Mercenaries of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “Not me,” I said.

  “Splendid!” he said, warmly.

  We were in the camp of the wagoners, one of those associated with the supply trains of the soldiers of Cos and the Cosian mercenaries. It was in the neighborhood of dawn and now, after their breakfasts, wagoners were readying their wagons and harnessing their tharlarion and, indeed, some had already taken to the road. There seemed no numbering to their vehicles nor camp marshals in attendance. The trains, in spite of their length and numbers, and their diverse cargoes, seemed to me most casually organized. This differed considerably from the disciplines I would have expected to attend arrangements pertaining to the transportation and protection of such stores. I could not understand the apparent reluctance on the part of Ar to exploit these weaknesses.

  “Are you ready?” inquired Mincon, our wagoner, he with whom Feiqa and I had traveled yesterday, jerking tight the harness of his tharlarion.

  “In a moment,” I said. “Hold still, Feiqa.”

  Quite near to him, as he worked, knelt Tula. She tried to put her cheek against his left thigh. He brushed her away. Properly handled, women become as subservient and affectionate as dogs. They all desire to be totally prisoners of love, and they will never be fully content until they become so.

  “Would you make me so much a slave, Master?” inquired Feiqa.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then do so,” she said.

  Tula now wore a tunic. Mincon had fashioned it for her from her former garments, those she had worn yesterday as a free woman. It was brief and sleeveless, and of white wool. She had excellent legs. Another part of her former garments he had cut into a sort of shawl which she might clutch about her when the winds blew chill. Some other bits of them he had cut up and she had fashioned them into a form of footwear, which she had tied on her small feet. The stones of the Genesian Road, in Se’Kara, would be cold. I considered again Tula’s legs. They were well bared by her new tunic, as was appropriate for a slave.

  On Gor it is commonly only slaves, incidentally, who bare their legs, and although they usually do so eagerly, proudly and beautifully, they realize that, in the final analysis, whether they wish it or not, they will generally have little, if any, choice in the matter. Such things are up to the master. One need not speculate overly long, either, on the usual decision of the master, for most Gorean masters are vital, strong, dominant males. It is thus common for the enslaved females, and it is usually implicit in the only modes of garmenture most masters will permit them, that their legs, with all the delicious excitements of their thighs, calves and ankles, will be exposed to the gaze of free persons.

  Contrariwise, almost no free woman would bare her legs. They would not dare to do so. They would be horrified even to think of it. The scandal of such an act could ruin a reputation. It is said on Gor that any woman who bares her legs is a slave. Indeed, in some cities a free woman who might be found with bared legs is taken in hand by magistrates, tried, and sentenced to bondage. After the judge’s decision has been enacted, its effect carried out upon her, reducing her to the status of goods, sometimes publicly, that she may be suitably disgraced, sometimes privately, by a contract slaver, that the sensitivities of free women in the city not be offended, she is hooded and transported, stripped and chained, freshly branded and collared, a property female, slave cargo, to a distant market where, once sold, she will begin her life anew, fearfully, as a purchased girl, tremulously as the helpless and lowly slave she now is.

  “Oh,” said Feiqa.

  “Steady,” I said to her. I wiped the needle.

  “Oh!” she said. I again wiped the needle. I then returned it to my sewing kit.

  “Do not touch the wounds,” I said.

  She looked up at me. Her eyes were moist, and she seemed slightly afraid. In her eyes there was a sort of wonder, and awe. It seemed she found it hard to understand, truly, what had been done to her, from the Gorean point of view, the enormity of it.

  “Does it hurt?” I asked.

  “No,” she said.

  I wiped the tiny drops of blood away. I then fastened the tiny objects upon her.

  “They are beautiful,” said Hurtha, admiringly.

  “They are cheap,” I said.

  “That is all right,” he said.

  I did not want free women attacking the girl in rage, and perhaps tearing the objects free.

  I turned Feiqa’s head from side to side. Yes, they were lovely. She looked up at me. She now wore earrings.

  I again regarded Tula’s legs. True, the baring of the legs in that fashion, by so short a tunic, was truly an indication of slavery. Only a slave would go so bared. Mincon, of course, was proud of her. He owned her. He enjoyed showing her off. Such an exposure of a girl’s beauty surely marked her unmistakably as a slave. To be sure, it was not of the same degree of momentousness as certain other indications of slavery, irrefutable, irreversible, unmistakable indications, indications and degradations so fundamental that they would be likely to be inflicted only upon the most delicious and lowest of all slaves. It did not begin to compare, for example, with such things as the piercing of the ears.

  “We are ready now,” I told Mincon. “You may rise, Feiqa,” I said.

  “Go, stand behind the back of the wagon,” said Mincon to Tula.

  I put the rope on Feiqa’s neck and then tied it to the side of the wagon, as I had before.

  “Will it be necessary to chain you?” Mincon asked Tula.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “That is for me to decide,” he said. He then took a length of chain from the wagon, that with which he had chained her to the wagon wheel last night, and, with a heavy padlock, fastened it on her neck. He then padlocked the other end of the chain to a stout ring, the central ring, at the rear of the wagon. She would walk behind the wagon, fastened to it by the neck.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, smiling, putting her head down.

  Hurtha threw his things into the wagon. Among them was the heavy, single-bladed Alar war ax. In the dialect of the Alars, if it is of interest, this particular type of ax is called the francisca. Among those, too, who have learned to fear it, it is also often referred to by that name.

  I decided that I would walk beside the wagon for a time. There did not seem room for both Hurtha and myself on the wagon box, beside Mincon.

  “Ho!” called Mincon to his beast, shaking the reins with his left hand and cracking the tharlarion whip over its back with his right. Tula cried out, inadvertently, at the sharp crack of the whip, and Feiqa winced. Both were slaves and had some comprehension of the whip. To be sure, only Tula had felt the tharlarion whip, and I did not envy her her knowledge. Feiqa, on the other hand, had felt the five-bladed Gorean slave whip, used for the punishment and the correction of the behavior of females. Both, thus, were aware of what a whip could mean, from the slave’s point of view. The wagon lurched and, moving unevenly, the wheels going over rocks and traversing ruts left from the passage of other wagons, began its climb to the road.

  “Hold!” I said, suddenly, to Mincon, as we came to the edge of the road. He pulled back on the reins.

  The free woman hurried forward. “I did not know where to find you,” she said. “I knew you would come this way. I have been waiting by the side of the road.”

  “Do you know this woman?” inquired Mincon.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Mincon was eager to be on his way. His hand had tightened on the tharlarion whip. If this woman were merely another beggar he was ready, clearly, to strike her from his path.

  “You are wearing a dress,” said Hurtha.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Did you manage to free yourself?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, reddening. “I could not free myself. I was absolutely helpless.”

  Hurtha regarded her.

  “I was cut loose by Genserix this morning,” she said.

  “A free woman is present,” I said to Feiqa. Immediately she knelt
. “Head to the ground,” I whispered to her. Immediately she complied. Behind the wagon Tula, frightened, immediately followed her example. Both, in a sense, particularly Tula, were new to the collar. Both must learn that they were nothing in the sight of free persons.

  “You are wearing a dress,” said Hurtha.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He continued to regard her.

  “What are you staring at?” she asked.

  “You,” he said.

  “I?” she asked.

  “I have never seen you in a dress before,” he said.

  “So?” she asked.

  “It is nothing,” he said. “It is only that I am surprised to see you thusly.” Boabissia was not in furs and leather. She now wore one of the simple, corded, belted, woolen, plain, widely sleeved, ankle-length dresses of the Alar women. It was brown. She had belted it snugly, and had, too, drawn its adjustment cording snugly from its loop about the back of her neck down to her breasts where she had crossed it and then taken it back, both cords, between and under her breasts, again to her belt, tying it closely at the sides of her body. This is not uncommon among Alar women. Even though they are free they are apparently not above reminding their men that they are females. It is a simple arrangement, but not unattractive. It covers almost everything, with seeming modesty, but in such a way, that it is likely to lead a man to think in terms of removing it. Boabissia, however, was presumably unaware of these things. From her point of view, she had probably done nothing more than to garb herself in the accustomed manner of the Alar woman. Even so, however, putting herself in a dress, in itself, seemed to represent some sort of considerable change in her. She wore, too, as she had last night, her dagger at her belt.

  “I am entitled to dress in this fashion,” she said defensively.

  “Then you are a woman,” he said.

  She did not deign to respond.

  “Are you a woman?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, angrily. “I am a woman!”

  “Then it is appropriate that you should wear a dress,” he said.

  “Perhaps!” she said. She looked at him angrily.

  “When did you discover that you were a woman,” he asked. “Last night?”

  She did not deign to answer.

  “Yes,” he speculated, “it was doubtless last night.”

  Her small fists clenched.

  “It is probably difficult,” he speculated, “for a female to find herself taken in hand, and stripped and tied, and exhibited naked, absolutely helpless in her bonds, before men, and not have it dawn on her that she may be a woman.”

  “Do not be vulgar,” she said.

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  “I want to come with you,” she said. She put down her head.

  “We must be on our way,” said Mincon. Other wagons were emerging from the camp, coming up the small slope, and trundling onto the stones of the Genesian Road. The two slaves still knelt in their places, their heads down to the dirt. They had not yet been given permission to change their position.

  “You had best remain within the safety of the wagons,” said Hurtha. “This is the great outside world. You do not know what might become of you out here.”

  “I am not afraid,” she said.

  “You might be killed,” said Hurtha.

  “I am not afraid,” she said.

  “You might be caught, and put in chains,” said Hurtha. He did not even mention, explicitly, the horrifying word “bondage.” In this he was tactful. She was a free woman.

  “That I fear most,” she said. “That would be a fate a thousand times worse than death.”

  Feiqa, kneeling near my feet, her head down to the dirt, stifled a sound of amusement. I kicked her, gently, with the side of my foot, to silence her.

  “Remain with the wagons,” said Hurtha.

  “No,” said Boabissia.

  “You are rather pretty,” he said.

  “Do not insult me,” she said.

  “I wonder what you would look like, stripped, and branded and collared, as a slave,” he said.

  “Please, Hurtha,” she said.

  “Do you think you could please a man?” he asked.

  “I have no interest in pleasing men,” she said.

  “But do you think you could do so?” he asked.

  “I am sure I do not know,” she said.

  “In a collar,” he said, “subject to the whip, you would doubtless attempt desperately to learn to do so, and quickly and well.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, angrily.

  “Remain with the wagons,” he said.

  She looked at Hurtha, and then at me, and then again at Hurtha. She fingered the small copper disk, on its thong, tied about her throat, that disk which had been found on her in infancy, when she had been found by Alars in the wreckage of a burned, raided caravan, that disk on which a “Tau” and a number had been inscribed. “No,” she said.

  Another wagon climbed to the road, and rolled by.

  Hurtha looked at me. I shrugged. She was pretty, and she was free. I supposed she could do much what she wished. It was not as though she were naught but a banded chattel, like Feiqa and Tula.

  “Do you have any money?” asked Hurtha.

  “No,” she said.

  “Are you wearing that dress in the manner of the Alar woman?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, reddening.

  It was not winter now, but only Se’Kara. Accordingly all she now wore would be the dress. Beneath it she would be naked.

  He then went to her and untied the strings which held the dagger sheath, with its small, narrow, sheathed weapon, with its ornamented, enameled handle, at her belt.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I am taking the dagger,” he said. “I am going to throw it away, here, along the side of the road. Have no fear. It will not go unused. Someone will surely find it.”

  “But then I will be defenseless!” she protested.

  “Such a weapon,” he said, “might get you killed. It is better that you do not have it.”

  “But I will be defenseless without it,” she insisted.

  “You were defenseless with it,” he said, “only you did not know it. Do you truly think that anyone who intended to take you, or harm you, would be dissuaded from doing so by that tiny weapon? Do not deceive yourself. Indeed, if he were not amused, he might even find it irritating, and see fit to turn it into your own heart. At the least, you would be likely to be punished severely for the pretensions of carrying it.”

  “What then are my defenses?” she asked.

  “Those of the female,” he said.

  “Of the female!” she said.

  “For that is what you are, Boabissia,” he said.

  “I see,” she said.

  “Docility, and total obedience,” he said.

  “I see,” she said.

  “Return to the wagons,” he said.

  “No,” she said.

  He looked at her.

  “I want to come with you,” she said.

  “If you come with us,” he said, “you come with us as a woman.”

  “I would then be helpless,” she said, “with a woman’s helplessness.”

  “You have always been such, Boabissia,” he said, “though perhaps, amongst the wagons, you did not realize it.”

  “I would have to depend upon you, upon men, for my protection.”

  “Yes,” said Hurtha.

  “—For my total protection.”

  “Yes,” said Hurtha. “And such protection extends to you, of course, only in so far as you are a free woman.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  Slaves are goods. Thus, whether they are protected, or defended, or not, depends on the decisions of free persons, like the defense or protection of other goods, whatever they might be, for example, sacks of gold, crates of sandals, tethered tharlarion, caged vulos, and strings of fish. Many a caravan has saved itself by leaving love
ly slaves behind in the desert, to slow the pursuit of marauders. So, too, more than one merchantman has saved itself by jettisoning beauties too luscious to be left behind by lustful pursuers. Better to lose part of a cargo, they reason, than all of it.

  “Do you wish to come with us?” asked Hurtha.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Do you come with us as a woman?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I will come with you—as a woman.”

  He threw the dagger, with its sheath, to the side of the road.

  She looked at it. I took her by the arm and conducted her to where Tula knelt, her head to the dirt. “This is a free woman,” I told Tula. “She will be traveling with us.” Tula, scarcely lifting her head, pressed her lips to the sandals of Boabissia, kissing them. “Mistress,” she said. I then conducted Boabissia to the vicinity of Feiqa. Feiqa had once been the Lady Charlotte, of Samnium, a high lady in that city, one of aristocratic birth and upbringing, from one of her finest families, one prominent on her Street of Coins. Feiqa pressed her lips to the sandals of Boabissia, kissing them. “Mistress,” she whispered. “What?” inquired Boabissia, imperiously. Feiqa again pressed her lips to Boabissia’s sandals, kissing them. “Mistress,” she said, trembling.

  “These slaves,” I said to Boabissia, “as you are a free woman, are at your disposal. On the other hand, you do not own them. Accordingly you are not to mutilate them or cause them permanent or serious injury unless they prove themselves to be, in some small way, at least, disobedient or displeasing.”

  “I understand,” said Boabissia.

  “Even then,” I said, “it will be expected that you would first obtain the permission of their master.”

  “That is a common courtesy,” said Boabissia.

  “You may count, of course,” I said, “on his understanding and sympathy, and his respect for your wishes, as those of a free woman.”

  “Of course,” said Boabissia.

  “In lesser matters, of course,” I said, “where lesser exactitudes and punishments might be in order, you may, as any free person, at your whim, and without consulting the master, subject them to typical disciplines, things useful in helping them to keep in mind what they are, enforced positions, reiterated utterances, humiliations, tasks, bindings, chainings, gaggings, blindfoldings, switchings, lashings of various sorts, with various implements, and so on.”