Authors: John; Norman
“Well,” I said to Alcinoë, looking about, “what do you think?”
“Perhaps, Master,” said Alcinoë, “they were not hooded for beauty, but, rather, to conceal their plainness.”
“Master!” protested several of the slaves.
“Beat her, Master!” urged one.
“These are obviously beautiful slaves,” I said, “high-grade merchandise, which would bring good coin off the block, but, as you have suggested, I see no particular reason for their hooding.”
“Surely,” said Alcinoë, “several of the other slaves, of the Venna keeping area, never hooded, are every bit as beautiful.”
“Yes,” I said.
I could remember that from the deck.
“And doubtless some of the Kasra keeping area, as well,” she added.
“Yes,” I said.
I could remember several of them, as well.
Alcinoë, I thought, was fetching in the Kasra tunic, what there was of it.
“Bring the lamp,” I said to Alcinoë.
“Hold position,” I said to the slaves.
“Perhaps we should leave, Master,” said Alcinoë. “I think the men have left the outer area.”
I looked about.
“Follow me,” I said.
In the special area, that devoted to the slaves who would be brought hooded to the upper deck, there were twenty slaves, as I determined, arranged in five rows of four each. I went toward the back of
the special area, on the right.
Each slave was in position.
“Perhaps we should hurry, Master,” said Alcinoë.
“Follow me,” I said.
Alcinoë followed, with the lamp.
“Master?” said Alcinoë.
“I have not well examined this last row of slaves,” I said.
I began with the one farthest to the right, drawing her head back, by the hair, that I might examine her features in the light of the lamp.
“She is nice, is she not?” I said to Alcinoë.
“Perhaps,” said Alcinoë.
I released the girl’s hair, that she might return to position.
I similarly examined the next two girls.
“Lovely,” I said of each.
Of the first Alcinoë suggested that her value might be improved, if she could play the lyre. Of the second, Alcinoë wondered if slavers might be more interested in her, if she could dance.
“Can you dance?” I asked the girl.
“The flower dance of the free maiden,” she said, frightened, her head held back, by the hair.
“Then you do not know the dances of begging slaves,” I said.
“No, Master,” she said. Such dances are often taught to the snapping of a whip.
“After you are in the hands of a master,” I said, “you may beg to learn such dances.”
“Master?” she said.
“To be more pleasing,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I wondered if Alcinoë could learn slave dance. I thought so. Such dance is instinctual in a woman. I had little doubt that many lives had been saved, after the fall of a city, by a naked captive’s supplicatory writhings before its conquerors.
We came then to the last slave, on her chain.
Oddly, she cried out in fear, broke position, and bent over, shuddering, covering herself, as she could, with her hands.
“Bring the lamp closer,” I said to Alcinoë.
By the hair, I drew up the head of the slave, and she, interestingly, tried to turn to the side, and, neglecting her body, covered her face with her hands.
To be sure, many women fear face stripping more than body stripping. The face, after all, with its subtleties of expression, is uniquely personal, particularly revelatory, and especially revealing. A woman’s face, exquisite, delicate, and beautiful, commonly so different from that of a man, unveiled, is vulnerable and defenseless, a window into her emotions and thoughts, into her heart and needs, a window that puts her ever the more helplessly in a man’s power. A saying has it, bare the face, bare the woman. Another well-known saying is, remove the veil of a free woman and look upon the face of a slave. So it is no wonder that the free woman is concerned with her veiling. But this was a slave. Slaves are not permitted to conceal their faces. Their faces must be naked, and all are to be free to look upon them. Would it not be absurd to veil a verr, or kaiila? Such an inhibition seldom lasts past a girl’s first switching. And soon a slave, the vain creature that she is, delights as shamelessly in the exhibition of her features as of her form. And perhaps more so. It is the whole of her, after all, marvelous and wondrous, that is collared.
So why would this slave have attempted to conceal her face?
“Position,” I said to her, soothingly.
She then knelt.
“Split your knees,” I said to her gently.
I released her hair, and, with a hand on each knee, widened them.
She still had her hands before her face. She was trembling.
“Lift up the lamp,” I said to Alcinoë.
I then, gently, put a hand on each of her wrists.
“Please, no, please, no,” she said.
“Master?” I asked.
“Please, no, Master,” she begged. “Please, no, Master!”
I then, as she sobbed, pulled her hands away from her face.
“Aii!” cried Alcinoë, softly.
“Position,” I said to the slave, soothingly, and she put her hands down on her thighs, looking straight ahead.
“Collared!” said Alcinoë.
I took the collar in both hands, turned it, examined the lock, and then, a bit roughly, turned it back into place, so that the lock was at the back of the neck.
“Yes,” I said, “and perfectly.”
It was a common ship’s collar.
I then rose up, bade the slaves be as they would, and, followed by Alcinoë, left the special area, and, in a moment, the larger area, as well.
In a bit we had come to the Kasra keeping area, within which its whip slaves had been served similarly to those of the higher area, bound naked, hand and foot, prone, their switches tied between their teeth.
The other slaves of the Kasra area were on their chains, and most were asleep.
“This is your mat?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered, that we not disturb the others.
“Master!” she said, suddenly, frightened.
I cautioned her to silence.
“Strip,
kajira
,” I said to her.
“Strip?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
She put aside the bit of cloth which had been granted her.
“Now,” I said, “on all fours, on the mat.”
It was a thick, well-plaited mat, narrow. I then picked up the chain, attached to its ring, and snapped it about her ankle, the left ankle.
“Now, turn around,” I said, “and lie down, on your belly.”
I stood up for a few moments, regarding her. Then, suddenly I crouched down beside her, pulled her up, turned her, rudely, and, with a rattle of chain, forced my lips to hers.
I then flung her back on the mat, on her belly, and exited the Kasra keeping area.
I then went to my quarters.
I was much troubled.
I had seen Talena, of Ar.
I recalled, too, we had come to land.
Chapter Twenty-Two
What Occurred on the Beach
“Slaughter!” I heard cry. “Slaughter!”
The alarm bar was ringing, frenziedly.
It was shortly after the first Ahn, and, when I raced up the companionways to the open deck, it was still dark, though there were dozens of torches on the beach. Some small boats were returning to the great ship. Some men were clambering up ropes, drawing themselves over the rail. I heard small boats, below, scraping against the timbers of the ship. Ropes and rope ladders were being cast over the side. Aeacus handed me a glass of the Builders. It was difficult to focus, and there was much movement. I twisted the glass into focus. There seemed madness on the beach, men crowded together toward the shore, trying to board small boats. I saw two founder. Some men were wading into the sea, trying to cling to small boats.
“What is going on?” I said, to anyone, for there were several about, trying to see the beach, perhaps as unclear as I was, as to the confusion, the motion of the torches.
Aeacus took back the glass, and then, in a moment, handed it to another.
“Tarnsmen,” I heard, “to saddle!”
It was the voice of Tarl Cabot.
“No!” said Lord Okimoto, at the rail, barefoot, his robe awry.
I did not know the whereabouts of Lord Nishida.
I saw Tyrtaios, with others, on the ratlines, peering toward the shore.
I heard the poking noise of the crutch of Seremides.
“Roll back the great hatch!” called Tarl Cabot.
“Do not do so!” exclaimed Lord Okimoto. Men drew back.
“Lord!” protested Tarl Cabot.
“No,” said Lord Okimoto.
The secret of the tarns, I gathered, was to be kept.
Some two thirds of the armsmen and mariners, following some fifty Pani, from the men of Lords Nishida and Okimoto, over several Ahn, beginning yesterday evening, had gone ashore.
“Launch the galleys!” cried Aëtius, from amidships.
I gathered then that the first galley had been returned to the ship, following the landing.
“No!” said Lord Okimoto.
I gathered that he was unwilling to lose another galley.
Tarl Cabot seized a fellow who was clambering aboard, from one of the small boats. “Go back!” he cried. “Go back!”
“No,” said the man, wildly, shaking his head. “No!”
Cabot struck him to the deck.
“Go back,” he cried to others, returning to the ship.
“The galleys must be launched,” said Tarl Cabot.
“No,” said Lord Okimoto.
Tarl Cabot turned on his heel, angrily, and rushed toward a flung-open hatch. He paused at the opening, looking about, in frustration. It was there I caught up with him. “You will need oarsmen,” I said.
He clasped my hand. “Good Callias,” he said. “Let us be fools together!”
“There will be several below decks,” I said. “They are unclear, as I, as to what has occurred.”
“Summon them!” said Cabot. “Send others about, as well, to summon others.”
“To the galleys?”
“Any who can draw an oar,” said Cabot.
“In whose name?” I asked.
“In the name of Lord Okimoto,” said Cabot.
In a quarter of an Ahn three galleys had been lowered and, half manned, were about the ship, and moving amongst small boats, toward the shore.
I and the others were armed, as we had obtained weapons, in the issuance, hoping to go ashore in our turn.
I glanced back, to see Lord Okimoto, high above, at the rail of the great ship.
Cabot was at the helm of the galley on which I drew an oar. Across from me, alone on his bench, as I was, was Philoctetes. To starboard, back a bit, was another galley, also with a handful of oarsmen, it commanded by Pertinax, and to port, further back, was the galley of Turgus, more amply manned, as men, later gathered, had come to the last galley nest.
More than once the galley turned, and slowed, rocking, men from the water clinging to the oars. The other two galleys were similarly impeded. “Bring them aboard!” called Cabot. “Put them at an oar.”
“Flee, Commander!” wept a man, drawn aboard. “To the ship!”
“We are going in,” said Cabot.
“There are too many!” said the man. “It is hopeless! All will die.”
“We are going in,” said Cabot.
There was a cheer from small boats about us.
“Get to the ship, and then go back!” said Cabot.
There was another cheer.
Men clinging to oars came aboard, and took their places on the benches.
The galley’s bow swung toward the beach, and Cabot, from the helm, called the stroke, and, water running from the lifted and dipping oar blades, the galley crested the night waters, and sped, like a gull, toward the torches and confusion on the beach. “Stroke!” called Cabot, “stroke!”
The fellow who had haplessly wept was now beside me at the oar, steady, and strong.
As we made our way through the small boats, most moving toward the ship, we began to hear the cries on the beach, the clash of metal.
It was now clear that quarterless war, red with blood, reigned upon the beach. Some hundreds of our men, in lines, were being forced back, away from the high beach, and the defile, toward the water. Glaives prodded them and struck at them. Swords flashed in the torches. Many, we had later learned, had perished in the defile, from concealed arrow fire, but arrows, now, save at short range, a yard or two, given the proximity of the combatants and the confusion, could scarcely find congenial targets. The arrow, ignorant of its purpose, might with equanimity bestow indiscriminate death.