The King

CHAPTER 8

“Let us see if there are men here!” called Abrogastes, meaningfully, his eyes blazing, rising to his feet, from the bench, between the high-seat pillars.

He waved to the side.

“It is the great spear!” cried a man.

“It is the spear of oathing!” cried another.

“What is it doing here?” cried another.

“How is it come to the hall?” said another.

“Surely it is not time for the spear,” whispered others.

“Not for a thousand years,” cried a man.

Two men bore the great spear forth, with its ashen shaft and bronze head, bore it muchly to the center of the feasting hall, but forward, some, toward the bench of Abrogastes.

The brownish, ashen shaft of the spear was mighty, but might, in the hands of a titan, or giant, or in those of Kragon, the god of war, one supposes, have proven supple.

The wood was fresh.

The head was broad, and of bronze, and forged in an ancient fashion, one dating back to a time when the Alemanni were first learning the mysteries of metals, how to smelt, and mix, and shape them.

There had been, of course, a succession of such spears, but each, you see, had touched its predecessor, and thus, as the Alemanni would have it, had become the spear.

“This is the spear,” the markings priest, who could read the ancient, secret signs, would say, and it had then, as it had touched its predecessor, become the spear.

This succession of spears may have extended back farther than even the most ancient of war songs, to the first forests and storms, and wars.

Its antiquity was not known.

The earliest spears would have crumbled to dust but then, at such a time, they were no longer the spear, but another was the spear.

In this sense the spear was thought to be eternal, as the Alemanni.

It was a sacred object.

Later the earlier spear was destroyed with axes, to cries of war. Thus it was as though it had perished in battle. The splinters were then wrapped in precious cloths, and burned in the sacred fire, in the secret place in what, by tradition, was said to be the first forest, where, as the stories had it, Kragon, the god of war, had fashioned the Alemanni, of earth, and fire, and his own blood, that in his hall he might have worthy cup companions. Kragon was usually represented as hawk-winged, this symbology presumably suggesting swiftness, ferocity, ruthlessness, unexpectedness of strike, and such things. He was also, generally, interestingly, regarded as a god of wisdom. In the syncretism of the empire he, with many alien gods, was sometimes included in the imperial pantheon. In the secret place in the forest, known only to the oldest of the markings priests, it was said that Kragon had breathed his spirit, with the breath of fire, into the Alemanni. The Vandals, too, interestingly, had such stories, which suggests the possible existence of an earlier cultural complex, perhaps an earlier cultural center, one perhaps even neolithic, or protoneolithic, underlying, in an obscure, basal fashion, the development of several of the barbarian peoples.

“Unchain her!” roared Abrogastes, pointing to Huta, who shrank back, where she lay at the left side of his bench, as one would look toward the hall.

One of the keepers rushed to the slave and pulled from his belt a great ring of keys, one of which he thrust into the massive padlock on her high, heavy iron collar. In an instant it was thrown in a clatter of metal to the stout planks of the dais, and Huta, whimpering, terrified, at a gesture from Abrogastes, was hurried from the dais, bent over, held by the hair, and flung to the earth, some five yards before the bench. Some three or four yards before the spear, which had now been placed, butt down, held by two men, in the rush-strewn dirt floor of the hall. She scrambled about, on all fours, to face Abrogastes, and then knelt in fearful obeisance, her head down, the palms of her hands on the floor, making herself as small as possible.

“Kneel up!” shouted Abrogastes.

Fearfully Huta did so, back straight, back on her heels, head up, palms down on thighs, knees spread widely, pathetically, beseechingly.

“Behold, brothers!” cried Abrogastes in fury, pointing to the slave. “Behold she who was once Huta, priestess of the Timbri!”

Anger coursed about the tables, for it was well known that she had been implicated in the secession of Ortog, and, indeed, by many, was held accountable for that defection, that treason and rebellion.

“What is your name?” called Abrogastes to the slave.

“Huta!” she cried.

“And what sort of name is that?” he demanded.

“It is a slave name, put on me by my master!” she cried.

“Who is your master?” he asked.

“You are my master,” she cried, “Abrogastes, king of the Drisriaks, of the Alemanni!”

“For what do you exist?” inquired Abrogastes.

“To serve my masters with instant, unquestioning obedience and total perfection!” she said.

“She it was,” cried Abrogastes, to the assembled, now-sobered feasters, “who by trickery and cajolery, by promises, and false prophecies, fanned the ambition of Ortog, who tempted him to treason, who encouraged him in heinous sedition, who led him to rend the Drisriaks, his own people, who would have had him found a divisive tribe, even the name of which no longer exists!”

The name, of course, of the failed, secessionist tribe was the Ortungs or the Ortungen. The name did still exist, of course, though it was not wise to speak it in the presence of Abrogastes, nor, generally, in the dwelling places of the Drisriaks. The Ortungs had been, of course, defeated, and scattered, as grass to the wind, as it was said. To be sure, there were, here and there, remnants who, in hiding, and unreconciled, continued defiantly to regard themselves as Ortungs, in their own right, by the acceptance of rings, and not traitorous Drisriaks. After the slaughter in the tent on Tenguthaxichai, recounted elsewhere, Abrogastes, on the advice of his counselors, had permitted pockets of surrendering, repentant Ortungs to return to the dwelling places of the Drisriaks. The olive branch, as well as the sword, can be an instrument of policy.

“Is not treason the worst of crimes?” called Abrogastes.

“Yes,” cried several men, about the tables.

“No!” shouted Abrogastes. “The instigation to treason is the worst of crimes!”

He pointed to Huta.

“Yes, yes!” cried men. The tables roared.

The former ladies of the empire, kneeling about the hall, at the sides, before the tables, trembled.

“Mercy, Master!” cried Huta, throwing herself to the rush-strewn floor of the hall.

“What shall be done with her?” called Abrogastes.

“Kill her! Kill her!” cried men. Men, too, rose from behind the tables. Others pounded upon them. “Kill her!”

“Let it be a lesson to all who would betray the peoples!” cried a man.

“Yes!” cried others.

Huta, lying prone in the dirt, looked up, and lifted her hand to Abrogastes. “Mercy, Master!” she begged.

Doubtless she then understood why food had not been given to her that day, that it might not be wasted upon her.

The giant spear, held by two men, was large, upright, behind the slave.

“Kneel up!” cried Abrogastes.

Terrified, Huta obeyed, though she could scarcely, even kneeling, keep her balance, so shaken, so helpless, she was.

“Let me cut her throat!” cried a man, coming about a table.

“No, let me!” cried another.

One man then even leapt to the slave and had her head back, cruelly, held by the hair, his knife at her throat.

He looked eagerly to Abrogastes.

Abrogastes waved him back, and the others, as well.

“You were a priestess, were you not?” inquired Abrogastes.

“Yes, Master,” said Huta.

“You were a consecrated, sacred virgin, were you not?” inquired Abrogastes.

“Yes, Master,” wept Huta.

“You do not appear to be clothed,” said Abrogastes.

“No, Master,” she wept.

“She has her brand!” laughed a man.

“Yes!” said another.

There was laughter.

“Behind you, behold the spear of the Alemanni!” said Abrogastes.

“Yes, Master,” she said, falling to all fours, and turning.

“Go to it!” he said.

Quickly she did so, and, unbidden, began to kiss, and lick it, desperately.

There was laughter.

“She is not unintelligent,” said a man.

“No,” said another.

The spear, interestingly, may not be touched by free women, of the Alemanni, or others. It may, however, receive the ministrations of female slaves, this being taken as a service or an obeisance, much as the washing of a warrior’s feet by the tongues of the women of the enemy, the acts serving as a symbol of the nothingness of the slaves, as an irrevocable token of total submission, and as a recognition of, and an acknowledgment of, the power and glory of the Alemanni,

“Turn about!” commanded Abrogastes.

Huta, trembling and fearful, unsteady, on all fours, turned about, to face Abrogastes.

“It will now be decided whether you live or die,” said Abrogastes.

“Master?” begged Huta.

“Bring the scales,” said Abrogastes.

Men cried out with pleasure.

Scales were brought, wide, shallow, pan scales, which, when the pointed staff was driven into the earth, to one side of the floor, and steadied there by the hand of a man, stood half as high as a man, and with them a small table, on which were a large number of lead pellets, tiny measured weights.

“Stand!” commanded Abrogastes.

Huta, trembling, unsteadily, stood.

“Bring musicians,” said Abrogastes.

Three men, from the sand latitudes of Beyira II, were summoned, from where they had been waiting, in a small room off the main hall, a pantry shed. Two carried pipes, and one a small drum. The sand latitudes of Beyira II are, of course, not entirely sand, but they are, on the whole, windswept, desolate regions. They are crossed by lonely caravans. Here and there, among the dunes, there are small oases, where dates may be found, and grass, for small flocks. Some of these are well known and determine caravan routes. Some are known only to local groups, of nomads, of herdsmen, who move among them, seeking grass at one, while allowing it to replenish itself at another. Sometimes there are storms of sand which last for weeks, which must be weathered by the tiny groups and their small flocks. On the desert, and in the desolate regions in general, there is much loneliness, and much time. The inhabitants, the nomads and herdsmen, of these areas, as might be expected, have a rich oral culture, rich in such things as myth and storytelling. Too, they have their music, which is intricate, and melodiously sensuous, a music which moves the blood of men and the bellies of women. Although the tents of these nomads are dull, and inconspicuous, on the outside, melding in well with the browns and tans of the country, they are often lined with colorful silk, and, inside, may contain such things as rich rugs, carved wooden stools, and bright metal vessels. The world inside the tent contrasts with the plainness and hardship of the world outside the tent. Inside the tents is found another world. Within this world, not unoften, is found another aspect of the ancient culture of the men of the sand latitudes. Within the tents, on the gorgeous rugs, often pound small, bangled feet, within them often swirls colorful, revealing silks, within them often rings the sudden, bright erotic flash of finger cymbals. The men of Beyira II are known throughout galaxies for their dancing slave girls, for none but slaves are allowed by them to dance such dances, which so say “female” in all its beauty and vulnerability, in all its joy and radiance, in all its rhythmic gracefulness and incredible erotic allure, dances which celebrate, in all their unapologetic richness and glory, the astounding attractions, and the desirability and excitement of the female who, though perhaps collared, is totally free to be herself, and must be herself, even, if she be reluctant, to the instruction of the whip, or worse. These girls are often bought by the men of the sand latitudes at the cities which, like ports, border the edges of the lonely, terrible countries. They are then carried away, bound and hooded, on sand beasts, into the trackless deserts to serve. The men of the sand latitudes pay for these women in a variety of ways, as with fees from guiding, and guarding, caravans; with pressed dates, from the oases; with gleanings, of flesh, horn and skin, from their herds; with minerals, found in obscure outcroppings, which to them are largely useless, except for their aesthetic value, but which are valued by the men of the “coastal cities,” minerals such as vessa and forschite, which are copper and gold; with semiprecious stones such as turquoise, garnets, amethysts, opals and topaz; and rare clays, reds and whites, used in the manufacture of the red-figured Beyiran ware. There is speculation, too, when the nomads come to the cities with struck coins, diamonds and pearls, and tales tending to provoke skepticism, if not unwise contradiction, of having found such goods in the remains of perished caravans. To be sure, there may be some truth to the claim, but, if so, the matter shifts to speculation having to do with the precise nature of the misfortune which may have befallen the caravan. Sometimes, too, girls appear in slave markets claiming to be the daughters or nieces of rich merchants, governmental officials, and such, but, as they are by then branded, they are whipped to silence, and must soon, generally far away, accommodate themselves to the nature of their new life. Some might be kept, too, it is speculated, by the nomads, to be trained in slave dance. In any event, in time, these dancers, however they may be acquired, either honestly, by trade or through purchase, or in gifting, as are doubtless most, or by some less open modality of acquisition, such as the ambush, cloak and rope, become, under the harsh tutelage of the men of the sand latitudes, incredibly valuable as prizes, and gifts, being exchanged among groups, sometimes traded to passing caravans, and sometimes, too, being lost to brigands, hunting such dancers, some for their own camps, some for marketing, even on other worlds. The dancers of Beyira II are famed throughout galaxies. To be sure, the lives of such women is not all dance and such. There is much work to do about such camps, and it falls to the hands of the beauties. Their life is not easy. They must even braid the leather whips, under male surveillance, which may be used upon themselves.

The musicians took their position, cross-legged, on the floor of the hall, before the dais, but to its left side, as one would look out, toward the hall.

Huta, standing in the center of the hall, before the great upright spear, to which she had rendered zealously the ministrations of a slave, shook her head wildly, negatively.

There was a testing skirl of the pipes, the abrupt sound of a stroke on the small drum. The men with the pipes licked their lips. The fellow with the drum adjusted the tension of the head, and struck it twice more. He then seemed satisfied.

Huta moaned, audibly.

She had recognized the robes of the musicians, or the style and color, of their robes. She knew them for the sort of robes worn within the sloping, many-poled, lamp-hung tents on worlds such as Beyira II. Outside the tents, for most of the year, the robes tended to be white, to reflect sunlight, but, in the winter, in the prime traveling months for caravans, they tended, as the tents always were, to be mottled, with the result that they blended in with the background. The mottled robes, too, were usually worn away from the camps, even in the summer, when the men rode forth on various businesses, whatever might be the nature of those businesses, leaving boys behind, to supervise the flocks, and slaves.

The men looked to Abrogastes, ready to play.

Huta threw herself to her knees and, weeping, held out her hands to Abrogastes.

“Please, no, Master!” she begged. “No!”

Abrogastes looked about the tables. “How many of you,” he asked, “have ever seen a priestess dance?”

The men looked at one another. One or another said, “I have, milord, a priestess of the rites of the Libanian Grain Cult.”

Abrogastes laughed.

Dance figured in the rites of many cults, for dance can be a language of the emotions, of feelings, even exalted feelings and emotions, and, too, like song, speech, and gesture, can have its religious applications, but in many of these cults, the dances were performed in sacred caves or grottoes by stately priestesses, sedate, dignified and grave, veiled, and fully clad, often elderly women, in purest white, who had for years ascended the hierarchies in their cult, earning their right to dance before the high, mysterious candlelit altars of their vegetation gods.

“I have seen a priestess of the rites of Asharee dance!” said a man.

“Better!” said Abrogastes, slapping his knee.

A ripple of interest took its way about the tables.

“Now that is a dance!” said a man.

Asharee was a fertility goddess of Issia VI. Her priestesses were sacred prostitutes.

Their dances, and subsequent embraces, brought many coins rattling into the golden bowls of Asharee’s shrines. Only noble, freeborn women were accepted into the cult, sometimes even matrons. For a coin their husbands might find what a marvel they were married to, but then, so, too, might any others, visiting the shrine.

“What of the rites of Lale?” called another man.

“And those of Cytele!” cried a man.

“Aleila!” called another.

“Lanis,” said another.

“Seborah!” cried another.

“Yes, yes!” said men.

Many of these cults were now, for most practical purposes, secret cults.

In most the priestesses were, in effect, temple dancers, whose caresses, for a suitable donation, might be bestowed upon the faithful. The services in many of these cults tended to begin, sometimes following certain days set aside for fastings and abstinences, and after a lengthy wait in a darkened temple, with the appearance of a small light, and readings, readings celebrating the wonders and joys of life, which readings were then followed as often or not, with a reenactment of a mythic drama, in which men, alone and without women, pathetic, lonely and miserable, besought mercy of the goddess in question, who, seeing their sorrow and pain, and taking pity upon them, created women in her own image, that his prayers might be answered, and that he might be granted a companion. At the conclusion of this drama, or, one supposes, rather as a culminating portion of it, the women appear, first one seen, and then another, so illuminated, and seem as if awakening, and finding themselves to be, begin to dance their joy in life, but soon, as the men before them, each seems apart and alone, and grieving, for, though they are created in the image of the goddess, they are not the goddess, but are finite, and thus incomplete. These women are, of course, the temple dancers. They are clothed, by intent, much as might be slaves, for example, they are barefoot, and bangled and silked. This, as well as the subdued light, and such, has its inevitable effect on the congregation, and, doubtless, too, on the officiants. They dance their loneliness to the men, whom they need as much as they are needed, for that was the intent of the goddess. Soon the dance becomes more enticing, more piteous, and more erotic until a final clash of cymbals occurs and the women and men rush to clasp one another, and the women are lifted, and carried, each to her alcove, or cell, in the temple. In their joyous union, as it is consummated in rapture, it is supposed that worship is offered up to the goddess, who is pleased with her work. There are many ways to worship gods, and this is one of the ways with certain cults, in the union of man and woman, joyously, gratefully, in mutual ecstasy. The gift of produce, or of coins, or whatever it might be, is left afterward in the alcove. The servants of the goddess, and the high priestess, and others associated with the temple, its keepers, and accountants, and such, require, of course, such things, for the satisfaction of their material needs.

As I have mentioned, many of these cults now practice secretly.

There is a good reason for that.

Too, they tend to be far less numerous than before.

There is a good reason, too, for that.

Many of them, you see, have tended to share the fate of the cult of Asharee, or, at least, that of many of her shrines. The lusciousness, and desirability, of the priestesses of Asharee, and those of certain other cults, did not go unrecognized, nor was the potential value of such women long to be ignored. In the services it was scouted out, and marked, by men whose interests tended to be less religious than practical and economic. In the eyes of some, the cult places came to be regarded as little more than places where beauty, like fruit in an orchard, might be harvested, for disposal in various markets. The cults, and shrines, particularly as the administrative, organizational, and defensive capacities of the empire began to deteriorate, became frequently the targets of slavers. Many times, to screaming and dismay, to misery and panic, were the services interrupted, by the sudden appearance of intrusive, determined, merciless men, appearing as if from nowhere, yet seeming to be everywhere, bearing weapons, and chains. “If you would be slaves,” they would say, laughing, placing chains on the small, fair limbs of the priestesses and dancers, “you will be slaves!” They were distributed to various markets, some on different worlds. Many were sold to taverns and brothels. In some cases the husbands purchased back their wives, who were then no more than their slaves. And their services, in all their fullnesses and delights, then belonged only to them, not merely to anyone who might pay a coin. Too, no more then was she neglected for she was now a slave, for whom money had been paid. Surely he will see that he gets superb returns upon his investment. Too, she must now serve and love, selflessly, unstintingly, and be owned, as she had wanted. Too, if she is not pleasing, she must fear the whip, or worse.

“I cannot dance, Master!” Huta cried to Abrogastes. “I know nothing of such things!”

“Kill her! Kill her!” called men from the tables.

A saurian slid from about a table and, in one clawed appendage, picked a lead pellet from the table by the scales and flung it, contemptuously, into one of the pans, that which bore the emblem of a skull. That pan then, almost imperceptibly, descended, and the pointer associated with the arm, to which the pans, by small chains, were attached, inclined, by ever so little, toward the left side of the dial, that marked, too, with the emblem of a skull. On the other pan, as an emblem, was the representation of a slave collar, which representation, too, as emblem, lay at the termination of the dial on the right.

“Please, no, Master!” wept Huta, as another saurian, a fellow of the first, left his bench and deposited, too, a pellet in the pan of the skull.

Such creatures, of course, as would certain others about the tables, of diverse ambitious, aggressive species, alien to humans, as humans were alien to them, saw her only as a deceiver and troublemaker, and as a configuration which, as like as not, was not only unmoving to them, but tended to fill them with disgust. To be sure, such creatures occasionally kept human females as slaves.

“Mercy, Masters!” wept Huta to the tables.

Many of the cults, as we have suggested, had now gone, in effect, underground, and become secret cults, but it is a difficult secret to keep, the existence of such things, the times and places of their meetings, the identity of the officiants, and such. Too, many such cult meetings, it seems, were betrayed to slavers, sometimes by cult officials themselves, sometimes by members of the faithful, and so on. Slavers pay well for such information, often with bounties for excellent catches, and sometimes with bounties for individual women, depending on their quality. It seemed clear that many such cults, largely because of the abduction and embondment of their officiants, were disappearing. To be sure, in such a matter, it is difficult to gather data.

“Do priestesses of the Timbri not dance?” inquired Abrogastes.

“No, Master! No, Master!” cried Huta.

To be sure there were many cults, billions, within the empire.

Not all favored, of course, goddesses, and such.

Many cults were dedicated to male gods, to virility, to manliness, to the principle of masculinity and such things.

Women could, and frequently did, participate in the services of such cults, but only as slaves, which they were, commonly dancing first before the male gods, or the symbols of masculinity, and then before the faithful, dancing as women before men, to be overwhelmed and subdued, to be conquered, to be given no choice but to surrender totally to men. Such cults were popular in many places. They were popular, for example, in the army. The women used in these cults, temple slaves, or cult slaves, as one might think of them, were seldom the target of slavers. One reason for this was doubtless that such cults provided a valuable market for the lovely wares of the slavers, obtained elsewhere. Theft from actual or prospective customers was not regarded as being in the best interests of their profession. To be sure, barbarians, casual brigands, and such, tended to be deterred but little by such considerations, or scruples, and would be pleased, often enough, to get their ropes and chains on anything good. Such women were, however, bought and sold, as the temples tended to vary, replenish, and freshen their stock. A young woman could often be purchased cheaply as a cult or temple slave, and then later, after having been trained in the cult or temple precincts, sold at a considerable profit. Taverns and brothels, in many cases, investing similarly, followed similar practices.

It might be added, as it may not be clear from the foregoing, that not only were free women not permitted to participate in the services of the masculine cults, but, also, were not permitted to so much as attend or witness them. Sometimes, of course, a young free woman, perhaps one too curious, or bold, or foolish, would attempt to attend the services, usually disguised as a boy. But if her disguise is penetrated, as it must be, to her horror, given an unexpected late phase of the ceremony, following the dance, she will find herself seized. Her pleas will be unavailing. In the next celebration of the rites, if she has not been slain, she will doubtless find herself among the other dancers, branded, and collared, and clad in such a way, if she be clad at all, that there is no longer the least doubt as to her gender.

In the context of matters such as these, it would be remiss not to call, in passing, some attention to one of the most interesting deities in the Telnarian pantheon, Dira, whose devotion is widely spread among female slaves. Dira is the goddess of slave girls, and is herself a slave girl of the gods. She functions, too, as a goddess of love and beauty. Dira, as her legend goes, was an unhappy, haughty, frigid goddess, who regarded herself as superior to the other gods. In some versions of the legend she was said to be insulting to the other gods and to rejoice in treating them badly and making them miserable. This caused much anger among the other gods but nothing was done about it as Dira was a goddess.

Now Orak, the king of the gods, was one day pondering the making of men, and other creatures, and what would be the appropriate arts and occupations of these creatures, and their natures, races, and kinds. He made things that lived on the land and in the sea, and even things that could fly in the air. He made many different sorts of things, and over a very long time. Indeed, according to the stories, he still makes things, new things, as they occur to him, according to his caprice, or curiosity, interested in seeing how they will turn out. This is one reason there are so many different things in the world. He made the gazelle for the vi-cat, so it would have something to hunt and eat, and the lamb for the lion, and so on. And, too, seeing how often men were lonely and angry, and restless, he made the slave girl, to love and serve men, not so much unlike he had made the gazelle for the vi-cat and the lamb for the lion, and he put a slave girl in every woman, hiding her there.

“How silly!’’ had said Dira, laughing, tossing her pretty head and, turning with a swirl of her voluminous, pure-white garments, left the hall of the gods.

But Dira, learning of the making of the slave girl, had, for a moment, unnoted by the other gods, trembled, and had felt a troubling, unaccountable stirring between her lovely thighs.

Now Dira had often criticized the works of Orak, who did not care for that.

“How is it,” asked Andrak, the artisan and builder of ships, “that men should have more than the gods?”

“How is it,” asked Foebus, the swift god, the carrier of messages, “that men should have slave girls and we none?”

“Surely that is not right,” said Tylethius, the maker of whips and breeder of dragons.

“No!” cried Orak, with a roar like thunder, rising to his feet.

Far off, Dira heard this, and was puzzled, wondering what it might mean.

“Forge magic chains, hunting chains,” said Orak to Andrak, the artisan.

Dira heard this, and was apprehensive.

“Call your dragons that can herd like hounds,” said Orak to Tylethius. “And braid a whip fit to lash a goddess!”

Dira heard this and was muchly frightened.

She heard pounding in the smithy of Andrak.

She heard the howling of the dragons of Tylethius.

She summoned up her powers.

But Orak, king of the gods, put forth his hand, and her powers were gone. Though a goddess she was now little more than a woman.

Then Orak put forth his powers, and they were like winds and storms.

“Go,” said he, to his hawks, “and bring me the garments of Dira!”

And with cries they were awing, fiercely.

Dira, alone, deprived of her powers, little more now than a woman, cried out in fear, and began to run, but in a moment she found herself in the shadow of the wings of the hawks of Orak, who, crying shrilly, descended upon her, and, with their beaks and talons, tore away her snowy garments, leaving her on the plain, terrified, naked, and bloody.

And then she heard the clanking of chains, like snakes, leaving the hall of the gods, and she fled, and fled, and hid herself in a dark, deep cave, cold and trembling, but the chains, slowly, sniffing like dogs, followed her, deep into the earth.

“No!” cried Dira, backed against a wall of the cave, at its very end, but one of the chains, even in the darkness, near the ground, like a snake, unerringly, striking, snapped its ring about her ankle, as the legend has it, the left. Her right ankle was caught then by the next chain. As she reached down, hoping to free her ankles, her left and right wrists were seized by two other chains. Then the four chains began to draw her, protesting and weeping, out of the cave, upward, to the upper air, where two dragons, like hounds, with breaths of fire, were waiting for her. Then, dragged by the chains, and hastened by the dragons with their breaths of fire, scorching the earth and grass, and the stones at her feet, she was conducted across the plains, and into the hills, and into the mountains, and up the secret mountain trail, hidden from mortals, to the wide marble steps, the thousand steps, leading yet farther upward, to the hall of the gods, and thence she was conducted up the steps, and into the great marble-floored hall itself, where, on that great, smooth expanse of marble flooring, the gods sitting about in council upon their thrones, the chains, by themselves, whipped about four rings in the floor prepared by Andrak, and welded themselves shut.

“I beg mercy!” cried Dira.

These four rings were placed directly before the throne Orak.

She knew she had many faults, but she had never expected be punished for them, because she was a goddess.

But now she was afraid.

“Mercy!” she whispered.

“How beautiful she is!” marveled many of the gods.

“Clothe her!” cried Umba, the consort of Orak.

Orak lifted his hand and a tiny, narrow rag, of no more than half an inch in width, of bright red, wrapped itself twice about the left wrist of Dira, and knotted itself shut.

Umba cried out in fury and left the hall, and so, too, did the other female deities, leaving Dira with only male gods about. The beauty of Dira had not made her popular with the other goddesses.

Orak raised his hand again, and the tiny rag about her wrist vanished.

The gods murmured their approval.

“Kneel,” said Orak.

Dira knelt.

This was the first time that Dira knelt. She did not dare to disobey.

The hawks of Orak were perched upon the back of his throne. The dragons of Tylethius were behind her, one to each side,

“You have been petty, and haughty, and troublesome,” said Orak. “You have been supercilious and cruel.”

“You have taken my powers,” she said. “I am little more now than a mortal woman.”

“But one who is very beautiful,” said Andrak.

“What is in your eyes?” she asked.

“It is desire,” said Orak.

Dira trembled.

“Do you find it amusing that I have made slave girls?” asked Orak.

“No,” said Dira.

“Do you object in any way?”

“No,” said Dira.

“Do you find it fitting?” asked Orak.

“Yes,” said Dira.

“But they are unimportant, and worthless,” said Orak.

“Yes,” said Dira.

“And one may do what one wishes with them,” said Orak.

“Yes,” said Dira.

“Bring the lash,” said Orak.

Andrak produced the lash which Tylethius had braided.

“What are you going to do?” asked Dira.

“Put her hair forward,” said Orak.

Her hair was thrown forward, before her body. Tylethius did this.

“What are you going to do?” asked Dira.

“Lean forward, so that you are on all fours,” said Orak.

Dira complied.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Surely you suspect,” said Orak.

“But I am a goddess!” she said.

“Lash her,” said Orak.

In a moment the lash, wielded by Andrak, the artisan and builder of ships, fell upon the goddess.

In another moment she was prone in her chains upon the floor, aghast and helpless, clinging disbelievingly to one of the rings with her small, chained hands.

“Please stop!” she cried.

Instantly, at a sign from Orak, the beating stopped.

Dira gasped for breath, shuddering, aflame with pain.

“You see, you received your way,” said Orak.

“Yes!” gasped Dira, sobbing.

Then, at a sign from Orak, Andrak, the artisan god and the builder of ships, put again the cunningly braided leather to the back of the startled, chained beauty.

“Stop!” she cried. “Please, please stop!”

But this time the lash continued to fall and Dira, in consternation, bewildered, helpless, writhed under it, tangled in her chains, crying out for mercy.

Then Orak indicated that Andrak should desist, and Andrak stepped back, coiling the whip.

“You see,” said Orak, “this time you did not receive your way.”

“No!” gasped Dira.

“Kneel!” roared Orak, and Dira scrambled to her knees.

“Thus it is shown to you,” said Orak, “that, from this moment on, though you are a goddess, what is done to you, and what you must do, are no longer dependent upon your will, but upon the will of others.”

Dira shuddered.

“Do you prefer to be fed alive to the dragons of Tylethius?” asked Orak.

“No!” said Dira. “No!”

“No longer will it be men alone who have slave girls,” said Orak.

The gods in the hall acclaimed this wisdom, and shouted, and clashed weapons.

“You will be the first of the slave girls of the gods,” said Orak.

“I pronounce you slave,” said Orak, “and give you the name ‘Dira.’ “

And it was thusly done that the goddess, Dira, became the first of the many slave girls of the gods, and received, too, the name “Dira,” though then, of course, as a mere slave name.

Many, of course, are the stories and legends of Dira, how she served, how she learned to dance, how it was that she invented cosmetics, and jewelry, utilized even by free women, how it came about, in disputes concerning her ownership, that she was branded, how Andrak first forged a slave anklet, and later bracelets and collars, and such things, but we have time to note but a particle of these things.

Among such stories, of course, is that of the sexual conquest of Dira by Orak, in which she learns her slavery, and rejoices in it, and thrives in it, living to love and serve selflessly, finding her meaning and ecstasy in her own subordination, her own ravishment and conquest.

Her relationship to male gods would always be unique, and special. But her relationship to the female gods would be quite different. By them she would be held in contempt, and hated, and mistreated.

Orak, as we may recall, as the stories have it, hid a slave girl within each woman. Indeed, it seems to have been Dira’s predictable criticism of, or reservation concerning, this act which led finally to her own enslavement. Naturally the hidden slave girl seeks to come forth, and be accepted, that she may rejoice and serve, and become openly the woman which she secretly is, just as, from the other perspective, the woman longs to become and manifest the secret self which is her innermost reality. In the end, then, the slave girl is the woman, and the woman is the slave girl. As this is commonly understood, though seldom so baldly put, women are by nature the natural slaves of men. Free women, of course, are culturally encouraged, for a number of reasons, to deny and suppress their slavery. This is usually regarded as in the best interests of society, though it does play havoc with the psychology and mental health of the free woman, tending to manifest itself in various psychosomatic complaints, hostilities, neuroses, and other such ills. In many parts of the empire, of course, slavery is legal, and this tends to relieve the pain of an otherwise intolerable situation, giving a public role to, and an outlet for the needs of, slaves.

As a last remark, then, which ties much of this together, we can understand the devotion to Dira among many female slaves. Indeed, sometimes even free maidens, and older free women, pray to Dira, that she may help them attract a desired male, that she may teach them something of the wiles of the slave, that she may consent to imbue them with at least a little of the softness, the vulnerability, the sensuousness, and the subtle sexual magnetism, of the female slave. But the devotion to Dira, of course, is most profound among female slaves.

It is said that for a time, you see, most of the occupations and professions of men had their particular tutelary deities, their supervising gods, who took a special interest in certain vocations, trades, crafts, and such. An obvious example would be the devotion to Andrak of smiths and shipbuilders. But slave girls had, for a time, it was said, no such god or goddess. Dira, who was herself a slave, of course, saw this, and one morning, after, on all fours, bringing Orak his sandals in her teeth, she brought his attention to the matter. “They have no special god,” she pointed out, “to enlighten them, to inspire them, to bring joy to them, to bring them special graces, to aid them, to instruct and comfort them.”

“But they are slaves,” said Orak, “and are unimportant, and worthless.”

“I, too, am a slave, Master,” said Dira, “and am unimportant, and worthless.”

“True!” laughed Orak, striking his knee in amusement. “Be then their goddess.”

“Yes, Master!” said Dira, and that is how, according to the stories, Dira, the enslaved goddess, became the goddess of slave girls.

“Does she live or die?” called Abrogastes to the tables.

“How can one tell, milord?” laughed a man.

“It seems she will die,” said another.

“Kill her!” cried men.

Two creatures approached the scales, hybrids, creatures of exotic enzymes and catalysts, whose origins were lost in history, their ancestors perhaps the creations of a destroyed, pathological culture, one which might have been dying when the empire itself was but a set of villages on a single world, a handful of huts at the edge of a muddy, yellow river, each three-eyed, their skin sheathed with scales of bark, some scales darkish green, others brown, or black, coming, creeping forward, scratching at the rush-strewn floor, with their steel-jacketed roots, each then, with one leafy, tendriled appendage lifting and dropping, a lead pellet into the pan of the skull.

“Master, let them not participate!” wept Huta. “To them I am meaningless.”

“You are meaningless to all of us, slut!” called a man.

“You are a slave!” called another.

Huta put back her head and howled with misery.

Next came two insectoidal organisms, stalking forward, their wings folded, and sheathed behind them in leather. They regarded Huta with their compound eyes. Chitinous, pincerlike jaws clicked. Two more pellets struck down, into the pan of the skull. Then came two arachnoidal creatures, eight-legged, with accoutrements of leather, whose narrow, crooked legs, four of which might serve as grasping appendages, were festooned with ribbons, whose horizontally oriented bodies were sashed with silk, scurrying forward, depositing pellets in the pan of the skull, then hurrying backward, crablike, to their places.

Huta wept, kneeling in the dirt.

Abrogastes looked about the tables, seeking out, in particular, other creatures there, many of them mammalian, other than men.

Abrogastes looked to one of them, to one of those sorts, Granath, of the Long-Toothed People.

“What think you, brother?” inquired Abrogastes.

The large eyes of Granath gleamed, and the jaws opened, revealing white bone-cleaned fangs. “It is hard to tell, milord,” said Granath.

It was not unknown for the shambling, shaggy scions of the Long-Toothed People to keep human females as slaves. They were useful, for example, for grooming fur, smoothing it with their small, soft tongues, and, with their tiny fingers, and fine teeth, removing parasites. Too, they were often used to do work regarded as beneath, or unfit for, their own females. It was rumored they were put to other purposes, as well.

“Olath?” asked Abrogastes.

Olath, of the Tusked People, shrugged, the movement involving almost his entire upper body.

“Anton?” asked Abrogastes.

This was a scion of one of several primate peoples, other than men, within the compass of the empire. His world was, in theory, a world loyal to the empire, and, indeed, he held an imperial post on that world, that of imperial agent, or commissioner, to those of his people who, long ago subdued by the empire, had been relocated to that world, that as the consequence of an imperial policy dating back to the days of the Tetrarchy. We have seen, earlier, how the Wolfungs had been relocated to Varna, and the Otungs to Tangara.

Anton scratched his elbow, and turned his large, yellow eyes on Huta.

“For what she has done, I think she should be killed,” he said.

“Yes!” cried men about the tables.

“And she is almost hairless!” cried another primate, in disgust.

“See how repulsively smooth she is!” cried another species of primate, one with long, silken hair.

“Kill her!” said his fellow.

“Yes,” said another.

“I do not object,” said Anton, who was of a short-haired species, “to her hairlessness.”

There was knowing laughter among several other varieties of primates about the tables.

“She does not even have a tail!” pointed out the long-haired primate.

“Nor do I!” laughed Anton.

“She can compensate for that with her hands and mouth,” said another primate.

“You should know,” laughed his fellow.

“She is smooth and would be pleasant to grasp,” said another.

“They feel pleasant, squirming and wriggling against you,” said another.

“They can perform other services, as well,” said another.

“Yes,” agreed another.

These were doubtless services which they would not think of expecting from their own mates.

“But any of those, or any like them,” said one of the primates, gesturing widely, indicating the former ladies of the empire, kneeling about, “would feel much the same, and, commanded, must supply eagerly, zealously, such services.”

“True,” said another primate.

There was an uneasy, frightened jangle of bells on the ankles of the former ladies of the empire, as they stirred. One almost rose to her feet but a swift stroke of her youthful keeper’s switch put her quickly down again, frightened, on her knees.

“And so, Anton?” asked Abrogastes.

“For what she has done,” said Anton, “I think she should be killed, but I am willing that the pellets be weighed.”

“Yes,” said one or more of the primates, regarding the slave.

Abrogastes grinned.

He had thought that the mammalians, and, in particular, the primates, with whom the small, smooth, curved slave had more of an affinity, might be more willing than certain others, less similar life forms, to suspend judgment, at least for the moment, on the fate of the miserable slave, preferring to watch and wait, and gather evidence, and weigh matters, and then, in the light of the evidence, and their considered judgment, cast their pellets.

“So,” said Abrogastes, addressing the slave, “the priestesses of the Timbri do not dance?”

“No, Master!” cried Huta. “The officiants of the rites of the ten thousand gods of Timbri are chaste, and sworn to purity! We are sacred virgins. We are consecrated virgins! We must not even think of men!”

There was laughter about the tables.

“Surely in your sacred beds you must think a little on such things, and wriggle upon occasion,” called a fellow.

Huta blushed scarlet, her body aflame.

“Ours is a spiritual religion,” she wept, crying out to the tables, looking one way, and then another. “We are concerned only with matters of the spirit! We must move sedately, with dignity. We must be modestly, heavily, and concealingly clothed! We may not reveal so much as an ankle! We dare not dance! It is forbidden! The dance is too biological! It is too real! In it it is often impossible to conceal the form of the body! It is a form of expression even of many animal species!”

“But no animal can dance like a slave girl,” said a man.

That was true, of course. The dance was a form of expression of incredible psychophysical, psychosexual import. It was no mere instinctual acting out of ancient genetic patterns, but an acting out of such patterns, and imbued templates, as was consequent upon, embellished by, and enriched by, thousands of meaningful, expressive cultural, institutional, and societal refinements and enhancements. Still, of course, beneath all this sophistication and refinement, there lurked, in all their pristine fury, in all their primitive urgency, as old as tiny fires and limestone caves, ancient things, the pounding in the loins and the aching in the belly.

Huta put her head in her hands, weeping.

The pointer on the scale was now, of course, given the cast pellets, inclined clearly to the left, toward the tiny skull at the left, bottom termination of the semicircular, graduated dial.

“You have forsworn your gods,” said Abrogastes, loudly, as Huta looked up, between her hands.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Then you are no longer a priestess of the Timbri,” he said.

“No, Master,” she said.

“Then you are no longer a sacred virgin, a consecrated virgin?”

“No, Master!”

“But you are a virgin,” he said.

“Until Master sees fit to take my virginity from me, or have it taken,” she said.

“A priestess of the Timbri may not dance,” said Abrogastes. “But you are not a priestess of the Timbri.”

“No, Master.”

“You are no longer modestly, heavily, concealingly clothed,” observed Abrogastes.

“No, Master,” she said.

There was laughter from the tables.

“What are you?” he asked.

“A slave girl, Master,” she said.

“And it is permissible for a slave girl to dance?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Many are even trained in the dances of slaves,” said Abrogastes.

“I would not know, Master,” she said.

“It is true,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“And for what do you exist?” he asked.

“To serve my masters with instant, unquestioning obedience and total perfection!” she said, frightened.

“Do not fear,” he said. “I shall not, not now, command you to dance.”

“Thank you, Master!” she said.

“The decision, rather, shall be yours,” said Abrogastes.

“Master?” she said.

“Behold the scale,” said Abrogastes.

Huta moaned.

Abrogastes signaled to the musicians, and they began to play a simple, arresting melody, one that seemed to speak of the sand latitudes of Beyira II, and the secret lamp-hung interiors of the dark tents, but, as the slave did not move, they ceased.

They looked at Abrogastes, to see if they should continue.

He gave them no sign.

“I cannot dance!” wept Huta. “I do not know how! I would be clumsy, and the pellets would condemn me.”

“Consider the scale,” said Abrogastes. “As it stands now, you already stand condemned.”

“You would so humiliate me, that I should dance as I am, and as a slave, and might still be condemned to death?”

“Yes,” said Abrogastes.

“I was a priestess of the Timbri!” she cried. “I was a sacred virgin, a consecrated virgin, sworn to chastity, to purity and spirituality, and you would have me dance-as a slave!”

“You may do as you wish,” said Abrogastes. “I leave the matter up to you.”

“Kill her!” cried men. “Kill her!”

“Be done with it, milord!” called another. “Kill her!”

One man, clearly human, rose up and, looking fiercely at the slave, flung a pellet into the pan of the skull.

Another leapt up, and did so, as well.

The hound at the side of Abrogastes rose up, its fur bristling about its neck, and the hump there, eyeing the slave.

“Steady, lad,” said Abrogastes. “Steady!”

And another man flung a pellet into the pan of death, and another did so, as well.

“Master!” cried Huta. “Do you not care for your slave, a little?”

“No,” said Abrogastes.

“Master?” she said.

“You deceived my son, Ortog,” said Abrogastes. “You abetted crime. You aided in the fomentation of rebellion and treason. You should die.”

“Please, no, Master!” she wept. “Have pity on one who is now no more than a poor slave!”

Abrogastes made an angry noise, one of surly impatience, and scowled.

“Do you not care, Master, for your slave, just a little?”

“There is not one in this hall who does not despise and hate you,” said Abrogastes.

“But you, my master?”

“You are hated,” he said.

She put her head down, and wept.

Two more pellets were cast into the pan of the skull, the pan of death.

Huta looked up, shaking her head wildly.

“What do you think?” Abrogastes asked the leader of the musicians.

“We find the whip loosens them up, milord,” said the musician.

“They can be whipped anytime,” said Abrogastes.

“She has a well-curved body,” said the musician, “with sweet, fleshy thighs, and nicely rounded upper arms. They would look well in slave armlets. And her face is a fine one, with its distinctive cheekbones, and its look of great intelligence. The hair is long, and black as jet, and might, if she understood its uses, be used as bonds or veil.”

Another pellet struck into the pan of death.

“I cannot dance!” she cried to the leader of the musicians.

“All women can dance,” said he.

“What chance have I?” she begged.

“I do not know, little pudding,” he said. “I have never even seen you serve at the tables.”

“What chance have I, Master?” cried Huta.

“Perhaps one in a thousand,” said Abrogastes.

Huta moaned.

Another pellet struck into the pan of the skull.

“They want me to die!” wept Huta.

“Yes,” said a man, eagerly.

“Yes!” cried another.

“Surely in your dreams, and thoughts, little pudding,” said the musician, “you have danced.”

“One chance in a thousand,” said a second musician, “is better than none.”

“What can I dance?” she cried.

“Dance yourself, and your dreams, and needs, and secret thoughts,” said the leader of the musicians.

“They want me to die!” wept Huta.

“Prove to them that there might be some point in letting you live,” said one of the musicians.

“Dance what you are,” said another. “Dance your slavery!”

“My slavery?” said Huta.

“Yes,” said the musician.

“Loose the hound on her, Abrogastes!” cried a man.

“The hound, the hound, let it tear her to pieces!” cried another man.

The great hound, hunched to the right of Abrogastes, by his bench, growled, almost inaudibly, menacingly.

“Look,” cried a man. “She is on her feet!”

“Yes,” said another.

Huta had risen up, trembling. The great spear, held in place by two warriors, was behind her.

The tables were silent.

“I beg to dance all those things, Master,” said Huta to Abrogastes, “-myself, my dreams, my needs, my secret thoughts my slavery.”

“You do not need my permission,” said Abrogastes. “The matter is, for now, as I told you, in your own hands.”

“I dare not dance without the permission of my master,” she said.

Men at the tables exchanged glances, startled. Abrogastes lifted his hand, in token of permission, that the slave might dance.

“But, too, I beg to dance as the slave of Abrogastes, who is my master!”

Abrogastes regarded her, surprised.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “I am your slave, more deeply than you know.”

“Cunning slave!” snarled Abrogastes.

But little did he suspect what wearing his chains and bonds had done to her.

Their eyes met, and Abrogastes was troubled.

“Your life is at stake,” said Abrogastes.

“Even so,” she said, “I dare not dance without the permission of my master.”

“There are many here!” he said, gesturing angrily about the tables.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You must dance to them, as well.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

The overwhelming majority of the feasters, as would be expected, were of the Alemanni, and related peoples. Too, substantial numbers of others were human, or humanoid.

All eyes were on Huta.

“You may dance,” said Abrogastes.

“Thank you, Master,” said the slave.

The musicians began to play, and Huta, in terror, tears in her eyes, in the midst of seething hostility and disgust, in the midst of those who called for her death, began to dance.