The Usurper

24

The whip snapped.

Some men looked up, from the house, to the platform.

“Lot two hundred and twenty-seven,” said a voice.

Cornhair winced, bent over, a keeper’s hand tight in her hair.

Again the whip snapped, and Cornhair was yanked upright, and then, her hair released, thrust forward, stumbling, she climbed the seven steps to the height of the broad, rounded surface, seven steps as there are seven letters in the most common Telnarian word for a female slave.

Cornhair, brightly illuminated, centered in a pool of light, unable to see well into the darkened house, was turned about, before the crowd.

She heard her attributes, in detail, her hair and eye color, her height and weight, her lovely measurements, pleasant to behold, proclaimed to the men. This was done by a clerk, he who had read her lot number, at a table near the foot of the block, on its right side, as one would face the house.

Then, small drums pounded, and two double flutes came alive.

There were four musicians, who were, as the clerk, near the foot of the block, but they were more to the left side, as one might look toward the house.

The melody was sensuous, suitable for its purpose, to enhance the exhibition of a slave. It swayed in the house like a snake of sound.

Not all markets employ musicians.

Interestingly it was more often done in the lower houses, where, one supposes, lower-level merchandise would be more likely to be offered.

Supposedly it stirs the crowds, makes men more willing to part with their coins.

Too, one supposes it might compensate to a degree for, or distract attention to a degree from, the quality of merchandise being offered in a lower house.

To be sure, sometimes a genuine bargain may be obtained in such a place.

“Can you dance?” he asked.

“Stately dances, if suitably partnered, dances appropriate to my former station,” she whispered.

“Are you stupid?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said. “I do not think so, Master.”

“You hear the music,” he said. “Can you dance, the dances of what you are, the dances of slaves?”

“No, Master,” she said.

“Dance,” he said.

Again the whip snapped.

Cornhair cried out in fear and misery, but the leather had not touched her.

“Put your hands over your head,” he said. “Bend your knees, hear the music, use your hips! You are for sale!”

So Cornhair, in her terror and misery, tried to dance.

But we fear she was too frightened to do well. Or, perhaps there was a subtle unwillingness or resistance in her, an inhibition owing to her former status and station in life. Could she be truly a slave? Could it be she, truly, on this smooth, rounded block, barefoot, in the sawdust, in the pool of light, being exhibited before men?

Could she be truly for sale?

Was this not incomprehensible, unthinkable?

What woman could even imagine herself being sold?

Was this not some fantastic aberration, or illusion, some untoward nightmare?

No.

But how then did she do so poorly?

Did she not yet realize, in her emotions, and thoughts, and belly, that she was a slave?

It was now what she was.

Was the knowledge of her bondage as yet a mere matter of intellectual acknowledgement, little more than an acquiescence of sorts, little more than some abstract recognition of an indisputable fact of law?

To be sure, perhaps her belly had not yet been suitably enflamed; or perhaps she had not yet come to the treasured point where her entire being would become one with the understanding of, and the joy of, bondage, the point where her entire nature would be suffused with what she was, the point at which she would kneel instantly, naturally, and gladly, waiting to be commanded, wishing to be found pleasing by her Master, the point at which she would know the ecstasy of being owned, the point at which she would choose no other life for herself than one of submission, slavery, and love.

“Call out,” he demanded.

“Please buy me!” she wept. “I beg to be purchased!”

There was laughter from the crowd.

Clearly the fellow beside her, with his whip, was not pleased.

Cornhair even heard, here and there, in the house, muchly dark before her, the faces hard to see, the laughter of two or three women. What were they doing here, in such a place, a vending place for low slaves? Did they think to find some trained woman’s slave here, some mistress of the care of hair and skin, the possessors of subtle cosmetic secrets, one wise in the matching and folding of garments, in the arrangements of jewelries, a confidant from whom seductive insights, likely to be known only to a slave, might be garnered, a discreet and reliable messenger capable of arranging assignations?

So Cornhair, despite being a woman, and one of admittedly comely and delectable attributes, found herself, to her chagrin and humiliation, an object of ridicule and scorn.

How strange this was, as any woman, even if untrained, has it in her body, like the beating of her heart and the circulation of her blood, like the chemistry of her glands, the disposition and readiness, the primed latency, to move as a supplicatory female before men, if only in kneeling, and lowering herself gracefully to the ground, if only in prostrating herself, if only in extending and withdrawing limbs, in calling attention to charms, in smiling, pleading, in moving, rolling, turning about, on back or belly. Surely they realize, somehow, what desirable objects they are, what alluring, luscious objects they are, must sense, if not realize, how men might see them, with such possessive excitement, how men might want them, literally to the rope, collar, and manacle. Have such things not been selected for, over millennia, at the mouths of caves, in forest glades, in capture camps, on streets amidst burning buildings. By such behaviors have not thousands saved themselves from the ax and sword though at the expense of the collar and chain?

“Very well,” he said, abruptly.

He indicated that the music should cease.

“Thank you, Master,” said Cornhair, relieved.

He snapped the whip, smartly, and she, inadvertently, cried out.

“If you cannot dance,” he said. “At least, I trust, you can move.”

“Master?” she said.

“Now,” he said, “move! Writhe! Twist about! Extend your hands! Crouch! Rise! Display yourself! Plead! Beg! You are merchandise! Show it! Why do you think you are where you are? What do you think your belly and hips are for? Please buyers! Beg to be purchased! Whimper for the chains of a Master! Have no fear, they will be locked on you! Sell cheap and you will live in dirt and work hard. Sell dear and you need fear little more than being displeasing.”

A moment or two later Cornhair sank to her knees on the block, shuddering, only to have her head pulled up, by the hair, by the man’s left hand.

One gathers the bids were desultory.

Also, there was apparently a minimum bid of twenty darins, which sum, however modest, was apparently not reached.

In disgust the fellow thrust Cornhair from the block, into the arms of a keeper, to the left, waiting on the fifth stair.

“Noble sirs,” he called to the crowd, “what a flower you have allowed to escape your grasp!”

There was laughter from the house.

“But, woe,” said the man. “The sale has been long, the weather warm, the hour late. But be patient! We shall do better now! Much better!” Then, at his nod, the clerk, near the foot of the block, called out, “Lot two hundred and twenty-eight!”

The auctioneer glanced to his left, where the keeper, now on the fourth step, preparing to descend, had Cornhair, bent over, his hand locked in her hair, in custody.

“Lash her,” said the auctioneer.

“It will be done,” said the keeper.

“Please, no, Master!” wept Cornhair.

“There are other dispositions for such as you,” he said. “Take her away, and see that she is well lashed.”

“It will be so,” said the keeper.

In the tiers, Lady Delia Cotina, of the Telnar Farnacii, turned to her companion, Lady Virginia Serena, she of the lesser Serenii, also of Telnar.

“I think she will do very nicely,” she said.

“I think so, too,” said Lady Virginia.

“Certainly she will be cheap,” said Lady Delia.

“That is nice, as well,” said Lady Virginia.