“I descended, level by level. When I reached the vestibule I was horrified to see a number of slaves, doubtless from the lower floors, mostly tower slaves and sandal slaves, naked and on all fours, fastened together, like beads on a string, by a single long rope, successively tied and knotted about the neck of each. ‘Take off your tunic,’ said a man, ‘and go to the end of the rope.’ ‘Yes, Master,’ I said, but, as no one was looking, I went to the end of the line, but then slipped to the side and exited the cylinder. I was outside, on the plaza. I was startled that the fellow who had spoken to me had not been more careful, or more suspicious. It seems he had, without a second thought, taken me as a slave. I found this incomprehensible, and annoying, but I was grateful that he been so negligent, so undiscerning.”
“Taking you for a slave,” I said, “it never occurred to him that you would not obey.”
“But I was a free woman,” she said.
“True,” I said.
“Why would he suppose that a slave would obey?” she asked.
“Were you more of a slave,” I said, “you would understand.” The obedience of a slave is to be unquestioning and instantaneous. It does not take an intelligent woman long to learn this, usually no more than a first hesitation, following which they are apprised of their lapse by the switch or lash.
“What would they do with the gathered slaves?” she asked.
“I would suppose,” I said, “as confiscated goods, they would become the property of the state, later to be distributed, put on sale or such.”
“Suitable for slaves,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“How meaningless and worthless they are,” she said.
“They have their uses,” I said.
“Though there were many in the streets,” she said, “almost no one paid attention to me. It was almost as though I might have been a loose verr.”
“Or tarsk,” I suggested.
“I made my way through crowds,” she said. “There was only one untoward incident. Most unpleasant! Only a hundred yards from the walls, I was accosted by a large female slave. ‘High slave!’ she sneered. ‘Give me your sandals!’”
“You wore sandals?” I said.
“Of course,” she said.
I nodded. It was not that unusual for a favored slave, a high slave, a spoiled slave, or such, to be granted sandals.
Most masters, subject, of course, to conditions of weather and terrain, keep their girls barefoot. This is because they like to see the feet of slaves bare, as they like, generally, bareness in slaves. Too, the feet of slaves are often attractive, small, and pretty. Too, of course, being barefoot helps the slaves to keep in mind that they are slaves. The barefootedness of the slave also tends to draw a further distinction between her and the free woman, for the free woman, even of low caste, almost always has footwear of one sort or another, even if it is only a wrapping of cloth. Too, who would put sandals, slippers, or such, on verr, tarsks, kaiila, or such?
“Did your girls have sandals?” I asked.
“Certainly not,” she said.
I raised the broth, again, to my lips, surveying her over its brim. She seemed uneasy, my eyes upon her.
“Master?” she said.
She seemed uncertain, as to whether she might continue to speak. I found that encouraging. She was not sure of herself before me. That was appropriate. It seemed clear she wished to speak, but was reluctant to ask permission to do so, for what that might signify, not so much to me, as to her.
I put the bowl to the floor, beside me, with its residue of fluid.
“Master?” she said, again.
I suspected it had been long since anyone had listened to her, long since her hunger, that of a woman, to be heard had been satisfied. To be denied speech is a torment for them. Indeed, the control of their speech, as that of their food, and garmenture, muchly impresses on them what they are. It leaves them in little doubt that they are in a collar. They want so much to speak! I think that we should indulge them in this. Certainly it is another pleasure, that of listening, derivable from them. So put one such as she, a highly intelligent, articulate, aware, sensitive, literate woman, such as obviously belongs in the collar, before you, and listen to her, and with care. She is, of course, to be naked and kneeling, with her hands braceleted or thonged behind her. There is, I assure you, a special flavor or ambiance to such a conversation. Afterwards, when one wishes, one terminates the conversation, and does with her what one wishes.
“Continue,” I said.
“This monstrous female,” she said, eagerly, gratefully, “perhaps a discipline slave in a pleasure garden, used to keep smaller, more beautiful females in line, or a female draft slave, or a laundress, at best, said, ‘Give me your sandals!’ ‘Never,’ cried I, ‘slave!’ ‘Slave?’ she said. ‘Get out of my way,’ I cried, ‘slave, or I will have the flesh lashed off your large, ugly bones!’ She looked at me, suddenly, warily. ‘Is Mistress free?’ she asked. ‘No,’ I said, ‘of course not. I am only a poor slave, as yourself.’ ‘Truly?’ she said. ‘Certainly,’ I said, ‘you can see I am tunicked and collared. Now let me pass!’ ‘You high slaves,’ she said, ‘think you are better than the rest of us!’ ‘We are superior,’ I informed her. Was that not obvious? ‘But we all lick the feet of men!’ she said. ‘Get out of my way!’ I demanded. ‘Your sandals!’ she said, putting out her hand. ‘No!’ I said. After all, how could I walk without them? ‘You would deny me,’ she asked, ‘you bauble, you small, well-turned, meaningless morsel of collar meat, you plaything, you caressable little she-urt!’ And then she leaped at me and seized me by the hair, and twisted her hands within it, and shook my head, and I screamed with misery, blind with pain. Then she forced me down to my knees, I, actually a free woman, and, without relinquishing her hold on my hair, still hurting me, terribly, went behind me, and jerked my head up. ‘I am going to tear the tunic off your little man-pleasing body!’ she snarled. ‘Please, no, Mistress!’ I cried, terrified, in pain, for in my flank there was no iron burn. Lacking that I feared the impaling spear was imminent. ‘Mistress, mistress, please, no!’ I wept. I was then thrown forward, to my stomach, and, simultaneously, thankfully, she released my hair. I dared not move. I felt my sandals stripped off. When I dared I turned to my side, and looked up, fearfully, and saw her, through tears, standing almost over me. She dangled the sandals from her hand, looked at me, and laughed. She was so large, and strong. I could not have begun to match strength, nor try force, with her. No longer did men, and society, stand behind me. She disappeared in the crowd, and I rose, painfully, to my feet. I pulled down the tunic, for it had come high on my thighs. ‘Pretty kajira,’ laughed a fellow, passing, and made a noise which frightened me. I must remember that I was in a collar! I shuddered, and drew down the tunic even more. My feet were now bare. How strange it seemed for my feet to be bare, to feel grit beneath them, sand, a pebble, the smoothness of street stones. I did not know if I could walk. Could I do more than hobble, painfully? And might this not attract attention, as, say, a crippled kaiila might attract the attention of tawny prairie sleen? Might it suggest that I might be an unshod free woman? But none about seemed to notice me, other, of course, than as a slave might be noticed. More than once I found myself, a free woman, under the appraising glances of men. How slaves are looked upon! I dared not confront them. I dared not reprimand them. I dared not object. I realized, to my astonishment, that despite my remarkable beauty, that of a free woman, I was being seen, and without a second thought, as no more than another slave, perhaps only another ‘pretty kajira.’ This angered me, but at least my disguise was effective.