The Usurper

40

Cornhair lay on her left shoulder, on the steel flooring of the motorized vehicle. Her wrists were still tied behind her but now, looped within a thrice-circled cord, her ankles were fastened together.

“We cannot have you wandering about,” had said one of the vehicle’s crew.

“No,” Cornhair thought, “you have seen to that. I will remain where you have put me, helpless.” Slaves, of all women, are most aware of their sex, for the sex of both men and women is defined most clearly by the relation of each to the other, the larger and stronger to the smaller and weaker, the taker to the taken, the captor to the captive, and so on. These relationships are, of course, much accentuated and intensified in the institution of bondage. As Master the man is most male, and, as slave, the woman is most female. Slavery permits the woman no lies or pretenses, no falsifications of her nature. She is at a man’s feet, where she belongs.

Although Cornhair had initially been quite distressed at the thought of approaching the palace, where she might encounter those who had known her as the Lady Publennia, particularly Iaachus, the Arbiter of Protocol, whom she had failed so signally in her attempt to assassinate a barbarian captain of auxiliaries, she was now far less concerned, as it seemed unlikely that such a harrowing encounter would take place. Who but barbarians would note her as she was, a mere tethered prize in a vehicle? And even if Telnarians, common citizens and such, should gaze upon her, they would see no more than what she now was, a common slave.

Cornhair lay quietly amongst the booted feet of the barbarians.

“That is the palace,” said one, pointing, standing on the level which permitted him to look over the slitted metal visor half circling the vehicle.

“It will be pleasant to own the empire,” said another.

“Rather, destroy it,” said another. “Burn it. Break it, world by world! Tear it down, stone by stone.”

“See the palace,” said another, impressed, “the portico, its columns, the steps, the pediment, the great portal, the sculptures.”

“There are many buildings about the great court,” said another.

“Fountains spraying colored water,” said another.

“Scented water,” said a man.

“So where are our noble Telnarians, so brave with their sticks and torches?”

“Fled, or resting in the streets, flooded with their blood,” said another.

A fellow laughed.

“What building is that?” asked one of the men.

“How should I know?” said another.

“Oh!” said Cornhair, the side of a boot striking on her thigh.

“Do you know Telnar?” asked the fellow whose boot was still at her thigh.

“She will know nothing,” said one of the men. “She is an outworlder, probably from Varna or Tesis II. She is stupid, too; they were going to garbage her outside the city.”

“A little, Master,” said Cornhair.

She was caught under the arms and lifted up, tied as she was, by the fellow whose boot had honored her with the attention of a free person. He then placed her on his shoulder, steadying her with one hand. In this fashion, she was held high, well over the slitted metal visor. Doubtless she would have preferred a less conspicuous ensconcement.

“There,” said the fellow, facing a building, pointing with his left hand.

“The senate house,” she said, “the supreme power in Telnaria.”

“Does it launch fleets, does it march armies?” asked a man.

“No, Master,” said Cornhair.

There was laughter.

“Beyond that, Master,” said Cornhair, “are houses of documents, of deeds and wills, the house of administration, that of law, the housings of the high courts.”

“What blackened shell of a building is that?” asked another, pointing.

“It was the temple of Orak Triumphant,” she said. “Emperors sacrificed there. Offerings were burned at the foot of the steps, that the temple not be stained, a hundred white bulls with gilded horns, the incense and smoke detectible for miles about.”

“It is now a hollow, burned shell,” said a man.

“It fell upon bad times,” said Cornhair.

“Look!” said a fellow, pointing back, beyond the broad court.

“Conceal the slave,” said another.

Cornhair was lowered to the floor of the vehicle. She drew up her legs.

“Lie still,” said one of the men.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

Cornhair heard cheers, cries of pleasure.

A large vehicle rumbled past. Turning about, she saw little more than a pennon atop a supple, swaying, metal rod.

“Hail, Abrogastes!” men cried.

“Behold,” said a man, “he has with him, lying at his feet, the slave, Huta.”

“I fear, and hate her,” said a man.

“She is nicely chained,” said a man.

“Why would he bring her?” asked a man.

“She is well curved,” said another.

“She makes a suitable display slave,” said a man.

“I have heard that Ingeld has noted her flanks,” said a man.

“Let Abrogastes not discover that,” laughed a fellow.

“She is dangerous,” said the fellow who had spoken before. “I fear her, and loathe her.”

“Once she was dangerous,” said a man. “But no longer. She is now a slave. Abrogastes has aroused her, caressed her into submission, into need and pleading, enflamed her belly. She now lies in chains, begging to be touched.”

Again the fellow’s boot brushed Cornhair’s thigh. “What of you, blond slut?” he asked.

“I am a slave, Master,” whispered Cornhair.

“I do not wish to dally here overlong,” said a man, uneasily.

“No,” said another, looking about.

“Enemy fleets approach,” said a man.

“Surely,” said another.

“If we are caught here,” said a man, “we will be stomped on, crushed like a ten-legged crawler under the hoof of an angry torodont.”

“There is time,” said another.

“Not enough,” said a man.

“Enough,” said another.

“Let the king be about his business quickly,” said a man.

“What is his business?” asked a man.

“I do not know,” said another. “He did not consult with me.”

This remark was followed by laughter.

Cornhair heard a woman’s scream.

“Ho,” said one of the fellows, “we are not the only ones with a bauble.”

“There are two there,” said a man, “stripped, hands tied behind them, with rings in their noses, being led on their cords.”

“And four there,” said another, turning about, “slaves, tunicked, not bound, save for a common neck rope.”

“The two must be free women,” said a man.

“They have not yet earned a rag,” said a man.

“I wonder if they are worth branding,” said a man.

“They had best hope so,” said another.

“They will soon grow accustomed to having their necks encircled with the badge of servitude,” said another.

“What shall we do with our little piece of sleek, well-turned garbage?” said a fellow.

“We can cast lots for her,” said a man.

“She will probably be put in a common bin,” said a man.

“We may leave them behind,” said a man. “We can always pick them up later, with other millions, when the empire is ours.”

Cornhair again felt the boot, the toe nudging her.

“Master?” she said.

“You are a slave, are you not?” she was asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You want a Master, do you not?” she was asked.

“Must I speak?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, “I want a Master.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I am a slave,” she said.

“You do not even have a collar,” he said.

“It was taken away,” she said.

“But you will soon have another, will you not?” she was asked.

“Doubtless, Master,” she said. “I am a slave. I should be collared.”

“You want the collar?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Why?”

“Because I am a slave,” she said.