Witness of Gor

46

I lay there, suddenly numbed and cold.

He had turned away from me.

“You know why you were sold to Treve, of course,” he said.

“No,” I said.

“Anyone with similar properties would have done,” he said, “but it was you whom they purchased.”

I lay on the stones, looking at the ceiling above me.

“They wanted one to attend upon a prisoner, one who would be utterly ignorant of the affairs of our world, one who could be depended upon to innocently and naively discharge the duties of a keeper, relieving free men of that responsibility, thus, too, enabling the contacts with the prisoner to be the better limited, particularly those of free persons, one who would be unlikely to have any relationship, either before the collar or after it, with the parties in question, one who, a slave, would be completely within the power of the authorities, one who could not, rationally, be expected to participate in any way in the affairs in question, for example, in bargaining, in tendering or accepting bribes, and such.”

He cast down the whip, into the straw. This frightened me. I would rather he had held to it.

“We have our sorces of information,” he said. “It has come to our attention that the prisoner has escaped. This was a long time ago. It seems almost certain he would seek to return to Ar. His presence in the city could significantly alter matters. Furthermore, there is some reason to believe that he may now be in the city.”

I understood almost nothing of this.

“Strangely enough,” he said, “it seems he is unaware of his own identity, the result, I take it, of some trauma or injury. Further, perhaps, in part due to the consequences of the aforesaid trauma or injury, he may no longer be easily recognizable. In short, at present, it seems he knows neither himself nor is he known by others.”

He turned to face me.

“You, of course,” he said, “could recognize him instantly, for you know him as he is now, from Treve.”

I lay on the stones, frightened, bound.

“It is he who was Prisoner 41, in corridor of nameless prisoners, in the pits of Treve. We have all this from the administration in Treve. Indeed, you are apparently one of the very few people who could recognize him, and the only one whose location we know.”

He approached me, a stop or two.

I rose to my knees, frightened. I pulled at the cords on my wrists.

“You might suggest, of course,” he said, “that your life be spared, that you might identify this fellow for us, the party of Cos, that we might then repair the oversight of Treve, by removing him from the picture, but we have considered, and rejected, that possibility. As you are a slave, and he is a free man, you cannot be trusted to identify him. You would surely suspect that you would be marking him out for death. You would then, presumably, pretend not to recognize him, even if you did. Too, you would be clever enough to know that your life might then be worthless, that either we, or those of Ar, learning of what you have done, and, in particular, as you are a slave, might deal with you summarily, and those of Ar rather unpleasantly. As a slave, too, you would know the penalties for bringing harm, either directly or indirectly, to a free person.”

I shuddered.

“I see you do,” he said.

“The danger then,” he said, “is that you might identify him for others, for those favorable to the cause of Ar. The underground in Ar, you see, the resistance to the occupation, in particular, a band of brigands, the Delka Brigade, mostly veterans of the campaign in the delta of the Vosk, must not locate him. He could be used, you see, even in his state, as a rallying point for resistance.”

I recalled the man in the garden, and his questions, which had frightened me so. I doubted that he was in league with the Cosians.

“Accordingly,” he said, “given the information at our disposal, and your putative location, I have been sent to Ar to preclude that possibility.”

Then I rose, unsteadily, to my feet. I backed away from him.

“There is no escape fro you,” he said.

I felt the wall behind me.

“It was for this purpose,” I asked, “ that you had me at your feet, begging use?”

“I have wanted you there, begging use,” he said, “ for a long time.”

“I had thought,” I said, “that when you had come here, looking for me, that you might care for me.”

“I hate you,” he said.

“Or,” I said, “that even if you hated me, that you wanted me, that you desired me, that you would have me at your feet, helplessly subject in all things to your imperious will.”

“You may scream, if you wish,” he said, “but it will not be heard. You may run about, if you wish, but it will do you no good.”

I regarded him, in misery.

‘Kneel here,” he said, pointing to a place at his feet.

Obediently, helplessly, I approached him, and cold and numb, knelt before him.

“Put your head back,” he said.

I did so.

“Farther,” he said.

I complied.

I felt his head in my hair, holding my head back, painfully. I saw the movement of his arm. Then I saw the blade, removed from his sheath, held before my face. I recalled how easily it had parted the cords on my ankles.

“Do you wish to say anything?” he asked.

“You are my master,” I said. “I love you.”

“You lie to the end,” he said.

“I do not like to my master,” I said.

I felt his hand tighten in my hair. My head was pulled back, farther. I heard the blade touch the collar, beneath it. Then I felt its edge, like a fine, hard line, at my throat. I closed my eyes.

He suddenly cried out in rage and drew the knife away.

He leaped to his feet and, in fury, fled to the other side of the room. He threw down the knife. He struck the wall with his fists.

I collapsed to the stones, scarcely believing myself alive.

“How absurd,” he cried, in anger, “to love a slave!”

“Master?” I said.

He spun about. “Yes!” he cried. “I love you, you worthless slut, you meaningless thing! I have loved you, madly, insanely, uncontrollably, recklessly, violently, from the first moment I saw you!”

“Master,” I breathed, unable to believe my ears.

“Yes!” cried he. “Call me ‘Master’! It is fitting, for you are a slave, and will never be other than that!”

“Yes, Master!” I said.

“You are no more than a branded slut, no more than meaningless, worthless collar meat!” he cried.

“Yes, Master!” I cried.

“You are unworthy to be a free woman!”

“I hope so, Master,” I said.

“What?” he cried.

“-I hope so, Master,” I whispered.

“Slave!” he sneered.

“Yes, Master,” I said. “It is true. That is what I am.”

“Disgusting!” he said.

“No!” I cried. “No!”

“Do you dare speak back to me?” he cried.

“With master’s permission!” I cried.

“You will never be a free woman!” he said.

“Nor do I wish to be a free woman!” I said. “I have been free! I know what it is like! I am content to be a slave, and wish to be a slave! I am fulfilled in bondage, in ways that you, a man, or some men, may never understand! Oh, yes, you enslave us for your gratifications and pleasures, you monsters, you beasts! But what you do not know is that we love our bonds, and our belonging, and our being owned, and being helplessly subject to the magnificence, the glories, even to the whip, of your total, uncompromised mastery of us! Do you not know we want men to be strong, and our masters? Let the twisted and hormonally deficient conceal their seekings of power under the pratings of rhetorics. Let others of us who long to love and serve, and obey, and be desired, dream of masters! — yes, masters! — our masters!”

He looked down upon me, and I realized that these things to him, a man of Gor, were not that strange.

He was not a stranger to the nature of females.

“I am a slave,” I whispered.

“It is well known to me that you are a slave-legally,” he said. “I can see your collar, the brand.”

“It is more than that,” I wept. “I am a slave inwardly, in my need, and in my love, and in my nature! It is what I am! Despise me for it, if you wish! I am a natural slave, a rightful slave, and here, on this world, in my collar, I have found myself at last! Hate me! Hold me in contempt! But I am a slave, and I love being a slave! I love it! I love it! Do not try to force me to be what you want me to be! Rather accept me for what I want to be, and am! — one who knows she belongs at the feet of men! — and desires to be at the feet of men! — their slave! — their loving slave!”

“I do not understand myself,” he said.

“Master?”

“How could I care for you?”

“It is my hope that you do, at least a little my master.”

“You are no more than an Earth slut, a barbarian!”

“Yes, Master,” I said. “Forgive me, Master!”

“The lowest of the low,” said he.

“Yes, Master,” I said, “Forgive me, Master!”

“You are not even of Gor!” he cried.

“I have been brought to Gor,” I said. “I have been collared here, and made a salve here! Surely now I am of Gor! How could I be more of Gor, than as a Gorean slave girl, hoping like other Gorean slave girls to be found pleasing by her master?”

“You have a beautiful face,” he said, “perhaps the most beautiful I have ever seen, and you have a quick wit, and a luscious feminine mind, and superb slave curves, a body that drives me man with desire, and your responses would shame those of a she-sleen in heat.”

“It seems the slavers knew their business, Master,” I smiled.

“We do,” he said, “slave.”

“Do not treat me as might a man of Earth a woman of Earth,” I begged. “Treat me rather as a man of Gor a woman whom he owns-one whom he will well master.”

He glared down at me.

“Please take me not as you would have me, but as I am.”

“You are a slave,” he said.

“And I rejoice that I am, Master.”

“Slut,” he said.

“forgive me my slavery,” I said. “I am a woman!”

“How I have fought my weakness, my loving you!” he exclaimed. “I put you from me. I avoided you. I held you in contempt. I abused you. I kept you at a distance. I treated you with coldness and cruelty! But each instant I was fighting myself, wanting to seize you, to sweep you into my arms, to crush you to me!”

The room seemed to rush about me. It grew dark for a moment. I gasped for breath. I feared I might lose consciousness.

“Yes,” he cried. “I love you!”

I fought to remain conscious. Then, again, I was fully conscious. I regarded him, he in such misery, such torment, across the room.

“I must not love you!” he cried. “I must not permit myself to do so!”

I struggled to my knees.

I was in the presence of a free man, indeed, of my master.

He looked at me, wildly.

“But I cannot help myself,” he said. “I love you!”

“You gave no sign of this, Master,” I said.

“I do not know whether I hate myself or you,” he said, “or both, I for my weakness, you for having done this to me, and for being the most exciting and desirable female in all the world!”

“Master finds me of interest?” I asked.

“To see you is to want you!” he said, in fury.

He turned about, again, and again struck the wall. “I must not love you,” he cried.

“Surely some men, Master,” I said, “love their slaves!”

“You are a mere collared barbarian!” he said.

“Yes Master,” I said.

He spun about, in fury. “And in hating you, and loving you,” he said, “I sensed the role you had to play, and the dangers which might attend upon it. I knew that those in the house, of those of Cos, might be among the very few who could recognize you again. I therefore guarded my feelings, confessing to no one the torment in my heart, occasioned by a mere branded slip of a slave. Thus it was that in recruiting one to seek you out and cut your throat it was I who came first, and naturally, to the attention of my superiors, they aware of my hatred for you, my loathing for you, but not of my lust for you, my unquenchable desire for you. Indeed, other guards declined the office, unwilling to hunt you down and cut your throat, which says much for your popularity, you rampant, exquisite, arrant little charmer.”

“I am grateful for your deception, Master,” I said. “I owe my lift to you.”

“I did not know how I would behave until the moment I had the knife at your throat,” he said, “but then I knew I could not, at least at that moment, end your life, even though you were the most unworthy of slaves.”

“At least at that moment?” I asked, uncertainly.

“You are a slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

We are subject to the masters in all things.

“I have dreamed of owning you,” he said.

“I am yours,” I said.

He retrieved the knife and replaced it in its sheath. I was pleased to see it disappear therein. He reached down and recovered the whip. He coiled it. He then came to where I knelt and put the coils under my chin, lifting it up.

“Yes,” he mused. “I think anyone would find you quite pretty.”

I did not speak.

“Those from whom I purchased you said you begged for sue, and had to be cuffed.”

“I begged for use,” I said. “It is not my belief that I had to be cuffed.”

“You should be whipped,” he said.

“As master wishes,” I said.

But he turned about, and put the whip, coiled, on the small table in the room.

Then he returned to stand before me, musingly.

“You would crawl, begging, to the feet of any man,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You would have begged use from me, even without the threat of the whip, even before you knew who I was,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

He then struck me, lashing my head to the side, with the back of his hand. I lost my balance, and fell to my side, to the stones. I lay there, a chastised slave.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said. “Recall that I am only a slave.”

“On your knees,” he said.

I struggled, again, to my knees. How could he blame me for crawling to men, for begging use? Did he not understand that I was a slave, truly! Did he have some unreasonable concept of what I should be, something in his mind, something with little, if any, relation to my realities? Could he not accept me as I was, truly, a helpless female, a slave? Other men had not been critical of this!

“I am appetitious, Master,” I said. “I am the prisoner of my needs. I am subject to the forces within me. I cannot help myself. I am what I am, nothing else. Please do not expect me to be other than I am.

He regarded me.

“It is my hope,” I said, “that you will permit me to be what I am. Please do not ask me to pretend to be other than I am.”

“How strange that I should care for you,” he said, “for that is what you are, truly, a mere slave.”

“That I am a slave,” I said, “I trust does not make me less attractive.”

“No,” he said. “It makes you a thousand times more attractive.”

I smiled, shyly.

“Why do you smile?” he asked.

“Perhaps master’s anger with me, with my needs, my appetites, and such, has less to do with his criticality of such things in a slave, for he surely realizes that they are expected, and even required in her, as it has to do with other matters.”

“Yes?” he said.

“Perhaps master is jealous, perhaps he is angry that I might be found pleasing by others.”

“Beware,” he said.

“Perhaps he is possessive,” I said, “perhaps he wants me, somehow, all to himself.”

“Be silent,” he said, angrily.

“Yes, Master,” I said, falling silent.

How attractive he was!

I spread my knees before him, scarcely aware of my action.

“There!” he said, suddenly, pointing. “See! There! That is what I mean, you little barbarian slut!”

“Forgive me, Master!” I said. “Shall I close my knees?”

“Close your knees?” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Do not dare to close your knees,” he snarled, “slave! You are before your master!”

“Yes, Master,” I said, happily. I saw that he would be strict with me, that he would truly own me, that he would get much from me.

How pleased I was to belong to him!

He was such as knew the handling of a slave.

I would be helpless in his hands.

“I own you,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said. “I am yours, totally yours!”

“Do you wish to be totally mine?” he asked.

“Yes, Master!” I said.

“Liar!” he said.

“No, Master!” I said.

“But whether you wish it or not,” he said, angrily, “it is true!”

“I know, Master!” I cried, delightedly.

“Seeing you I become enflamed,” he cried. “I cannot help myself! No longer can I resist!”

“Take me!” I wept.

“Slut, slut!” he murmured, lifting me by the arms half from my knees.

“Yes, Mater,” I begged him. “Own me! Own me!”

In his heat, his frenzy, he pressed me back to the stones, making use of the slave.

“You are my master!” I cried.

“You are my slave!” he cried.

“Yes, my master!” I wept.

He then confirmed upon me, in merciless rapture, his ownership.

I was in no doubt of it.

I had felt the first time I had seen him, the first time I had knelt before him, looking up at him, the first time I had kissed his whip, that I was somehow his, that it was to him that I belonged. And I am sure I would have felt this way even had I not been in chains, even had I not been within the institution of bondage, where such as I was subject to explicit legal ownership. But more astonishingly rewarding to me was the now-present suspicion, if not revelation, that the chemistries involved, the fitting together of parts, must have been mutual. As I had looked up and seen my master, so, too, he must have looked down and, at his feet, seen his slave.

Again I squirmed. Again I writhed, in his arms.

Again, to my joy, he showed me no mercy.

I screamed out, in the dark basement, my love for him, and again, and again, my submission.

Later he thrust me to his feet, and I lay there, in my collar, like a dog.

I was enraptured, that he permitted me to remain near him, he finished with me, I, only a slave.

“How is it that I could care for a slave?” he asked, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

I did not respond.

“I love you,” he said.

“When you tire of me,” I said, “you may sell me.”

“I will never tire of you,” he said.

I kissed at his ankles.

I whimpered.

“You are insatiable,” he said.

“I beg that my hands might be freed, that I might caress you,” I said.

“Ah,” he said, absently, “I did forget to free your hands, did I not?”

“Yes, my master,” I smiled.

“Since when does a slave require her hands to be freed, that she may caress her master?” he asked.

“True, Master,” I laughed.

I rose to my knees beside him, and put my head down, to his body.

“You learned the lessons of the pens well,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

Slaves must be superb lovers. If they are not, they may be whipped.

There are a thousand ways to please a man, eve when one is bound.

In scarcely moments, however, he had again seized me. I looked up into his eyes, those of my master.

I was then put again to his purposes.

I later lay at his side, at his thigh, docile and grateful. “I love you, I love you, my master,” I murmured.

“We shall see,” he said.

“Master?” I asked.

He rolled over, and reached to one side, drawing to him his belt, with the sheathed knife upon it.

He then extracted the knife from the sheath.

I regarded this action with apprehension. Had he now recalled, in some fearful sense, I wondered, the putative object of his venture to this city?

Had he tired of me so soon?

Surely it was not necessary to kill me. Surely he could simply give me away or sell me!

Had he dealt with me as he had, merely for his amusement, only as one might toy with a meaningless slave?

Did he hate me so?

Had he now determined to comply with the wishes of his superiors, those who had dispatched him to this city, now that he had made me squirm, and cry myself his? Had such compliance been within his intent from the beginning?

“Kneel,” he said. I faced him, frightened.

“Turn about,” he said. Apprehensively I did so.

Then I cried out with relief, as I felt the knife part the cords on my wrists. My hands came forward, weak, freed, and I was on all fours, beside him, shaken.

“What is wrong,” asked he, “slave?”

“Nothing, Master,” I sobbed, in relief.

“Ah!” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Turn about,” he said.

I was then, again, kneeling, facing him, I rubbed my wrists.

Suddenly I was startled, for, on the stones, the knife lay before me. He was lying on his back, looking up, at the ceiling. His hands were behind his head, pillowing it, his elbows to the side.

I looked down at the knife.

“You see the knife?” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Consider it,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said, puzzled.

“Do you think you could seize it, lift it, and, before I could resist, or defend myself, plunge it into my heart?”

“I have no wish to injure my master,” I said.

“Do you think you could do what I said?”

“I do not think so, Master,” I said. Surely at first movement he could turn and seize me.

“Pick it up,” he said.

“Surely I may not touch it, Master,” I said. “It is a weapon.” In many cities, it is a capital offense for a slave to touch a weapon.

“Must a command be repeated?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I said. I lifted the knife, timidly.

“Approach,” said he. “Hold it with both hands.”

I knelt over him then, the hilt of the knife gripped in two hands. That was well, otherwise I think my hand would have shaken miserably, helplessly.

“Put it to my heart,” he said.

“Please, no, Master!” I begged.

He turned his head to regard me, and I, quickly, frightened, put the knife over his heart.

“Could you now thrust downward before I could resist, or defend myself?” he asked.

I considered the position of his hands, behind his head, the quickness with which the knife might thrust down, the nature of the blade, its sharpness.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“None know you are here,” he said. “You could find your way out. You could frequent dangerous areas, where you might well be seized as a strayed slave, not to be returned to a master, but to be sold illicitly, in a black market. You might be out of the city in a week.”

“I do not even have clothing, Master,” I said.

“Surely you have seen naked slaves in the street,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said. I had seen them, at least, in Treve. I myself on the other hand, had never been put naked into the streets. It is normally done as a punishment. Normally, too, the slave is locked in the iron belt.

“You would have to be careful not to be picked up by a guardsman,” he said.

“I do not understand what master is saying,” I said.

“Surely you have lied to me,” he said, “suggesting that you might care for me.”

“No!” I said.

“The knife is in your grasp,” he said. “You need pretend no longer.”

“I love you, truly,” I said.

“You are a barbarian,” he said. “I am a Gorean.”

“You are a man,” I said, “I am a woman.”

“Barbarian,” he said.

“Do not hold my origins against me,” I said. “I am now only a Gorean slave girl, and am as eager, or more eager, to serve you as any girl of your world!”

“You could not care for me,” he said, “for I would be a stern master.”

“Be so,” I said.

“I am not the sort of male which I have heard you women of Earth prefer,” he said.

“Do not believe all you have heard, Master,” I said.

“Oh?” he said.

“Do you think we truly prefer manipulable weaklings who have surrendered their dominance?” I asked. “Do you think such can exact from us the depths of our womanhood? I cannot speak for all the women of Earth, but I can speak for one, for myself. I want a man of strength, of power, one who will relish me, and desire me, with might and passion, one who will put me in my place, and keep me there, as a woman, and will see to it, to his joy and fulfillment, and mine, that I am well mastered. I want a man so strong, so intelligent, so energetic, so powerful, so overwhelming, so uncompromising, so mighty, that I can, before him, be no more than his abject slave.”

“You are truly a slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Do the women of Earth desire true men?” he asked.

“Master?” I asked.

“In the biological sense,” he said, “as opposed to some political sense or another, whatever is current.”

“Yes, Master,” I whispered. “We cry for them, in the darkness, Master.”

“My life,” he said, absently, gazing at the ceiling, “is now worth very little.”

“Master?” I said.

“I have not complied with the orders set to me,” he said. “I have betrayed my superiors. They are not such, I assure you, as to look lightly upon such omissions. I can no longer return to Telnus. There is little, if anything, left for me now. Presumably I will be hunted down, and slain. If you were with me, you, too, would die.”

“Then I, too, would die,” I said.

“Lie no longer,” he said. “You may now kill me.”

“I do not lie,” I said. “And I would rather plunge the dagger into my own heart.”

“You may kill me,” he said.

“Never,” I said.

He closed his eyes.

“Strike,” he said.

The point of the dagger was over his heart. In an instant I might have leaned forward and, with all my weight, slight as it was, moved that thin blade deeply into his body, to the hilt, even though the heart.

“No,” I said.

He opened his eyes.

“No,” I said. “Forgive me, Master.”

“Must a command be repeated?” he asked.

“Repeat it a thousand times,” I said. “I will not do it.”

“You disobey?” he asked, puzzled.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said. “Yes, Master.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I love you,” I said.

“You are prepared to die, for having been disobedient?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

He regarded me.

It occurred to me that if he slew me, he would, in this way, fulfill his orders. What would it matter to his superiors how it was that I came to be slain?

“Strike,” he said.

“No,” I said. “Forgive me, Master.”

“There is no other way,” he said.

“But there is another way, Master,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“This!” I cried, and lifted the knife, it held in both hands, and turned it toward my own breast. I closed my eyes. I plunged the blade toward me.

But it never reached my heart for his mighty hands, moved like lightning, seized my wrists. I cried out with pain, helpless in that grip. The knife fell to the stones. “Little fool!” he cried. He pulled me to my feet by the wrists, and regarded me, fiercely, and then forced me back down, on my knees, before him.

“Hear me!” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You may not take your own life,” he said. “I forbid it.”

“Yes, Master,” I said, frightened.

He then threw me to the stones, angrily, before him. He reached down and retrieved the dagger, which he replaced in its sheath. He then threw the sheath and belt to the side. He picked up his cloak, and dropped it down, beside me.

“Keep your head down,” he said.

I dared then not lift my head.

“Why did you not kill me?” he asked.

“Because I love you,” I said.

“Even though you knew your failure to obey could cost you your own life?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Interesting,” he said.

“I would rather die than injure you,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

“I am master’s slave,” I said.

He crouched down beside me nad, with his fingers, lifted my chin, and looked deeply, inquiringly, into my eyes. Then I averted my eyes, for it was hard for me to look into the eyes of my master.

“What sort of slave are you?” he asked.

“Master, please!” I begged.

“Speak,” he said.

“I confess myself master’s love slave,” I whispered.

“My love slave?” he said.

“Yes, my master,” I said. “I know that you may not care for me. I know that you may despise me, that you may hate me. But it does not matter. I do not care. As worthless as my love my may be, that of a meaningless slave, know that it is yours, unstintingly, unreservedly, all of it. It is yours, entirely. I am your love slave.”

He lifted up the cloak, and put it about my shoulders.

I looked up at him, through tears.

“I am unworthy to be loved,” he said. “I have betrayed my honor. I have not obeyed my orders.”

“Is it well that the entire world should fall into the hands of Lurius of Jad?” I asked. “Is he not mad? Is he not a tyrant?”

“He is my ubar,” he said.

“Honor,” I said, “has many voices, and many songs.”

He looked down at me startled. “That is a saying of warriors,” he said. “It is from the codes. It is a long time since I have heard it. I had almost forgotten it. Where did you, a slave, hear it?”

“A den of thieves!” he said.

I did not respond. Who knows within what houses may be heard the voices of honor? Who knows within what walls may be heard her songs?

“I do not think we can leave the city,” he said. “We have no passes.”

“We must then remain here,” I said.

“For those of the black caste to come, to kill us?”

“It would seem so, Master,” I said.

“He who was Prisoner 41, in the Corridor of Nameless Prisoners, in the pits of Treve, may be in the city,” he said.

I recalled the peasant. That seemed unlikely. How could any man have survived in the mountains, alone, for most practical purposes unarmed. Too, what difference could it make, really, if he were in the city, a mere peasant?

“You could recognize him, if you saw him?”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“We must try to escape from the city,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“I wonder if I should keep you,” he said.

I threw off the cloak and flung myself naked to his feet. I held to his ankles. I pressed my lips to his feet. “Please keep me, Master!” I begged.

“I must guard against weakness,” he said.

I kissed his feet.

“You are dangerous,” he said. “It is the soft foes who are most dangerous.”

“I am not your foe, Master,” I said.

“I wonder,” said he, musingly.

“Do not fear me, Master,” I said.

“You cannot help what you are,” he said.

I liked and kissed at his feet.

“Still,” said he, “the problem is not at all insoluble.”

“Yes, Master,” I murmured.

“Women such as you prove to be exquisitely pleasing,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I whispered.

“Subject, of course, to the proper controls, and handling.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Do you think your life with me will be easy?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I said.

“You realize that it is likely that I will be sought, and slain, and that you, too, if you are with me, would share that fate?”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You may now leave,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“I give you one last chance,” he said, “to leave this place, to fall into the hands of another.”

“Keep me,” I begged.

He looked down at me.

“It is what you wish, truly?” he asked.

“Yes, Master!” I said.

“Very well,” he said.

“Thank you, Master!” I said.

But his eyes seemed now stern.

Suddenly I was no more than a frightened slave.

“Master?” I asked.

“You have had your opportunity to elude my clutches,” he said quietly, evenly. “You did not avail yourself of it.”

I looked up at him, frightened.

“It is now too late,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“To all fours,” said he, “and face away!”

I complied, frightened.

“Strictly,” he said, “you have not been entirely pleasing this afternoon.”

“How have I displeased my master?” I asked.

I heard the whip removed from the table.

I did not dare look back.

“You were ordered to strike me, to slay me, and you did not do so.”

I was silent.

“That was disobedience,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“And you strove to take your own life, which is not acceptable in a slave. She may not do that. She does not own herself. It is, rather, she who is owned.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“To be certain,” he said, “I am not unmindful of extenuating circumstances in both these cases, that in each case it was the welfare of your master which motivated you.”

“It was, Master!” I said. “I beg forgiveness, if I have been displeasing!”

“And what is to be done when the slave ahs not been fully pleasing?” he asked.

“It is up to the master,” I said. “He may take action or not, as he sees fit.”

I heard the coils of the whip shaken out.

I tensed.

“You will receive three blows, only,” he said.

That I thought was light, indeed. The beating was then, I realized, more symbolic than anything. It was little more than a way in which he chose to inform me that he did not expect me to be disobedient, or even displeasing, in any way, a way in which I would be appraised of the consequences which might attend such failures on my part.

The whip cracked and I cried out in alarm. But it had not touched me.

“The first blow,” he said, “will be for disobedience, the second will be for your attempt to take your own life.”

The sound of the whip’s report still terrified me.

I realized that, next it would fall upon me. The blow fell upon me, and I thought it light, not that it did not hurt, you understand.

My back stung.

Tears came to my eyes.

But it was not displeasing that I had refused to strike him. I would have refused again. The blow was little more than a formality. Still I had been whipped.

I cried out in misery, feeling the second blow.

It was not light.

He apparently was quite clear about informing me of his displeasure that I had tried to turn the dagger against myself, even if it had been only my intent to relieve him of his dilemma, to resolve, at a stoke, so to speak, the fearful predicament in which he found himself, to protect him, to save his life, by recourse to the obvious, simple expedient of sacrificing mine.

“Master!” I whimpered, in protest.

“Be silent!” he said.

Tears fell to the stones. I did not wish to feel another blow like that. Now I was truly whipped.

“Prepare for the third blow,” he said.

“Master,” I cried, “may I speak?”

“Yes,” he said.

“For what is the third blow?” I asked.

“What?” he asked.

“Why am I to be given a third blow?” I asked. “What is its purpose?”

“You are to be given a third blow,” he said. “because I chose to give you one, and because you are a slave, and that it may serve to remind you of what you are, my little charmer, that you are a slave.”

“Yes, Master,” I whispered.

I lay then on my stomach, my head to the side, tears bursting from my eyes, my fingers scratching at the stones.

I tired to understand what I felt.

I almost lost consciousness.

My back seemed unbelievably afire.

The leather had struck like lightning on my back. How it had fallen upon me! How it had lashed down!

I lay there then, a slave who had felt the lash. I sensed that the blow, in its way, had been sparing. But it had been sharp, and it was not one I was likely to soon forget.

I heard the whip replaced on the table. “We must leave soon,” he said.

I scarcely heard him.

How frightened I was, and how miserable, whipped. I realized now that no matter how much he might love me that I was still his slave, and that he would not be lenient with me. How quickly I would kneel, how quickly I would leap to serve, how desperately, how fervently, I would try to please! I loved him, but, too, I knew him now as my genuine master, one who would not hesitate an instant to correct my behavior, to subject me to discipline, if I should fail to be pleasing.

“Up, my little charmer,” he said. “We must be on our way.” I rose to my knees swiftly, and turned about, looking up at him.

He smiled, seeing that I would obey with alacrity.

He had donned his tunic.

I had not so much as a slave strip.

“They will be searching for you,” he said. “what was your name in the gardens?”

“Gail,” I said.

“They will then be searching, I wager, either for a slave named ‘Janice’, once serving in Treve, or a slave named ‘Gail’, from the gardens of Appanius. What is your name?”

“Whatever master pleases,” I said.

“A most judicious response,” he said.

My back hurt, I wondered what he would name me, or if he would concern himself to name me. I supposed he would name me. It is convenient for a girl to have a name, by which she can be commanded, and summoned, and such. If he named me, that was then who I would be.

I looked to the two cloaks, the one he had worn, the other which had been put about me after I had been removed from the slave box, and set before him, on my knees, it was his own cloak which he had earlier put about me, almost tenderly, perhaps to shelter me from the dampness of the basement. The other cloak, that which had been put about my shoulders by he who was the first of the two captors, lay to the side.

“Should I don this cloak, Master?” I asked. I did not think he would march me in the streets naked. Without wishing to sound vain, I thought, genuinely, I might attract attention. Constanzia and I had attracted attention in Treve, even in common tunics. I did not doubt but what the Lady Ilene, who was now quite likely to be a slave, would have as well.

I had referred to the cloak which lay to the side, the smaller of the two cloaks, that which was not his, that which had earlier been put about me by the first of two captors. It was a woman’s cloak.

He shook his head.

It would remain here then. Perhaps it might be recognized, if only by the captors.

I touched his own cloak. I felt it lovingly. How warm it would be. I looked up at him. I would love to have it wrapped about me, I naked within it. It would be almost as though I were within his bonds.

I lifted the cloak a little. I did not dare, of course, to put it about me. We a slave is naked before her master, she does not simply cover her body. She must receive permission to cover herself from the master, even if it is by so little as a word or a glance.

I looked up at him.

“You are well trained,” he said.

“I had excellent trainers,” I said.

“Stand,” he said. I stood instantly.

He indicated that I should turn about, and I did so. Slave bracelets were snapped about my wrists. He then turned me about, again, so, that I faced him, my wrists pinioned behind me.

He surveyed me, his slave.

“You are incredibly beautiful,” he said.

“I am pleased if master is pleased,” I said.

“We shall ascend the stairs,” he said. “We shall go forth to the world together.”

He then kissed me, and then put his cloak over me, over my head, blanketlike. The cloak, as he had thrown it over me, would come high on my thighs. It would be as though I might be a new purchase, naked from a sales barn, being fetched back to a domicile, the master’s cloak, for want of something better, cast over me.

I stood there.

I then felt the cloak being gathered about my throat, and, in a moment, I felt a collar being put about my neck, over the cloak. The collar was snapped shut. This fixed the cloak in position. It served then as, in effect, a slave hood. I then felt a leash clip snapped about what must be a collar ring.

“You are now hooded, and braceleted and leashed, my beauty,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said, happily.

“As is suitably for you, a slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said, happily.

“There is no escape for you.”

“Nor do I wish one,” I said.

“It is night outside now,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“We shall go forth together,” he said.

He then lifted me in his arms and carried me up the stairs. He stopped at the top of the landing and set me down, steadying me with one arm while he raised the trap. He then carried me upward again, through it, and closed it behind him. In a few moments, after ascending another flight of stairs, and moving though a large room, we were outdoors, on the street.

“It begins,” he said. “Are you ready, my love?”

“Yes, my love, my master,” I said.

I then, hooded with the cloak, braceleted, leashed, followed him though the streets.