'Yes,' I said. 'Are you content and happy?'
'Of course!' she said, angrily.
'How long have you been a slave?' I asked.
'Two months,' she said.
'How came it about?' I asked.
'I was taken in the suburbs,' she said, 'by mercenaries, collected with others. The levy was unannounced.'
I nodded. There had been many such, the soldiers appearing with their ropes, often late at night, bursting into houses, bringing their catches forth, in various states of undress and night wear, to the waiting wagons.
'You have had only one master?' I asked.
'Yes,' she said. 'He was one who had sought my hand in the free companionship but whose renewed suits I had consistently scorned.'
'And now you are his slave?' I said.
'Yes,' she said.
'Or he is yours,' laughed a fellow.
'If you say so,' she said.
Again anger coursed about the circle.
'What is your name?' I asked.
'Lady Filomela,' she said, 'of Ar.'
'You are a slave,' I said.
'Filomela, then,' she said, 'of Ar.'
'Of Ar?' I asked.
'Simply Filomela then,' she said, angrily.
'And you may be given any name your master pleases,' I said.
'Yes!' she said, angrily.
'Why are you not happy?' I asked.
'I am happy!' she cried.
'I see,' I said.
'I am going now,' she said.
'Really?' I said.
She turned about, to leave, but the men did not move to let her pass. Then she turned about, again, to face me.
'May I go now?' she asked.
'Come here,' I said.
She regarded me.
'Now,' I said.
She did not move.
I snapped my fingers.
She hurried angrily to stand before me. She was now close to me, and I had good feelings, feelings of energy, possessiveness and manhood, good feelings, powerful feelings, at her closeness, and she, on her part, looked up at me, and then, looking quickly away, trembled a little. Then she blushed. There was some laughter.
'You sense in yourself slave feelings?' I asked.
'No!' she said.
'Turn about, and keep your hands at your sides,' I said.
With two hands I brushed her hair forward, putting it before her shoulders. I then checked her collar. It was a standard collar, of a sort familiar in the north, flat, narrow, light, sturdy, close-fitting. I did not bother reading the engraving on the collar, as it would be of no interest, her master being a weakling. The collar was closed at the back of her neck with a small, heavy lock. This is common. It was attractive on her, as such things are on any woman.
'You are collared like a slave,' I said.
'I am a slave,' she said.
'Clasp your hands on the top of your head,' I said.
She trembled.
'Common kajira brand,' said a fellow.
'Yes,' I said.
'Please,' she said.
'You are branded like a slave,' I said.
'I am a slave!' she said, angrily.
I permitted the hem of her rather-too-long tunic to fall again into place. She was left-thigh-branded, high on the thigh, a bit below the hip, like most girls. I glanced to the four other girls kneeling to the side. They were apprehensive, frightened.
'Are you the leader of these others?' I asked her.
'We are friends,' she said, evasively.
This was surely not impossible. Slaves girls have much in common, such as their brands and collars, their typical garmentures, their entire condition and status, the sorts of labors they must perform, and the problems of pleasing masters. It is natural then, given such commonalties, and abused and despised by free women, that they should often seek out one another's company. It is not unusual to see them together, for example, laundering at the stream side or long basins, or sitting about a circle, mending and sewing, or polishing silver. Sometimes they arrange their errands so that they may accompany one another. Sometimes, too, in the abundance of free time enjoyed by most urban slaves, they simply wander about, seeing the city, chatting, exchanging gossip, and such. To be sure, it would be remiss not to remark also that, as one would expect, some of the pettiest of jealousies, the most absurd of resentments, the vilest of acrimonies and the most inveterate of hatreds can obtain among these beautiful, vain, vital creatures, within the same house, where contests often rage, sometimes subtly and sometimes not, for the favor of the master, on which contests, needless to say, considerable shiftings in rank and hierarchy may hinge. And there can be intense competitions, it might be mentioned, not only for such treasures as the master's attentions and affections but for articles as ordinary as combs and brushes and prizes which, whatever may be their symbolic value, are often as small in themselves as a sweet or pastry. In this case, however, I suspected this was no typical grouping of slaves, of the normal sort, but a tiny covey of girls either with a natural enough suspicion in an Ar where the men of the city, betrayed and defeated, helpless and confused, were for most practical purposes, at least until recently, prostrate before the might of Cos. If one is in effect a slave oneself it is hard to be a strong master to one's female. It is much easier to rationalize one's weaknesses and struggle to view them as virtues.
'Is she your leader?' I asked one of the girls kneeling to the side, one of those in a tunic of the wool of the bounding hurt.
'Yes,' she said.
'No!' swiftly said another, one also in a tunic of the wool of the bounding hurt. 'Our masters are our leaders!'
'Leaders?' I asked.
'Owners!' she swiftly said.
'What are you?' I asked the first kneel girl, sternly.
'Properties!' she said. And she added quickly, seeing my eyes still upon her. 'And animals!'
'Yes!' said the girl beside her, she who had spoken second earlier.
'And what are you?' I asked the slave, Filomela.
'A slave,' she said, not turning around, standing facing away from me, her hands clasped on her head.
'Turn about,' I said.
She obeyed.
'And?' I asked.
She was standing quite close to me, in the posture I had dictated.
