Chapter 5- The first name

The older of the two tattooed redheads had been dragged by Priscius himself into his personal gardens, her head covered by a sack and muzzled by a gag that only succeeded in muffling her stubborn attempts to call her oppressor every possible abusive name. The slaver had untied her ankles and was gripping the lace that was binding the barbarian’s neck; but she persisted so much in struggling, rearing and kicking that he ended up pulling her, half by the lace, half by the hair, so that the roughness of the trip would calm her down a bit. The result was inconclusive, but at least the girl was too busy catching her breath and coughing to resist effectively.

There, Sonia waited, in the gentle shade of the flower-filled arbors of the small, secluded park that served as the heart of the Slave Garden at Priscius’ villa. Not far behind her, a large fountain cascaded peacefully, its basin adorned with sensual nudes carved from white marble. Motionless, Sonia looked like another work of art added to the beauty of the place. Dressed only in a long loincloth, the black silk panels of which concealed only the bare minimum of her intimacy, her body was embellished with polished bronze and silver jewels, adorned with glittering gems.

Without making a move, she watched the two other slaves with their hands tied behind their backs, who had been waiting on their knees on the flagstones of the park for several minutes. Their collars were themselves attached to rings sealed to the ground for this purpose. The young tattooed redhead, who had not been asked her name, had not lifted her head or looked at anything but the ground since she had been brought to the square. Sonia had watched her for long moments during those three days of isolation and confirmed Priscius’ opinion: the young woman was broken and reacted only to fear; she seemed to have lost all will to live.

Sonia never judged free men and women. She was a slave and, more than proud of it, she took arrogance from her condition, seeing herself as an ideal and magnificent representation of all feminine sensuality, more perfect than all men’s dreams and women’s despairs. But as far as she was concerned, the matter was settled: this young woman had been tortured and deliberately damaged to give Priscius a poisoned gift. It was therefore possible that she would never recover, and Sonia thought it a pity that she risked being finished off. She was pretty and had a rare and unique appearance. But Sonia was no more concerned about her fate than she was about saving a beautiful object. She was a slave without a name, a commodity without any value as yet. When an object is broken, if you can’t fix it, you get rid of it; the educator would never have thought otherwise.

The other young woman kneeling beside the little redhead was about the same age, but that was where the resemblance ended. Her hair the color of pure gold, with the bewitching beauty of the women of the Plains of The Eteocle, her figure sumptuous, even at just sixteen springs, she had been born the daughter of a great noble family, the heiress of a great name. She bore the fate that had brought her to this point without relinquishing an ounce of her pride, despite the kneeling posture, thighs open, that had been imposed on the two young women. She was, of course, totally naked too, apart from her collar. An essential rule of the High Art, a first humiliation that captives would have to endure until nudity became natural to them.

This young blonde woman had been born on this world and knew all about its cruelties. She had been captured weeks before during a coastal raid. No one in her family had apparently been able to pay her ransom – if her captors had asked for one, of course. Either the men had had to flee, abandoning their treasures, captive women included, or they’d had to choose which ransom to pay and who to abandon to their fate; she’d been one of the sacrifices they’d been unable to save. It was a cruel and common practice among the great families and Eteoclian city-states. The young woman was paying for her family’s weakness and defeat; she didn’t even need to be told. Once captured, in the regions from which she came, a beautiful woman of her age rarely escaped this fate. For five weeks, she’d been tossed around in cages, traded and negotiated, until she was just another captive in a batch of quality goods sold at auction. Her people’s loyalty to the precepts of the Church of the Divine Council permeated her very soul. Its Dogmas, unjust as they were, guided their morality and way of life, and justified in large part what was happening to her; she bore the shame of the defeat of the men who should have protected her, and would do so for the rest of her life. For her, it was simply an obvious fact that nothing could call into question.

Her blue eyes trembled. Eyebrows furrowed, jaw set with rage, she was boiling with anger, but Sonia was no fool. The young aristocrat was dying of fear, her honor shattered forever by the mark of the Linci affixed a few days earlier to her thigh, already growing and entering into symbiosis with her organism. Sonia watched the girl study her neighbor, who looked like a human wreck already defeated, with a scornful eye. She had only caught a glimpse of the vivid whip marks on her back and the wounds on her body, and of course knew nothing of what she had been through; she was just disdainful of her resignation.

Cénis – that was the slave name of the young aristocratic captive – looked up at the newcomer pulled by Priscius. She had, she noted just after the rare color of her hair, the same orchid flower artfully tattooed on her breast. There was something pitiful about her staggering gait, blinded by her mask, her arms tied behind her back. The rebellious captive fiercely resisted Priscius as he dragged her through the garden. Even fettered, the young woman retained a raging combativeness; a veritable snake, vainly attempting to kick and headbutt. After a few unsuccessful attempts to bring her to her knees, the slaver settled the matter with a jab to the stomach. She finally collapsed, breathless. He then removed her hood to let her breathe.

Priscius was no torturer. He knew how to do it, but there was no way he was going to start damaging girls from whom he intended to make a large profit.

The girl was still struggling as best she could, glaring at her oppressor with her green-hued chestnut eyes, which she was well aware of. If she hadn’t been gagged, he’d probably have received a volley of insults he wouldn’t have understood anyway. He attached the leash that held her neck to a free ring and returned her gaze with a look that made it clear he’d have no remorse in beating her again and again. She seemed to understand what awaited her if she tried to stand up again. More importantly, something happened…

 

***

Lisa was 17, and her mind was nothing but endless mists; sounds, more than echoes; day, more than colorless penumbra. If she could remember, she would have heard herself screaming endlessly, in the lonely agony of her forced weaning, deep in the stinking cages where she was isolated. She would have remembered her first moments of consciousness after days of exhausting suffering as her craving body devoured her; of her pleas to Batsu, the man whose name she would never know and who didn’t understand her. She soon realized, deep in those dark cellars where she heard other cries, so many complaints and so many tears, that she was no more at home than in hell. Hell would have been more honest and forthright, in its hypothetical reality, in torturing her for the sole purpose of making her pay for the sin of having given in to the pleasure of such furtive and futile paradises.

She could no longer think, and that was fortunate; her thoughts would only be reminiscent of the rapes and whippings endured not for the necessity or the will to subdue and train a captive, but to destroy her mind by dint of suffering, terror and privation. A torment to turn her into a useless present, for the grudging payment of a debt she would never know anything about, and for Batsu’s sinister farce in which she was nothing but an object.

Kneeling in the garden she could barely see, the mists were still darkening. How sweet are darkness when you can only wish to be swallowed up in it! How she wished her last wish had come true: to die and be forgotten! But the darkness dissipated. At that moment, her first thought was to curse her own life as she regained consciousness, forced to perceive what her eyes were looking at. The little redhead’s huge jade eyes were staring at the gagged captive, as if she recognized something. And this gaze, adorned with a brilliant sparkle, was alive. Truly.

 

***

Where Priscius had only ever observed a broken, apathetic demeanor, eyes empty and terrorized, this girl suddenly began to react; and if it was always fear, she expressed fear for others; one could read constructed thoughts in her great green gaze. He wasn’t the only one to notice, frowning with satisfaction at her huge Nordic eyebrows. Sonia, who was silently gazing at the three slaves, also saw the immediate change. After all, there did seem to be something to save.

Priscius was reassured about his investment and his plans; as for Sonia, she was suddenly curious again. The slaver saved unnecessary words with a satisfied nod to his slave, then returned to his office on the other side of the gardens, leaving Sonia free for her work. She knew what she had to do, and what she risked if she didn’t do it as he intended.

The educator approached the three women. Her gait would have hypnotized an entire room with the sway of her pelvis, made a thousand men dream with the curve of her back and sent shivers down the spine of the coldest of men with the warmth of her breath. She knew it, and she played it up. She glanced briefly at the gagged rebel, sizing up the animal who would have to be subdued before anything else anyway, and then stopped at Cénis, who was glowering at her, eager to set her skin on fire with his gaze. She returned a playful gaze, which could have passed for tender if it hadn’t been so incongruous on a face shrouded in the most sensual cruelty. She lingered on the apathetic redhead, who had finally reacted, and then put her test into action.

Breaking the nobility of an Eteoclian is a difficult exercise. A Lossyan woman from this proud, traditionalist people knows what awaits her once she’s taken captive; if she gives in, if she submits, there’s no escape; even her own people who might still hypothetically come to pay her ransom will then turn their backs on her. Many women would rather take their own lives than be captured, especially in the aristocracy of the great bloodlines; and even though Cénis had known for weeks that there was no hope, that her fate was sealed, that she wore a Linci on her thigh and a slave collar around her neck, over a thousand milles from her city, she would resist being enslaved out of the pride of her nobility. Pride was in the blood of these aristocrats; even the harshest treatment sometimes only fed their stubbornness. So the captive had to be made to understand that, all being lost, she had to submit or die. If this seemed simple to explain, it was far more difficult to make her realize it, quickly and effectively, without damaging her. For Sonia, well-versed in this exercise, it was a way of checking whether she could make the most resigned of the three react at the same time, but also of confirming the link she assumed existed between the two tattooed women.

Sonia was an expert in High Art and the cruelty of this step. She wielded the electric prod, and its terribly painful shocks, with as much grace as casualness. She began to chat, almost lightly, explaining in a simple – one might even dare say pedagogical – manner the extent of the fate without escape awaiting the three captives. She made it clear that nothing that awaited them could be questioned, judged or simply criticized. The lesson could be summed up simply: his three pupils had been women, barbarians or free, urban women, but now they were nothing more than slaves, property devoid of all the considerations to which free lossyans can lay claim. Whatever their history or past life, it no longer mattered and she would ignore it with disdain, as would the entire staff of the slave garden. If they were here, it was because destiny and the heavens had imposed this fate on them, a fate they considered just and which seemed as obvious to her as daybreak.  For the two redheads, it was inescapable and had been since ancient times: the Dogma of the Divine Council had condemned all redheaded women to slavery since the days of the Long Winter, so that they would serve the lossyans and never enslave them again. For the redheads of Loss, the only choice was death or slavery. To let them go free was unthinkable, and no one would pity the two young women for their fate.

From now on, all three of their lives belonged to their owner, who was free to dispose of them as he saw fit. So they had only two choices: accept their fate and learn whatever they were taught, willingly or unwillingly, or die trying to resist it. No one here would show them compassion or pity, and their only moments of rest would be as a reward for their diligence and complete submission to training. They were weak and worthless, and no one would spare them.

It was an implacable logic, which Sonia spelled out point by point, in a suave, poisoned voice, in short sentences, repeating it over and over again, making a mockery of the protests and angry morgue of Cénis, the only one of the three who could a priori understand her. She didn’t care if the other two didn’t understand what she was saying: the tone of her speech would seep into their minds and she’d make sure they understood it by example. At the same time, she struck a blow. There was no need for violent gestures; the electric prod she was equipped with was an effective instrument of torture; one of those pieces of machinery powered by small Loss-metal dynamos, a technology that Lossyans use on many different scales. To activate the device, all he had to do was press and push the thin knob on the handle, and brush or press a little against the skin; and discharges came to do their sapping work in waves, paralyzing body and muscle in a chaos of monstrous suffering. If pushed too far, an electric prod could kill in a minute; a quick death compared to some other torments, however. Sonia used it with perfect mastery. Her prey was the youngest of the two redheaded slaves, the most passive and despondent of the three.

Naturally, she sowed the first seeds of horror, fear and doubt in the mind of Cénis, who watched in horror as the redhead was tortured. Her helpless victim screamed in pain, writhing on the floor under the cruel shocks, yet never begging for mercy or trying to rebel until Sonia, choosing her moment, came to inflict the same torture on the other tattooed girl, still gagged, who uttered muffled screams and imprecations of rage against the educator, and pretended to stand up in a vain attempt at bravado. Despite her stubborn courage, which elsewhere would have aroused admiration, the young woman was no match for her. She collapsed screaming under the electric prod’s caresses, writhing in pain, hiccupping and nauseous.

It was then that the young redhead who had allowed herself to be tortured without ever begging began to murmur, inaudibly at first. It was only a whisper; a hummed music, barely perceptible.

Sonia felt the electric prod vibrate. The subtle tremor had something of the rhythm of a harmonic. Resting her gaze on her instrument, she could clearly see the light fuzz covering the back of her hand stand up, as if affected by static electricity. She frowned, before turning her gaze to the little redhead who was still murmuring. Anyone who saw the expression that passed over Sonia’s face would have been persuaded to read in it a sudden acute anguish; but it lasted no longer than the vibration of the prod, which faded away. Cautiously, she turned it off, even though it wouldn’t change anything; she recognized perfectly what she had just felt.

It was a harbinger, one of the first signs of the Awakening; most people never perceive them, and for good reason: few lossyans have ever crossed paths with a Loss Singer, and even fewer before they’ve learned to sing. The chances of a red-headed woman being a Loss Singer are slim to none; Singers are a true rarity. But Sonia was pretty sure she was staring at one, and that, before her, this girl so frail and pitiful was potentially one of the rarest and most fearsome creatures Loss could know.

At last, the young redhead began to speak and, surprisingly, in Athemais. She implored:

“Plea… please… Stop this.”

“So you speak, animal. So, tell me, why should I stop?”

The educator slowly leaned over the young woman, who lowered her head as she stood, averting a panicked gaze.

The exchange that followed was laborious. Cénis, whose anguish had steadily increased and which she was trying more and more miserably and vainly to conceal beneath her pride, stared at the little redhead like a strange animal. In a few words between the captive and the educator, she too had come to understand. She’d never seen a barbarian up close. She had a certain contempt, of course, for these kinds of savages living far from civilization and knowing nothing of the faith of the Council Church. But when she realized that her seemingly defeated neighbor wasn’t just born beyond civilized cities, but came from Earth, she was speechless. She knew it happened; that from time to time, everyone claimed it was a gift from the gods and a positive omen, women from that other world were offered to deserving lossyans. That they were found naked and unconscious, near a city or a village; but she had never seen one. She could have sworn she didn’t know anyone who had ever seen one. For a brief moment, she forgot where she was and gave in to curiosity.

Another, who seemed to react in a very different way but with equal astonishment, was the second barbarian, the taller one, staring at the smaller one with her eyes. Her expression vacillated between astonishment, disbelief and rage. Even gagged, you could tell she was swearing vehemently.

Sonia was already convinced that the two redheads were Earthlings. She’d been with them in her long life and had learned from them some of their languages and a little of their culture, so foreign and inaccessible. Redheads are rare on Loss and even rarer with their mixed race, and the tattoo they both wore on their breasts was too perfect in this respect to be lossyan; but she now had confirmation of her doubts.

The young woman’s vocabulary was limited and awkward. Her accent sounded dreadful and she fumbled for words; but Sonia immediately noticed the achievement: she had learned to speak a few words, enough to make herself understood, in a handful of days, alone and in a context where nothing could help her. It took exceptional mental alertness to achieve such a feat.

Sonia showed no sign of her sudden renewed interest, but she was already estimating the real value of a Loss Singer with such intelligence; that value was immense. An idea slowly emerged in the unfathomable recesses of her sharp, almost demented mind, which began to take shape; but for the moment she had questions for which she wanted the answers. She stared at the young redhead.

“So, tell me? Why should I stop treating this rebellious, stupid girl the way I want to and just subdue her out?”

Sonia stretched a knowing smile when the little redhead found the words to answer her question:

“She… she’s… my sister.”

The educator looked at the two earthlings. She had thus confirmed the second point she had suspected for some time and which had seemed obvious to her, even more so than to Priscius. She continued:

“You know how to speak our language, so you’ve understood what I’ve said. Your past no longer matters. Was she your sister? She’s just a commodity belonging to our master, Priscius, and he can do with her as he pleases. And I have the right to do whatever I want to train and educate you, in whatever way I please, as long as it works and our master is satisfied. Your sister is nothing. Your bond is worthless; it died when you were enslaved. You’re nothing but a possessed animal, just like her.”

The young woman struggled to answer as best she could. She tried words in English, or in her native tongue, French, in her laborious explanation, when she reached the limits of her feeble knowledge of Athemaïs. Sonia understood a little of both languages, especially English, but she didn’t show it. As for the tattoo Sonia asked her about, although the little redhead had finally given up trying to explain it in Athemaïs, the educator understood immediately: it was a mutual gift between the two sisters.

This confirmed Priscius’ fears. It had nothing to do with the slaver’s hopes, and more to do with a scam run by a colleague who had clearly decided to make a fool of him with a little help from chance. Sonia dismissed without a hint of apprehension the possible fear of having to tell her owner; doubt and fear had long since ceased to be among the feelings she could relate to; but she wouldn’t talk about the Song of Loss. It was far too important and useful for her own purposes to entrust it to its owner. Besides, there was still a small chance that she could have made a mistake, and she knew how to check it for sure, in the days to come.

The first lesson took less than an hour. Sonia continued with her questions and studied the reactions of the three captives, noting that there was clearly a dispute between the two sisters. Despite the intervention of the youngest, who had stopped her torment, the elder of the two, still gagged, seemed intent on burning her with a look of rage and muffled invective. Sonia had stopped using the electric prod, however, to avoid risking the little redhead’s brutal Awakening. The first manifestation of the Song of Loss isn’t traditionally called the Song of Rage for nothing. The young girl could very well devastate the garden and its occupants without even realizing it.

The educator took the time to assess each of the three captives. The young redhead was the one who fascinated her most, of course. She had been broken, cruelly, but she was still quick-witted and could not only be saved, but much more, given the gift she seemed to manifest. However, to make her assimilate the harsh and cruel education of the High Art, Sonia would be forced to push her to her most extreme limits in order to awaken her will. As for the older of the two sisters, she was a wild girl with a flamboyant, combative character. Particularly rebellious, but also terribly feminine, alert and beautiful, she could be a great prize. However, she was far from deserving of a name and, in any case, would remain uninteresting until she could at least understand Athemaïs. Finally, Cénis, the youngest; a virgin, almost a child, she wouldn’t keep her arrogance and pride of the young aristocrat for long; in less than an hour, she had already begun to taste terror. She would undoubtedly be the easiest to educate.

Sonia left the garden to join Priscius and make her report. She had left the three slaves under the supervision of another House girl; they were trying to recover from their mistreatment. Sonia’s replacement had armed herself with the prod and, with a few discharges, had silenced the three captives; but Sonia had warned her not to abuse the instrument. When she had finished her report to Priscius, what Sonia had been anticipating happened. The slaver’s stentorian voice thundered through the garden:

“I’ll hang them all by their guts!”

The rest of his angry imprecations were lost in unintelligible grumbling, but he was fulminating. All the slaves on the estate, from the most novice to the most educated of the Merchant’s House within earshot, had to hold back shudders of fear. Sonia was the only exception, impassive before her master, her gaze simply lowered.

It took a good five minutes before Priscius regained his composure.

So the matter was settled: the slaver had indeed been tricked. And even though he knew it, to have it confirmed by his educator was a slap in the face that made him want to kill. He had no choice but to try and fool the dupes, turning the two Earth girls into works of art accomplished enough for him he could auction them at Celendaterio, the most luxurious of the Cages Market platforms. After all, Earth girls were highly sought-after, too, and some of his customers collected them; the idea of the challenge relieved his foul mood a little. He was Priscius Praxtor of Armanth, of the Merchants’ Guild, a master-slaver renowned for the education of his pleasure slaves; and he was going to prove it again.

Sonia, unperturbed, waited for her master to calm down, ask permission to speak and give her opinion on the first two captives. She saved the one who had intrigued her most, the redheaded girl, for last. Her opinion was as simple as for the other two. It all boiled down to a few choice words. She wanted to keep the most important part to herself:

“She’s docile and intelligent; she may have been broken, but her spirit is still there. She’s a gentle, sensitive woman who will learn quickly and well. I think she should be named after a flower.”

Priscius listened and nodded, not without a certain smile at the good news, then remained silent for a moment with that smile, as if inspired, before replying:

“Selyenda, the flower of lovers. That’s how she’ll be named!”

And so it was that Lisa, the earthling, received her first name.