All day we worked alone at the slave quarters. At evening, a dozen sweat-soaked male slaves hobbled home from the fields where they had worked. Nearly all walked with canes. They greeted us as newcomers to their sorry lot. A grizzled slave with a leg missing below the knee lurched up on a crutch and welcomed us.
"What a broken-down pair you are," he teased, shaking his head. "You'll fit right in, here in gimp-land."
The others laughed. He continued:
"The Amazons keep only slaves with busted legs, who can't run away. My name is Octos. I was in a brigade from Kilkis, but we were ambushed five years ago and a horse fell on me, taking off my leg. Ever since, I've been working for the Amazons, sitting down on the job."
Other slaves introduced themselves. Soon, young girls arrived with pots of soup and loaves of bread. We ate, sitting in a circle outside the doorway. We talked all evening, trading our stories. From the longtime slaves we learned many things about our captors and slave life, as follows:
The Amazons speak Greek because nearly all of them were Greek slaves or concubines who ran away from stern male masters. New runaways arrive randomly, increasing the female population.
The community has two leaders: the War Queen who trains the warriors and leads their raids, and the Home Queen who governs the farming and cooking and weaving wool from a sheep flock in the hills. Several senior Amazons join the queens in a ruling council.
The warriors are the top Amazons, heroes of the colony, outranking the home girls who cook, sew, tend sheep, bake bread, milk goats, and perform other domestic chores.
"When new runaways come here, the biggest and strongest become fighters under the War Queen," Octos related. "The warriors take a blood oath to die for each other. They train constantly until they're tough like iron. They're damn fine archers, and they kill deer in the hills to feed us all. New women who are too small are assigned to work for the Home Queen."
A long-bearded slave named Ankus related that the village is full of loot from caravans raided by the wild women. About twenty stolen wagons are parked under trees. The horses become mounts for the Amazon cavalry. Finery and goods of all sorts are stashed in the Amazon quarters.
"They don't need to smelt metals, or tan leather for saddles, or make pottery," he said, "because they take all those things from unlucky caravans."
Male slaves mostly work in the fields growing food, Ankus said. A few others dig clay from a downstream creekbank, mix it with straw, shape it into bricks, and dry them in sunshine. Finished bricks are carried to construction sites where new rooms are added to buildings. Slaves also press oil from olives in the grove, pick grapes from the vineyard for wine, harvest wheat in autumn, and perform other village labor. At the bakery they grind the wheat in a great stone bowl, soak it into dough and bake it in wood-fired ovens.
Ankus, who wore a keen look of intelligence, analyzed:
"Concealment is the Amazon secret of survival. If Greek legions found this place, they could wipe it out swiftly. But the women always brush away their tracks when they enter or leave the valley. Sometimes, when they aren't pulling captured wagons, they ride further up the Thermodon to leave false tracks, then double back in the edge of the river, to leave no trail. They take an oath swearing that if they're ever captured and tortured, they won't reveal the location of their secret hideout, or they will tell a false location far away."
Old Octos leered at us with lechery.
"The women bathe naked in the pool every evening," he said. "Then they sing around a bonfire. But that isn't the best part. While a few Amazons take younger women as their lovers, the rest summon us slaves to their beds at night, just like rich Greek men calling their concubines. Even an old one-legger like me gets a lot of night work." He winked at us. "The life of a slave isn't all bad"
I was intrigued by the thought of being a bed-slave, but Dalien looked resentful.
"Don't the women become pregnant?" I asked.
"Occasionally," Octos replied. "They keep the girl babies and send the boys off in a wagon at night to an old woman who lives alone outside a village down the valley. She knows slave traders who buy the boys. An Amazon once told me: 'Since you Greeks value boys more than girls, we send you our boys, and good riddance.'"
"One more thing," Octos added, watching our reactions. "These Amazons are goddess-worshipers, and you'll probably be ordered to perform holy copulation."
"What?" Darien snarled. The burly slave continued:
"Behind the warrior dormitory is a shrine to three goddesses: Hera, Aphrodite and Artemis the huntress. It has three painted wooden statues and three altars. Before they go on a raid, the Amazons sacrifice a lamb, thinking this will persuade the goddesses to protect them. It's done by a tall priestess named Eila.
"Well, Eila is a lusty one, and she has a sex ritual. Every full moon, they put a raised platform in front of the Aphrodite statue, with a pallet on it. Torches are lit around it. The Amazons gather in a circle. Eila puts on an Aphrodite mask and strips naked. They take one of us slaves, put an Eros mask on us, strip us too, and make us service the priestess on the platform. Eros and Aphrodite have a tumble in the torchlight."
Octos grinned broadly. "If that doesn't give you religion, I don't know what will."
Chuckles followed. Octos added: "The full-moon ceremony puts most of the Amazons in an eager mood, and nearly every slave gets called to a bed on those nights. When that time of month arrives, we call it the Amazon Moon. You'll soon learn that the Amazon Moon is the hottest sex season."
I grinned at Dalien, but he still looked resentful.
Ankus, the thoughtful one, added seriously: "However, the real Amazon Moon is when they raid in the moonlight, striking out of the dark, catching caravan guards or weary soldiers asleep. There's blood on the moon, those nights. The Amazons are night-fighters. They may look like your little sister or your fetching cousin, but they can be deadly. Don't forget it."
Darkness had fallen. Our motley group, the limping slaves of gimp-land, hobbled inside to our pallets. I fell asleep to an odd thought: Nearly half of the people in Greece are slaves. Young men like me dream of growing rich and owning bondservants, especially female ones. But it never occurred to me that the opposite might happen: that I would be owned by females.
7
For the next few days, while the other male slaves were sent each morning to the crop fields or the brick pit, Dalien and I were left by the doorway to recline at half-labor while our wounds healed. We finished scrubbing the bloody garments and spread them on bushes to dry in the sun.
Soon I was able to rise on my crutches unaided and move about. I saw that the secret Amazon valley was a small paradise. Delicate ferns spread green lace along the creekbanks. The dammed pool was clear, lined with smooth stones. A grove of fig trees dotted one hillside and olive trees another. A large grape arbor filled an elevated plateau. Up the valley, I heard bleating goats. A pasture contained more than twenty horses that had been seized from caravans and conquered military squads. In the distance, I could see a wheat field and a large bean patch. Here and there, wildflowers splashed color.
One of the buildings contained the village's bakery. Sweet-smelling woodsmoke rose from its vent, but the most wonderful smell was the rich aroma of fresh bread.
Mostly I watched the women come and go. I strained my eyes to see the nude ones splashing in the pool. I saw the warriors, girded with weapons, train strenuously on a hillside each morning, then dive into the pool to wash away their sweat. And I saw the home women go to and fro, performing their daily chores. One warrior was a tall black Nubian. Most of the others had the pale skin and jet black hair of Aegean people.
As I watched, a passing Amazon stood out because her hair glistened like honey. I recognized her as Litha, the Slavic slave who was whipped at Aegolus. She looked glowing and attractive.
"My lady," I called, "I know you. I was outside the Overseer's house on the day you were flogged."
She looked me up and down, quizzically, then recognition flashed in her face.
"You're the boy who yelled 'no.'"
"Yes." I felt embarrassed. "It just popped out of me. My name is Melos." Then I added: "The Overseer didn't die."
"Too bad," she blurted, then reversed herself: "No, I'm glad. But he learned a lesson."
"Do you have scars?" I asked.
"No, but I'll bet the Overseer does," she joked. Then she added: "My sister Mitha is here too. And there is the Overseer's donkey." She pointed to a burro grazing among horses in the pasture.
She didn't treat me as a slave, so I felt I could speak openly. l was puzzled. "How did you find this place, when Greek warriors cannot?"
She eyed me carefully, hesitating. "I am not supposed to say."
"Please! I'm curious."
"Slave women and concubines have secrets that we confide to each other."
"Secrets?"
She looked around to make sure nobody heard us.
"I guess it is safe to tell you, since you will never leave this village. There are hidden places where runaway women can find help."
"How? Where?"
"Homes with two vines."
"What? Tell me."
She took a breath, looked around again, and explained:
"A few women—mostly widows living alone, supported only by their gardens—provide a secret pathway for women escaping from bondage. On the sides of their homes, they place two pots with vines hanging down. Townspeople don't notice them among other flowers, but they are a code sign to women who are brave enough to run. Mitha and I traveled through forests and peered at villages until we saw the two vines. Then at night we went to the refuge homes and were sheltered. At the final home, an old woman hid us until Amazons came in the night and got us. Remember, don't tell anyone I revealed the secret, or I might get in trouble."
I promised sincerely.
She saw another fair-haired young woman approaching, a bit larger and older, and waved her to us.
"Mitha is training to be a warrior," Litha said. "I'm proud of my big sister." To Mitha, she explained: "This is Melos, from Aegolus. He's the boy who yelled 'no' when I was whipped."
Mitha began to greet me but hesitated, unsure how to address a slave. After an awkward moment, she excused herself and went on her way.
Litha lingered a bit longer, then smiled and left.
I thought she was beautiful.
8
"Melos, you cannot understand the natural order of masters and servants, because you are from a peasant family. You have not been educated by learned tutors like the sons of great families."
Dalien spoke earnestly, without seeming arrogant, as we lounged on the creek bank after dinner. Nonetheless, I felt annoyed and groped for a way to rebut my rich young friend. Oblivious, he continued:
"My tutor, Sycophantus, studied in Athens at the great Lyceum headed by Aristotle, who also taught Alexander the Great. Aristotle explained clearly how the laws of nature empower men to rule over women and owners to rule over slaves. It is perfectly normal, written into the fabric of life.
"The farmer rules his cattle and swine because he is superior to them. The farmer is a natural master and his animals are natural slaves. In the same manner, some people are natural slaves or servants, inferior by birth and intellect, and are destined to serve the ruling class. This order prevails across all of humanity in every land. Thinkers of Athens proclaim the correctness of this truth, and tutors like Sycophantus teach it to the sons of wealthy families.
"These bitches," he said, sweeping his arm toward the village, "think they have attained equality with the best, but they delude themselves. They are not thinking creatures. They do not understand the basic fundamental of life, that men are superior and must be obeyed, and that elite men are selected by nature to reign over all."
Irritation plagued me, yet I couldn't think of a rebuttal that made sense. It is true that men dominate women in all lands, and that top men dominate the rest, yet I wasn't sure that this is an absolute law of nature. As I fumbled for a reply, one-legged Octos lurched up on his crutches and sat beside us. Despite his crafty mind, Octos wore the rough look of the lower classes. I turned to him for assistance.
"Dalien is telling me that some people are natural masters, while others are natural slaves or servants."
Our aristocratic companion added: "Aristotle teaches this truth in Athens, and my tutor learned from him."
Octos grimaced, then thundered at Dalien:
"You spoiled whelp. Your rich Daddy paid a teacher to tell you what all rich people tell their sons: that they are superior to everyone else. But you didn't earn your privileged rank. It was handed to you purely by chance when you were born into a privileged family. The rich use every means possible to keep themselves on top, living off the labor of others."
Dalien looked wounded, defensive. "But you cannot deny that this order prevails in all the known world."
"No," Octos grumbled, "but that does not make it a divine plan mandated by the gods."
Dalien persisted: "It is noble for the highest men to rule over others, to care for them and be responsible for them. My father often said there are two types of people in the world: those who treat their servants well, and those who do not."
Octos grimaced. "And servants are not people at all, right?"
Dalien plunged onward:
"Aristotle is the wisest thinker in all of Greece. Top leaders of Athens heed him. He says the lower classes enjoy a better life when ruled by superiors who make beneficial decisions for them. And you cannot deny that Aristotle is correct about women. He says the male is by nature superior, and the female inferior; the one rules, and the other is ruled. This principle, of necessity, extends to all mankind. We should regard the female as afflicted with a natural defectiveness."
Octos looked around at the village of strong women.