by John Norman
****
Or was it that a lashing might be no more than merely another prosaic mnemonic device, one among many, reminding the slave, lest she might forget it, that she was truly a slave. Certainly, from the slave’s point of view there is little doubt that being subject to the lash of her master is a confirmation, in her own mind, as in that of others, like the collar and brand, of her condition. Interestingly, too, though Ellen feared the lash, and would go to great lengths to avoid it, she, in the complex subtleties and ambiguities of the master/slave relationship, in which she was so obviously implicated, and despite her constant explicit reassurances to herself that she must hate her master, the virile, arrogant, masterful beast, Selius Arconious, found it necessary to attempt to suppress within her own mind a frequent, poignant, astonishing refrain, “I want to be whipped. I want to be whipped. I love him. I love him. I want him to whip me. I love him. I want him to whip me.” Doubtless there were subconscious depths and mysteries here which eluded superficial explanations, which eluded the facile, at-hand, convenient, shallow categories of the ideologically conditioned understanding, which defied political mockeries of human nature, a reference to realities which lay deeply, restlessly, in the being of a species, realities which were perhaps born before the dwelling in caves, before the hunting of great, lumbering, tusked beasts, before the nurturing of sparks, and the lifting in triumph against the darkness, in a hairy paw, a burning brand.
“I think Master likes me,” said Ellen.
“Beware,” he said.
“Nights ago at the dancing circle,” said Ellen, “I recall that I was to be whipped. But Master saved me. My master is thoughtful, and kind. He rescued me. He bought my strokes from the scribe. A slave is grateful.”
“If I were you, slave,” said he, “I would not be too grateful.”
“Master?” asked Ellen.
“Watch,” said he. “Watch the skies.” Then he walked about her, and went beside the wagon. Ellen was troubled. Then she was mildly perplexed. Then she straightened her body, and walked well. Then she smiled. The thongs were on her wrists. She heard the tharlarion grunt. The wagon wheels creaked. They continued on their way.
In the next two or three days, sometime, presumably depending on the trekking, they should reach the vicinity of “the place of concealed tarns,” at which point Bosk, he of Port Kar, and Marcus, he of Ar’s Station, would leave the group, presumably proceeding thence to the rendezvous point. Portus Canio and the others, then, would presumably turn southeast, toward Ar, hoping to reach the great southern road, the Viktel Aria, Ar’s Victory.
****
The next morning Ellen was permitted to ride in the back of the wagon. She was in her tunic, and back-braceleted. She was lying mostly supine, nestled in bedrolls and blankets, in the wagon bed. About her were some tarpaulins, these covering various boxes and bundles, housing utensils, supplies and such. She was warm, and drowsy from the creaking and rocking of the wagon, and she opened her eyes a little, squinting against the morning sun. She was grateful for having been permitted to ride, and, as for the back-braceleting, slaves must expect such things. She did not think that they feared she might steal a biscuit. She thought, rather, that they merely enjoyed seeing her thusly. It surely made it difficult to keep the tunic down about her thighs, but it could be managed somewhat by a bit of judicious, if embarrassing, squirming. And the men seemed to enjoy that. Men are beasts, thought Ellen, who enjoy the discomfiture of a bound woman, aesthetically and otherwise, one put totally at their mercy, in accord with their imperious will. Back-braceleted, the slave knows herself helpless. Indeed, a common point of back-braceleting is just that, to impress her vulnerability and helplessness upon her. This also tends to be arousing to a woman. But Ellen’s master, for whatever reason, had not made use of her. This puzzled her, and troubled her, for she knew that her body, if not her mind, longed to serve his pleasure. Certainly her body eagerly, plaintively willed to be put to his slave use. It might be mentioned in passing that, whatever may be the ideological point of encouraging antimenite fantasies of martial prowess on a politicized world, for example, in popular entertainments, fantasies themselves, such fantasies have little grounding in reality, and, if acted upon, may have tragic consequences. Incidentally, the penalties for a slave’s striking, or attempting to strike, a free person are severe. They range from death to such lesser penalties as the amputation of a foot, the breaking of the teeth out of a jaw, and such. Women on Gor, whether slave or free, are in no doubt, on some level at least, that nature, for whatever reason, has made men their masters.
Ellen struggled to sit up.
Then she struggled to her knees, and then to her feet, trying to hold her balance in the wagon.
There seemed no mistaking the spots in the sky.
“Masters!” she cried.
Her shout instantly drew the attention of the men who, sheltering their eyes, followed her gaze.
“Do not break,” said Portus Canio. “Do not seize weapons. Keep your places. We are innocent travelers, returning home. We have nothing to fear. Pretend that you have not seen them.”
“They may pass over,” said a man.
“They may be merchants, carriers of precious commodities, too rich to risk on the ground. They may have no concern with us,” speculated Fel Doron.
The men kept their position about the wagon, facing in the direction of the trek. Fel Doron, who held the reins of the tharlarion, spoke soothingly to it. “On, gently now, you fat, beautiful gross wart. On, on, slowly, gently.”
“Ellen,” said Portus Canio, not looking at her, “down. Sit. Sit in the wagon, facing backward. Keep us informed. Tell us what you see.”
“Yes, Master,” said Ellen, frightened.
“Continue as you were,” said Portus Canio to Fel Doron.
“On, ugly beauty,” said Fel Doron, quietly.
“They do not seem to be approaching, Master,” said Ellen. “They may be circling, far off.”
“Then they are not merchants,” said a man.
“Have they seen us?” asked Portus Canio.
“I do not know, Master,” said Ellen.
“I saw five,” said Portus Canio. “How many do you see?”
“I count five,” said Ellen, slowly.
“Are they tarnsmen?” asked a man, looking forward.
“Are there tarn baskets?” asked another.
“I think so,” said Ellen. “It is hard to tell.”
“They would then be merchants,” said a man.
“If they are tarnsmen, there would be only five then,” said a man.
“They could reconnoiter, and summon others,” said another man.
“Can you see if there are tarn baskets?” asked another.
“Yes,” said Ellen, suddenly. “As they just veered, I am sure there are tarn baskets!”
“Then they are civilians, merchants,” said a man.
“That may not be true,” said Portus Canio, grimly.
“There could be four or five men to a carrier,” said Fel Doron, softly.
“That could be twenty or more,” said a man, apprehensively.
“Can you see banners, weaponry?” asked Portus Canio.
“It is too far away,” said Ellen.
“What are they doing now?” asked Fel Doron, looking forward, over the broad, scaled back of the draft beast in the traces.
“I am not sure they see us,” said Ellen. “Their interest may be in something behind us.”
“We will continue on our way,” said Portus Canio.
“What is behind us?” asked Fel Doron.
“Stand,” said Portus Canio.
Ellen struggled to her feet, bracing her leg against the side of the wagon bed. “I see only the grass, bending in the wind, clouds, the horizon, Master,” she said.
“What of the tarns and carriers now?” asked a man.
“They are smaller now,” said Ellen. “I think they are going away.”
“I do not unders
tand this,” said Portus Canio. “If they are merchants, they would not circle, but continue on their way. If they were tarnsmen, or soldiery, one would expect them to approach, to alight and inquire into our identity and destination.”
“They may not have seen us,” said a man, “and, come to the perimeter of their search range, turned back.”
“Perhaps,” said Portus Canio.
Ellen, looking back, could see the wake of the wagon wheels in the tall grass. She had little doubt but what so remarkable a feature might be detectable from a height, and much more easily than from a position on the ground, unless one were in the actual wake of the wagon itself.
Portus Canio swung himself over the side of the wagon, and stood upright beside her for several Ihn, looking backward. He shaded his eyes. From the height of the wagon he could see much farther than was possible from the level of the ground. Too, he was some twelve to fourteen inches taller than the slave. He could see, of course, the twin tracks in the grass behind them, which would mark, for several hours, the passage of the wagon.
He then lifted Ellen from her feet, holding her for a moment, and looked down into her eyes. She felt the strength of his hand in the softness behind the backs of her knees, and his other hand at her back. She trembled slightly, held helplessly off her feet, knowing herself in his power. She held her legs together, demurely, her head down, slightly bowed, turned to the side, her toes pointed, emphasizing the curvature of her calves. As a slave girl she had been taught to hold herself in this position when carried in that fashion. She knew substantially what she looked like. She had observed herself in the large wall mirrors of the training room when she had been new to a collar, being carried in exactly that way by instructors or guards. This posture of the body, she knew, is extremely provocative, as it is intended that it should be. She wondered what some of her arid, shrill, frustrated, sex-starved feminist colleagues would have thought of her, if they could have seen her being carried in that fashion, as a half-naked, braceleted slave girl. She did not care. They knew nothing of what it was to be a woman, and to belong to men. Let them go their own way, she thought. And let them cry out, if they would, if they could manage nothing better, in tragic, unsatisfied need, and clutch, and drench, their pillows with desperate tears, tears of helpless frustration, envying her, and wondering why they knew no men, wondering why no one would put a collar on them.
Portus Canio growled softly, held her for a moment, then laughed softly, and then placed her gently on the blankets in the wagon bed. He wants me, thought Ellen. Someone wants me! Someone thinks I am of interest! Indeed, it had been Portus Canio who had bought her off the shelf of Targo in Ar, in the Kettle Market! She stole a glance at Selius Arconious. He was dark with fury. She smiled, and turned her head aside, innocently, pretending not to notice.
“Keep watch, behind us, and to the sides,” said Portus Canio.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
But they saw nothing more of tarns and tarnsmen, or merchants, or aerial soldiery that day.
They continued on their way.
Perhaps the next day, or the day following, they might reach the neighborhood of the “place of concealed tarns.” It was in that vicinity that Bosk of Port Kar and Marcus, of Ar’s Station, were expected to leave the group, and the group itself to turn toward the Viktel Aria, and, eventually, Ar. She did not know. Such things were not discussed directly with slaves, nor did she feel it was her option to inquire. She did, of course, as she could, and as unobtrusively as possible, listen to the conversations of the masters. As is well known, there is a Gorean saying to the effect that curiosity is not becoming in a kajira. On the other hand, who has ever heard of a kajira who was not inquisitive, and quite so? After all, what do the beasts expect? We are females, and slaves.
She gathered that things might be afoot in Ar.
It was rumored that Marlenus of Ar, the Ubar of Ubars, as some thought him, had returned to Ar. Mercenary garrisons, deprived of their pay, become restless. Revolution in the city, it seemed, might be soon enkindled.
That day Bosk of Port Kar twice called halts. This was for no reason that she understood. After calling the second halt, he had stood on the wagon bed, near her. He paid her no attention, but looked about. She remained very still. He frightened her. She did not dare to meet his eyes. Was this, she wondered, because she was now no more than a meaningless, braceleted, collared, half-naked slave on Gor, or was it rather simply because she was a female? But she speculated that even if she had met him on Earth, among others, in a civilized setting, or one of those settings called “civilized,” perhaps at a cocktail party, she in sophisticated garmenture, in heels, perhaps in pearls, she might have felt similarly, been similarly frightened. Would she have been able to stand poised before him? She thought not. She thought, rather, she would have looked into his eyes, even in such a room, in such a place, at such a time, and comprehended in his gaze the calm fires of command. She was sure she would have understood, even there, on some level, even in such an unlikely place and time, that she was looking into the eyes of a master, one who could detect, and knew how to deal with, the slave in her. She would have trembled, even there. Oh, she would have smiled, and chatted, for a moment, and looked away, and laughed lightly, perhaps a little hysterically, and negotiated the room, withdrawing, but knowing that his eyes were still upon her, undressing her, idly measuring her for chains.
At his bidding, after the second halt, after he had descended from the wagon bed, the trek was slowed.
She would have feared to belong to him. She sensed he had suffered many cruelties, and perhaps betrayals. She did not think she would wish to be the man, or woman, who might have dared to betray such a man.
He seemed to her taciturn, and dangerous.
Twice from her position in the wagon bed, as the wagon had rolled on, she had seen him standing to one side, his head lifted, as though testing the wind for some subtle scent.
That night they made no fires.
After she had kissed, and opened, and prepared the blankets of the men, her master’s last, as was proper, she lay down beside him, her master, at his thigh. He did not bracelet her again, nor did he fix slave hobbles on her ankles. “I could run away,” she thought to herself. “Does he want me to run away?” She squirmed, and turned to her back, looking up at the moons. “Or is he so arrogantly sure of me, that he knows I would not dare to run away? To be sure, there is nowhere to run. There are the dangers of the grasslands, of animals, of starvation, of thirst, the danger of another collar, the danger of recapture and punishment, punishments whose severity I dare not even contemplate.” She touched her collar, and fingered the delicate scaring of her brand. “There is no escape for the Gorean slave girl,” she thought, “and that is exactly what I am, and all that I am, only that, and nothing more.” She turned back, gently, smiling, to his thigh, and kissed it, softly, that he not awaken. “Why do you not use me, Master?” she whispered. “Am I not pleasing? Are you truly my master? If you are my master, why do you not show me that you are my master? I am ready. Prove to me that you are my master. I beg it. Teach me, Master, that I am your slave.”
“So you beg slave use, like a she-sleen in heat,” he said.
“Never,” she said suddenly, startled, softly, embarrassed. “Certainly not, Master!”
“You are an Earth woman?”
“Yes, Master.”
“And Earth women do not beg for their use?”
“Perhaps some who are slaves do, Master,” she said, “for they are helpless, and cannot help themselves.”
“But you do not so beg?”
“No, Master, of course not!” she said.
“Go to sleep,” he whispered.
“I did not know you were awake,” she said. “Forgive me, Master,” she whispered.
“Go to sleep,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“And you are a little icicle from Earth?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” sh
e said.
“You did not seem such in the camp,” he said.
“The camp, Master?”
“The festival camp, outside Brundisium.”
“Oh,” she said.
“It might be interesting,” he said, “to turn you into a squirming, begging slave.”
She dared not speak. She choked back a sob of need.
Later they slept, she closely beside him, her head at his thigh.
****
In the morning Ellen awakened abruptly, to the stirrings and shouts of men.
“I do not see them,” she heard.
“Where are they?”
“They are not here.”
“They are gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes!”
“Is their gear missing?”
“Yes!”
The cries of the men were not those of alarm. The cries, rather, were those of surprise, of bewilderment, of consternation.
“They left the camp.”
