by John Norman
That was, of course, politically inappropriate. But then that is one of the inconveniences of nature, that it can upon occasion prove a political embarrassment. On Earth politics and nature do not live in the same house, and, indeed, nature does not live in a house at all. It is outside the house, like the land, and space, and stars. Those who prefer to stay indoors need not ask what lies outside the house. Let them stay indoors, if they wish; but, too, let them not interfere with those whose destiny calls them to the greater, beckoning, healthful, sunlit world outside.
I recalled the lovely, preoccupied, fearful, inhibited, conforming Miss Henderson.
I doubt that she knew how she was looked at.
Could she have even understood it?
Did she know how she was looked at, could she have suspected it, that she was looked at, despite her prescribed garmenture, despite her ideology and views, her smugness, her vaunted pride, as a woman is looked at by a man?
Had I not a thousand times, in my mind, seeing her in the corridors, on the campus, on the streets, unbeknownst to her, conjectured her luscious lineaments; had I not a thousand times, noting her in a thousand places, in my mind, had her revealed to me, and collared? And now the lovely, vain, pretentious, troublesome Miss Henderson was no longer on Earth. She, as I, was on Gor. And she, such as she was, was accordingly subject to the risks, and appropriatenesses, of that world.
It is very different from Earth.
I considered her.
Much pain had she caused me.
But there are remedies, and compensations, for such things, the remedy of the mastery, for example, and the compensations of plenteous labors and services, and inordinate pleasures derived from the erstwhile pain object. A free woman can be a source of inconvenience and annoyance, even of intolerable agony; a slave, on the other hand, is an object of utility and gratification.
I thought Miss Henderson, taken well in hand, would make an excellent slave.
Too, from a thousand indications, even on Earth, I suspected, despite myself, that she might be a natural slave, a woman who belonged in the collar.
So why then should she not be in mine?
But something in my heart cried out that she, the lovely Miss Henderson, could not be a slave, not she!
I must deny it!
Was she not from Earth, from Earth?
But I could no longer deny one thing—that I wanted Miss Beverly Henderson, that I wanted to own her. To own her, literally. I wanted her—as my slave.
But perhaps she was not a slave?
It was important to determine that.
She was, after all, from Earth.
But if she were a slave, it was in the collar of no one other than myself that I wanted her.
On Earth slaves are free; on Gor they are not.
So it was important to learn what she was.
Was she a slave?
That must be determined.
If she should be a slave, it was right that she should be in the collar. And if she was a slave, I wanted her for my own.
I could no longer deny it. I wanted Miss Beverly Henderson as my slave.
But, alas, could she, from Earth, be a slave?
But what if all women were slaves?
If all women were slaves, so, too, then, would be the lovely Miss Henderson.
Do all women belong in collars?
The Goreans have a saying that all women are slaves, only that some are not yet in collars.
If Miss Henderson were truly a slave, if she truly belonged in the collar, I wanted her.
She had caused me much grief. I had many scores to settle with the beauty.
In my collar she would be in no doubt as to her bondage. I would see that she gave me everything, and more.
It would be pleasant to have her at my feet, as I wanted her, as my helpless, abject slave.
If I thought it in the least helpful, or if it pleased me on even an idle whim, she would instantly learn the bite of the whip.
I would teach her to crawl, and beg, and please.
I would have all from her, and more!
She would learn what bondage was, and being in the keeping of a master.
It would be pleasant, after Earth, and all this time, to own her.
I did not think I would soon sell one such as she.
"We will pay the tribute in the morning," said another man.
"We have no choice," said another.
"We should never have entered into difficulties over the matter," said another man.
"True," said another man.
The smoke stung my eyes. The man had, by now, stopped ringing the alarm bar. The crowd was mostly silent. One could hear the flames.
"We have been taught our lesson," said one of the men.
"Policrates owns Victoria," said another.
"It is true," said another.
I turned about and left the crowd. I made my way slowly away from the wharves. I began to walk slowly back toward the tavern of Tasdron.
Many were the thoughts in my head.
I had seen a free woman of Victoria stripped with no more mercy than would have been shown to a slave. I had seen her kneel naked before a pirate and, his blade at her throat, with her own hands, tie the knot of bondage in her hair, in full view of hundreds of her fellow citizens.
I had seen the disorganization, the fear, the demoralization of the men of Victoria. I had seen the insolence of the pirates, the burning of buildings.
And the men of Victoria, though greatly outnumbering the pirates, had not fought.
The tribute would be paid.
And, too, I had learned, and I mused on this, that I wanted to own Miss Beverly Henderson, yes, literally own her, as a man on Earth might own a pair of boots, or a pig or a dog, or as a man on Gor might own, say, a tarsk or a pet sleen, or, lower than either, as he might own a slave.
* * * *
"Do not!" I cried. I seized the figure, his body poised, hunched over the sword, its point to his belly, its hilt in his hands, braced against the stones of the dark street. "No!" I cried. I struggled, briefly, with him. Then with the bottom of my foot I kicked the sword to one side and it slid upward, tearing through the tunic. He dropped to his hands and knees, vomiting, and scrambled for the sword, seizing it. He cried out in fury, and frustration, the blade now in his hands. He rose to his feet, reeling. "Who are you to interfere in this matter?" he howled. He lifted the blade and approached me. I saw it waver. He steadied it, placing one hand upon the other, on the hilt. It again lifted. I stood my ground. I did not think he would strike me. Then the blade lowered and the man sobbed, and backed against the wall, and lowered himself, sitting to its base, the sword on the stones beside him. He bent over, his head in his hands. "Who are you to interfere?" he wept.
"Surely there are others better than yourself against whom you might turn your sword," I said, angrily.
"Give me a drink," he said.
"Has it come to this," I asked him, "the glory, the codes, the steel?"
"I want a drink," he said, sullenly.
"I have but returned from the wharves," I told him. "Surely you, and the others, from the tavern of Tasdron, did not fail to hear the alarm?"
"There is no business of mine at the wharves," he said.
"Yet," said I, "you had left the tavern. Will you tell me you were not bound for the wharves?"
"I can do nothing," he said. "I could do nothing."
"Yet sick, your senses swirling, you left the tavern," I said. "This street leads to the wharves."
"I fell," he said. "I could not even walk."
"Do you wish to hear what occurred at the wharves," I asked, angrily.
"I am useless," he said. "I could do nothing. I am no good."
"At the wharves," I said, "there were pirates, few more than half a hundred of such men, under the command of Kliomenes, lieutenant to Policrates."
"I do not wish to hear of these matters," he said.
"In the view of hundreds of those
of Victoria these men, so few of them, burned and looted, laughing and with impunity, as it pleased them. And in the view of hundreds of those of Victoria, angry, but inactive and cowering, not daring to protest, were lofty free women of this town publicly stripped and bound, thence to be carried into shameful slavery, to wear their collars at the feet of buccaneers."
"Women belong in collars," he said, angrily.
"And would you then," I asked, "willingly deliver them, prizes more fittingly yours, into the hands of such men as Kliomenes and Policrates. Are they more men than you, that such beauties should kneel at their feet rather than, fearfully, at yours?"
He lowered his head again, putting it in his hands.
"I would have thought," I said, "that it would be men such as you who might strike terror into the hearts of men such as they, that it would be men such as you whom groveling slave girls, wary of the whip, might fear even more to displease than they."
"Give me a drink," he said.
"You are, then, so fond of Kliomenes and Policrates that you are willing, graciously, to surrender to them the women and other treasures of this town."
"I am not of Victoria," he said.
"Few in Victoria," I said, "are of Victoria, it seems. Yet many reside here. If not men such as we, who, then, is of Victoria?"
"I am sick," he said.
"There was no leadership at the wharves," I said. "Insult was done upon this town with impunity. I saw hundreds of men, fearful, milling about, with no one to lead them. I saw them intimidated by a handful of organized, ruthless fellows, strutting and vain as vulos. I saw free men impressed into the service of loading the goods of the town onto the galleys of the thieves. Men, unprotesting, fearful, saw their properties purloined and burned. Flames linger yet on the wharves. Smoke hangs in the air."
He was silent.
"We missed you on the wharves," I said.
"Why did you interfere in my affairs?" he asked.
"Once," said I, "in the tavern of Tasdron you saved my life. Is it not my right, then, to save yours?"
"We are, then, even," said he, bitterly. "We now owe one another nothing. Go now, leave me."
"I have seen Glyco, a merchant, a high merchant, of Port Cos, these several days in earnest converse with you. I think, surely, that he, fearing the union of the pirates of the east and west, was entreating you to lend support to some scheme of resistance."
"You are shrewd," said the man.
"Yet his entreaties, I gather, have proven fruitless."
"I cannot help him," said the man.
"Yet that he came to you suggests that your courage, your brilliance in such matters, have never been forgotten."
"I am no longer who I once was," he said.
"I gather you once stood high among the guardsmen of Port Cos," I said.
"Once I was captain in Port Cos," he said. "Indeed it was I who once drove the band of Policrates from the vicinity of Port Cos." He looked up at me. "But that was long ago," he said. "I no longer remember that captain. I think he is gone now."
"What occurred?" I asked.
"He grew more fond of paga than of his codes," he said. "Disgraced, he was dismissed. He came west upon the river, to Victoria."
"What was his name?" I asked.
"I have forgotten," he said, sullenly.
"Had you been upon the wharves," I said, "things might have gone differently."
"Why did you not lead them?" he asked, angrily.
"I am only a weakling and a fool," I said, "and I am untrained."
He said nothing.
"One such as you might have made a difference."
He extended his right hand. It was large, but unsteady. It shook.
"At one time," he said, "I could strike a thousand blows, to the accuracy of a hair, I could thrust a thousand times, within the circle of half a hort, but now—now, see what has become of me." His hand, shaking, then fell. He closed his fist and pressed it against the stones of the dark street. He wept. "Policrates could have killed me in the tavern," he said. "He knew my weakness. But he did not do so. For the sake of old memories, I deem, vestiges of vanished realities, he spared me." He looked up at me. "We were youths together on the wharves of Port Cos," he said. "Each of us turned to the trades of steel, I to that of the guardsman, he to that of the marauder."
"What did Glyco wish of you?" I asked.
"A plan, a rallying point, a flag of memory, a leader, an assault upon the stronghold of Policrates."
"And what did you tell him?" I asked.
"It would take a hundred siege ships, and ten thousand men to take the stronghold of Policrates," he said.
I nodded. I did not think his estimates in error. For all practical purposes, considering the forces that could realistically be marshaled upon the river the stronghold of Policrates was impregnable. I had heard similar asseverations from others. Miss Beverly Henderson, and her beauty, the thought crossed my mind, were now locked behind those lofty, dark walls.
"The situation, then, is hopeless?" I asked.
"Yes, hopeless," he said.
"Tomorrow," I said, "the tribute is to be paid to Policrates."
The man shrugged.
"It is said," I said, "that the pirates own Victoria."
"It is true," he said. "It is true."
"And are there none to gainsay them?" I asked.
"None," said he.
"What can I do for you?" I asked, sadly.
"Give me a drink," he said.
I turned away from him and walked up the street, to the tavern of Tasdron, which was still open, though much subdued. I entered the tavern. I did not speak to anyone, nor did any meet my eyes. I purchased a bottle of paga which I then took from the tavern, retracing my steps to the slumped, dark figure sitting against the wall. I stopped before him, and he lifted his head from his knees, and looked at me, blearily. I handed the bottle to him, which, fumbling, quickly, he reached for. He bit and pulled the cork from the bottle. He clutched the bottle with both hands. He looked up at me, sitting by the wall.
"I am sorry," I said, "to have spoken cruelly to you. It was not my right. It was in anger, in rage, in frustration, that I spoke. I am truly sorry."
"Do you pity me?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "I pity you."
Slowly, by an act of will, in cold fury, movement by movement, the man struggled unsteadily to his feet. There was a terrible fury in his eyes. "Pity?" he asked. "Me?"
"Yes," I said. "You have fallen. You cannot rise. You cannot help yourself. It is not your fault. I do not blame you."
"Pity?" he asked. "Me?"
"I know that you have been disgraced," I said. "I know that the scarlet has been taken from you."
"No one," said he, "can take the scarlet from me, once it is granted, unless it be by the sword."
He tore open the tunic he wore, revealing beneath it, dark, blackish in appearance, in the moonlight, the scarlet.
"This," said he, "can be taken from me only by the sword. Let him dare to do so who will."
"You are finished," I said. "Drink."
He looked dismally, angrily, at the bottle clutched in his right hand.
"You have forgotten the name of the warrior," I said, "who was once of Port Cos. He is no more. Drink."
The man then held the bottle near the neck, with both hands. For a long moment he looked at it. His shoulders then hunched forward, and he moaned in pain. Then, slowly, painfully, he straightened his body. He lifted his head to the Gorean moons and, in the dark street, in anguish uttered a wild cry. It began as a cry of anguish, and pain, and ended as a howl of rage. He turned about and, with two hands, broke the bottle suddenly into a thousand fragments against the stone. In the darkness he was cut with glass and soiled with scattered paga.
"I remember him," he said.
"What was his name?" I asked.
"Callimachus," he said. "His name is Callimachus, of Port Cos."
"Is he gone?" I asked.
Then the
man, with two fists, struck against the wall. "No," he said, with a terrible ferocity. There was blood on his hands, dark, running between the fingers.
"Where is he?" I asked.
Slowly the man turned to face me. "He is here," he said. "I am he."
"I am pleased to hear it," I said. I reached down and picked up the fallen blade. I handed it to him. "This," I said, "is yours."
He sheathed the blade. He looked at me, for a long time. "You have done me service," he said. "How can I repay you?"
"I have a plan," I said. "Teach me the sword."
23
I am Made Welcome in the Holding of Policrates;
Kliomenes Makes Test of Me;
I Select a Girl for my Night's Pleasure
The naked slave girl, in her bells and jewels, writhed on the scarlet tiles of the floor before us.
Policrates, sitting beside me, behind the broad, low table, musingly fitted together the two pieces of yellowish, brown stone, the two halves of the once-shattered topaz. Again I found it startling, and impressive, how the figure of a river galley emerged from the brownish discolorations in the two pieces of stone, once they were fitted together. There was no mistaking that they were the two halves of what was once an unusual, divided stone.
"Fascinating," said Policrates. "And how is my friend, Ragnar Voskjard?"
"Well," said I, "and he, of course, inquires after your health."
"I am well," said Policrates, "and you may, upon your return, assure him that I am eager to participate in our common venture."
"In twenty days," I said, "allowing for my return and the fitting of our ships, we shall be at your sea gate."
"Excellent," said Policrates.
"We shall then," I said, "proceed to Ar's Station, to sack the stores and burn her vessels. Following that we shall wreak similar havoc upon Port Cos. These two major ports crippled the river, then, for all practical purposes, will be ours."
"It is amusing," said Policrates, "that the tension between Cos and Ar prevents the linkage of their powers upon the river."
