Witness of Gor (83 page)

I wondered if she would please him as well as I. But, to be sure, much depends on the mysterious chemistries which can obtain between masters and slaves. How else explain the fascination that even a plain slave may sometimes exercise over the most powerful, rich, and handsome of men, to the puzzlement and dismay of beauties languishing in his pleasure garden? How else explain how a slave worthy of a ubar's palace may in a market, unbidden, throw herself in her chains to her belly before an ugly, low-born, monstrous brute, pleading desperately to be purchased? Has she seen in him her master? Similarly, consider the power which such a brute may sometimes exercise over even free, beautiful, high-born damsels, such that, at the very sight of him, they will kneel and beg his collar. In him, perhaps, they, too, have seen their master.

But sometimes, too, a woman's past may enhance how a man sees her in bondage. For example, it is doubtless pleasant for a ubar to have a conquered ubara at his feet, in his collar.

She is then, of course, only a slave, but it is understandable that her past, like her hair and figure, may influence how she is viewed. Let her hope that, sooner or later, she will come to be viewed as only another slave. She does not wish to be tormented by her past, nor treated cruelly on account of it. Let the masters be merciful to her. Let them forget her past! Let them now treat her as only another slave! That is now all she is.

Dorna had lost no time in obeying.

I had gathered, from various things I had heard, here and there, that she may once have been an important and powerful personage in some city, perhaps in the city of Tharna, the men of which city it seemed she much feared. But such things, it seemed, must be long behind her.

Her life had changed. She now wore a collar. She was now only a slave girl, quick to obey her master. To be sure, her past might continue, in the senses which we have suggested, at least for a time, to exercise some fascination over her master. How amusing to have such a woman as a slave, to have her serve his meals, to order her, at so little as a snapping of fingers, to pose or dance, or to strip and hasten to the furs! But, sooner or later, one supposed, or might hope that, for her sake, her past would tend to be forgotten, and she might, for all intents and purposes, mercifully, if not for this master then for another, become only another slave. The officer was, as I recalled, not the first master she had had. She had had apparently at least one other, he who had first captured her, he who had first put the collar on her neck, one from whom she had been stolen, one whom she feared terribly, with all the terror of her embonded heart. When she had queried the officer as to whether or not the intruders had been his men, I supposed this former master might have been the one she had had in mind. On the height of the tower she had been reeling, sick with fear, at the very suggestion that she might be returned to him. And, of course, her fear was quite meaningful. She was only a slave. She could be simply bound and hooded, and returned to him, his then to do with as he pleased. I wondered if, sometimes in her kennel at night, hearing a sound, she might awaken, frightened, pulling the blanket about her, fearing that it might be he, her first master, who had come for her.

But he would not, presumably, know where she was Might she not be anywhere? On this world were there not hundreds of cities and thousands of slaves? No, from him she would in all likelihood be safe, unless her present master, if she might prove somewhat displeasing, might decide, perhaps as a joke, to return her to him. But then, as an option, might he not, under the same circumstances, and perhaps preferably, and perhaps more amusingly, see fit to return her to Tharna? Dorna, I was sure, would do her best to please her master.

"Did the intruders reach the lower corridors?" a man asked the officer.

"No," said the officer.

One of the men with the officer, the captain, was clad not in the gear of war, but wore a blue tunic, and carried, on two straps, slung now beside him, a scribe's box. It was flat and rectangular. Pens are contained, in built-in racks, within it.

Depending on the box, it may also contain ink, or powdered ink, to be mixed with water, the vessel included, or flat, disklike cakes of pigment, to be dampened, and used as ink, rather as water colors. In it, too, in narrow compartments, are sheets of paper, commonly linen paper or rence paper.

A small knife may also be contained in such boxes for scraping out errors, or a flat eraser stone. Other paraphernalia may also be included, depending on the scribe, string, ostraka, wire, coins, even a lunch. The top of the box, the lid, the box placed on a solid surface, serves as a writing surface, or desk.

"There is the matter of the free women," said another man to the officer.

"Yes," said the officer.

They went then a little to their right, some few feet to my left, as I knelt.

"There are six of them," said a man. He was one of the civilians who had stood guard over the women, keeping them at the wall.

The women looked up, frightened, the torchlight revealing them. Some tried to cover themselves.

"Kneel in a line, here, facing the captain," said a soldier.

"We are unveiled!" protested a woman.

"Hands on thighs," said the soldier "Backs straight. Do not speak.”

Hurriedly they formed themselves, as they had been told. The officer considered them.

"These are the ones?" he asked.

"Yes, Captain," said a man.

"Captain!" cried one of the women.

"Silence," said the soldier.

"Bring a whip," said a man.

"I have one here," said a voice. It was handed to him. The woman shrank back, kneeling back on her heels, pressing the palms of her hands firmly down on her thighs.

"Backs straight," cautioned the soldier.

The women complied.

Again they were regarded.

They trembled.

"What is to be done with them?" asked a man.

"They have proclaimed themselves slaves," said the officer. "Let them be slaves.”

"No!" cried the women. "No!”

The lash fell amongst them.

Those who had leaped to their feet were seized and flung back, down, against the others.

Some tried two, even three, times, to leap up, to flee to freedom, but they could not penetrate the ring of men. Each time they were thrown back to their knees, with the others. They were then crowded together, one over the other. Down came the lash! They cried out with pain, huddling together. One tried to stand, just a little, her knees flexed, her hands and arms raised to fend blows, but she was then, blow by blow, stroke by stroke, returned to her knees, and then when another blow fell she cried out for mercy, and threw herself to her belly, her hands over her head, sobbing. She had now learned what the whip could feel like.

Some of the women knelt, holding out their hands for mercy, but the lash fell upon them, too, and they put down their heads, sobbing, bending over, almost double. Some, kneeling, crying out, sobbing, clasped their hands together, lifting them to the men. But the lash fell. And then they were a small, writhing knot of terrified women, each trying to hide behind the other.

The whip, hitting at the edges of the group, the left, the right, forced it in upon itself, and then, sobbing, cowering, they huddled together, tiny, within the ring of angry men.

The lash ceased its whistling speech. To its harsh discourse they had learned now to attend.

"Chain them together by the neck," said the officer. "And take them to the pens. See that they are branded by morning.”

Chains were brought and the six women were fastened together by the neck. They were then knelt again before the officer, facing him. How strange it must have been for them, free women, to find themselves in steel collars, linked to other such collars, by chains.

"Please, no more the whip!" wept one, seeing it poised in a fellow's hand.

"Do not whip us more!" begged another, cringing.

"Please, do not whip us!" begged another.

"As slave girls," said the officer, "you will doubtless become quite familiar with the whip.”

One of the women moaned. She seemed to me one who might have been cruel to slaves. Now she herself had felt the whip. Had she owned female slaves? If so, she had undoubtedly found the whip effective in controlling them. She would now find that it would be similarly effective in controlling her.

"Are you prepared to obey?" inquired the captain.

"Yes, yes!" said the women.

"Turn to the right," he said.

They then, kneeling, were in a line, one behind the other, their right sides to the wall.

"Keep your eyes straight ahead," said the officer.

The women complied.

"You will learn to be females and please men," he said.

One of the women gasped. Two of the others trembled.

"Sell them out of the city," said the officer. Women wept.

"Do you wish a record made of this, Captain?" asked the fellow in the blue tunic, he with the scribe's box, on its straps, slung at his left side.

"No," said the captain. "Keep no record of this. They have shamed the city, and the Home Stone. Let them go their way. Let them not be remembered. Let it be, in the records of the city, as though they had never been.”

One of the women sobbed.

"Put your hands behind your back," said the soldier in charge of the small coffle. "Now hold your left elbow with your right hand, and your right elbow with your left hand." This pins the arms back, the forearms parallel to the ground. Sometimes arms are tied in his position.

The women complied.

"On your feet," said the soldier in charge of the small coffle. "Left foot first, step! Step!”

The coffle was then marched past me. It rounded the corner of the wall and would, I take it, cross the bridge, and the docking area, on the way to the pens.

I felt sorry for the free women, in a way, but I think I sensed, and they sensed, as the men about perhaps did not, for I sometimes think men are very stupid, that the fate inflicted upon them was not as grievous as might be supposed. To be a woman, a true woman, in its total dimensionality, is not only a not unenviable fate, it is a fulfilling, exciting, thrilling, profound, deep, beautiful, and glorious thing. Sometimes I feel sorry for men, just a little, but then I grow afraid, for I remember that they are, after all, the masters.

The fellow with the whip had followed the coffle.

Around the corner, perhaps on the bridge, I heard the crack of the whip, and a cry of fear.

I doubted that the leather had touched anyone, but it could have, of course.

But then, a moment later, I heard the whip again and, this time, a cry of pain.

Yes, I thought, shuddering, men were the masters.

The officer and his companions, that small retinue, then left the terrace.

Shortly after the departure of the officer and his retinue I think the terrace, previously muchly cleared, must have been reopened, for I had scarcely closed my eyes, sitting at the wall, when I felt hands fumbling at the lock gag, opening it. "Are you all right?" begged the Lady Constanzia. Her eyes were wide with fear. "Yes," I said. Her companion, the scarlet-clad fellow, had removed his cloak. It was muchly wound about his arm, constituting in its way, it seemed, an improvised shield. Strangers in this city are not permitted to carry weapons. He wiped the lock gag on his cloak and returned it to his pouch. I was pleased to see it disappear therein. I then began, for no reason I understood, to tremble. The Lady Constanzia kissed me. "They would not let us come to the terrace," she said. "You are sure you are all right?" "Yes," I said.

The Lady Constanzia freed the leash from the ring. It then hung loose within the ring. The scarlet-clad fellow turned her about and took her in his arms. She lifted her lips to his. How soft she was in his arms! How she melted to him! She was then, surely, as a slave girl in the arms of her master. I was startled. How could this be? Was she not a free woman? Did she not know better? Had she not been taught? Had she no pride? But I saw her now, before me, as a slave girl in the arms of her master. "I love you, my master!" she whispered.

He then crushed her to him. He sobbed. "Master?" she asked. He then, forcibly, put her from him. "It is nothing," he said. She then knelt, as delicately, and naturally, as any slave. He seemed overcome by emotion. "Master?" she asked, again.

"Curse honor!" he wept, suddenly.

I am sure that neither of us understood his outburst.

"When will I see you again, Master?" she asked.

He looked down upon her, tears in his eyes. His fists were clenched.

"Master?" she asked.

"I do not own you!" he cried. "You belong to another!”

She looked up at him, puzzled.

"You are merchandise!" he wept. "You are a mere property!”

"Yes, Master?" she said, puzzled.

"I must remember that!" he cried.

"Yes, Master," she said.

"Your sort, and better, may be purchased in any market," he said.

"Yes, Master," she said.