Tribesmen of Gor

9 Zina, a Beautiful Traitress, is Dealt With in the Fashion of the Tahari

“Chain the two prisoners,” said the leader of the raiders, to one of his men.

He then looked at me.

One of the men came into the tent and picked up the chains, which had lain, coiled, on the mats, in readiness. One length of chain he retrieved from the dust, where I had hurled it, snaring the fleeing Alyena by her ankles.

“Kneel,” said one of the men.

“No, Hassan!” cried one of the girls. The other girl, she, who had torn at her hair, when captured, knelt. The girl who had, when captured, looked disbelievingly at the bonds on her wrists, stood, angry, defiant.

She came and stood before him, naked in the tent, on the mats. Her body was covered with sweat. The legs, from the thighs down, were covered with dust, dark in her sweat, and scratched by the myriad thrusts of brush through which, tethered, she had been dragged at her captor’s stirrup.

“It was I, Zina,” she said, “who, for a tarn disk of gold, betrayed the caravan into your hands, giving you its inventory, its schedule, its route!”

Such matters, I knew, were usually carefully guarded in the Tahari, even in times of relative peace.

The other girl cried out in anger at her, but did not dare rise. “Chain her,” said Hassan, indicating the kneeling girl. One of the men, from behind, put ankle rings on her, joined by about a foot of chain. I heard the two, heavy snaps of the locks. He then unbound her wrists and coiled the tether. Before her body he locked her wrists in three-link slave bracelets.

“In the sun,” said Hassan to two others of his men. They departed and, shortly, returned with a heavy, pointed stake. It was some four feet in height, some four inches in diameter. One man held the stake and the other, with a heavy hammer, drove it deeply, firmly, into the earth, until only some two inches of it were visible. At this end, fastened to a bolted band, fitted into a groove at the termination of the stake was a metal ring. The man who had held the stake then took a snap collar, with chain and snap lock, about a yard in length, and secured the girl, on her knees, by the neck, to the stake.

“Free me!” demanded the girl, Zina.

“Free her,” said Hassan.

One of his men took the binding fiber from her wrists.

“Pay me!” she demanded.

At a gesture from Hassan, one of the men, from a small coffer to one side, drew forth a golden tarn disk, and gave it to the girl. She clenched it in her hand.

“Give me clothing,” she said.

“No,” said Hassan.

She looked at him, frightened.

“You have been paid,” he said. “Go.”

She looked about herself, fearfully. She looked at the tarn disk.

“Give me water,” she said.

“NO,” he said.

“I will buy it,” she said, frightened.

“I do not sell water,” he said. “Go.”

“No!” she wept.

“Go.” he said.

“I will die in the desert,” she cried. The golden tarn disk glinted in her hand.

“I betrayed the caravan to you!” she cried.

“You have been paid,” he said.

She looked from man to man, into the eyes of each. Her lip trembled. “No,” she whispered. “No!”

She looked at Alyena, who knelt beside the tea, looking down at the mats, not daring to raise her eyes. Alyena’s shoulders shook. Her breasts, pendant, were sweet, loose, inside the rep-cloth blouse. The naked girl knelt beside her, frantic, timid, and reached out to touch her shoulder.

“Plead for me,” begged Zina.

“I am only a slave,” wept Alyena.

“Plead for me!” begged Zina.

Alyena, anguished, tears in her eyes, looked at Hassan, her Master. “I plead for her, Master!” she cried.

“Leave the tent or be lashed, Slave,” said Hassan.

Alyena leapt to her feet, weeping, and fled from the tent.

The girl then, again, now half crouching, looked about at the men, from face to face. She looked into the eyes of each. Their eyes were merciless.

She leapt to her feet. “No, Hassan! No!” she cried, the golden tarn disk clutched in her small palm.

“Leave the camp,” he said.

“I will die in the desert,” she whispered.

“Leave the camp,” he said.

“Keep me as a slave girl!” she cried.

“Are you not a free woman?” he asked.

“Please, Hassan,” she wept, “keep me as a slave girl”

“But you are free,” he said.

“No!” she cried. “In my heart I have always been a true slave girl. I only pretended to be free. Whip me for it! Though I was fortunate enough never to be collared or branded, or mastered, I am a natural slave! Though I have lived as a free woman since birth, I concealed the fact that I was a true slave!”

“And when did you learn this fact?” asked Hassan.

“When my body changed,” she said, looking down. The men laughed.

I looked upon her. Her contours were lovely. It was not unlikely she would please a master.

She stood before Hassan, relaxed, soft, though frightened, her right foot at a right angle with her left, turning her hip out, opening her beauty to him, as a slave girl. “I confess to you, Hassan,” she said, “what I have never confessed to any other man-that I am a slave girl.”

“Legally.” said he, “clearly you are free.

“More real than the law is the heart,” said the girl, quoting a proverb of the Tahari.

“It is true,” said Hassan.

“Keep me,” she said.

“I do not want you,” he said.

“No!” she cried.

“I do not want you,” he said. Then he said, “Conduct this free woman from the camp.”

One of the men seized her by the arm.

“Let me sell myself!” she wept.

As a free woman she could do this, but, of course, she could not revoke the transaction for, after its completion, she would be only a slave.

“I will sell myself into slavery,” she said.

Hassan indicated to his man that he should release the girl. He did so.

“Do you understand what you are saying?” asked Hassan.

“Yes,” she said.

“Kneel,” he said.

She knelt before him.

“What have you to offer?” he asked.

She held out the golden tarn disk.

He looked at it, held in her small palm, proffered to him, piteously.

“Please, Hassan,” she said.

“I see that you are a true slave, Zina,” he said.

“Yes, Hassan,” she said. “I am a true slave.”

“It is far more than you are worth,” he said.

“Take it,” she begged.

He looked at her.

“Please take it!” she begged.

He smiled.

She took a deep breath; she closed her eyes. Then she opened her eyes. “I sell myself into slavery,” she said.

His hand, open, was poised over the coin. Her eyes looked into his. His hand closed upon the coin; the transaction was completed.

“Chain this slave,” he said.

Roughly the girl, whose name had been Zina, but who was now as nameless as a newborn she-kaiila, was taken from the tent and thrown on her belly in the gravel by the slave stake. The collar, from behind, was put about her throat and locked; her head was jerked sideways as, by the collar chain, in the fist of one of Hassan’s men, she was secured by the snap lock at the chain’s fret end, to the stake ring. Her ankles were chained, snapped into the ankle rings; her right wrist was then locked in a slave bracelet; Hassan’s man, reaching under her right leg, by the dangling bracelet, rudely jerked her right hand and wrist under her right leg: he then locked her left wrist in the bracelet, confining her hands behind and below her right leg. She lay on her side in the gravel, miserable. When free women and slave girls are chained together, it is common to respect the distinction between them by chaining them somewhat differently; in this case the free girl’s hands were braceleted before her body, the slave’s were fastened below her right leg; it is common for the slave to be placed under greater restraint, and more discomfort, than her free sister; this acknowledges the greater nobility of the free woman, and is a courtesy often extended to her, until she, too, is only a slave; “Give the free girl a switch,” said Hassan; it was done; the free girl wielded the switch with two hands; the slave, as she was chained, could not defend herself.

Hassan slipped the golden tarn disk into his wallet. “Alyena!” he called.

The girl came running to him, and knelt before him. “Yes, Master,” she said.

“Give us more tea,” said Hassan.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Are you not afraid the free girl will kill her?” I asked Hassan. I referred to the switching in progress of the recently imbonded wench at the slave stake.

She who had been Zina was now shrieking for mercy. She was not receiving it.

“No,” said Hassan.

“Slave! Slave! Slave!” screamed the free girl, lashing down at the imbonded traitress.

But, after a time, he signaled to one of his men, and he, standing behind the free girl, who was on her knees, caught the switch on the backswing and, to her fury, took it from her. “It is enough,” he said to the free wench. She sat angrily in the gravel, her head down, her neck chained to the stake.

“Please, Mistress. Please, Mistress,” wept the slave, moaning.

“Alyena,” said Hassan.

“Yes, Master.” she said.

“Gather brush and dung,” he said. “Make a fire. Heat well an iron.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Tonight.” he said, “we brand a slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

I had little doubt that it would be the Tahari brand which, white hot, would be pressed into the thigh of the new slave, marking her thenceforth as merchandise.

The contact surface of the iron would be formed into the Taharic character ‘Kef’, which, in Taharic, is the initial letter of the expression ‘Kajira’, the most common expression in Gorean for a female slave.

Taharic is a very graceful script. It makes no distinction between capital and small letters, and little distinction between printed and cursive script. Anyone who can printed Taharic will have no difficulty in following cursive Taharic.

The men of the Tahari are content to form their letters carefully and beautifully, being fond of them. To scribble Taharic is generally regarded not as proving oneself an efficient fellow, but something of a boor, insensible to beauty. The initial printed letter of ‘Kajira’, rather than the cursive letter, as generally, is used as the common brand for women in the Tahari. Both the cursive letter in common Gorean and the printed letter in Taharic are rather lovely, both being somewhat floral in appearance.

“Give the free girl water,” said Hassan. It was done. “The slave will wait until she is branded before she drinks”, said Hassan.

“Yes, Hassan,” said one of the men.

“Water her after the kaiila,” said Hassan to Alyena.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You have lost some money on these women, haven’t you,” I asked, “if you brand her before bringing her to the market.”

Hassan shrugged.

Many men like to think they are buying a fresh girl, one who was free. Many men enjoy breaking a girl to slavery. Furthermore, slavers tend to pay more highly for free women than slave girls. Slave girls, less guarded, less protected, are more easily acquired. Slave girls, too, are less likely to be the objects of determined rescue attempts. No one cares too much what happens to a slave girl.

So they wear the collar of one man or another, in one city or another. What does it matter? They are only slave. Sometimes it seemed to me that, at least in the north, a tacit agreement existed among the isolated cities. Beautiful slave girls, barefoot, bangled, in scandalously brief slave livery, well displaying their considerable charms, collared, hair free, blowing in the wind, vital, walking exhileratedly, were common on the high bridges of the city, extending between the numerous cylinder towers, whereas free women, sedate, dignified, restricted, in their confining robes of concealment, were discouraged from the use of such bridges. Each city’s young tarnsmen, then, in testing their mettle, were offered convenient, well-displayed, delicious, female acquisition-targets.

Who would care to risk his life for a free woman, who, stripped, might prove disappointing, when, for less risk, he could get his capture loop on a known quantity, a girl who has quite probably been trained like an animal to deliciously satisfy the passions of a man, a girl who, responsive, helpless under his touch, his hands and mouth igniting her slave reflexes, will beg and strive to be a loving and, obedient joy to him. These arrangements, I suspected, had to do with the attempt of cities to protect their free women who, in numbers, seldom fall to the enemy, unless the city itself should fall, and then, of course, they would find themselves, like slaves, under the victory torches, their clothing removed, completely, strapped On the pleasure racks of the conquerors, thereafter, in the morning following the victory feast, to be chained and branded. Men respected free women; they desired, fought for, sought and relished their female slaves.

“As a free woman,” smiled Hassan, “she would have brought me nothing.” He referred to the one who had been Zina. “As a free woman,” said he. “I would have put her out into the desert. As a slave girl I will make a little on her.” He grinned. “And, of course,” he said, “her brand will be fresh.”

“That is true.” I acknowledged.

“Besides,” he said, “it will give me great pleasure to brand her.”

I smiled.

“In her slavery,” said he, laughing, “let her remember who it was who put the brand on her.”

“Hassan, the bandit,” I said.

“He,” acknowledged the desert raider. “Now let us have more tea.”