I recognized the large, strong, fierce women as Panther Women, or, as the men will have it, Panther Girls, for they seem to think of all women in terms of the collar, either presently or in the future. I had heard that Panther Girls, subdued and taught their collars, made excellent slaves, grateful, devoted, loving, obedient, and passionate. But I did not understand why they had to be subdued. Were they not women? Did they not long for masters? Did they war only in the hope of being conquered? I did not have to be subdued. Rather, I longed for my place in nature. On my former world I had feared it would be denied to me. Why were Panther Women, or Panther Girls, so different, so hostile to men, and to themselves? Did they hate a womanhood which they lacked, or doubted they possessed? Was this a matter of pride of some sort, of striving to realize some sort of an unusual image? Why had they fled to the wilds, to forsake civilization, and men, and live as savages, as beasts? Were they trying to be men? Did they fear the cry of their heart, the piteous, insistent pleading of their blood? But I did not understand how there could be Panther Girls this far north, certainly not in the autumn, with winter looming. Had not ice been noted in the Alexandra? One thinks of Panther Girls much farther south, perhaps in the basin and environs of the Laurius, not the Alexandra. Their presence here was certainly anomalous. What were they doing here?
The small caravan had passed, and I backed away, a step, would turn, and would resume my flight, moving to the north, and then, again, follow the Alexandra west.
“Oh!” I cried, in pain.
“Do not move, kajira,” said a woman’s voice. “It is a spear in your back.”
The point was in my back. It had gone through the tunic, and entered my skin, enough that I could clearly feel it, but not enough to do much more than break the skin. I did feel a trickle of blood course down my back.
“Do not turn around, kajira,” said the voice.
I would not have done so. I had not received permission to do so.
“Your tunic is filthy,” she said.
“Forgive me, Mistress,” I whispered.
“On your belly, in the dirt,” said the voice. “Cross your wrists behind you.”
In a moment I felt my wrists knotted together, behind me, with a light, leather thong.
“Get up,” she said. “Stand up. Let me look at you. Let us see what we have here.”
I struggled to my feet, and faced her.
“Nice,” she said. “The men will like you.”
I put down my head.
“We have two burden slaves with us,” she said. “You will make another.”
I kept my head down.
“You are a runaway, are you not?” she asked.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, not raising my head.
Surely, out here, in my current condition, that must be obvious. I suspected she knew of Shipcamp. How much she knew of it, I did not know. Perhaps she knew as much as I, perhaps more.
“Have no fear,” she said. “We will not return you to the masters, for a capture fee.”
They wish to conceal their presence in this vicinity, I thought. Again I wondered what they might be doing here, this far north.
“We will keep you for a marketing beach, on the coast,” she said. Then she snapped, “Turn about, lift your head, and open your mouth, widely.”
In a moment I felt a heavy leather wadding thrust into my mouth, and then its straps were buckled together behind the back of my neck.
I was then gagged, as securely and effectively as the two slaves I had seen in the small caravan.
It seemed that I, and the others, were to be kept silent. No plaintive cry, no unwelcome sound, was to be risked from us.
She then put back her head, and uttered a long, wailing, birdlike cry. A bit later a similar cry was heard, farther down the trail.
“You are pretty,” she said. “I will be pleased to show you to them.”
I gathered that my captor, this large, sturdy, blue-eyed, widely shouldered, blond-haired, harsh, strapping woman was first in this small contingent of Panther Girls so unaccountably in the vicinity of Shipcamp.
The point of her small, short, light spear was jabbed into my back. “Move, kajira,” she said.
I preceded her through the trees.
“Faster,” she said. “Run.”
Again I felt the point of the spear.
I moved as rapidly as I could, my hands bound behind me, down the rough, sometimes steep, ground, toward the river.
She strode behind me.
More than once I felt the jab of her spear.
Some yards from the river, near the edge of the small camp, she said, “Stop, stand, head up.”
Then she called out, “Ho, I have snared a vulo! Come see her.”
Three Panther Women, carrying their spears, approached. My captor put her hand in my hair, holding my head back, exhibiting me to her companions.
“How small and weak she is,” said one of the Panther Women.
I was not small, nor weak, for a typical woman, though I was far inferior in size and strength to them. Doubtless they would define womanhood, and value, as they pleased, however eccentrically.
“How pretty, how small, how slight, how feminine, she is,” sneered another of the large women.
I knew myself despised.
I looked beyond the three Panther Women, and saw the two neck-roped slaves, one a blonde, like my captor, and the other a brunette, rather like myself, kneeling down, close to one another. The gags were tight and heavy in their gag-packed, swollen, distended mouths. The rope which linked them was coarse. Their hands were before them, wrists crossed. Their wrists were not bound, by cords or thongs, but by the mistress’ will. One may not, without permission, separate them. It is a convenience with slaves, who dare not disobey. They looked very frightened. Their eyes met mine and I, too, was frightened. Neither dared meet the eyes of any of the Panther Women.
“Heads down,” snapped one of the Panther Women, the one who had not yet spoken of me, and the two slaves lowered their heads. She then turned to me, and regarded me, slowly, appraisingly.
“A runaway,” said my captor.
I suddenly realized it was this other woman, and not my captor, who was first in this tiny band of Panther Women. I should have realized that, of course. My captor would be most likely an outtrekker, a guard or scout of sorts, one who would cover the forest flank of the group’s march, the river on the other side. The leader would be with the main group, where she might apprehend, direct, and command. The leader, who was also blond, with long braided hair, in two plaits, dangling to the small of her back, was the largest of the four women. Her ornaments were the gaudiest, and most abundant, her mottled skins, which would blend well with a background of bark and shadows, seemed the finest and loveliest of the four; they were light, well-worked, form-fitting, smooth, and supple, and might have won the grudging approval of an examining fellow of the caste of leather workers. Too, I had gathered that leadership in such a band was not easily purchased, but often won by the knife or spear. A defeated leader, if surviving, was banished from the group, being driven away into the forest, alone. Sometimes free women, miserable and unhappy in their lives, resentful of the conventional constraints commonly imposed on them in the cities and towns, fleeing unwanted matches, debtors hoping to escape the law, and such, attempted to join a band of Panther Girls. But membership in such a band did not come easily. Most often such candidates, particularly if slight and attractive, found themselves stripped, bound, and sold. Others, thought to have promise, were sent naked into the forest with a spear, to kill a panther, and return with the bloodied skin about their shoulders. Most, I had been told, do not return. The panther is dangerous, elusive prey; it is territorial and aggressive; and in such a situation it is seldom clear who is the hunter and who the hunted. Panther Girls are commonly filled with hatred; they commonly resent and hate men, whom it seems, oddly enough, they appear to envy and attempt to emulate, but, interestingly, perhaps even more, they commonly resent and hate typical free women, perhaps because such women are too female, and too unlike men. Whereas the Panther Woman, or Panther Girl, as other free women, commonly holds the slave in contempt, and is cruel to her, she seems to hate her less, on the whole, than she hates either the free male or the typical free female. The animus borne to the slave by the typical free woman is doubtless motivated primarily by the fact that men commonly prefer the lovely, lightly clad slave, submitted and needful, docile, obedient, and passionate, hoping to please, to the proud, exalted free woman jealous of her thousand prerogatives and determined to exploit each of them in her favor. The free woman is not concerned to please, but to be pleased. She is not to be bought and commanded, but to be solicited, wooed, and cajoled. She may be sought for prestige, position, family, influence, fortune, and such. The slave is purchased for herself. She does not even own her collar. One courts the moody, unpredictable free woman who may confuse, vacillate, misdirect, tease, and tantalize to her heart’s content. One puts the slave to one’s slave ring. The free woman may dangle the prospect of her couch, angling for gain, selling herself for her own profit. The slave is sold for the profit of another. The free woman is the equal of her free companion; the purchased female is the slave of her master. The free companion wonders if his free companion will be in the mood this night; he will hope so; the master orders his slave to the furs. So the animosity of the typical free woman for the slave is largely dependent on the fact that the slave, however unworthy, is a rival, a rival men are likely to much prefer. On the other hand, the Panther Women, or Panther Girls, hating men, are less likely to see the slave as a rival. They are more likely to see her as a mere slave, as a work beast, a convenience, a beast of burden, an object which may be sold for a profit. To be sure, they, like other free women, seem to be particularly cruel to attractive slaves, so much remains obscure.
“So, Vulo,” said the leader, looking upon me, “you thought to escape?” She then put her hands to my collar and patted it gently, on each side, as though sympathetically. “But, little vulo,” she said, “this is a collar, is it not, and it is on your neck. I would not be surprised if it were locked. Yes, here is a nice little lock, and we find the pretty collar is well fastened on your pretty neck. You are in it. How stupid is our little vulo. And I would not doubt but what your thigh wears a pretty mark, as well.” She then jerked up the tunic on my left side, to the hip. “Yes,” she said, “here is a pretty mark on your pretty thigh. You are nicely marked.” She then thrust the tunic down, disdainfully. “Well, pretty vulo,” she said, “in your pretty tunic, in your pretty collar, with your pretty mark, where did you expect to go, what did you expect to do?”
The gag was thick and bulky in my mouth. It is unpleasant to wear such a gag. It is not attractive, but it is quite effective.
“Stupid, stupid vulo,” she said.
Tears came to my eyes.
“Take her into the woods,” said one of the women, “and bind her to a tree, gagged, for the beasts.”
“Surely she is marketable,” said my captor.
“Who would want a stupid slave,” said the woman who had spoken.
“Men are stupid,” said my captor.
“On your belly,” snapped the leader, “your face in the dirt, as befits the garbage you are.”
I then lay amongst them, prone, my hands bound behind my back, unable to plead, or speak.
“Tie her for the beasts,” said the woman who had spoken before.
“We could trade her on the coast, for a vessel of ka-la-na,” said one of the Panther Women.
“To the beasts,” said the one who had spoken before. She had a wide, green-and-brown talmit. “Surely you know why we are here. We must complete our work and report to the employer. We have already risked much by bringing two collar sluts with us.”
“Do not be concerned,” said the leader. “They are fearful, obedient little beasts. Do you wish to do your own manual labor, to gather provender, to clear ground for a camp, to bring fire wood, to cook, to fetch soft boughs for our bedding, to wash talmits, and polish leather? Do you not enjoy having your feet cleaned with their tongues?”
“One would have been enough,” said she who had spoken, she of the green-and-brown talmit.
“Do you wish to bear a burden yourself?” asked the leader.
“I am a free woman!” said the other, angrily.
“And what other pack animals would bear burdens for us?” said the leader.
“Two, then,” she said, “are enough!”
I was then kicked in the side.
“And with three, we might travel more swiftly,” said the leader.
“It is dangerous,” said the other. “Tie her for the beasts.”
“Consider her hair,” said the leader.
“It is filthy, and dirt, and flakes of leaves, adhere within it.”
“Suitably washed, groomed, and watered, she would be presentable,” said my captor.
“You want her selling fee,” said the other.
“I would share it,” said my captor.
“Consider her lineaments,” said the leader.
“Surely she is shapely goods,” said my captor. “Consider her shoulders, her arms, her forearms, drawn back, the neatness of her small wrists, nicely tied together, the narrowness of her waist, the sweet flare of her hips, the pleasantries of a modest but well-turned fundament, her thighs, the rounded calves, the trimness of her ankles.”
“This is not Brundisium, or Ar,” said she of the green-and-brown talmit. “They do not pay much on the beach.”
“They rob us,” said another Panther Woman, angrily, she who had been muchly silent.
The leader then crouched beside me, and pulled my head up and back, by the hair.
“You know gag signals, do you not, Vulo?” she said.
I made a tiny, plaintive sound. I doubt that it could have been heard more than a few feet away. One sound signifies “Yes,” two sounds, “No.” All slaves are taught this.
“Do you wish to live?” she asked.
I made instantly a tiny, pathetic noise, a single noise, one sound.
“Do you wish to be added to the rope?” she asked.
I made my small sound again, piteously.