Witness of Gor

19

There were some folk still crossing the bridge, though fewer now that the tarns had alighted. Some slave girls, too, scurried across the bridge, doubtless eager to see the return raiders, the mighty mounts, the harvested riches of the venture’s predations. I joined them. Slave girls often have the run of the city. On the other hand, male slaves seldom do, for obvious reasons. An exception is the male silk slave, usually the male pleasure slave of a rich woman, but sometimes one belonging to a female entrepreneur, in whose brothel, one specializing in the tastes of women, he serves. Some men are brought from Earth here for such purposes I have heard, but I do not know if it is true. There were certainly no males in my group. We were all women. Had there been males in our group I think they would have soon been spoiled for such an application. Seeing women like us, in the power of men, they would doubtless have soon assumed the whip and become masters.

More than a hundred and fifty tarns had landed in the docking area. Guards held the crowds back. Loot was being unloaded. There was music in the docking area, adding to the celebration. In the city, to my right, the bars, which normally signify times and alarms, were sounding in jubilation.

“See! See!” cried men in the crowd.

Vessels of gold were lifted by raiders, displaying them to the crowd.

Children squirmed in and out among the people.

Many were the colorful robes.

Boxes were being lifted down to waiting hands.

Some of the might saddle birds, like gigantic, crested hawks, they are called “tarns,” moved about uneasily. Sometimes wings would snap and the air would rush about. Once or twice one or another of these mighty creatures put back its head and screamed to the clouds. The music continued. The bars continued to sound, rejoicing.

I saw some of the captives, stripped women, hooded, being led forth, in their chains, from cage baskets, slung to the harnesses of the mighty birds. The women moved uncertainly, unsteadily. Doubtless they were bewildered, confused. Incidentally, even free men, brought to this city on diplomatic missions, on commercial ventures, and such, are brought here hooded. The location of the city is supposedly a secret, known only to its citizens. Only they can come and go unhooded. Naturally, too, there are numerous out posts of the city in the mountains, at which tarnsmen are always on the alert. It is the mission of these men to keep the secret of the city. Such outposts constitute the nodes of an extensive system of reconnaissance and surveillance. From them frequent, randomized patrols are mounted. From them companies of tarn cavalry may be launched to intercept and destroy intruders. Unauthorized strangers risk their lives by even approaching such places. Cleared entrants, usually cleared in their own cities, flying under appropriate passage banners, report to them, for hooding and transport. Few, incidentally, except in the armed parties, traverse the mountains on foot. It is difficult and dangerous to do so. They are not only rugged and precipitous, but are apparently alive with animals, such as rock panthers and sleen. It is said that none may pass unauthorized the lines of interdiction, and that, of those who do, none are to return.

I was jostled in the crowd, but none, it seemed, took note of me. Free and slave were there in zest commingled.

“Stay back! Stay back!” called a guard.

One raider, still mounted on the tarn, reached into a saddle sack and hurled a handful of jewels high over the crowd. They rained down. People reached and scrambled for them, laughing. It would not do, of course, for salves to see such stones. They are not for us. We would not wish our hands cut off. In many cities we are not permitted to touch money. In many it is a capital offense for us to touch a weapon.

It is hard for me to see in the crowd, for the robes and hoods.

“Oh!” I said, pinched by someone.

I heard a course male laugh.

One does not complain, of course, as one is slave. Such small attentions, a pinch, a touch, a stolen kiss, pressed perhaps to the side of one’s neck, as one is briefly held, helplessly, must be expected. Indeed, in their way, they are flatteries. The slave who does not elicit such attentions, who is not deemed of sufficient interest to warrant them, may suspect that she will soon be placed by her master upon the block.

I squirmed to a new place in the crowd.

The crowd surged about me.

I could see very little, for the men and, indeed, most of the boys, were much taller than I. The women were muchly of my own size, but even there, the ornateness of the robes, the height of the hoods, sometimes made it difficult to see. I was irritated with them, the free women. They were so ornately, so complexly robed, whereas I had only my slave frock, that scandalously brief, muchly revealing, single piece of cloth, and my collar. But I did not think they were so different from me, really, they, such proud things, so gorgeously bedecked, so smug under those layers of cloth. Beneath the protective, shielding casings of those stiff brocades were there not terrains and latitudes which, shorn of their armor, would prove as vulnerable and soft as mine?

I was momentarily blinded by a flash of light, the sun reflected from a huge silver plate, perhaps a yard in width, held over his head by a mounted raider. The flash was not unlike that from mirrors used as signal devices in the mountains. I had seen such flashes occasionally from the balustrade, presumably the routine signals of guards. Smoke signals, too, are apparently sometimes used, but I had not seen them from the balustrade. At night, beacon fires, which may be shielded and then unshielded, in codes,may be used. The flash of the mirrors, the sight of the smoke signal, the glimpse of a fire, such things, it might be recollected, convey their message at the speed of light, far faster than a tarn can fly, incomparably more swift, even, than the flighted sound of a distant bar.

There were exclamations of astonishment from the crowd. Such a plate might have come from a palace.

Raiders such as these are often gone several days, sometimes even for a season. They have concealed loot camps, many times actually within enemy territory. Then, sooner or later, after they have conducted their raids, they gather together their booty and return home. To be sure, much of the booty may have been disposed of earlier, in other places, but one suspects, the vanity of the men of this world being such, that enough will be retained for a goodly showing on the docks. And, of course, in any event, the saddlebags bulge with gold obtained from the earlier dispositions of loot. One form of booty, on the other hand, does tend to be brought to the city, and that is female booty. This city serves as a clearinghouse for a great deal of such merchandise. In it there are many markets in which such goods are disposed of, on both a wholesale and retail basis.

Some men, somewhere, began singing.

Men from the city were near the front of the line of tarns, conferring there with one who may have been the expedition’s leader, and certain others. Such expeditions are seldom purely acquisitive in nature. They may also gather information of political or strategic interest. Even tiny bits of information can be significant, and a number of bits of information, each seemingly insignificant and unrelated to others, sometimes, properly organized and understood, like a suddenly assembled jigsaw puzzle, may yield a picture which is not only clear but meaningful. But now, I supposed, they were engaged in only general inquires. Indeed, they might be doing little more now than congratulating the leader, and his officers, on their successful return. Full reports could be later rendered.

I saw a fellow standing in the stirrups and swinging a huge double strand of pearls about his head, again and again, and then he flung it out, far over the crowd. It was seized by a dozen hands. It burst. It showered about.

I supposed some of this casting of loot to the crowd was no more than the overflow of good spirits, a manner of celebration, of contributing to the general jubilation. But, too, I suspect, that of some, at least, it represented a release of tension, and constituted a form of relief. It might have been, too, something of an offering of thanks, so to speak, to the fates, or the gods, or the Priest-Kings, whoever they may be, for a safe return. More than one of these fellows had knelt down and kissed the tiles of the docking area, stones of his native city. It is not always the case, you see, that everyone returns from such expeditions. Indeed, sometimes the expedition, itself, does not return.

Captives were now being knelt in lines, perpendicular to the long docking area, facing the warehouses.

They were still hooded.

They were being chained together, by the neck, beginning, of course, at the back of the lines. That is customary. It was in such a way that, I, in the corridor of the pens, had first been added to a neck chain. This produces apprehension in a girl, and she is not permitted to turn her head. Then the collar is on her. But, too, she is less likely to bolt. Some other chains, too, were being rearranged. The hands of those who had been front-shackled were now being back-shackled, shackled behind their backs. No longer, as they now were, would they be able to use their hands to feed themselves. Too, back-shackling better impresses her helplessness on a captive. There were several such lines of captives. In each line there were fifteen to twenty captives. As each ling was completed, the captives, now beads on the “slaver’s necklace,” would be unhooded.

“Beautiful!” called a man. Perhaps he saw one which he intended to bid.

Captives trembled in their chains.

Interestingly they were all free women. At that time I did not realize how unusual that was, not knowing at that time that “slave strikes” are almost always directed against slaves. This was the result, as it turned out, I would later learn, of a special situation. It was a response to a presumed insult on the part of an administrator of a distant city, something to the effect that those of this city, whose name I did not yet know, were at best cowards and petty thieves, capable of no more than making off with an occasional slave. Accordingly that city, smug in its supposed security, had been saved for last, for the final strike of the expedition. The result of the administrator’s indiscreet remark was that now more than four hundred of that city’s free women, almost all of high caste as it turned out, were now on their knees, shackled, on the docking area. A considerable amount of plunder, presumably for good measure, had been acquired, as well. If slaves had been taken, they had been disposed of elsewhere. That is not hard to do, as there is always a market for them. Too, what room would there have been for slaves? The numerous baskets, the arrayed booty rings, the varieties of saddle straps, and such, were already “taken,” so to speak-by free women. I doubted that the administrator of the offending town would again be so bold, so unguarded, in his remarks on those of this city. Too, the nature of the strike had been intended as an insult, saying, so to speak, “You must understand that your women are ours, whether slave or free, if we deign to take them. We usually take your slaves for they are far better than your free women, but, this time, we will make an exception. We will take, you see, what women of yours we please. You cannot stop us.”

Involved, it seems was a matter of umbrage, one of offended pride, indeed, a matter construed somehow, correctly or incorrectly, as one of honor.

When I became clear on these things later I understood, to my uneasiness, how ruthless and powerful, and bold and skilled, how proud and dangerous, how particular, how touchy, how sensitive, how easily angered, how difficult to satisfy, the men of this city were.

Surely in this city a girl would have to be very careful in her collar.

These men were dangerous, and mighty.

They would not be easy masters.

They would know how to get the most from a trembling, fearful slave.

But to what other sort of man would a girl wish to belong?

Most of the women, I supposed, were soon destined for the block. Perhaps some would be held out for special purposes, gifts, and such. Perhaps some would be retained by the raiders themselves, who might enjoy training them, teaching them their duties, acquainting them with the nature of their new life.

“Excellent!” called out various men.

The catch was good, I gathered.

Even I had to admit that several of the women were quite beautiful. They would doubtless make superb slaves.

The slave, of course, already knows how to please. The free woman must learn.

Some men enjoy teaching them.

To be sure, not every woman was on a chain. Some knelt, even front-shackled, in sirik, head down, near the very talons of the great birds. These were mainly those who had been tied to booty rings or bound across the leather itself. Most were now unhooded.

Some slaves of the raiders had been permitted across the lings and now swam with rapture in the arms of their masters.

I saw one fellow displaying a catch to a slave. “What do you think of her!” he asked. It was a slim captive. She was a brunette. She was in sirik. Her wrists, front-shackled, as is common in sirik, were pulled high over her head. “Pretty,” admitted the raider’s slave. He then put his left hand on the side of the captive’s waist and, with her wrists enfolded in his grasp, bent her backwards, to exhibit the bow of her delights. She was exquisite. Her hair hung back and down. “Yes, very pretty,” granted his slave, I thought apprehensively, reluctantly. And, indeed, who could blame her? “Shall we keep her?” asked the raider. “No, no,” cried the slave. “Sell her. Sell her!”

I went to my hands and knees and crawled forward in the crowd, that I might the better see. If I knelt in the front, as were may other girls, I should be able to see quite well. It was only a matter of getting there. If one crawls, one is scarcely noticed. On the other hand, it is certainly not advisable to push past free persons. I was in a state collar with my name on it. I was quite vulnerable.

“Oh!” I said, in pain, suffering the petulant blow of a free woman’s slipper.

But then I had come to the guards’ line. A free man even moved a little to the side, that I might pass him.

“Thank you, Master!” I said, gratefully.

Some chests were being brought forward though the crowd, from the warehouses. Loot was being recorded, and entered into them. They were then locked, and the lids sealed with wax. Signet rings, cylinder seals, and such, impressed their marks into the warm wax.

I was on all fours, at the front edge of the crowd.

“Stand,” suggested the free man. “You will be able to see better.”

“Thank you, Master,” I said rising to my feet. He placed be before him. He could see easily over my head.

Still, bars in the city sounded.

Reunions, I saw, took place.

Here and there I heard vendors hawking goods. One had pastries, another sweets. Another fellow, somewhere, was selling apricots.

One of the captives in one of the nearby lines suddenly screamed, and struggled, in her chains, to her feet. As she was on a common chain, neck coffled on it, her action dragged on the neck chains of the girl behind her and before her, half pulling one behind her to her feet, jerking back, twisting, causing to cry out with pain, the one before her. Swiftly the lash fell, once, twice, sharply on her, and she was again on her knees, her head down, sobbing, cowering, making herself as small as possible, fearing only that she might again subjected to the lash’s kiss.

“They learn quickly,” said the man behind me.

“Yes, Master,” I averred. It was true. We learn quickly. It does not take us long to understand that we are slaves, fully, and helplessly, and that is all there is to it.

One of the tarns suddenly snapped its wings and a great rush of air blasted toward us. My hair blew back and the tunic was whipped back on my body. The garments and robes of the free persons, too, were swept back. Women cried out and held their veils. Some put down their heads, clinging to the collar of their robes and their hoods. Dust and tiny particles pelted us. There was laughter in the crowd, so unexpected was the rush of air.

“Watch out,” called a fellow. This time I closed my eyes, and turned away. The blast thrust me against the man behind me. He enfolded me in his arms, sheltering me, and I put my head against his shoulder. Again came the rush of air. My tunic was hipped about my body. Then it was done, the blast. I then, lifting my head a little, my right cheek near his shoulder, pressed back a bit, self-consciously, against his arms. He released me. I could not, of course, have procured my own liberty. The men of this world are much stronger than we. “Forgive me, Master,” I said, head down, and quickly turned about again. I had not, of course, met his eyes. One is slave.

“Listen,” said a fellow.

“Yes,” said another.

At almost the same time I heard small bells. In a moment, too, I detected the odor of incense.

“They are here for their coins,” said a fellow.

“I think you had best kneel,” the fellow behind me said, kindly.

I knelt.

“I hate such parasites,” whispered a man.

“Hush,” said another, frightened. “They are the intermediaries between ourselves and the Priest-Kings.”

“So they say,” said another, under his breath.

Looking down the line I noted that a quiet had come over the crowd, and even over the victorious raiders. Not only had the slave girls knelt, but I noted, to, that the kneeling captives had now lowered their heads.

The ringing of the small bells could be heard quite clearly now. Once again I smelled the incense.

The crowd parted to my left and I saw, making its way through the crowd, some sort of standard, a golden staff surmounted by a golden circle. The circle I would later learn was the sign of the Priest-Kings, the symbol of eternity, that without beginning or end. Emerging through the crowd first were two boys, one ringing the bells and the other shaking a censer, wafting fumes of the incense about. Behind these two came another boy, he bearing the standard of the golden circle. Behind him came a gaunt, hideous man. His features frightened me. I did not doubt but what he was insane. Behind him in double file, side by side, came some twenty other men. Each carried, before him, a golden bowl. They made me uneasy. Something in their appearance seemed to me unhealthy. They seemed pathological. Some looked simple. Others appeared to be of unsound mind. Some mumbled to themselves, prayers perhaps. They certainly did not look much like the normal men of this world. They were too pale. Were they strangers to the sun and fresh air? They moved poorly. Did they never leap and run, and wrestle? Were they ashamed of having bodies, or of being alive? Had they somehow sought refuge in pathetic lies? Did they think that absurdities conferred dignity upon them? Such, I thought, might not function well in this demanding, hardy world. But then they had perhaps found a way of surviving. Perhaps they, who might otherwise have been dismissed as pathetic misfits, as simple failures in nature, had managed to construct a social niche for themselves, perhaps by inventing and providing a service. They seemed so smug, so furtive, so sly, so sanctimonious, so hypocritical! How serious they were. Did they fear that the world might suddenly find them out and burst into laughter? All these men had shaved heads. All wore robes of glistening white. These were, I gathered, “Initiates,” supposedly the highest of the high castes.

How odd, I thought, that it should supposedly be they who had the ear of the mighty and mysterious Priest-Kings. If there were Priest-Kings, I wondered if they knew about the caste of Initiates. Perhaps they would regard them as a joke. Why would the Priest-Kings, I wondered, if they really required intermediaries, and were unable to deal directly with men, and, indeed, if there was any point in them dealing with men at all, have chosen to achieve this end with so eccentric and improbably a caste? Why would they not have chosen some other caste, say, the Metal Workers or the Leather Workers, as intermediaries? Those casts, at least, seemed to be populated with men. The leather workers were excellent at piercing our ears, for example, the metal workers at fitting shackles to fair limbs.

Kneeling, partly bent over, I watched this procession wend its slow, solemn way, bells ringing, incense smoking, in front of the crowd. It went to the end of the docking area and then turned about, and made its way back, before the crowd, but between the tarns and raiders on one side and the captives, on the other. The captives, in their chains and shackles, kept their heads down. I noted, spying on their progress, that the members of the procession were fastidiously careful, even scrupulously careful, to avoid any contact with the captives, even so much as the casual brushing of a bared foot, a shackled ankle, a small shoulder, a lovely thigh, with the hem of a robe. Those in the crowd, too, with but few exceptions, exhibited extreme deference to these robed individuals, whom I took to be “Initiates,” both free men and women assuming attitudes of deference, most standing with heads respectfully inclined. The slave girls, those near the front of the crowd, whom I could see, as the procession passed, had thrust their heads down to the stones of the docking area. Some trembled. I gathered that a slave’s failure to yield suitable deference to such individuals might be regarded as a peculiarly heinous omission, one perhaps jeopardizing not only the girl, who, after all, was but a mere slave, but perhaps the city itself.

The procession had now stopped, in such a way that the twenty or so men with their golden bowls, on the other side of the captives, were now in a single line, all facing the crowd. Before them, toward the center, were the three boys, novices, I supposed. He with the golden standard, that surmounted with the golden circle, was in the center. To his right was the boy with the bells. To his left was he with the censer. Before them, now, was the gaunt man, the standard of the Priest-Kings behind him.

He lifted one thin arm to the sky. A clawlike hand was revealed, the sleeve of the robe falling back to the elbow.

“Praise be to the Priest-Kings!” he called. His voice was sonorous, and wild. In it I thought there was more than a bit of madness.

“Praise be to the Priest-Kings,” murmured the crowd.

“Behold,” cried the gaunt man. “We are favored by the Priest-Kings!” He half turned to his left, and then to his right, gesturing expansively behind him, first in one of these directions, and then the other, indicating accumulations of treasure, among and before the tarns and raiders, piles of it, boxes of it, chests of it, bulging sacks of it. He then faced the crowd and lifted his hands to the left and right, indicating the captives, now having been separated from the other loot and brought forward, closer to the crowd, both those in lines, they accounting for the largest number, and those kneeling separately, all bound, many in sirik, in the general vicinity of their captors.

“We thank the Priest-Kings for the favors they have bestowed upon us!” he cried.

“Thanks be to the Priest-Kings,” said the crowd.

“We thank them for the gifts they have given us!”

“Thanks be to the Priest-Kings!” said the crowd.

“We thank them for the riches they have given us!”

“Thanks be to the Priest-Kings!” said the crowd.

“And we thank them, too, for these slaves!”

A tremor and moan went through the captives. They were, at this point, of course, free women.

“Thanks be to the Priest-Kings!” said the crowd.

We were to be given to understand, I took it, that these various matters were to be viewed as having all proceeded in accordance with the will of the mysterious Priest-Kings. But who knew? Perhaps they were not even interested in things of this sort. Too, assuming them to be interested, I wondered if they were any independent way of finding out what might be the will of the Priest-Kings, short, that is, of waiting and finding out how things, in fact, came out. It was difficult to know, you see, how such a claim, that things proceeded in accordance with the will of the Priest-Kings, might be evaluated. To be sure, perhaps a Priest-King might show up and say, “No, that is not what I wanted, at all.” But how would you know it was a Priest-King? How would it establish its identity? Perhaps it could uproot trees, or kill people, or something. But, could Priest-Kings do such things? And, if so, was it only Priest-Kings who could do them? I expected that, here and there on this world, and doubtless on others, similar ceremonies might take place. The women of city A, for example, might be led to believe that it was the will of the Priest-Kings that they become the slaves of the men of city B, and the women of city B might be led to believe that it was the will of the Priest-Kings that they become the slaves of the men of city A.

To be sure, there is nothing inconsistent in this possibility. I supposed that a woman might, in theory, believe that she, say, because she deserved it, or because it was appropriate for her, was destined to slavery by the Priest-Kings. Perhaps she would accept this in virtue of the supposed wisdom of Priest-Kings. Or, even if she thought this a mere whim, or even an arbitrary decision on their part, merely to demonstrate their power, she might reconcile herself to it, indeed, soon joyously submitting to, and accepting, what she takes to be her decreed fate. Some such belief, I supposed, might assist her in her adjustment to bondage. On the other hand, I think that any reference to the will of the Priest-Kings in these matters is both unnecessary and misleading. Incidentally, I have never personally known a slave on this world who brought the Priest-Kings into these matters. We do not want our bondage, our joy in servitude, our submission, our love, demeaned by attributing it to something alien, something other than ourselves, something outside of ourselves, such as the will of the Priest-Kings, if such should exist. It is too close to us, to intimate to us, to meaningful to us, to be cheapened in that way.

It depends not on Priest-Kings, you see, but on what we are, women.

“Our offerings have been accepted, our prayers have been heard,” he said.

Now it seemed that these Initiates or at least he who appeared to be chief amongst them was implicitly suggesting that the success of the expedition might well be attributed to their offerings, doubtless ultimately supplied by the faithful, and their prayers, uttered in the safety of their temple precincts. I looked up to see the faces of some of the raiders. Those faces, some of them so young, seemed solemn. Did they not think their own efforts had been efficacious in these matters? Who, after all, rode the mighty tarns, who did battle, who risked their lives, who, sword in hand, bestrode the corridors of burning palaces? And how must such words sound to the lovely captives? Surely they, if none others, must know who it was who gagged and bound them in their beds, and carried them off, surely they must know who caught them, and flung them down and put chains on them, who fought over them with curses, with sweat and steel, who carried them helpless though the smoke of burning houses to waiting tarns. Surely they were under no delusions as to who it was who fastened them on their backs over saddles, who thrust them naked into cage baskets.

“Let us again give thanks to the Priest-Kings!” cried the gaunt figure.

“Thanks be to the Priest-Kings,” said the crowd.

I noticed that one of the robed, shaved-headed boys, the one with the bells, was eyeing one of the captives. She was one of those in the lines. She was a small brunette. Her hands twisted a little behind her, in the shackles. She might have been a little younger than he. I did not think she was aware of his gaze.

I did not scorn the lad for noticing her. If anything, I was pleased he had. It made him seem a little more human. To be sure, I supposed that he had best watch his step. Too, she had best watch hers. Though she was now a free woman, she was a stripped captive, and would doubtless soon be a slave. If he became involved with her I had little doubt that it would not be he, but it would be she, particularly if she were a slave, who would be found at fault. In such a case I do not think any of her sisters in bondage would envy her. The seduction of such a fellow, I supposed, would count as a terrible offense, one perhaps endangering even the city itself. But perhaps he would leave the caste before it was too late, if it were not already too late, before, say, he took his final vows, or performed whatever act or acts it might be by means of which his entry into the caste might be effected. Perhaps, before he became much older, he would come to understand that there were two sexes, really, and that they are formed by nature, each in its own way, for the other. The caste of Initiates, incidentally, provides a socially acceptable refuge for men who may not wish, for one reason or another, to relate to women. It is probably a kindness for a society to provide mercies of this sort. This observation is not intended to reflect on the caste as a whole. It is my surmise, incidentally, that the great majority of Initiates, for better or for worse, abide by, and respect, the regulations of their caste.

The gaunt figure now lifted his grasping, crooked hands to the clouds. “Praise be to the Priest-Kings!” he again called.

“Praise be to the Priest-Kings,” repeated the crowd, a low murmur.

“May the blessings of the Priest-Kings be upon you,” said the gaunt figure.

“Praise be to the Priest-Kings,” said again the crowd.

The gaunt figure then turned a little to his left, to the crowd on his left, and made a wide circling gesture with his right hand. This was done in such a manner that I gathered that something of profound importance was to be understood as taking place. He then faced the crowd before him, directly, and solemnly repeated this gesture. This circular gesture, it seems, reminiscent of the circle surmounting the staff, the symbol of eternity, as the “sign of the Priest-Kings.” He was, in effect, blessing the crowd. I wondered if the Priest-Kings would be pleased to have such a fellow, and in such a manner, blessing crowds in their name. To be sure, why should they object? After all, what would it be to them?

The gaunt figure now turned to his right, toward my portion of the crowd.

“Head down, slave girl,” whispered the man behind me.

Quickly I thrust my head down to the stones. It behooves a slave girl to be careful of whose eyes she meets, and how she meets them. We must be careful of looking too boldly into the eyes of our superiors, in particular, unknown free men or women. Brazenness can be cause for discipline. We do not wish to be punished. This is not to deny, of course, the expected and appropriate meetings of eyes in thousands of contexts and times, as in attempting to read one’s fate in the eyes of the master, in examining them to learn if one is in favor or disfavor, in meeting them when commanded to do so, as when he examines us to see if we are lying, or when he wishes us to see the sternness in his eyes, that he is displeased, as in trying to read his will, that we may serve him better, as in looking up at him in rapture, squirming in his power, as in gazing into his eyes, on lonely beaches and in sheltered glades, with love. But if it can be dangerous for a slave to look too boldly into the eyes of a mere stranger, if such can invite a kick or a cuff, or even a whipping, imagine how wary one would be of meeting, and how one would fear to meet, the eyes of one such as the gaunt figure, the eyes of one seemingly unbalanced, eyes in which, it seemed, only too clearly blazed vanity, cruelty, and madness. I sensed, from the time involved, and from tiny movements, and adjustments, of those about, that the gaunt figure was now no longer facing us. He was though now, it seemed, with our part of the crowd. I lifted my head a little. He was again facing the center of the crowd.

“It is now time to demonstrate your gratitude to the Priest-Kings,” said the gaunt figure.

“Perhaps that might be done by filling up the golden bowls,” speculated a fellow, under his breath.

“Hush!” said a frightened free woman.

“The Priest-Kings love a generous giver,” said the gaunt figure.

“Certainly the High Initiate does,” said the fellow.

“Be quiet,” said the woman, terrified.

Half of the twenty or so Initiates went then to the raiders, moving amongst them, holding up the golden bowls. I saw coins, and jewels, and jewelry dropped into the bowls. The other half of the Initiates then began to move amongst the crowd. The crowd, too, or, at least, many of its members, put coins, usually single coins, or coins of smaller denomination, in the bowls. These were fetched from purses, from wallets and pouches. Most Gorean garments, other than those of artisans, do not contain pockets.

One of the Initiates was then in our vicinity. I heard coins dropped among others.

The Initiate was careful to avoid me, and, indeed, even free women. They might, however, drop a coin into the proffered bowl from a gloved hand, touching neither the bowl nor the Initiate. There was no injunction, it seemed, against accepting such donations.

The man behind me put a coin in the golden bowl.

“You will see, I trust,” said one of the fellows in the crowd, “that this coin is turned over to the Priest-Kings, and does not end up in the temple coffers.”

“I did not know the Priest-Kings needed money,” said another fellow.

“I wonder what they will buy with this,” said another.

“Be quiet!” said the free woman.

The Initiate himself made no response to these remarks. He may not even have understood them. I did note that the fellows who were engaged in this raillery did, all of them, however, place their coins in the bowl. They were, I suspected, taking no chances. What if, for example, as an outside possibility, but one they were not willing to discount, there might be some mysterious connection between the Initiates and the Priest-Kings? Why not, then, put a coin in the bowl, particularly if it were not to valuable a coin? As far as I can determine, most people on this world do, in face, believe in the existence of Priest-Kings. On the other hand, it seems, also, that they generally regard them as being very far away and not being very interested if interested at all, in the affairs of human beings. In short, they do not dispute the existence of the Priest-Kings but do not, on the whole at least, depend upon them in any practical way.

The Initiates then reformed their double line and, bells ringing and smoke wafting about, fragrant, from the censer, took their way from the docking area. To be sure, there was at least one significant difference between the procession as it had arrived and the procession as it left. The twenty or so golden bowls which had come empty to the docking area were now leaving it heavy with coin, with jewels and jewelry. Certainly, of the raiders and the Initiates, it seemed the Initiates had had the safer, easier part of things. Indeed, to obtain their share of the riches, they had not even had to leave the safety of the city. Also, it had not even taken them a great deal of time, only a few minutes, really. To be sure, parties of this size, with the bars sounding and such, were presumably rare on the loading docks. For the most part the Initiates would have to make do with what they could obtain from other sources, such as the wages of workers. While not engaged in obtaining their livelihood from more productive elements in society, Initiates, as I understand it, spend a great deal of time in selfpurification. In this, interestingly, the study of mathematics seems to be essentially involved. It is not only women, incidentally, which are forsworn by Initiates but also, interestingly, beans. I am unfamiliar with the historical origins of these matters.

“They are gone!” said a man, relievedly.

The presence of Initiates, I have noted, tends to have a somewhat depressing effect on most people. It is generally a relief when they have taken their way elsewhere. Most men of this world, it seems, would prefer that they confine themselves to the precincts of their temples. The uneasiness which many feel in the presence of the Initiates is that which, or is very similar to that which, I think, may feel in the presence of forces, explicit or implicit, which they sense are inimical to life.

The musicians in the crowd were now again striking up a tune. The hawkers were again at work, calling out the nature and virtues of their gods. I again rose to my feet.

I had come here for a specific reason, of course, not merely for the pleasure of participating in the celebration. With my purpose in mind I considered the lines of captives. I was sure that any one of several would do.

“Congratulations, lads!”a man called to the raiders.

Some, seeing him in the crowd, lifted their hand, waving to him.

“Apricots! Apricots!” called a vendor.

“Pastries!” called another “Pastries!”

“Tastas!” called another. “Tastas!”

“Here is a tasta right here,” said the fellow behind me, putting his hand in my hair, pulling my head back a little, holding me by it.

“Yes, Master,” I laughed. “I am a tasta!”

He laughed, and released my hair. I remained standing, before him.

I heard a jangle of slave bells. A girl broke through the guards and ran to kneel before one of the raiders. “I am owned by Fabius!” she said. “Consider his tavern!” Her breasts were haltered in scarlet silk. She wore a long slave strip, some six inches in width, also of scarlet silk, secured by a cord, the strip put over the cord in front, taken between her legs, drawn up snugly behind and passing over the cord in back. The free ends of the strip, lovely, before and behind, were something like two feet in length. Her brand was the common kajira mark, the same as mine. Her wrists were braceleted behind her. On both her ankles there were slave bells, and slave bells, too, on her collar. She was, I took it, a tavern slave, a paga slave.

“Perhaps!” laughed the raider.

One of the guards then good-naturedly drew the slave away by the hair and threw her stumbling, with a jangle of slave bells, back into the crowd.

“No!” called another girl, from the side, kneeling, in brief purple silk, lifting small pinioned wrists. “The golden Shackles! The Golden Shackles!”

I could smell her perfume from where I stood.

I touched my collar. It was a state collar. My work lay in the depths. These others were slaves, it seemed, of quite different sort from me. Yet we were all slaves, and all owned, in effect, by men.

“Perhaps,” called the raider.

Doubtless there were many establishments in the city, I thought, that would be only too willing to assist men such as these in the disbursement of their riches.

The treasure was now muchly assorted, muchly tallied. Already some of it was being carried to the warehouses.

I saw a tarn, now disburdened of its loot, surrendered by its rider into the care of a tarnkeeper, who would conduct it to its cot.

Water bags were visible near one of the warehouse doors.

Captives stirred in their chains.

Some of the crowd, now that bulk of the treasure had been exhibited, began to leave.

I wondered if some of the raiders might go this night alone to the temples, to place their private offering, no Initiate about. They might stand there alone and give thanks to the world, or the fates, or the Priest-Kings, that they had returned. One controls so little, if anything, of one’s own fate. The mystery exists. The Initiates, I suspect, understand it as little as anyone else. It is only, I think, that they pretend to do so. That is how they make their living, by the most demeaning and grievous of all lies.

But others, many others, I suspected, perhaps simpler men, or perhaps more intellectually insouciant or robust fellows, would conduct themselves otherwise, joyously frequenting the taverns, prowling the streets with torches, making loud the night, indulging in riotous thankfulness. They had returned, to laugh, to sing, to drink, to hold yet another slave in their arms. These would be neither the soldiers of Priest-Kings nor the foes of Priest-Kings. They would be rather fellows who had chosen to go their own way. They would respect the mystery, but would not much concern themselves with it. Enough to spill a few drops from the first cup, a libation, honoring Priest-Kings, or perhaps, in the name of Priest-Kings, for what is involved here may have many names, what might hold sway over both men and Priest-Kings, the fates, the mystery. As no more then of men such as these than that of which they might be held responsible, as of them only the sternness of their will, the loyalty of their heart, the skill and readiness of their steel. These things they might pledge and give. As for the rest, let the fates, or the mystery, or whatever it might be, be as it would.

But still others, I supposed, might return quietly to their compartments, to be greeted there by their kneeling slave, to be feasted by her and then, later, in the light of the lamp of love, to recollect, and cherish her, in the furs.

Several of the other tarns, disburdened of loot, had also, now, been conducted from the docking area.

More people had now left.

The guards had relaxed their lines. Some individuals went now to greet personally the raiders. Then, some of the raiders, together with friends, left the area.

I saw the belled slave, she in the scarlet silk, leashed by one of the raiders. It was thusly she would lead him to the tavern of Fabius. He was taking no chances on her slipping away from him when he arrived there. The girl in purple silk was between two other raiders. Her small wrists were pinioned before her. They had her on a double leash. Sometimes superb slaves are sent forth to solicit for the taverns but then, when one arrives there, they hurry away, to find more customers. These two, however, on their leashes, would not be likely to do so. These two who solicited would, it seemed, also serve and, I suspected, profoundly. The taverners might not like this, the time, indeed, perhaps the entire night, of a skilled soliciting slave being spent in service, but I did not think they would object. Men such as these, once they have a girl on their leash, are seldom crossed with impunity. I saw some of the captives watching the two girls being led away, leashed. I wondered if they realized that such a fate might, in time, be in store for them.

I saw two officers beginning to examine the lines of captives. One had a grease pencil. They were followed by a scribe with a tablet, who made joggings as they proceeded down the line. Information pertaining to captives and slaves, their dispositions, and such, is sometimes marked on their bodies. The upper surface of the left breast is often used for this. The pertinent information, displayed in this manner, so conveniently and prominently, is easily read. The left breast is use, I assume, because most men are right handed. A similar consideration may illuminate the general custom of branding on the left thigh. The brand, in such a location, is more ready to the hand of a right handed master.

Some dock workers, three of them, were picking up water bags, those which had been placed near one of the warehouse doors. It seemed they would eater the captives before they were marched to the pens. I did not doubt but what their flight had been a long and dry one. Too, it is interesting how watering a captive will improve her appearance. Probably they wanted them watered before marching them down the barred corridors. Wholesalers sometimes congregate outside such corridors, leading down into the pens, looking in though the bars, forming conjectures as to the value of the catch.

I stepped a little forward. The guards did not seem to care now.

I walked a bit down the line which would have marked the front of the crowd.

Two of the guards walked away, conversing among themselves.

“Here, slaves!” I heard a fellow call.

It was the vendor of apricots. Quickly I and some four or five others sped to him, to kneel at his feet. He was in an excellent humor. I gather his business had prospered this afternoon.

“Please, Master,” we begged. “Please!”

He pointed to his feet, and we crowded, one against the other, to lick and kiss them.

“Up!” he said.

We straightened up.

“Here is one for you,” he said, “and one for you, and one for you!”

“Thank you, Master!” we cried. Such things are precious to us.

“Shameless sluts!” cried a free woman, one of the captives, in one of the coffles. She had beautiful blond hair. She was probably vain of it. The officers and the scribe had already passed her point in the line.

I had received an apricot.

“Disgusting sluts!” cried the free captive.

“Please, Master,” I cried, “another. Another!”

he looked at us.

“Please!” we wheedled. We almost rose from our knees, so eager we were.

“Very well,” he said.

“Thank you, Master!” we cried.

And each of us received another! How generous he was! He took the last apricot for himself, gripped it between his teeth, and held the basket upside down, shaking it twice.

“Thank you, Master!” we called after him, as he left.

“He should have thrown the last one amongst you,” said the free woman. “it would have been amusing to see you fight for it. You meaningless she-sleen.”

“I wish he had,” snapped one of our number, the largest, a broad-bodied girl in a coarse rep-cloth tunic. “I would have obtained it!” I supposed she might, indeed, have won the apricot in any such contest. Indeed, even if she had not won it, she might have taken it away from whoever had won it, unless, of course, the master had prevented it. To us she was quiet fearsome, but to a man, of course, she would have been as only another female, to throw to his feet.

“Do not speak back to me!” snapped the free woman.

The brad-bodied girl went to stand near the free woman, looking down upon her. The free woman was kneeling in coffle. She was neck chained. Her wrists were shackled behind her. Her ankles, too, were shackled.

“Down on your knees!” cried the free woman.

“It is you who are on your knees,” said the broad-bodied girl. I sensed she had little affection for free women.

But why should she?

Why should any of us?

Free women were our enemies. They seldom neglected an opportunity to be cruel to us. We were so helpless. They were so imperiously grand in their freedom. We muchly feared them.

“Do not rise up, Lady!” said one of our number, kneeling to the side. “You will be lashed!”

“I, lashed?” she said, incredulously. But she did not rise up, despite the broad-bodied girl’s provocation. Perhaps she recalled what had happened to the girl in the other line, the other captive, who had done that.

“Yes, you, lashed,” said the broad-bodied girl.

“You have two pieces of fruit,” said the free woman. “Give me one!”

“No,” said the broad-bodied girl.

“No?” said the free woman, stunned.

“No,” said the broad-bodied girl, taking a goodly bite from one of the apricots.

“I command you to do so!” said the free woman.

“You are shackled, and you have a chain on your neck,” said the broad-bodied girl.

“I shall call one of the guards!” said the free woman. The power of free women, if course, rests ultimately on the might of men. In the end, though this is sometimes obscured by social arrangements, it is the men who are the masters. Were it not for men, free women would be as powerless as slave girls.

“Call them,” said the broad-bodied girl, biting again into the apricot.

“Do not call them, I beg of you, Lady,” said one of the girls, quickly. “They will beat you.”

“I am not a slave,” said the free woman.

“They will not mind accustoming you early to the whip,” said another.

“Your time of ordering people about is over,” said the broad-bodied girl.

“But you may, in some years, become a first girl in some household,” suggested one of the slaves in the vicinity.

“Do you beg water?” inquired one of the dock workers of a woman some places earlier on the coffle. “I am to be addressed as ‘sir’.”

“Yes!” she exclaimed.

“Yes’, what?” he asked.

“Yes-sir,” she said.

He looked down at her.

“Please,” she said, “please, sir. I am very thirsty. Please, sir-sir-sir-sir!”

“Put your head back and open your mouth,” he said.

She then put her head back, and he inserted the spike of the water bag between her teeth. He watered her, briefly. She wanted more. It was not given to her. I saw her tongue try to obtain each last drop, each residual moistness, from about her lips. He then went to the next woman.

“Do you beg water?” he asked. “I am to be addressed as ‘sir’.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She was then watered.

She was watered more liberally then the other woman. She had doubtless learned from the other’s experience. Her belly would be nicely rounded. A similar effect is obtained when a woman is wrist shackled and must pull the chain of the shackles back tightly against her waist. I had had to do this in the corridor of the pens, while kneeling, shortly after being ordered from the pitch-dark cell. It is “having one’s belly beneath the chain.” That is, of course, also a way in Gorean for referring to a girl’s bondage. For example, “I am pleased to note that Lady So-and-So’s belly is now beneath the chain.” “Excellent! How long has her belly been beneath the chain?” and so on.

A slaver’s practice is often to put binding fiber, or binding leather, about a girl’s waist, snugly, and tire her hands behind her back. This, of course, narrows her waist, rounds her belly, and contributes to the accentuation of the bosom. This is not really a slaver’s “trick” because it is obvious what is being done. It is, however, attractive. Needless to say, a slave is never bound so tightly or cruelly that she might be injured. It would be stupid to damage her in such a way; as it would reduce her value. This does not mean, however, that she may not be bound tightly. It is useful for a slave to occasionally know herself absolutely helpless.

It would be not only the second woman who had profited from the experience of the first woman, but the first woman, as well. Given the next opportunity to beg water, I had no doubt she would do so as a needful, suitably deferent suppliant. Nor would she forget the world ‘sir’. To be sure, that expression of respect would doubtless soon be changed for another, one even more appropriate, and, indeed, required, for what she as soon to be.

“I must leave now,” said the broad-bodied girl to the free woman.

The free woman, on her chain, in her shackles, looked up at her.

Suddenly the broad-bodied girl kicked her in the side and then, biting on the apricot, holding it to her mouth, took the free woman by the hair with both hands and jerked her head back and forth. The free woman cried out in misery, in pain.

The broad-bodied girl then took the apricot from her mouth and bit into it again.

The free woman looked wildly to the dock worker, a few women from her, for protection, for redress. But he, it seemed, had noticed nothing. Master do not much interfere in the squabbles of slaves, you see, and, for most practical purposes, it seems that this was at least the sort of category in which the free woman now found herself included. She seemed aghast, stunned. She began to shake. She seemed then small, and helpless. We often live in fear, of course, of the strongest girls amongst us. None of us would have dared to interfere, even if we had been so inclined. And the free woman had been insolent. Let her begin to learn her manners.

“Do you beg water?” asked the dock worker of a nearer woman. “I am to be addressed as ‘sir’.”

“Yes, sir,” said the woman.

She, too, had learned how to beg water.

“You,” said the free woman, to one of the girls who had spoken kindly to her.

“Mistress?” asked the girl.

“Can such things be done to me?” she asked.

“Unless the masters prevent them,” said the girl.

“I do not understand,” said the free woman.

“Try to be pleasing to the masters,” said the girl.

“Numbers,” said the free woman, “have been inscribed on my body. What do they mean?”

“They are to be read by the pen masters,” said the girl.

“What do they mean?” she asked.

“I suppose, Mistress,” said the girl, “that they suggest an initial category for you, your possible disposition, and such.”

“Category’, ‘disposition’?” she asked.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“What are they?” she asked.

“I do not know the meaning of the numbers, Mistress,” said the girl.

“You are stupid!” said the free woman.

“Yes, Mistress,” said the girl.

“Do you beg water?” asked the dock worker of a woman some four places before the free woman.

“Never, never!” she cried out.

He then went to the next woman in the line. “Do you beg water?” he asked. “I am to be addressed as ‘sir’.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

He then watered her, and proceeded on to the next woman in line.

In a moment, however, she who had refused to beg for water looked wildly over her shoulder.

“But I am thirsty!” she cried.

Some people, it seemed, learn more slowly then others. I wondered if she were less intelligent than several of the others. On the other hand, perhaps she had been testing a limit, and had now discovered where it was.

He paid her no attention.

In a moment, she cried out, “Yes, I beg water! Please, sir! I beg water, sir! I beg water, sir!”

But he continued on his way.

“Please,” she wept. “Please, sir!”

But he paid her no attention. Perhaps she might later obtain water from a trough in the pens. In any event, she would not now be watered. In this incident I suspected she had learned a valuable lesson.

Also, she was now doubtless better informed than before as to the nature of her life.

If nothing else, she had learned that she was not different from the others.

“What are you waiting here for?” asked the free woman, angrily. “Do you wish to hear me beg for water?”

“Yes, Mistress,” said one of our number, she who had just been denounced as stupid, who was kneeling to the side. “We would like to hear you beg for water.”

“Slut!” hissed the free woman.

“Yes, Mistress,” said the girl.

“Go all of you!” commanded the free woman.

“No, Mistress,” smiled the girl.

It was a small enough vengeance, I supposed, for the insults which the free woman had recently addressed to us, for example, in the matter of the apricots. It was not wholly for such a purpose, however, that I was waiting there.

The free woman pulled in frustration at the shackles which confined her hands behind her back.

The fellow with the water bag had now arrived at the free woman’s position, and we slaves, those still there, backed away a little. Those of us who were not already kneeling, and I was one, now knelt. We were in the presence of a free male. The free woman, though her primary attention was on the man with the water bag, from the corner of her eye, took note of our action, it seemed apprehensively.

“Sir!” she said.

“Have you requested permission to speak?” he asked. “No, sir,” she said.

“Then it seems you might consider doing so,” he said. She looked up at him.

“May I speak?” she begged.

I supposed that this might be the first time in her life the free woman had ever begged permission to speak.

“You may, if you wish,” he said, “speak two words.” She looked up at him, puzzled.

“Do you beg water?” he said. “I am to be addressed as ‘sir’.”

“Yes,” she said, hesitantly, adding, “-sir!”

These were, I gathered, the two words which she was to be permitted.

Two of our number laughed. It seemed she had begged well.

He had the water bag slung over his shoulder. With his left hand, it gripped in her hair, he bent her head back. He regarded her for a moment, for she was very beautiful, and she uttered a tiny whimper of protest, well aware of the display of her beauty and his causal regard thereof. Her long, lovely, blond hair fell behind her, even to her calves. He then with his right hand guided the spike of the water bag between her teeth. Gratefully, head back, she drank and sucked at the spike. It had been long, I conjectured, since she had had water. Water gushed from her mouth, some running over her chin and down the outside of her throat, even under the steel collar with the front and back chain on her neck, to course down her body. He pulled the spike away from her, still holding her head back, though I think she, tears in her eyes, would have fain have been permitted.

She whimpered again, as he had not released her hair. She closed her eyes, perhaps that her eyes not meet his. “There are numbers written on my body,” she said. “Please tell me what they mean.”

“Have you requested permission to speak?” he asked.

“No, sir,” she said.

“Perhaps you should consider doing so,” he said.

“May I speak!” she begged. “My I speak!”

“No,” he said.

He released her hair and she bent far over, sobbing, the better I assume to hide her body. But his hand in her hair straightened her up again. She was to remain kneeling upright, it seemed. He released her hair. She kept her back straight, regarded. Again her hands jerked futilely at the shackles. He then crouched down, beside her. She did not meet his eyes. There are many reasons for back-shackling, of course. The primary effects are custodial, psychological, utilitarian and aesthetic. The custodial effectiveness of the arrangement requires no comment. The psychological aspect of impressing the captive’s helplessness upon her has already been mentioned. She is, for example, in this arrangement, unable to feed herself in any normal manner or to fend away those who might wish to touch or examine her. The utilitarian aspects of this arrangement are largely accounted for by the conveniences it affords the captor, for example, in facilitating examinations, inquiries, displays, leashings, chainings, and such. The aesthetic aspects, too, are obvious, for such ties, as is the case, for example, with the hands-over-the-head ties, have a tendency to call attention to, accentuate, and enhance certain aspects of a woman’s beauty. Needless to say, these various aspects, and others, symbolic and otherwise, do not function independently of one another but tend, naturally enough, to function in such a manner that each deepens and strengthens the effects of the other. The dock worker, his examination completed, now rose to his feet, and went to the next woman in the coffle. “Do you beg water?” he said. “I am to be addressed as ‘sir’.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

As the free man continued down the line we rose to our feet.

“Girl,” said the free woman to our number.

“Yes?” asked the one addressed.

“I am sorry I called you stupid,” said the free woman.

“That is all right, girl,” said the slave.

“Girl!” said the free woman.

“Certainly,” said the slave. “Did you not see how you were looked at? You now, too, are only a “girl.”

“I am a free woman!” said the free woman.

The slave laughed. “Girl,” she said, “girl!”

“I said I was sorry,” said the free woman. “I am hungry. Let me have part of one of your apricots!”

“Do you acknowledge that you are a girl?” asked the slave.

“-Yes,” said the free woman.

“Do so,” said the slave.

“I am a-a girl,” said the free woman.

“A chained girl!” laughed another of the slaves.

“Yes, yes,” wept the free woman. “I am only a chained girl! I am only a chained girl! Now, please, please give me even a part of one of your apricots!”

“Why should we give anything so precious to one who is only a chained girl?” inquired one of the slaves.

The free woman cast her a glance of consternation.

“Command me,” said the girl who had been first addressed by the free woman.

“Give me one of your apricots,” said the free woman.

“No,” said the girl.

“Please!” said the free woman.

“Beg your own,” said the girl. She then turned away. I, and two others, then remained in the vicinity of the free woman.

“Please give me something to eat,” said the free woman to the rest of us.

“You will be fed in the pens,” said one of the girls.

“Probably some slave gruel,” said another.

The free woman looked at them wildly.

“She has very pretty hair,” said the first of the two other girls.

“I wonder if they will have it sheared,” said the other.

“Would they do that?” asked the free woman, anxiously.

“They might,” said the first girl.

“But, why?” asked the free woman, aghast. I gathered she was, indeed, fond of her hair.

“To make a wig for a free woman,” speculated one.

“But I am a free woman!” said the free woman.

“They could even certify it honestly as the hair of a free woman, and then brand you a moment later.”

“Brand me?” asked the free woman, weakly.

“Surely you do not expect not to be branded and collared?” said the second girl.

Most of the hairpieces, and wigs, and such, affected by free women are certified as being from the hair of free women. Most on the other hand, I am reasonably confident, are from the hair of slaves.

“They might also use it for catapult cordage,” said one of the girls.

The free woman shuddered.

Anything, of course, could be done with her. She was now, for all practical purposes, though her body had not yet been marked, the property of masters.

I touched my own hair, nervously. I, too, of course, could be shorn. Some masters harvest the hair of their slaves every two or three years, understanding this, I suppose, as a part of the productivity of the slave. To be sure, most Gorean masters like long hair on their slaves, and pleasure slaves are seldom shorn, except as a punishment or discipline. Some girls do have their hair cropped, for example, such as might work in the factories, the laundries, and such. Too, girls transported in slave ships are commonly shaved completely, to protect them from vermin below decks. It is not unknown for shorter-haired slaves to ascent the blocks, slaves whose hair, for one reason or another, has been cut short, but they are the exception. Also, they are usually low girls, stable slaves, field slaves, kettle-and-mat girls and such.

“Farewell, girl,” said one of the two slaves.

“Farewell, girl,” said the other.

Then they left.

I alone, of the original group, was now with the free woman.

That I had lingered would, I supposed, suggest to the free woman that I might have done so for a purpose. To be sure, this was true. But it was not for any purpose which she was likely to suppose.

The information I wished I could not well obtain from either a free person, without great risk, or, indeed, from a slave either, for they would presume that anything so obvious must either be known to me or for some reason forbidden to me. They would not wish to risk telling me what I wished to know. What if the masters should find out? Curiosity, I recalled, was supposedly not becoming in a kajira. Yet we are, I suspect, among the most inquisitive of creatures.

“You dally, slave,” said the free woman.

I shrugged.

“Perhaps you enjoy seeing free women in coffle, stripped and shackled.” She said.

“It is where they belong,” I said.

“Had I my whip,” she said, “I would make you rue that remark!”

“That would not make it less true,” I said.

She cried out with rage.

“It is no longer yours to hold the whip,” I said. “It is now in the hands of others.”

She jerked at the shackles, angrily.

“Did you used to whip slaves?” I asked.

“Yes!” she said.

“It is now you who must fear the whip,” I said.

She looked up at me.

“It is such that it may now be used upon you,” I said. “It will be interesting to see how you like it.”

She looked down. She shuddered. “I do not want to be whipped.” She said.

“Please the masters,” I said.

“They would not give me water, unless I said ‘sir’ to them,” she said, wonderingly.

“Yes,” I said. That seemed like a small enough thing to me.

“I have never before in my life addressed men in such a way,” she said.

“With respect?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I have strange feelings,” she said, “when I address men in that fashion.”

“Such feelings are natural,” I said.

“But you do not address them as ‘sir’?”

“No,” I said. “We address them as “Master”.”

“I would be terrified to do that,” she said, “how it might make me feel.”

“You will learn to do it,” I said. “And you will alos learn that it is a quite meaningful mode of address. They are the masters.”

“You are a barbarian!” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “I am a barbarian.”

“It is thusly fitting that you should be a slave!” she said.

“But not such as you?” I asked.

“No, no!” she said.

“Why?” I asked. “Are you less female than I?”

She looked at me, wildly.

“You have fought your femaleness for a long time,” I said. “But the masters will not permit your continuing to do so.”

She shook with terror.

“For the first time in your life,’ I said, “you are going to become a full woman, a true woman, the woman you were born to be.”

“No!” she protested.

“What is important here,” I said, “has nothing whatsoever to do with one’s origins. They may condition and flavor our slavery, and make us of more or less interest to one man or another, but they are, in themselves, of no great importance. What is crucial here is not whether one is a barbarian or not, or comes from this city or that, but what we have in common, whether one is a female or not. That is what is of ultimate importance in these matters, our sex, our femaleness.”

She jerked in the chains, helplessly.

She put her head down. She sobbed.

Then she looked up at me. There were tears in her eyes. “But then it would be fitting,” she whispered. “that we both be slaves.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you understand the numbers written on my body?” she asked, looking up at me.

“You want to know your category, your future brand, your likely disposition, your period of training, a possible place and time of sale, such things?” I asked.

“Yes!” she said. “Yes!”

“I did not even know they were numbers,” I said, lightly.

“You are illiterate?” she said, suddenly, angrily.

“Why have you dallied here!” she said.

“Perhaps to give you an apricot,” I said.

“Give it to me!” she said.

“No,” I said. I wanted one for myself. The other I thought I would give to the Lady Constanzia.

“So that is why you have remained here!” she said. “Not to feed me, not to help me, unknown to the others, in fear of me, or seeking my favor, but, like them, to torment me!”

“I think you are little to be feared now, free woman,” I said. “And, if I were you, I do not think I would overrate the favors you have to dispense. Even men will take from you precisely what they please, and in any amounts or modalities they wish, and at any time of the day or night. And you will strive desperately with all your beauty and intelligence to please them.”

“You want only to torment me, like the others,” she said.

“You were not really very nice to them,” I said.

“But they are nothing, only slaves, and I am a free woman!” she said.

“You, too, will soon be nothing,” I said, “only a slave.”

She looked up at me, angrily.

“And you, too, will learn to fear free women,” I said. “You will learn to fear them terribly.”

“Is this your petty vengeance on a free woman,” she asked, angrily, “you illiterate, stupid, sleek, embonded, collared little she-urt?”

“I do not think I am smaller than you,” I said.

“It is you who are stupid,” I said.

“I, you illiterate, collared she urt?”

“You were brought here hooded,” I said. “You do not even know in what city you are.”

“I am not stupid,” she said. “It is you who are stupid, if you think I do not know where I am!”

“Oh?” I said.

“It is you who are stupid, not me,” she said. “Anyone would know where he was, here is this place. Do you think I do not know in what mountains I am? Do you think I cannot tell the coloration of the Voltai, the Scarlet Mountains? Do you think I am totally unaware of the distances and times I have traveled? Do you think I cannot recognize the accents of the men who brought me here? Do you think I cannot understand the emblems and accouterments of the men of this place? Do you think the markings on the tarn saddles are in some foreign tongue? Do you think the songs of the crowd are unintelligible to me? Do you not think I can recognize the seven towers of war, the wall of Valens, the standards on the bridge behind us, the banners about, those that fly even from the warehouses themselves?”

“I do not know,” I said.

“I am in Treve!” she cried. “I am in Treve!”

I smiled.

“You tricked me!” she cried.

“Yes,” I said.

But my triumph was short-lived, for at that very moment two strong masculine hands closed on my upper arms, from behind. “Do you think it is nice to trick a free woman, tasta?” he asked. It was the voice of he who had been behind me in the crowd.

“No, Master,” I said. “Forgive me, Master!”

“her manner changes quickly,” observed the free woman.

“I wondered why you were dallying here,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said.

“What a slave she is,” said the free woman.

“What was it you wanted to know?” he asked.

“In what city I ear my collar, Master,” I said.

“So small and simple a thing?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“It seems you might have found that out in a thousand ways,” he said.

“I am illiterate, Master,” I said. “It is not so easy.”

“Why didn’t you ask me?” he asked.

“Would Master have told me?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “And then I would have beaten you, and then bound you and wired a note to your collar, testifying to your indiscretion.”

“Yes, Master,” I said, in misery.

“But it is now too late for such things,” he said, “for you have tricked a free woman and have now learned in what city you are.”

“Forgive me, Master,” I begged.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You have discomfited this free woman,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said, frightened, my eyelids pressed shut.

“You are now going to kick and squeak before this free woman,” he said.

“Master!” I moaned.

He spun me about. “Oh!” I cried, as I was lifted from my feet.

I heard the free woman gasp.

“Oh!” I cried, again.

“Excellent little tasta,” he said.

“Master?” I said. “Master?”

I heard some men laugh, doubtless passers-by.

But then, in moments, my feet off the ground, my arms and legs clutched about him, I began to gasp. Then, a little later, he lowered me to the ground, and mercifully, bundled my head in his cloak, only then permitting me to open my eyes. I could see the darkness inside the cloak, and sometimes, as I was turned toward the sun, the coloring if it, red, and light through the tiny openings in the weaving. And then, shortly thereafter, as he took me again from myself, as men can, and mastered me, I began to kick and squeak.

After a time he was through with me.

“Closer your eyes,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

He then removed his cloak from about my head.

“The free woman,” he said, “will tell you when I am gone. Only then may you open your eyes.”

“Yes, Master” I said, lying on the stones of the docking area, my body a medley of sensations, physical and psychological, of confusion, humiliation, fear, and rapture.

“When you return to your kennel tonight,” he said, “you are to tell your keeper what you have done today.”

“Please, no, Master!” I begged, my eyes pressed shut. “Yes, Master” I said, in misery.

I lay on the stones.

“He is gone,” whispered the free woman, after a time.

I opened my eyes, and rose to all fours, and looked at the free woman.

“Are you going to tell your master, or keeper?” she asked.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

There would be inordinate risks in not doing so.

“Surely you will be whipped, at least,” she said.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

“But you will tell anyway?”

“Yes, Mistress.” Surely she must understand the ease with which the matter could be brought to the attention of the authorities. The simplest, most casual, check could determine whether or not I had complied. I did not know, of course, whether or not that check would be made. But it could be made, tonight, or tomorrow, or months from now. I would not care for it to be made and have its result not in my interest. It might be the difference between a lashing and being thrown to sleen.

“How helpless you are, as a slave,” she marveled.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said. I knelt.

“What is it like to be so helpless, so vulnerable, so subjugated, so dominated?” she asked.

“Doubtless Mistress will learn,” I said, softly.

“Men are such powerful brutes,” she said. “Why will they not compromise with us, and do what we tell them?”

“It is we who are slaves who must do as we are told,” I said.

“I may be made a slave,” she said.

“Mistress may be assured of it,” I said.

“Then what was done to you could be done to me,” she said. “I would have to obey!”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

“Men could use me, me, a free woman-.”

“Once a free woman,” I said.

“-to satisfy their terrible, ferocious lusts!”

“Be pleased,” I said, “that on this world men are so free, so healthy, so strong. Here their lusts have not been reduced to tepidities.”

“I would have to serve!” she said.

“Wholly,” I said.

“I would be branded, and collared!” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“It is so different from being a free woman!”

“Ye,” I said.

“Then I would have to vulnerably answer to their lusts,” she said.

“And how else,” I asked, “could your own needs be satisfied?”

She looked at me.

“I do not refer to the tamenesses, the banalities, the lukewarmnesses,” I said. “I do not refer to the tepidities. I refer to perilous heights and formidable depths. I refer to matters of force and power, of storms and fire, of songs and blood, of shouting and crying, of laughter and tears, of realities, of victories, of cominance and submission, of owner and owned, of master and slave, of the joy and absolute and uncompromising conquest and the rapture of utter, unconditional surrender.”

“I have dreamed of such things,” she said.

“So, too,” said I, “has every woman.”

“I would have no choice,” she said.

“No,” I said. “You would be only a slave.”

“I could learn,” she said, “to lick and kiss for candy.”

“Or an apricot?” I smiled.

“Yes,” she said.

“You will learn just how precious such small things may become,” I said.

“I am sorry that I called out so cruelly to the slaves,” she said.

‘You yourself will doubtless discover, in time,” I said, “what it is to be insulted by, and abused by, and even whipped by, free women.”

“I did not understand,” she said.

“It is hard to understand, if one is not in the collar,” I said.

“Don’t go!” she said.

“I must be getting back,” I said.

“I awakened in my bed,” she said, “as I was being gagged. I could not cry out. It was a young, blond raider of Treve who captured me. I was stripped and bound, and put to his pleasure, in my own bed! Then he hooded me and carried me to the roof where his tarn was waiting. Later I served him nude in his camp, as though I might be a slave. I knelt, serving him his food. I poured his wine.”

“And how did you feel about this?” I asked.

I saw she was struggling to speak. Then she whispered, “I loved it.”

I nodded.

“But this distressed me,” she said, “that I should have such feelings!”

“Yes?” I said.

“So I was insolent-.”

“What occurred then?” I asked.

“He seized me and swathed my entire upper body with a coarse rope,” she said. “He then put me to his pleasure, briefly and brutally. He then swathed my lower body with similar rope. He then left me that way for the night! I wept and begged for his forgiveness toward morning, but it earned me only a kick and a warning to be silent. Then, the next day, he put me on the common chain. Afterwards I would cry out to him that I hated him, and then, a little later, I would beg him to keep me!”

“I understand,” I said.

“You cannot read the numbers on my body, truly, can you?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I am sorry.”

“What kind of slave do you think I will be?” she asked.

“That is easy to see,” I said.

“What?” she asked.

“You have beautiful hair,” I said. “And your body and face, too, are very beautiful.”

“Do you think they will see me as a pleasure slave?” she asked.

“Certainly,” I said.

“That is the sort of slave I wish to be,” she said.

“Have no fear,” I said. “It is in the category that you will ascent the block.”

“But I want to belong to he who captured me,” she said.

“It is not yours to say to whom you will belong,” I said.

She regarded me, in misery.

“Anything could be done to you,” I said. “You could be taken anywhere. You could be sold to anyone.”

“No!” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“I thought he liked me!” she said.

“That is quite likely,” I said, “from what you have said, that you were unpleasant, or insolent. Perhaps you showed him a side of your personality which he did not care for.”

She looked at me.

“He may not have wanted to spend the time and effort on you, to reform you,” I speculated. “There are, after all, many slaves.”

“I can change,” she said. “I want to change!”

I regarded her.

“It was not truly I who spoke,” she said. “It was not the slave.”

“I understand,” I said.

“But why would he not want me?” she asked. “Do I not have lovely hair, and I not beautiful?”

“Such things are mere externals,” I said. “They are easily come by, in any market.”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“You have a very superficial notion of what it is that men are buying in a slave.”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“And what of your personality, your character, your disposition?” I asked.

“I do not understand,” she said.

“Do you think men are idiots?” I asked. “Do you think they are satisfied with mere externals?”

“I do not know? She said.

“No,” I said. “They won whole slaves.”

“Do they not regard us as mere things, as mere objects?” she asked.

“Do you think they would be satisfied for a moment with something that looked like a woman, and moved and talked like a woman, but had no insides, had no feelings, no consciousness?”

“No,” she said.

“If they did regard women as mere objects,” I said, “it would make no difference to them whether they were dealing with such a simulacrum or a woman. But that is absurd.”

“Yes,” she said.

“I must go,” I said.

“Will I ever see him again?” she begged.

“I do not know,” I said.

“What can I do?” she asked.

“There is little you can do,” I said. “The shackles and chain are upon you.”

I rose. I could see the dock workers preparing to move out the lines of captives.

“What is it like to be a slave?” she cried.

“Much depends on the master,” I said.

“I know who I want to belong to!” she wept.

“But who will buy you?” I asked.

She put back her head in misery, the chains moving on the collar.

“Present yourself well on the block,” I said. “In that way you should bring a higher price, and thus obtain a more affluent master.”

She moaned.

I looked about on the stones, for the two apricots. I seized them up. I split one and pitted it. I slipped the pit into the hem of my tunic. I would dispose of it later in an appropriate receptacle. One does not just cast such things about in such a place, particularly if one is a slave. The men of this world tend to be particular about their cities. In them, it seems, there are Home Stones. “Here!” I said. I placed the pitted fruit on the stones before her. She looked down at it. “Take it,” I said. “It has been pitted. You need not fear the disposal of the seed. In time, you will learn to beg your own.”

She looked up at me.

“It is nothing,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I wish you well, slave girl,” I said.

“I wish you well, Mistress,” she said.

“Hurry,” I said.

I backed away. I saw her put down her head and bite at the fruit.

“Hurry,” I whispered.

I heard a whip crack, several yards away. I jerked back, wincing, frightened. It was a very frightening sound. It is particularly frightening when one understands something of what the whip can do to one.

The first line of captives was now on its feet.

I saw the free woman with whom I had entertained converse lift her head.

Again the whip cracked.

The second line of captives was now on its feet.

“Your first step will be taken with the left foot,” they were informed by a worker. “You will keep your eyes fixed forward. You will not look to the right or to the left.”

At the whip’s suggestion the third, and then the forth, and then the fifth, and then the sixth, rose to its feet.

I hurried away.

The whip cracked again, and the seventh line rose. The free woman was in that line.

“Your first step is taken with the left foot,” I heard. “You will keep your eyes fixed forward. You will not look to the right or to the left.”

I thought it would be more merciful if they hooded the women.

Again and again the whip cracked, as line after line of the captives, with a rattle of chains and shackles, rose to its feet.

I moved back by the doors of the warehouses.

Now all the lines were on their feet.

Workers with whips coursed the lines, snarling, adjusting posture, lifting chins with whips. Whips cracked, and more than one lash was laid upon a startled beauty who then strove zealously, instantaneously, to be found acceptable. In more than one case the very lash which had struck a captive was pressed to her lips that she must fervently kiss it in gratitude.

“Straighten your bodies!” “Suck in your guts!” “Put your shoulders back!” “More!” “Lift your chins!” “Higher!”

The lines were inspected.

They now stood well.

The captives must be beautiful. They must not dishonor the city in which they had the honor to be chained.

There was the barking of orders.

Again the whip cracked.

The lines then began to leave the docking area, in order, beginning with the line farthest to my right.

I picked out the free woman from the lines. She did not look back. She, like the others, kept her eyes fixed forward-absolutely. Woe betide the captive who might glance as little as an iota to the left or right.

How much more merciful, I thought, if they would just hood the women. It is hard to be blindfolded by, gagged by, or bound by, the “Master’s will,” In being “blindfolded by the Master’s will” one must keep one’s eyes closed. I had, just shortly before, been so “blindfolded.” In being “gagged by the Master’s will,” one may not speak, even to request permission to speak. In being “bound by the Master’s will,” one must keep one’s limbs in the prescribed position, as though they were actually so bound, or so metal-clasped, or chained. There are several familiar versions of this. In one the slave crosses her wrists before her body and must retain the position until freed by “the Master’s will.” In another she kneels, her head down, and clasps her hands behind her back. If she is right handed, she clasps her right wrist with her left hand. If she is left handed, she clasps her left wrist with her right hand. Another common version of this sort of “binding” is to put the slave on her belly and have her cross her wrists and her ankles. It is thus as though she were bound hand and foot. She remains this way, as in all these cases, perhaps for hours, until she is freed “by the Master’s will.” A very unpleasant application of this technique is to put a slave in the sun and spread eagle her “by the Master’s will.” One then smears her face, and body, and hair, with honey and leaves her there, her presence being soon noted by a large variety of unpleasant insects. This is, of course, a punishment. After such a bout with thousands of tiny, swarming, crawling visitors, sometimes almost obscuring her, the slave is much improved. The more merciful master, of course, literally stakes the slave out, binding her wrists and ankles widely apart, to the four stakes, before applying the honey. In either case, the girl will be much improved. Even the threat of this sort of punishment, it might be noted, is likely to be effective. And this slave a good deal of unpleasantness all around, and some honey, as well. To be sure, for the threat to be effective, the girl must understand quite clearly, and will understand quite clearly, that the threat is not an idle one. If she entertains any doubts on that score, the master will see to it that they are soon satisfied.

It was workers, not guards, I noted, who prowled the lines, whip in hand. It seemed those of this city, in these remote, isolated precincts, did not fear the theft of these curvaceous prizes. How secure they think themselves, I thought.

The lines would be marched though the city to the pens. I doubted that they would be far. I supposed the captives in their march must endure scrutiny from men, and abuse from free women. Too, children can be very cruel, running out with switches, pelting them with pebbles, and such. This is not prevented for these captives are, in a sense, women of the enemy, and, in any event, will soon become mere slaves.

I looked about the docking area, now empty.

I had never seen the face of the fellow who had stood behind me in the crowd, and who had grasped me by the arms, from behind, after I had tricked the free woman. In the crowd he had been behind me; I had feared to look upon him directly, for he was a free man; later, near the line, again behind me, he had ordered me to keep my eyes closed; then later he had bundled his cloak about my head; then I had later again beenordered to keep my eyes closed, until he had withdrawn. I reddened, looking back to where he had hoisted me upon him, and then, later, put me down to the stones, the cloak wrapped about my head. Yes, I had been well punished. I had been put to his purposes under the very eyes of the free woman. Worse, he had not chosen to be merciful with me. He had made me display myself before her as the helpless slave I could be made to be. Yes, he had made me kick and squeak before her! To what a sweet spectacle she had been treated! But did she also, I wondered, look on in awe and fear, watching me not only kick and squeak, but moan, and wriggle, and writhe, and clutch at him, a spasmodic thrall, a mastered slave, considering that, in some other time and place, it might be she herself who would find herself so responding, so gasping, so eager, so pleading, so helpless, so mastered, in the arms of a man? I had been well used. And tonight I must confess what I had done in the matter of the free woman to the pit master, how I had tricked her, how I had obtained information which my superiors, for whatever reason, had not seen fit to vouchsafe to me. I shuddered. But I had no rational alternative. The failure to confess might mean far worse punishment, perhaps even my death. I would throw myself on my belly before him, kissing his feet, a terrified, contrite slave, begging for mercy. I looked about. The fellow who had put me to his purposes, in whose arms I had been little more than a spasmodic doll, leaping to his touch, could recognize me. I could not, of course, recognize him. This gave him much the advantage over me. I might look into the eyes of many a man, I thought, and not know if he were the one or not. I might look into the eyes of many a man, I thought, wondering if he were the one in whose arms I had leaped so obediently, in whose arms I had been so had. I then quickly hurried back over the bridge to the terrace, to fetch the Lady Constanzia.

I clutched the second apricot. I would give it to the Lady Constanzia. I did not doubt but what she would be deeply appreciative. Such tidbits, such things as a fresh apricot, are rare in the depths, even in the diet of a free woman. I would feed it to her by hand, little by little, as she knelt there, back-braceleted, by the wall, chained to a slave ring. This would contribute to her disguise. Also, of course, as she was a free woman, it would please me to have her take it in this fashion.