"The decisions as to the discipline of slave will be made by the masters," I reminded Phoebe.
"Yes, Master," said Phoebe. "Forgive me, Master."
Phoebe's zeal to see an errant slave punished, and suitably, was a quite natural one, of course. The girl was a slave, and had not been pleasing. Thus it was appropriate, even imperative, that she be punished, more broadly, order and structure in human life, stability in society, even, in a sense, civilization itself, depends upon sanctions, and to impose them reliably and efficiently. A lapse in such resolve and practice is a symptom of decline, even of impending disintegration. Ultimately civilization depends upon power, moral and physical, upon, so to speak, the will of masters and the reality of the whip and sword. It might be added, incidentally, that Phoebe, herself a slave, in moral consistency, fully accepted this same principle, at least intellectually, in her own case. She accepted, in short, as morally indisputable, the rightfulness of herself being punished if she should fail to be pleasing. Also, accepting this principle, and knowing the strength and resolve of her master, and the uncompromising reality of the discipline under which she herself was held, she was naturally disinclined to see others escape sanctions and penalties to which she herself was subject. Why should others be permitted lapses, faults and errors, particularly ones in which they took arrogant pride, for which she herself would promptly and predictably suffer? Accordingly, slave girls are often zealous to see masters immediately and mercilessly correct even small lapses in the behavior of their chain sisters. It pleases them. Phoebe herself, it might be mentioned, had very seldom been lashed, particularly since the day of Myron's entrance into the city when Marcus had finally accepted her as a mere slave., as opposed to a Cosian woman in his collar, to be sure, enslaved, on whom he could vent his hatred of Cos and things Cosian. The general immunity to the lash which was experienced by Phoebe, of course, was a function of her excellence as a slave. Excellent slaves are seldom beaten, for there is little, if any, reason to do so. To be sure, such a girl, particularly a love slave, occasionally desires to feel the stroke of the lash, wanting to feel pain at the hands of a beloved master, wanting to be whipped by him because she loves him, in this way symbolizing to herself her relationship to him, that of slave to master, her acceptance of that relationship, and her rejoicing in it. To be sure, she is soon likely to be merely, again, a whipped slave, begging her master for mercy.
"Look!" laughed Phoebe, looking toward the prone slave.
The slave, sobbing, had lifted her body.
"Scandalous slave!" laughed Phoebe.
The slave groaned.
"Apparently you do not wish to be further beaten," I said.
"No, Master," said the slave.
"You wish to placate masters?" I asked.
"Yes, Master," she said.
"Slave, slave!" laughed Phoebe.
"Yes, Mistress," whispered the slave.
"She is such a slave," said Phoebe.
"She is a female," I said.
"Yes, Master," said Phoebe.
I was amused by Phoebe's attitude. Indeed, I found it delightfully ironic. Many was the time I had seen her so lift herself to Marcus, hoping to avert his wrath.
I looked down at the slave.
She was tense, and hardly moved.
I handed Marcus his things, piece by piece, the sheath, with its knife, and the pouch, both for his belt, and the sword belt, with its scabbard and blade, to be slung over the left shoulder. I then crouched down beside the slave.
"Master?" she asked.
I pushed her down to the stones, so that her belly was flat on them.
"Master?" she asked.
"Do you beg use?" I asked.
"Yes, Master!" she whispered, tensely.
"Perhaps some other time," I said.
"Do not kill me," she said.
I took my knife and, from the back of her head, gathered together a large handful of her long dark hair, and then cut it off, close to the scalp. I then, using her hair, bound her hands together behind her back.
"You have not earned a use," I said.
I then cut another gout of her hair from the back of her head and used it to tie the flute about her neck. I did not crop the hair about her head with the knife, rather in the manner of shaving it off, as is sometimes done as a punishment for female slaves. I did no more than take the two gouts. To be sure, these two gouts, thick as they were, cleared an irregular space of several square inches of the back of her head. This cleared area, thought not evident from the front, was only too obvious from the back. it would doubtless occasion much merriment upon its discovery by her chain sisters, as she was a beauty, and might be envied by them. Too, given her personality, I suspected that they would be likely to find her plight even more amusing. Perhaps she could wear a scarf for a time, or have her hair shortened or tied in such a way as to conceal or minimize the rather liberal extent of this local cropping. One advantage of shaving a girl's head, incidentally, is the duration of the punishment. It is recalled to her, for example, every time she touches her head or sees her reflection. By the time it had grown out, and even by the time that it begins to grow out a little, she had usually determined to do all in her power to be such that her master will permit her to keep her hair. if he wishes, or thinks it judicious, of course, he may keep her with a shaved head. It might also be noted that certain slaves, rather as an occupational mark or precaution, for example, girls working in foundries and mills, often have their heads shaved. Too, it is common to have a girl completely if she it to be transported in a slave ship. This is to protect her against vermin of various sort, in particular, lice. I dragged the slave up to her knees and knelt her before us. She trembled, daring not to meet our eyes.
"Go to the other flute girls," I said, "to all those about whether on the street or on the wall. Inform them that their work for the day is finished."
"Master?" she said.
"Tell them to hurry home to their chains."
"Master!" she said.
"Do you understand?" I asked.
"Yes, Master," she said.
"Do you dally in the carrying out of a command?" I asked.
"No, Master!" she said, and leaped to her feet, running across the Wall Road, her hands tied behind her, wisps of silk fluttering about her waist, the flute dangling from her neck.
"She is very pretty," said Marcus.
"More so then I?" asked Phoebe.
"Is the slave jealous?" inquired Marcus, teasingly.
"Please, Master," begged Phoebe.
"Are you jealous?" he said.
"Yes, Master," said Phoebe, defiantly.
"You do not sound humble," he said.
"Forgive me, Master," she said, quickly, frightened.
"Who is jealous?" he inquired.
"Phoebe is jealous," she whispered.
"You are a thousand times more beautiful than she," said Marcus.
"Master sports with his helpless slave," pouted Phoebe.
"To me," said Marcus, teasingly.
"How shall I ever hold you, Master?" she wept. "I am yours, and only a slave. You may put me aside or keep me with others, s you might please. There are thousands of intelligent, pretty women who would be eager to serve you. You may have your pick. You may buy and sell as you please. How shall I ever keep you?"
"It is mine to keep you if I wish," said Marcus.