Mariners of Gor (7 page)

I myself, with my unit, had been withdrawn from the Central Cylinder on the second day of the uprising. It would have been madness to have stayed longer, certainly in the Cylinder, which, given its location, could be easily cut off from reinforcements. We would be besieged in an alien citadel, without support, in the midst of enemies. Who could one trust? We would have been outnumbered by dozens to one, hundreds to one. The camp of the
polemarkos
had already been overrun. Initially it had been surmised the rebellion would be easily suppressed, but soon its extent and power became fearfully obvious. This was no sporadic thing, easily put down with a few blows. This was no simple riot, spontaneous and disorganized, as one protesting the burning of a shop, a scarcity in the markets. Happily the occupation had overseen the dismantling of the walls of Ar. We avoided, as we could, the avenues and boulevards, and sought small streets, away from the shouts of men and the sounds of war, the ferocity of rude battle, and made our way to the
pomerium
, no longer marked by walls and towers. By dusk we were in the countryside. Only later were we to reconstruct what had occurred, the pockets of our resistance, overcome one by one, the decimated retreats, the slaughterings, the terror, the blood, the hunting of traitors and collaborators, the joining of the forces of Ar, maintained during the occupation, to the uprising, the appearance of never-surrendered, concealed weapons, many brought back from the delta, by returning veterans of the Delta Expedition, the contributions of Peasants, masters of the great bow, who had apparently unwittingly sheltered Marlenus prior to the uprising, the numerous proscriptions, the reenthronement of Marlenus, and such.

“You were still in the city, on the fourth day of the rebellion?” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Why would I not believe what you might say?” I asked.

“It was the fourth day of the uprising,” she said. “We had sealed off the upper floors of the Central Cylinder. We were on the roof of the Central Cylinder. Seremides, master of the Taurentians, the palace guard, was in command. There were some forty of us, men and women. Many of the Taurentians had fled, been killed, or captured. Seremides was attempting to negotiate with the rebels. They seemed little interested in his proposals. There were tarns on the roof, by means of which Seremides, and some of his men, might attempt their escape, a hope meager but not forlorn, for the sky is wide and deep. We had been told there would be tarn baskets for the women, but when I emerged on the roof, I saw no such baskets. Seremides had so bespoke himself, it seems, to calm our fears. His power of bargaining, as he saw it, was vested in his control of the Ubara herself. He intended to trade her for the escape of himself and his men. You should have seen the proud Ubara on the roof. Seremides had had her don a slave tunic, and you know what such things are.”

“Yes,” I said, “I see one.”

She perhaps referred to the extraordinary brevity of such a garment, its capacity to cling to a slave’s body, its brazen scantiness, its shameful display of the slave’s body as that of the animal she is, the lack of a nether closure, that she may know herself at the pleasure of masters, and such.

“And he knelt her, roped, at his thigh, barefoot, with her head down. It much pleased me to see the Ubara on her knees, beside a man, helpless in ropes, her head down, refused permission to raise it, as though a submitted slave.”

“Why would he so shame the Ubara,” I asked, “remove her robes of state, her veiling, and such?” I asked.

“I think for two reasons,” she said. “”First, he wanted it to seem that he understood the uprising, even favored it, even shared its views, and was thus discountenancing the Ubara and her policies, for which he had held a secret animus for months, and, to show his allegiance to the uprising, had taken the tyranness prisoner, and was now willing, for certain considerations, his life, and that of his men, and perhaps a bag of gold, to surrender her, clad and shamed as she was, to the justice of Ar.”

She had paused.

“And there was perhaps a second reason,” I said.

“I think so,” she said. “Are not men beasts?”

“It is true they are men,” I said.

Are not women beautiful, and desirable? Who has not seen them in the paga taverns, stripped or silked? Who has not admired them in an exposition cage, on the auction block, under torchlight? Is it not pleasant to see them slave clad and collared, in the parks, on the boulevards, in the markets? Is it not delightful to see them being walked, back-braceleted and leashed, or chained at slave rings, awaiting the return of their masters? What man, truly, does not want to own a beautiful woman, to have her in his collar and at his feet?

“The negotiations, I take it,” I said, “did not go well.” Certainly, it seemed clear that Talena was not in the custody of the authorities of Ar.

“They might have gone well,” she said. “But they did not even begin. Those of Ar did not care to deal. There were mobs in the streets. There was no discipline. They wanted blood.”

“Were you not tunicked, knelt, and bound, on the roof?” I asked.

“Certainly not,” she said. “I was in my fullness of regalia, in robes, hoods and veils. It was Talena, not I, who was shamefully exhibited, as might have been a slave. Indeed, it was I who found the Ubara cowering in her quarters and led the men to her. It was I who, at the behest of Seremides, cast her the rag of a slave, and bade her don it, and expeditiously, or the men would see to the matter. It gave me pleasure to scorn her pleadings and refuse her piteous supplications for succor. Did she truly think I was her friend? When, to her shame she divested herself of her robes, hoods, veils, and sandals, and was slave clad, I called to the men, ‘She is ready. Bring your ropes!’ On the roof, we knew the rebels were approaching. We could see rebel tarnsmen in the sky. ‘Where is the tarn basket?’ I cried to Seremides. ‘What is to become of me?’ He answered not. I seized his sleeve, but he brushed me aside, and I fell to the flooring of the cylinder’s roof. We could hear the anthem of Ar in the streets below. We knew that rebels within the cylinder would shortly reach the roof. ‘Slay the Ubara!’ called a man, holding tarn reins, to Seremides. ‘Show thus your allegiance to Ar!’ Seremides drew his sword. But then the strangeness took place, which I doubt that you will believe.”

I addressed myself again to the broth.

“It could only have been the intervention of Priest-Kings,” she said.

I did not speak.

“There was a sudden darkness,” she said, “as though a dark cloud had suddenly enveloped the cylinder, or its roof. We cried out in consternation. Two of the tarns screamed and one broke away, in flight. ‘Where is the Ubara?’ cried Seremides. He seemed to be casting about. It could have been a moonless midnight, suddenly precipitated. I felt my robes seized, wildly, and sensed a blade at my cheek. ‘I am Flavia!’ I cried. ‘Flavia!’ I was thrust back down. Then there was a sudden blast of light, obliterating the darkness, blinding us, and it seemed, when we could see, that a large metal object, I think thick and circular, was disappearing in the distance.”

“And the Ubara?” I asked.

“Gone,” she said.

I have attained to the Second Knowledge, but this made little sense to me. It seemed obvious that such an ensuance could be explained, if at all, only in terms of a sky ship, and, such, if it existed, would presumably emanate from the Sardar, allegedly the abode of Priest-Kings. Her story was so untoward and bizarre I thought it not likely she would be lying. If it were a lie, it would be a most improbable lie. Too, such as she could be punished severely for lying. They are not free women, who may lie with impunity. Too, to such an event, there must have been a number of witnesses, not only on the roof, but in the sky, tarnsmen, others in cylinders and on bridges, the crowds in the street below, and such.

“When it became clear that Talena was gone,” she said, “Seremides and his men, finding their situation critical, took to desperate flight. I reached for the mounting ladder of Seremides’ tarn, but it was jerked away, and, in a moment, I was in the shadow of those great beating wings, the bird lifting itself, scarcely able to keep my footing, my robes and veils whipping about me, and then the monster was in flight, and Seremides, and his men, were streaking away, scattering, pursued by tarnsmen.”

“Did Seremides escape?” I asked.

“I do not know,” she said.

“How is it that you are here?” I asked. “How did you escape from Ar?”

“I found myself alone on the roof,” she said. “The other women, knowing themselves not so highly placed as I, the high confidante of the Ubara, and thus less likely to be borne to safety, and there being no tarn baskets, as noted, had fled the roof, descending into the cylinder to meet whatever fates might be theirs. I resolved to put into action a bold plan, one I had conceived as a last, fearful resort, if all seemed lost, to be executed before the upper levels of the cylinders were attained. I descended to my apartment, but two levels below. I summoned my five sandal slaves, ordered them into an open side compartment, and had them bind, gag, and blindfold one another, I attending to the last. They would not be able to see what I did, nor would they be able to speak, until relieved of their gags. I then went to a small panel in my chamber of couching, slid back the panel, and removed from it a tiny, secret chest, which I feverishly unlocked. Within this chest, as a last, desperate resort, I had placed a slave tunic and collar, the key to which I might conceal in the tunic’s hem. I shuddered to even touch such things, the garment tiny and flimsy, the collar light but so imminently practical and efficient, with its tiny, sturdy lock, which went at the back of the neck. I removed the small handful of jewels from my pouch, which treasure I had intended to bear with me in my escape, and concealed them, together with the collar key, within the tunic, in a specially prepared, interior sleeve. I smoothed them about, so their presence would not be evident. I heard pounding at an outer door. I tore away my robes and veils and thrust them beneath the covers of the couch. I dared to look upon myself in the mirror, and I recognized, though not with my customary pleasure and composure, that I was quite beautiful. Momentarily I feared I might never be able to pass as a slave, being far too beautiful.”

“Continue,” I said.

“In moments I had donned the tunic. I snapped the collar about my neck. I shuddered as I did so. How meaningful must that sound be to a woman who realizes she is now collared, truly. I reassured myself, pressing it with my fingers, against my leg, that the key was at hand, concealed within the tunic. Again I looked into the mirror, and the thought crossed my mind, horrifying me, that I might be found of interest by men. How worthless and disgusting are slaves! How lustful men seek them so! I was profoundly disturbed, terrified, to see my neck in a collar. I seemed transformed, to be something totally other than I had been. How men might see a woman in such a device! I feared I knew! I was terrified, and furious, that I, a free woman, might be seen as a slave, but, at the same time, I was terrified that I might not be seen as a slave, for my life itself might well depend on the success or failure of this deceit. How could I, with my beauty, so far beyond that of a slave, pass as a slave? But I must do my best. Such was my only hope. On the fourth day of the uprising we were well aware of affairs in the streets below, and the proscription lists, and I had learned my name stood high on the lists, not far below those of Talena, Seremides, and others.”

“Surely,” I said, “you had concealed funds, weightier, more ample treasures, coffers of gold, or such, about the city, to provide you with a larger wherewithal of escape?”

“No,” she said. “We did not anticipate the return of Marlenus, the uprising. Too, as it turned out, I would not have been able to reach them, and, had I been able to reach them, it would have been difficult, or impossible, to transport them from the city.”

“True,” I said.

“Jewels,” she said, “must do, what I could easily carry, place in a pouch.”

“Or conceal in a tunic,” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

“So you would escape in the disguise of a slave,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “Who would note me? I feared only that my beauty would betray me, that men, if perceptive, might note that it was far beyond that of a mere slave.”

I found her views interesting. One of the highest compliments one can pay a free woman, though perhaps not to her face, is that she is “slave beautiful.” Commonly it is only the most beautiful of women who are brought into the collar. After all, one wants to sell them.

“So,” she said, “well disguised, and bearing riches, I would make my way to freedom.”

“I see,” I said.

I wondered if she knew that that ruse, feigning bondage, was not unprecedented amongst free women in straits, for example, in a burning city, being sacked, and such. And I supposed that she did not know that tunics were removed routinely and examined for such articles, jewels, rings, coins, keys, and such, as well as the body of the female.

“The pounding at the door grew more insistent. Too, there was shouting. And I then heard heavy blows against the wood, the striking of some tool.”

I supposed this would be siege hammer, or possibly a hand ram, swung by one or more men.

“‘Wait, wait, Masters’ I cried, using the word ‘Masters’ as an aspect of my disguise. ‘The Mistress is not here!’ I said. ‘She has fled! I will open the door!’ I lifted away the bars, and the door burst inward, striking me to the side. I was bruised. I kept my head down. They must not see how beautiful I was. They must think me a mere slave! ‘Whose compartments are these?’ demanded a man, with a sharpened half-staff. ‘Those of my Mistress, the Lady Flavia of Ar, Master!’ I responded. ‘Excellent, the slut Flavia!’ he cried. ‘Where is she?’ he demanded. ‘I do not know, Master,’ I said. ‘Fled!’ ‘She has been proscribed,’ he said. ‘She no longer has slaves. Report to the vestibule below. You will be reallotted.’ ‘Yes, Master!’ I said. ‘What is your name?’ demanded another man. ‘Publia, Master,’ I said. ‘—if it pleases Master?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘—
if it pleases Master
.’ ‘‘Publia’ is too fine a name for a slave,’ said a fellow. ‘She is a sandal slave,’ said another. ‘Consider the length of her tunic, and the fineness of its material.’ ‘Let her belong to a man,’ said another, ‘and she will find out what it is to be a slave.’ More than one man laughed at this. Some of the men then, after briefly looking about, exited the compartments, to pound on other doors, and some of them began to ascend the stairs, leading to the next level. Of those still in the compartments, I heard one say, ‘Ho, what have we here?’ ‘Tethered verr!’ said another. ‘Tastas!’ said another. ‘Trussed vulos!’ laughed another. ‘Well-prepared puddings,’ laughed another, ‘ready for delectation!’ My prone, or supine, sandal slaves had been discovered, bound hand and foot, gagged and blindfolded. Unnoticed, I slipped through the door. The attention of the brutes, I was sure, as I had some sense of the interests of men, would be occupied for a time with the sandal slaves. How frightful it must be for the slaves, I thought, to find themselves helpless, even blindfolded, in the hands of men. I did not think it likely they could betray me, as they did not know what I had done, or where I might be. I would soon, if all went well, be well away. I had been an excellent Mistress to the slaves, not merely in demanding a meticulous perfection in their many duties as a lady’s serving slave, which is to be expected, but in regulating and supervising their behavior, demeanor, speech, posture, and such. I had been much concerned to improve them, for they were, of course, a reflection on me. Accordingly, I rigorously supervised their deportment, and saw to it that they did not stray from the paths of virtue. The standards for a lady’s serving slave, you see, are quite high. Such must be refined, dutiful, humble, undefiled, unsullied, and pure. Even to look upon men is forbidden them. Did I not once see Althea, in the market, look over her shoulder, and smile at a handsome drover? I switched her all the way home, across the back of the thighs, and back in the compartments I gave her a whipping she would never forget! Such behavior embarrasses me. Many slaves are hard to tell from a she-sleen in heat. Have I not seen the tears in their eyes, and how they brush against their masters, how they, on their leashes, lift their lips hopefully to his? Who knows what goes on at a slave ring? How tragic I thought, that my lovely sandal slaves might now fall into the hands of men. But I could no longer protect them and preserve their purity. I was not far from the compartments when I heard Althea cry out, as though in joy, ‘Masters!’ Perhaps she belongs at a man’s slave ring, I thought. She could never manage even the secret interior fastenings of my robes of concealment, and a kaiila might have draped my veils more tastefully.