. I did not know what a “vulo” was, of course.
I could hear the chain approaching, slowly, pausing briefly by each item in the line, its links moving against one another. Too, shortly after each pause, there was a clear click, as of the meshing and fastening of metal. After a time, it was quite close, only a few feet behind me.
I considered leaping up, running.
But I would only have fallen, miserably.
I was shackled.
Too, where would one run?
Most importantly, I knew that I would not have dared to leap up and run, even if I were not where and as I was. Only a fool, I thought, and understood, even at the time, would be so stupid as to disobey men such as these, in the even the smallest way.
I looked to my right, and before me. I could see the shadow there, on the floor, of the man who had spoken to me, it flung before him by some source of illumination, presumably a lantern such as I had seen earlier. He was clearly in a tunic, of some sort. Even in the shadow he seemed large, formidable. He, personally, was behind me, and to my left. He was carrying something in his right hand, which I could see in the shadow coils of something, the coils stretched out, distorted somewhat, like the silhouette itself. I did not know what the coils might be. I suppose it was obvious but I did not even consider it at the time. Too, if I had known more of where I was, I would have found his mere location, behind me and to my left, a source of considerable apprehension. “Steady, little tasta,” he said, soothingly. I did not know what a “tasta” might be. I had heard the expression ‘tasta’, and ‘vulo’, and others, used elsewhere by these men along the side of the line, ingredient among locutions in various languages. Such words, ‘vulo’ and ‘tasta’, I gathered, were words in their own language. We, of course, would not know their meaning.
Suddenly I heard, beside me, the rattle of a chain, and before I could think of reacting, had I even dared, a metal collar had been placed about my neck and snapped shut. It, like the collar in the chamber, fitted closely. This was one collar, apparently, of a large number of such collars, for I could see the lower loops of a long chain, one interspersed with such collars, before me. In a moment what was before me was also in a collar. Then the chain and collars were being taken forward, again. The fellow who had been behind me now passed me, on my left. I suddenly then saw the lower loops of what he had been carrying. There was no mistaking it now, no way to misinterpret its appearance. I gasped, and almost fainted.
It was a whip!
After a time two new chains were brought forward, each attached, in turn, down the line, so that, in the end, one long chain was formed.
We waited, those of us already attended to, heads down, on all fours.
Then the last of us, the first in the line, was on the chain.
We were all on the chain.
They then began to speak to us, in various languages. In mine I heard, “Kneel in the following fashion, keeping your head down. Kneel back on your heels, with your knees widely spread. Keep your back straight. Hold your shoulders back. Keep your hands back, and to the sides. The chain on your manacles is to be tight against your waist.”
I gathered that our “instruction,” now that we had been “placed and aligned,” had begun.
Men passed down the line, adjusting positions here and there. When one approached me I drew my hands back as far as I could, to the sides, at my waist, given the length of chain that joined my metal wristlets. I could feel the links of the chain deeply in my flesh. I forced my knees as far apart as I could manage.
“Good,” said the man, and continued on, down the line.
In time it seemed that we were all in the position desired.
Again the voices spoke, in diverse languages. In my own language, I heard, “Your heads are bowed in submission. Your bellies are under the chain.”
I did not raise my head, of course. I had not been given permission to do so. I looked down. The chain was tight against my waist. There were even marks of the links there. My belly, I had been told, was beneath the chain. What could that possibly mean?
We were left there for a time, in that fashion, kneeling, unattended to, our necks fastened together by the chain.
The men had withdrawn somewhat, I would guess to the end of the line. Their voices now came from behind me. They sounded as though they were several yards away. Perhaps they were at the end of the hall. I could hear them conversing, in their own language, whatever it might be, that language I could not place, that language which seemed so unfamiliar as a whole, and yet in which I detected, or seemed to detect, from time to time, like an image suddenly springing into focus, a familiar a sound, perhaps even a word I knew.
I knelt as I had been positioned, my head down, the chain pulled back, taut, at my waist. This rounded, and emphasized, my belly. It called attention to it. There was my belly, with its rounded softness, and, over it, the chain, its links now warmed by my own flesh, but still, though flesh warmed links of steel, inflexible and merciless. My belly, I had been informed, was beneath the chain.
I did not dare to move.
What did it mean, that my belly was beneath the chain?
I would later become extremely familiar with such positions, but they were, at the time, quite new to me, and somewhat frightening. What most frightened me about them was the way they made me feel. It was not merely that, in them, I felt profoundly stirred. In them,helplessly, vulnerably, I also sensed a personal rightness. I knew that in some sense I belonged in them. This was in contradiction to my entire upbringing, background, education and conditioning. Could such things have been wrong?
Let us return to the position which had been dictated to us, there in the corridor. It was, of course, a lovely one. There is no doubt about that. But you must understand that much more was involved here.It was not merely that the line of us, the fifty of us, or so, were well revealed in this position, excellently and uncompromisingly exhibited, but there was involved here more profound meaningfulnesses. Let us consider merely two or three aspects of the position. That our shoulders must be well back accentuates, of course, our figure. This calls to our attention, and to that of others, our unique, special and beautiful nature, that it is not to be hidden, or denied, or betrayed, but openly acknowledged, even celebrated. We must be, unapologetically, what we are. The symbolism of kneeling, itself, is doubtless obvious. So, too, perhaps, at least upon reflection, may be the symbolism of the opening of our knees, and what it tells about what we are. But I was not fully aware of this at the time. I was aware only that I felt terribly vulnerable. This makes clear our vulnerability. My own thighs felt inflamed at this exposure. Had someone so much as touched me with the tip of his finger I think I might have screamed. But there are various positions, kneeling and otherwise, and each has many significances.
Why were we now kneeling here, unattended to? Had we been forgotten? Must we wait, as though we might be nothing? I could hear the men speaking. Were they discussing us? Were they commenting on us? Might I, or some of the others, be being spoken of, in particular? Were there consulting records, were they checking off items on a list, or perhaps making entries?
We knelt, becoming more and more sensitive to our position, absorbing more and more deeply into our very beings and bellies its nature.
We knelt, chained, unclothed, fastened together by the neck, in a primitive corridor, heavy doors to the sides, doors to damp, straw strewn cells or kennels, from which we had been removed. We knelt, forbidden to speak.
We waited.
Obviously we were not important.