by John Norman
There had not been a great deal of action in the drama but movement on the stage was supplied in abundance by a chorus whose complex activities and dances served to point up and emotionally respond to, and interpret, exchanges among the principals. The chorus, too, sometimes singing and sometimes speaking in unison, took roles in the drama, such as first the citizens of one city and then of another, and then of another, and so on.
It also was not above commenting on the activities and speeches of the principals, chiding them, calling certain omissions to their minds, offering them constructive criticism, commending them, encouraging them, and so on. Indeed, it was not unusual for the chorus and a principal to engage with one another in discourse. What I saw was clearly drama but it was not a form of drama with which I was familiar.
The chorus, according to Drusus Rencius, in its various sections and roles, was the original cast of the drama. The emergence of principals from the chorus, of particular actors playing isolated, specific roles, was a later development. Some purists, according to Drusus Rencius, still criticize this innovation. It is likely to remain, however, in his opinion, as it increases the potentialities of the form, its flexibility and power.
Such dramas, incidentally, are normally performed not by professional companies but by groups of citizens from the communities themselves, or nearby communities. Sometimes they are supported by rich citizens; sometimes they are supported by caste organizations; sometimes, even, they are sponsored by merchants or businesses, as a matter of goodwill and promotion; sometimes, too, they are subsidized by grants from a public treasury. Art in a Gorean city is taken seriously; it is regarded as an enhancement of the civic life. It is not regarded as the prerogative of an elite, nor is its fate left exclusively to the mercies of private patrons. The story in the song drama, in itself, apart from its complex embellishments, was a simple one. It dealt with a psychological crisis in the life of a Ubar. He is tempted, in the pursuit of his own schemes, motivated by greed, to betray his people. In the end he is convinced by his own reflections, and those of others, of the propriety of keeping the honor of his own Home Stone.
“What did you think of the drama?” Drusus Rencius had asked me last night. “The story of it,” I had told him, seeking to impress him with my intelligence, “aside from the impressiveness of it, and the loveliness of its setting and presentation, is surely an unrealistic, silly one.”
“Oh?” he had asked.
“Yes,” I had said, “no true ruler would act like that. Only a fool would be motivated by considerations of honor.”
“Perhaps,” had said Drusus Rencius, dryly. I had looked at him, and then I had looked away, quickly. I had felt like I might be nothing. He was regarding me with total contempt.
“I did enjoy the drama,” I insisted to Drusus Rencius, standing on the riser, looking over the parapet, “really.”
“Splendid,” he said.
“I still think my comments were true, of course,” I said lightly. Surely it would not do to retreat on such a matter.
Besides, for most practical purposes, I did regard them as true. Who, in these days, in a real world, could take anything like honor seriously?
“Perhaps,” granted Drusus Rencius.
“You are a hopeless romantic, Drusus,” I said to him, turning about, laughing.
“Perhaps,” he said. He turned away from me. Again I heard the small sound in the cloak. He looked at the tarns.
I turned away from him, hurt. I did not want him to be disappointed with me.
“The view here,” I said, lightly, “is lovely. We should have come here before.”
“Perhaps,” he said.
I had seen much of Corcyrus in the past few days. Drusus Rencius, for the most part, had been an attentive and accommodating escort. I loved the markets and bazaars, the smells, the colors, the crowds, the quantities and varieties of goods, the tiny shops, the stalls, the places of business which at times were so small as a tiny rug on the stones, on which a peddler displayed his wares.
Drusus Rencius had permitted me, with coins, helping me, to bargain. I had been very excited to come back to the palace with my small triumphs. I loved shopping, and looking, even when I was buying nothing. Trailing me about, while I satisfied my curiosity as curious nooks and crannies, must have been tiresome for Drusus, but he had not complained.
I had begun to fall in love with the Gorean city. It was so vital and alive. In particular, I was excited by the female slaves I saw, barefoot, in their tunics and collars, not exciting much attention, simply being taken for granted, in the crowds. Such women were an accepted part of Gorean life. Sometimes, too, I would see a naked slave in the crowd, one sent forth from her house only in her collar. These women, too, did not attract that much attention. Their sight was not that uncommon in Gorean streets.
One such woman, in particular, startled and excited me. She wore not only her collar. She also wore an iron belt. This belt consisted of two major pieces; one was a rounded, fitted, curved bar-like waistband, flattened at the ends; one end of this band, that on the right, standing behind the woman and looking forward, had a heavy semicircular ring, or staple, welded onto it; the other flattened end of the waistband, looking forward, had a slot in it which fitted over the staple; the other major portion of this belt consisted of a curved band of flat, shaped iron; one end of this flat band was curved about, and closed about, the bar-like waistband in the front; this produces a hinge; the flat, U-shaped strap of iron swings on this hinge; on the other end of this flat band of iron is a slot; it fits over the same staple as the slot in the flattened end of the left side of the bar-like waistband.
The belt is then put on the woman in this fashion. The waistband is closed about her, the left side, its slot penetrated by the staple, over the right side; the flat U-shaped band of iron, contoured to female intimacies, is then swung up on its hinge, between her thighs, where the slot on its end is penetrated by the staple, this keeping the parts of the belt in place. The whole apparatus is then locked on her, the tongue of a padlock thrust through the staple, the lock then snapped shut.
I almost fainted when I first saw this thing. She actually wore it. It was on her! It was locked on her! The insolent mastery it bespoke made me almost giddy, the very thought that a woman might be subjected to such domination. She did not even control her own intimacies. They were controlled by him who owned her, and them.
“You seem interested in the iron belt,” had said Drusus Rencius. “No,” I had said. “No!”
“There are many varieties of such belts,” said Drusus. “You see a rather plain one. Note the placement of the padlock, at the small of her back. Some regard that arrangement as more aesthetic; others prefer for the lock to be in front, where it may dangle before her, constantly reminding her of its presence. I personally prefer the lock in the back. Its placement there, on the whole, makes a woman feel more helpless. Too, of course, its placement there makes it almost impossible for her to pick.”
“I see,” I had said. How irritated I had been then with Drusus. He had discussed the thing as though it might have been a mere, inconsequential piece of functional hardware. Could be, not see what it really was, what it meant, what it must teach the girl, how it must make her feel?
“There are wagons,” I said, pointing over the parapet.
There were some five wagons approaching the city, in a line.
Each was being drawn by two strings of harnessed male slaves, about twenty slaves in each string.
“Those are Sa-Tarna wagons,” said Drusus, “bringing grain to the city.”
“What is that other wagon,” I asked, “the smaller one, there near the side of the road, which has pulled aside to let the grain wagons pass?” I had been watching it approach. I thought I knew well what sort of wagon it was. It was the sort of wagon whose contents are of so little value that it must yield the road in either direction to any vehicle that to pass it. It was a squarish wagon. It was drawn a single tharlarion, a broad
tharlarion, one of Gor’s quadrupedal draft lizards. It was covered by a canopy, mounted on a high, squarish frame, of blue-and-yellow silk.
“Lady Sheila is much too innocent, and her sensibilities are far too delicate,” said he, “to inquire as to what sort of His wagon that is.”
“No,” I said, “what?” I would pretend to an innocent ignorance.
“It is a slaver’s wagon,” he said, “a girl wagon.”
“Oh,” I said, as though surprised. After a time, I said, “I wonder if there are any girls in it.”
“Probably,” said Drusus. “Its canopy is up, and it is approaching the city.”
“Are girls fastened in such wagons?” I asked.
“Usually,” he said.
“How?” I asked.
“The most usual arrangement,” he said, “involves a metal bar and girls who are independently shackled. The bar runs parallel to the length of the wagon bed. It is a liftable bar. It has a hinge at the end of the wagon bed near the wagon box. The bar is lifted, by means of the hinge, and the girls, by means of their ankle chains, are threaded upon it. It is then lowered and locked into a socket at the end of the wagon bed, near the gate.”
“They are then well held in place,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Are they clothed in such a wagon?” I asked.
“Sometimes they are, sometimes they are not,” he said.
“I see,” I said. I wondered what it might feel like to wear shackles, to have my ankles chained in proximity to one another, to have the chain looped about such a bar, so that I might not, even if I wished, be able to pull my ankles more than a few inches from it. I wondered what it might feel like, to know myself so helplessly and perfectly confined. My breath began to come more quickly.
“Lady Sheila seems much interested in the small details in the lives of female slaves,” he said. Perhaps he had noticed the quickening of my breath, in the inward movements of the veil.
“Do not become presumptuous,” I said.
“Forgive me,” He said.
“I was merely curious,” I said, irritably.
“Of course, Lady Sheila,” he said. He need not know that I often, for no reason I clearly understood, in the loneliness of my quarters, slept at the lower end of the great couch, near the slave ring, and sometimes, seemingly almost unable to help myself, had knelt beside it in the darkness, and kissed it.
“The wagon is moving now,” I said. The grain wagons had passed it. It was now, again, pulling toward the center of the road, the high iron-rimmed wheels trundling on the stone, seeking the long, shallow, shiny, saucer-like ruts, polished in the stone by the earlier passage of countless vehicles.
I had been sure it was a slave wagon, of course, from the blue-and-yellow silk. Outside the establishments of slavers there often hung streamers and banners in these colors, and sometimes, on the walls, or doors, or posts near the doors, these colors, in diagonal stripes or slashes, were painted. When I had seen signs or emblems of this sort I had often, as though interested in something else, requested that we take our way down that street. Generally I had been able to see little or nothing, usually only the narrow, gloomy doors, often of iron, of grim, almost fortress-like buildings, but, sometimes, there would be an open-air market or some girls, as displays, would be chained outside.
Inside some of these buildings I had learned there were display courtyards where girls, for example, might be examined in natural light. In the open-air markets, or in the outside displays, the girls, seeing me viewing them, had usually knelt, immediately, putting their heads down, exhibiting total deference and respect before a free woman. Some, seeing me looking at them, had actually thrown themselves, trembling, to their bellies. “They are afraid of you,” Drusus Rencius had explained. “Why?” I had asked. “Because you are a free woman,” he had said. “Oh,” I had said. They must have had, I gathered, some of them at least, unfortunate experiences with free women.
I watched, the wagon trundling slowly down the road. I wondered what it felt like to ride in such a wagon, not as its driver of course, but as its cargo. I considered the lack of springs in such a vehicle, the high, iron-rimmed wheels, with their lack of cushioning, the primitiveness of the roads it must traverse. I did not think the ride would be a smooth one. How much protection might be afforded a girl chained on the boards in the wagon bed of such a vehicle by the single layer of the fabric of a slave tunic, if, indeed, she were permitted one?
“Are such wagons padded?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “Oh,” I said.
“But sometimes, cloths are thrown in them,” he said. “That way the goods will not be so bruised when they come to the market.”
“I see,” I said. If I were such a girl I would not wish to brought bruised to the market. That way I might bring lower price. That way I might get a master who was less well fixed.
“It is natural for slavers to wish to get the highest possible prices for their girls,” he said.
“Of course,” I said.
I could not see the wagon now. It was somewhere below the wall.
I straightened myself on the riser, behind the parapet. I drew a deep breath. How pleased I was that I was free! How dreadful, how horrifying, it would be to be merely a lowly slave!
“You seem nervous today, Drusus,” I said.
“Forgive me, Lady Sheila,” he said.
“Is there anything wrong?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“What is that sound from within your cloak,” I asked, “as of metal?”
“Nothing,” said he.
One of the tarns moved on the perch, several feet to our right. I did not wish to approach too closely to such things. I wondered why Drusus had brought me to this particular place on the wall. The proximity of the tarns made it less pleasant than it might otherwise have been. The view, however, as I had remarked, was lovely.
“You do not think much of me, do you, Drusus?” I asked.
“I do not understand,” he said, startled.
“You think that I am petty and ignoble, don’t you?”
“I receive my fees for guarding Lady Sheila,” he said, “not for forming opinions as to her character.”
“Do you like me?” I asked.
“Having suggested that I might think little of you, and might regard you as pretty and ignoble, now you inquire if I might like you?” he smiled.
“It is not impossible,” I said.
He smiled.
“Do you?” I asked.
“Does it matter?” he asked.
“No,” I said, angrily. “Of course not!”
“Then,” he smiled, “there is no point in answering.”
“Do you?” I asked, angrily.
“I am paid to guard you,” he said, “not to consider any personal feelings, one way or another, which I might have towards you.”
“One way or another?” I asked, angrily.
“Yes,” he said.
“You despise and hate me!” I said.
“I could find it easy to despise you,” he said, “and, at one time, from all that I had heard of the Tatrix of Corcyrus, and know of her governance of the city, I would have thought it would also be easy to hate you, but now, now that I have met you, I could not honestly say that I hate you.”
“How flattering!” I remarked.
“Your official self and your personal self, or your public and private selves, seem quite different,” he said.
“Perhaps,” I said, irritably.
“It is doubtless that way with many people,” he said.
“Doubtless,” I said.
He looked from one side to the other, along the walk behind the parapet. For most practical purposes we were alone on the wall. The nearest people, a couple, were better than a hundred yards away, to our left. He looked again then to the tarns. Then he looked at me. Then, angrily, he looked out, over the parapet. His fists were clenched.
I, too, looked out, over the
parapet. I could feel tears in my eyes. I wanted to please Drusus Rencius. I wanted, desperately, for him to like me. Yet everything I did or said seemed to be wrong. Then I was very angry with myself. It did not matter. I was not a slave at his feet, half naked in a collar, fearful of his whip, piteously suing for the least sign of his favor. I was a Tatrix. He was only a guard, nothing! I wondered, shuddering, what it would be to be the slave of such a man. I did not think he would be weak with me. I thought that he would, like any typical Gorean master, keep me under perfect discipline.
“I enjoyed the czehar concert,” I said, lightly.
“Good,” he said.
The czehar is a long, low, rectangular instrument. It is played, held across the lap. It has eight strings, plucked with a horn pick. It had been played by Lysander of Asperiche.
The concert had taken place two nights ago in the small theater of Kleitos, off the square of Perimines.
“The ostraka were quite expensive, weren’t they?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
It was quite commonly the case, I had learned, that for a concert by Lysander one could not buy admission at the gate, but must present ostraka purchased earlier in one of the market places or squares. These were apparently originally shells or pieces, shards, of pottery, but now were generally small clay disks, with a hole for a string near one edge. These were fired in a kiln, and glazed on one side. The glazing’s colorations and patterns are difficult to duplicate and serve in their way as an authentication for the disk, the glazings differing for different performances or events. The unglazed back of the disk bears the date of the event or performance and a sign indicating the identity of the original vendor, the agent authorized to sell them to the public.
Some of these disks, also, on the back, include a seat location. Most seating, however, in Gorean theaters, except for certain privileged sections, usually reserved for high officials or the extremely wealthy, is on a first-come-first-served basis. These ostraka, on their strings, about the necks of their owners, make attractive pendants. Some are worn even long after the performance or event in question, perhaps to let people know that one was fortunate enough to have been the witness of a particular event or performance, or perhaps merely because of their intrinsic aesthetic value. Some people keep them as souvenirs. Others collect them, and buy and sell them, and trade them.