by John Norman
A ship was approaching, a medium-class galley, with twenty oars to a side, dipping unhurriedly. The lateen sail was slackened. Clitus Vitellius stood on the wreckage, waiting.
At the mast line snapped two flags, that of Port Kar and another, that with vertical green bars over a white field, superimposed on which was the head of a gigantic bosk. It had been identified to me earlier, in a conversation of officers on the Jewel of Jad. It was the flag of Bosk of Port Kar.
The galley swung about and eased to the side of the wreckage. A large man, broad-shouldered, yet lithe, with large hands, a broad face, grayish blue eyes and unruly, shaggy, windswept reddish hair, stood at the rail. There was something like an animal about him, indefinable, unpredictable, tenacious, intelligent, cruel. To look at him one knew, though it was the deck of a galley he bestrode, that he was of the warriors. I would have feared being owned by him. His eyes, appraising me, made me conscious of my slavery.
Clitus Vitellius lifted his hand, in a salute of warriors. The man returned the salute.
"I am Clitus Vitellius of Ar," he said. "Am I your prisoner?"
"We have little quarrel with those of Ar," said the man. "You have little shipping."
Clitus Vitellius laughed.
"Clitus Vitellius of Ar, and his men," said the man, "by accounts rendered to me by Samos of Port Kar, of the Council of Captains, participated creditably in the action of the day before yesterday on behalf of the Jewel of Thassa."
Port Kar is sometimes spoken of by her citizens as the Jewel of Thassa. Other men speak of her differently, rather as a den of thieves and cutthroats, a lair of pirates. The city is under the governance of a Council of Captains.
"We did the small things we could," said Clitus Vitellius. "Cos, as you know, wars with Ar." Then Clitus Vitellius looked to the man on the ship. "My men?" he asked.
"Sound and hale," said the man, "on the ship of Samos, the Thassa Ubara."
"Excellent," said Clitus Vitellius.
"Your vessel," said the man, grinning, "appears seaworthy but has clumsy lines."
"I request passage for two," said Clitus Vitellius, "myself and," indicating me, "this slave."
The man on the ship looked at me. "You have a beauty there," he said.
This appraisal much pleased me. I basked in the favor of a free man. The fellow obviously had taste, excellent taste in women, I thought, and I trusted my master was impressed with this independent evaluation. Perhaps I was pleased too obviously, to the irritation of my master.
But we like to be admired and praised. We are women. What woman is not pleased to know she is of interest to men? What woman is not pleased to realize, even shyly, that her beauty may have unsettled a fellow, even dazzled or astonished him, bewildered him, or awed him? Are we supposed to be upset that a fellow may turn about, perhaps disbelievingly, perhaps startled, to see more of us; perhaps we are to him, somehow, in our tunic and collar, the most beautiful woman he has ever seen? That our slave fascinations and vulnerabilities might have an effect on a male is nothing that we are likely to find objectionable. We do not mind being beautiful. And it pleases us to know that we are seen as valuable, as graceful and attractive, to many men, and to know that our master may be thought a lucky fellow that his collar is on our neck. And surely many men must wonder what it would be like for us to be at their feet, instead. Are we for sale? We are desired. No matter what the masters say, I am sure we are the most precious of their belongings. Why else would they keep us in the custody they do?
Clitus Vitellius shrugged. "There are thousands better," he said.
"Of course," said the other, unnecessarily, I thought.
I turned my head to the side.
"But she is a sleek little animal, with good lines," said the other.
"I suppose so," said Clitus Vitellius.
How they speak of us, I thought!
"But she is a beauty," said the other.
"Perhaps," acknowledged Clitus Vitellius.
So! So, even my master, it seemed, was willing to acknowledge that I was a beauty! But what sort of beauty? I had no doubt now about the matter. Oh, I was sure that they were both excellent judges of women, yes, but of what sort of women, I asked myself, women stripped or lightly clad, women in collars or chains! And in what sort of venues had this superb taste in women been developed and honed? In the streets of Ar, seeing girls on leashes or cuffed to rings, in the branding camps of the Vosk, in coffles descending gangplanks in Schendi, on ropes being driven naked to the Sardar Fairs? Perhaps in paga taverns, in the alcoves or in the dancing circles, in brothels, in slave markets? I was being compared with others as flesh, as meat, as an animal, as stock! To be sure, to be regarded as a beauty among slaves is a high compliment to a girl. Most Gorean slaves are beautiful, you see. Indeed, that is why they are made slaves. Men, you see, are interested in beautiful slaves. Who would want an ugly slave? They may remain free. Who would want them? Many free women, captured and stripped, assessed, not found sufficiently attractive, are permitted to return naked to their cities, rejected. Those rejected must surely have mixed feelings about this matter, about their rejection, and their being cast back to freedom, unwanted, just as those in their chains, too, must have mixed feelings, looking at the shackles on their fair limbs. They have been prized, and will be kept. They are beautiful enough to be slaves. "Slave beautiful," in Gorean, as men use the term, is a term expressing superlative regard; it means that the woman is lovely enough, beautiful enough, desirable enough, exciting enough, to be a slave. The beauty is, therefore, the prime target of the slaver's noose, his girl traps, nets, and such. To be sure, interestingly, many women become beautiful in bondage, as their inhibitions are shed, as their emotions are freed, as they learn themselves, as they learn service, as they discover ecstasies beyond the comprehension of the free woman, as they find happiness and love.
I have no doubt that the slavers sometimes make their assessments with such things in mind. I think they are skilled in reading women. It is, after all, their business.
Too, of course, though these things are trivial compared to the emotional transformation wrought by bondage, the slave can always be trimmed, if one wishes, by diet and exercise; or fattened a little, if that is wished, to bring her to more appealing block measurements; be taught that a slatternly appearance is no longer allowed, that she must now keep herself well-groomed, fresh and clean, and so on. Too, of course, she will learn to kneel, to move, and to serve, in many ways; too, she will learn the nature of slave garments, and how to drape and wear them, when she is permitted clothing; she will learn to apply the cosmetics, perfumes and jewelry of a slave, and so on. If her master can afford it, and is interested, or if a slaver thinks she is worth the investment, she may even be sent to a school for training in the arts expected of a proficient female slave, both domestic and intimate. Indeed, any girl processed through a slaver's house is likely to receive some such training. It improves her price. The major transformation in the girl of course goes far beyond the trivialities and mechanics, the externals, so to speak, of such matters as grooming, adornment, training and such, however lovely and important they may be; it is the internal transformation which is most important, and that is wrought within her by the magic of bondage itself; she now understands that she, in her collar, is now for the first time in her life truly free, truly free as a woman, that she may no longer imprison and starve herself; she may no longer deny and repudiate herself; no longer can she conceal the basic she of her; she now understands that she is a slave, owned by a strong man who will see that she well serves him, and this liberates her femininity, frees in her the ancient, biological woman, the slave of her master, and enflames her sexuality.
Free, she was slave; slave, she is free.
Interesting how it is, that the woman is most free when least free.
Perhaps lastly it might be mentioned that Gorean taste in women, while extensive and diverse, as is manifested by the goods offered in the markets, tends on the whole
to run to the natural woman, favoring on the whole the configurations, heights, weights, and such, of the normal female. Many women on Earth who have been subtly led to hold themselves in contempt, by advertising and such, for their failure to embody certain currently fashionable stereotypes of female beauty, to seek which could actually jeopardize their health, would find, perhaps to their misery and terror, that they were of great interest to powerful, lustful, domineering Gorean males. Natural men, they tend to be attracted to natural women. That makes sense, I suppose.
"There is something you should know about her," said Clitus Vitellius.
"What is that?" asked the man.
"She is a traitress," said Clitus Vitellius.
"Ah!" said the man, surprised.
It pleased me that the stranger had not anticipated this intelligence. Indeed, he seemed skeptical. My mien, I gathered, whether it was too feminine, too fearful, or too loving, did not suggest that of a traitress. Yet I had, I knew, in fact, in a terrible moment, betrayed my beloved master.
"Yes," said Clitus Vitellius.
"And it is a civic matter, and you have been authorized to apprehend her and bring her before a slave praetor?"
Slaves, as animals, lack standing before the law. Accordingly, under normal circumstances, they are not permitted in Gorean courts. They may, however, figure as exhibits, for example, as samples of contested or stolen goods. They may also, occasionally, though seldom, be utilized to obtain testimony. This testimony is invariably extracted under torture. The slave, accordingly, has little inclination to enter a Gorean court. Such things are for free persons. She is normally more than content to remain outside, chained to a stanchion or ring, hopefully in the shade. In some cities, however, there is a slave praetor, who will make inquiries where the doings of slaves may be involved, and will be in charge of resolving squabbles, for example, in the market, assigning punishments for offenses, and so on, functions commonly thought beneath the attention of the civic judiciary. Any free citizen may remand a slave to the attention of the slave praetor. Perhaps she has been insufficiently deferent to a free person? It is not likely to go easily with her. Sometimes a girl, who may have been spoiled by an indulgent master, does not find the slave praetor so forgiving or tolerant. We fear the slave praetor and do not care to go before him.
"No," said Clitus Vitellius.
"She betrayed a gate, a position, a detachment, a military secret?" inquired the man.
From the look on his face I was glad that I had not done any of these things.
"No," said Clitus Vitellius. "It is a personal matter."
"She betrayed a particular person?"
"Yes," said Clitus Vitellius.
"And whom did she betray?" inquired the man.
"Me," said Clitus Vitellius.
"And she is now yours, helpless, naked and bound, at your feet," said the man.
"Yes," said Clitus Vitellius.
"Excellent," said the man.
I did not know what would be done with me. I squirmed a little in my bonds. I could not begin to free myself. I did know that the vengeance of a warrior was not a light thing. Could my master not understand that I loved him?
Clitus Vitellius looked down upon me, with fury, with contempt.
"She is garbage, garbage," said Clitus Vitellius.
The man regarded me. Under his gaze I, though a slave, reddened. When I dared to lift my head and look again at him, his gaze was still upon me. I looked away, quickly. I trembled. His gaze was that of a master, a master of women.
"She is, at least, an interesting and well formed bit of garbage," he said.
"Perhaps," said Clitus Vitellius.
I tossed my head. I was not garbage!
"In Port Kar," said the man, "we often think of, and refer to, unfortunately and disreputably, of course, free women as garbage, for they are good for very little."
"I like that," said Clitus Vitellius.
I was not sure just how to think about that. I certainly had no great affection for free women. I knew they hated me. I was frightened of them. They could hurt me, terribly. The slave, of course, was good for a great deal. Men saw to that. We had better be.
"But this one," said Clitus Vitellius, kicking me, as I gasped and recoiled, "is not free."
"I can see that," said the fellow. "She has the lines of a slave."
I pulled against my bonds. I was sure I would be bruised.
"But I assure you, she is nonetheless garbage," said Clitus Vitellius.
"We have a saying in Port Kar, a saying pertaining to free women," said the man. "It is this: 'Garbage collared ceases to be garbage.'"
"I see," said Clitus Vitellius, approvingly.
"After it is collared," said the man, "it is reformed. It is scrubbed clean and put under discipline. It is taught how to please men. It is then, at last, good for something."
"Excellent," said Clitus Vitellius.
The fellow then looked at me. "Do you desire to please your master?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, yes, yes, Master!" I cried.
"Look at her," he said to Clitus Vitellius. "Consider her lines. Is she not a trim little ship? Whatever her flaws and faults may be, she is not garbage." The fellow then looked at me. "Are you garbage?" he asked.
"If my Master says I am garbage, then I am garbage," I said.
"What are you?" asked the man.
I put down my head. "I am garbage, Master," I said. And how true then that seemed to me, for I had betrayed my master, I who was unworthy to kiss his sandals, who had no right to aspire to the collar of such a man.
"Well," said the man, "if garbage, at least lovely garbage."
"Thank you, Master," I whispered.
"She is worthless," said Clitus Vitellius.
"I will give you a silver tarsk for her," said the man.
"Please do not sell me, Master!" I cried.
Clitus Vitellius turned about and cuffed me, angrily. I was struck to my side, near the ring.
"Were you given permission to speak?" he asked.
"No, Master!" I said. "Forgive me, Master." How foolish I had been! I lay on my side. I had spoken without permission. I must be silent, while men discussed whether or not I was to be sold.
"She is not for sale," said Clitus Vitellius, angrily.
I saw the stranger smile. He had not been interested in buying me, though he seemingly recognized I might plausibly be a silver-tarsk girl, which was flattering. It had been a test.
"The slut is not worth a copper tarsk-bit," said Clitus Vitellius, angrily, defensively. "You do not know that, but I do. But she is not for sale. No! She betrayed me. You must understand that. I hunted her, and I have caught her. I loathe her. She is worthless. But I want her where she is, at my feet, as she is, guilty, waiting and helpless. She knows I will show her no mercy. She knows I will have my vengeance. Let her tremble! She will pay. She will pay dearly."
"I do not envy her," smiled the stranger.
"May I speak, Master?" I said.
"No," said Clitus Vitellius.
"It seems you hate the slave," said the stranger.
"Yes, with virulence," snarled Clitus Vitellius.
"May I speak to your slave?" asked the stranger.
"Certainly," said Clitus Vitellius.
"It seems your master hates you," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"Do you hate your Master?" he asked.
"No!" I cried. "I love him! I love him!"
"She is a superb actress," said Clitus Vitellius.
"No, Master!" I wept.
"Did you betray your Master?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"What then should be done with you?"
"Whatever Masters will," I said.
"I do not think she is likely to betray you again," said the man.
"It is hard for a woman to betray a man when she is at his feet, naked and bound," said Clitus Vitellius.
"I think you love your Master," said the strange
r.
"Oh, yes, Master!" I cried. "Yes, yes, Master!"
I was grateful to the stranger. I hoped that he might sway my master. I hoped that I might be permitted to live, and be given an opportunity to atone for the grievous wrong I had done my master. I wanted to serve him, and love him, and give him pleasure, and pleasure, and pleasure! I wanted only the opportunity to prove to Clitus Vitellius my love!
I was sure the stranger saw my love for my master, even if my master did not!
How complete, and helpless, and profound, is the love of a slave girl for her master!
And he can discard her, as he wishes.
"She is a traitress, a traitress," said Clitus Vitellius.
"Doubtless you will discipline her well," said the man.
"It is my intention," said Clitus Vitellius.
I put down my head.
"I grant you passage," smiled the man on the ship.
I felt myself taken and lifted, bound, to a sailor, who lifted me over the rail. He put me by the mast, kneeling, bound.
In a moment, Clitus Vitellius, aided by the hand of the man who had spoken to us, leaped aboard.
"Bring her about," called the man to his helmsmen.
"Left oars!" called the oar master. "Stroke!"
Slowly the galley began to swing about.
The man who had welcomed us aboard, permitting us passage, looked down at me. I looked up at him, naked and bound.
"In courtesy," said Clitus Vitellius, "I grant you and your men slave rights upon this woman. But beyond this, I reserve her to myself. If you wish her beyond my permissions, we must do contest."
"You wish to keep her for your discipline?" asked the man.
"Yes," said Clitus Vitellius.
The man crouched beside me. He thrust open my mouth, holding it with two hands. "Barbarian," he said.
"Yes," said Clitus Vitellius.
The master, a free male, permitted me to close my mouth. He took the tag on my collar in his fingers. He scraped salt from it.
"I was being sent to the Lady Elicia of Ar," I said, "my mistress."
