The Quantity of Desire

Landing

Landing“It’s the same sun,” my mother whispered. Her wet breath brushed my ear, yet I strained to hear her quiet reassurance over the shouts of sailors and the cracks of shipping crates. “Whenever you miss home, look up and revel in its radiance. Its heat and light will caress you, and you’ll remember our gods protect us here, too.”

I don’t remember our gods. I don’t know if I ever did. She probably said it for herself as much as she said it for me. We both needed the consolation. That night, we sat in a cell so dark, I could only feel her hand against my face as she stroked me gently. Her hard fingertips slid through my fur to touch the skin beneath while her manacles clanked against my collar.

The next day, slavers separated us. A minotaur only sells as a curiosity, so why would anyone want two?

Then, I remember humans. Lots and lots of humans. Humans barking orders. Humans pulling leashes. Humans cracking whips.

Then darkness.

I walked through an arch of light into a giant ring, rows of eyes staring down at me. All the humans look the same in my memory. Knowing Castulo, there would have been different skin tones and genders throughout the audience, but now their features have blurred into a vague, genderless olive.

Except my future owner. I would not forget him.

Pale, tall, clean-shaven, entering middle-age. He sat neither slouched nor upright. He took no more than a glance at me as I dumbly followed the olive blob into the ring, the crack of whips still fresh in my mind. Instead, he studied everyone else as they whispered about my horns, my fur, and my hooves. That intrigued him.

A brightly dressed blob shouted that I was captured on the other side of the ocean, and that I, beast-like, would grow large and mighty. But I was yet a child and could be tamed and made to heel. Intelligent enough to follow orders, but dumb enough to keep my bonds once grown.

Perfect for anyone with a firm hand and a taste for the exotic.

The bidding was slow to start. The olive blobs whispered to those beside them, still not quite sure what to make of me. The other marvels from across the ocean—rare spices, novel magics, and intricate contraptions—were much easier to quantify.

What was a creature like me worth? I was strong, perhaps, but had no magical abilities. I was still too much a child for gladiatorial combat or s*x work. Practically, it made no sense to purchase me; you could buy a dozen strong slaves for my starting price alone.

But having something others could desire but never possess? That is worth money.

And so, one by one, olive blobs opened their black mouths and shouted bids into the ring. Each shout spurred another blob into action, and soon one bid followed another in quick succession.

This made my owner’s eyes sparkle.

Every other bidder looked at me with a hunger in their eyes that I could not bear. But my owner didn’t so much as glance at me when he bid. Instead, he watched everyone else. When outbid, did they save their money for future auctions? Or did they work the numbers to bid again?

My owner watched more and more olive blobs check their books and bid again or shake their heads with a derision they tried so hard to believe. The Minotaur was desired. The minotaur—I—needed to be his.

Much later, during one of his speeches through which I was to look at him with wonder and remain completely silent, he explained my value: What are a person’s needs? A handful of roots, a tent, and a blanket. Even hermits have that. Civilization, he said with a grand sweep of his arm, is built on desire.

Without desire, the back-breaking mining and the face-scorching smithing dissipate as the sword sits in a storehouse, unused. And how do we measure desire? He paused for a dramatic flourish. By seeing what someone will pay for it!

And people would pay for me.

But my owner would not pay a penny more than he needed to. He outbid anyone before they could even finish speaking, and they gave up quickly. They all knew he wanted me; they all knew he had the wealth to get me. As a result, he told me later, I was cheaper than if he hadn’t bid at all.

Reputation, he said, is everything.

The gavel pounded as the brightly clothed olive blob shouted, “Sold!” And there I was: young, terrified, alone . . . and desired. And now, owned.

A sharp tug at my leash, and I was led back into the dark. I could hear the slow, heavy footsteps of the olive blob with the whip behind me. I counted the steps in the dark and wondered how close the whip was to my still-tender back. But I resisted the urge to turn around—I had learned that the hard way.

Finally, the dark passed into dim torchlight, and I was face-to-face with the slave master. He was a slave himself, branded and collared. He looked at me with a nonchalance touched lightly by compassion, as though he were passing yet another unfortunate beggar on the street.

“Your owner will pick you up after the auction is over,” he said, “so you should make yourself ready for your new life.” His voice was calm, and almost—but not quite—bored. “You can either make yourself miserable pining for some miracle of freedom that will never come, or you can accept your fate and take what happiness there is in this life. There are rewards from obedience, but none from the whip.”

He waved me over to a corner of the room and prepared to greet the next slave. But I stood there, frozen.

In the day I had been in this land, I had been beaten and expected it. I had been broken and accepted it. But the sincerity of his short speech terrified me anew. There was no ruthless cruelty to make me obey, no terrifying posturing, just an apathetic bureaucrat giving a smidgeon of advice in the faint hope it will be of use.

My life unrolled before me. Today I would embrace obedience or embrace the whip. I had no knowledge of my owner, duties, or life, and I had no choice in any of them. I would accept them or be made to accept them.

It wasn’t until years later that I realised his speech was a performance, as calculated and ruthless as the whips that lashed me. Other slaves were given the exact same speech, with the same drop of kindness in an ocean of indifference. Slaves who are broken bring back buyers.

Sincerity is another asset to be quantified and used.

* * *

“Him,” an olive blob said, pointing at me. “Bring the minotaur to me.”

I don’t know how long had passed before the olive blob came. Olive blobs had come and gone and come again, calling names and carting slaves.

I scrambled to my feet as an olive blob walked over to me and unlocked my chain from the wall. Holding my chain like a leash, it led me through the darkness once again, past screams and the reek of unwashed flesh. Finally, we exited the market, and the sun burnt my eyes.

“Here he is, Mr. Galat,” the blob said.

My eyes adjusted to the light, and there he was in front of me, his hand firm on my leash: my owner. He did not command the street as he had the ring, but he still radiated confidence.

He was flanked by two bodyguards, a man and a woman. Both towered over me in scarred armor inlaid with gold. Even in the guarded lot of the auction house, they scouted the route with attentive eyes.

We approached a glossy black carriage, its wrought iron frame gracefully curved around the thick wood of its cabin. A few gems, larger than any I had seen before, were inset in its corners, glittering in the sunlight.

My owner glanced at his bodyguards. They nodded, then climbed up the front of the carriage, leaving me alone with him.

He turned to me and looked down, impossibly tall. He studied me with cold eyes, and I bit my lip. I tried to remember my mother’s voice and her words of reassurance. It’s the same sun, I told myself.

“I suspect you’re smarter than they gave you credit for,” he murmured. “That’s good.” Then he crouched down and looked into my eyes. Neither cruel nor kind, his eyes took in everything they saw and cataloged it away for future analysis.

I stared back into his eyes, too afraid to look away. I wanted to cry but had learned it would only make things worse.

When he spoke, his voice was firm and steady, beyond question or doubt. “My name is Jon Galat,” he said. “You’re mine now, but you need not fear me. I will be fair to you. I will not work you to illness or death, I will not subject you to any unnecessary cruelty, and I will not ask you to do anything I have not done myself to reach my station.

“I will show you off to visiting dignitaries, and you will treat them with respect. I will require you to fetch books and refreshments for me, and I like an audience as I talk.” He broke eye contact, staring into the high walls of Castulo. “For now, that will be the extent of your duties. When I do not have need of you, you will have the run of my estate. It is large and beautiful, and I hope you will enjoy it.” He looked back into my eyes to ensure I understood.

I swallowed and willed my head to nod, but it would not obey me.

He put his hand on my shoulder. It was not heavy, but neither was it light. “Slave though you are, I do not believe in forcing people into a life ill-suited to them. If you do not consent, I will sell you back to the auction house, and I will hope that your next buyer will have work more suitable to you.”

I tried to swallow a sob but failed. I cried hard, my breath catching in the back of my throat. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and brushed away my tears in quick, efficient wipes.

I know now this was meant to be consoling.

When I stopped crying, he continued. “I understand this has been difficult for you. I will give you time to adapt to your new life. But I need an answer from you now.” His gaze did not break from mine. “Will you abide by the terms of our agreement?”

This was the choice the slave-master had spoken of. There are rewards from obedience, but none from the whip. I would live in a strange land, obeying a strange man.

Or I would go back into the screaming darkness.

It took me a few tries to squeak out a single, “Yes.”

“Good,” he declared. Then he tapped my manacles and said, “Phutati.” My manacles and collar opened and fell off, clanking in the dust at my feet. “Trust is an essential part of any transaction,” he said, “and I will start by trusting you. Keep my trust, and life will be pleasant for both of us.”

He climbed into the carriage, then turned and offered me a hand up. I looked at it and imagined running away, biting his hand, or just sitting and crying for my mother.

“Come now,” he said. “Let us go to your new home. I purchased some toys and books for you to use on your journey.” He paused. “Can you read?”

I nodded.

“Good. That will be beneficial to your work.” He smiled. It was too smooth to be natural. “Now, grab my hand.” His tone was gentle, but I had learned to recognise a command.

I complied.

He had not lied, I saw. Brightly painted wizards and warriors, balls on string, scopperls, and rolling hoops lay atop books of fables, astronomy, finance, and etiquette.

“I know this has been difficult for you, so I will leave you to play as you wish.” Then he turned to his book and forgot about me.

Or so I thought at the time. Now, I know he thought he was being kind, perhaps even generous. He thought I was overwhelmed from the torture of the slave pens and the chaos of the auction. Thus, he allowed me to settle myself away from the demands of others.

He wasn’t completely wrong. I had been made to obey anyone who grabbed my leash. I had been bought by a strange man and thrust into a life I knew nothing about. I had been broken by whips and sneers and had my future stripped from me.

This was my first moment to be myself, to breathe, and I could barely open my lungs to do so. I suppose I was overwhelmed, as Jon presumed.

But what I really was, was alone.