Q&A with Anna Walls discussion

High-class

Life as a slave can be precarious and yet it can also be considered rather simple. The only thing a slave has to concern himself with is the pleasure of his master or mistress, even if that slave is considered to be a high-class slave. A slave’s life is not so bad, though it can be. Most people treat their slaves as they would treat their livestock; if you take care of it and keep it healthy, it’s more valuable.

High-class slaves were different from regular slaves. Slaves were normally branded, usually on the left thigh and freeing such a slave was a complicated and painful ordeal and seldom done, whereas a high-class slave was not branded; their skin was not marred in any way. If they became marred, even with something as common as a pimple, it wasn’t uncommon for them to be branded and reduced in rank; they might even fall completely out of favor and be sent to the slave market and sold.

A free man or woman could marry a high-class slave and free her or him of her or his slave status. If a child was born with a high-class slave as one parent and a free person as the other parent, the child could be free or slave, whichever standing was chosen by the free parent. However, it was not very common to marry a slave regardless of the feelings they might have for each other, because in the eyes of society, the slave would always be slave and their children, though free, would have a life long hurdle to overcome.

Marda’s mother had been a high-class slave and her father was the chief of the entire holding, so upon her birth, Marda earned the option of being a high-class slave, like her mother, or free, as her father, the chief, decided - he decided to keep her as a slave for her safety.

As a small child, most of Marda whims were gratified though her Nana always warned her against being too greedy. Marda was a willful child though and didn’t listen much to such things. She was a good girl most of the time, so the master tolerated the times her temper got out of control.

One day, shortly before she was to turn six, Nana sat her down for yet another attempt to warn her about her behavior. “You are growing up, Marda. The master will soon grow tired of your childish antics and he will punish you.”

“I’m a high-class slave; father will never do anything to hurt me,” replied Marda defiantly.

“Never call him that. He may be the man who sired you, but you may never call him that until he instructs you otherwise. And yes, because you are high-class, he is not likely to harm you, but that will not stop him from hurting you.”

“Fa…he loves me; he tells me so. He wouldn’t hurt me,” chimed Marda again, confident, in her innocence, that she was untouchable.

“Don’t be so sure, my dear. You are growing up, and what was cute when you were small, will no longer be tolerated. You remember what happened to Kilias, don’t you?”

Kilias was a playmate of Marda’s though she was two years older. She had been beaten by the master for speaking out of turn and voicing her dislike for the son of one of his guests. She had then been given to the boy for the duration of his visit. He had tormented and brutalized the girl to such an extent that his father was forced to admonish him and remind him that she belonged to someone else; it was bad for future relations if he damaged someone else’s property.

The damage had been done though; Kilias ran from any man who looked her direction. She could not be dissuaded from this behavior, and since men were everywhere, she had become useless; the master had had her put to sleep.

Marda remembered this of course. She had cried for days afterwards, but Kilias had not been high-class nor had her father been the chief of the holding, so Marda’s confidence in her own safety was still unshaken. “I’ll try, Nana. I’ll be good.”

“I’m glad, but you mustn’t ever forget; not even once. The master can be very cruel when the mood strikes him.”

Marda was about to protest again, but the look on Nana’s face told her it would only bring out more of this conversation and she was tired of it.

Nana’s words came back to haunt her only a few days after her sixth birthday; her lesson was taught to her harshly and with finality. Marda was asked to entertain at a dinner he was hosting for a neighboring chieftain. She was asked to dance and she did, beautifully, though she had only been receiving lessons for a year now.

The visiting chieftain’s son offered her a drink of their liquor when her dance was finished, “You dance prettily, girl. Drink this and you’ll dance better.”

She politely refused, “I cannot, master.

He might be only fourteen or fifteen, but he was already somewhat drunk and he insisted. Her father - correction - her master only looked at her and smiled, as did the big bear of a man who sat next to him.

She was a slave. Bowing abjectly, she quietly explained that the drink would make her ill, but the boy just laughed and insisted again.

Marda had no choice. She drank the bitter drink and made a face. The boy laughed harder and began to whirl her around. She too tried to laugh, but her stomach roiled in protest.

Over the next few hours, she was his plaything. They danced and twirled; he fed her sweet meats and candies and then had her wash it down with more drink. Finally, she pulled herself away and ran from the room to puke.

Hovering over a bucket helplessly, she threw up everything she had ever eaten in her entire life and more.

The master sent another slave to check up on her, and in her misery, she made her mistake. “Tell father that if he doesn’t want me to get sick, he shouldn’t allow his friends to try and get me drunk. Tell him that I will not be returning to the party. I’m going to bed as soon as I can go somewhere without this bucket.”

Everyone knew of Marda’s relation to the master and the slave woman who had come to check on her was a common slave and rather waspish; it was also said that she was jealous of the favor Marda had with the master, and hoping to see the girl punished for her uppity ways, she did exactly as Marda instructed.

Late the next morning, Marda could not find Nana to help her dress or to console her because she still felt ill. Cook finally informed her of what had happened. The master had been infuriated at what Marda had told the slave to say to him. He had called Nana before him right then and had her beaten before his guests for not instructing Marda properly, and then he had her taken away to the slave market.

Marda might have been only six years old, but she knew that that was almost the same as a death sentence for a slave as old as Nana. She would leave here with perhaps a tunic and nothing more, not even her name, and if no one bought her within a few days, the slavers would likely put her to sleep. There was a slim chance that she would be bought; she was still healthy and strong, but she was old, so it was still slim.

Marda was shocked, but Cook had also heard about what the slave had said to their master. He had been appalled that such a thing had been repeated to him. Such outbursts were normal coming from a child, but they should never have been repeated to the master. The slave had, of course, been beaten as well and taken away along with the old slave for saying what she had said, but his guests had heard too and he could not let such a thing go unpunished. Cook explained everything; it was important that Marda understand and learn her lesson well. She might be high-class, but she was still a slave and her high-class status could very well cause pain to others.

Marda returned to her room in a daze, the food that she had eaten was sitting like lead on her stomach. She remained there crying, or screaming, or perhaps sleeping a little, until the master came to find her two days later.

“Cook tells me you haven’t eaten for almost two days,” he said, as he sat on the edge of her bed.

Marda huddled miserably in the far corner of the bed and looked at him reproachfully. Her face was blotchy and her eyes were red and swollen.

“You are a valuable slave. Do I need to send for the healer?”

His words reminded her of her station, as if she needed any reminding. She was forced to reply. “You don’t need to send for the healer. I’m only grieving for Nana; I miss her.” Her words brought on a new flood of tears, but she managed to stifle the sobs.

“Nana does not exist anymore. Get over her,” he said coldly. He stood and took a step towards her door. “If you continue in this way, I’ll have you beaten. I’ll not have you damage yourself over an old woman.” He left and slammed the door behind him.

Marda looked after him. Why hadn’t he beaten her in the first place if he was so inclined to do so now? She knew the answer though. Even though she was only six years old, she understood exactly why he hadn’t touched her. Stripping Nana from her like that had hurt her far more than any beating ever could. Of course, it was the pain that was important not the method of punishment. She vowed that no one and no thing would ever be that important to her again, not anything, not ever.

Over the next three years, Marda did whatever task she was given, whether it was digging in the garden or scrubbing the floors. She didn’t ask questions, she didn’t balk or protest anything, nor did she seek to do the best that she could. Whatever the task was she did it just as she was taught to do it; she did not seek to improve on it. She no longer had any desire to please. She only wanted to be alone, and her favorite place for that became the massive holding gardens not far from the great house.


While this was going on, and for many years already past, the politics of her father’s country was in constant flux. No chief was about to ally with another for fear of losing something in the process, and at the same time, every chief was trying to best his neighbor in an effort to become stronger. Every year one chief might become friends with another, and the next spring would see them bitter enemies over some trivial matter and friends with someone else. The longest alliance ended ten years ago; one chief had married the sister of another. They were fast friends and a force to be reckoned with outside their circle. The alliance had lasted for almost fifteen years and was on the verge of spreading, until one of the chiefs began to suffer from senility and he killed his beloved nephew in a delusion of days gone by. The ensuing battle had come close to wiping out both holdings.

The chaos was hurting everyone. More and more resources were being devoted to repelling neighbors who were also feeling the pinch and less went towards the basics such as farming and herding.

Slaves were not completely oblivious to all of this but they had no control over the situation and so didn’t dwell on it much. Marda was no different. At nine years of age, she had never been anywhere else, but she enjoyed hearing the stories told by those who had. She loved hearing all about how things were in some of the other holdings. Sometimes when she was all alone in the gardens or in her room, she allowed herself the luxury of imagining herself in one of those other places doing some of those other things, but most of the time she just worked.

The parties her father enjoyed had become less frequent over the years. Neighboring chieftains no longer come to be entertained at his table. Though Marda still danced for the master upon occasion, the guests were only his war leaders, if there were any guests at all.

With the fighting a constant occurrence every summer all summer long, Marda started helping Kull, the healer, first with his garden and then with those wounded that made it back to the holding. She learned about the herbs in his garden by helping him expand it several times its original size, and then she learned how to use those herbs as the healer drafted her help more and more often until she became a near permanent fixture at his cottage.

By the time Marda was a teenager, she was becoming an accomplished healer in her own right and the gardens flourished under her hand. Marda’s work with the healer and in the gardens did not go unnoticed. With more food in the holding, more food was given to the slaves. No one could really say anything about this, but the slaves made their gratitude known in small ways.

One summer, more people flooded into the holding than ever before. Many of them were wounded and Kull was working long hours to tend them. Marda was right beside him. Marda’s dancers muscles and slave endurance allowed her to do almost as much as the old healer could do; the rest, her agile mind allowed her to improvise.

Somewhere along the way, Marda found that she had been allowing this to become as important to her as it was to Kull. Not since the sale of Nana had she allowed herself to care about something, but this was important; this was important to everyone around her and she had grown to love the gardens, they were something no one could take away from her. With this small realization, life and motivation flowed through her veins again, fed by the grateful look in the eyes of those under her care.

Her fragile standing came into question when the master sent for her one morning. “Marda, the battle is only a few miles away and I’m sending the women and children away. I want you to go with them.”

Marda was stunned and then she was angered; for the first time since she was a small child, her temper flared. “What! Why would you do such a thing? Are you trying to spare your men the sight of their women being killed or enslaved? You’re certainly not sparing the women and children if you send them outside the walls. And why should I go with them, so I can deliver a baby or two or perhaps tend a scraped knee? You’re a fool. I will not leave and neither will the women.”

Too late, she remembered that she was his slave and not his daughter, but she was too mad to back down now. He stood - his anger building at her bold words. “You will go and you will take the women with you. If you don’t go, I will beat you.”

His words only fueled her anger more and she could not back down now. She locked horns with him and fired right back. “You have said that to me all of a hand full of times during my life and you have never laid a finger on me, so I don’t believe you when you say it this time, but you can beat me all you want. I will not leave. You will have to throw me over the wall in a bloody bag. You have always told me that I am your treasure and that I am valuable; well, I am more valuable to you and to this holding as a healer than I ever was as a high-class slave. Though the healer you have is still strong, he is old and he needs my help, especially now that the battle is close.” She shook her head and spoke more calmly. “I can’t believe that you would think of something like this. The enemy is knocking at your front gate and you want to throw your treasure over the back wall. I am far safer here; we all are.” She whirled and stalked out of the big house heading back to Kull’s cottage and her patients.

The master looked after her; she was so much like her mother with her temper, but she was right. There was nowhere for the women and children to go if they did leave the holding. He had lost this battle; he had lost everything. “I’m sorry Corina, I made so many bad choices,” he said to the empty room.