Slave goods are presented objectively, directly.
In the case of the jeweled collar, the woman displays the collar; in the case of the slave collar, it is the woman which is displayed.
She jerked at the chain on her neck. She could not remove it. Men had put it on her, and she would wear it.
But it was attractive.
But one of the things she sensed about chains, and collars, far transcended the provinces of aesthetics, and bespoke itself of cognitive matters, of meanings. Did not the collar on a woman’s neck say, “I can be owned,” or, if she is a slave, “I am owned”? Does it not say, “I am goods,” “I can be purchased,” “I am a slave,” “I can be yours”? “Would you not care to own me, Master?” One does not see a slave as one sees a free woman. One steps aside for the free woman; one is heeled by the slave; one notes the free woman; one seeks the slave; one honors the free woman, one wants the slave; one defers to the free woman; one commands the slave; one courts the free woman; one buys the slave; one admires the free woman; one puts the slave to her knees; one esteems the free woman; one puts the slave to one’s pleasure.
How is it, wondered the blonde, the fine Lady Publennia Calasalia, that men prefer a half-naked, collared chit to an exalted, splendidly robed, noble free woman? How is it that they bid so avidly in markets for a lascivious beast, writhing to the auctioneer’s whip? What is wrong with men, she wondered, that they do not see the superiority of a free woman, any free woman, to the weeping, moaning, and thrashing of a slave in her chains, begging piteously for at least one more caress, even a tiny one?
The Lady Publennia Calasalia, with anger, recalled an incident in one of the opulent gambling palaces whose portals were once open to her, perhaps one in Lisle itself, seat of one of the imperial palaces, in which a fellow near her had brought his slave with him into the hall, in defiance of proprieties, and knelt her near the table, head down. “She brings me luck,” he had explained, insouciantly, responding to her acidic reminder of his indiscretion. Surely he knew there was a room off the main vestibule where such beasts might be shackled, for a small fee. Indeed, even small bowls of porridge were provided, included in the cost of the temporary housing. Indeed, there were even poles outside the gambling palace to which they might be chained, free of charge, awaiting the return of their Masters. “She brings me luck,” he insisted, “like a lucky piece, or charm.” Lady Publennia had then, muchly irritated, returned her attention to the table, and the dizzy orbits of the tiny golden sphere spinning about in the bowl of the large, shallow wheel. She had later looked down at the slave, a girl with light brown hair, kneeling, head down, with her knees closely together. How uneasy was that pathetic creature! She knows she does not belong here, Lady Publennia had thought. She is afraid she will be whipped and ejected, perhaps to one of the poles outside with its waiting, now-opened ankle manacle. I hope it will occur! And then she discovered she had lost another fifty darins. It was small comfort that the insolent recreant at her elbow, he so apparently oblivious of his breach of indisputable decorum, had not fared any better. Later, when the troublesome fellow prepared to withdraw, and somewhat worse off for the evening’s play, she had remarked that the slave, as her presence had failed to bring him good luck, might be beaten. “Would you do so?” he had asked. “Certainly,” she had said. How the girl had then trembled. “No,” he had said, “there are better things to do with a pretty slave than beat her.” “I see,” she had said. “What are they?” she asked. His demeanor had then changed, alarmingly. He had seemed to loom over her, his mien displeased, and she had become suddenly aware of her smallness, and slightness, before his powerful height, and frame. She had the sense he might, had he wished, have broken her in two. “If you were not a free woman,” he said, quietly, “I would show you.” Her knees suddenly felt weak, and she feared she might actually be struck, indeed, disciplined. She almost sank to her knees before him, trembling, her head down. Then he was again a light-hearted gentleman, ingratiatingly frivolous. He snapped his fingers, and the slave sprang to her feet, keeping her head down. How quickly she obeys had thought the Lady Publennia. But then slaves were to obey, instantaneously, unquestioningly. Certainly she had switch-trained her own little Nika to do so. “You have brought me luck, little Nutmeg,” he said. “Without you I would doubtless have lost far more.” She looked up at him, smiling. Why is she happy, wondered the Lady Publennia. Why is she not unhappy? Does she not know she is a miserable, meaningless slave? She seems so pleased, so radiant! How dare she be happy! The fellow then turned away, and the girl followed him closely, a bit behind, on his left side. What a silly name, ‘Nutmeg’, thought the Lady Publennia. But she doubtless answers to it quickly enough. Slaves, of course, are named as the Masters please. Perhaps she had once been free, and had had a fine name, but now she is only ‘Nutmeg’, clearly a pet name, a slave name, but now her name. Then the Lady Publennia recalled, kneeling before the cheap vanity mirror, before a small table, in a tent in the wilderness of Tangara, that there were those in the camp who referred to her as ‘Cornhair’. She had noticed, during the gambling evening, to her annoyance, that the attention of many of the men about had often fallen on the kneeling slave. Certainly the slave was a distraction. Why did the men bother to look upon her; she was only a slave! There were many free women in the room, many bejeweled as richly as she, the Lady Publennia, but it seemed it was the slave to which the attention of the men had often strayed. The Lady Publennia had watched the fellow, and his slave, leave the room. Several of the men had also witnessed their departure. “The lucky dog,” remarked a fellow. “I wager she is a hot little thing,” said another. Lady Publennia watched the pair until they had left the room. The slave did not walk like a free woman, but, of course, she was not a free woman. Lady Publennia felt disturbed. There seemed subtle differences in the slave’s movements, and walk, something different from that to which she was accustomed in free women. She did not understand it at the time, but the slave, as she is a beast, owned, and a sexual creature, is free to move naturally, gracefully, sensuously, as a woman’s natural, feminine body moves, innocent of the body language implicitly expected in, and prescribed for, the free woman. The tunic the girl wore had clearly identified her as a slave, as did the collar on her neck, but the tunic had been clean, well-pressed, tasteful, and relatively modest, as such garments go. Indeed, it had fallen below her knees. Her arms, of course, had been bare. That is common in slave garments. In a sleeve a knife might be concealed. I wager, had thought the Lady Publennia, that that single, simple rag is all she has on. And in this wager the Lady Publennia would have been successful. The slave is often denied certain forms of undergarments, particularly those which might have a nether closure. They are for free women. The slave is to be conveniently at the disposal of the Master, at any time he might be inclined to make use of her. She is, after all, a slave. The fellow who had exited with the slave had lost something like seventy-five darins. The Lady Publennia, that evening, had lost more than a thousand.
The Lady Publennia again, in the mirror, regarded the light, simple chain fastened on her neck. Yes, she thought, it is attractive, and she had little doubt but what, if a man should look upon her in such a device, that it would be she, she herself, who would be seen.
She thought of the barbarian, remembered well from the Narcona, he, Ottonius, for whom a small dagger was to lie in wait, laden with its venom, not unlike the fang of a viper.
Who would bring her the dagger?