Prize of Gor

by John Norman

The fellow who had halted the auctioneer was plainly clad, in a simple brown tunic, and was surely of low caste, perhaps of the peasants, or a drayman of sorts.

  Mirus smiled.

  Although the caste of Mirus might be unclear from the particular nature of his garmenture, Ellen supposed him of the slavers, which would be a subcaste of the Merchants, which caste was doubtless the wealthiest on Gor, and one which was often wont to view itself, perhaps in virtue of its wealth, if not as well in virtue of its influence and power, as a high caste, a tendency which, however, was not widely shared, save perhaps, at least publicly, by its clients and sycophants. Goreans respect wealth but tend to value other attributes more highly, and, indeed, to the credit of the Merchants, it should be noted that they usually do so, as well. One such attribute is fidelity; another is honor. Gor is not Earth.

  In any event, aside from any cultural ambiguity which might attend the station or status of the Merchants, Mirus would presumably concede nothing in caste merit to the fellow who had just, it seemed, dared to gainsay him.

  Mirus again regarded his apparent competitor, and again smiled.

  It did not seem that he need have much to fear with respect to any ensuing competitive engagements.

  “The bid was of twenty silver tarsks,” called the auctioneer, “not twenty copper tarsks.”

  “Close your hand,” called Mirus.

  “Do not do so,” called the other man, several yards farther way than Mirus, but to his left, and Ellen’s right.

  “You have a bid?” asked the auctioneer.

  “I bid one,” said the man.

  “I do not understand,” said the auctioneer.

  “One golden tarn disk, of the Ubar’s mint, of Cos,” called the man.

  A murmur of surprise, and interest, and disbelief, coursed through the crowd.

  Ellen shook her head, wildly, disconcerted, frightened.

  “What is your caste?” called Mirus to the man.

  “Surely one need not certify caste to bid in open auction,” said the fellow. “I do not recall that being required hitherto, here or elsewhere.”

  “A ruling!” called Mirus.

  “Certification of caste is not a prerequisite for bidding,” said the auctioneer.

  “Let us see the color of his gold!” called Mirus.

  “With all due respect, good sir,” said the auctioneer to the fellow back in the crowd on Ellen’s right, “all in all, under the circumstances, I think that a fair request.”

  “No other has been required to do so,” called the plainly clad fellow.

  There was laughter in the crowd.

  “I have a bid of twenty silver tarsks,” called the auctioneer, “and I am preparing to close my hand!”

  “Wait!” cried a man, pointing to the plainly clad fellow.

  He was now holding up, over his head, a large coin. Aloft, held so, it seemed to speak of weight and power. Its glossy glint in the flickering torchlight carried even to the block.

  “See if it is genuine!” cried Mirus.

  The auctioneer gestured to the side of the block and one of the assistants there hurried through the tiers. He held the coin, and bit at it. “It is good, it seems good,” he called back to the block.

  “Let it be tested and weighed at the business table,” suggested the plainly clad fellow.

  “And whose throat did you cut for it?” called Mirus to his adversary.

  “None, as yet,” said the plainly clad fellow.

  “One, one!” called Mirus. This was a bid of a golden tarn disk, and a silver tarsk.

  The crowd was quiet. All eyes turned to the plainly clad fellow.

  “Five,” said the plainly clad fellow, “five golden tarn disks, each of full weight, each from the Ubar’s mint, at Jad, on Cos.”

  Ellen, in position, trembled. She was in consternation. Where would the plainly clad fellow, one such as he, obtain such riches?

  She struggled to keep position. She did not wish to be a whipped slave, surely not before Mirus and the other! She fought blackness, which seemed to close about her. Then she fought her way back to full, alarmed consciousness. She had somehow managed to keep position. She blinked against the light. She was very much aware of the sawdust in which she knelt, “slave knelt.” She was afraid. Surely he must be a sought man, surely guardsmen would enter the tiers at any moment and put hands upon him. Surely he should flee with his gains, howsoever he might have come by them. And how dare he reveal such wealth, here, in this place, he with no retinue, no men at arms to surround and protect him? Surely in a camp such as this, so open, so populous, there might be thieves, brigands, bandits, murderers, who knew what practitioners of diverse arts predatory and unscrupulous.

  “I have a bid of five tarn disks,” called the auctioneer. “I am preparing to close my hand!”

  “Wait!” called Mirus. “I cannot at the moment match that bid in ready coin. Indeed, no rational man, without guards, outside of a caravan, would carry about such wealth! I do not have the coins at hand, but I can give you a note, my note, for more!”

  There was a roar of laughter from the tiers.

  “I am Mirus, of the house of Mirus, of Ar!” called Mirus.

  “Ar is bankrupt,” cried a man. “She is occupied, looted. She is a den of cowards, beggars and traitors! She lives at the sufferance of Cos!”

  “Long live Cos!” cried more than one man in the crowd. And this cry was soon taken up by others.

  “I have a bid of five tarn disks,” called the auctioneer. “Is there more? Is there more?”

  “You will not accept my note?” called Mirus.

  “I am sorry, good sir,” said the auctioneer. “We deal with coin in this camp.”

  There was more laughter in the tiers.

  “Down with Ar!” cried a man.

  “Long live Cos!” shouted a man.

  Mirus thrust his hand angrily within his robes, toward his left side, but a fellow with him, one Ellen recognized as having been with him in the tent, put his hand warningly on his arm, and Mirus withdrew his hand. He then stormed away, making his way through the tiers, pressing away through the crowd, followed by some four men, he who had placed his hand warningly on his arm and three others, all of these having been seen by Ellen earlier in the tent. For some reason these men frightened her. More than one cast a backwards glance toward the block. Could it be that they had, for some reason, wished Mirus to be successful in his bidding?

  “I have a bid of five tarn disks,” called the auctioneer. “Do I hear more?”

  There was silence.

  “To be sure,” said the auctioneer, “that is a high price to pay for this little piece of slave meat.”

  “Is she incognito?” inquired a fellow from the tiers. “Is she a Ubar’s daughter?”

  There was laughter in the crowd.

  Ellen reddened. There had been no mistaking her for such, not she. Only too obviously did they see her as mere chattel, a simple collar slut.

  “No,” said the auctioneer, “she is a barbarian, semi-trained, a relatively common piece of chain goods, nothing particularly out of the ordinary, a fairly typical item of fleshstock. To be sure, she is a vulnerable, nicely curved, cuddly little slut, not unlike many barbarians.”

  “I am preparing to close my hand,” called the auctioneer, well pleased.

  Suddenly the momentousness of the moment came home to Ellen. She was on the brink of being sold!

  “No, no!” she cried, suddenly. “Do not sell me! Not to him! Please, no! No, please! No!”

  The auctioneer looked down at her, startled. Ellen had twisted, to see him behind her.

  “May I speak?” she begged. “May I speak?”

  The auctioneer scrutinized the stripped slave at his feet. His eyes narrowed. He did not respond to her request to speak. Clearly she was beside herself with misery and fear.

  “Do not sell me to him, Master!” she begged. “Sell me to anyone but him, Master!”

  “Ah,” said the auct
ioneer. “Now I think I understand. It is a vengeance buy. Once you betrayed him, and now he will have you at his mercy, and will revenge himself upon you lengthily, and exquisitely, and at his leisure.”

  “No!” cried Ellen. “That is not it! It is different! It is different!”

  No matter how she might have annoyed, or scorned, or tormented, or taunted, from time to time, this handsome competitor of her former master, Mirus, she had surely never dealt him treachery, had never betrayed him to enemies, or such. Thus his interest in her, if interest it was, could not be of the nature of a “vengeance buy,” at least in any normal sense of that term, with its commonly dreadful implications.

  Indeed, let the woman beware who is the object of a true vengeance buy! A man will pay much to obtain her! And then, sold to him, she is his to do with as he pleases. Let the woman beware, whether slave or free, who has betrayed a Gorean male, lest she come later into his power. Gorean males will pursue such a woman relentlessly, intent on bringing her into their collar. How terrifying to find oneself in chains, owned, stripped, at the feet of one whom one has betrayed! But such cases are rare, and extreme. The usual “vengeance buy” might more appropriately be regarded as little more than a “satisfaction buy.” Perhaps, say, a woman, doubtless a free woman, as a slave would be very unlikely to risk this, has irritated or annoyed a man. Has this been done deliberately? Doubtless. But, why? Perhaps she is merely nasty, or unhappy, and feels secure in her freedom. Perhaps, on the other hand, she is, subconsciously presumably, as the saying is, “courting the collar.” Who knows? Is her unpleasantness merely something to be reprimanded by the collar, that she is to be taught, stripped at a man’s feet, that such a thing is impolite, and unacceptable? Or is it rather an unwitting, scarcely understood, cry from her heart, a cry for the secret, yearning slave to be released from the dungeon of denial in which she has for so long languished, neglected and ignored, a plea for her to be permitted to emerge at last into the liberation of total bondage, and helpless, absolute love? But would it not be pleasant, in either case, to have her in one’s collar? A moment of explanation might not be here amiss. Gorean free women, particularly of high caste, have a status which is far higher than that of the average free woman on Earth. Indeed, the average free woman of Earth would have very little understanding, at least initially, culturally, of the social station of a Gorean free woman. Her culture would not have prepared her for it. She will, of course, become aware of this almost immediately on Gor, when she will be so unfortunate to find herself, a slave, before such a woman. In any event, aware of her status and station the Gorean free woman, particularly if of high caste, commonly regards herself, and is culturally justified in doing so, as a very special and superior creature, one generally aloof and unapproachable, one commonly lofty and exalted. She has, after all, a Home Stone. Accordingly, as might be expected, she is often vain, petty, selfish, supercilious, and arrogant. One might then have some understanding of the radical and traumatic transformation, with all its attendant mental and psychological anguish, which such a woman might undergo should she become a slave. She, at least, from her culture, has some understanding of what it is to be a slave. She has a clear idea of what has been done to her. The Earth woman, on the other hand, on her native world, is commonly not even veiled. She lets anyone look upon her face, not even aware of how much more exquisitely expressive it is, how much more sensitive and revealing it is, than her bared body. Too, her transition from free to slave, given her background, is not as radical and dramatic a transition as would be that of a Gorean free woman to the same status, that of bondage. To be sure, it should in all honesty be admitted that Gorean women, at least after some initial adjustments, do quite well in slavery. Given no choice they, as their Earth sisters, thrive in their collars. This is not surprising for we are both women and can come home to ourselves only at the feet of a man. Too, the Gorean free woman is subject to many constraints, physical, psychological and cultural, of which the slave is free. It is nice to think that within those cumbersome, ponderous robes a naked slave is waiting. How wonderful it is to be tunicked and safely, securely collared, to be able to move freely about, to walk and run, to be open to the sun, to feel the air and wind on one’s body, to see and feel the glory of this world, to revel in its vitalities and sensations, and, too, to know that one is excruciatingly desirable, to say nothing of knowing oneself owned, and taken in the arms of one’s master.

  So let us all, slaves, whatever might be our origins, strive to please our masters!

  “No, Master, no, Master!” cried Ellen, and turned about, on her knees, clasping the knees of the auctioneer in piteous supplication, looking up at him, her eyes bursting with tears. “Do not sell me to him, not to him! To anyone but him! Not to him, please, Master!”

  The auctioneer thrust her back.

  “I hate him!” she cried. “I hate him!”

  “And he you?” inquired the auctioneer.

  “Yes!” she cried. “He holds me in contempt, and hates me!”

  “It is not inappropriate to hold barbarians in contempt,” said the auctioneer. “Your lowly origin alone justifies that form of regard. Surely you have learned that by now on Gor. But in what manner, other than by your origin, did you earn his contempt?”

  Ellen looked down, into the sawdust.

  “Were you poor in the furs?” he asked.

  “I trust not, Master,” she said.

  “Speak,” said the auctioneer.

  “I scorned him,” she wept.

  “Ah,” said the auctioneer. “I see that you will have a pleasant time of it.”

  “He hates me!” she wept.

  “Doubtless that will add an interesting flavor to your relationship,” said the auctioneer.

  “Sell me to anyone but him, Master!” Ellen begged. “Do not have me put in that collar! I do not want to wear his collar!”

  “Be silent,” said the auctioneer.

  Ellen looked up at him, agonized, not permitted then to speak.

  He then with the back of his hand struck her across the mouth. She sobbed, looking up at him, regarding him, aghast.

  “That is for having spoken without permission,” he said.

  He then with a thrust of his bootlike sandal spurned her to the sawdust, and she lay sobbing before him, at his feet.

  “Belly,” said he then, “head to the left.”

  Ellen then lay on her belly in the sawdust, her head toward the exit steps from the great block. She tasted blood at her lip. How foolish she had been, to have spoken without permission. Had she learned nothing as to what she was on this world? She felt the bootlike sandal of the auctioneer resting on her back. It held her in place. She could not rise. She turned her head toward the crowd, to see he who had bid so high on the miserable, pathetic piece of helpless flesh merchandise which was she.

  “Five tarn disks!” called the auctioneer. “I close my hand!”

  She saw the eyes of her buyer upon her. His expression was unreadable. Her lower lip trembled; again she tasted blood.

  The gong rang out. She knew its signification. Surely she had heard it ring out many times before. The auctioneer removed his bootlike sandal from her back.

  The vibrations of the gong seemed to linger in the atmosphere, and in her flesh. She knew what it meant, that another girl had been sold.

  And suddenly she realized that she was the girl.

  She had been sold!

  She now belonged, in the full meaningfulness of Gorean servitude, to her new master, Selius Arconious!

  The auctioneer’s assistant half dragged her to the stairs, and there handed her down, into the arms of another assistant. In a moment she was at the left of the block, as one would look toward the tiers, among other girls. She felt her left wrist clasped in a holding manacle, much as had been the case earlier, at the right side of the block, before her ascent to the sawdust-covered, concave surface from which she had been but a moment earlier vended.

  No, no, she thought.
Not to him! To anyone but him! He hates me! I hate him! I hate him! Oh, Ellen, miserable slave! He has bought you! He owns you! You belong to him! You belong to Selius Arconious! It is his collar that you must wear!

  She put her face in her hands, weeping.

  The chain dangled down, from the close-fitting metal on her wrist.

  Chapter 26

  WE MUST DEPART THE CAMP

  “My master is going to call me ‘Melanie’,” she said.

  “That is now a slave name,” said Ellen.

  To be sure, Ellen was half numb with fatigue and misery. And she was afraid, for she knew who it was who had bought her.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, happily. “I wear it now only upon my master’s sufferance.”

  “You understand that?” asked Ellen.

  “Yes, fully, completely!” she said, happily.

  “Excellent,” said Ellen, weakly.

  Ellen, with other slaves, sold women, wrist-chained, was in a holding area. They were awaiting their pick-ups. Several had already been removed from the chain. A receipt is tendered, and the slave is delivered. This was the morning after their sale, something like an Ahn before noon. Slaves are not always promptly claimed. There may be collars to prepare, chains to be measured, whips to be purchased, arrangements to be made.

  Ellen was confused, dismayed, frightened.

  Selius Arconious, it seemed, for whatever reason, as was the case, it seemed, with a number of other masters, as well, was in no hurry to claim his slave.

  She wondered if he would come to the area in person, to claim her.

  She wanted to be claimed, and was frightened that she would be claimed.

  “I was sold to one from Venna!” Melanie said.

  “That is far from Brundisium,” said Ellen.

  “Yes,” she cried, delightedly. “And there I can be only a slave!”

  “I assure you,” said Ellen, “even if you were sold to someone in Brundisium, you would be there, in your former city, no more than a slave, as well. No more, even there, would the briefly tunicked, collared slave Melanie be confused with the former free woman, the proud, heavily robed Lady Melanie of Brundisium. If anything, you would be treated even more harshly, more cruelly, in Brundisium.”