Prize of Gor

Chapter 22 BEASTS

“Wine, Master?” inquired Ellen, and, as the goblet was lifted to her, the man sitting cross-legged on the ground, in converse with others, he not even glancing at her, she filled the goblet.

“Wine, girl!” called another, and Ellen hurried to him, threading her way amongst the men, the fires and torches, and replenished his goblet.

She carried the wine in a red-figured pitcher, refilled by dipping as needed, and frequently, from a large vat of red ka-la-na on a wooden stand.

The music of czehars, flutes, and kalikas, from scattered bands of musicians, swirled throughout the gigantic festival camp, spread over pasangs. There was the pounding of tabors, too, speaking of excitement and the rousings of blood. Goreans do not eschew emotion; eagerness, zeal, warmth, heat and passion are common with them; they tend to be vehement, hearty, cordial, enthusiastic, ardent, impetuous; they are quick to anger, quick to forget, quick to laugh; they do not pretend to subscribe to obvious falsehoods; they value truth over hypocrisy; they have not yet learned to dishonor honor; to live among such folk is to be emotionally free; they live closer, perhaps, to their bodies than some others.

“Wine!” called a man, and Ellen made her way to him, as swiftly as was compatible with the crowd.

She moved with the grace and loveliness that was now hers, that of the female slave. She was stripped, and wore not so much as a collar, but her hair, grown longer now, and slave lovely, fell about her. On her left breast, inscribed there with a marker, in soft grease, was a lot number, the number 117.

“Wine!” called a voice, a woman’s voice.

The woman, clad in the Robes of Concealment, sat on a stool near one of the fires. The light glinted off a necklace, and sparkled, reflected in jewels sewn onto her robes and veils.

The body of the sitting woman seemed stiff, and severe. Something in its mien suggested disapproval, anger, hostility and envy. Free women hate slave girls. They try to make them ashamed of their femininity, condition, beauty and passion.

Ellen, standing, prepared to pour wine for the free woman.

“Do you not know enough to kneel before a free person, girl?” inquired the free woman.

Quickly Ellen went to her knees.

The woman regarded Ellen for some time, the eyes cold over the veil, not offering her the goblet for her attentions.

“You are naked,” said the woman.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen.

“How meaningless and contemptible are slaves,” said the woman.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen. But Ellen thought to herself, but men seem to like us, and you, proud free woman, beneath all your robes and veils, you are as naked as I!

“You are young,” said the woman.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen.

“Do you know the duties of a woman’s serving slave?” she asked.

“No, Mistress.”

“But you could be taught.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“117,” said the woman, leaning closer, reading the number on Ellen’s breast. “Perhaps I shall bid on you. Would you like to be a woman’s serving slave?”

“The wishes and desires of a slave, Mistress,” said Ellen, “are of no consequence.”

“You are a clever little slut,” said the woman.

Ellen put down her head.

The woman then extended her small goblet to Ellen and Ellen, gratefully, on her knees, filled it.

“I can see that you are for men,” said the woman.

Ellen was silent.

“Doubtless they find you of interest,” she said.

“Some, it seems, Mistress,” said Ellen.

“I wonder why.”

“I do not know, Mistress,” said Ellen. Could the woman really be ignorant of the toolings of time, and how nature had designed such as they, she and the free woman, for the handling and embrace, and service and pleasure of masters?

“What could they possibly see in one such as you?”

“I do not know, Mistress.” Could she really be ignorant that such as they answered to a thousand needs, that such as they in countless capturings and matings were bred to kneel and please?

“You are, of course, a slave?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“They seem to like that.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“I despise slaves.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“You are beautiful,” she said, appraisingly.

“Thank you Mistress,” said Ellen. “But I am sure that Mistress is far more beautiful.”

“Of course,” said the woman, “for my beauty is the unparalleled beauty of a free woman, with which the beauty of a slave cannot begin to compare, beside which the beauty of a slave is nothing.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“You are no more than a tasta, a meaningless confection!” she said suddenly, angrily.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“A whip licker and sandal-bringer for brutes, a servile pet and pleasure object for lustful beasts!”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“I wonder then what they can possibly see in one such as you?”

“I do not know, Mistress.” Could the woman be candid? Could she be unaware of the effect of a slave on the blood of men? Had she not seen the eyes of men following them in the streets? Could she be unaware of the markets and biddings, the seekings and huntings, the pursuits, the raids and wars, the careful and calculated efforts to bring just such women as they, she, and doubtless the free woman, too, appropriately and helplessly, into collars and chains?

Men desire to possess us, thought Ellen, and that is, too, what we desire, to be possessed by them.

“How stupid men are,” said the woman.

“They are the masters,” said Ellen.

“They are not my masters,” said the woman.

“No, Mistress.”

“Yes,” she said, regarding Ellen, “— you are for men.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“What else would you be good for?”

Ellen put down her head.

“Nothing, Mistress.”

She had now learned that men were her masters. She now wanted to love and serve them, and perhaps beg for a caress. She could not, now, never, willingly go back to the emptiness, the disutility, the absurdity, the barrenness, of her former life, with its mockeries of truth, and its spurious freedoms. The man was free, the master; his was a genuine freedom; but the freedom for the woman, her genuine freedom, was quite different; it was to belong to him, to be owned and mastered, to be his slave.

The woman waved her hand in dismissal. “Go! Get out of my sight, you disgusting little slut!”

Ellen leapt up and hurried away a few yards. She then looked back. There were few free women in the camp. The woman must indeed be bold, thought Ellen; perhaps she was wealthy, and well protected. If Ellen were a free woman, she did not think that she would have come to such a camp, unless she was prepared to risk her freedom. Ellen wondered if the woman was courting the collar. She wondered if the woman’s icy hauteur might not melt under the blows of man’s whip. Frigidity, and inertness, she knew were not accepted in a female slave.

But Ellen knew she must now hurry back to the vat of ka-la-na, for her vessel was nearly empty.

She paused for a moment to look back once more at the free woman. The woman had lifted her veil with her left hand, just a little, to drink from the goblet. Ellen could see the impression of the upper rim of the goblet through the veil. Lower-class women sometimes drink through the veil, and their veils, subsequently, may be severally stained. Ellen saw that the woman’s body was very straight as she drank. As the veil was lifted somewhat, as she drank, one could see a bit of her throat, white and lovely, where a collar might be nicely locked. Her ankles could be seen, above her slippered feet, as the robes were lifted a bit, seemingly having been inadvertently disarranged as she sat. Her legs were turned to one side, and placed side by side, apparently demurely closed beneath her robes. Slave girls, when permitted tunics and permitted to sit, as on a log, a rock, a shelf, commonly sit thusly. This is not only congenial to a certain modesty, but men find it provocative. Ellen wondered if the woman had seen slaves sit in that fashion. She had now lowered the veil, and was chatting with some of the men sitting about cross-legged, near the fire. Watching her, some yards from the firelight, were two tall, darkly robed men. Their robes were cut in the pattern of Cos. Ellen doubted that the woman was aware of them. At the sash of one of them there was a narrow, coiled rope of black braided leather.

Surely I must warn her, thought Ellen, cruel and imperious as she is, of the danger in which she lies! Surely, as I, too, am a woman, I must warn her, that she not risk falling into the miserable fate, the helpless and terrible fate, in which I find myself implicated, that of a slave!

Then Ellen laughed to herself. She loved being a slave. It was her joy, her meaning and fulfillment. She would be nothing else. She would not barter her bondage for all the world.

On Gor, with all the suffering and joy, the misery and delight, the beauty and peril, the marvels and danger, she had come fully alive, far more than she had understood possible on her former world.

But she is doubtless different, thought Ellen. She is doubtless a free woman, not merely a slave not yet owned.

What is it to you, if she is put in a collar, Ellen asked herself. Let her be humbled! Let her learn to kneel before a man and shrink down in terror, his. Let her serve!

She must know what she is doing, thought Ellen. She is Gorean. She cannot be ignorant. She must know the dangers of this camp for free women, a festival camp where hundreds of slaves are to serve, and be danced, and vended!

No, thought Ellen, I must warn her.

“Wine!” called a man.

“I must fetch more, Master!” cried Ellen, and, turning about, seemed to hurry toward the vat of ka-la-na, that the vessel of her service might be replenished. But, in a moment, she had turned aside, and back, determined to kneel before the free woman and, risking the blows of masters, and risking punishment for speaking without permission, warn the cruel, harsh mistress of the risks she might be running.

Soon Ellen had returned to the fire near which the free woman had been sitting. The stool on which she had been sitting was overturned. The goblet from which she had drunk lay in the dirt near the fire. There was a bit of stain, of reddish mud, near the goblet, where wine had spilled. There were some marks, scuffings, perhaps the sign of a struggle, near the overturned stool.

“Masters?” inquired Ellen, her eyes wide.

“You have seen nothing, slave girl,” said one of the men.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen, and, turning about, made her way to the ka-la-na vat, to fill once more her pitcher.

As she made her way back to the vat she skirted about a dancing circle near one of the fires. Some of the slaves already, to the music of the czehars and other instruments, which was clearly audible everywhere in the camp, danced.

Ellen was pleased that the slaves danced.

Doubtless the free woman was all right. Doubtless, even now, she was returning to Brundisium. Ellen hoped that that was true, and hoped, too, that it was not true. She was haughty, she thought. Strip her, Masters, and put her to your feet. Let the brand and collar be hers!

How beautiful the slaves are, she thought.

See them dance before masters!

Goreans believe that slave dance lurks in every woman’s belly. Ellen, however, thought that this was surely unlikely.

Did they not know that dancers might train, and hone their skills, for years, gaining greater and greater control over their body, adding dances to their repertoire, becoming more and more adept at this sensuous, delicious, intricate art form?

To be sure, she supposed, there was a basic, biological sense in which “slave dance,” or something certainly akin to it, did indeed lurk in every woman’s belly. Perhaps that is what the Goreans, in their typically straightforward and natural way, recognized. Or perhaps they literally meant slave dance. She supposed that that was possible. She wondered if it could be true. Certainly, embedded in the mysteries of the female genome, lurking within the uncanny, exciting secrets of the human female’s behavioral genetics, bred into her, are the impulses and sensitivities of what are known as display behaviors. In her academic work it was imperative that she deny such things, or dismiss them as unenlightened social artifacts, but, even then, she knew them to be pervasive amongst mammals, and, indeed, in one form or another, universal in human cultures. In the interests of advancing a particular political agenda she had had to deny large numbers of the most obvious facts of ethology, biology and anthropology. That went without saying. Ideology and politics were to take priority over such embarrassments as truth and fact; reality was inconvenient; clearly it had not been formed with orthodoxy in mind; nature denied would, of course, exact her vengeance; causes would continue to have their effects; rationality would be sacrificed, intellectual suicide for a rational animal, happiness would be lost, minds would be stunted, miseries multiplied, lives shortened. Obviously display behaviors existed, and in countless types, and in countless varieties within types. And certainly amongst human females there was a disposition to attempt to present themselves to advantage before an attractive male. Even she had found it hard to deny that. Certainly she had noted her ideological colleagues preening and flirting when a powerful male was in the vicinity, not one of their suitably indoctrinated, conditioned, filleted male-feminist colleagues. And now, suppose there was a natural society, in which nature was not denied, but, rather, with all the refinements of an advanced civilization, respected, fulfilled, enhanced and celebrated. In such a society, one might expect, accordingly, the pervasive dominance/submission ratios of nature to be recognized by, and reflected within, customs, laws, social arrangements, institutions, and such. In such a society one would certainly expect to find female bondage and the male mastery. And in such a free, natural society, it is only to be expected that female display behaviors, of all women, but particularly of those in bondage, would be refined and elaborated, and would become openly and gloriously expressive. In such a society then, in what countless ways might a woman, any woman, but particularly one in a collar, be expected to present herself before a male? Would the female not desire to appear in certain ways, to move in certain ways? Presumably, yes. And certainly one of the most devastatingly, self-enhancing, exciting ways for a female to be before a male is to be before him in the dance. And certainly in erotic, display dance. There is little doubt then that these desires, and associated movements, provocative and luring, of the hips and pelvis, or the dispositions thereto, are in some way genetically coded, such that, in a given stimulus situation, recourse will be naturally had to them, and it will seem quite natural and appropriate to perform these behaviors. It is quite likely that, in the history of the human species, thousands of women have begged for their lives by dancing naked before severe captors, and that the case even in historical times, before Chaldeans and Hittites, Assyrians and Babylonians, Greeks and Romans, Goths, Mongols, Crusaders, Turks, and others. And the most provocative and erotic of dances, of course, is slave dance. Accordingly then its power and beauty is sought avidly by women desiring to be pleasing to men, to masters. And certainly, if the woman is theirs, it is exactly the sort of thing that would be expected of them, and required of them, by their lords and masters. And so, Ellen thought, perhaps there is a sense in which slave dance does lurk in the belly of every woman, a basic biological, genetic sense. Certainly such a disposition, as with many others, such as the desire to belong, to be found pleasing, to love and serve, would contribute to success in matters of gene replication. And these genes would then be transmitted to future generations, assisting in the shaping of a species. Had primitive women been feminists the human race would have been extinct thousands of years ago; it is the ideology of death. It can survive only as a cannibalistic excrescence on the biological givens of reality, as the modality of a self-seeking, parasitical, politically active minority. Generalized, it would falsify and degrade human life, destroy the gene pool, and lead to the termination of the human race. But, of course, primitive men would not have permitted that pretentious indulgence on the part of primitive women. Dragged by the hair to the back of the cave they would have been reminded of their sex. It is a common belief on Gor that all free females desire in their secret hearts to be the slaves of masters; there is a saying, in every free female there lurks a slave, a slave awaiting her liberation, her freedom, her collar.

Ellen knew little of slave dance, for her first master, called on Gor ‘Mirus’, had determined that she would be only slightly trained, that she might be sold as a substantially ignorant girl, trained perhaps only to the extent that she might prove satisfactory enough to be permitted to live, that she might thusly, to the amusement of Mirus, he enjoying his vengeance upon her, continue to be indefinitely subjected to the degradation of the lowest of bondages.

She was not, however, altogether ignorant of slave dance, or its general nature; indeed, how could anyone on Gor, unless it be a free woman, be totally ignorant of it? Although she had not herself been given such training, and apparently by design, she had occasionally seen girls dance in the training rooms. She had been thrilled to see them so dance, and had gasped, and breathed quickly, so startled she was at how beautiful those of her sex could be in the dance, and particularly in these dances, dances required of them by men, the dances of slaves. She had begged one of her instructrices to inquire of Mirus, her master, for she herself was seldom admitted to his presence, if she might not be so trained, but the response to her petition, though apparently it amused him that she should make it, was in the negative. He apparently wanted her, in her collar, to be little more than an ignorant woman of Earth, forced to serve in dismay and torment, in the crudest and lowest of bondages. Sometimes, fascinated, she spied secretly on the lessons but, when caught, was cruelly switched. Sometimes in her cell, unobserved, she had tried to move as she had seen one or another of the dancers move, but then she had desisted, frightened, sensing what it might be, to be seen so before men.

And so Ellen had never danced before men.

She feared to do so.

Yet if the fingers were snapped, or the hands clapped, or the gesture made, lifting the palms upward, she knew she must dance, dance as any slave, and as a slave must dance, for men. Any free man in such a camp, of course, might order her to dance, to pose, to writhe before him. There was a lot number on her left breast. The dancing circles were some ten or twelve feet in diameter, and sanded, and near the fires. There were several such circles in the camp, each with its flag on a wand at one edge of the circle, each flag being of a given shape, square, rectangular, forked, triangular, and so on, and color or mixture of colors. Each flag, too, had its letter or number. Thus each circle could be recognized by both its flag and its letter or number. An order then might be issued that slaves of such and such lot numbers, which numbers were inscribed on their bodies, on the left breast, given to them for the convenience of the camp, should go to, say, circle such-and-such, which was, say, “square and blue” or “triangular and yellow,” and so on. This was judicious as many slaves were illiterate, and are deliberately kept so. For example, Ellen is so kept. She would like to know how to read, but it is not permitted to her. She suspects she could better serve her masters if she learned to read, but the decision is theirs, not hers.

Perhaps it amuses them to have an illiterate barbarian slave, from a despised world, a world fit for little perhaps other than the harvesting of its women, to be bought as slave fruit to their markets. I do not know.

Too, why should a slave read? She is not, after all, a free woman. She does not have a Home Stone. She is merely a shapely beast, purchased for your service and pleasure. Would you teach a verr, or kaiila, to read?

In all ways, of course, whether literate or not, we are in the absolute power of our masters. I find that I relish that I have no choice but to submit to them, wholly. How else would I want to live? I rejoice to be at their mercy. It is my pleasure to obey and please. I belong to them. I am owned. In all ways is intensified my sense, and it is a welcome, delicious sense, of unimportance, dependence and helplessness, which, in turn, opens my sexuality to them, as a begging flower.

Forgive me for intruding the first-person voice into this narrative, which, on the whole, must deal objectively with the slave, Ellen, as the object, and property, she is. Would a verr or kaiila be permitted to write of herself in the first person? Sometimes, perhaps.

Speaking of illiteracy, however, it should be noted that illiteracy is not that uncommon on Gor. For example, many Goreans of low caste are illiterate. Indeed, many seem to regard reading as an accomplishment ill befitting decent, serious folks, an accomplishment more appropriate, at least, to the high castes than to theirs. Interestingly, too, many of the warriors, and that is a high caste, pride themselves on an inability to read, seeing that homely, and somewhat magical, skill, as one not for them, if not actually beneath them. And some who can read pretend to ignorance of the skill.

To return to our proper narrative:

The lot numbers of slaves would be called out, and then, too, the circles to which they must report. Ellen knew her number, of course, as she had been told. Too, those who, as Ellen, might be unfamiliar with the location of the circles, for the camp was quite large, had simply to follow their caller, one of several torch-bearing heralds leading the way to the particular circle. She would, accordingly, be intent to listen carefully to the numbers, and follow any caller who had enunciated her number, which was “117.”

She could recognize, incidentally, several of the signs of the Gorean alphabet but knew only two or three of their names and sounds. Goreans had not been free with that information. One letter of the Gorean alphabet which Ellen did know was the fourth letter of the 28-letter Gorean alphabet, which was ‘delka’. She had seen that letter in Ar, scrawled on a wall, and also on an ostrakon in the holding of Portus Canio. And she knew at least one number, that which was inscribed in grease on her left breast, “117.”

But Ellen had no expectation of being called forth to dance in any of the circles, as she was not a dancer.

“Can you dance?” she had been asked by the scribe.

“No, Master,” she had answered, as truthfully as she knew how.

So she did not expect to be called, when the calling began, later in the evening. Goreans, she knew, whereas they might be interested in her in many respects, as she had abundant evidence to attest, were not likely to be interested in her in that respect. They were connoisseurs in slave dance, hard to please, and quite particular in such matters. She would be in such matters the rankest of amateurs.

Still she was vulnerable, and any man, as we have noted, could pose her, or dance her, or such, for his pleasure, in a circle, in a tent, or elsewhere.

She shuddered.

But I shall not be called upon to dance, she told herself, for I have informed the scribe that I cannot dance. Thus I will be safe. Thus I have nothing to fear. How terrified I would be, if called upon to dance. For I know nothing of it. I would fear to dance. I cannot dance. But I am not a dancer. That they know, and so I am safe.

Then Ellen thought again of the free woman in her slippers, and veils, and cumbersome Robes of Concealment.

She really did not think that she had returned safely to Brundisium. That seemed very unlikely. She had seen strong, somber men nearby, watching her, perhaps studying her. At his sash one of them had had a narrow, coiled rope of black braided leather. Slave strikes are seldom made at random. Perhaps they even knew her from Brundisium. There had been the overturned stool, the spilled wine, the warnings of the men who had been about.

The poor woman, thought Ellen, returning to the ka-la-na vat. What a terrible misfortune for her! How unfortunate! And then Ellen smiled, and laughed to herself. How perfect, she thought. Let her wear a collar! Let her be a naked slave! Let her grovel and fear free women!

Yes, thought Ellen, and let her dance before masters, as a naked slave, and be lashed if not pleasing!

I am pleased that I am not a dancer, thought Ellen. I am pleased that I need not fear being called upon to dance.

Ellen hummed the strains of a joyful Gorean slave song to herself, in which the slave bedecks herself and eagerly awaits the arrival of her master.

Suddenly she heard a fierce movement in the air, behind her, an unexpected but unmistakable swift hiss, and, almost at the same time, below the small of the back, she felt a stinging stripe, the swift, sharp blow of a supple switch, a yard in length.

“Are you dallying, slave girl?” laughed a young voice.

“No, Master!” cried Ellen, tears bursting from her eyes. It was one of the lads used about the camp for the supervision, control and management of the serving slaves. Fully grown women are not unoften put under the management of such. In the Gorean theory, as slaves are animals, they may be managed by any free person, or, indeed, any designated slave. Sometimes they are put under the supervision of a boy or girl who is no more than a child. And, of course, the least bit of resistance, recalcitrance or such may invoke severe discipline, even death. Behind the children, and the lads, you see, stand men.

Ellen hurried on to the vat. Her fundament stung from the stripe. She was humiliated, particularly as the blow had been struck not by a man but by a lad. To be sure, the lad, who must have been fifteen or sixteen, had doubtless, by now, enjoyed slaves such as she. Although the blow stung, and was humiliating, Ellen was not displeased with it. It did remind her that she was a slave, and that such things might be done to her, and that she was under discipline. She wiped her eyes with the back of her right wrist. He had not been angry with her. He had merely hurried her on about her duties. She was now, she realized, somewhat to her surprise, rather pleased that she had been struck. The pain, in its way, now, was warm and pleasant, and its lingering resonance reminded her that she was subject to discipline, to complete and categorical domination, which, as a female, as she now knew, she craved.

In the festival camp there were many forms of merchandise, other than the flesh loot, such as she, of Cosian conquests, merchandise such as produce, meat, leather and metal work, cloth, cabinetry, artifacts, tools, weapons, remedies, wagons, carts, precious stones, and such. Too, there were animals to be vended, other than human females, such as verr, bosk and tharlarion. Ellen had even seen, or partly seen, for the crates were muchly closed, gigantic, furred animals of a sort she did not recognize. She did not know if they were bipedalian or quadrupedalian. She had seen wild eyes in a gap between stout slats, heard snarling, glimpsed a white, curved fang. Perhaps they were bears, or tigers, or, in any event, things like them, perhaps larger and fiercer.

She conjectured that there were better than ten or twelve thousand men in the camp.

She dipped her vessel into the ka-la-na, and returned to her work. Someone, she remembered, had called for wine. She would return to that place, though she supposed that, by now, another slave would have served him. It would not do, not to return. She looked at the red-figured vessel she carried, the red image on it bright, fresh and exciting against the smooth, glazed, curved, black background. It reminded her of similar vessels she had seen long ago in museums, from ancient Greece, and she did not doubt but what the techniques and style of that and similar vessels might own to antecedents of her former world, that they might, in substance, nature and style, be traced back to the work of ancient terrestrial craftsmen. She found the vessel precious and beautiful, but here, of course, such things were thought little of; they were familiar, cheap and common. They were used for the serving of common ka-la-na; they might be handled even by slaves. The figures on the vessel, two on one side, two on the other, were similar, rather as in a repeated design. On each side the same scene was depicted, that of a nude female, presumably a slave, kneeling before a man, presumably her master, in whose hand there was a whip. The female had her hands, the wrists chained, lifted to the man, as though in supplication. He was looking down upon her, presumably considering some plea, perhaps for forgiveness, perhaps for mercy. It was up to him, clearly, to decide what to do with her. Ellen held the vessel against her, to steady it, it feeling cool against her skin. A bit of wine ran over her hip.

She heard a beastlike roar and howl, some two hundred yards away. She supposed that that frightful sound emanated from one of the heavily planked crates. She doubted that men would wish to purchase such things.

Why should such things be brought here, she wondered.

She then hurried back to where the man had called for wine.

****

Earlier in the day, after having been at the pool, and having been fed and watered, she, and those who had been in her ankle coffle, were conducted to an exhibition cage, one of more than perhaps fifty or sixty. While they stood outside the cage, roped together by the ankle, lot numbers were inscribed, with a grease pencil, or marker, on their left breasts. The left breast is used in such matters as most men are right-handed. Records were kept, regarding the lot numbers and names. Those girls who did not have names were given names, for clerical purposes, which might or might not be kept on them after a sale. Some of the names were lovely. All were suitable for female slaves. The matter was supervised by a scribe, with a clipboard, to which were attached several sheets of paper.

“Name?” he had asked her.

“I have been called ‘Ellen’, Master,” she had said.

“117,” he had said. “Ellen.”

Something was then inscribed by one of the guards on her left breast, she feeling the firm, wide, smooth pressing of the greaselike point on her body. It was, doubtless, the number 117. She, as noted, had not been taught to read. On Gor she was illiterate. Doubtless Mirus had found that amusing. Many slave girls, too, as mentioned, are illiterate. And those brought from Earth are most commonly kept that way. They are, after all, barbarians. But, too, as has been noted, illiteracy is not that uncommon on Gor, particularly amongst the lower castes.

Within the cage, most near the exterior bars, were ten upright metal poles, which helped to support the roof of the cage. These were placed in such a way that a slave, if fastened to one, would, first, be kept near enough to the exterior bars to be easily viewed, and, second, would be just beyond the reach of any who might who might wish to touch them, by putting their hands through the bars.

Ellen’s hands, before her, were braceleted about one of the upright bars, on the side of the cage which faced the general concourse, along which, on each side, the cages were lined. This was far better, thought Ellen, than the cruel, cement shelf, boiling in the sunlight, on which Targo had exhibited her, a shelf to which buyers were free to ascend and handle the merchandise, and were even encouraged to do so. To be sure, she could be commanded by observers to smile, to shake out her hair, to lift her head, to exhibit certain attitudes, and perform in various ways, at the bar. She as slave must obey. And so many times, in the afternoon, had she been forced to kiss the bar, to cling to it, to caress it, to kneel before it, head down, and such.

“What is your lot number, slut?” would call a man, and she would call back to him, “117, Master.”

There were doubtless several hundred slaves in the camp, more even than had been in her coffle on the long trek toward Brundisium. Perhaps there were more than a thousand slaves in the camp. She did not know.

Her number, she knew, was very low. She did not know if this were significant, or not. If it were significant, and the lower numbers meant the more desirable merchandise, surely she would be entitled to a high opinion of herself as goods. She found that, despite reservations lingering from her Earth conditioning, and her supposed dignity, and her supposed superiority to, and contempt for, such things, that she wanted to be attractive, desperately so; she wanted to be beautiful, and desirable; she wanted to be found pleasing by men. She wanted to be valuable, wanted to be wanted. To be sure, as she was a slave, such things were important, even from a very practical, even from an economic, point of view. Being beautiful is considerably in a slave’s best interest, in many ways, as it would be, too, of course, for many other forms of domestic animal. To be sure, the beauty of a woman has a special interest for men. I love men, she thought, and I want to serve them and please them. That is what I want to live for! I have been chained on the concourse side, she told herself, that I may be more easily seen. I have a low number, considering the many girls in the camp. I must be desirable, she thought, at least in the opinion of some. I wonder if I am slave desirable. Could I, once of Earth, she asked herself, be that desirable? To be sure, she thought, my number, my chaining, may mean nothing. Perhaps they are saving the best for last, or something. After all, I am only from Earth. How could I, only from Earth, compete with a Gorean woman? But then, she told herself, humans on Gor are surely of Earth origin. Thus, ultimately, we are no different. So why could I not compete with a Gorean woman, even with a Gorean slave girl? Am I not now, too, Gorean; and am I not now, too, no more than a slave girl, and a Gorean slave girl? How vain I am, she thought. But then women are vain, she thought, and I am a woman, so why should I not, too, be concerned with such things? I do not care even if I am narcissistic, or frivolous and shallow. I do not care. Such things are important to me. Why should I not care about them? Why should I not, too, be vain? Yes, I am vain! I have the vanity of a female slave, who exists only for men! I do not care! I do not object! And I love it! I love it! I love it! This settled in her mind, and kissing the bracelets on her wrists, holding her to the upright bar, she laughed, and was pleased with this understanding. Layers of guilt, falsity and hypocrisy fell from her, like a weighty, obsolescent armor, dried, useless scales shed when no longer needed.

“What is your lot number, little tasta, little vulo?” called another man.

“117, Master,” Ellen responded.

“Yes,” she admitted to herself, “I am a vain slave. And I am exquisite, I think, and I am beautiful, I think. Or perhaps so! And in any event I love being owned and I love being a slave!”

But then she remembered men and their whips and was afraid, very afraid.

“117, Master!” she called to a fellow who had stood by the bars, and tapped himself lightly on the chest, on the left.

****

Ellen, carrying the pitcher of wine, found the fellow who had called out to her earlier. He had been served in the meantime, as she had supposed he would have been, but, in any event, she had returned, to see after the matter, as was appropriate. He permitted her to add a bit of wine to his goblet, and she was grateful for this kindness, for in it he acknowledged her return, and her solicitude that he be served. She wondered if, had she not returned, he would have had her sought out, and punished.

Ellen did not wish to be punished.

But she loved being subject to punishment. If I am not pleasing, she thought, I will be punished. How appropriate for a slave! How different from a free woman, she thought. No matter what they do they are never punished. But I must be pleasing, and perfectly, or I will be punished. I am a slave. Men will have what they want of me. Men will have me as they want me!

She looked about herself.

She suddenly felt a man put his arm about her waist, clumsily.

It would not have been the first time that she had felt a touch in her serving, the grasping of an ankle, a pinch, the brief holding, and smelling, of her hair, the light grasping of a thigh.

He held her.

She stiffened, slightly. She was frightened. Then, she wanted to press suddenly against him, whimpering, but she knew she was not to be used, not until after her sale.

Until then she was to heat, and simmer, until she wanted to scream with need.

How hateful are the masters, she thought. How cruel they are to us!

She wondered if her heat had been visible in the exhibition cage, when she had touched the warm bar, kissed it, pressed herself piteously against it.

He drew his arm away from her. He staggered, a little, shifting unsteadily. He steadied himself with one hand on her shoulder. He bent forward. She smelled a breath thick with paga, not the red and yellow wines from the vats, the wines which she and the others carried.

The man looked blearily at her left breast.

“117, Master,” said Ellen.

“You are too young,” he said, blinking, stepping back, wiping his hand across his bearded face. He then turned about, almost falling, and staggered away.

I am not too young, she thought, angrily. Many men, fine men, strong men, virile men, do not think me too young at all!

There had been, she had learned, twenty-one bids on her, following her release from the upright bar and the exhibition cage. These bids set the price at which she would be initially offered to the buyers, that point at which the bidding would start. She knew she was, in effect, guaranteed a sale to the highest starting bid, even if no one in the entire camp cared to bid even a tarsk-bit more. She had not been told, of course, what the highest bid of the twenty-one bids had been.

She had, of course, after having knelt and begged permission to speak, inquired.

“Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira,” she had been told.

“Yes, Master,” she had said.

“You will learn on the block,” she was told.

“Yes, Master,” she had said.

“Wine, girl!” called a fellow, lifting his goblet, and Ellen rushed to him.

In a few Ehn Ellen, her pitcher half full, stood back in the darkness, some yards from the closest fires.

The first of the formal dancers had been called to one circle or another, following the hailings of the torch-bearing crier. Men who might have been interested in bidding on them, having found them of interest in the exhibition cages, might then follow them to the designated circles, to continue their appraisal. Others, too, of course, the curious, the lustful, the admirers of beauty, and such, tended to gather about the circles in question.

How beautiful the dancers are, thought Ellen.

A few moments ago, she had peered between men, pausing in her serving, to watch perform some among the first of the summoned dancers.

Would that I could dance, would that I were so beautiful, thought Ellen.

She now stood alone in the darkness, looking toward the fields.

What is to become of me, she asked herself. What is to be my fate? I do not know. I am only a slave.

Who is watching, thought Ellen. Perhaps I could run. Perhaps I could escape. Then she laughed ruefully to herself. I am only an ignorant, stripped, branded slave, a poor Earth-girl slave on barbaric Gor. There is no escape for one such as I. Indeed, there is no escape for any Gorean slave girl! There is nowhere to run, nowhere to go. We continue to wear our collars at the pleasure of men. And they do not free us! They keep us as they want us, as what we are, their slaves!

She felt moisture on the side of the pitcher she carried, and she recalled, too, that a little ka-la-na had run from the lip of the pitcher to its side, and onto her hip. Too, this sort of thing, a trickle of ka-la-na on the vessel, is not that uncommon in pouring. She put one finger to the side of the vessel and found the arrested trickle of wine. Looking about, and determining to her satisfaction that no one was looking, she put the tip of her finger to the trickle, and then lifted her finger to her lips, and tongue. Her eyes widened. How startling, how wonderful, she breathed, for this common wine, dispensed so lavishly at the festival camp, was better than any she had tasted on Earth. Then suddenly she was terrified, and rubbed her finger on her thigh, trying to wipe away the evidence of her putative indiscretion. If only I had a bit of cloth, she thought, that I might wipe my lips, but then she hastily discarded that wish, for the cloth might have been stained. She thought to wipe her lips with her hair, but that, too might be stained. She wiped her lips with the back of her right forearm. What if a man takes me in his arms, holds me helplessly and chooses to rape my lips with the kiss of the master, she thought. What if he should taste the wine! To be sure, she had not been forbidden to taste the wine. But she knew enough of Gorean custom to suppose that such a liberty taken without permission, in the case of a slave, if not explicitly permitted, might be an occasion for grievous discipline.

Again, first looking about, she wiped her lips, desperately, frightened.

I must hurry back, to serve, she thought.

She paused, looking at the camp, at the men and the fires, the tents. How beautiful and exciting, how real, is this world, she thought.

I wonder what the highest bid on me was, she thought. Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira, she reminded herself. But how desperately curious she was to know!

Put it from your mind, she thought. Be about your duties, girl, she thought.

And quickly she hurried back to serve.

****

It was a few Ehn later when, making her way amongst the joking, roaring, laughing, colorfully garbed men, tunicked and robed, many sitting about the fires, some afoot, moving here and there, the firelight reflecting from the side of the red-figured pitcher, the side of her lit by one of the fires, her feet in the soft earth, the music about her, dancers elsewhere, in some of the circles, she stopped suddenly, startled, shaken, and nearly dropped the vessel she carried.

Amongst the men about one of the fires she saw, sitting cross-legged, in sedate, deliberative, sober converse with men in Cosian robes, not soldiers, one whose presence here was incomprehensible. She was stunned, she could not move. He, too, was in Cosian robes. How magnificent he looked, seeing him now, once again, he in rich robes, at ease, rich, prosperous, secure, self-assured, splendid, more so than she had ever dreamed he might be. He was the sort of man at whose feet a trembling slave would cringe, the sort of man at whose feet belonged women, the sort of man at whose feet a queen might beg her collar. He was here! She gasped with terror, eagerness and desire. She was shocked, she felt weak, her heart beat wildly, she feared her legs would give way beneath her, she was vulnerable, she was stripped, she felt giddy, and feared that she might faint. Never had she expected to see him again! She fought to gain her breath. She tried to stand very steadily. She held the handles of the pitcher, hard, as though for support, as though for a renewed contact with what was solid and real. She trembled in consternation and confusion.

It was he who on this world had been her first master, he who on Earth had arranged and executed her straightforward, flawless abduction, he into whose keeping and under whose mastery she had first come, he amongst whose toils she had first found herself inextricably enmeshed, so absolutely, so simply and professionally, so easily, so casually, so helplessly and perfectly, he under whose supervision she with her station, auspices, prestige and credentials had been transformed into no more than a young, shapely, meaningless slave, he who, on this world, had taken the familiar, common name, ‘Mirus’!

Has he come for me, she thought, wildly.

But there was no indication that he even knew she was in the camp. Surely there would have been, so far as she knew, no reason for him to suppose she was here.

Doubtless he had business here, but it did not seem that it would concern a lowly slave, one he had discarded for a pittance, after teaching her pain, shame, and the meaning of her collar.

“Wine, slave girl!” called a fellow, from about the very fire where Mirus sat.

She wanted to turn and flee, and seemed rooted to the spot, nor did it seem that she dared to approach. Yet she knew she must serve. He must not see her as she was now, not shamed, not as a naked slave! What was she to do? Then she feared a command might be repeated, and she might then be thrown beside the fire and beaten before him, as a tardy slave. Timidly, trying to remain in the shadows, she approached the fire. As she approached, it seemed he was finishing his conversation, and preparing to rise.

She poured the wine, unsteadily. The fellow whose goblet she was filling looked up at her, quizzically.

“Forgive me, Master,” she whispered.

When she raised her head and straightened her body Mirus had risen to his feet, turned from his interlocutor, and was preparing to depart.

Suddenly, their eyes met!

She cast her eyes down, not daring to return his gaze. Too, it is often thought presumptuous for a slave to meet the eyes of a free man. Such can be an occasion for discipline.

In the instant their eyes had met she saw that he seemed startled. Then he had not expected to find her here in the festival camp!

Trembling, she lifted her head again and looked at him.

He was regarding her, regarding her now as a man regards a slave, candidly, appraisingly, speculatively. She wondered if, after all, he recognized her.

His glance went slowly, lingeringly, from her small feet, to her trim ankles, to the lovely calves and thighs, to the love cradle of her, to the narrow waist, to the swelling sweetness, the vulnerable softness, of her breasts, to the soft shoulders and her white throat, now innocent of a steel circlet, to her glossy hair, now of slave length, to the face, thought beautiful, and surely exquisitely feminine, by many, and to the trembling lips, and the darkly lashed, longly lashed, gray, wide, frightened eyes.

Though she was a slave she felt her body heat and flush helplessly, being so regarded.

Did she not know her beauty was public? Had she not learned that, forcibly and clearly, in the Kettle Market in Ar, on Targo’s sales shelf?

It seemed she was being regarded as a mere, interesting, sleek animal, perhaps as a very special sort of tarsk or kaiila.

How could he look at her in that fashion? How dare he look at her in that fashion?

Then she recalled she was slave.

When again their eyes met it seemed that it might be as though he were seeing her for the first time. Again it seemed to her that he might be startled, or surprised, perhaps even astonished, looking upon her. But this was not an astonishment, not now, at seeing her here, in the camp, that she should be here, but an astonishment, it seemed, that she was now as she was, was now as he found her to be. Had she changed so much, she wondered. Perhaps he did not recognize her?

“Wine, slave!” called a fellow from another group.

“Coming, Master!” she called, and relievedly turned about, hurrying to her new summoner, mercifully breaking the spell which had held her, as an immobilized slave, before his gaze.

She made her way to her new summoner. And she moved, of course, as what she was, a slave.

She suddenly thought that perhaps she should try to walk like a free woman, stiffly, clumsily, affecting mannishness, moving straightly, striding, attempting to conceal her vulnerability and sex. But then she did not do so for she did not wish to be struck. She stumbled a bit, undecidedly, then resumed her progress toward her new master of the instant. Then, angrily, tossing her head and hair, defiantly, not looking back, wondering if he were still watching her, not knowing, putting the shames of Earth behind her, she approached her new summoner proudly, naturally, gracefully, beautifully, a summoned slave. She would show Mirus, if he were still looking, what he had lost! She was suddenly joyous, and fulfilled, in being a slave! She recalled how surprised he had seemed to be, not just seeing her here, in the camp, but seeing her as she now was. Did he think she would go for tarsk-bits now? There had been twenty-one bids on her! Surely there had been no mistaking the admiration implicit in his scrutiny when he had so openly appraised her. How natural now were her carriage, her grace, her deferentiality! Was this the consequence of her training? In one sense, no, for her training had done little more than liberate the slave within her; in another sense, her training had, of course, improved, refined, and enhanced the slave self that had longed for such tutelage. Dispositionally she had longed to submit to males, serve them and love them. Dispositionally she had longed for male dominance. Such needs, of course, are most perfectly satisfied within the master/slave relationship. This is not to claim, of course, that Goreans instituted female slavery in order to satisfy the needs of women. The origins probably lie closer to the interests and desires of imperious, unconquered men, the pleasures and utilities to be found in the ownership and mastery of such delicious creatures. And one supposes that the women prefer it this way, that the men will do with them as they please, for that is part of the strength to which they long to submit. In any event, the institution of female slavery is part of the very fabric of Gorean society. It is both historical and contemporary; it is honored in custom and tradition; it is honored in practice; it is pervasive, societally and culturally; it is familiar, recognized and unquestioned; it is ingredient in the law and enforced with all the sanctions of the law. Ellen had never expected, of course, to find herself in a society in which such an institution actually existed, in a society allied with nature rather than opposed to her. Earth had not prepared her to even entertain such a possibility. Too, of course, she had never dreamed that she would, in fact, find herself on such a world an owned, branded chattel. But here, at last, on Gor, her femininity, and deepest self, had been freed. The genetic template had always been there, fastened in her by eons of evolution, part of what made her what she was, a woman; the training, and the Gorean milieu, had merely, so to speak, freed her to be herself, had encouraged her to be herself, had required her, she willing or not, to be herself, or be fed to sleen, or cast to leech plants. Genetically, she desired to love and serve men; in the Gorean milieu she had learned ways of doing so. For example, genetically, she desired to render obeisance to men; on Gor she had learned certain conventional ways in which this might be done, such as the first and second positions of obeisance.

When Ellen had served the fellow his wine, pouring evenly, carefully, she straightened up and looked back to the other group, sitting about its fire.

Mirus was no longer there. She did not know where he had gone, doubtless about his business, perhaps in one of the tents of the camp.

She looked about herself, to see if others were about who might desire her service. She saw another slave, such as herself, some yards away, stripped, her skin partly illuminated in the firelight, also with one of the two-handled, red-figured pitchers, serving. She is pretty, thought Ellen. I think it is Renata. I wonder how many bids were put in on her.

When Ellen had poured for the fellow, she had been careful not to let her hair fall forward and brush his shoulder. She knew such things might be arousing to men, and that Gorean men, with their powerful sexual appetites, were easily aroused. If he were to cast her down between the fires and put her to his peremptory pleasure, she had little doubt but what it would be she who would be blamed. Is it not always the slave who is blamed, who must writhe beneath the whip? Had there been a sufficient number of iron belts in the camp she supposed that she might have been locked in one. She was supposed to heat until, on the block, she would be pathetically, uncontrollably needful. Had he been her master, in private compartments, she would not have hesitated to permit such an inadvertence, or she might have tied the loose bondage knot in her hair, on the left, as a mute plea for attention. “Serving wine,” although it will usually have its obvious meaning, is commonly used as a euphemism on Gor for serving the pleasure of a master. “Has he had you serve him wine yet?” one girl might ask another. “Wine, Master?” is a question which might be put by a slave to her master, or to her master’s guests, if she has been made available to them. Another example of this idiom is found in phrases such as, say, “Your slave begs to serve you wine” or “The slave begs to serve her master wine.” There are also, differing from city to city, rituals connected with this sort of thing, as when the slave kneels, kisses the cup, and then proffers it to the master, with two hands, arms extended, head down between her arms. Sometimes the cup is first warmed at the breasts, for Goreans commonly drink wine warm, or pressed meaningfully against the slave’s lower belly, the hard rim of the cup pressed inward, severely, against her yielding flesh. These rituals, as noted, differ from city to city. Also, of course, masters may differ, as well, and each will, if he wishes, train his slaves to his pleasure in this matter, as in other matters.

“Ellen,” said a slave.

“Renata?” asked Ellen.

“Yes,” said the girl, suddenly, rather pleased. It was the slave Ellen had seen earlier, yards away, serving in the half darkness. Ellen knew her. She was red-haired. She had been close to Ellen in the coffle for days, and, sometimes, at night, in their chains, between the stakes, they had whispered to one another. She had also been in the same exhibition cage, and they had been in ankle-coffle together for the earlier bathing. She had been ‘Auta’ before, but the scribe had not cared for that name, and had given her the name ‘Renata’. So now she was Renata. She liked this name, but was not yet accustomed to responding to it. To be sure, slaves learn quickly to respond to the names given them by their masters.

“Do you have much wine left?” asked Renata.

“Not much,” said Ellen. “I must return to the vat for more.”

“I would go now,” said Renata. “There is not much left in the vat.”

“Ah!” said Ellen. “Thank you — Renata.”

“It is nothing,” said Renata.

Ellen did not want to be caught with an empty pitcher and the vat empty, perhaps for Ehn, even an Ahn, until its supply might be replenished. She could wait near the vat on the other hand, until it was once more full. No one could be angry about that. It was not as though someone had sent her for wine and she had been dilatory in returning. And, of course, she had no access to the other vats in the camp, for they were guarded jealously by their own vat masters, with their own assigned slaves.

And so Ellen returned to the vat, stopping on the way to serve two men.

She wondered if Mirus had recognized her. She was sure he had, from the first glance. But then he had looked upon her as though she might be a complete novelty to him, an astonishment to him, a totally unknown, lovely slave. Perhaps he had thought he recognized her, and had, but then, later, thought that he had been mistaken, that the slave he saw could not possibly be she for whom he had originally taken her?

Could I have changed so much, Ellen asked herself. Could I have become so different, and so completely a slave?

“Ah, Ellen!” called the portly vat master, one of the caste of vintners. “One can scarcely scrape the bottom of the vat! These loafing tarsks drink like desert kaiila! Hurry to the sutlers! Tell them to trundle a new cask to the vat of Callimachus!”

Ellen stood there, clutching her pitcher. She regarded the vintner with dismay.

She did not want to make her way to the sutlers for that way took her into the darkness, and into the tented areas, closer to the walls of the city. Too, if she went directly, it might take her near the crates containing the strange beasts that had terrorized her, even within their confinements.

“Hurry!” said the vintner. “Do not just stand there! Run!”

“Yes, Master!” cried Ellen, frightened.

“Stop!” he cried.

“Master?” inquired Ellen.

“Leave the pitcher, stupid girl!” he called.

Confused, frightened, she put the pitcher on the bench near the vat, where others already reposed.

She suddenly fled to Callimachus, the vintner, the vat master, and fell to her knees before him. “Might not another slave, a swifter slave, a more beautiful slave, better accomplish this errand, Master?” she inquired.

Ellen was not eager to leave the fires of the festival camp.

“I have already sent Louise,” he said. “She is not yet back!”

“Perhaps she will return soon, Master,” said Ellen. “Surely a slave better suited to this errand than I might be found.”

“So the stupid little slave wants the lash!” he cried.

“No, Master!” cried Ellen.

“Up!” he cried. “Run! Run like the kaiila!”

And so Ellen sprang to her feet and hurried toward the darkness.

“Stop!” cried the vat master. “That way, that way!” he cried, pointing.

“Yes, Master!” she wept.

He would have none of an indirect, or circuitous, route. What was it to him if she must fear for her life in the midst of beasts?

They are confined, she told herself. There is no danger. And that is truly the shortest, most direct route. If I were to go differently I might become lost. I might be apprehended by guardsmen. Would they believe my story, she wondered, that she was on an errand? At the least she might spend the night swathed in coarse ropes, suspended from a hook in their guardhouse. And what would be her punishment from the Cosian slave masters, for her foolishness, ignorance and confusion? And what if they thought she had tried to escape? As she was a barbarian, they might think her that stupid. She did not wish to be crippled, or fed to sleen. There is no danger, she reminded herself. The beasts are confined.

And so Ellen sped toward the city of Brundisium.

She hurried among the fires. She felt men reach out and grasp for her, but she sped on. She passed dancing circles where sinuous slaves, lot numbers on their left breasts, swayed their beauty before lusty brutes who might soon bid upon them.

She had a reasonably clear idea where lay the temporary stockade of the sutlers, and its direction had been reconfirmed for her by the vat master but moments ago.

She must seek out the dealers of wine amongst them, and deliver the order, to be brought to the vat of Callimachus of Cos, to whose tablet it would be marked. Ultimately, however, in theory, the cost of the wine, as tabulated, and the cost of its distribution by such as Callimachus, was to be borne by the state of Cos, as the festival camp was organized on her behalf. To be sure, Ellen had heard it rumored that she, Cos, might suggest that its donation, that of the wine, and the coverage of associated expenses, would be a welcome, suitable gesture of gratitude on the part of Brundisium for the many benefits she had received at the hands of Cos, and the alliance of the two powers, and such. But such concerns were not those of a slave. And, in the end, she supposed, Brundisium, in turn, might decide that this benevolence might be best exacted of her merchant caste, and particularly of those dealing in wines. But here, again, these were not concerns for such as she, a slave.

In a short time Ellen was beyond the fires and among the tents, most of which were dark. She was taking the most direct route, but, as yet, had not entered into the vicinity of the crates of certain beasts, those the glimpses of which and the roars and cries of which had caused her considerable alarm. She stumbled twice, and once struck into a box. Putting out her hands she felt, nearby, a tharlarion saddle. Once, running, she nearly stepped on a chained, sleeping sleen. Its sudden rising up and vicious snarl terrified her. If she had struck against it her leg might have been ripped from her with one savage snap of the jaws. She fled about it, further into the darkness. She began to cry. She stopped. She was now afraid to run. Why was there not more light? Torches, lanterns, lamps, anything? Surely at places in the camp, even away from the festival fires, there was some light. But very little here. Men might find their way among the tents with the aid of a lantern, a torch, or such, but she had no such device. She put out her hand and touched something that loomed wall-like in the darkness, canvas. She turned about. She cried out, softly, piteously, her progress suddenly arrested by a tent rope, taut, running diagonally downward from its pole to its peg, anchored in the dirt, some feet from the tent. She put our her hands in the darkness, to feel her way.

It was very dark here.

She suddenly realized she was not clear as to her location. On the other hand, she was not totally disoriented as she could see the fires of the camp behind her and, in the distance, the lights of Brundisium, among them some of the beacon fires on her walls. But where along those vast walls was the stockade of the sutlers?

She crouched down in the dirt, and wept.

Then she heard a howl, which she surmised must emanate from one of the beasts she muchly feared.

That is my direction, she thought.

She hoped fervently that Louise, sent out before her, had now returned successfully, having finished up the entire matter.

She heard some men approaching. One of them carried a lantern. She wiped tears from her eyes. She shrank back in the shadows.

Crouching down she watched the men pass. They did not see her in the darkness.

One of the men she saw, this startling her, was Mirus!

She crept after them, using the wavering light of the lantern to follow them, it casting strange shadows on the tents and earth.

Thusly she might the more safely find her way, she reassured herself. To her surprise, but pleasure, she saw that their path led very much in the direction she desired to go. In any event, though she did not admit this to herself, she would have risked much, merely to follow Mirus.

And so she crept after them, a young, naked slave.

In one or another of the tents there was a lit lamp, its light visible through the silk or canvas. At such places she tried to stay in the shadows, and then, in a moment, once more follow the swaying lantern, a tiny, glowing dot before her.

Occasionally a lantern was slung from a pole, a pool of light at its base. At such places she must most particularly endeavor to avoid detection.

On her hands and knees, crawling, she heard a woman’s voice, from within a tent. Something in the voice, in its helplessness, its piteousness, in its gasps, its intonations, suggested that the woman might be struggling futilely, weakly, pulling against bonds. “Please, Master, I love you!” Ellen heard. “Permit me to yield! I cannot stand it! I fear I will die! Oh, oh. Please do not bring me again and again to this point, so, cruelly, without permitting me to yield! Just one more touch, Master! Please, another touch, just the tiniest touch! It is all I need! I am your slave! Do not be so cruel! Show me mercy! You have conquered me a thousand times! I am hopelessly and abjectly yours! I love you, Master! I beg to be permitted to yield!”

Men, the arrogant, masterful beasts, thought Ellen, biting her lip, grinding her fingernails into the palms of her hands. How vulnerable we are! How they make us theirs! They play us like czehars, drawing what music they will from our bodies! How arrogantly, how imperiously they master us, their slaves! And Ellen envied the slave within the tent. Would that I were in her bonds, thought Ellen. I, too, would weep with passion, and beg to yield, and if my master, in his mercy, saw fit to grant me the caress of permission, I would weep with ecstasy, his, and beg to please, again and again.

Will he not be kind to her? Does he not know she is only a slave?

There was then a soft, rapturous, prolonged, grateful, inarticulate cry from within the tent, partly muffled, for the master had perhaps placed his hand firmly over the mouth of the slave, that she might not disturb the camp. In a moment his hand must have been removed from her lips, for Ellen heard, “Thank you, thank you, beloved Master! I love you, Master! I love you, Master!”

Kind master, beloved master, thought Ellen.

Ellen sought to control herself. She must not cry out!

Tears burst from her eyes as she clenched her fists, in her own frustration, in the throes of her own starved needs.

She must not cry out!

I am a slave thought Ellen. I want a master! I want a master!

Then Ellen looked up, suddenly, frightened.

Where was the lantern? Where the men? Quickly she looked about, and hurried in the direction it had last been moving.

“Where, where?” she cried out to herself.

She rushed into the darkness.

She fell.

Where is Mirus, who was my master, she asked herself. No, no, I must get to the sutlers, she told herself. I have an errand. I must hurry. Oh, where has he gone? Where is Mirus?

She rose again to her feet, and continued on, and then, after a few moments, stopped, suddenly. She heard men somewhere before her. She went to her hands and knees and approached, cautiously.

Putting out her hand she touched the side of something which seemed to be a great, stout box. She recoiled in terror. It was surely one of the crates which had held one of the large, shaggy, half-seen beasts which had so terrified her earlier. But there was no sound from within the crate. Perhaps the beast was asleep. As silently as she could, she crawled forward a little. A tiny creaking noise to her right startled her. The gate to the crate had moved a little on its hinges. She felt she might die with fear. She put out her hand a little and touched the gate. It was ajar. She moved it a little. A heavy, beastlike, musky odor came from the box, but she could detect no sign of life within it. There was no evidence whatsoever of a presence within the container, no suggestion of movement, no sound of respiration from large, savage lungs. She felt sick. The crate, she was sure, was empty.

“It is time,” she heard, the voice of one of the men a few yards away. It was as though he were addressing something.

Suddenly she saw the lantern once more revealed, now brought forth from beneath a cloak, and lifted.

She went to her stomach, fearfully, in terror that she might be seen.

There were four men standing before one of the crates. In the light she could see that Mirus was one of them. More frightening to her was that there was now something with the men, two shambling, gigantic shapes crouching near them. She law light reflected in the eyes of one of the beasts, from the uplifted lantern. They glowed like fire for the briefest moment, and then it had turned its head away. She had no doubt these things with the men had been the denizens of the boxes. There had been five such boxes, she thought. Why had the men dared to release these things? What manner of madness had overcome them?

One of the men stood before one of the crates, and tapped it gently. There was a responding growl from within the crate. “It is time,” said the man. “Others are within the tent.”

There was a large tent near the crates, a tent Ellen had supposed might house, perhaps among others, the beasts’ masters or handlers.

The crate, like the others, was apparently secured by two hasps and staples, each with their own gigantic padlocks, better than six or seven pounds in weight and six inches in diameter, some three or four inches in thickness.

Do not let it out, thought Ellen, lying on her stomach, hiding in the darkness.

But, to Ellen’s horror, the men did not bend to undo the padlocks and release the inmate. Rather the door simply swung out, being opened from the inside. The beast emerged and stretched. As it stood on its hind legs it was some eight feet in height, and its arms must have been five feet in length. It must have weighed several hundred pounds. Then it sank down to all fours, like a rounded, furred boulder, and looked about itself. The padlocks, the stout bolts and plates, then, had been meaningless. The appearance of their stout securities had been a sham, intended to conceal a fearful truth, that the beasts had never been other than at liberty.

Ellen was sick with terror and could not move.

“Let us go inside,” said the man with the lantern. “Let us join the others.”

The four men and the three beasts turned about and went toward the large tent. One of the men, he with the lantern, held back the tent flap, looking about, and the other men, followed by the three beasts, they now on all fours, thrust through the opening. Mirus was the first to enter the tent. Ellen thought, in the light of the lantern, that she glimpsed another beast, and two other men in the tent. One of the men was standing. Then all were inside the tent.

I must flee, somewhere, somehow, thought Ellen. I must get away from here. In her terror even the thought of the errand on which she had embarked temporarily eluded her. But she found it almost impossible to move her body. She lay there, in the dirt, on her belly, hiding, scarcely able to move, trembling. At last, after a few Ehn, her senses began to clear. She knew then she must again be about her errand. Mirus seemed to be in no danger, nor the other men. Perhaps the beasts were domesticated, even pets of some sort, she told herself.

She rose unsteadily to her feet.

There had been five crates she remembered, remembering it from somewhere, vaguely from about the edge of her consciousness. She had seen four men outside the tent, and two within, and a beast within, and three beasts outside.

She suddenly sensed a heavy, musky odor behind her, and before she could scream a heavy paw, placed tightly over her mouth, drew her swiftly backward, and she was lifted from her feet, and held tightly against a gigantic, shaggy body.

She was helpless in such a grip. She could not scream. She squirmed futilely, and was carried to the tent.