Norman, John - Gor 25 - Magicians of Gor.txt

by Magicians of Gor [lit]

  “Why is it that the men do not punish them?” asked Marcus.

  “I do not know,” I said.

  “Perhaps they are afraid to,” he said.

  “I think rather it had to do with the new day in Ar, and the new

  understandings.”

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  (pg. 119) “Officially,” I said, “the music of the flute girls is supposed to

  make the work more pleasant.”

  “Who believes that?” asked Marcus.

  “Many may pretend to, or even manage to convince themselves of it,” I said.

  “What of the provocative posture?” asked Marcus. “Surely the insult of that is

  clear enough to anyone.”

  “It is supposedly a time of freedom,” I said. “Thus why should a good fellow of

  Ar object if a flute girl sits in a given fashion? Is not everyone to be

  permitted anything?”

  “No,” said Marcus, “freedom is for the free. Others are to be kept in line, and

  exactly so. Society depends on divisions and order, each element stabilized

  perfectly in it harmonious relationship with all others.”

  “You do not believe, then,” I asked, “that everyone is the same, or must be

  supposed to be such, despite all evidence to the contrary, and that society

  thrives best as a disordered struggle?”

  Marcus looked at me, startled.

  “No,” I said. “I see that you do not.”

  “Do you believe such?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Not any more.”

  We returned our attention to the wall.

  “They work cheerfully, and with a will,” said Marcus, in disgust.

  “It is said that even numbers of the High Council, as a token, have come to the

  wall, loosened a stone, and tumbled it down.”

  “Thus do they demonstrate their loyalty to the state,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “The state of Cos,” he said, angrily.

  “Many high-caste youth, on the other hand, work side by side with low-caste

  fellows, dismantling the wall.”

  “They are levied?” asked Marcus.

  “Not the higher castes,” I said.

  “They volunteer?” he asked.

  “Like many of these others,” I said.

  “Incredible,” said he.

  “Youth is idealistic,” I said.

  “Idealistic?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “They are told that this is a right and noble work, that it is a

  way of making amends, of atoning for the faults of their city, that it is in the

  interests of brotherhood, peace, and such.”

  “Exposing themselves to the blades of strangers?” he asked.

  “Perhaps Cos will protect them,” I said.

  “And who will protect them from Cos?” he asked.

  “Who needs protection from friends?” I asked.

  “They are not at Ar’s Station,” he said. “They were not in the delta.”

  “Idealism comes easier to those who have seen least of the world,” I said.

  “They are fools,” said Marcus.

  “Not all youth are fools,” I said.

  He regarded me.

  “You are rather young yourself,” I said.

  “Anyone who cannot detect the insanity of dismantling their own defenses is a

  fool,” said Marcus, “whether they are a young fool or an old one.”

  “Some are prepared to do such things as a proof of the good will, of their

  sincerity,” I said.

  “Incredible,” he said.

  “But many youth,” I said, “as others, recognize the absurdity of such things.”

  “Perhaps Gnieus Lelius was such a youth,” said Marcus.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “Perhaps he may reconsider his position, in his cage,” said Marcus.

  “He has undoubtedly already done so,” I said.

  “Much good it will do him now,” said Marcus.

  “Look,” I said, “the children.”

  We saw some children to one side, on the city side of the Wall Road. They had

  put up a small wall of stones, and they were now pushing it down.

  On the wall, in the trough of the breach, we saw four men rolling a heavy stone

  toward the field side of the wall. A flute gild was parodying, or accompanying,

  their efforts on the flute, the instrument seeming to strain with them, and

  then, when they rolled the stone down, she played a skirl of descending notes on

  the flute, and, spinning about, danced away. The men laughed.

  “I have seen enough,” said Marcus.

  There was suddenly near us, startling us, another skirl of notes on a flute, the

  common double flute. A flute girl, come apparently from the wall side of the

  Wall Road, danced tauntingly near us, to our right, and, with the flute, while

  playing, gestured toward the wall, as though encouraging us to join the others

  in their labor. I, and Marcus, I am sure, were angry. Not only had we been

  startled by the sudden, intrusive music, which the girl must have understood

  would have been the case, but (pg. 121) we resented the insinuation that we

  might be such as would of our own will join the work on the wall. Did she think

  we were of Ar, that we were the conquered, the pacified, the confused, and

  fooled, the verbally manipulate, the innocuous, the predictable, the tamed? She

  was an exciting brunet, in a short tunic of diaphanous silk. She was slender,

  and was probably kept on a carefully supervised diet by her master or trainer.

  Her dark eyes shone with amusement. She pranced before us, playing. She waved

  the flute again toward the wall.

  We regarded her.

  She again gestured, playing, toward the wall.

  I had little doubt that she assumed from our appearance in this are that we were

  of Ar.

  We did not move.

  A gesture of annoyance crossed her lovely features. She played more

  determinedly, as though we might not understand her intent.

  Still we did not move.

  Then, angrily, she spun about, dancing, to return to her former post near the

  wall side of the Wall Road. She was attractive, even insolently so, at the

  moment, in the diaphanous silk.

  “You have not been given permission to withdraw,” I said.

  She turned about, angrily, holding the flute.

  “You are armed,” she suddenly said, perhaps then for the first time really

  noting this homely face.

  “We are not of Ar,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said, standing her ground, trembling a little.

  “Are you accustomed to standing in the presence of free men?” I asked.

  “I will kneel if it will please you,” she said.

  “If you do not kneel,” I said, “it is possible that I may be displeased.”

  She regarded me.

  “Kneel!” I said.

  Swiftly she knelt.

  I walked over to her and, taking her by the hair, twisting it, she crying out,

  turned her about and threw her to her belly on the Wall Road.

>   She sobbed in anger.

  Marcus and I crouched near her.

  “Oh!” she said.

  “She is not in the iron belt,” said Marcus.

  (pg. 122) “That is a further insult to those of Ar,” I said, “that they would

  put unbelted flute girls among them.”

  “Yes,” growled Marcus.

  The tone of his voice, I am sure, did nothing to set our fair prisoner at ease.

  Flute girls, incidentally, when hired from the master, to entertain and serve at

  parties, are commonly unbelted, that for the convenience of the guests.

  “She is not unattractive,” I said.

  “Oh!” she said, as I pulled her silk muchly away, tucking it then in and about

  the slender girdle of silken cord at her waist.

  “No,” said Marcus. “She is not unattractive.”

  “What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

  “You have been an insolent slave,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “No!”

  “You have not been pleasing,” I said.

  “You do not own me!” she said. “You are not my master!”

  “The discipline of a slave,” I said, “may be attended to by any free person,

  otherwise she might do much what she wished, provided only her master did not

  learn of it.” The legal principle was clear, and had been upheld in several

  courts, in several cities, including Ar.

  I then stood.

  “Lash her,” I said to Marcus.

  “Please no, Master!” she suddenly cried.

  I was pleased to note that she, as she was a slave, had now recollected to

  address free men by the title of ‘Master’.

  Marcus used his belt for the business, slipping the knife in its sheath, and his

  pouch, from it, and handing them to me. He also gave me his over-the-shoulder

  sword belt as well, that he might not be encumbered.

  Then the disciplined slave lay trembling on her belly, her eyes wide, her cheeks

  tear-stained, her hands beside her head, the tips of her fingers on the stones.

  “I gather,” I said, “that the discipline to which you have been recently subject

  has been lax. Perhaps therefore you should be further beaten.”

  “No, Master!” she cried. “Please no, master! Forgive me, Master! Forgive me,

  Master!”

  “Are you sorry for the error of your ways?” I asked.

  “Yes, Master!” she said. “Please forgive me, Master!”

  Her contrition seemed to me authentic.

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  “Whatever Master pleases!” she sobbed.

  “Come now,” I said.

  (pg. 123) “Tafa, if it pleased maser,” she said. That is a common slave name on

  Gor.

  “Do you repent of the error of your ways?” I asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Who repents of the error of her ways?” I asked.

  “Tafa repents of the error of her ways,” she said.

  “Who is sorry, who begs forgiveness?” I asked.

  “Tafa is sorry! Tafa begs forgiveness!” she said.

  “I wonder if you should be further beaten,” I said.

  The belt, doubled, hung loosed in Marcus’ hand.

  “Please, no, Master,” begged the girl.

  I turned to Phoebe. “Are you distressed?” I asked.

  “No, Master,” said Phoebe, “certainly not. She was an errant slave. She should

  have been punished.”

  Tafa groaned.

  “Indeed,” said Phoebe, “it seems to me that she got off quite lightly. I myself

  believe she should have been whipped even more.”

  “Please no, Mistress,” begged Tafa.

  “I am not “mistress,” ” said Phoebe. “I, too, am only a slave.”

  It was natural enough, in the circumstances, for Tafa to have addressed Phoebe

  as “Mistress.” As Tafa was currently subject to us, and Phoebe was with us, this

  put Phoebe in a position of de facto priority to her. For example, in a group of

  female slaves, for example, in a pleasure gardens, a fortress or a tavern, there

  will usually be a girl appointed First Girl. Indeed, if there is a large number

  of slaves, there are sometimes hierarchies of “first girls,” lower-level first

  girls reporting to higher-level first girls, and so on. The lower-level slaves

  will commonly address their first girl as “Mistress.” Thus, in some situations,

  the same girl may be first girl to certain girls and be subordinated herself to

  another, on a higher level, whom she will address as “Mistress.” Sometimes a

  hierarchy is formed in which girls are ranked in such a manner that each must

  address the girls above her as “Mistress.” More commonly, it is only the lowest

  slave, usually the newest slave, who must do this with all the others, whereas

  the others will address only their first girl as “Mistress,” and, of course, any

  free woman whom they might, to their risk, or peril, encounter. Technically the

  lowest of free women, of the lowest caste, is immeasurably above even the

  highest of slaves, even the preferred slave of a ubar. Sometimes a ubar will

  even had his preferred slave serve in a low-caste hovel one day a year, under

  the command, and switch, of a low-caste free woman, performing her labors, and

  (pg. 124) such, that she may be reminded that she is truly, when all is said and

  done, only a slave, as much as the lowest of the kettle-and-mat-girls in the

  most wretched of hovels, crowded about the walls of a small city.

  “The decisions as to the discipline of slave will be made by the masters,” I

  reminded Phoebe.

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

  Phoebe’s zeal to see an errant slave punished, and suitably, was a quite natural

  one, of course. The girl was a slave, and had not been pleasing. Thus it was

  appropriate, even imperative, that she be punished, more broadly, order and

  structure in human life, stability in society, even, in a sense, civilization

  itself, depends upon sanctions, and to impose them reliably and efficiently. A

  lapse in such resolve and practice is a symptom of decline, even of impending

  disintegration. Ultimately civilization depends upon power, moral and physical,

  upon, so to speak, the will of masters and the reality of the whip and sword. It

  might be added, incidentally, that Phoebe, herself a slave, in moral

  consistency, fully accepted this same principle, at least intellectually, in her

  own case. She accepted, in short, as morally indisputable, the rightfulness of

  herself being punished if she should fail to be pleasing. Also, accepting this

  principle, and knowing the strength and resolve of her master, and the

  uncompromising reality of the discipline under which she herself was held, she

  was naturally disinclined to see others escape sanctions and penalties to which

  she herself was subject. Why should others be permitted lapses, faults and

  errors, particularly ones in which they took arrogant pride, for which she

  herself wou
ld promptly and predictably suffer? Accordingly, slave girls are

  often zealous to see masters immediately and mercilessly correct even small

  lapses in the behavior of their chain sisters. It pleases them. Phoebe herself,

  it might be mentioned, had very seldom been lashed, particularly since the day

  of Myron’s entrance into the city when Marcus had finally accepted her as a mere

  slave., as opposed to a Cosian woman in his collar, to be sure, enslaved, on

  whom he could vent his hatred of Cos and things Cosian. The general immunity to

  the lash which was experienced by Phoebe, of course, was a function of her

  excellence as a slave. Excellent slaves are seldom beaten, for there is little,

  if any, reason to do so. To be sure, such a girl, particularly a love slave,

  occasionally desires to feel the stroke of the lash, wanting to feel pain at the

  hands of a beloved master, wanting to be whipped by him because she loves him,

  in this way symbolizing to herself her relationship to (pg. 125) him, that of

  slave to master, her acceptance of that relationship, and her rejoicing in it.

  To be sure, she is soon likely to be merely, again, a whipped slave, begging her

  master for mercy.

  “Look!” laughed Phoebe, looking toward the prone slave.

  The slave, sobbing, had lifted her body.

  “Scandalous slave!” laughed Phoebe.

  The slave groaned.

  “Apparently you do not wish to be further beaten,” I said.

  “No, Master,” said the slave.

  “You wish to placate masters?” I asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Slave, slave!” laughed Phoebe.

  “Yes, Mistress,” whispered the slave.

  “She is such a slave,” said Phoebe.

  “She is a female,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” said Phoebe.

  I was amused by Phoebe’s attitude. Indeed, I found it delightfully ironic. Many

  was the time I had seen her so lift herself to Marcus, hoping to avert his

  wrath.

  I looked down at the slave.

  She was tense, and hardly moved.

  I handed Marcus his things, piece by piece, the sheath, with its knife, and the

  pouch, both for his belt, and the sword belt, with its scabbard and blade, to be

  slung over the left shoulder. I then crouched down beside the slave.

  “Master?” she asked.

  I pushed her down to the stones, so that her belly was flat on them.