by John Norman
When Ellen had served the fellow his wine, pouring evenly, carefully, she straightened up and looked back to the other group, sitting about its fire.
Mirus was no longer there. She did not know where he had gone, doubtless about his business, perhaps in one of the tents of the camp.
She looked about herself, to see if others were about who might desire her service. She saw another slave, such as herself, some yards away, stripped, her skin partly illuminated in the firelight, also with one of the two-handled, red-figured pitchers, serving. She is pretty, thought Ellen. I think it is Renata. I wonder how many bids were put in on her.
When Ellen had poured for the fellow, she had been careful not to let her hair fall forward and brush his shoulder. She knew such things might be arousing to men, and that Gorean men, with their powerful sexual appetites, were easily aroused. If he were to cast her down between the fires and put her to his peremptory pleasure, she had little doubt but what it would be she who would be blamed. Is it not always the slave who is blamed, who must writhe beneath the whip? Had there been a sufficient number of iron belts in the camp she supposed that she might have been locked in one. She was supposed to heat until, on the block, she would be pathetically, uncontrollably needful. Had he been her master, in private compartments, she would not have hesitated to permit such an inadvertence, or she might have tied the loose bondage knot in her hair, on the left, as a mute plea for attention. “Serving wine,” although it will usually have its obvious meaning, is commonly used as a euphemism on Gor for serving the pleasure of a master. “Has he had you serve him wine yet?” one girl might ask another. “Wine, Master?” is a question which might be put by a slave to her master, or to her master’s guests, if she has been made available to them. Another example of this idiom is found in phrases such as, say, “Your slave begs to serve you wine” or “The slave begs to serve her master wine.” There are also, differing from city to city, rituals connected with this sort of thing, as when the slave kneels, kisses the cup, and then proffers it to the master, with two hands, arms extended, head down between her arms. Sometimes the cup is first warmed at the breasts, for Goreans commonly drink wine warm, or pressed meaningfully against the slave’s lower belly, the hard rim of the cup pressed inward, severely, against her yielding flesh. These rituals, as noted, differ from city to city. Also, of course, masters may differ, as well, and each will, if he wishes, train his slaves to his pleasure in this matter, as in other matters.
“Ellen,” said a slave.
“Renata?” asked Ellen.
“Yes,” said the girl, suddenly, rather pleased. It was the slave Ellen had seen earlier, yards away, serving in the half darkness. Ellen knew her. She was red-haired. She had been close to Ellen in the coffle for days, and, sometimes, at night, in their chains, between the stakes, they had whispered to one another. She had also been in the same exhibition cage, and they had been in ankle-coffle together for the earlier bathing. She had been ‘Auta’ before, but the scribe had not cared for that name, and had given her the name ‘Renata’. So now she was Renata. She liked this name, but was not yet accustomed to responding to it. To be sure, slaves learn quickly to respond to the names given them by their masters.
“Do you have much wine left?” asked Renata.
“Not much,” said Ellen. “I must return to the vat for more.”
“I would go now,” said Renata. “There is not much left in the vat.”
“Ah!” said Ellen. “Thank you — Renata.”
“It is nothing,” said Renata.
Ellen did not want to be caught with an empty pitcher and the vat empty, perhaps for Ehn, even an Ahn, until its supply might be replenished. She could wait near the vat on the other hand, until it was once more full. No one could be angry about that. It was not as though someone had sent her for wine and she had been dilatory in returning. And, of course, she had no access to the other vats in the camp, for they were guarded jealously by their own vat masters, with their own assigned slaves.
And so Ellen returned to the vat, stopping on the way to serve two men.
She wondered if Mirus had recognized her. She was sure he had, from the first glance. But then he had looked upon her as though she might be a complete novelty to him, an astonishment to him, a totally unknown, lovely slave. Perhaps he had thought he recognized her, and had, but then, later, thought that he had been mistaken, that the slave he saw could not possibly be she for whom he had originally taken her?
Could I have changed so much, Ellen asked herself. Could I have become so different, and so completely a slave?
“Ah, Ellen!” called the portly vat master, one of the caste of vintners. “One can scarcely scrape the bottom of the vat! These loafing tarsks drink like desert kaiila! Hurry to the sutlers! Tell them to trundle a new cask to the vat of Callimachus!”
Ellen stood there, clutching her pitcher. She regarded the vintner with dismay.
She did not want to make her way to the sutlers for that way took her into the darkness, and into the tented areas, closer to the walls of the city. Too, if she went directly, it might take her near the crates containing the strange beasts that had terrorized her, even within their confinements.
“Hurry!” said the vintner. “Do not just stand there! Run!”
“Yes, Master!” cried Ellen, frightened.
“Stop!” he cried.
“Master?” inquired Ellen.
“Leave the pitcher, stupid girl!” he called.
Confused, frightened, she put the pitcher on the bench near the vat, where others already reposed.
She suddenly fled to Callimachus, the vintner, the vat master, and fell to her knees before him. “Might not another slave, a swifter slave, a more beautiful slave, better accomplish this errand, Master?” she inquired.
Ellen was not eager to leave the fires of the festival camp.
“I have already sent Louise,” he said. “She is not yet back!”
“Perhaps she will return soon, Master,” said Ellen. “Surely a slave better suited to this errand than I might be found.”
“So the stupid little slave wants the lash!” he cried.
“No, Master!” cried Ellen.
“Up!” he cried. “Run! Run like the kaiila!”
And so Ellen sprang to her feet and hurried toward the darkness.
“Stop!” cried the vat master. “That way, that way!” he cried, pointing.
“Yes, Master!” she wept.
He would have none of an indirect, or circuitous, route. What was it to him if she must fear for her life in the midst of beasts?
They are confined, she told herself. There is no danger. And that is truly the shortest, most direct route. If I were to go differently I might become lost. I might be apprehended by guardsmen. Would they believe my story, she wondered, that she was on an errand? At the least she might spend the night swathed in coarse ropes, suspended from a hook in their guardhouse. And what would be her punishment from the Cosian slave masters, for her foolishness, ignorance and confusion? And what if they thought she had tried to escape? As she was a barbarian, they might think her that stupid. She did not wish to be crippled, or fed to sleen. There is no danger, she reminded herself. The beasts are confined.
And so Ellen sped toward the city of Brundisium.
She hurried among the fires. She felt men reach out and grasp for her, but she sped on. She passed dancing circles where sinuous slaves, lot numbers on their left breasts, swayed their beauty before lusty brutes who might soon bid upon them.
She had a reasonably clear idea where lay the temporary stockade of the sutlers, and its direction had been reconfirmed for her by the vat master but moments ago.
She must seek out the dealers of wine amongst them, and deliver the order, to be brought to the vat of Callimachus of Cos, to whose tablet it would be marked. Ultimately, however, in theory, the cost of the wine, as tabulated, and the cost of its distribution by such as Callimachus, was to be borne by the state of Cos, as the
festival camp was organized on her behalf. To be sure, Ellen had heard it rumored that she, Cos, might suggest that its donation, that of the wine, and the coverage of associated expenses, would be a welcome, suitable gesture of gratitude on the part of Brundisium for the many benefits she had received at the hands of Cos, and the alliance of the two powers, and such. But such concerns were not those of a slave. And, in the end, she supposed, Brundisium, in turn, might decide that this benevolence might be best exacted of her merchant caste, and particularly of those dealing in wines. But here, again, these were not concerns for such as she, a slave.
In a short time Ellen was beyond the fires and among the tents, most of which were dark. She was taking the most direct route, but, as yet, had not entered into the vicinity of the crates of certain beasts, those the glimpses of which and the roars and cries of which had caused her considerable alarm. She stumbled twice, and once struck into a box. Putting out her hands she felt, nearby, a tharlarion saddle. Once, running, she nearly stepped on a chained, sleeping sleen. Its sudden rising up and vicious snarl terrified her. If she had struck against it her leg might have been ripped from her with one savage snap of the jaws. She fled about it, further into the darkness. She began to cry. She stopped. She was now afraid to run. Why was there not more light? Torches, lanterns, lamps, anything? Surely at places in the camp, even away from the festival fires, there was some light. But very little here. Men might find their way among the tents with the aid of a lantern, a torch, or such, but she had no such device. She put out her hand and touched something that loomed wall-like in the darkness, canvas. She turned about. She cried out, softly, piteously, her progress suddenly arrested by a tent rope, taut, running diagonally downward from its pole to its peg, anchored in the dirt, some feet from the tent. She put our her hands in the darkness, to feel her way.
It was very dark here.
She suddenly realized she was not clear as to her location. On the other hand, she was not totally disoriented as she could see the fires of the camp behind her and, in the distance, the lights of Brundisium, among them some of the beacon fires on her walls. But where along those vast walls was the stockade of the sutlers?
She crouched down in the dirt, and wept.
Then she heard a howl, which she surmised must emanate from one of the beasts she muchly feared.
That is my direction, she thought.
She hoped fervently that Louise, sent out before her, had now returned successfully, having finished up the entire matter.
She heard some men approaching. One of them carried a lantern. She wiped tears from her eyes. She shrank back in the shadows.
Crouching down she watched the men pass. They did not see her in the darkness.
One of the men she saw, this startling her, was Mirus!
She crept after them, using the wavering light of the lantern to follow them, it casting strange shadows on the tents and earth.
Thusly she might the more safely find her way, she reassured herself. To her surprise, but pleasure, she saw that their path led very much in the direction she desired to go. In any event, though she did not admit this to herself, she would have risked much, merely to follow Mirus.
And so she crept after them, a young, naked slave.
In one or another of the tents there was a lit lamp, its light visible through the silk or canvas. At such places she tried to stay in the shadows, and then, in a moment, once more follow the swaying lantern, a tiny, glowing dot before her.
Occasionally a lantern was slung from a pole, a pool of light at its base. At such places she must most particularly endeavor to avoid detection.
On her hands and knees, crawling, she heard a woman’s voice, from within a tent. Something in the voice, in its helplessness, its piteousness, in its gasps, its intonations, suggested that the woman might be struggling futilely, weakly, pulling against bonds. “Please, Master, I love you!” Ellen heard. “Permit me to yield! I cannot stand it! I fear I will die! Oh, oh. Please do not bring me again and again to this point, so, cruelly, without permitting me to yield! Just one more touch, Master! Please, another touch, just the tiniest touch! It is all I need! I am your slave! Do not be so cruel! Show me mercy! You have conquered me a thousand times! I am hopelessly and abjectly yours! I love you, Master! I beg to be permitted to yield!”
Men, the arrogant, masterful beasts, thought Ellen, biting her lip, grinding her fingernails into the palms of her hands. How vulnerable we are! How they make us theirs! They play us like czehars, drawing what music they will from our bodies! How arrogantly, how imperiously they master us, their slaves! And Ellen envied the slave within the tent. Would that I were in her bonds, thought Ellen. I, too, would weep with passion, and beg to yield, and if my master, in his mercy, saw fit to grant me the caress of permission, I would weep with ecstasy, his, and beg to please, again and again.
Will he not be kind to her? Does he not know she is only a slave?
There was then a soft, rapturous, prolonged, grateful, inarticulate cry from within the tent, partly muffled, for the master had perhaps placed his hand firmly over the mouth of the slave, that she might not disturb the camp. In a moment his hand must have been removed from her lips, for Ellen heard, “Thank you, thank you, beloved Master! I love you, Master! I love you, Master!”
Kind master, beloved master, thought Ellen.
Ellen sought to control herself. She must not cry out!
Tears burst from her eyes as she clenched her fists, in her own frustration, in the throes of her own starved needs.
She must not cry out!
I am a slave thought Ellen. I want a master! I want a master!
Then Ellen looked up, suddenly, frightened.
Where was the lantern? Where the men? Quickly she looked about, and hurried in the direction it had last been moving.
“Where, where?” she cried out to herself.
She rushed into the darkness.
She fell.
Where is Mirus, who was my master, she asked herself. No, no, I must get to the sutlers, she told herself. I have an errand. I must hurry. Oh, where has he gone? Where is Mirus?
She rose again to her feet, and continued on, and then, after a few moments, stopped, suddenly. She heard men somewhere before her. She went to her hands and knees and approached, cautiously.
Putting out her hand she touched the side of something which seemed to be a great, stout box. She recoiled in terror. It was surely one of the crates which had held one of the large, shaggy, half-seen beasts which had so terrified her earlier. But there was no sound from within the crate. Perhaps the beast was asleep. As silently as she could, she crawled forward a little. A tiny creaking noise to her right startled her. The gate to the crate had moved a little on its hinges. She felt she might die with fear. She put out her hand a little and touched the gate. It was ajar. She moved it a little. A heavy, beastlike, musky odor came from the box, but she could detect no sign of life within it. There was no evidence whatsoever of a presence within the container, no suggestion of movement, no sound of respiration from large, savage lungs. She felt sick. The crate, she was sure, was empty.
“It is time,” she heard, the voice of one of the men a few yards away. It was as though he were addressing something.
Suddenly she saw the lantern once more revealed, now brought forth from beneath a cloak, and lifted.
She went to her stomach, fearfully, in terror that she might be seen.
There were four men standing before one of the crates. In the light she could see that Mirus was one of them. More frightening to her was that there was now something with the men, two shambling, gigantic shapes crouching near them. She law light reflected in the eyes of one of the beasts, from the uplifted lantern. They glowed like fire for the briefest moment, and then it had turned its head away. She had no doubt these things with the men had been the denizens of the boxes. There had been five such boxes, she thought. Why had the men dared to release these things? What manner of madness had overcome them?<
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One of the men stood before one of the crates, and tapped it gently. There was a responding growl from within the crate. “It is time,” said the man. “Others are within the tent.”
There was a large tent near the crates, a tent Ellen had supposed might house, perhaps among others, the beasts’ masters or handlers.
The crate, like the others, was apparently secured by two hasps and staples, each with their own gigantic padlocks, better than six or seven pounds in weight and six inches in diameter, some three or four inches in thickness.
Do not let it out, thought Ellen, lying on her stomach, hiding in the darkness.
But, to Ellen’s horror, the men did not bend to undo the padlocks and release the inmate. Rather the door simply swung out, being opened from the inside. The beast emerged and stretched. As it stood on its hind legs it was some eight feet in height, and its arms must have been five feet in length. It must have weighed several hundred pounds. Then it sank down to all fours, like a rounded, furred boulder, and looked about itself. The padlocks, the stout bolts and plates, then, had been meaningless. The appearance of their stout securities had been a sham, intended to conceal a fearful truth, that the beasts had never been other than at liberty.
