The Chieftan

“I am a slave — Master,” she said.

“Remove your clothing,” he said, “completely.”

The men watched intently, and so, too, fearfully, and then in indignation, and then in envy, did the officer of the court. She gasped, seeing that garments much like those hidden beneath her “same garb” had been beneath the jacket and slacks. She is a slut! thought the officer of the court. But how beautiful she is! thought the officer of the court.

“Shall we keep her, at least for a time?” called the chieftain to the assembled Wolfungs.

“Yes, yes!” they cried. Some pounded on shields with spears.

Ellen, the salesgirl, sank to her knees to one side of the dais, trembling.

“You!” said the chieftain, pointing to the officer of the court.

She shrank back, hoping she would not be recognized.

“Stand,” said the chieftain, “and come closer.”

Numbly the officer of the court, on this remote world, in the presence of barbarians, rose to her feet. She approached the dais, and stood before it. She did not dare to meet his eyes. She hoped that he would not recognize her.

“Free women,” he said, “will be killed. Slaves, if found acceptable, may be spared, at least for a time.”

He regarded her.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

She resolved to offer him defiance, to proclaim her freedom. Was she not in “same garb”? Was she not an officer of a court? Was she not of the honestori? Was she not of Terennia, where men and women were absolutely the same in all ways? Was she not of the blood itself?

“What are you?” he asked.

“I am a slave, Master,” she said.

“That is known to me,” he said, in contempt.

Her heart sank in misery. He knew her. He recognized her. Too, she had always known, even from the first moment his eyes had fallen upon her, seeming to see her, even though she was in the dark, voluminous robes of the court, as though she might be stripped and shackled on a slave block, that he had somehow pierced to the most profound secrets of her heart, discerning there her true self, the waiting, concealed, yearning slave.

“Remove your clothing,” he said, “completely.”

Almost fainting, wavering, her fingers fumbling with the closures, the officer of the court opened the drab, bulky “same garb” and then, shuddering, lowered it to her hips.

“Ah,” said a man.

“Slave, slave,” said a man.

“You are beautiful,” whispered Oona.

The men were intent.

The officer of the court then lowered the same garb to her ankles, and stepped from it.

She heard an intake of breath.

She looked at the chieftain.

Then she sat on the ground and removed the bootlike shoes she had worn, and the long dark stockings. These stockings, as we may recall, had some purple thread sewn at their top, to show that she was of the blood. Then she had removed the brassiere and the panties.

She then stood before him, and them, a stripped slave.

“What was your name?” he asked.

“Surely you know,” she said. Then she said, “Tribonius Auresius.”

“That is a man’s name,” he said.

“It is — was — my name,” she said.

“Why?” he asked.

“My mother put it on me,” she said.

“Why?” he asked.

“I do not know,” she said. “Perhaps that I should think of myself as a man.”

“Are you a man?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“Did you try to think of yourself as a man?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“What are you?” he asked.

“A woman,” she said.

“You are no longer permitted to think of yourself as a man,” he said. “You must now think of yourself as what you are, a woman.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes, what?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“This one,” he said to the crowd, “I will decide personally, whether she is to be kept or not, at least for a time.”

There was assent to this.

The officer of the court then, frightened, knelt beside Ellen, both at the foot of the dais, and a bit to the chieftain’s left. She did not even know if she would be kept, even for a time.

Perhaps she could please him. Perhaps that is what he would want. Certainly he had looked upon her often enough in a way which suggested that he would not be displeased to have her at his feet.

She shuddered, considering what it might be, to be at the feet of such a man.

The woman in the pantsuit was then ordered to rise, and to approach the dais.

She did so, slowly, frightened.

The two slaves at the foot of the dais muchly feared for her.

She, too, as the others, was questioned.

“But none will be interested in me!” she wept.

“Stand straight, put your shoulders back,” commanded Otto.

There was a coursing through the crowd, of admiration.

“I am a slave, Master,” she responded.

“Remove your clothing, completely,” she was told.

“Please, no, Master,” she said.

“Strip,” she was ordered, “utterly.”

She began to remove her garments.

“And you will be whipped,” he said, “for having dallied in response to an order.”

“No one will want me!” she wept.

“Stand straight,” he said.

A man clapped his hands with pleasure.

“Ah!” cried Axel.

Oona had a striking figure.

She seemed surprised, even startled, at the response of the men. It had not even occurred to her that she might be of interest.

“Shall we keep her, at least for a time?” inquired Otto, laughing.

“Yes, yes!” called men.

Axel stepped forward, towering over Oona. “Are you a good slave?” he asked.

“She does not smell, like the others!” called a man.

“I will try to be the best slave I can, Master,” said Oona, frightened.

“I want her!” announced Axel.

“Are there any objections?” asked Otto.

There were none from the Wolfungs.

“Kneel there, my slave,” said Axel, indicating a place near the other slaves.