The Usurper

7

“You are here?” asked the barbarian.

He had just emerged from the comparative brightness of the tunnel. The chamber was not much illuminated by the two small hanging lamps.

He looked about the chamber, and to the foot of the couch.

Was the slave not present? Such a lapse might call for punishment. Surely then she must be in the chamber.

“I am here, Master,” said Filene.

“You are on the couch, concealed within the covers,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“What are you doing there?” he asked.

“Awaiting Master,” said Filene. “In my collar I am heated, and filled with longing. Remove your robe, and join me.”

“Do you think that you are a free woman?” he inquired.

Filene’s heart skipped a beat. “No, Master,” she said. “Certainly not, Master!”

“How is it, then,” he asked, “that you would have me remove my own robe?”

“Master?” she asked.

“I am to disrobe myself,” he asked, “and hope to be invited to your furs?”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“You are indeed new to your collar,” he said.

“Hurry to me, Master,” she said. “Join me, within the furs. I wait!”

Her hand, moist, was tight on the handle of the knife.

He must approach. He must be closer.

“A slave,” he said, “is not a free woman, on whom one might attend in darkness, beneath covers, as though in modesty, or shame. A slave is to be seen, not hidden. Every bit of her is to be exposed, displayed for the Master’s perusal. Every one of his senses, his touch, his hearing, his sight, everything, is to be stimulated in the feast of the furs.”

“But I am new to my collar, Master,” she said. “Take pity on me! I am afraid! Be kind! Join me here, within the furs!”

The barbarian strode to the chest at the side of the chamber, lifted up the whip which lay upon its lid, shook out its coil, meaningfully, and snapped it once, sharply, in the chamber.

Filene cried out in misery.

The barbarian pointed to the floor before him. “Here,” he said.

“Master!” she cried out, in protest.

Again the whip cracked.

Filene then, in consternation, loosed her grip on the oval handle of the knife, leaving it well concealed, and slipped from the furs, and hurried to kneel before the barbarian. She was not at all sure she could have, knife in hand, its menace in sight, sprung from the furs and crossed the distance between them. And what if the blow of that terrible device in his hand should arrest her progress, coiling like fire about her, perhaps binding her very arm to her side?

“An ignorant slave begs forgiveness,” she said, head down.

“You are very pretty,” he said. “Do you require the instruction of leather?”

“No, Master,” she said.

“Good,” he said.

One regrets putting a lovely slave to the leather, but sometimes it is appropriate, quite appropriate.

One desires perfection in the service of a slave.

He coiled the whip, and tossed it to the foot of the couch. This action much relieved her apprehension. She did not wish to experience the excruciating pain of a punished slave, and she was not sure, were she lashed, that she could muster the strength or will to fetch the knife. She was not sure she could have managed to rise to her feet. She might have found herself foiled and defeated, before him, lying at his feet, scarcely able to move, alone and helpless, in the misery of her beating.

“May I remove Master’s robe?” asked Filene.

“Sandals, first,” said the barbarian, and he sat on the edge of the couch, rather near its foot.

Filene wished that he would have taken his position closer to the head of the couch, where she might the more easily regain the knife.

She removed the sandals, one at a time, and placed them near the couch.

She did not know enough to put down her head and kiss each first, for they were the sandals of a free person, and then remove them, and then lift them to her lips, one at a time, and kiss them again, and then place them beside the couch.

“Unbraid my hair,” said the barbarian.

It had been braided in the hall of the King Naming, by the slave, Yata, whom he had earlier sold to one of his liegeman, one named Citherix, for a pig.

Long hair is common amongst barbarians.

It is unusual, of course, among bodyguards, gladiators, and such, and he had once been a bodyguard of Pulendius of Terennia, a rich merchant, proprietor of a gladiatorial school, and a lord of estates. It was said that four thousand coloni tilled his fields. As many rich men, he maintained a small, private army, his of some five hundred men. The barbarian had not had his hair cut even when he had fought in the arena. This length of hair was unusual, as mentioned, for bodyguards, gladiators, and such. Short hair, or hair bound back, tightly on the head, often knotted, not easy to grasp, is common. Similarly, bodyguards, gladiators, and such, men who may be involved in hand-to-hand combat, are generally smoothly shaven, or have their beards cut short. A hand knotted in long hair, or a beard, might draw a throat to a knife. Regular troops in the imperial military, incidentally, were required to be clean-shaven, but probably, mainly, for purposes of uniformity and discipline. The matter was more lax amongst troops enlisted as comitates, or those in the limitanei. In any event, wisely or not, the barbarian had commonly worn his hair long. Perhaps it was a challenge to enemies, to try to grasp it, that they might be brought within his reach. Perhaps it was a matter of a dimly sensed propriety, harking back to suspected origins. Perhaps it was merely a matter of idiosyncratic preference. In any event, it was appropriate enough, one supposes, for a projected commander of barbarian comitates, men who might follow such a leader more readily than one whose appearance reminded them of the authority and oppression of a hated empire.

“It is done, Master,” said Filene.

She was now behind him, kneeling on the couch, toward its foot. Given his height, had both stood, it would have been difficult for her to reach up and perform this simple task. She glanced to the place, beneath the furs, where the knife, with its transparent sheathing of poison, lay concealed. It was beyond her reach. She considered whether or not she might throw herself to the place, sweep back the furs, seize it, and put it to its dark employment. But she feared a sudden move would alert the barbarian. She might not live to reach the knife.

She must wait.

He stood up.

She slipped from the couch and stood behind him.

She feared to touch the dinner robe without permission.

He turned to face her. She felt small and weak before him. She went to her knees as was appropriate for a slave in the presence of a free person. She castigated herself. How right she suddenly felt, placed so before him! Were there not men and women, and they were so different, so profoundly and radically different! She hoped he would not ask her to widen her knees before him. How helpless she would be then! She was not sure she could control herself, should he do so. How conscious she was of the chain on her neck, with its dependent disk!

“You should have waited, kneeling, at the foot of the couch,” he said. “You should not have ascended the surface of the couch without permission.”

“Forgive an ignorant slave,” she said.

“Nor should you have concealed your body before the Master,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“The girl kneels, that at the foot of the couch, on the left side, as the couch is faced, she waits; she might be permitted to turn back the furs,” he said.

“The girl hopes to be found pleasing,” she said.

“Have you earned the surface of the couch?” he asked.

“I hope to be granted it,” she said.

“One such as you, a new slave, a substantially worthless slave, would expect,” he said, “to be thrown to the floor at the foot of the couch, perhaps chained to the ring. You see the ring?”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“In the chest to the side,” he said, “there are thongs, and chains, in which you would be quite helpless.”

She put her head down.

“Have you learned to thrash in chains?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she whispered.

“Can you conceive of lying on your back, absolutely helpless, your limbs tied, or chained, widely apart, at the mercy of a Master?”

“I fear to do so,” she said.

“Are you ready for the unspeakable ecstasies your body may be forced to endure, if the Master pleases?”

“Please be kind to me, Master,” she said.

“You will moan, cry out, thrash, weep, and beg for more, and hope that the Master will accede to your pleas.”

A soft cry of anguish escaped the girl.

“He may not,” said the barbarian.

“Could he be so cruel?” she asked.

“Perhaps you will try to be a good slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master!” she said.

“I do not think that you now desire to be a good slave,” he said.

“Oh, no, Master,” she said. “Filene desires to be a good slave!”

“Filene is a liar,” he said.

“Master?” she said, frightened.

“But it does not matter, now,” he said.

“I do not understand,” she said.

“It is my understanding,” he said, “that you are not marked.”

“None of us are,” she said, “those in the camp.”

“Surely that is unusual,” he said.

“We were thought too beautiful to be marked,” she said.

“That is absurd,” he said. “Slaves should be marked. A collar might be removed. The mark is a useful identification.”

“Undoubtedly,” she said.

“Without the mark one might mistake you for a free woman,” he said. “Once you are marked, we need not be concerned about that. Once marked, everyone will know you are a slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

What a dreadful thing, she thought, to be marked, to be designated for all to see as goods.

But the very thought, too, thrilled her.

She could then be owned, possessed as a helpless object, a beast.

I would then, at last, be something, she thought, something real, something societally recognized, accepted, and sanctioned, something with a meaning, and a place, something with a country and a home. What is a free woman, she wondered, but a loose and empty thing, a stray thing, an abstraction without content, a sound without meaning, a movement without purpose, an empty page, a bark without course, a vessel without its summoning, guiding star. I would have an identity. I would know how I must be. I would know how to speak. I would know what to do, how to act, how to behave. I would then, at last, be something, however trivial and unimportant, something of value, something real.

Do I long for a Master, she wondered. Am I incomplete without a Master?

No, no, she thought.

Filene’s mind raced.

Somehow she must obtain the knife.

“As I understand it,” he said, “you are a virgin.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“That is very rare amongst slaves,” he said.

“I was purchased with that in mind,” she said, “that I might be presented so to some high and worthy person, perhaps an ally, or guest, of the empire.”

“An interesting forethought,” he said.

“It seems so,” she said.

“Perhaps,” he said, “to one such as I?”

“I know not, of course,” she said.

“Of course not,” he said.

“In view of my newness to the collar,” she said, “and the comity with which I am sure you would hold a former free woman of the empire, I would crave your indulgence.”

“In what way?” he asked.

“You are not unfamiliar with the ways of the empire,” she said. “You learned them, at least, on the Narcona. You must have observed the manners of gentlemen, such as our noble officers, Lysis and Corelius. I petition then, though I am naught but a miserable and lowly slave, to be accorded, for moments at least, in view of my antecedents, some respect and civility.”

“You wish to be treated somewhat as though you might be a free woman?” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“At least for a moment?” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Civilitas,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Not barbaritas,” he said.

“No,” she said.

“You have seen your gentlemen in certain settings, incidentally, not others,” said the barbarian.

“I am sure they are gentlemen,” she said.

“Some gentlemen,” he said, “know well the purposes and uses of slaves. Some gentlemen are cunning, shrewd, dangerous, intelligent, and powerful, superb and uncompromising Masters. The empire, I assure you, in all its wealth, in all its expanse and depth, in all its might and terror, was not founded by, nor enlarged and maintained by, weaklings.”

“Still,” she said.

“You do not wish to be whipped, or used as a pig?”

“No, Master,” she said.

“Though a slave?”

“Though a slave,” she said.

“Some women find it instructive to be used as a pig,” he said.

“Please, Master!” she said.

“What then would you have me do, and how would you have me be?” he asked.

“Be kind,” she said. “Realize my fears, and feelings. Permit me to ascend the surface of the couch, as might be permitted a high or preferred slave, and permit me, too, in deference to my shyness, modesty, and timidity, to conceal myself within the furs, as might a free woman. And then join me there, tenderly and sweetly.”

“I see,” said the barbarian, skeptically.

“Please, Master!” she said.

“How then will you learn your collar?” he said.

“It need not be taught to me tonight,” she said.

“You must learn it,” he said.

“Not tonight, not now,” she said. “Please, please be kind to a lowly, frightened, miserable slave.”

“I am to remove my own robe?” he asked.

“No, no,” she said. “I will do so.”

She rose to her feet, and, going behind him, lifted the long, flowing, white dinner robe from his broad shoulders.

She was uneasy, gazing on the breadth of that back. She resisted the impulse to lean forward, and touch it gently, timidly, with her lips.

No, she thought, no!

How terrible it would be, she thought, to be a slave!

She looked to the side.

The knife, beneath the covers, was close.

She was holding the robe before her, in two hands. She considered casting it down and darting to the knife. It would take a moment to throw back the furs and get her hands on the implement.

He turned to face her.

She must wait!

“Why are you clutching the robe so?” he asked. “You might wrinkle it.”

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Thank you, Master.”

“You may fold the robe and place it in the chest,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Thank you, Master.”

She then folded the robe, went to the chest, opened it, and placed the robe within it, carefully. Uneasily she noted certain articles within the chest, thongs, coils of cord, some lengths of chain, such things. Too, she noted, dully gleaming, reflecting the light of the nearest lamp, slender and attractive, metal slave cuffs. How easily, she thought, and how effectively, a slave might be rendered helpless!

She was facing away from him.

“I plead to be permitted the surface of the couch,” she said.

“Very well,” he said.

“Master is kind to a poor, miserable slave,” she said.

“Perhaps,” he said.

I have won, she thought, elatedly. What a fool he is! How could a simple, crude barbarian, a boor of the fields or forests, from some tiny village or remote farm, but succumb to the wiles and cleverness of a woman of the empire, one of the honestori, one even of the patrician class, even of the senatorial class itself!

“Hold,” he said.

“Master?” she said.

“Turn about,” he said.

She did not think she could run to the couch. She must be patient.

He went to the chest, now behind her, which was still open, and withdrew something from it. It was a short thong.

“Master?” she said, uneasily.

He was now before her.

“Master?” she said.

He bound her wrists together, crossed, before her body, at the center of the thong, and, with its loose ends, tied them about the chain on her neck. Her hands, then, bound closely together, were fastened before her, just below her chin.

She tried to separate her hands, fruitlessly. The chain pulled against the back of her neck.

“Master!” she protested.

The barbarian then lifted her, easily, and threw her, feet away, to the surface of the vast couch, where she tumbled, and rolled amidst the furs.

She scrambled to her knees on the couch. She feared to stand, lest she lose her balance, and fall.

She felt a mighty hand grasp her hair, and jerk her head back. She cried out. She tried to free her hands. The chain shook on her neck, the pendant metal disk, with its three languages, including its pictograph, shook, and rattled against the sturdy links of her collar, the slave necklace. Then she was touched as a slave may be touched. She shrieked with dismay. Her knees moved, wildly. Her body shook. Her fingers twisted. She jerked at the thong and chain holding her hands together, helplessly, at her collar. She could scarcely move. She could not defend the sweet, exposed latitudes of her vulnerable beauty, no more than a slave. Then she was touched, again. Again she shrieked, with dismay, and misery. She wanted to cry out, “Desist! Desist! I am a free woman! I am a free woman!” but she knew she must not do so. Too, she was in the hands of a barbarian. Would such a cry deter a man, any man, from the prey designed for him by nature?

“Civilitas!” she cried. “Civilitas!”

The barbarian then did desist.

“Civilitas!” she wept.

The mighty hand was removed from her hair.

“Free my hands, Master,” she begged. “Free my hands, if not for my sake, for yours! I am bound! So tethered, so helpless, how can I please you? I would touch you. I would hold you! I would caress you! I long for you! I want you! How can I, so bound, please you, and caress you? Free my hands! Free my hands!”

He then reached to her throat, to free her hands.