The men about had sheathed their weapons, and were going their ways when, turning about, a cry of wonder escaped them. I looked forward, to the stem castle, to discern the reason for their awe. There, on the stem castle, behind its aft rail, a small figure, bent and twisted, stood, in cloak and mariner’s cap, looking to windward, to the north.
“Tersites!” cried men.
“He is dead!” exclaimed others.
“We witnessed his burning,” said another.
“I was at the pyre,” said another.
“I have heard of him,” I said. This was true. Legends of the mad, half-blind shipwright, Tersites, I did not doubt, had reached even the farther islands. Until now I did not realize he was a real person. From the outcry I gathered that many had not realized he was aboard.
“I saw him burned,” whispered a man.
“No,” said Tarl Cabot.
“You knew he was alive?” said Lord Nishida.
“I examined bones, found amongst the ashes of the pyre,” said Tarl Cabot. “They were the bones of a tarsk.”
“It was better,” said Lord Nishida, “that he be thought dead, that such a word be carried south, that the apprehension of enemies be assuaged, that none might seek his secrets, that his plans would be thought lost forever, that no ship such as this could be built, or, if built, duplicated.”
“Yet,” said Cabot, “we were attacked, at the mouth of the Alexandra.”
“The concealment of the northern forests proved insufficient,” said Lord Nishida.
“Surely you will explain to me one day the nature of our enterprise,” said Tarl Cabot.
“It has to do with Priest-Kings and Others,” said Lord Nishida. “It is, I take it, a wager of sorts.”
“And what hangs upon the outcome of this wager?” asked Tarl Cabot.
“I think,” said Lord Nishida, “the fate of two worlds.”
“Callias,” said Philoctetes, “a storm is near. Come below. Leave the taking in of sail, the governance of the ship, to mariners.”
“It is too late in the season to be abroad on Thassa,” I said.
“I agree,” said Philoctetes.
“I trust that oil was poured into the sea, and wine, and salt,” I said.
“No,” said Philoctetes. “They were not. Come below. A storm is upon us.”
I fetched my cloak, and accompanied Philoctetes below.
Chapter Six
“There,” said Tarl Cabot, “do you see them, the three of them, the farther islands, Chios, Daphna, Thera?”
They were dim, in the distance, in the snow, but one could make them out. I had never been this far west of Cos and Tyros, but the merchantry of the major island Ubarates, including Cos, of course, traded here, and rogue ships, from Port Kar and Brundisium, did as well. Indeed, the major reason for the western patrols, as that of the
It was the second week past the eighth passage hand.
“Yes,” I said. “I see them.”
In an Ahn, they would be astern.
At Cabot’s thigh knelt a slave, well-bundled.
She did not seem agitated. Did she not understand we would soon be west of the farther islands?
When she had heeled her master to the rail, where he had joined me, I had examined her, as men will a slave, insofar as was possible, given her furs. She had lowered her eyes, that they not meet without permission those of a free man. Then she had knelt. I supposed she would be excellent, stripped to her neck-encirclement. Certainly her features were exquisite, and the furs, as they were cunningly wrapped and fastened, the clever she- sleen, suggested, as much as concealed, the delights at the disposal of her master. Slaves often garb and present themselves in such a way that others may envy their master for their possession.
She was quite lovely. I thought she would bring good coin off the block.
She did not meet my eyes. She was, after all, her master’s property, not mine. Even the casual glance of a slave might enflame a fellow. A slave who is careless with her glances, her smiles, might be beaten.
If I owned Alcinoe, and she smiled at another fellow, I thought I would give her a good switching.
It would teach her a lesson.
It would do her good.
I regarded Tarl Cabot’s slave.
I was pleased.
She had about her the look of a woman who is well owned, well mastered.
Commonly a slave rejoices that she is owned. It reassures her and fulfills her. She has come to understand that her sex is rightfully the property of men, and that, in her collar, the tensions and wars are over. She kneels in her place, where she wishes to be, at her master’s feet.
One is familiar with the haughtiness, the arrogance, the pride, of the typical free woman, defended by guardsmen, ringed by the walls of her city, well-veiled, well-robed, secure in her status, unassailable in station, ensconced in society’s regard, but there is another pride, too, little spoken of, which is, perhaps surprisingly, that of the slave. Even when she kneels before the free woman, in her mockery of a garment, fastened in a collar, her lovely hair in the dirt before the free woman’s slippers, she knows herself special, and prized, in a way the free woman is not. She realizes that she, amongst many women, is the one who has been found “slave desirable,” the one whom men will put in a collar, the one who will wear a collar. She revels in the fact that she has been found worthy of being owned. She is proud to be owned. This is a mark of quality, a badge of excellence. She is a prize amongst women, so desirable that men will be satisfied with nothing less than owning her. She is that desirable. She knows that she is the most coveted, the most lusted-for, the most delectable, exciting, and sought of women, the female slave. How could she not feel superior, in her sex, as a female, to the free woman in her vain, shallow trappings of dignity and station? Many have been free women, and they know the grief, the sorrow, the frustration, the misery, and loneliness, so often concealed within those cumbersome, ornate robes. The free woman often hates the slave; the slave, often, feels not only fear of, but also pity for, the free woman. So one might then contrast two prides, that of the scornful free woman, richly robed, elevated in society, switch in hand, and that of the timid, frightened creature, perhaps in a rag, a collared animal, who kneels before her. The free woman has pride in her status, the slave in her sex, in her holistic fulfilled womanhood.
One might also note the gratitude of the slave. She loves and serves, and is grateful to have been granted this privilege. It is not unknown for even free women to kneel before a man, press their lips to his boots, and beg him for his collar, that they may belong to him, as his slave. The depth of this need, of this desire, and the profundity of this love, the wholeness of it, the desire to give oneself, to surrender oneself, wholly, to another, is one of the mysterious recurrent songs of nature, its origins perhaps lost or obscure, but its strains familiar amongst her survivors. So she rejoices that she is owned, for she has now at last what she has long longed for, a master. She is a slave at his feet, doubtless stripped and collared, to be treated as he wills. To what less could she be so helplessly responsive?
He is male, and she female, he master, she slave.
How beautiful are women!
Only in the collar can they find themselves.
“You have a lovely slave,” I said to him.
“I call her ‘Cecily’,” he said.
“That is a strange name,” I said.
