Magicians of Gor

by Norman, John;

  Phoebe put down her head, shyly smiling.

  "Cosian slut!" snarled Marcus.

  He seized her by the arms and lifted her from her feet, thrusting her back against the wall of the building.

  He held her there, off her feet, her back pressed back, hard, against the rough wall.

  "Yes," she cried. "Yes!"

  "Be thusly used, and as befits you," said he, "slave, and slut of Cos!"

  "Yes, my Master!" she wept. She clung about him, her eyes closed, her head back, gasping.

  Then he cried out, and lowered her to the stones of the street.

  She knelt there, gratefully, sobbing. Her back was bloody. Marcus had not been gentle with the slave. She was holding to his leg.

  "Disgusting," said a free woman, drawing her veil more closely about her face.

  Did she not know that she, too, if she were a slave, would be similarly subject to a master's pleasure?

  "This is a very public place," I said to Marcus.

  A small crowd, like an eddy in the flowing stream of folks in the street, had gathered about.

  "She is a slut of Cos," said Marcus to a fellow nearby.

  "Beat her for me," said the man.

  "She is only a slave," I said.

  "A Cosian slut," said one man to another.

  "She is only a slave," I said again.

  The crowd closed in a bit more, menacingly. Phoebe looked up, frightened.

  In the press there was not even room to draw the sword, let alone wield it.

  "Let us kill her," said a fellow.

  "Move back," said Marcus, angrily.

  "A slut of Cos," said another man.

  "Let us kill her!" said another fellow.

  Phoebe was very small and helpless, kneeling on the stones, near the wall.

  "Continue on your way," I said to the men gathered about. "Be about your business."

  "Cos is our business," said a man.

  The ugliness of the crowd, its hostility, and such, was, I think, a function of recent events, which had precipitated confusion, uncertainty and terror in Ar, in particular the military catastrophe in the delta, in which action, absurdly, the major land forces of Ar had been invested, and the news that the Cosian forces at Torcadino, one of the largest assemblages of armed men ever seen on Gor, under their polemarkos, Myron, cousin to Lurius of Jad, Ubar of Cos, had now set their standards toward Ar. Torcadino had been a supply depot for the forces of Cos on the continent. It had been seized by the mercenary, Dietrich of Tarnburg, to forestall the march on Ar. Ar, however, had failed to act. She had not relieved the siege at Torcadino nor that in the north, at Ar's Station. Dietrich, finally understanding the treason in Ar, in high places, had managed to effect a withdrawal from Torcadino. His location was now unknown and Cos had put a price on his head. Now there lay little or nothing between the major forces of Cos on the continent, now on the march, and the gates of Ar. Further, though there was much talk in the city of resistance, of the traditions of Ar, of her Home Stone, and such, I did not think that the people of Ar, stunned and confused by the apparently inexplicable succession of recent disasters, had the will to resist the Cosians. Perhaps if there had been a Marlenus of Ar in the city, a Ubar, one to raise the people and lead them, there might have been hope. But the city was now under the governance of the regent, Gnieus Lelius, who, I had little doubt, might have efficiently managed a well-ordered polity under normal conditions, but was an unlikely leader in a time of darkness, crisis and terror. He was, I thought, a good man and an estimable civil servant, but he was not a Marlenus of Ar. Marlenus of Ar had vanished months ago on a punitive raid in the Voltai, directed against the tarnsmen of Treve. He was presumed dead.

  "Kill her," said a man.

  "Kill her!" said another.

  "No!" said Marcus.

  "No," I said.

  "There are only two of them," said a fellow.

  "Listen!" I said, lifting my hand.

  In that instant the crowd was silent. More than one man lifted his head. We turned down the street. Phoebe, very small and vulnerable, naked, in her collar, crawled more behind the legs of Marcus.

  We could hear the bells, the chanting. In a moment we could see the lifted golden circle, on its staff, approaching. The people in the street hurried to press against the walls.

  "Initiates," I said to Marcus.

  I could now see the procession clearly.

  "Kneel," said a fellow near me.

  "Kneel," I said to Marcus.

  We knelt, on one knee. It surprised me that the people were kneeling, for, commonly, free Goreans do not kneel, even in the temples of the Initiates. Goreans commonly pray standing. The hands are sometimes lifted, and this is often the case with praying Initiates.

  "I do not kneel to such," said Marcus.

  "Stay down," I said. He had caused enough trouble already.

  We could now smell the incense. In the lead of the procession were two lads in white robes, with shaved heads, who rang the bells. Following them were two more, who shook censers, these emitting clouds of incense. These lads, I assumed, were novices, who had perhaps taken their first vows.

  "Praise the Priest-Kings!" said a man, fervently.

  "Praise the Priest-Kings," said another.

  I thought that Misk, the Priest-King, my friend, might have been fascinated, if puzzled, by this behavior.

  An adult Initiate, in his flowing white robe, carried the staff surmounted with the golden circle, a figure with neither beginning nor end, the symbol of Priest-Kings. He was followed by some ten or so Initiates, in double file. It was these who were chanting.

  A free woman drew back her robes, hastily, frightened, lest they touch an Initiate. It is forbidden for Initiates to touch women, and, of course, for women to touch them. Initiates also avoid meat and beans. A good deal of their time, I gather, is devoted to sacrifices, services, chants, prayers, and the perusal of mystic lore. By means of the study of mathematics they attempt to purify themselves.

  "Save Ar!" wept a man, as they passed.

  "Save us, oh intercessors with Priest-Kings!" cried a woman.

  "Pray to the Priest-Kings for us," cried a man.

  "I will bring ten pieces of gold to the temple!" promised another.

  "I will bring ten verr, full-grown verr, with gilded horns!" promised another.

  But the Initiates took no note of these not inconsiderable pledges. Of what concern could be such things to them?

  "Keep your head down," I muttered to Marcus.

  "Very well," he growled. Phoebe was behind us, on her stomach, shuddering, covering her head with her hands. I did not envy her, a naked slave, caught inadvertently in such a place.

  In a few moments the procession had passed and we rose to our feet. The crowd had dissipated about us.

  "You are safe now," I said to Phoebe, "or at least as safe as is ever a female slave."

  She knelt timidly at the feet of Marcus, holding to his leg.

  "We cannot resist Cos," said a man, a few feet from us.

  "We must place our trust in the Priest-Kings," said another.

  "Our lads will protect us," said a man.

  "A few pitiful regiments and levies of peasants?" asked another.

  "We must place our trust in the Priest-Kings," said a man.

  Across from us, about seven feet away, on the other side of the narrow street, was the free woman who had secured her robes, that they might not touch an Initiate. She rose to her feet, looking after the procession. We could still hear the bells. The smell of incense hung in the air. Near the free woman was a female slave, in a short gray tunic. She, too, had been caught, like Phoebe, in the path of the procession. She had knelt with her head down to the street, the palms of her hands on the stones, making herself small, in a common position of obeisance. The free woman looked down at her. As the girl saw she was under the scrutiny of a free person she remained on her knees. "You sluts have nothing to fear," said the free woman to her, bitterly. "It is
such as I who must fear." The girl did not answer. There was something in what the free woman had said, though in the frenzy of a sacking, the blood of the victors racing, flames about, and such, few occupants of a fallen city, I supposed, either free or slave, were altogether safe. "It will only be a different collar for you," said the free woman. The girl looked up at her. She was a lovely slave I thought, a red-haired one. She kept her knees tightly together before the free woman. Had she knelt before a man she would probably have had to keep them open, even if they were brutally kicked apart, a lesson to her, to be more sensitive as to before whom she knelt. "Only a different collar for you!" cried the free woman, angrily. The girl winced, but dared not respond. To be sure, I suspected, all things considered, that the free woman was right. Slave girls, as they are domestic animals, are, like other domestic animals, of obvious value to victors. It is unlikely that they would be killed, any more than tharlarion or kaiila. They would be simply chained together, for later distribution or sale. Then the free woman, in fury, with her small, gloved hand, lashed the face of the slave girl, back and forth, some three or four times. She, the free woman, a free person, might be trampled by tharlarion, or be run through, or have her throat cut, by victors. Such things were certainly possible. On the other hand, the free women of a conquered city, or at least the fairest among them, are often reckoned by besiegers as counting within the yield of prospective loot. Many is the free female in such a city who has torn away her robes before enemies, confessed her natural slavery, disavowed her previous masquerade as a free woman, and begged for the rightfulness of the brand and collar. This is a scene which many free women have enacted in their imagination. Such things figure, too, in the dreams of women, those doors to the secret truths of their being. The free woman stood there, the breeze in the street, as evening approached, ruffling the hems of her robes. The free woman put her fingers to her throat, over the robes and veil. She looked at the slave, who did not dare to meet her eyes.

  "What is it like to be a slave?" she asked.

  "Mistress?" asked the girl, frightened.

  "What is it like, to be a slave?" asked the free woman, again.

  "Much depends on the master, beautiful Mistress," said the girl. The slave could not see the face of the free woman, of course, but such locutions, "beautiful Mistress," and such, on the part of slave girls addressing free women, are common. They are rather analogous to such things as "noble Master," and so on. They have little meaning beyond being familiar epithets of respect.

  "The master?" said the free woman, shuddering.

  "Yes, Mistress," said the girl.

  "You must do what he says, and obey him in all things?" asked the free woman.

  "Of course, Mistress," said the girl. "He is Master."

  "You may go," said the free woman.

  "Thank you, Mistress!" said the girl, and leaped to her feet, scurrying away.

  The free woman looked after the slave. Then she looked across at us, and at Phoebe, who lowered her eyes, quickly. Then, shuddering, she turned about and went down the street, to our left, in the direction from whence the Initiates had come.

  "The people of Ar are frightened," said Marcus.

  "Yes," I said.

  We saw a fellow walk by, mumbling prayers. He was keeping track of these prayers by means of a prayer ring. This ring, which had several tiny knobs on it, was worn on the first finger of his right hand. He moved the ring on the finger by means of his right thumb. When one, turning the ring by means of the knobs, keeping track of the prayers that way, comes to the circular knob, rather like the golden circle at the termination of the Initiate's staff, one knows one has completed one cycle of prayers. One may then stop, or begin again.

  "Where do you suppose the Initiates were bound?" I asked Marcus.

  "To their temple, I suppose," he said.

  "What for?" I asked.

  "For their evening services, I presume," he said, somewhat irritably.

  "I, too, would conjecture that," I said.

  "The sun gate!" he cried. "We must be there before dark!"

  "Yes," I agreed.

  "Is there time?" he asked.

  "I think so," I said.

  "Come!" he said. "Come quickly!"

  He then, leading the way, hurried up the street. I followed him, and Phoebe raced behind us.

  2

  The Tent

  "You may turn about," said Marcus, standing up.

  Phoebe, kneeling, gasping, unclasped her hands from behind her neck, and lifted her head from the dirt, in our small tent, outside the walls of Ar, one of hundreds of such tents, mainly for vagabonds, itinerants and refugees.

  "Thank you, Master," said Phoebe. "I am yours. I love you. I love you."

  "Stand, and face me," he said. "Keep your arms at your sides."

  Marcus took a long cord, some five feet or so in length, from his pouch, and tossed it over his shoulder.

  "Am I to be bound now?" she asked.

  "The air seems cleaner and fresher outside the walls," I said.

  We could hear the sounds of the camp about us.

  "It is only that we do not have the stink of incense here," smiled Marcus.

  "Do you know what this is?" he asked Phoebe. He held in his hand, drawn forth from his pouch, a bit of cloth.

  "I am not certain," she said, timidly, hopefully, "Master." Her eyes lit up.

  I smiled.

  "It is a tunic!" she cried, delightedly.

  "A slave tunic," he said, sternly.

  "Of course, Master," she said, delightedly, "for I am a slave!"

  It was a sleeveless, pullover tunic of brown rep cloth. It was generously notched on both sides at the hem, which touch guarantees an additional baring of its occupant's flanks.

  I saw that Phoebe wanted to reach out and seize the small garment but that she, under discipline, kept her hands, as she had been directed, at her sides.

  The cord over Marcus' shoulder, of course, was the slave girdle, which is used to adjust the garment on the slave. Such girdles may be tied in various ways, usually in such ways as to enhance the occupant's figure. Such girdles, too, like the binding fiber with which a camisk is usually secured on a girl, may be used to bind her.

  "It is to be mine, is it not?" asked Phoebe, eagerly, expectantly, hopefully. She would not be fully certain of this, of course. Once before, in the neighborhood of Brundisium, far to the north and west, when she had thought she was to receive a similar garment, one which had previously been worn by another slave, Marcus had refused to permit it to her. He had burned it. She was from Cos.

  "I own it," said Marcus, "as I own you, but it is true that it was with you in mind that I purchased it, that you might wear it when permitted, or directed."

  "May I touch it, Master?" she asked, delightedly.

  "Yes," he said.

  I watched her take the tiny garment in her hands, gratefully, joyfully.

  It is interesting, I thought, how much such a small thing can mean to a girl. It was a mere slave tunic, a cheap, tiny thing, little more than a ta-teera or camisk, and yet it delighted her, boundlessly. It was the sort of garment which free women profess to despise, to find unspeakably shocking, unutterably scandalous, the sort of garment which they profess to regard with horror, the sort of garment which they seem almost ready to faint at the sight of, and yet to Phoebe, and to others like her, in bondage, it was precious, meaning more to her doubtless than the richest garments in the wardrobes of the free women. To be sure, I suspect that free women are not always completely candid in what they tell us about their feelings toward such garments. The same free woman, captured, who is cast such a garment, and regarding it cries out with rage and frustration, and dismay, and hastens to don it only when she sees the hand of her captor tighten on his whip, is likely, in a matter of moments, to be wearing it quite well, and with talent, moving gracefully, excitingly and provocatively within it. Such garments, and their meaning, tend to excite women, inordinately. Too, they are often n
ot such strangers to such garments as they might have you believe. Such garments, and such things, are often found among the belongings of women in captured cities. It is presumed that many women wear them privately, and pose in them, before mirrors, and such. Sometimes it is in the course of such activities that they first feel the slaver's noose upon them, they surprised, and taken, in the privacy of their own compartments. On Gor it is said that free women are slaves who have not yet been collared. In Phoebe's case, of course, the garment represented not only such things, confirmation of her bondage, her subjection to a master, and such, but, more importantly, at the moment, the considerable difference between being clothed and unclothed. She, a slave, and not entitled to clothing, any more than other animals, was, by the generosity of her master, to be permitted a garment.

  "Thank you, Master! Thank you, Master!" wept Phoebe, clutching the garment.