by John Norman
“One Hundred and Nineteen,” said the fellow in blue.
“Master!” I responded, suddenly, frightened.
How naturally that word came to me!
On my former world, in my employments, on the streets, it had never occurred to me that I would be so reduced and degraded, that I would be made a slave, this so fulfilling me. I had never expected to kneel before men, owned, and utter to them, in full significance and reality, that telling word, “Master.”
But it was so on this world.
How naturally that word had come to me!
A key was thrust into the collar lock, and the bolt moved. The weight was then removed from my neck, and I was free of the wall.
I took my place in the line, head down, wrists crossed behind my back.
The girl before me had been, I had earlier gathered, of the Merchant caste, even of the high Merchants, whatever that might be. Surely she had boasted amongst us that she was of the high Merchants. Her vaunted declaration, however, had brought her only derision and mockery from her chain sisters. “Where are your robes and veils?” she was asked. “Did I not see you well-siriked of late?” asked another. “I thought, two days ago,” said another, “I saw you chained by the neck, naked, to the wall.” “If she has caste,” said another, “her thigh will be bare.” “See her thigh!” exclaimed another. “It is marked!” said another. “Ah, my dear,” said another. “Then you are only a lying slave.” “Slave girls may not lie,” said another. “I fear you must be punished,” said another. “Please, no!” the girl had cried, but the others had then seized her, thrown her to the straw, and beaten her. Thereafter she spoke no more as though she might still be free. I had gathered that many might resent the Merchants, envying their wealth. It was said they raised nothing, and made nothing, but were brigands without lairs, bandits who looted without risk, men who drew blood with knives of gold. Membership in the Merchants, of course, might range from itinerant peddlers to the masters of great houses, dealing with a dozen cities. The Merchants regard themselves, with justification I would think, as a high caste, but few Goreans number them amongst the high castes, which, traditionally, are taken to be five in number, the Initiates, Builders, Physicians, Scribes, and Warriors. None, I suppose, would dispute with the Warriors that they are a high caste. If the Merchants are not a high caste, it is clear they are an important caste. It is said they own councils and sway law, that their gold hides and whispers behind thrones, that cities heed their words, that Ubars are often in their debt. Doubtless amongst the Merchants, as amongst other men, one will find the astute and honorable, the honest and diligent, the noble and loyal, as well as the corrupt and greedy, the cruel and callous, the venal and heartless. The girl before me might once, I supposed, if of the high Merchants, or such, as she claimed, have been wealthy. But now she was a portion, a negligible portion I would suppose, of the wealth of another. How lost she was amongst us, so isolated and alone, reduced from her former status, and despised by her sister slaves. No wonder, I thought, that she might have broken in the strain, and irrationally, so foolishly, tried to run toward the stairs. Did she expect to ascend them, and thrust her hands through the bars of the gate, and elicit pity; did she think the gate would be opened, and she would be released?
Did she not know that there was no escape for the Gorean slave girl, and that that was now what she was?
Did she think she had been branded to be freed?
She had been branded to be purchased, and put to use.
Certainly there was no escape for me. Where was there to escape to? And certainly my body, with its mark, proclaimed me a slave. And, I supposed, sooner or later, I would wear a collar.
I did not fear the collar. I knew I belonged in one.
It would be locked on me, and I could not remove it. It would publicly, and appropriately, proclaim me slave, and, most often, would identify a master, whose property I was. Sometimes, if one is given a name, the name, too, will appear on the collar. “I am so-and-so, the slave of so-and-so.” “I am so-and-so, so-and-so owns me.” “I am so-and-so, the property of so and-so.” Sometimes the collar is quite simple, as in “I am owned by so-and-so,” “I am the property of so-and-so,” or merely “Return me to so-and-so,” or such.
Had I a choice, I knew whose collar I would beg to wear. But I would have no choice; I was a slave.
The typical collar was practical and informative, light and comfortable, and attractive. I wondered sometimes if free women did not envy us our collars. They much enhanced the beauty of a woman, aesthetically, and, of course, in their significance. They arouse men, and have their effect on the woman, as well. Do they not inform her of what she is, and what she is for?
I knew that I was different from some, at least, of the other girls. Unlike some of them, I had known I was a slave, even on Earth. Doubtless, in time, they, too, would come to understand that they were slaves, and had always been slaves, lacking only the master and the collar. They would come home to themselves, in being owned and mastered. What hormonally normal woman does not wish to kneel before a master? Is this not clear enough from their dreams, and their feelings? Who does not wish to be a man’s belonging?
Who does not wish to feel his bonds, his lips and hands on one’s body, owning it, possessing it, subduing it, treating it as he wishes, so casually, so thoughtlessly, so imperiously, caressing it into submission, forcing it to yield to him the pleasures of the master, and forcing us, as well, to endure, should it please him, whether we will or no, unspeakable, spasmodic ecstasies of rapture, ecstasies which we will beg to yield, again and again, as his ravished slave?
“What was your caste?” I had been asked.
“I had no caste,” I said.
“She is a barbarian, can you not tell?” had said another girl.
“Listen to her,” said another. “You can tell from her speech.”
“She cannot even speak the language properly,” said another.
“Barbarians do not have caste,” said another.
“Barbarians are stupid,” said another.
“I am not stupid,” I had said.
The fellow in blue continued to call lot numbers.
Seventeen girls were called forth; five had been siriked, four, including myself, had been chained at the wall. The rest, unencumbered, had been at liberty to move about the room as they wished, saving that they might not, without permission, as noted, ascend the stairs leading to the barred gate.
We stood in line, waiting, positioned as required, head down, wrists crossed behind our back.
We had seen the use of the long rope, the cords, the strips of cloth, before. We were to be taken from the holding area. The double loop of cord was put about my left wrist and jerked tight, and, a moment later, my wrists were secured in place. A bit after that a length of the long rope was knotted about my neck, and then the two fellows proceeded forward, one fastening the wrists of the girl before me together, she who had claimed to have been of the high Merchants, and the other adding her to the coffle. Shortly thereafter the fellow with the strips of cloth was behind me. “Look up,” he said. I was then blindfolded. I felt a moment of panic, bound, tethered, and unable to see. How utterly helpless we are! This is done, commonly, from the rear forward. Supposedly this helps to keep the line tranquil, lessening the possibility of bolting. I remembered the unwise flight of the girl before me. I heard her whimper in terror, as she was blindfolded. We are so helpless! It is said that curiosity is not becoming to a kajira. It is not unusual to keep us in ignorance. Doubtless that helps to control us. Often we are not informed of where we are to be taken, and what is to be done with us. We are slaves. When we had been brought to this place we had been bound, coffled, and blindfolded, as well. We would not be able to recognize the inside of the building, its outside, the streets about, or such. We did know that we were in Brundisium, apparently a large city, and a port. Too, from the sounds, and the smells, it was clear that we were in the vicinity of water. Too, as noted
earlier, we were familiar, at least with rumors, that we were to be taken north.
I felt a slight movement on the rope, and then felt it pull at the back of my neck, and I moved forward.
“Be careful of the stairs,” said a male voice.
Chapter Eight
“May I speak?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
She was kneeling beside me, on the boards, in a white tunic, of the wool of the bounding hurt, her wrists braceleted behind her, her leash of common brown leather looping up to my hand.
“Why are we here?” she asked.
“Are you curious?” I asked.
“Forgive me, Master,” she said.
It was early morning.
The air was fresh, and keen. The wharves were crowded. Men came and went. Pennons fluttered from halyards. Large eyes were painted on each side of bows, that the ships might see their way.
One could smell fish. The early boats had come in. Grunt and parsit were strung between poles. Crabs were sold from baskets.
It was from such wharves that the small ships, mostly coasting vessels, not round ships, one every two or three days, had been plying north.
Why should I be interested in them?
Surely it was a foolishness.
I recalled her lot number had been 119, not that it mattered.
She was a slave.
Who can understand the motivations of men, of oneself?
I was angry with her, she no more than another marked collar slut. Still she had looked well at my feet in the warehouse. Were her bound curves that different from those of other helplessly trussed beauties? What had been in her eyes, as she had looked up at me? She did not even recognize me, I who had brought her to rope and iron! How uncertain she had been, how trembling and frightened, and dismayed, on the block, naked, routinely turned about, presented for the perusal of buyers. I recalled the first time I had seen her, in her quaint, concealing, barbarous garments, and how our eyes had met, and her eyes had widened, and her lips parted, and it seemed she might fall, and she was so frightened, was so much like a startled, wide-eyed, helpless tabuk doe finding herself beneath the gaze of a larl. She had turned about and fled, as though she might have escaped, if we had found her of interest. I had entered her on the list as a possible acquisition, and she was put under surveillance. Shortly thereafter she was entered on the acquisition list, and, from that point forward, though not yet marked and collared, and all unwitting of the fact, she was a Gorean slave girl.
I recalled the first time we had met.
She had seemed so startled, so frightened. In seeing me, did she somehow sense what it might be to be a slave? Had she sensed, even then, what it might be to be owned, to kneel before a man, stripped, chained, marked, and collared, his? Had she understood herself a slave, even then, suddenly, unexpectedly, perhaps for the first time, in the presence of a master?
If I could see her again, I felt I could forget her. I wanted to see her again, if only to force her from my mind, to remove her memory from my blood. Surely she was no different from thousands of others, and less than most.
Surely she was less, even, than the slut kneeling at my thigh.
If I could see her again, I was sure I could put her from me.
Perhaps I could laugh at her, spit upon her, strike her, and then contentedly dismiss her, sending her on her way, a meaningless slave, to whatever fate might await her.
She was worthless. She had not even brought a half silver tarsk off the block. Why then did I remember her?
Last night there had been a fracas in the vicinity of a local tavern. Two men, it seems, had been set upon and robbed. But such things were not uncommon in Brundisium, even in calmer times.
I had not forgotten the offer of the golden stater.
I had inquired and learned that the offer to most was in copper tarsks, to the equivalent of a silver stater. But I had been offered a golden stater. I did not think my sword was worth that much more than that of others. In what way then might I have such value, that others might not? Too, I was curious about the ships, the smaller ships, not the round ships, which were coasting north.
What lay in the north?
Who were the mysterious Pani?
Their agents seemed well supplied with gold, gold at a time when even copper would go far. Ships were being hired, and men recruited, not merely shipsmen, pilots, helmsmen, oarsmen, and such, but men-at-arms, as well, hundreds, mercenaries, many lacking Home Stones, many perhaps indistinguishable from ruffians, vagabonds, brigands, thieves, and cutthroats.
Surely there were no great cities, no wars, in the north.
Of what use would be shipsmen, or soldiers, a small army, in the north?
Her lot number, I recalled, had been 119. The marking, if not cleansed, or washed off, lasts several days. It would probably still be on her, and the others. The slaves, doubtless, would be accounted for, marked off, in terms of their numbers, when put aboard.
Records are kept in such matters.
Many men were going north. Accordingly, slaves, as food and drink, as other utilities and necessities, would be supplied to the camps, the forts, the villages, the towns, or shelters. Gorean men will have their slaves; they will not do without them. It is what women are good for. Let free women take note.
“May I speak?” asked the girl kneeling beside me.
“No,” I said.
She was from Asperiche originally, had been taken by corsairs of Port Kar, and sold south. I had purchased her from a local tavern. “Do not sell me to him!” she had begged. The proprietor’s man, with one of the ruffian’s wallets in his belt, had been most congenial. She had shrunk back in her cage, terrified, when the light of the lantern fell upon her. There was a rustling in the other cages, as well, as other slaves stirred, or knelt at the bars, grasping them, to watch. She, and the others, had had the ankle bells removed, for they are worn, usually, only on the floor and in the alcoves. Many men enjoy a belled slave, whose tiniest motion will be marked by the bells. She clutched the light blanket about her slender shoulders. The proprietor, who held the lantern, was at our side. “This is the one,” I said, indicating the illuminated girl. “She was earlier displeasing.” “Please, no, Master!” she said. “Before leaving the tavern, you may recall,” I said to the proprietor’s man, “I left instructions that she was to be lashed.” “Yes, later,” he said. “Now?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “Please, no, Master!” she cried. “I have a business to conduct,” said the proprietor. “You must learn to be pleasing!” “I will be pleasing,” she exclaimed, “I will be pleasing!” “No, no!” she wept, as the two locks on the cage’s gate were opened. There was laughter from several of the other cages, and I gathered that the girl from Asperiche was not popular with her chain sisters. “Crawl, slut!” called more than one, as the slave was gestured from the tiny cage and, on all floors, head down, made her way to the floor ring, before which she was knelt, and to which her small hands were fastened. The proprietor’s man removed a whip from its nearby peg, on the wall, on the right, as one entered the cage area. “Strike her well!” called one of the slaves. “Two-silver-tarsk girl!” laughed another. “Five copper tarsks, I would say,” called another. The girl, now fastened by the wrists to the ring, turned about, kneeling, and regarded me, wildly. “You did not have me beaten when I misspoke my sales price,” she said. “When you lied,” I said. “You are not like the others,” she said. “You are sweet, gentle, kind, sensitive, and understanding. You will not have a poor, helpless girl struck. You cannot do so! You will not! You cannot!” “Ten strokes,” I said to the proprietor’s man. “No!” she shrieked. There was much laughter from the other cages. “It will not be necessary for her to count the strokes,” I said, “as she may find that difficult after the third or fourth stroke, nor need she thank you once you are finished. It is possible she might not be genuinely grateful.” “I hate you, I hate you!” she wept. Then she cried out as the first stroke was administered. “Please,
no more!” she wept. “I will be pleasing, I will be pleasing!” “That is our hope,” said the proprietor, nodding to his man. “Aii!” she wept. The next blows were soon done, and she now lay on her belly, her hands stretched before her, fastened to the ring.
She shuddered, in misery, sobbing, and twisted a little.
Muchly had she writhed and shrieked under the fiery rain of leather. The proprietor’s man had done his work well. She had not been pleasing. She now lay at the ring, a miserable, punished slave.
There was laughter from the other cages about.
“Beat her more!” called one of the other slaves.
“More!” called another.
“No, please,” she cried.
Insolence, rudeness, disrespect, impudence, incivility, slovenliness, temper, impatience, carelessness, clumsiness, and such are not acceptable in a slave. The slave is not a free woman, who may be as she wishes. The slave is owned, and is to be as her master wishes. She is in a collar. Accordingly, she is to be deferent, obedient, attentive, softly spoken, graceful, and submissive.
“Perhaps now you will be more concerned to be pleasing?” inquired the proprietor, holding the lantern.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
There was more laughter from the other girls.
She had learned much. She was now well aware of what it might be to be a slave, and that she was a slave.
The proprietor’s man returned the whip to its peg. He then returned and freed her wrists from the ring.
“You may now return to your cage,” said the proprietor, “on all fours.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
At the gate to her cage, she turned about, on all fours, and lifted her head to me, her eyes bright with tears, tears running down her cheeks.
