Terence thrust a piece to a new position on the board.
“A strong counter to my move,” said the pit master. “I fear I must think again.”
“Guard your Tarnsman,” said Terence.
I bent to my work. I made my stitches small, and fine, and closely and evenly spaced. I hoped the master, the guard, for whom I labored would be pleased. I did not wish to be beaten.
“Ai,” said one of the two guards to the side, at the far end of the table, responding to some move in his own game.
This utterance was followed by a sound of chain as the woman near them lifted herself a little, looking up. She was now half lying, half kneeling. Her legs were together. Her weight was muchly on he right thigh and hip. The palms of her hands were on the floor. The sound had been the consequence mainly of the movement of the chain on her neck, the links moving against one another, and the terminal link pulling at the holding ring of the metal collar, but there had been, too, the movement of the links on the floor of the chamber, those of the chain which joined her ankle rings, and that of the chain which joined her wrist rings. She was the only free woman in the chamber. Too, perhaps paradoxically, she was the only woman in the chamber who had not been given clothing. The rest of us had our tunics. She was chained where she was, to a ring, near the guards, because she, or, perhaps more accurately, her use for the evening, was to figure as prize in the guards’ game. She must also, though free, address the pit slaves as ‘Mistress’, and wait upon us, as we might please. She was the girl, Ilene. She had learned much in the cage. The pit master had decided that it would not harm her, to spoil her freedom. What could her sisters do, after all, if what was returned to them was, at that time, little better than a needful female slave? She would still be legally free, and that would suffice for the justification of the ransom’s collection, a ransom measured, interestingly enough, to a rate appropriate to a free female. What did it matter if, returned to her house, she might writhe and squirm in tears in her bed, striking her pillows in need? I think she now feared only that the ransom might be paid. I myself was not certain that her fears were justified. I had gathered that her sisters might be loath to pay and, also, now having tasted the wealth and power of the house, might be unwilling to do so. I expected that it would eventually be her fate to ascend the slave block, to be auctioned. Such a fate is quite common with those in her predicament. And once the collar was on her neck her sisters need fear her not at all. Indeed, they might even keep her in their own house, as a slave.
I was a little bit angry that she had been selected as the prize in the guards’ game. I think that was not so much because she was beautiful, which she was, as because she was free. Her being a free woman gave something of a fillip, it seemed, to use her as a prize. Once she was collared, of course, if that should occur, she would have to compete with such as I on more even basis. Her treatment, her caresses, her rewards, and such, would then be more clearly a function of what she was in herself alone, more clearly a function of whatever intrinsic merit, quality, or worth she might possess in herself alone, as a female, as a slave.
“Surrender your Home Stone,” said the other guard. “You are done, finished!”
“Hold, hold,” said the first fellow, irritably, he who had uttered the exclamation only a moment ago.
“Your Ubar and Ubar’s Builder are forked,” said the other guard. “Any honorable fellow in these circumstances would hasten to resign.”
“I will defend the Home Stone while yet a Spearman remains,” said the other, irritably.
“Very well,” said the other.
“I retain two Physicians to your one,” said the first.
“So it will be a lengthy endgame,” said the other.
“I may even tease out a draw,” said the first.
“-Masters,” said the Lady Ilene, suddenly falteringly.
“Did you request permission to speak?” asked one of the guards.
“Forgive me, Masters,” she whispered, frightened. “May I speak?”
“Yes,” said the fellow.
“Thank you, Masters,” she said. The Lady Ilene, you see, was not always granted permission to speak. She was, accordingly, applicative. That permission could have been denied to her, of course, even as it might be denied to a slave.
But perhaps we should all be grateful when granted permission to speak.
Women love to speak.
It is one of our great pleasures.
Therefore, that we must request this privilege well reminds of who is Master.
I really thought they were more harsh with her than with us. A slave is almost always allowed to speak. It is merely that she is expected to ask permission to do so. The Lady Ilene, on the other hand, had seldom been granted that permission. I wondered if she realized, though she was a free woman, that that was part of collar training, or slave training.
I was pleased that they had given her permission to speak. It was clearly, this time, more than usually, quite important to her.
Indeed, so concerned she had been that she, doubtless in a momentary lapse, occasioned by her agitation, her sense of vulnerability, had failed to enunciate a standard permission request. I had seen that she had been frightened, but a moment after the utterance of the word ‘Masters’. She had not, clearly, or at least clearly enough, thought there had been supplication in her voice and tears in her eyes. Requested permission to speak. Had she forgotten that she was naked and chained to a ring at their feet?
But they were kind to her.
“So speak,” said the other guard.
“I have a question,” she said.
“What is it?” asked the first guard.
“What, Masters,” she asked, “-what, Masters-what if there is a tie, a draw, Masters?”
“Then we share you,” said one of the fellows. “Now be silent.”
“Yes, Masters,” she said, and lay back down, quietly, on the stones, naked, in her chains, to await their pleasure.
She had hoped, I was sure, that the first guard would win. It was he who had so initially terrified her in the chamber of the commercial praetor, who had placed his hands upon her hips and looked down upon her, who had reached within her hood to turn her face to his, who had dared to threaten the integrity of her veil, who had brushed up the hem of her robes and had calmly examined an ankle and calf.
I had realized even then that she had found him despicably handsome. Even then it had been clear to me that she had wondered what it would be to be in his arms. She had inquired if I thought he liked her, and my response, I fear an unpleasant one, had been to the effect that he might if she were inclined to be pleasant and was nude at his feet. This response, of course, hand incensed her. “Slut! Slut!” she had cried. “Yes, Mistress,” I had said, and then hooded her.
She was looking up at him now. Her eyes were moist. Her lips were slightly parted.
I saw she was apprehensive, but curious, and eager, as well.
Her hair had been nicely brushed and combed. She had been washed.
I did not think she had any reason to be afraid. She had nothing to fear, saving perhaps failing to please.
It seemed likely that he would win, or, at least, not lose, and in that case he would be one of the two who would share her.
She was a prize for men. But then are not all women, in their way prizes for men?